Fic: Use My Body For Your Bed
Title: Use My Body For Your Bed
Fandom: Daredevil (616)
Rating: R
Summary: Foggy's not speaking to Matt, but he's still there when Matt needs him. Even when weird space drugs are involved.
Warning: Sex pollen, so the inherent dubcon issues of the trope are there, but there's no actual sex.
Notes: This is set during the current run, probably before the current arc with Spider-Man, but if you want to take it as a post-Season Two fic, that probably works too - just mentally replace the reasons behind Matt and Foggy's estrangement and make Foggy a bit more square. (No shade, ILU COMICS FOGGY, YOU STODGY LITTLE MAN.) Title is from Billy Joel's "You're My Home." Also, I'm using this for the "redemption" prompt on my Daredevil Bingo card.
The first thing Foggy thinks when a noise on his fire escape jolts him awake in the middle of the night is: "Matt."
The second thing he thinks is, no, it can't be Matt, Foggy made it very clear that he's not speaking to him.
The third thing he thinks is: "Ugh, Matt."
He drags himself out of bed and over to the window. "You'd better not have brought me another petty criminal to shelter," he says as he opens the blinds. "I swear, you're like a cat bringing me dead birds because you think it'll...it..."
He trails off. It's Matt, all right, and he's alone, but he doesn't look good. He's hunched over, and even with him wearing that stupid black costume and in the dark of night, it's clear that he's shaking.
Foggy pushes the window up. "Matt, what happened? Are you hurt? Get in here."
Matt cocks an ear towards him. "Foggy," he says, like he's surprised Foggy's there; then he shakes himself and scrambles through the window.
"How bad is it?" Foggy asks once Matt's through. Matt turns those blank lenses and an open mouth towards him but doesn't say anything. "Matt!"
He's getting worried despite himself. He told Matt to keep his distance, told Matt they were done, but they both know it's temporary. It always is. Foggy's not sure if Matt's his own personal bad penny or just magnetic north, but either way they keep ending up back together. And he's still mad, so mad he can barely vocalize it, over how once again Matt's made a terrible, unilateral decision and thrown their lives into complete disarray again just when things were finally going well...but that doesn't mean his heart doesn't leap into his throat at the sight of Matt acting so strangely.
Matt sways towards him, and then abruptly back. "I'm fine," he says. "I'm not hurt. I just. I just needed to rest for a minute."
"Yeah, no, I'm calling bullshit on that one," Foggy says, crossing his arms. "Take off the mask."
He sees Matt swallow, and then Matt reaches up and tugs off the cowl. And - yeah, Foggy doesn't feel one bit calmer now. Matt's flushed like he's running a bad fever, and his expression is strained, but more importantly, his pupils are dilated. Foggy wasn't even sure Matt's pupils could dilate.
"Matt, what happened?" he asks again.
Matt licks his lips - twice, three times. "I. I've been investigating...there's a new drug on the streets. Something from, from New Attilan, it...there was a shipment, and I broke it up, but it - there was a syringe, someone, the costume didn't deflect it and - "
He trails off, chest heaving, but Foggy's figured out where this story's going. "You got a veinful of some crazy space drug?" he asks, and Matt nods. "What the hell are you doing here then? You should be at the hospital, or at least the Night Nurse..."
Matt shakes his head, fingers twitching at his sides. "Don't need it," he says. "I know what it does. It's not...it's not life-threatening. I won't...I'm okay. It's okay."
"You do not look anywhere close to okay," Foggy tells him.
Matt shakes his head again - a little too emphatic, a little too loose. "It's. I'm okay. I just need - " Those fingers are in the air, now, reaching towards Foggy, before he curls them against his palms and draws back. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are so wide.
“What?” Foggy asks. “Water? Something to take the fever down?” Matt shakes his head a third time, looking like he’s trying to dislodge water in his ears. “Come on, you gotta give me something here.”
Matt arcs towards him and then back, gulps at the air. “Just. I just need a rest,” he says. “Just a rest.”
It’s an obvious lie, but sometimes unpacking Matt’s lies takes more subterfuge than just calling him on it. “Fine,” Foggy says. “You know where the couch is.”
Matt swallows visibly again, then turns towards the door to the living room. He stumbles on the way, and Foggy hurries to catch him, alarmed. Matt never trips, not when he’s not faking ordinary blindness. “Matt, are you - ”
The minute Foggy’s hand lands on Matt’s arm, Matt jolts like he’s been burned. Foggy pulls away - is he lying about being hurt? does the drug make touch painful? - but he doesn’t get far. Matt’s on him, pulling him close with hands fisted in his old Columbia Law t-shirt, the night-cold tip of his nose buried just below Foggy’s ear. “Matt, what are you - ”
“Foggy,” Matt interrupts. He’s still shaking. “Foggy, Fog, you smell so good.”
“Uh, this is a weird apology, Matt,” Foggy says. “And not one that’s going to work, so you can stop - Matt!” Because that’s definitely Matt’s tongue, hot and wet. “Matt, what are you doing?”
“You smell so good,” Matt says again, like that’s an explanation, and something clicks for Foggy.
“Matt,” he says, and pushes Matt away firmly. Matt doesn’t let go of his shirt, but he does take a half step back, which is a relief - Foggy knows he couldn’t push Matt off if Matt didn’t want to be moved. “Matthew. What does the drug do?”
“It’s...it…” Matt’s eyes dart wildly around the vicinity of Foggy’s head and he’s bright red, though Foggy can’t tell if that’s embarrassment or...something else. “Aphrodisiac,” he finally mumbles.
“Aphro - you got space roofied?” Foggy hisses. “Why are - what - what the fuck are you doing here? You should be talking to Reed Richards, to, to Tony Stark or someone, this is way above my pay grade, Matt - ”
“I don’t want Reed Richards,” Matt says petulantly.
“I’m not suggesting you indulge this with him, he’s a married man,” Foggy says, rolling his eyes. “Besides, you don’t want me either, remember? You’re just high and guilty. We’re not...” It’s a ridiculous notion. Yes, people have joked about it, but...no. Ridiculous. “Just because you miss me…”
Matt’s face crumples. “I miss you so much,” he breathes, curling into Foggy again, face planted firmly back in Foggy’s throat.
“Matt, stop - ” Foggy starts, and then freezes, because Matt is hard against his stomach.
“Matt,” he says again.
“Just a little bit,” Matt says, hips twitching against him. “Just. Just once. That’d be okay, right?”
“Matt.” Foggy knew other words once, he’s sure of it.
“You’ve looked, I know you’ve looked.” Matt’s mouthing at his throat again, hot and wet, but it’s Foggy’s natural pedantry and not Matt’s tongue that shakes Foggy from his stupor. Matt would make fun of him for it if he was in his right mind.
“You do not know if I’ve looked. You never know where anyone’s looking.” And if he has, well, Foggy would defy any red-blooded human, Inhuman, or mutant to spend their entire adult life in his kind of proximity to Matt Murdock and not look. The plain fact of the matter is that the man is beautiful, and if Foggy’s noted that once or twice or a thousand times, it just means that he isn’t the blind one in their partnership.
“You can,” Matt offers, pressing in closer, and Foggy takes a step back to keep his balance. “Look, I mean. You can do anything you want.” Another step. “Just let me…please, Foggy.” And a deft hand unbuttons Foggy’s fly before Foggy can stop it.
“Matt!” Foggy says, jerking back, and pinwheeling his arms as he falls onto the bed that Matt’s backed him up against without him even noticing. “Matt, don’t - ”
But Matt’s already on top of him, clambering up over him - sinuous, hard-bodied, heartbreaking. “Please,” he says again, and then the top of his suit’s gone, far quicker than Foggy’d ever be able to get out of anything that tight. His torso is milk-pale in the street lights through the windows, cut like marble and laced with scars. There’s a mottled flush running down his throat. “Please.”
Foggy puts on his scolding voice, even though it only works maybe fifteen percent of the time. “Matt, stop it. You are going to take a cold shower and drink like twelve glasses of water and then - ”
Matt kisses him.
If he were to argue in his own defense, Foggy would point out that it’s been over a year since Dina, and years, plural, more than he cares to count, since he was in any kind of serious relationship. He didn’t even get to have meaningless, life-affirming sex with a near-stranger after his cancer went into remission, both because Matt immediately firebombed their lives again and because he’s never actually had any ability to pick women up for meaningless sex, life-affirming or otherwise. His body is acting without his permission, that’s all.
He already knows he’d lose the case. He kisses Matt back because he wants to. And because he missed Matt too.
Matt moans into his mouth, riding Foggy’s thigh like a cat in heat and yanking his t-shirt up. It’s Matt’s too-hot fingers on Foggy’s bare stomach that scorch some sense into him.
“Maff,” he says into Matt’s mouth. He pushes him up and scoots out from under him, towards the headboard. “Matt. Stop. We need...we need to talk about this, we can’t just...I don’t even know if you’re sober, and even if you were, we shouldn’t just...this isn’t a good idea.”
Matt’s wriggling out of the bottom half of his suit, because when has Matt ever listened to him. “It is,” he says. “I can, I can make it good, Foggy, I know I can.”
“Jesus, Matt, this isn’t the time to brag about your sexual prowess - ”
“I know what you like,” Matt pleads. “In college. I could hear you, when - with girls, and when you thought I was asleep.” Foggy feels his face heat up. He’d assumed, once he’d found out about Matt’s senses, but Matt had never actually confirmed it. “I liked hearing you.”
Foggy swallows hard. Matt’s kneeling up, clad only in tented boxers. He can’t tell if that’s a shadow or a damp spot on them, but he has a suspicion. “Matt, come on…I know you’re high, buddy, but this...this isn’t what we are. You don’t want this.”
Matt’s face twists, agonized for a second, and he’s crawling up Foggy again. Foggy should stand up. He doesn’t, though. “I do,” Matt says, and it takes Foggy a moment to connect it with his last sentence, distracted by the drag of Matt’s muscled thigh against his own. “I do, I - always have, Foggy, I just, you didn’t, you never, there was always someone else and now there’s no one and please can I just touch you?”
Oh God. “Matt,” Foggy says thickly, and Matt - Matt cocks his head and sniffs, jaw going slack, and Foggy realizes, with a humiliation so profound it might kill him, that he’s turned on and Matt can smell it.
“Foggy.” Matt pushes forward, biting at Foggy’s mouth. “Foggy, Foggy, yes - ”
There’s a hand sneaking into Foggy’s boxers and Foggy panics and clamps his own hand around Matt’s wrist. He can’t tell which one of them’s shaking anymore. “No! I can’t - you - Matt, I have to think about this. And you’re drugged, Matt, I’m not going to...to…” Matt’s mouth is wet and parted in the dim light and Foggy hates himself. “I can’t, Matt. Not until you’re sober.” Not that he expects Matt to be trying to get into his underwear in the cold light of day, but that’s not important right now. What’s important is Foggy not doing something unforgivable to the man who - fuck it, is still and forever his best friend, and just because Matt’s kind of talking in full sentences doesn’t mean he’s in control.
“Please,” Matt begs, pushing against Foggy’s grip until his fingertips brush Foggy’s dick, and Foggy bites his lip and squirms away.
“Matt, no,” he says, as firmly as he knows how. “I’m telling you to stop. I’m telling you I don’t want this.” Whatever he’s on, Matt won’t force him.
Matt cocks his head. “You’re lying.” Oh, that bastard and his stupid bastard ears.
Foggy bites his lip. “Fine, then I do.” And he’ll have a long panic about how long he’s wanted it once this is all over. “But I’m still telling you no. Are you going to force me?”
He chooses the words “no” and “force” carefully, watch them somehow penetrate whatever the drug is doing to Matt’s mind, and sees his eyes go wide. “Oh,” Matt says - or mouths, really, because there’s no sound - and yanks his hand out of Foggy’s boxers.
And then Matt starts to cry.
Any lingering resentment Foggy might have felt melts like snow in spring, at least for now. “Oh, Matty, no,” he breathes. They’re close enough that he can still bundle Matt up in his arms. Matt seems to like having his face in Foggy’s neck, so Foggy tucks Matt’s head under his chin and shushes him. “Hey. Hey. It’s not your fault.”
Matt’s still shaking, his bare skin fever-hot beneath Foggy’s palms. His hips keep making aborted little thrusts against Foggy’s, even though he seems to be trying to control them. “I need it,” he sobs. “I need it.”
“I’m sorry,” Foggy says. “I can’t give it to you.” He doesn’t even know if they’re talking about the same thing anymore.
“Foggy,” Matt says, and then it’s just wordless little half-whimpers into Foggy’s neck as he cries. Foggy ignores his own arousal and how unpleasantly hot Matt is and just holds him, stroking his sweaty back and murmuring nonsense.
He can’t help thinking that it’s neither the weirdest nor the most difficult thing he’s ever done for Matt.
Eventually Matt drops off, first into a sleep nearly as fitful as his waking state, and finally into something deeper and calmer. Foggy checks Matt’s forehead with the back of his hand, then eases Matt off of him into a more comfortable position, stares up at the ceiling, and freaks the hell out.
He is a methodical man, so he sorts his panic into categories and prioritizes them accordingly. First, Matt’s out of his mind on a syringe full of God only knows what, from space, and for all he says that it’s not life threatening, he’s neither Inhuman nor a doctor. What if he got more than a safe dosage? All too likely, considering the results. Should Foggy be calling 911, and risking Matt’s secret identity again? Or the Night Nurse? But she won’t remember Foggy enough to trust him and come if he calls, and there’s no way Foggy can get Matt to her without waking him.
He tips his head to the side to study Matt in the low light. His breathing has evened out and he’s no longer shaking, even though his brow is still furrowed. It looks like he’s maybe coming down from it. In the meantime, there’s nothing Foggy can do but wait.
Second, Foggy’s not sure this is all the drug. He’s seen Matt on the brink of a nervous breakdown before, and this has all the hallmarks. For a moment, he’s nauseous with guilt. He was all Matt had left, and he took even that away from Matt.
But no - he was all Matt had left by Matt’s own choice. Matt didn’t have to make the world forget he was Daredevil, to walk away from Kirsten and their life in San Francisco and the trust of all his costumed friends. And he didn’t give Foggy a say in it either, just left him to fill in the gaps in everyone’s memory of him. No one remembers that Foggy faked his death, but no one knows why he disappeared from the legal scene for a year, either, which has made finding clients difficult. His family doesn’t remember throwing down a “Matt or them” ultimatum when Matt’s identity was first leaked, but they’re not talking to him regardless.
Still. He knew the potential risks to his career, and he heard that ultimatum, and he chose Matt, with clear eyes and a sober head. What was it all for - what has any of his adult life been for - if he was just going to walk away from the one person on this planet who really needs him?
But there’s nothing Foggy can do about until Matt wakes up either. Even if he’s not sure what he will do once Matt wakes up.
And third…
Third, Matt kissed him and touched his dick, and Foggy liked it.
He’s honestly not sure what that means. It’s not like he hasn’t entertained idle thoughts about...well, mostly Matt, although Foggy’s list of acquaintances included a fairly generous serving of handsome, strapping men in skintight outfits until a few months ago. He’s not too insecure in his masculinity to admit to noticing Johnny Storm’s ass or Luke Cage’s shoulders or Steve Rogers’ jaw.
He didn’t love any of them, though. But Matt…
Foggy thinks even if Matt wasn’t objectively beautiful, he’d still have earned the lion’s share of Foggy’s aimless, unformed curiosity. Of confused, embarrassed moments in college that he’d never explored too deeply, or distracted stares at that quick, articulate mouth, or the graceful hands skimming a page in Braille, or the shift of muscles that even the best-tailored suit can’t quite hide.
If Foggy was to suddenly wind up gay for anyone - well, bi, he supposes; he does still think breasts are wonderful things - it was inevitably going to be for Matt. And maybe it’s not actually that sudden at all.
It doesn’t, maybe, mean anything. Not really. He and Matt aren’t even speaking, much less… Matt came to him tonight because he had no one else to go to. He might have implied an interest in Foggy, and even said that he’d liked listening to Foggy getting off when they were younger - which is a mental image Foggy needs to put aside for now, because he has no idea what to do with it at the moment - but Foggy’s known him for long time now. He’s seen Matt’s inexplicable but consistent attraction to beautiful women. There’s a very slim chance that Matt will have any non-platonic interest in Foggy in the cold and sober light of day.
Which is for the best, really. They’re not partners anymore, and they’re barely even friends. Adding sex, or even the idea of it, to the mix would just make things more complicated.
Foggy rolls onto his side, rests a ginger hand on Matt’s stomach to track his breathing - and arrest his inevitable attempt to sneak out the window before the break of dawn - and tries to sleep.
*
Foggy’s not sure when he goes from worried wakefulness to worried sleep, but he does know that he jerks back to consciousness when Matt, as predicted, tries to squirm out from under his arm. His fingers curl instinctively around Matt’s ribs, trained by a lifetime of kneejerk clutching at Matt, before his brain wakes up enough to remember what happened the night before.
Oh. Right.
“Morning,” he says, blinking sleep out of his eyes and letting go of Matt to prop himself up on his elbow and scrutinize his ex-partner’s face. “How are you feeling?”
Matt’s face is drawn and gray, coppery stubble dusting his chin. He tilts his face away from Foggy’s - he can’t make eye contact, of course, but sometimes he seems to think this will let him hide. “Fine.”
“Fine” is the most semantically empty word in Matt Murdock’s vocabulary, at least when it comes to his personal wellbeing. So Foggy pushes. “Do you remember last night?”
The flush rising in Matt’s cheeks answers him before Matt’s mouth does. “Yes.”
“Do you still...feel like that?”
The flush darkens. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
Foggy’s pretty sure he’s blushing too. “Feverish and, uh. Uncontrollably aroused?”
“Do I look uncontrollably aroused?” Matt asks, mustering up a level of dry annoyance that really, Foggy could do without.
“Forgive me for wanting to make sure you’re not about to go into some kind of drug-induced cardiac arrest,” he snaps. “This isn’t exactly a typical hangover, Matt. I’m not all that clear on where the symptoms begin and end.”
Matt’s silent for a minute, lips thin. Then he says: “I’m fine. I have a headache and I’m pretty sure I’m dehydrated, but the drug itself seems to have worn off. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“I’m not sure ‘bothered’ is the word I’d use.”
Matt cringes like Foggy’s struck a blow. Foggy didn’t even know he was swinging. “I’m sorry I assaulted you.”
“Jesus. I was going to go with ‘worried,’” Foggy says gently. “You were out of your mind on space dust, Matt, it wasn’t your fault. I’m the one who - ” He cuts himself off, embarrassed and ashamed.
“You stopped me,” Matt says. “You kept it from going any farther.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, then shuts it again, looking miserable. “I should go.”
He starts to roll away and Foggy says: “Did you mean it?”
Matt freezes.
“The...what you said last night,” Foggy says. “That you...that you’d thought about it before.” Thought about me, he wants to say, but doesn’t dare.
“Does it matter?” Matt asks.
“It might.”
“Why?” Matt snaps with sudden heat. “You’re straight, and you don’t want anything to do with me, so what does it matter whether I was being honest last night or talking out of my ass? I have to get to work,” he adds abruptly, and moves to roll out of the bed.
Foggy grabs his wrist and holds him in place - or really, Matt lets Foggy hold him in place. “Matt,” he says.
He sees Matt’s throat move as he swallows. “I meant it,” Matt says. “I always...I never meant to tell you, but. Yes. Last night...it wasn’t the drugs, and it wasn’t new.”
Foggy’s breath catches. “Matt,” he says again, very soft.
Matt tugs at his wrist - more to test Foggy’s hold, Foggy thinks, than any real effort to get away. “Would you let me go, please?” he asks.
“I think we should talk about this.”
“Why?” Matt demands again, anguished. “You don’t even want me in your life anymore, and you’re probably right, so why are you making me do this? Can’t you be satisfied with knowing that you really are the only person who has all my secrets now?”
“That’s never been what I wanted,” Foggy says, a little sharp.
“I know, but it’s done, and I can’t take it back now.” He tugs again, a little harder, and Foggy tightens his grip. “Foggy, let me go.”
“I can’t,” Foggy says, and then Matt’s crying for the second time in less than twelve hours.
Like before, it’s irresistible instinct to pull Matt in close. Matt resists halfheartedly before curling into Foggy, his spine a tight and miserable arc under Foggy’s hands. His tears are hot on Foggy’s collarbone.
“Oh, Matt,” Foggy says. This is why it’s so hard to stay angry with Matt, or at least part of why: he can never be as angry as Matt is with himself.
Matt makes a choked noise and clutches at Foggy’s t-shirt, and Foggy can only just make out the muffled request: “Can I come home now?”
They’re in New York - they’re in Hell’s Kitchen, even, because Foggy’s a homebody just as much as Matt is - but Foggy knows that’s not what Matt means. Without an answer, he presses his lips to the top of Matt’s head and waits for the storm to pass.
When Matt’s cried himself out and is limp in Foggy’s arms, Foggy ducks his head to try to get a good look at Matt’s face. Matt’s blotchy and gross and beautiful. “I wish you’d said something. About how you felt,” Foggy says.
“Yeah?” Matt’s apparently too tired to work up anything more than faint bitterness. “When would I have done that?”
“I mean, strategically speaking probably before that time I got married,” Foggy points out, and wrings a half-hearted laugh out of Matt. He pauses, then says, “It is...possible I might be less straight than previously assumed by all present parties.”
That gets a startled blink from Matt. “What?”
Foggy shrugs, suddenly very aware that Matt’s half-naked and lying mostly on top of him. “Well, I mean, I’ve been a sucker for you where everything else in our lives is concerned since freshman year. I guess it was inevitable that I’d be a sucker for you over this, too.”
Matt’s brow furrows. “Foggy, come on. I’m not asking for...for pity, or for you to humor me or anything…”
“Good, because you’re getting neither,” Foggy retorts. “Listen, this is way more plausible than you carrying a secret torch for me. You know how hot you are, and you know I love you. I say it often enough, don’t I?”
Matt’s frown, which went stormier when Foggy said his feelings for Foggy were implausible, suddenly gives way to something tentative and scared. “Love?” he repeats. “Present tense?”
Foggy flops back against the mattress, letting go of Matt with an annoyed grunt. “Matty. Stop fishing. You’re the one who’s been acting like this is just a rough patch and it’s just a matter of time until I’m back in your lovin’, legal arms. Though I didn’t expect it to be this literal,” he adds wryly.
“And you’re the one who said we were done,” Matt points out.
Foggy’s silent for a moment. “I’m still mad at you. That hasn’t changed. I’m going to be mad at you for a while. I still want you to fix...all this.” He waves his hand towards the window, the world, their lives in general. “But.”
“But?” Matt asks.
Foggy looks at him, the shadows under his soft, unfocused eyes, and the hollow cheeks, and the hair turned fiery by the rising sun. It’s a duller red than it used to be, and there are feathery lines around those eyes and around that perfect mouth, but he still feels the way he did all those years ago, watching Matt accept his diploma at graduation and knowing wherever they were going, they were going together. Feeling lucky, despite it all.
“But you’re my home, too,” he says, and hopes Matt can hear the truth in it.
“Foggy,” Matt says softly, wonderingly, hand curling tight in his shirt. “Someday, I swear, I’m gonna figure out a way to deserve you.”
Foggy pushes a lock of hair off his brow. “Someday you’re going to figure out that you deserve a lot more than you think you do.”
Matt doesn’t say anything, but he presses a kiss to Foggy’s shoulder through his t-shirt, and then rests his cheek against it. Foggy swallows.
“So hey, while we’re asking the hard questions,” he says, and feels Matt brace himself, “and since you had to go and give me a sexual identity crisis last night...how are you at kissing when you’re sober?”
A grin breaks over Matt’s face. “I’m great at it.”
“That sounds pretty braggy, Murdock. You sure about that?”
In answer, Matt pushes himself up on one arm and cups Foggy’s cheek in his other hand. Foggy has about three seconds to feel a thrilled rush of nerves he hasn’t experienced since he was a fumbling, inexperienced college kid before Matt’s leaning in, closing the gap between them.
His mouth tastes funky and he’s trembling, but of all the things Matt’s lied about, being great at kissing turns out not to be one of them.
He pulls away just as Foggy’s really getting into it, though. “Well?” he asks, still grinning.
Foggy rolls his eyes. “I’m rolling my eyes, you narcissist. Go shower. You smell. And brush your teeth. There’s a spare toothbrush under the sink for you.”
Matt looks surprised. “There is?”
“Apparently I instinctively buy them in packs of two now. Too many years of you climbing in my window and passing out on my couch.” Matt’s smile, as Foggy says it, is less smug this time and more like daybreak. Foggy gives him a gentle shove. “Yeah, yeah. Go.”
Matt smooches him on the forehead and bounces out of the bed, moving gracefully through an apartment he’s only been in once before. He disappears into the bathroom. Foggy hears the water start running, and a minute later, Matt’s reedy singing voice, too indistinct to make out the melody.
Foggy smiles despite himself, and levers himself out of bed to start making coffee. He knows, despite Matt’s mercurial fits of joy, that they’re not fixed, not by a long shot. Not their relationship, whatever it might be now, and not the logistics of their lives. He’s not even sure, really, what he wants their relationship to be anymore.
But he wants Matt. He always has. If he’s just discovered a new way of wanting him, well, they’ll figure out what that means together. They’ve certainly come back from worse. In the meantime, there’s coffee to make, and work to do.
Foggy can’t wait to get started.
Fandom: Daredevil (616)
Rating: R
Summary: Foggy's not speaking to Matt, but he's still there when Matt needs him. Even when weird space drugs are involved.
Warning: Sex pollen, so the inherent dubcon issues of the trope are there, but there's no actual sex.
Notes: This is set during the current run, probably before the current arc with Spider-Man, but if you want to take it as a post-Season Two fic, that probably works too - just mentally replace the reasons behind Matt and Foggy's estrangement and make Foggy a bit more square. (No shade, ILU COMICS FOGGY, YOU STODGY LITTLE MAN.) Title is from Billy Joel's "You're My Home." Also, I'm using this for the "redemption" prompt on my Daredevil Bingo card.
The first thing Foggy thinks when a noise on his fire escape jolts him awake in the middle of the night is: "Matt."
The second thing he thinks is, no, it can't be Matt, Foggy made it very clear that he's not speaking to him.
The third thing he thinks is: "Ugh, Matt."
He drags himself out of bed and over to the window. "You'd better not have brought me another petty criminal to shelter," he says as he opens the blinds. "I swear, you're like a cat bringing me dead birds because you think it'll...it..."
He trails off. It's Matt, all right, and he's alone, but he doesn't look good. He's hunched over, and even with him wearing that stupid black costume and in the dark of night, it's clear that he's shaking.
Foggy pushes the window up. "Matt, what happened? Are you hurt? Get in here."
Matt cocks an ear towards him. "Foggy," he says, like he's surprised Foggy's there; then he shakes himself and scrambles through the window.
"How bad is it?" Foggy asks once Matt's through. Matt turns those blank lenses and an open mouth towards him but doesn't say anything. "Matt!"
He's getting worried despite himself. He told Matt to keep his distance, told Matt they were done, but they both know it's temporary. It always is. Foggy's not sure if Matt's his own personal bad penny or just magnetic north, but either way they keep ending up back together. And he's still mad, so mad he can barely vocalize it, over how once again Matt's made a terrible, unilateral decision and thrown their lives into complete disarray again just when things were finally going well...but that doesn't mean his heart doesn't leap into his throat at the sight of Matt acting so strangely.
Matt sways towards him, and then abruptly back. "I'm fine," he says. "I'm not hurt. I just. I just needed to rest for a minute."
"Yeah, no, I'm calling bullshit on that one," Foggy says, crossing his arms. "Take off the mask."
He sees Matt swallow, and then Matt reaches up and tugs off the cowl. And - yeah, Foggy doesn't feel one bit calmer now. Matt's flushed like he's running a bad fever, and his expression is strained, but more importantly, his pupils are dilated. Foggy wasn't even sure Matt's pupils could dilate.
"Matt, what happened?" he asks again.
Matt licks his lips - twice, three times. "I. I've been investigating...there's a new drug on the streets. Something from, from New Attilan, it...there was a shipment, and I broke it up, but it - there was a syringe, someone, the costume didn't deflect it and - "
He trails off, chest heaving, but Foggy's figured out where this story's going. "You got a veinful of some crazy space drug?" he asks, and Matt nods. "What the hell are you doing here then? You should be at the hospital, or at least the Night Nurse..."
Matt shakes his head, fingers twitching at his sides. "Don't need it," he says. "I know what it does. It's not...it's not life-threatening. I won't...I'm okay. It's okay."
"You do not look anywhere close to okay," Foggy tells him.
Matt shakes his head again - a little too emphatic, a little too loose. "It's. I'm okay. I just need - " Those fingers are in the air, now, reaching towards Foggy, before he curls them against his palms and draws back. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are so wide.
“What?” Foggy asks. “Water? Something to take the fever down?” Matt shakes his head a third time, looking like he’s trying to dislodge water in his ears. “Come on, you gotta give me something here.”
Matt arcs towards him and then back, gulps at the air. “Just. I just need a rest,” he says. “Just a rest.”
It’s an obvious lie, but sometimes unpacking Matt’s lies takes more subterfuge than just calling him on it. “Fine,” Foggy says. “You know where the couch is.”
Matt swallows visibly again, then turns towards the door to the living room. He stumbles on the way, and Foggy hurries to catch him, alarmed. Matt never trips, not when he’s not faking ordinary blindness. “Matt, are you - ”
The minute Foggy’s hand lands on Matt’s arm, Matt jolts like he’s been burned. Foggy pulls away - is he lying about being hurt? does the drug make touch painful? - but he doesn’t get far. Matt’s on him, pulling him close with hands fisted in his old Columbia Law t-shirt, the night-cold tip of his nose buried just below Foggy’s ear. “Matt, what are you - ”
“Foggy,” Matt interrupts. He’s still shaking. “Foggy, Fog, you smell so good.”
“Uh, this is a weird apology, Matt,” Foggy says. “And not one that’s going to work, so you can stop - Matt!” Because that’s definitely Matt’s tongue, hot and wet. “Matt, what are you doing?”
“You smell so good,” Matt says again, like that’s an explanation, and something clicks for Foggy.
“Matt,” he says, and pushes Matt away firmly. Matt doesn’t let go of his shirt, but he does take a half step back, which is a relief - Foggy knows he couldn’t push Matt off if Matt didn’t want to be moved. “Matthew. What does the drug do?”
“It’s...it…” Matt’s eyes dart wildly around the vicinity of Foggy’s head and he’s bright red, though Foggy can’t tell if that’s embarrassment or...something else. “Aphrodisiac,” he finally mumbles.
“Aphro - you got space roofied?” Foggy hisses. “Why are - what - what the fuck are you doing here? You should be talking to Reed Richards, to, to Tony Stark or someone, this is way above my pay grade, Matt - ”
“I don’t want Reed Richards,” Matt says petulantly.
“I’m not suggesting you indulge this with him, he’s a married man,” Foggy says, rolling his eyes. “Besides, you don’t want me either, remember? You’re just high and guilty. We’re not...” It’s a ridiculous notion. Yes, people have joked about it, but...no. Ridiculous. “Just because you miss me…”
Matt’s face crumples. “I miss you so much,” he breathes, curling into Foggy again, face planted firmly back in Foggy’s throat.
“Matt, stop - ” Foggy starts, and then freezes, because Matt is hard against his stomach.
“Matt,” he says again.
“Just a little bit,” Matt says, hips twitching against him. “Just. Just once. That’d be okay, right?”
“Matt.” Foggy knew other words once, he’s sure of it.
“You’ve looked, I know you’ve looked.” Matt’s mouthing at his throat again, hot and wet, but it’s Foggy’s natural pedantry and not Matt’s tongue that shakes Foggy from his stupor. Matt would make fun of him for it if he was in his right mind.
“You do not know if I’ve looked. You never know where anyone’s looking.” And if he has, well, Foggy would defy any red-blooded human, Inhuman, or mutant to spend their entire adult life in his kind of proximity to Matt Murdock and not look. The plain fact of the matter is that the man is beautiful, and if Foggy’s noted that once or twice or a thousand times, it just means that he isn’t the blind one in their partnership.
“You can,” Matt offers, pressing in closer, and Foggy takes a step back to keep his balance. “Look, I mean. You can do anything you want.” Another step. “Just let me…please, Foggy.” And a deft hand unbuttons Foggy’s fly before Foggy can stop it.
“Matt!” Foggy says, jerking back, and pinwheeling his arms as he falls onto the bed that Matt’s backed him up against without him even noticing. “Matt, don’t - ”
But Matt’s already on top of him, clambering up over him - sinuous, hard-bodied, heartbreaking. “Please,” he says again, and then the top of his suit’s gone, far quicker than Foggy’d ever be able to get out of anything that tight. His torso is milk-pale in the street lights through the windows, cut like marble and laced with scars. There’s a mottled flush running down his throat. “Please.”
Foggy puts on his scolding voice, even though it only works maybe fifteen percent of the time. “Matt, stop it. You are going to take a cold shower and drink like twelve glasses of water and then - ”
Matt kisses him.
If he were to argue in his own defense, Foggy would point out that it’s been over a year since Dina, and years, plural, more than he cares to count, since he was in any kind of serious relationship. He didn’t even get to have meaningless, life-affirming sex with a near-stranger after his cancer went into remission, both because Matt immediately firebombed their lives again and because he’s never actually had any ability to pick women up for meaningless sex, life-affirming or otherwise. His body is acting without his permission, that’s all.
He already knows he’d lose the case. He kisses Matt back because he wants to. And because he missed Matt too.
Matt moans into his mouth, riding Foggy’s thigh like a cat in heat and yanking his t-shirt up. It’s Matt’s too-hot fingers on Foggy’s bare stomach that scorch some sense into him.
“Maff,” he says into Matt’s mouth. He pushes him up and scoots out from under him, towards the headboard. “Matt. Stop. We need...we need to talk about this, we can’t just...I don’t even know if you’re sober, and even if you were, we shouldn’t just...this isn’t a good idea.”
Matt’s wriggling out of the bottom half of his suit, because when has Matt ever listened to him. “It is,” he says. “I can, I can make it good, Foggy, I know I can.”
“Jesus, Matt, this isn’t the time to brag about your sexual prowess - ”
“I know what you like,” Matt pleads. “In college. I could hear you, when - with girls, and when you thought I was asleep.” Foggy feels his face heat up. He’d assumed, once he’d found out about Matt’s senses, but Matt had never actually confirmed it. “I liked hearing you.”
Foggy swallows hard. Matt’s kneeling up, clad only in tented boxers. He can’t tell if that’s a shadow or a damp spot on them, but he has a suspicion. “Matt, come on…I know you’re high, buddy, but this...this isn’t what we are. You don’t want this.”
Matt’s face twists, agonized for a second, and he’s crawling up Foggy again. Foggy should stand up. He doesn’t, though. “I do,” Matt says, and it takes Foggy a moment to connect it with his last sentence, distracted by the drag of Matt’s muscled thigh against his own. “I do, I - always have, Foggy, I just, you didn’t, you never, there was always someone else and now there’s no one and please can I just touch you?”
Oh God. “Matt,” Foggy says thickly, and Matt - Matt cocks his head and sniffs, jaw going slack, and Foggy realizes, with a humiliation so profound it might kill him, that he’s turned on and Matt can smell it.
“Foggy.” Matt pushes forward, biting at Foggy’s mouth. “Foggy, Foggy, yes - ”
There’s a hand sneaking into Foggy’s boxers and Foggy panics and clamps his own hand around Matt’s wrist. He can’t tell which one of them’s shaking anymore. “No! I can’t - you - Matt, I have to think about this. And you’re drugged, Matt, I’m not going to...to…” Matt’s mouth is wet and parted in the dim light and Foggy hates himself. “I can’t, Matt. Not until you’re sober.” Not that he expects Matt to be trying to get into his underwear in the cold light of day, but that’s not important right now. What’s important is Foggy not doing something unforgivable to the man who - fuck it, is still and forever his best friend, and just because Matt’s kind of talking in full sentences doesn’t mean he’s in control.
“Please,” Matt begs, pushing against Foggy’s grip until his fingertips brush Foggy’s dick, and Foggy bites his lip and squirms away.
“Matt, no,” he says, as firmly as he knows how. “I’m telling you to stop. I’m telling you I don’t want this.” Whatever he’s on, Matt won’t force him.
Matt cocks his head. “You’re lying.” Oh, that bastard and his stupid bastard ears.
Foggy bites his lip. “Fine, then I do.” And he’ll have a long panic about how long he’s wanted it once this is all over. “But I’m still telling you no. Are you going to force me?”
He chooses the words “no” and “force” carefully, watch them somehow penetrate whatever the drug is doing to Matt’s mind, and sees his eyes go wide. “Oh,” Matt says - or mouths, really, because there’s no sound - and yanks his hand out of Foggy’s boxers.
And then Matt starts to cry.
Any lingering resentment Foggy might have felt melts like snow in spring, at least for now. “Oh, Matty, no,” he breathes. They’re close enough that he can still bundle Matt up in his arms. Matt seems to like having his face in Foggy’s neck, so Foggy tucks Matt’s head under his chin and shushes him. “Hey. Hey. It’s not your fault.”
Matt’s still shaking, his bare skin fever-hot beneath Foggy’s palms. His hips keep making aborted little thrusts against Foggy’s, even though he seems to be trying to control them. “I need it,” he sobs. “I need it.”
“I’m sorry,” Foggy says. “I can’t give it to you.” He doesn’t even know if they’re talking about the same thing anymore.
“Foggy,” Matt says, and then it’s just wordless little half-whimpers into Foggy’s neck as he cries. Foggy ignores his own arousal and how unpleasantly hot Matt is and just holds him, stroking his sweaty back and murmuring nonsense.
He can’t help thinking that it’s neither the weirdest nor the most difficult thing he’s ever done for Matt.
Eventually Matt drops off, first into a sleep nearly as fitful as his waking state, and finally into something deeper and calmer. Foggy checks Matt’s forehead with the back of his hand, then eases Matt off of him into a more comfortable position, stares up at the ceiling, and freaks the hell out.
He is a methodical man, so he sorts his panic into categories and prioritizes them accordingly. First, Matt’s out of his mind on a syringe full of God only knows what, from space, and for all he says that it’s not life threatening, he’s neither Inhuman nor a doctor. What if he got more than a safe dosage? All too likely, considering the results. Should Foggy be calling 911, and risking Matt’s secret identity again? Or the Night Nurse? But she won’t remember Foggy enough to trust him and come if he calls, and there’s no way Foggy can get Matt to her without waking him.
He tips his head to the side to study Matt in the low light. His breathing has evened out and he’s no longer shaking, even though his brow is still furrowed. It looks like he’s maybe coming down from it. In the meantime, there’s nothing Foggy can do but wait.
Second, Foggy’s not sure this is all the drug. He’s seen Matt on the brink of a nervous breakdown before, and this has all the hallmarks. For a moment, he’s nauseous with guilt. He was all Matt had left, and he took even that away from Matt.
But no - he was all Matt had left by Matt’s own choice. Matt didn’t have to make the world forget he was Daredevil, to walk away from Kirsten and their life in San Francisco and the trust of all his costumed friends. And he didn’t give Foggy a say in it either, just left him to fill in the gaps in everyone’s memory of him. No one remembers that Foggy faked his death, but no one knows why he disappeared from the legal scene for a year, either, which has made finding clients difficult. His family doesn’t remember throwing down a “Matt or them” ultimatum when Matt’s identity was first leaked, but they’re not talking to him regardless.
Still. He knew the potential risks to his career, and he heard that ultimatum, and he chose Matt, with clear eyes and a sober head. What was it all for - what has any of his adult life been for - if he was just going to walk away from the one person on this planet who really needs him?
But there’s nothing Foggy can do about until Matt wakes up either. Even if he’s not sure what he will do once Matt wakes up.
And third…
Third, Matt kissed him and touched his dick, and Foggy liked it.
He’s honestly not sure what that means. It’s not like he hasn’t entertained idle thoughts about...well, mostly Matt, although Foggy’s list of acquaintances included a fairly generous serving of handsome, strapping men in skintight outfits until a few months ago. He’s not too insecure in his masculinity to admit to noticing Johnny Storm’s ass or Luke Cage’s shoulders or Steve Rogers’ jaw.
He didn’t love any of them, though. But Matt…
Foggy thinks even if Matt wasn’t objectively beautiful, he’d still have earned the lion’s share of Foggy’s aimless, unformed curiosity. Of confused, embarrassed moments in college that he’d never explored too deeply, or distracted stares at that quick, articulate mouth, or the graceful hands skimming a page in Braille, or the shift of muscles that even the best-tailored suit can’t quite hide.
If Foggy was to suddenly wind up gay for anyone - well, bi, he supposes; he does still think breasts are wonderful things - it was inevitably going to be for Matt. And maybe it’s not actually that sudden at all.
It doesn’t, maybe, mean anything. Not really. He and Matt aren’t even speaking, much less… Matt came to him tonight because he had no one else to go to. He might have implied an interest in Foggy, and even said that he’d liked listening to Foggy getting off when they were younger - which is a mental image Foggy needs to put aside for now, because he has no idea what to do with it at the moment - but Foggy’s known him for long time now. He’s seen Matt’s inexplicable but consistent attraction to beautiful women. There’s a very slim chance that Matt will have any non-platonic interest in Foggy in the cold and sober light of day.
Which is for the best, really. They’re not partners anymore, and they’re barely even friends. Adding sex, or even the idea of it, to the mix would just make things more complicated.
Foggy rolls onto his side, rests a ginger hand on Matt’s stomach to track his breathing - and arrest his inevitable attempt to sneak out the window before the break of dawn - and tries to sleep.
*
Foggy’s not sure when he goes from worried wakefulness to worried sleep, but he does know that he jerks back to consciousness when Matt, as predicted, tries to squirm out from under his arm. His fingers curl instinctively around Matt’s ribs, trained by a lifetime of kneejerk clutching at Matt, before his brain wakes up enough to remember what happened the night before.
Oh. Right.
“Morning,” he says, blinking sleep out of his eyes and letting go of Matt to prop himself up on his elbow and scrutinize his ex-partner’s face. “How are you feeling?”
Matt’s face is drawn and gray, coppery stubble dusting his chin. He tilts his face away from Foggy’s - he can’t make eye contact, of course, but sometimes he seems to think this will let him hide. “Fine.”
“Fine” is the most semantically empty word in Matt Murdock’s vocabulary, at least when it comes to his personal wellbeing. So Foggy pushes. “Do you remember last night?”
The flush rising in Matt’s cheeks answers him before Matt’s mouth does. “Yes.”
“Do you still...feel like that?”
The flush darkens. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
Foggy’s pretty sure he’s blushing too. “Feverish and, uh. Uncontrollably aroused?”
“Do I look uncontrollably aroused?” Matt asks, mustering up a level of dry annoyance that really, Foggy could do without.
“Forgive me for wanting to make sure you’re not about to go into some kind of drug-induced cardiac arrest,” he snaps. “This isn’t exactly a typical hangover, Matt. I’m not all that clear on where the symptoms begin and end.”
Matt’s silent for a minute, lips thin. Then he says: “I’m fine. I have a headache and I’m pretty sure I’m dehydrated, but the drug itself seems to have worn off. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
“I’m not sure ‘bothered’ is the word I’d use.”
Matt cringes like Foggy’s struck a blow. Foggy didn’t even know he was swinging. “I’m sorry I assaulted you.”
“Jesus. I was going to go with ‘worried,’” Foggy says gently. “You were out of your mind on space dust, Matt, it wasn’t your fault. I’m the one who - ” He cuts himself off, embarrassed and ashamed.
“You stopped me,” Matt says. “You kept it from going any farther.” He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, then shuts it again, looking miserable. “I should go.”
He starts to roll away and Foggy says: “Did you mean it?”
Matt freezes.
“The...what you said last night,” Foggy says. “That you...that you’d thought about it before.” Thought about me, he wants to say, but doesn’t dare.
“Does it matter?” Matt asks.
“It might.”
“Why?” Matt snaps with sudden heat. “You’re straight, and you don’t want anything to do with me, so what does it matter whether I was being honest last night or talking out of my ass? I have to get to work,” he adds abruptly, and moves to roll out of the bed.
Foggy grabs his wrist and holds him in place - or really, Matt lets Foggy hold him in place. “Matt,” he says.
He sees Matt’s throat move as he swallows. “I meant it,” Matt says. “I always...I never meant to tell you, but. Yes. Last night...it wasn’t the drugs, and it wasn’t new.”
Foggy’s breath catches. “Matt,” he says again, very soft.
Matt tugs at his wrist - more to test Foggy’s hold, Foggy thinks, than any real effort to get away. “Would you let me go, please?” he asks.
“I think we should talk about this.”
“Why?” Matt demands again, anguished. “You don’t even want me in your life anymore, and you’re probably right, so why are you making me do this? Can’t you be satisfied with knowing that you really are the only person who has all my secrets now?”
“That’s never been what I wanted,” Foggy says, a little sharp.
“I know, but it’s done, and I can’t take it back now.” He tugs again, a little harder, and Foggy tightens his grip. “Foggy, let me go.”
“I can’t,” Foggy says, and then Matt’s crying for the second time in less than twelve hours.
Like before, it’s irresistible instinct to pull Matt in close. Matt resists halfheartedly before curling into Foggy, his spine a tight and miserable arc under Foggy’s hands. His tears are hot on Foggy’s collarbone.
“Oh, Matt,” Foggy says. This is why it’s so hard to stay angry with Matt, or at least part of why: he can never be as angry as Matt is with himself.
Matt makes a choked noise and clutches at Foggy’s t-shirt, and Foggy can only just make out the muffled request: “Can I come home now?”
They’re in New York - they’re in Hell’s Kitchen, even, because Foggy’s a homebody just as much as Matt is - but Foggy knows that’s not what Matt means. Without an answer, he presses his lips to the top of Matt’s head and waits for the storm to pass.
When Matt’s cried himself out and is limp in Foggy’s arms, Foggy ducks his head to try to get a good look at Matt’s face. Matt’s blotchy and gross and beautiful. “I wish you’d said something. About how you felt,” Foggy says.
“Yeah?” Matt’s apparently too tired to work up anything more than faint bitterness. “When would I have done that?”
“I mean, strategically speaking probably before that time I got married,” Foggy points out, and wrings a half-hearted laugh out of Matt. He pauses, then says, “It is...possible I might be less straight than previously assumed by all present parties.”
That gets a startled blink from Matt. “What?”
Foggy shrugs, suddenly very aware that Matt’s half-naked and lying mostly on top of him. “Well, I mean, I’ve been a sucker for you where everything else in our lives is concerned since freshman year. I guess it was inevitable that I’d be a sucker for you over this, too.”
Matt’s brow furrows. “Foggy, come on. I’m not asking for...for pity, or for you to humor me or anything…”
“Good, because you’re getting neither,” Foggy retorts. “Listen, this is way more plausible than you carrying a secret torch for me. You know how hot you are, and you know I love you. I say it often enough, don’t I?”
Matt’s frown, which went stormier when Foggy said his feelings for Foggy were implausible, suddenly gives way to something tentative and scared. “Love?” he repeats. “Present tense?”
Foggy flops back against the mattress, letting go of Matt with an annoyed grunt. “Matty. Stop fishing. You’re the one who’s been acting like this is just a rough patch and it’s just a matter of time until I’m back in your lovin’, legal arms. Though I didn’t expect it to be this literal,” he adds wryly.
“And you’re the one who said we were done,” Matt points out.
Foggy’s silent for a moment. “I’m still mad at you. That hasn’t changed. I’m going to be mad at you for a while. I still want you to fix...all this.” He waves his hand towards the window, the world, their lives in general. “But.”
“But?” Matt asks.
Foggy looks at him, the shadows under his soft, unfocused eyes, and the hollow cheeks, and the hair turned fiery by the rising sun. It’s a duller red than it used to be, and there are feathery lines around those eyes and around that perfect mouth, but he still feels the way he did all those years ago, watching Matt accept his diploma at graduation and knowing wherever they were going, they were going together. Feeling lucky, despite it all.
“But you’re my home, too,” he says, and hopes Matt can hear the truth in it.
“Foggy,” Matt says softly, wonderingly, hand curling tight in his shirt. “Someday, I swear, I’m gonna figure out a way to deserve you.”
Foggy pushes a lock of hair off his brow. “Someday you’re going to figure out that you deserve a lot more than you think you do.”
Matt doesn’t say anything, but he presses a kiss to Foggy’s shoulder through his t-shirt, and then rests his cheek against it. Foggy swallows.
“So hey, while we’re asking the hard questions,” he says, and feels Matt brace himself, “and since you had to go and give me a sexual identity crisis last night...how are you at kissing when you’re sober?”
A grin breaks over Matt’s face. “I’m great at it.”
“That sounds pretty braggy, Murdock. You sure about that?”
In answer, Matt pushes himself up on one arm and cups Foggy’s cheek in his other hand. Foggy has about three seconds to feel a thrilled rush of nerves he hasn’t experienced since he was a fumbling, inexperienced college kid before Matt’s leaning in, closing the gap between them.
His mouth tastes funky and he’s trembling, but of all the things Matt’s lied about, being great at kissing turns out not to be one of them.
He pulls away just as Foggy’s really getting into it, though. “Well?” he asks, still grinning.
Foggy rolls his eyes. “I’m rolling my eyes, you narcissist. Go shower. You smell. And brush your teeth. There’s a spare toothbrush under the sink for you.”
Matt looks surprised. “There is?”
“Apparently I instinctively buy them in packs of two now. Too many years of you climbing in my window and passing out on my couch.” Matt’s smile, as Foggy says it, is less smug this time and more like daybreak. Foggy gives him a gentle shove. “Yeah, yeah. Go.”
Matt smooches him on the forehead and bounces out of the bed, moving gracefully through an apartment he’s only been in once before. He disappears into the bathroom. Foggy hears the water start running, and a minute later, Matt’s reedy singing voice, too indistinct to make out the melody.
Foggy smiles despite himself, and levers himself out of bed to start making coffee. He knows, despite Matt’s mercurial fits of joy, that they’re not fixed, not by a long shot. Not their relationship, whatever it might be now, and not the logistics of their lives. He’s not even sure, really, what he wants their relationship to be anymore.
But he wants Matt. He always has. If he’s just discovered a new way of wanting him, well, they’ll figure out what that means together. They’ve certainly come back from worse. In the meantime, there’s coffee to make, and work to do.
Foggy can’t wait to get started.