Fic: Boy Wonder [1/4]
Title: Boy Wonder [1/4]
Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Rating: PG
Summary: In 1999, Foggy Nelson was the secret weapon in a now-forgotten boy band. Sixteen years later, he meets his biggest fan: music critic Matt Murdock.
Notes: Co-written with becs1024, who also created all the graphics and is overall a complete and utter genius. Note that Matt's accident happened around age 13 or 14 in this universe, closer to comicsverse than show.
"C'mon, Matty, this girly shit again?" Jack mumbles to himself as he walks into the kitchen to grab a beer. Matt can hear him, but his dad doesn't know that, so he just pulls the headphones tighter around his ears and keeps needlessly running his fingers over the CD liner notes.
The CD is a few years old now. Matt had liked it well enough at the time, even if he would have never admitted it. It'd been easy to set it aside when everyone else had, when TRL started being populated by rock videos and guys with lip rings calling boy bands "lame" and also "super lame."
And then the accident happened.
Matt didn't listen to music for a while afterwards. At first it was because he couldn't get his hearing under control and everything was too loud. Eventually he tried the CDs that had been his favorites only months before, but the guitars and feedback and record scratches were harsh and unmelodic. He heard every slide of fingers on guitar strings, every raspy scream, every slap of a poorly-played bass.
He found his boy band albums at the bottom of his closet, under a pile of now-too-small flannel shirts he'd never folded and put away. All the bands had broken up by now, mocked and then forgotten. A couple of the boys had tried to have solo careers, but most couldn't get a foothold in the anti-teen pop landscape without changing their sound entirely. Matt ran his fingers over the smooth plastic of the topmost CD case, remembering the synthy strings, the Swedish drum machines, the a cappella harmonies, the compressed production, the trained pubescent voices. He placed the CD in his Discman and carefully put on his headphones.
It was in the bridge of the album's first track that he remembered the voice. Not the squeaky boyish voices from the verses, the heartthrobs who could only mostly put across a melody, but a polished singer, with perfect pitch, full of emotion and even a little bit of soul, at least for an 11-year-old white kid. After Matt's ears locked onto the voice, he found it all over the album's mix: carrying almost all of the backup harmonies, doubling the weaker singers, boosted in the blends of the choruses. He heard things he'd never heard in the CD before, could never have heard. It was all so clear that it almost brought forward a mental picture of that boy's face, in the back of the dance numbers (he wasn't all that good a dancer) and smiling wholesomely on the album cover.
Matt hasn't taken the CD out of his Discman in the weeks since. His dad helped him find the repeat button, and he listens to it while he sits in his room after school, when he used to be playing outside, trying not to hear the people on the street and in the neighboring apartments. He can focus in on that voice when everything else seems too loud, when he wants to feel like he's wrapped in a warm sonic blanket, protected.
"Hey, Dad?" Matt asks Jack before he can open his beer and leave the kitchen. Matt tugs off his headphones and turns toward the sound of Jack's breathing. "Can you do me a favor?"
"Sure, Matty, what is it?" Jack says, placing the bottle on the counter.
Matt holds up the liner notes. "The little blonde kid, the one with the slicked-back hair and the bandana. Can you tell me his name?"
Jack sighs and bends over to look closer at the booklet. Matt can smell his breath; this'll be his third beer.
"It's Foggy," Jack says with an amused snort, straightening up to leave. "His name is Foggy."
*
[Image description: A newspaper clipping with the following text:
To the Editor:
Re: “Flame On: America’s kid brother takes music industry less by storm than by drizzle” (Arts & Entertainment section, April 3rd):
I enjoyed Mr. Murdock’s review of Johnny Storm’s new solo album, and can’t disagree with his final analysis of the record as “so effervescent as to, in the long run, leave no lasting impression whatsoever.” As usual, Mr. Murdock’s encyclopedic knowledge of pop history added depth and context to what otherwise would have been a cheap shot across Mr. Storm’s bows.
However, I have to wonder why fully half of the article (I counted) was given over to talking about Foggy Nelson, who wrote all of one song for Mr. Storm. Admittedly, Mr. Murdock is correct that it’s the best song on the album, but the attention paid seems disproportionate to Mr. Nelson’s contributions. I can’t help but notice that Mr. Murdock indulged in similar digressions recently: in his review of the March 14th Mary Janes concert, where they performed only two Nelson songs, and his profile on Clint Barton, who has never actually worked with Mr. Nelson.
Who even is Foggy Nelson, seriously? Calm down.
Becky Blake
Brooklyn Heights]
*
Matt sighs as he hears Peter approaching him in the Bugle bullpen, and takes out his earbud. Better to get this over with.
Peter doesn’t start laughing until he actually sits down on the edge of Matt’s desk and folds the day’s paper over to, presumably, the Letters to the Editor section. “‘Who even is Foggy Nelson, seriously? Calm down,’” he reads out loud, then loses it again.
Matt takes a calming breath through his nose. “Are you done? Because some of us have actual work to do.”
“Writing ‘Matt Murdock plus Foggy Nelson equals true love’ over and over again doesn’t count as work,” Peter says. “Although so far you have tricked Jameson into paying you for it multiple times, I’m not sure how you managed that.”
Matt raises his eyebrows. “Oh, are we talking about things we’ve scammed Jameson into paying us for? Remind me again how you got all those pictures of Sp--”
“Okay, yes, fine, you’ve made your point,” Peter says quickly. He taps the paper in his hand. “But you have to admit, so does this person.”
“As a professional music critic, I felt that a retrospective of some of Foggy Nelson’s better-known ballads would put ‘Torch Song’ into greater context,” Matt says with great dignity. “If Jane Whoever from Park Slope doesn’t agree, that’s her problem.”
“There are no ‘better-known Foggy Nelson songs!’ You’re the only one who cares about this ex-boy-bander!” Peter says, throwing up his hands with a papery rustle.
“He’s had multiple number one hits - ”
“As a songwriter. No one knows his name! Which, what kind of name is ‘Foggy,’ anyway?” Peter tilts his head musingly. “What if he takes your name after the wedding? ‘Foggy Murdock.’ Sounds like a bog creature from a children’s book. Stay out of the swamp or the Foggy Murdock will get you!”
“Peter, why are you standing here talking nonsense?” Ben asks from behind Peter, making him jump. Matt hides a smirk. “Spider-sense,” his ass. “Go take a photo of something before Jameson fires you again.”
“Nah, he’s already fired me once this week, he’ll probably wait until Monday,” Peter says.
“And Matt, quit planning your wedding and get me that piece on the Bishop kid, we have to finish tomorrow’s layouts,” Ben continues, and Peter snickers audibly.
Matt sighs. “Yes, boss.” He’s used to this kind of teasing from Peter. He’s used to all kinds of teasing from Peter, now, although it took quite a few months of Peter following him around at work - and on the city’s rooftops - for Matt to let his guard down around him. Matt’s not…great at the whole “having friends” thing. But he likes Peter, despite himself, and he’ll put up with some good-natured ribbing about his intellectual appreciation for Foggy Nelson’s work for the sake of having someone to drink a beer with on Friday evenings after work, or a cup of coffee with at three a.m. from on top of a water tower.
Ben, from his lofty position as Arts and Entertainment editor, doesn’t usually join in on the jokes. The fact that he has - and that there was an actual letter from a reader about it - maybe means that Matt needs to rein in the Foggy references a bit.
Even if it is usually relevant. It’s not Matt’s fault that Foggy’s significant contributions to the contemporary pop landscape have gone mostly overlooked.
Ben heads back to his office and Peter leans in. “I’m best man, right? Because I give a heck of a wedding toast, ask anyone.”
Matt rolls his eyes and tips his chin back to make sure the gesture translates even with his glasses on. “Would you give it a rest? I just like the man’s writing, okay? It’s not like I’m ever gonna meet him.” Oops. That’s...that’s probably giving too much away.
Sure enough, Peter laughs and gives him what he probably thinks is a gentle punch to the shoulder. “Hey, never say never, pal! Keep hope alive.”
“Go away, Peter. I have work to do,” Matt drawls, putting his earbud back in. There’s no point in saying that there was never any hope in the first place. Meeting Foggy is a ridiculous fantasy, and not one that Matt’s even bothered to spin - much - in the years since he discovered Foggy’s voice. Matt’s not one to waste his time daydreaming about something that’ll never happen, and that’s likely to be disappointing even if it did.
After all, what would he even say?
*
"I said give me your wallet!"
Matt cocks his head towards the sound, then shifts his weight on his swing so that his billy club cable carries him towards it. It’s been a quiet evening so far and he was close to packing it in, but it sounds like someone needs Daredevil after all.
He flips into the alley, flicking the billy club to unhook the far end from its mooring, and lands in a crouch between the mugger and his victim. Both of their hearts are racing but it's easy to tell who is who, considering one smells like fear and the other smells like cocaine and gunpowder. "Back off," he growls.
"Fuck you, man! I'll fucking kill you!"
Oh, please. The mugger's waving his gun around but Matt straightens up and calmly swings the free end of his billy club. It cracks into the mugger's skull. He drops. "No, I don't think you will."
"Holy shit," says the victim from behind him.
Right. Matt hopes he doesn't start crying. He likes saving people but he's no good at comforting them. "Are you okay, sir?" he asks, pressing the button to retract the billy club cable and slipping the pieces into his thigh holster as he turns.
"Yeah, I'm, um. I'm fine." The voice is oddly familiar, which is strange, because the heartbeat isn't. Neither is the general shape, or the smell, though it's pleasant under the rankness of fear: vanilla, coffee, wax and resin and brass. "He didn't...he just...good, uh, good timing."
Well, he doesn't sound like he's about to cry, or faint, which means Matt can be on his way. "Glad I could help."
"Yeah, you - I mean, oh shit, sorry, thank you! I should have said that to begin with. Sorry. Thank you. I don't have my superhero etiquette down yet, Mister...uh. Mister Daredevil? Mister Devil? Sir? I don't really know what to call you."
Matt freezes. He knows that voice. Sure, it sounds different when he speaks than when he sings, but it's still recognizable, still light and pleasant, and also Matt has listened to every interview he's ever recorded at least twice.
It's Foggy Nelson.
It's Foggy fucking Nelson, who has been Matt's favorite singer since he was thirteen and his favorite songwriter since he was seventeen and whose latest album is currently in Matt's record player at home and he is standing right there and he smells like fucking vanilla.
"Uh...excuse me? Daredevil? Are you okay?" Foggy. Foggy Nelson - Foggy Nelson! - is talking to him.
"I. Yes!” Matt's voice comes out too high. Crap. Lower it, lower it, Daredevil voice. "I'm fine. Uh, citizen." Too low, he sounds like a bad James Earl Jones impression.
"O...kay?" Now Foggy - Foggy! - kind of sounds like he wants to laugh. "Because you were just kind of standing there."
Would it be weird to ask for his autograph? Yes, obviously, especially because Matt wouldn't actually be able to see it and also doesn't have anything to sign. Why didn’t he ever fantasize about this more? Why didn’t he have a plan? "I was...thinking about crime."
He is an idiot.
"Right, I guess you...do that a lot." Foggy clears his throat. His beautiful throat. "I'm just...I'll just...go into the studio now."
Matt can sense him pointing. This must be a recording studio, then, and he's got to admire their soundproofing if even his ears weren't able to pick that up. "Oh, do you...are you a musician?" Be cool, Murdock.
"I dabble." There's a brightness in Foggy's voice that sounds like a smile. Oh. Matt made him smile. "Thanks again, Daredevil. You are quite possibly a literal lifesaver."
Matt licks his lips and pulls out his billy club. He didn't get to do any particularly impressive moves before; now's the chance to fix that. "You're very welcome...Mr. Nelson," he says, and flicks his wrist as he presses the release on the cable. One of the clubs hooks around a fire escape and Matt swings up and away before Foggy can respond, throwing a double half-twist flip into it just because he can. Just because Foggy Nelson - Foggy Nelson! - is watching.
"Wow," he hears Foggy murmur from below.
Luckily, Matt is a superhero, and gets all the way to the roof and out of sight before he performs his victory dance.
*
[Image description: A triptych of album covers. From left to right:
1. A picture of a female mannequin that strongly resembles a blow-up doll from the shoulders up with shoulder-length, curly red hair. Scrawled over the cover in messy white text, partially covering the doll’s face, are the words “Black Widow” and “Budapest.”
2. Michael B. Jordan looking intense and smoldering (zing!) next to a chain link fence, with a semi-transparent image of fire overlaid on him. On the bottom are the words “Johnny Storm” and an enlarged flame emoji. In the upper right hand corner, an orange sticker says “Featuring the smash hit single ‘It’s Lit.’”
3. A blonde woman on a bed, wearing lingerie and red lipstick, the upper part of her face obscured. A man’s naked legs are visible behind her. White block text says “Dazzler” and “Drink the Eel.”]
*
“This bottle doesn’t have a label or a name...Take a whack, knock it back, that’s how you play the game…”
Matt’s fingers twitch instinctively to the beat, tinny through Claire’s cheap radio but familiar. The needle bites into his skin but it’s easy to ignore the small, sharp pain, drowned out by his many significantly worse injuries, courtesy of the surprisingly competent knife fighters he just stopped from robbing the local bodega. And by the song.
“Gonna spill my secrets, tell you everything I feel...That’s what happens when you drink the eel.”
“...open these again, okay? You have to let them heal this time or you’re going to look like Frankenstein when I have to stitch you up again. Are you listening to me, Matt?”
Matt startles slightly. “Sorry, what?”
“Are you okay? You’re not losing consciousness, are you?” Claire asks. “You said you didn’t take any blows to the head…”
“No, I’m fine, I was just.” Matt feels his face heat up slightly. “Distracted by the music.”
“Oh.” Claire sounds puzzled. “Sorry. Let me finish this suture and I’ll turn it off.”
“No!” That was definitely too loud. “No, it’s fine, I, I like this song.”
“Really.” And now that’s amusement in Claire’s voice. “I didn’t know you were such a Dazzler fan.”
“I’m not. I mean, I like her fine, but, uh. This is a Foggy Nelson song.”
Claire’s hand stills on his shoulder. “Foggy Nelson. Why does that name sound familiar?”
Because Matt saved him from a mugger last night and he was polite and charming and it seems like even more of a travesty that the world at large doesn't know what a genius he is?
Matt ducks his head. He’s definitely blushing by now. “He’s, um, he’s a songwriter.”
“No.” There’s the swish of Claire’s hair against her shoulders as she shakes her head. “No, I don’t know anything about songwriters, why do I know that name?”
Matt sighs. He got himself into this, after all. “Do you remember Boy Wonder?”
Claire’s spine straightens. “Wait. Yes. That’s the boy band Rick Jones was in, right? In like 2001?” Matt nods. “No, no, I remember now. God, I had such a crush on Bucky Barnes, he was so cute back before...well, everything.”
Matt waits.
She tilts her head. “Wait. Foggy Nelson...he was one of the other kids in the band, right? The one who always wore a bandana?”
Matt just barely suppresses another sigh. No one ever describes Foggy as “the really talented singer.” Or “the one who smells really, really good” which is unfair because then Matt might’ve been prepared. “Yeah. He wrote this. And he does some of the backing vocals.”
“No way,” Claire says. “Are you sure?”
Yes, Matt’s sure. Even if Foggy’s songwriting habits weren’t as obvious to Matt’s ears as the distinctive whorls in a fingerprint - the extended lyrical metaphors, the fondness for contrapuntal melodies, the perverse tendency for the tune to get increasingly sprightly as the lyrics got angrier or sadder - he followed the making of Dazzler’s comeback album as closely as he could once Foggy’s name was first floated in connection with it. From what he can tell, she pursued Foggy aggressively. It paid off. “Drink the Eel” is the third mega-smash off the album, and though the video with its bizarre choreography certainly helped - it’s lost on Matt, but apparently YouTube is overflowing with videos of people doing the Eel at home - the relentless catchiness of the hook can’t be denied.
And then there’s Foggy’s voice. It’s all over the album, albeit buried in the rich choral arrangements - but Matt can hear it. Buttressing the tenor line, splitting from Dazzler’s main melodic thread in eerily discordant harmony, ringing like a bell on the falsettos. On “Drink the Eel” Foggy sinks into his bottom notes, growling an echo of Dazzler’s lead vocal that helps to give the song its disorienting, drunken giddiness. Of course, he’s in a backing arrangement of five other voices, but Matt can hear it. Matt can hear him.
But Matt doesn’t say any of that. Nor does he explain that Foggy also smells like resin and brass and he's funny and he apparently records not five blocks away from here and that Matt talked to him not twenty-four hours ago, actually spoke to him in the flesh and breathed his air. Something makes Matt want to keep that story close, keep it hidden and precious like his dad's battered rosary and boxing robe.
“Yeah,” he says again, instead.
Claire gives a little shrug and goes back to stitching him up. “I guess you’d know, right?” She makes an amused noise.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just…” Claire breaks off the end of the suture and sets it aside, then picks up a cotton pad. “It’s a little incongruous. Mild-mannered music critic by day, grim vigilante by night.”
“It could’ve been worse,” Matt says, and he knows he shouldn’t flirt, knows Claire put the kibosh on that and rightfully so, but he can’t help letting a playful tone creep into his voice. Even with Foggy’s voice purring out of her radio. “I almost went to law school.”
“Ha!” Claire tapes the bandage in place. “Why didn’t you?”
Matt shrugs, then winces as it pulls at his new stitches. Claire tsks at him. “Couldn’t afford it. And, I don’t know. I wanted to do something that involved music.”
“You could've been an entertainment lawyer,” Claire suggests teasingly. “Making the big bucks for Tony Stark or someone.”
“I'm happy where I am,” Matt says, and it's true - or at least, he's as happy as someone like him can reasonably expect to be, and that will have to suffice.
If he'd been Tony Stark’s lawyer he probably would've met Foggy properly by now, in some copyright lawsuit or just maybe randomly, in the halls of Stark Tower. He would've said something understated but appreciative, maybe complimented one of Foggy's lesser known hits, and Foggy would've thanked him, and then…
He’s being ridiculous. He met Foggy. He spoke to him. That’s more than he ever expected. Daredevil meeting Foggy is plenty; it’s too much to hope that Matt Murdock might do the same.
“You must really like this song,” Claire says, and Matt startles again and turns towards her.
“Hmm?”
“You’ve been smiling since it came on.”
*
[Image description: A Twitter conversation between Matt and Foggy. Foggy’s avatar is a slightly scruffy picture of Elden Henson with a mustache and goatee. Matt's avatar is the Daily Bugle logo, a drawing of a bugle superimposed over laurel leaves. Tweets are as follows:
@mattmurdock: Anyone else going to @therealfoggynelson show at Bar Nine tonight? It'll be great to hear some of his new self-titled live.
@therealfoggynelson: @mattmurdock Thanks for the plug, dude! Any requests for tonight?
@mattmurdock: @therealfoggynelson I bet “Could Have Been A Butcher” is great live.
@therealfoggynelson: @mattmurdock You got it, dude! Stay for the encore. And make sure to come backstage to say hi after the show!
Matt has favorited the last tweet.]
*
The next time Matt hears Foggy in concert, it’s six months later, but the secret thrill of having met him still hasn’t worn off.
Foggy doesn't close with “Could Have Been A Butcher.” He saves that spot for Boy Wonder's biggest hit, “You're My World,” which he's stripped down to a minimalist acoustic arrangement for those attending for supposedly ironic reasons. Matt's heard him play “You’re My World” countless times at tiny shows just like this one; it's rarely fresh, but it's always fun to listen to the crowd react with nostalgia and barely-concealed joy. Foggy didn't write it - he didn't write any of Boy Wonder's songs - but the way he performs it exposes what a beautiful song it really is: the simple but evocative chords, the well-timed modulations, the ineffably sticky melody. Foggy's arrangement reveals what Matt had heard in the song when he’d listened to it over and over as a teenager. He’ll never tire of it.
But “Butcher” does open the encore, even though its chords are a little more complex and diminished and its lyrics are a little more wistful and bittersweet than most of Foggy’s more crowd-pleasing pop. He doesn't mention Matt when he introduces it - “This one's from my new album - yes, I know, I know, I'm sorry, 'You're My World' is next" - which obviously was completely unreasonable for Matt to expect or even hope for in his deepest subconscious. Foggy does play the song, though.
Matt fingers the backstage pass on the table in front of him. Bar Nine is a tiny venue - it's more of a restaurant with a stage, really - but it does have a green room, and he suspects that the owner thinks the required all-accesses will draw in more up-and-coming acts. Like every tour laminate, there's no Braille, so it doesn't feel any different from any of the others in his desk drawer at the Bugle. He touches the chain and thinks about looping it around his neck when the show is over. He thinks about meeting Foggy, face to face, no mask or alias or Twitter interface between them.
He tries to remember how to breathe normally.
When the lights come up, Matt listens to see if anyone else is going backstage - maybe one of the twenty-something women at the next table over who must have been just the right age during Boy Wonder's heyday. But the rest of the modest crowd is slowly filing out or settling their tabs at the bar. Matt collects his coat, scarf and cane, and then, with no hands left for it, puts on the laminate.
There's no actual security, so he follows the smell of cheese and crudite down a narrow hall, past the restrooms, and to a closed door near the rear exit. Foggy (!) is inside, alone, popping balls of cantaloupe into his mouth one by one with his fingers. His acoustic guitar lies caseless on a folding table, strings still reverberating very slightly from the show. He's humming to himself under his breath, a melody Matt doesn't know, and Matt thinks about setting up camp and living in this exact spot forever.
A straggler exits the bathroom and Matt realizes that silently leaning against the talent's door probably wouldn't be great for his reputation as a critic. He knocks and, after an affirmative sounding grunt around a mouthful of melon, opens the door.
Matt adjusts his glasses to cover his expression as the full force of Foggy Smell hits him. Even six months later, it’s just like he remembers it. Oh God. "Excuse me, is this the green room?"
Foggy has his back to the door, still poking around the food spread. "Yeah, who're you looking for?"
Matt summons every bit of the courage that allows him to go out at night and punch criminals in the face to step inside the room and close the door. "My name is Matt Murdock. I'm from the Bugle?"
"Oh, yeah, hi! I just wanted to say hey and thanks for all the good pr--uhh. Uh. The good press. And the tweets. And the. Hi. So. Thanks."
Foggy Nelson is talking to him. Foggy Nelson is talking to him and no one else and the room is definitely empty except for Matt and just Matt is there. Matt is definitely there. So is Foggy. Foggy Nelson is right there, choked and trying to swallow a mouthful of melon. And Foggy had...Foggy had gotten tripped up sometime between when he started talking and when he'd whirled around to face Matt. Something had happened. What had happened? Matt wills his brain to overpower the automatic shutdown that's happening in Foggy's presence. What was it what was it what was -
Oh! Matt's blind. Foggy didn't know that Matt is blind.
"Um, you're welcome," Matt says, hoping it hasn't been too long since Foggy’s spoken. "Sorry. I'm blind."
"No - yes! Yes, of course. Sorry, my mouth got away from me." Foggy is furiously wiping his fingers off on his t-shirt and tucking his hair behind his ears. A faint whiff of Foggy's sweat from the show hits the tip of Matt's tongue. "You don't, uh, you don't have to apologize for being blind any more than you have to apologize for being really hot."
Matt loses the fight against his brain. He's careening towards shutdown. "Uh - um."
A beat of silence hangs between them. The air smells of cherry wood and sweat and vanilla and something that Matt can't place.
"Oh! Uh. Not that - um. Please keep writing nice things about me, you really are the only one, Marci keeps joking that we should put you on the payroll - "
The green room door opens and all at once Matt's brain comes back online, and with it his senses - particularly his hearing, so the door is like a war drum and there's a loud, fast thumping and as a tall woman walks into the room Matt realizes belatedly that the thumping is Foggy's heart and the strange smell is Foggy's arousal and oh God somehow in this waking dream over a decade in the making, Foggy Nelson is into Matt.
Suddenly Matt can barely hear anything over the sound of his own heart, and he feels more short of breath than he did after parkouring across fifteen blocks the night before.
Then long fingers are taking his hand and Foggy is saying "Karen, this is Matt Murdock from the Bugle," and the woman is saying "Thanks for coming, Mr. Murdock," and Matt is saying nothing because he's frozen in place and Foggy Nelson's heart is hovering around 150 bpm because of Matt.
Matt is still holding Karen's hand. "Th-thanks for having me." Matt can feel his whole body flush, but now that the words have started back up again, he can't stop them. "Foggy puts on a great show. Of course he does, he writes great music."
Sometime when Matt's senses were offline, Foggy had grabbed a stick of celery and is now chewing on it nervously, the stalk sticking out of the corner of his mouth like a cartoon mobster. "Buddy," he says around it, "you are literally too kind."
Matt can sense Karen looking between him and Foggy but can't get enough feedback to read her expression. "You're a real fan, aren't you?" she asks Matt.
Understatement of the century. "Well, sure."
"Would the Bugle ever run a profile on Foggy? Maybe for the Sunday pull-out?"
Matt's fingers itch for his voice recorder reflexively. "I'd have to clear it with my editor, but I'd - " Keep it together, Murdock. "I'd be happy to write one."
In Matt's radar vision, Foggy literally lights up.
"Great," Karen says, pulling a pen out of her purse. "If I write down Foggy's number on this business card, will you be able to read it?"
Foggy's number. "Uh, if you press hard enough I should be able to read by touch."
She hands him the card. Matt redirects all his willpower to stopping his fingers from shaking. And to think, he thought the laminate would be his most valuable document from the evening.
"I, uh, I'll call you," Matt says, and the words sound distant, like he's outside himself, blocks away. "Once I - once I talk to my editor."
"Awesome," Foggy says, and even though it's quiet, nearly a sigh, Matt can hear a melody in it. It's the best song he's ever heard.
"Thanks for a great show." Matt turns and leaves before he can embarrass himself any more. He'll call Foggy later. Foggy. Later.
The door closes behind him, and he works his way back through the now-empty restaurant, towards the street. He can still hear Foggy Nelson's heart, slower than before but still faster than average. He clings to the sound as long as he can, until he crosses Tenth Avenue.
The last thing he hears before he's out of Bar Nine's range completely is Karen's voice: "That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen in my entire goddamn life."
Chapter 2
Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Rating: PG
Summary: In 1999, Foggy Nelson was the secret weapon in a now-forgotten boy band. Sixteen years later, he meets his biggest fan: music critic Matt Murdock.
Notes: Co-written with becs1024, who also created all the graphics and is overall a complete and utter genius. Note that Matt's accident happened around age 13 or 14 in this universe, closer to comicsverse than show.
"C'mon, Matty, this girly shit again?" Jack mumbles to himself as he walks into the kitchen to grab a beer. Matt can hear him, but his dad doesn't know that, so he just pulls the headphones tighter around his ears and keeps needlessly running his fingers over the CD liner notes.
The CD is a few years old now. Matt had liked it well enough at the time, even if he would have never admitted it. It'd been easy to set it aside when everyone else had, when TRL started being populated by rock videos and guys with lip rings calling boy bands "lame" and also "super lame."
And then the accident happened.
Matt didn't listen to music for a while afterwards. At first it was because he couldn't get his hearing under control and everything was too loud. Eventually he tried the CDs that had been his favorites only months before, but the guitars and feedback and record scratches were harsh and unmelodic. He heard every slide of fingers on guitar strings, every raspy scream, every slap of a poorly-played bass.
He found his boy band albums at the bottom of his closet, under a pile of now-too-small flannel shirts he'd never folded and put away. All the bands had broken up by now, mocked and then forgotten. A couple of the boys had tried to have solo careers, but most couldn't get a foothold in the anti-teen pop landscape without changing their sound entirely. Matt ran his fingers over the smooth plastic of the topmost CD case, remembering the synthy strings, the Swedish drum machines, the a cappella harmonies, the compressed production, the trained pubescent voices. He placed the CD in his Discman and carefully put on his headphones.
It was in the bridge of the album's first track that he remembered the voice. Not the squeaky boyish voices from the verses, the heartthrobs who could only mostly put across a melody, but a polished singer, with perfect pitch, full of emotion and even a little bit of soul, at least for an 11-year-old white kid. After Matt's ears locked onto the voice, he found it all over the album's mix: carrying almost all of the backup harmonies, doubling the weaker singers, boosted in the blends of the choruses. He heard things he'd never heard in the CD before, could never have heard. It was all so clear that it almost brought forward a mental picture of that boy's face, in the back of the dance numbers (he wasn't all that good a dancer) and smiling wholesomely on the album cover.
Matt hasn't taken the CD out of his Discman in the weeks since. His dad helped him find the repeat button, and he listens to it while he sits in his room after school, when he used to be playing outside, trying not to hear the people on the street and in the neighboring apartments. He can focus in on that voice when everything else seems too loud, when he wants to feel like he's wrapped in a warm sonic blanket, protected.
"Hey, Dad?" Matt asks Jack before he can open his beer and leave the kitchen. Matt tugs off his headphones and turns toward the sound of Jack's breathing. "Can you do me a favor?"
"Sure, Matty, what is it?" Jack says, placing the bottle on the counter.
Matt holds up the liner notes. "The little blonde kid, the one with the slicked-back hair and the bandana. Can you tell me his name?"
Jack sighs and bends over to look closer at the booklet. Matt can smell his breath; this'll be his third beer.
"It's Foggy," Jack says with an amused snort, straightening up to leave. "His name is Foggy."
*
[Image description: A newspaper clipping with the following text:
To the Editor:
Re: “Flame On: America’s kid brother takes music industry less by storm than by drizzle” (Arts & Entertainment section, April 3rd):
I enjoyed Mr. Murdock’s review of Johnny Storm’s new solo album, and can’t disagree with his final analysis of the record as “so effervescent as to, in the long run, leave no lasting impression whatsoever.” As usual, Mr. Murdock’s encyclopedic knowledge of pop history added depth and context to what otherwise would have been a cheap shot across Mr. Storm’s bows.
However, I have to wonder why fully half of the article (I counted) was given over to talking about Foggy Nelson, who wrote all of one song for Mr. Storm. Admittedly, Mr. Murdock is correct that it’s the best song on the album, but the attention paid seems disproportionate to Mr. Nelson’s contributions. I can’t help but notice that Mr. Murdock indulged in similar digressions recently: in his review of the March 14th Mary Janes concert, where they performed only two Nelson songs, and his profile on Clint Barton, who has never actually worked with Mr. Nelson.
Who even is Foggy Nelson, seriously? Calm down.
Becky Blake
Brooklyn Heights]
*
Matt sighs as he hears Peter approaching him in the Bugle bullpen, and takes out his earbud. Better to get this over with.
Peter doesn’t start laughing until he actually sits down on the edge of Matt’s desk and folds the day’s paper over to, presumably, the Letters to the Editor section. “‘Who even is Foggy Nelson, seriously? Calm down,’” he reads out loud, then loses it again.
Matt takes a calming breath through his nose. “Are you done? Because some of us have actual work to do.”
“Writing ‘Matt Murdock plus Foggy Nelson equals true love’ over and over again doesn’t count as work,” Peter says. “Although so far you have tricked Jameson into paying you for it multiple times, I’m not sure how you managed that.”
Matt raises his eyebrows. “Oh, are we talking about things we’ve scammed Jameson into paying us for? Remind me again how you got all those pictures of Sp--”
“Okay, yes, fine, you’ve made your point,” Peter says quickly. He taps the paper in his hand. “But you have to admit, so does this person.”
“As a professional music critic, I felt that a retrospective of some of Foggy Nelson’s better-known ballads would put ‘Torch Song’ into greater context,” Matt says with great dignity. “If Jane Whoever from Park Slope doesn’t agree, that’s her problem.”
“There are no ‘better-known Foggy Nelson songs!’ You’re the only one who cares about this ex-boy-bander!” Peter says, throwing up his hands with a papery rustle.
“He’s had multiple number one hits - ”
“As a songwriter. No one knows his name! Which, what kind of name is ‘Foggy,’ anyway?” Peter tilts his head musingly. “What if he takes your name after the wedding? ‘Foggy Murdock.’ Sounds like a bog creature from a children’s book. Stay out of the swamp or the Foggy Murdock will get you!”
“Peter, why are you standing here talking nonsense?” Ben asks from behind Peter, making him jump. Matt hides a smirk. “Spider-sense,” his ass. “Go take a photo of something before Jameson fires you again.”
“Nah, he’s already fired me once this week, he’ll probably wait until Monday,” Peter says.
“And Matt, quit planning your wedding and get me that piece on the Bishop kid, we have to finish tomorrow’s layouts,” Ben continues, and Peter snickers audibly.
Matt sighs. “Yes, boss.” He’s used to this kind of teasing from Peter. He’s used to all kinds of teasing from Peter, now, although it took quite a few months of Peter following him around at work - and on the city’s rooftops - for Matt to let his guard down around him. Matt’s not…great at the whole “having friends” thing. But he likes Peter, despite himself, and he’ll put up with some good-natured ribbing about his intellectual appreciation for Foggy Nelson’s work for the sake of having someone to drink a beer with on Friday evenings after work, or a cup of coffee with at three a.m. from on top of a water tower.
Ben, from his lofty position as Arts and Entertainment editor, doesn’t usually join in on the jokes. The fact that he has - and that there was an actual letter from a reader about it - maybe means that Matt needs to rein in the Foggy references a bit.
Even if it is usually relevant. It’s not Matt’s fault that Foggy’s significant contributions to the contemporary pop landscape have gone mostly overlooked.
Ben heads back to his office and Peter leans in. “I’m best man, right? Because I give a heck of a wedding toast, ask anyone.”
Matt rolls his eyes and tips his chin back to make sure the gesture translates even with his glasses on. “Would you give it a rest? I just like the man’s writing, okay? It’s not like I’m ever gonna meet him.” Oops. That’s...that’s probably giving too much away.
Sure enough, Peter laughs and gives him what he probably thinks is a gentle punch to the shoulder. “Hey, never say never, pal! Keep hope alive.”
“Go away, Peter. I have work to do,” Matt drawls, putting his earbud back in. There’s no point in saying that there was never any hope in the first place. Meeting Foggy is a ridiculous fantasy, and not one that Matt’s even bothered to spin - much - in the years since he discovered Foggy’s voice. Matt’s not one to waste his time daydreaming about something that’ll never happen, and that’s likely to be disappointing even if it did.
After all, what would he even say?
*
"I said give me your wallet!"
Matt cocks his head towards the sound, then shifts his weight on his swing so that his billy club cable carries him towards it. It’s been a quiet evening so far and he was close to packing it in, but it sounds like someone needs Daredevil after all.
He flips into the alley, flicking the billy club to unhook the far end from its mooring, and lands in a crouch between the mugger and his victim. Both of their hearts are racing but it's easy to tell who is who, considering one smells like fear and the other smells like cocaine and gunpowder. "Back off," he growls.
"Fuck you, man! I'll fucking kill you!"
Oh, please. The mugger's waving his gun around but Matt straightens up and calmly swings the free end of his billy club. It cracks into the mugger's skull. He drops. "No, I don't think you will."
"Holy shit," says the victim from behind him.
Right. Matt hopes he doesn't start crying. He likes saving people but he's no good at comforting them. "Are you okay, sir?" he asks, pressing the button to retract the billy club cable and slipping the pieces into his thigh holster as he turns.
"Yeah, I'm, um. I'm fine." The voice is oddly familiar, which is strange, because the heartbeat isn't. Neither is the general shape, or the smell, though it's pleasant under the rankness of fear: vanilla, coffee, wax and resin and brass. "He didn't...he just...good, uh, good timing."
Well, he doesn't sound like he's about to cry, or faint, which means Matt can be on his way. "Glad I could help."
"Yeah, you - I mean, oh shit, sorry, thank you! I should have said that to begin with. Sorry. Thank you. I don't have my superhero etiquette down yet, Mister...uh. Mister Daredevil? Mister Devil? Sir? I don't really know what to call you."
Matt freezes. He knows that voice. Sure, it sounds different when he speaks than when he sings, but it's still recognizable, still light and pleasant, and also Matt has listened to every interview he's ever recorded at least twice.
It's Foggy Nelson.
It's Foggy fucking Nelson, who has been Matt's favorite singer since he was thirteen and his favorite songwriter since he was seventeen and whose latest album is currently in Matt's record player at home and he is standing right there and he smells like fucking vanilla.
"Uh...excuse me? Daredevil? Are you okay?" Foggy. Foggy Nelson - Foggy Nelson! - is talking to him.
"I. Yes!” Matt's voice comes out too high. Crap. Lower it, lower it, Daredevil voice. "I'm fine. Uh, citizen." Too low, he sounds like a bad James Earl Jones impression.
"O...kay?" Now Foggy - Foggy! - kind of sounds like he wants to laugh. "Because you were just kind of standing there."
Would it be weird to ask for his autograph? Yes, obviously, especially because Matt wouldn't actually be able to see it and also doesn't have anything to sign. Why didn’t he ever fantasize about this more? Why didn’t he have a plan? "I was...thinking about crime."
He is an idiot.
"Right, I guess you...do that a lot." Foggy clears his throat. His beautiful throat. "I'm just...I'll just...go into the studio now."
Matt can sense him pointing. This must be a recording studio, then, and he's got to admire their soundproofing if even his ears weren't able to pick that up. "Oh, do you...are you a musician?" Be cool, Murdock.
"I dabble." There's a brightness in Foggy's voice that sounds like a smile. Oh. Matt made him smile. "Thanks again, Daredevil. You are quite possibly a literal lifesaver."
Matt licks his lips and pulls out his billy club. He didn't get to do any particularly impressive moves before; now's the chance to fix that. "You're very welcome...Mr. Nelson," he says, and flicks his wrist as he presses the release on the cable. One of the clubs hooks around a fire escape and Matt swings up and away before Foggy can respond, throwing a double half-twist flip into it just because he can. Just because Foggy Nelson - Foggy Nelson! - is watching.
"Wow," he hears Foggy murmur from below.
Luckily, Matt is a superhero, and gets all the way to the roof and out of sight before he performs his victory dance.
*
[Image description: A triptych of album covers. From left to right:
1. A picture of a female mannequin that strongly resembles a blow-up doll from the shoulders up with shoulder-length, curly red hair. Scrawled over the cover in messy white text, partially covering the doll’s face, are the words “Black Widow” and “Budapest.”
2. Michael B. Jordan looking intense and smoldering (zing!) next to a chain link fence, with a semi-transparent image of fire overlaid on him. On the bottom are the words “Johnny Storm” and an enlarged flame emoji. In the upper right hand corner, an orange sticker says “Featuring the smash hit single ‘It’s Lit.’”
3. A blonde woman on a bed, wearing lingerie and red lipstick, the upper part of her face obscured. A man’s naked legs are visible behind her. White block text says “Dazzler” and “Drink the Eel.”]
*
“This bottle doesn’t have a label or a name...Take a whack, knock it back, that’s how you play the game…”
Matt’s fingers twitch instinctively to the beat, tinny through Claire’s cheap radio but familiar. The needle bites into his skin but it’s easy to ignore the small, sharp pain, drowned out by his many significantly worse injuries, courtesy of the surprisingly competent knife fighters he just stopped from robbing the local bodega. And by the song.
“Gonna spill my secrets, tell you everything I feel...That’s what happens when you drink the eel.”
“...open these again, okay? You have to let them heal this time or you’re going to look like Frankenstein when I have to stitch you up again. Are you listening to me, Matt?”
Matt startles slightly. “Sorry, what?”
“Are you okay? You’re not losing consciousness, are you?” Claire asks. “You said you didn’t take any blows to the head…”
“No, I’m fine, I was just.” Matt feels his face heat up slightly. “Distracted by the music.”
“Oh.” Claire sounds puzzled. “Sorry. Let me finish this suture and I’ll turn it off.”
“No!” That was definitely too loud. “No, it’s fine, I, I like this song.”
“Really.” And now that’s amusement in Claire’s voice. “I didn’t know you were such a Dazzler fan.”
“I’m not. I mean, I like her fine, but, uh. This is a Foggy Nelson song.”
Claire’s hand stills on his shoulder. “Foggy Nelson. Why does that name sound familiar?”
Because Matt saved him from a mugger last night and he was polite and charming and it seems like even more of a travesty that the world at large doesn't know what a genius he is?
Matt ducks his head. He’s definitely blushing by now. “He’s, um, he’s a songwriter.”
“No.” There’s the swish of Claire’s hair against her shoulders as she shakes her head. “No, I don’t know anything about songwriters, why do I know that name?”
Matt sighs. He got himself into this, after all. “Do you remember Boy Wonder?”
Claire’s spine straightens. “Wait. Yes. That’s the boy band Rick Jones was in, right? In like 2001?” Matt nods. “No, no, I remember now. God, I had such a crush on Bucky Barnes, he was so cute back before...well, everything.”
Matt waits.
She tilts her head. “Wait. Foggy Nelson...he was one of the other kids in the band, right? The one who always wore a bandana?”
Matt just barely suppresses another sigh. No one ever describes Foggy as “the really talented singer.” Or “the one who smells really, really good” which is unfair because then Matt might’ve been prepared. “Yeah. He wrote this. And he does some of the backing vocals.”
“No way,” Claire says. “Are you sure?”
Yes, Matt’s sure. Even if Foggy’s songwriting habits weren’t as obvious to Matt’s ears as the distinctive whorls in a fingerprint - the extended lyrical metaphors, the fondness for contrapuntal melodies, the perverse tendency for the tune to get increasingly sprightly as the lyrics got angrier or sadder - he followed the making of Dazzler’s comeback album as closely as he could once Foggy’s name was first floated in connection with it. From what he can tell, she pursued Foggy aggressively. It paid off. “Drink the Eel” is the third mega-smash off the album, and though the video with its bizarre choreography certainly helped - it’s lost on Matt, but apparently YouTube is overflowing with videos of people doing the Eel at home - the relentless catchiness of the hook can’t be denied.
And then there’s Foggy’s voice. It’s all over the album, albeit buried in the rich choral arrangements - but Matt can hear it. Buttressing the tenor line, splitting from Dazzler’s main melodic thread in eerily discordant harmony, ringing like a bell on the falsettos. On “Drink the Eel” Foggy sinks into his bottom notes, growling an echo of Dazzler’s lead vocal that helps to give the song its disorienting, drunken giddiness. Of course, he’s in a backing arrangement of five other voices, but Matt can hear it. Matt can hear him.
But Matt doesn’t say any of that. Nor does he explain that Foggy also smells like resin and brass and he's funny and he apparently records not five blocks away from here and that Matt talked to him not twenty-four hours ago, actually spoke to him in the flesh and breathed his air. Something makes Matt want to keep that story close, keep it hidden and precious like his dad's battered rosary and boxing robe.
“Yeah,” he says again, instead.
Claire gives a little shrug and goes back to stitching him up. “I guess you’d know, right?” She makes an amused noise.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just…” Claire breaks off the end of the suture and sets it aside, then picks up a cotton pad. “It’s a little incongruous. Mild-mannered music critic by day, grim vigilante by night.”
“It could’ve been worse,” Matt says, and he knows he shouldn’t flirt, knows Claire put the kibosh on that and rightfully so, but he can’t help letting a playful tone creep into his voice. Even with Foggy’s voice purring out of her radio. “I almost went to law school.”
“Ha!” Claire tapes the bandage in place. “Why didn’t you?”
Matt shrugs, then winces as it pulls at his new stitches. Claire tsks at him. “Couldn’t afford it. And, I don’t know. I wanted to do something that involved music.”
“You could've been an entertainment lawyer,” Claire suggests teasingly. “Making the big bucks for Tony Stark or someone.”
“I'm happy where I am,” Matt says, and it's true - or at least, he's as happy as someone like him can reasonably expect to be, and that will have to suffice.
If he'd been Tony Stark’s lawyer he probably would've met Foggy properly by now, in some copyright lawsuit or just maybe randomly, in the halls of Stark Tower. He would've said something understated but appreciative, maybe complimented one of Foggy's lesser known hits, and Foggy would've thanked him, and then…
He’s being ridiculous. He met Foggy. He spoke to him. That’s more than he ever expected. Daredevil meeting Foggy is plenty; it’s too much to hope that Matt Murdock might do the same.
“You must really like this song,” Claire says, and Matt startles again and turns towards her.
“Hmm?”
“You’ve been smiling since it came on.”
*
[Image description: A Twitter conversation between Matt and Foggy. Foggy’s avatar is a slightly scruffy picture of Elden Henson with a mustache and goatee. Matt's avatar is the Daily Bugle logo, a drawing of a bugle superimposed over laurel leaves. Tweets are as follows:
@mattmurdock: Anyone else going to @therealfoggynelson show at Bar Nine tonight? It'll be great to hear some of his new self-titled live.
@therealfoggynelson: @mattmurdock Thanks for the plug, dude! Any requests for tonight?
@mattmurdock: @therealfoggynelson I bet “Could Have Been A Butcher” is great live.
@therealfoggynelson: @mattmurdock You got it, dude! Stay for the encore. And make sure to come backstage to say hi after the show!
Matt has favorited the last tweet.]
*
The next time Matt hears Foggy in concert, it’s six months later, but the secret thrill of having met him still hasn’t worn off.
Foggy doesn't close with “Could Have Been A Butcher.” He saves that spot for Boy Wonder's biggest hit, “You're My World,” which he's stripped down to a minimalist acoustic arrangement for those attending for supposedly ironic reasons. Matt's heard him play “You’re My World” countless times at tiny shows just like this one; it's rarely fresh, but it's always fun to listen to the crowd react with nostalgia and barely-concealed joy. Foggy didn't write it - he didn't write any of Boy Wonder's songs - but the way he performs it exposes what a beautiful song it really is: the simple but evocative chords, the well-timed modulations, the ineffably sticky melody. Foggy's arrangement reveals what Matt had heard in the song when he’d listened to it over and over as a teenager. He’ll never tire of it.
But “Butcher” does open the encore, even though its chords are a little more complex and diminished and its lyrics are a little more wistful and bittersweet than most of Foggy’s more crowd-pleasing pop. He doesn't mention Matt when he introduces it - “This one's from my new album - yes, I know, I know, I'm sorry, 'You're My World' is next" - which obviously was completely unreasonable for Matt to expect or even hope for in his deepest subconscious. Foggy does play the song, though.
Matt fingers the backstage pass on the table in front of him. Bar Nine is a tiny venue - it's more of a restaurant with a stage, really - but it does have a green room, and he suspects that the owner thinks the required all-accesses will draw in more up-and-coming acts. Like every tour laminate, there's no Braille, so it doesn't feel any different from any of the others in his desk drawer at the Bugle. He touches the chain and thinks about looping it around his neck when the show is over. He thinks about meeting Foggy, face to face, no mask or alias or Twitter interface between them.
He tries to remember how to breathe normally.
When the lights come up, Matt listens to see if anyone else is going backstage - maybe one of the twenty-something women at the next table over who must have been just the right age during Boy Wonder's heyday. But the rest of the modest crowd is slowly filing out or settling their tabs at the bar. Matt collects his coat, scarf and cane, and then, with no hands left for it, puts on the laminate.
There's no actual security, so he follows the smell of cheese and crudite down a narrow hall, past the restrooms, and to a closed door near the rear exit. Foggy (!) is inside, alone, popping balls of cantaloupe into his mouth one by one with his fingers. His acoustic guitar lies caseless on a folding table, strings still reverberating very slightly from the show. He's humming to himself under his breath, a melody Matt doesn't know, and Matt thinks about setting up camp and living in this exact spot forever.
A straggler exits the bathroom and Matt realizes that silently leaning against the talent's door probably wouldn't be great for his reputation as a critic. He knocks and, after an affirmative sounding grunt around a mouthful of melon, opens the door.
Matt adjusts his glasses to cover his expression as the full force of Foggy Smell hits him. Even six months later, it’s just like he remembers it. Oh God. "Excuse me, is this the green room?"
Foggy has his back to the door, still poking around the food spread. "Yeah, who're you looking for?"
Matt summons every bit of the courage that allows him to go out at night and punch criminals in the face to step inside the room and close the door. "My name is Matt Murdock. I'm from the Bugle?"
"Oh, yeah, hi! I just wanted to say hey and thanks for all the good pr--uhh. Uh. The good press. And the tweets. And the. Hi. So. Thanks."
Foggy Nelson is talking to him. Foggy Nelson is talking to him and no one else and the room is definitely empty except for Matt and just Matt is there. Matt is definitely there. So is Foggy. Foggy Nelson is right there, choked and trying to swallow a mouthful of melon. And Foggy had...Foggy had gotten tripped up sometime between when he started talking and when he'd whirled around to face Matt. Something had happened. What had happened? Matt wills his brain to overpower the automatic shutdown that's happening in Foggy's presence. What was it what was it what was -
Oh! Matt's blind. Foggy didn't know that Matt is blind.
"Um, you're welcome," Matt says, hoping it hasn't been too long since Foggy’s spoken. "Sorry. I'm blind."
"No - yes! Yes, of course. Sorry, my mouth got away from me." Foggy is furiously wiping his fingers off on his t-shirt and tucking his hair behind his ears. A faint whiff of Foggy's sweat from the show hits the tip of Matt's tongue. "You don't, uh, you don't have to apologize for being blind any more than you have to apologize for being really hot."
Matt loses the fight against his brain. He's careening towards shutdown. "Uh - um."
A beat of silence hangs between them. The air smells of cherry wood and sweat and vanilla and something that Matt can't place.
"Oh! Uh. Not that - um. Please keep writing nice things about me, you really are the only one, Marci keeps joking that we should put you on the payroll - "
The green room door opens and all at once Matt's brain comes back online, and with it his senses - particularly his hearing, so the door is like a war drum and there's a loud, fast thumping and as a tall woman walks into the room Matt realizes belatedly that the thumping is Foggy's heart and the strange smell is Foggy's arousal and oh God somehow in this waking dream over a decade in the making, Foggy Nelson is into Matt.
Suddenly Matt can barely hear anything over the sound of his own heart, and he feels more short of breath than he did after parkouring across fifteen blocks the night before.
Then long fingers are taking his hand and Foggy is saying "Karen, this is Matt Murdock from the Bugle," and the woman is saying "Thanks for coming, Mr. Murdock," and Matt is saying nothing because he's frozen in place and Foggy Nelson's heart is hovering around 150 bpm because of Matt.
Matt is still holding Karen's hand. "Th-thanks for having me." Matt can feel his whole body flush, but now that the words have started back up again, he can't stop them. "Foggy puts on a great show. Of course he does, he writes great music."
Sometime when Matt's senses were offline, Foggy had grabbed a stick of celery and is now chewing on it nervously, the stalk sticking out of the corner of his mouth like a cartoon mobster. "Buddy," he says around it, "you are literally too kind."
Matt can sense Karen looking between him and Foggy but can't get enough feedback to read her expression. "You're a real fan, aren't you?" she asks Matt.
Understatement of the century. "Well, sure."
"Would the Bugle ever run a profile on Foggy? Maybe for the Sunday pull-out?"
Matt's fingers itch for his voice recorder reflexively. "I'd have to clear it with my editor, but I'd - " Keep it together, Murdock. "I'd be happy to write one."
In Matt's radar vision, Foggy literally lights up.
"Great," Karen says, pulling a pen out of her purse. "If I write down Foggy's number on this business card, will you be able to read it?"
Foggy's number. "Uh, if you press hard enough I should be able to read by touch."
She hands him the card. Matt redirects all his willpower to stopping his fingers from shaking. And to think, he thought the laminate would be his most valuable document from the evening.
"I, uh, I'll call you," Matt says, and the words sound distant, like he's outside himself, blocks away. "Once I - once I talk to my editor."
"Awesome," Foggy says, and even though it's quiet, nearly a sigh, Matt can hear a melody in it. It's the best song he's ever heard.
"Thanks for a great show." Matt turns and leaves before he can embarrass himself any more. He'll call Foggy later. Foggy. Later.
The door closes behind him, and he works his way back through the now-empty restaurant, towards the street. He can still hear Foggy Nelson's heart, slower than before but still faster than average. He clings to the sound as long as he can, until he crosses Tenth Avenue.
The last thing he hears before he's out of Bar Nine's range completely is Karen's voice: "That was the most ridiculous thing I have ever seen in my entire goddamn life."
Chapter 2