Fic: Boy Wonder [2/4]
Title: Boy Wonder [2/4]
Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Rating: PG
Notes: Co-written with becs1024!
Chapter 1
[Image description: The Arts & Entertainment page from the Columbia student paper, dated October 16th, 2007. In the upper right-hand corner is an inset of an album cover, with a black and white picture of Elden Henson in his early twenties (...I’m guessing?) with short hair and a chin strip goatee (Elden why). The album text is sideways and reads “Foggy Nelson: Wonderlust.” There’s a Stark Records logo in the bottom left-hand corner.
At the bottom of the page is a picture of an all-female rock band performing, with a dark-haired singer/guitarist front and center and the header “Elektra Complex rocks out at Heights Cafe.” The photo credit says “Peter Parker [Columbia Daily Spectator].”
The rest of the page consists of a five-star review titled “Former boy bander releases promises, cerebral solo effort” by Matt Murdock, Spectator Staff Writer. Full text of review here.]
*
If Foggy had just been a child with perfect pitch, that would have been enough. Matt’s not going to credit Boy Wonder’s music with getting him through the aftermath of the accident - that was his dad, and occupational therapy, and therapy therapy, and having things like learning Braille to focus on instead of the overwhelming sensory input all around him, and even Stick.
Boy Wonder helped, though. Foggy’s voice was a gift Matt can never repay or even explain. And it would have been enough, really it would have.
But then Foggy turned out to be a great songwriter, a teenage prodigy with an inexplicable talent for hooks that snagged on Matt’s ribcage and yanked. And his voice mellowed and deepened with age from a clear, boyish alto to a warm tenor that wraps around the notes he sings like he’s hiding a laugh. And he’s smart and funny and never shitty in interviews about having been in a boy band as a child and he never, ever talks publicly about things that shouldn’t be public, like the band’s breakup or Bucky Barnes’s accident and subsequent trips to rehab, which Matt admires.
And he smells like vanilla.
But somehow the impossibly long list of ways Foggy Nelson is apparently the world’s greatest human has just gotten even longer, because he was born and raised not four blocks from Matt’s childhood home, and he still lives in Hell’s Kitchen. He even asked to meet at a coffee shop in the neighborhood - not Starbucks, but a locally-owned business that makes their own scones and doesn’t over-roast their coffee - and now Matt is sitting a block away from his home, tucked into a small table at the back of the cafe with Foggy Nelson (!) and interviewing him for a profile in the Bugle.
Matt ordered green tea. Foggy ordered a pumpkin spice latte flavored with one of those awful artificial syrups, but then, no one’s perfect.
“I can’t believe we grew up four blocks away from each other. That’s crazy,” Foggy says. His body language is warm and inviting: knees apart, chest open except for when he leans in to catch what Matt’s saying. Matt may be speaking more quietly than usual to encourage this. “Did you go to P.S. 111?”
“Yeah, while my dad was still - ” Matt catches himself. Foggy doesn’t need to know his whole tragic history. “I mean, I went to parochial school after that, but yeah, P.S. 111 for elementary.”
“Small world. I mean, me too, obviously, through fourth grade. I had tutors for a while after I got signed.” Foggy says it matter-of-factly, without either embarrassment over his days as a child star or any hint of vanity. It’s still the closest they’ve come to actually talking about music or Foggy’s career; the forty-five minutes of chatter about the neighborhood already recorded on Matt’s phone won’t do him any good for the profile he begged and pleaded with Ben to let him write, but he will be saving them to his computer, his external hard drive, and probably a thumb drive too. He’ll keep that last with Foggy’s card - too precious to carry around, Matt’s committed the number to memory already - the laminate from the concert, and his original copy of Boy Wonder’s debut CD, worn out from too many repeat listens.
“Why’d you stay in the neighborhood?” Matt asks. His voice is so normal by now only someone with ears like his could hear the difference, or the way his heart has never really settled into its resting pace, and kicks into overdrive every time Foggy laughs or accidentally bumps Matt’s foot with his own. “I mean, it’s not really trendy enough for a pop star.”
He grins to show he’s kidding and is rewarded with both a snort from Foggy, and a slight uptick in Foggy’s own heartbeat. God. “Well, it’s home,” Foggy says easily. “And my parents are still here, I like to be nearby in case they need anything. My dad owns Nelson’s Hardware on 48th, do you know it?”
“No way.” Matt can still remember it, dimly, the faded sign above the door and the intimidating power tools section in the back. “I used to go there with my dad all the time when I was a kid! We lived in a pretty beat-up apartment, things were always breaking.” His cheeks warm slightly, but he knows the block Foggy grew up on, and his building couldn’t have been in much better repair.
“Yeah? We probably saw each other, I was always hanging around the store back then,” Foggy says. “This is clearly fate. You were meant to, I don’t know, get a press copy of my EP or however it was you heard of me.”
“Yeah,” Matt echoes, and slides his hands around his mug so he won’t fidget them. Foggy doesn’t need to know about that worn-out CD in his closet, in a box beneath his Daredevil suit. “It...yeah.”
“Oh, sorry,” Foggy says quickly. “I didn’t mean to be like, ‘let’s talk about the music now.’ Although I also didn’t mean to keep you here for...shit.” There’s a shuffle as he checks his phone. “Wow, sorry, I have been talking your ear off. You probably want to get this done and get out of here.”
“No!” It comes out way too fast and way too loud. “Uh, you haven’t been...it’s good. It’s, uh, it’s all useful for the profile. I mean, yeah, we should talk about the music, I do want to talk about that, but this is...I’m having a good time.”
Oh no. Matt doesn’t slide under the table to hide forever, but it’s a near thing.
But Foggy blooms with warmth and his heartbeat picks up again, from a midtempo spring release to a summer jam. “Okay,” he says, soft and warm. “Good. Yeah. I’m...me too.”
“Good,” Matt echoes, cheeks burning. But he’s smiling.
Foggy’s foot taps a beat against the floor, and Matt can’t tell if it’s brushing his on purpose, but he doesn’t move away. “So,” he says. “Should we talk about the music now?”
Matt minutely adjusts the phone on the table between them. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s talk about the music.”
*
“MURDOCK! URICH! MY OFFICE! NOW!”
Matt jumps like he’s been electrocuted. He knew a storm was brewing in Jameson’s office, could hear his heartbeat speeding up and the angry little huffs he lets out when he’s looking at work he doesn’t think is up to snuff, but it’s usually Peter’s name that gets bellowed, not Matt’s.
He stands up and hurries to Jameson’s office, trailing his fingers along the line of cubicles as he goes. “Behind you, Matt,” Ben says as he falls into step with him, and Matt nods.
Jameson’s standing up when they get to his office - the better to attempt to intimidate, probably. “What the hell is this, Murdock?” he asks, shaking something that rustles at him.
“It sounds like paper,” Matt says mildly.
“Jonah,” Ben admonishes, then adds, “It's your Nelson profile, Matt.”
“It's crap, is what it is!” Jameson shouts. “I let Urich here talk me into letting you interview some has-been no one’s ever heard of, and what do I get? Fluff!”
“It's a profile of a singer-songwriter, not an expose,” Matt points out.
“There's three paragraphs about a hardware store that went out of business seven years ago!” Jameson bellows. “You asked this asshole about chord progression. You used the word ‘polyphony.’ No one wants to read this garbage!”
“Actually, I think Mr. Nelson’s use of polyphony is…”
“No one knows what that is, Murdock. It sounds like a damn horse orgy.”
Ben stifles a laugh, and Matt stifles a sigh. “I was just trying to explore his inspirations and methodology…”
“Screw his methodology. Where's the dirt?”
“Uh, he's not really a scandalous…”
“Not on this nobody. Why didn't you ask him about Bucky Barnes, for Christ’s sake? Or even whatshisface, Jones.” Jameson thumps the paper with his free hand. “You say he used to be on Shield Records when he was a kid but now he's on Stark’s label - where's that story? Joe Public doesn't want to read about some wannabe poet being inspired by the birdsong of Hell’s Kitchen or whatever bullshit you've got down here. Joe Public wants to read about a former child star snorting cocaine off a hooker’s ass in Tony Stark’s penthouse!”
“I don't think he does that,” Matt says. He knows Foggy doesn’t do that. Foggy’s too good for that.
“Well, you know what I don’t do? Give up perfectly good space in my paper for a seven thousand word yawn!”
“Are you pulling the profile?” Matt asks, trying to keep his voice level. He doesn’t care about the writing - though he worked hard on the piece, trying to recapture the intimacy of a long conversation with Foggy about everything and anything - but he promised Foggy a profile. He imposed on Foggy, and now Jameson’s going to make it all for nothing.
“Do I have to spell everything out for you?” Jameson barks. “What else are we gonna put in next Sunday’s edition if we yank this? Go back and ask some real questions!”
Matt blinks. “You want me to...interview him again? More?”
“Until you’ve got something I can print, yes!”
“Oh. Uh. Okay. I’ll just - I’ll do that,” Matt says. “I’ll...sorry. I’ll turn in something better. Right away. Uh. Sir.”
He beats a hasty retreat out of Jameson’s office, hurrying back to his desk. He can hear Ben behind him.
“Don’t take it too hard, Matt,” Ben says. “You know Jonah’s all bark and no bite. It was a good profile, he just wants something with a little more...well. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, you know?”
“Sure,” Matt says.
“You’re still a good writer,” Ben assures him.
“Thanks.”
“You gonna be okay?”
Matt nods vehemently. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, and Ben claps him on the shoulder before walking away. Which was what Matt wanted him to do, because now, with his face turned into his cubicle and down towards his refreshable Braille display, he doesn’t have to work so hard to hide the grin that’s threatening to overtake his face.
He has an excuse to call Foggy back.
*
“This is amazing. I love this,” Foggy says, running his fingers along the wall of boxy IKEA shelving that holds Matt’s record collection. “Make up the couch, I’m moving in.”
Matt doesn’t immediately say “Okay” or “Why bother with the couch?” but only because he bites down hard on his tongue to catch it. “Most people think it’s pretentious. Or too much.” Most people who come to Matt’s apartment are pretty put off by the complete lack of interior decorating of any kind. He doesn’t even have a TV, just his sound system, and shelves and shelves of records. At the end is a shelf of CDs he’s been comped, but for the most part anything he can’t find on vinyl he just keeps digitally.
“It’s literally your job to listen to music,” Foggy points out. “Dude, I have seven guitars. I don’t even compose with them. I just fall in love too easily.”
Matt’s heart thumps hard. “Yeah. I mean. Fair enough.”
He can sense Foggy running his fingers over the Braille labels Matt added to every shelf. “How is this organized?”
“Alphabetically by artist, then by release date,” Matt explains. He touches the label next to Foggy’s fingers. “This says ‘Davis, Miles to The Drifters.’ Then each sleeve is labeled with artist and title. And year, in case I forget.” He tugs a sleeve out to show Foggy. “I keep redoing it when I decide that, say, Miles Davis should really go under ‘M’ for ‘Miles Davis Quintet’ instead of last name. And of course every time I lose my mind on the internet and spend three hundred dollars on records everything has to move.”
“Oh good, I’m not the only one who does that,” Foggy says. “Ask me about the Great Keytar Impulse Purchase of ‘09 some time. No, on second thought, don’t - the wounds are still too fresh.” He tips an album off the shelf to look at the cover and makes an approving sound. “So what are we listening to?”
They seem to have moved past the interview stage, though neither Matt nor Foggy has offered another label for what exactly this is. Not that they’ve skimped on the interviews, either - Jameson wasn’t happy with the softball industry questions Matt gave Foggy on their second meeting and demanded he go back for a third round, during which Matt finally, apologetically, asked about Bucky Barnes. Foggy, sounding distant and sad, gave a very reserved, tactful answer about having many fond memories of his old bandmate and wishing him the best, and that seemed to satisfy Jameson.
(Matt also brought Peter on the second interview to get some shots of Foggy to accompany the profile, with dire warnings of what would happen to Peter if he embarrassed Matt in front of Foggy. “Embarrass you in front of the fourth most popular member of the seventh most popular boy band of fifteen years ago? I would never!” Peter gasped, forcing Matt to trip him with his cane. But the pictures, by all accounts, had turned out pretty well.)
Somewhere, in the middle of interviews and off-topic conversational tangents and coordinating further interviews via phone and what Matt thinks - hopes, prays - is flirting, the subject of Matt’s record collection came up, and Foggy insisted on seeing it. And now...
Now Foggy’s lying on the floor in front of Matt’s record player, a stack of random record selections next to him, palms flat on the floorboards “to feel the vibrations,” he claims. Matt doesn’t need to be this close to the speakers to pick out every detail, but he’s happy to sit cross-legged next to Foggy and listen to Foggy’s commentary.
“I love this song,” Matt says as the needle drops on another record and the familiar bassline comes up. Foggy’s fingers tap out the beat on the floor.
“Nothing you could say could tear me away from my guy...nothing you could do, ‘cause I’m stuck like glue to my guy…”
“I would hope so, since it’s your record,” Foggy says, voice wrapped around a smile. “But yeah, me too. I keep threatening to do a whole early sixties pastiche album. Marci thinks I’m nuts.”
“No, you should do it!” Matt says, too excited by the idea to try to play it cool. “I love your vintage-influenced stuff. ‘Josie’ is my favorite song off your first album. And that doo wop chord progression in ‘Every Wednesday,’ off of your latest?” He trails off, realizing he’s babbling like an overenthusiastic fanboy.
But Foggy just reaches out and bumps Matt’s knee with his knuckles affectionately. “See, you get it. I keep saying we should put you on the payroll. Although I guess you’d have to dye your hair.”
“I’d what?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry, you wouldn’t know - everyone on Team Nelson is blond.” Foggy snorts. “You know, the whole vast crew of me, Karen, and Marci.”
“Oh.”
“I’m kidding about the hair dye, by the way,” Foggy adds. “You’re perfect already, don’t change a thing.”
“Oh.” Matt feels his cheeks heat up. Foggy’s fingers tap a little faster than the beat. “Uh, I, uh, I knew you were blond,” Matt says, a little too fast, probably. “I remember - you know, from your music videos, and the Boy Wonder album cover and stuff. Before the accident.”
“Oh no,” Foggy groans, hand over his eyes. “I was twelve. This is awful. I was such a goofy-looking kid. And why was I always wearing a bandana?”
“No, it was...you were cute,” Matt protests, not sure how aggressively he should be arguing for how attractive he found Foggy as a tween. He honestly hadn’t paid that much attention until after his accident, anyway. “You’re still blond?”
“Ish,” Foggy admits. “It’s darker, now, sort of dirty blond? Karen’s is closer to what mine looked like back then, except way shinier, and in some lights it looks kind of red. And Marci’s is like this really light, ashy blond - the better to match her cold, vampiric soul, I guess.” He says it with such affection that Matt’s suddenly, wildly jealous.
“Oh,” he says. “Are you and Marci…?”
“Oh, no no no,” Foggy says, stammering a little in his haste. “God, no. We, uh, we used to be a thing, that’s sort of how we met? Back in college. But just friends-slash-manager-and-client now, promise.”
“Okay,” Matt says, curling his fingers against his palms and resting them on his knees. “Got it.”
“As a matter of taste to be exact...he’s my ideal as a matter of fact…”
Matt licks his lips. “So...you don’t wear a bandana all the time now?” he asks, to break the awkward silence.
Foggy laughs, a little too loud. “Only on special occasions,” he says. “Also I’m slightly taller.” He shifts in what reads to Matt’s senses like a horizontal shrug. “I mean, I guess overall I still look pretty much the same. Just...different.” He snorts. “That’s not helpful at all, is it.”
“You tried. But not very hard,” Matt tells him, and is rewarded with another laugh. He opens his fingers to wipe suddenly sweaty palms on his knees. “I could...touch you?” he suggests. Oh, there’s Foggy’s heart, thundering into overdrive. “I mean, your face. I could...it helps me to get an idea. But we don’t have to,” he adds hastily. “If you’re not comfortable with...I mean, I know it’s weird for a lot of people, and it’s okay if you don’t - ”
“Okay,” says Foggy, very quietly.
There’s a buzzing in Matt’s ears. “Okay?” he repeats.
“Yeah. I mean, it’s only fair, right? I know what you look like.” Foggy’s voice wavers slightly, nervous. “Lay ‘em on me.”
Matt swallows. “Okay. I...okay.”
He shifts forward, leaning over Foggy, and holds his hands up. “Where are you?” he asks, even though he could pinpoint Foggy’s face by his breathing and the scent of his hair and the saline in his eyes from three blocks away, let alone on the floor directly in front of him.
“Uh.” Foggy’s hands wrap around Matt’s wrists. His fingers are rough with guitar calluses, but his palms are soft. “Here.”
He brings Matt’s hands down gently, until the tips of his fingers nudge Foggy’s cheekbones, then lets him go. Matt swallows down a ridiculous regret that Foggy isn’t guiding him, isn’t showing Matt exactly how to touch him.
“Let me know if you want me to stop,” he says instead, and brings his hands up to the top of Foggy’s forehead. He brushes soft hair out of the way, skims Foggy’s hairline down past his temples, past his ears, smiling when he traces out the shape of long sideburns. “I didn’t know you had these.”
“Hey. Sideburns are a rock and roll tradition.”
“How Presleyan of you.”
“Thank yuh very much,” Foggy rumbles in a terrible Elvis impression. Matt tries to laugh but it comes out closer to a sigh.
Back up to Foggy’s forehead. There are faint lines across it, worry lines at rest but still tangible to Matt’s fingers. His eyebrows are faint but his lashes are soft and full, and his eyelids tremble under Matt’s touch. Matt licks his lips and skims the sides of Foggy’s nose, short and tilted up a bit, which Matt remembers from the pictures of Foggy as a child.
Foggy’s trying to hold his breath, Matt thinks; it keeps catching and then releasing in a puff of warmth and the sweetness of the Danishes Foggy brought over that he swears are the best in the city. His heart is a prestissimo drumbeat, as high and sharp as a snare.
Matt slides his fingers back up to graze Foggy’s cheekbones, high and angled. He presses gently against the softness of Foggy’s cheeks, the faint rasp of what will be a proper five o’clock shadow in about four hours scratching the pads of his fingers as he moves lower. A rounded chin and softness beneath, in keeping with what he can tell of Foggy’s weight and shape from his radar sense. He likes it; Foggy may not be classically handsome but he’s soft and warm and solid and himself, and that’s better than any blandly handsome pop idol face.
And then there’s his mouth.
Matt traces the dip above Foggy’s chin, the hollow of his philtrum below his nose; he presses his thumbs in to meet the corners of Foggy’s mouth. He doesn’t know what he’s allowed to do, here. And - and he knows it’s stupid, but. This is where the music is.
“Matt,” Foggy says - no, sighs, really, his breath gusting warm against Matt’s fingers. Matt can feel Foggy’s pulse through his skin and beneath the scent of Danish and coffee and Foggy’s conditioner he can smell arousal, musky and sure.
Which is probably the part that makes him lose his mind entirely and kiss Foggy.
Foggy’s breath hitches and he lets out a small, perfect noise before kissing Matt back, thank God and all the saints in heaven. His lips are soft and sweet and Matt was right before - this is music, right here.
But Matt still pulls back, just enough to give Foggy space to roll away if he needs to, to say that kissing back was a polite instinct and that he’s sorry but he really needs to leave forever now.
He can hear Foggy lick his lips.
“I was so hoping that was a line,” Foggy says finally, his voice bright with a smile, and Matt’s heart thumps even harder than before.
“It does help me know what you look like,” Matt protests. He can’t keep the grin off his face.
“Please.” Foggy snorts. “What a player.”
“It does!”
“Sure.” Foggy props himself up on his elbows. “So what's the verdict?”
Matt figures kissing him again is answer enough.
“There's not a man today who can take me away from my guy…”
*
[Image description: The cover of the Bugle’s Sunday pull-out section. It’s a picture of Elden Henson from about mid-thigh up, wearing a blue paisley shirt and looking solemnly at the camera. At the top of the page is the word “Reveille” and the Daily Bugle logo. Across the middle of the page is the headline “Boy Wonder: Foggy Nelson’s Second Life As A Hitmaker” and the credits “By Matt Murdock” and “Photos by Peter Parker.” At the bottom are more headlines: “The Music Issue: Who Is the Black Widow?; The Mary Janes vs. The Top 40; Pepper Potts: The Power Behind Stark Records.” In the lower right-hand corner is the date: May 15, 2016.]
Chapter 3
Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Rating: PG
Notes: Co-written with becs1024!
Chapter 1
[Image description: The Arts & Entertainment page from the Columbia student paper, dated October 16th, 2007. In the upper right-hand corner is an inset of an album cover, with a black and white picture of Elden Henson in his early twenties (...I’m guessing?) with short hair and a chin strip goatee (Elden why). The album text is sideways and reads “Foggy Nelson: Wonderlust.” There’s a Stark Records logo in the bottom left-hand corner.
At the bottom of the page is a picture of an all-female rock band performing, with a dark-haired singer/guitarist front and center and the header “Elektra Complex rocks out at Heights Cafe.” The photo credit says “Peter Parker [Columbia Daily Spectator].”
The rest of the page consists of a five-star review titled “Former boy bander releases promises, cerebral solo effort” by Matt Murdock, Spectator Staff Writer. Full text of review here.]
*
If Foggy had just been a child with perfect pitch, that would have been enough. Matt’s not going to credit Boy Wonder’s music with getting him through the aftermath of the accident - that was his dad, and occupational therapy, and therapy therapy, and having things like learning Braille to focus on instead of the overwhelming sensory input all around him, and even Stick.
Boy Wonder helped, though. Foggy’s voice was a gift Matt can never repay or even explain. And it would have been enough, really it would have.
But then Foggy turned out to be a great songwriter, a teenage prodigy with an inexplicable talent for hooks that snagged on Matt’s ribcage and yanked. And his voice mellowed and deepened with age from a clear, boyish alto to a warm tenor that wraps around the notes he sings like he’s hiding a laugh. And he’s smart and funny and never shitty in interviews about having been in a boy band as a child and he never, ever talks publicly about things that shouldn’t be public, like the band’s breakup or Bucky Barnes’s accident and subsequent trips to rehab, which Matt admires.
And he smells like vanilla.
But somehow the impossibly long list of ways Foggy Nelson is apparently the world’s greatest human has just gotten even longer, because he was born and raised not four blocks from Matt’s childhood home, and he still lives in Hell’s Kitchen. He even asked to meet at a coffee shop in the neighborhood - not Starbucks, but a locally-owned business that makes their own scones and doesn’t over-roast their coffee - and now Matt is sitting a block away from his home, tucked into a small table at the back of the cafe with Foggy Nelson (!) and interviewing him for a profile in the Bugle.
Matt ordered green tea. Foggy ordered a pumpkin spice latte flavored with one of those awful artificial syrups, but then, no one’s perfect.
“I can’t believe we grew up four blocks away from each other. That’s crazy,” Foggy says. His body language is warm and inviting: knees apart, chest open except for when he leans in to catch what Matt’s saying. Matt may be speaking more quietly than usual to encourage this. “Did you go to P.S. 111?”
“Yeah, while my dad was still - ” Matt catches himself. Foggy doesn’t need to know his whole tragic history. “I mean, I went to parochial school after that, but yeah, P.S. 111 for elementary.”
“Small world. I mean, me too, obviously, through fourth grade. I had tutors for a while after I got signed.” Foggy says it matter-of-factly, without either embarrassment over his days as a child star or any hint of vanity. It’s still the closest they’ve come to actually talking about music or Foggy’s career; the forty-five minutes of chatter about the neighborhood already recorded on Matt’s phone won’t do him any good for the profile he begged and pleaded with Ben to let him write, but he will be saving them to his computer, his external hard drive, and probably a thumb drive too. He’ll keep that last with Foggy’s card - too precious to carry around, Matt’s committed the number to memory already - the laminate from the concert, and his original copy of Boy Wonder’s debut CD, worn out from too many repeat listens.
“Why’d you stay in the neighborhood?” Matt asks. His voice is so normal by now only someone with ears like his could hear the difference, or the way his heart has never really settled into its resting pace, and kicks into overdrive every time Foggy laughs or accidentally bumps Matt’s foot with his own. “I mean, it’s not really trendy enough for a pop star.”
He grins to show he’s kidding and is rewarded with both a snort from Foggy, and a slight uptick in Foggy’s own heartbeat. God. “Well, it’s home,” Foggy says easily. “And my parents are still here, I like to be nearby in case they need anything. My dad owns Nelson’s Hardware on 48th, do you know it?”
“No way.” Matt can still remember it, dimly, the faded sign above the door and the intimidating power tools section in the back. “I used to go there with my dad all the time when I was a kid! We lived in a pretty beat-up apartment, things were always breaking.” His cheeks warm slightly, but he knows the block Foggy grew up on, and his building couldn’t have been in much better repair.
“Yeah? We probably saw each other, I was always hanging around the store back then,” Foggy says. “This is clearly fate. You were meant to, I don’t know, get a press copy of my EP or however it was you heard of me.”
“Yeah,” Matt echoes, and slides his hands around his mug so he won’t fidget them. Foggy doesn’t need to know about that worn-out CD in his closet, in a box beneath his Daredevil suit. “It...yeah.”
“Oh, sorry,” Foggy says quickly. “I didn’t mean to be like, ‘let’s talk about the music now.’ Although I also didn’t mean to keep you here for...shit.” There’s a shuffle as he checks his phone. “Wow, sorry, I have been talking your ear off. You probably want to get this done and get out of here.”
“No!” It comes out way too fast and way too loud. “Uh, you haven’t been...it’s good. It’s, uh, it’s all useful for the profile. I mean, yeah, we should talk about the music, I do want to talk about that, but this is...I’m having a good time.”
Oh no. Matt doesn’t slide under the table to hide forever, but it’s a near thing.
But Foggy blooms with warmth and his heartbeat picks up again, from a midtempo spring release to a summer jam. “Okay,” he says, soft and warm. “Good. Yeah. I’m...me too.”
“Good,” Matt echoes, cheeks burning. But he’s smiling.
Foggy’s foot taps a beat against the floor, and Matt can’t tell if it’s brushing his on purpose, but he doesn’t move away. “So,” he says. “Should we talk about the music now?”
Matt minutely adjusts the phone on the table between them. “Yeah,” he says. “Let’s talk about the music.”
*
“MURDOCK! URICH! MY OFFICE! NOW!”
Matt jumps like he’s been electrocuted. He knew a storm was brewing in Jameson’s office, could hear his heartbeat speeding up and the angry little huffs he lets out when he’s looking at work he doesn’t think is up to snuff, but it’s usually Peter’s name that gets bellowed, not Matt’s.
He stands up and hurries to Jameson’s office, trailing his fingers along the line of cubicles as he goes. “Behind you, Matt,” Ben says as he falls into step with him, and Matt nods.
Jameson’s standing up when they get to his office - the better to attempt to intimidate, probably. “What the hell is this, Murdock?” he asks, shaking something that rustles at him.
“It sounds like paper,” Matt says mildly.
“Jonah,” Ben admonishes, then adds, “It's your Nelson profile, Matt.”
“It's crap, is what it is!” Jameson shouts. “I let Urich here talk me into letting you interview some has-been no one’s ever heard of, and what do I get? Fluff!”
“It's a profile of a singer-songwriter, not an expose,” Matt points out.
“There's three paragraphs about a hardware store that went out of business seven years ago!” Jameson bellows. “You asked this asshole about chord progression. You used the word ‘polyphony.’ No one wants to read this garbage!”
“Actually, I think Mr. Nelson’s use of polyphony is…”
“No one knows what that is, Murdock. It sounds like a damn horse orgy.”
Ben stifles a laugh, and Matt stifles a sigh. “I was just trying to explore his inspirations and methodology…”
“Screw his methodology. Where's the dirt?”
“Uh, he's not really a scandalous…”
“Not on this nobody. Why didn't you ask him about Bucky Barnes, for Christ’s sake? Or even whatshisface, Jones.” Jameson thumps the paper with his free hand. “You say he used to be on Shield Records when he was a kid but now he's on Stark’s label - where's that story? Joe Public doesn't want to read about some wannabe poet being inspired by the birdsong of Hell’s Kitchen or whatever bullshit you've got down here. Joe Public wants to read about a former child star snorting cocaine off a hooker’s ass in Tony Stark’s penthouse!”
“I don't think he does that,” Matt says. He knows Foggy doesn’t do that. Foggy’s too good for that.
“Well, you know what I don’t do? Give up perfectly good space in my paper for a seven thousand word yawn!”
“Are you pulling the profile?” Matt asks, trying to keep his voice level. He doesn’t care about the writing - though he worked hard on the piece, trying to recapture the intimacy of a long conversation with Foggy about everything and anything - but he promised Foggy a profile. He imposed on Foggy, and now Jameson’s going to make it all for nothing.
“Do I have to spell everything out for you?” Jameson barks. “What else are we gonna put in next Sunday’s edition if we yank this? Go back and ask some real questions!”
Matt blinks. “You want me to...interview him again? More?”
“Until you’ve got something I can print, yes!”
“Oh. Uh. Okay. I’ll just - I’ll do that,” Matt says. “I’ll...sorry. I’ll turn in something better. Right away. Uh. Sir.”
He beats a hasty retreat out of Jameson’s office, hurrying back to his desk. He can hear Ben behind him.
“Don’t take it too hard, Matt,” Ben says. “You know Jonah’s all bark and no bite. It was a good profile, he just wants something with a little more...well. Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, you know?”
“Sure,” Matt says.
“You’re still a good writer,” Ben assures him.
“Thanks.”
“You gonna be okay?”
Matt nods vehemently. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he says, and Ben claps him on the shoulder before walking away. Which was what Matt wanted him to do, because now, with his face turned into his cubicle and down towards his refreshable Braille display, he doesn’t have to work so hard to hide the grin that’s threatening to overtake his face.
He has an excuse to call Foggy back.
*
“This is amazing. I love this,” Foggy says, running his fingers along the wall of boxy IKEA shelving that holds Matt’s record collection. “Make up the couch, I’m moving in.”
Matt doesn’t immediately say “Okay” or “Why bother with the couch?” but only because he bites down hard on his tongue to catch it. “Most people think it’s pretentious. Or too much.” Most people who come to Matt’s apartment are pretty put off by the complete lack of interior decorating of any kind. He doesn’t even have a TV, just his sound system, and shelves and shelves of records. At the end is a shelf of CDs he’s been comped, but for the most part anything he can’t find on vinyl he just keeps digitally.
“It’s literally your job to listen to music,” Foggy points out. “Dude, I have seven guitars. I don’t even compose with them. I just fall in love too easily.”
Matt’s heart thumps hard. “Yeah. I mean. Fair enough.”
He can sense Foggy running his fingers over the Braille labels Matt added to every shelf. “How is this organized?”
“Alphabetically by artist, then by release date,” Matt explains. He touches the label next to Foggy’s fingers. “This says ‘Davis, Miles to The Drifters.’ Then each sleeve is labeled with artist and title. And year, in case I forget.” He tugs a sleeve out to show Foggy. “I keep redoing it when I decide that, say, Miles Davis should really go under ‘M’ for ‘Miles Davis Quintet’ instead of last name. And of course every time I lose my mind on the internet and spend three hundred dollars on records everything has to move.”
“Oh good, I’m not the only one who does that,” Foggy says. “Ask me about the Great Keytar Impulse Purchase of ‘09 some time. No, on second thought, don’t - the wounds are still too fresh.” He tips an album off the shelf to look at the cover and makes an approving sound. “So what are we listening to?”
They seem to have moved past the interview stage, though neither Matt nor Foggy has offered another label for what exactly this is. Not that they’ve skimped on the interviews, either - Jameson wasn’t happy with the softball industry questions Matt gave Foggy on their second meeting and demanded he go back for a third round, during which Matt finally, apologetically, asked about Bucky Barnes. Foggy, sounding distant and sad, gave a very reserved, tactful answer about having many fond memories of his old bandmate and wishing him the best, and that seemed to satisfy Jameson.
(Matt also brought Peter on the second interview to get some shots of Foggy to accompany the profile, with dire warnings of what would happen to Peter if he embarrassed Matt in front of Foggy. “Embarrass you in front of the fourth most popular member of the seventh most popular boy band of fifteen years ago? I would never!” Peter gasped, forcing Matt to trip him with his cane. But the pictures, by all accounts, had turned out pretty well.)
Somewhere, in the middle of interviews and off-topic conversational tangents and coordinating further interviews via phone and what Matt thinks - hopes, prays - is flirting, the subject of Matt’s record collection came up, and Foggy insisted on seeing it. And now...
Now Foggy’s lying on the floor in front of Matt’s record player, a stack of random record selections next to him, palms flat on the floorboards “to feel the vibrations,” he claims. Matt doesn’t need to be this close to the speakers to pick out every detail, but he’s happy to sit cross-legged next to Foggy and listen to Foggy’s commentary.
“I love this song,” Matt says as the needle drops on another record and the familiar bassline comes up. Foggy’s fingers tap out the beat on the floor.
“Nothing you could say could tear me away from my guy...nothing you could do, ‘cause I’m stuck like glue to my guy…”
“I would hope so, since it’s your record,” Foggy says, voice wrapped around a smile. “But yeah, me too. I keep threatening to do a whole early sixties pastiche album. Marci thinks I’m nuts.”
“No, you should do it!” Matt says, too excited by the idea to try to play it cool. “I love your vintage-influenced stuff. ‘Josie’ is my favorite song off your first album. And that doo wop chord progression in ‘Every Wednesday,’ off of your latest?” He trails off, realizing he’s babbling like an overenthusiastic fanboy.
But Foggy just reaches out and bumps Matt’s knee with his knuckles affectionately. “See, you get it. I keep saying we should put you on the payroll. Although I guess you’d have to dye your hair.”
“I’d what?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry, you wouldn’t know - everyone on Team Nelson is blond.” Foggy snorts. “You know, the whole vast crew of me, Karen, and Marci.”
“Oh.”
“I’m kidding about the hair dye, by the way,” Foggy adds. “You’re perfect already, don’t change a thing.”
“Oh.” Matt feels his cheeks heat up. Foggy’s fingers tap a little faster than the beat. “Uh, I, uh, I knew you were blond,” Matt says, a little too fast, probably. “I remember - you know, from your music videos, and the Boy Wonder album cover and stuff. Before the accident.”
“Oh no,” Foggy groans, hand over his eyes. “I was twelve. This is awful. I was such a goofy-looking kid. And why was I always wearing a bandana?”
“No, it was...you were cute,” Matt protests, not sure how aggressively he should be arguing for how attractive he found Foggy as a tween. He honestly hadn’t paid that much attention until after his accident, anyway. “You’re still blond?”
“Ish,” Foggy admits. “It’s darker, now, sort of dirty blond? Karen’s is closer to what mine looked like back then, except way shinier, and in some lights it looks kind of red. And Marci’s is like this really light, ashy blond - the better to match her cold, vampiric soul, I guess.” He says it with such affection that Matt’s suddenly, wildly jealous.
“Oh,” he says. “Are you and Marci…?”
“Oh, no no no,” Foggy says, stammering a little in his haste. “God, no. We, uh, we used to be a thing, that’s sort of how we met? Back in college. But just friends-slash-manager-and-client now, promise.”
“Okay,” Matt says, curling his fingers against his palms and resting them on his knees. “Got it.”
“As a matter of taste to be exact...he’s my ideal as a matter of fact…”
Matt licks his lips. “So...you don’t wear a bandana all the time now?” he asks, to break the awkward silence.
Foggy laughs, a little too loud. “Only on special occasions,” he says. “Also I’m slightly taller.” He shifts in what reads to Matt’s senses like a horizontal shrug. “I mean, I guess overall I still look pretty much the same. Just...different.” He snorts. “That’s not helpful at all, is it.”
“You tried. But not very hard,” Matt tells him, and is rewarded with another laugh. He opens his fingers to wipe suddenly sweaty palms on his knees. “I could...touch you?” he suggests. Oh, there’s Foggy’s heart, thundering into overdrive. “I mean, your face. I could...it helps me to get an idea. But we don’t have to,” he adds hastily. “If you’re not comfortable with...I mean, I know it’s weird for a lot of people, and it’s okay if you don’t - ”
“Okay,” says Foggy, very quietly.
There’s a buzzing in Matt’s ears. “Okay?” he repeats.
“Yeah. I mean, it’s only fair, right? I know what you look like.” Foggy’s voice wavers slightly, nervous. “Lay ‘em on me.”
Matt swallows. “Okay. I...okay.”
He shifts forward, leaning over Foggy, and holds his hands up. “Where are you?” he asks, even though he could pinpoint Foggy’s face by his breathing and the scent of his hair and the saline in his eyes from three blocks away, let alone on the floor directly in front of him.
“Uh.” Foggy’s hands wrap around Matt’s wrists. His fingers are rough with guitar calluses, but his palms are soft. “Here.”
He brings Matt’s hands down gently, until the tips of his fingers nudge Foggy’s cheekbones, then lets him go. Matt swallows down a ridiculous regret that Foggy isn’t guiding him, isn’t showing Matt exactly how to touch him.
“Let me know if you want me to stop,” he says instead, and brings his hands up to the top of Foggy’s forehead. He brushes soft hair out of the way, skims Foggy’s hairline down past his temples, past his ears, smiling when he traces out the shape of long sideburns. “I didn’t know you had these.”
“Hey. Sideburns are a rock and roll tradition.”
“How Presleyan of you.”
“Thank yuh very much,” Foggy rumbles in a terrible Elvis impression. Matt tries to laugh but it comes out closer to a sigh.
Back up to Foggy’s forehead. There are faint lines across it, worry lines at rest but still tangible to Matt’s fingers. His eyebrows are faint but his lashes are soft and full, and his eyelids tremble under Matt’s touch. Matt licks his lips and skims the sides of Foggy’s nose, short and tilted up a bit, which Matt remembers from the pictures of Foggy as a child.
Foggy’s trying to hold his breath, Matt thinks; it keeps catching and then releasing in a puff of warmth and the sweetness of the Danishes Foggy brought over that he swears are the best in the city. His heart is a prestissimo drumbeat, as high and sharp as a snare.
Matt slides his fingers back up to graze Foggy’s cheekbones, high and angled. He presses gently against the softness of Foggy’s cheeks, the faint rasp of what will be a proper five o’clock shadow in about four hours scratching the pads of his fingers as he moves lower. A rounded chin and softness beneath, in keeping with what he can tell of Foggy’s weight and shape from his radar sense. He likes it; Foggy may not be classically handsome but he’s soft and warm and solid and himself, and that’s better than any blandly handsome pop idol face.
And then there’s his mouth.
Matt traces the dip above Foggy’s chin, the hollow of his philtrum below his nose; he presses his thumbs in to meet the corners of Foggy’s mouth. He doesn’t know what he’s allowed to do, here. And - and he knows it’s stupid, but. This is where the music is.
“Matt,” Foggy says - no, sighs, really, his breath gusting warm against Matt’s fingers. Matt can feel Foggy’s pulse through his skin and beneath the scent of Danish and coffee and Foggy’s conditioner he can smell arousal, musky and sure.
Which is probably the part that makes him lose his mind entirely and kiss Foggy.
Foggy’s breath hitches and he lets out a small, perfect noise before kissing Matt back, thank God and all the saints in heaven. His lips are soft and sweet and Matt was right before - this is music, right here.
But Matt still pulls back, just enough to give Foggy space to roll away if he needs to, to say that kissing back was a polite instinct and that he’s sorry but he really needs to leave forever now.
He can hear Foggy lick his lips.
“I was so hoping that was a line,” Foggy says finally, his voice bright with a smile, and Matt’s heart thumps even harder than before.
“It does help me know what you look like,” Matt protests. He can’t keep the grin off his face.
“Please.” Foggy snorts. “What a player.”
“It does!”
“Sure.” Foggy props himself up on his elbows. “So what's the verdict?”
Matt figures kissing him again is answer enough.
“There's not a man today who can take me away from my guy…”
*
[Image description: The cover of the Bugle’s Sunday pull-out section. It’s a picture of Elden Henson from about mid-thigh up, wearing a blue paisley shirt and looking solemnly at the camera. At the top of the page is the word “Reveille” and the Daily Bugle logo. Across the middle of the page is the headline “Boy Wonder: Foggy Nelson’s Second Life As A Hitmaker” and the credits “By Matt Murdock” and “Photos by Peter Parker.” At the bottom are more headlines: “The Music Issue: Who Is the Black Widow?; The Mary Janes vs. The Top 40; Pepper Potts: The Power Behind Stark Records.” In the lower right-hand corner is the date: May 15, 2016.]
Chapter 3