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Let the record show: this is not Foggy's fault.
Okay, maybe he'd been the one to tell Karen, "I'm sure he'll be back soon," when he knew damn well that Matt was probably out bounding across rooftops like an angry urban goat, complete with the horns. (Foggy is never ever going to stop giving Matt shit about the horns.) But that is not Franklin P. Nelson's fault, thank you very much. That's actually all Matt's fault for not telling Karen about aforementioned angry urban goat thing.
Neither can Foggy be blamed for caving like a wet paper bag when Karen had stolen his keys and dragged him into Matt's apartment, saying, "...maybe we can get started without him," because listen. He's dating a foxy blonde with a wicked imagination and legs that go on for approximately seven miles; of course he wasn't going to say no, even when the infuriatingly-secretive third member of their triad was away.
...yeah, all right, he might have had the fleeting thought that it served Matt right, missing out on fourteen miles of shapely limbs wrapped around Foggy's enthusiastic oral skills. Then again, it's an especially cold January in New York, and nobody deserves to be outdoors right now.
However, this doesn't mean that Foggy deserves to get literally kicked out of bed, falling ass over teakettle as Karen shrieks like a banshee, having apparently seen-
"-someone outside the window!" She's clutching Matt's sheets to her chest with such exaggerated terror that Foggy would be tempted to laugh, except, you know:
"Ow," he says, looking over to where she's pointing and seeing nothing beyond the flicker of red-orange light through the frosted glass. (This week's ad is for yet another installment of one of those teen dystopia movies.) "I don't see anything. I'm sure it's nothing."
Foggy isn't even lying; he's positive that it's nothing to worry about, because it's probably their... boyfriend? yeah, that still sounds weird ...skulking around, trying to figure out how to come in from the cold while wearing red and black body armor (and horns) without blowing his cover.
"It's not nothing," Karen says, and he's abruptly reminded of how jumpy she's been lately.
"Okay, okay," Foggy says, pawing through the discarded clothes on the floor so he can pull on his boxers and pull his phone out of his pants pocket. He passes up his shirt to Karen, because even though the mood's been effectively ruined, he thinks she could use the token security.
It doesn't hurt that seeing her in one of his shirts is one of the best visual perks of having a hot blonde girlfriend, but that's beside the point at the moment.
Foggy texts Matt: Was that u outside?
A moment later, he receives a response: Yes.
Can u change & come back?
There's a long pause. Left some clothes at your place but -there's another pause- I might be bleeding.
FML, Foggy replies, because honestly.
Can go to Claire's, Matt offers.
No, its cold as balls & K's freaked, Foggy types. This is stupid, come in, she should know anyway. Which he's been telling Matt for weeks now, but nooooo.
There's no response for a while. Foggy takes a gamble, thinking Matt might be in enhanced-earshot. "That was Matt," he says aloud to Karen. "He's on his way home. And um. I might need you to not freak out when you see him."
Sure enough, Foggy's phone buzzes. Foggy no.
"What?" Karen asks. "Is he okay?"
He texts back, Come on already, he types, muttering under his breath, "Man without fear my pasty ass."
I heard that.
"Foggy. Is Matt okay?" Karen repeats.
Good. Foggy types. "He's fine. I think." And even if he is, he might not be for long; Karen's going to kill him. Possibly both of them.
Foggy might be having second thoughts.
"Did he get shot?" she asks. Foggy blinks. "Oh my god I am so tired of this bullshit," she announces. "Is our vigilante boyfriend-" (oh hey, and that's extra weird) "-bleeding out on the fire escape right now, yes or no?"
Foggy just gapes at her.
"-technically, no," Matt says, from the doorway. "I didn't get shot, I'm not bleeding out, and I wasn't on the fire escape, it was the drainpipe." He's wearing his armor, but he's pushed back the cowl. It's a bit of a mindfuck to see regular tousle-haired Matt in such un-Matt clothing.
"What the fuck," Foggy says. "How long have you known?"
"You're both morons; I've known for a while," Karen says. "How many times were you gonna use the 'walked into a door' line, Matt? If I weren't one of the people in a relationship with you, I'd have started looking up domestic abuse pamphlets in braille, that's how bad it got. Now where's your first aid kit?"
"Under the kitchen sink," Matt tells her, and she clambers out of bed, glancing at them both in disgust on her way out of the room.
"She is super pissed, dude," Foggy tells him. "You should see the stinkeye she just gave us. And how did you not know she knew?"
"I can tell when people are lying, Foggy, but-" Matt scrubs a hand through his hair, then winces. Foggy can see a thin slice through the fabric on the inside of his upper arm, high up near the joint. "-it's not like I ever asked her 'So do you know Daredevil's secret identity?' or anything..."
"Okay, fair, but this just proves that I was right. We should have told her sooner." Like, after the first time they all slept together, if not before.
"Foggy-" Matt starts.
"Foggy's right," Karen declares, coming back with the kit and a damp washcloth. "Strip."
If only she were saying that under different circumstances, Foggy thinks wistfully. He files away 'Karen wearing my clothes and ordering Matt around' in the back of his mind for future reference, though.
"...must have questions," Matt's saying. And then Foggy has ten solid minutes of déjà vu while Karen grills Matt about everything. She's less hurt than Foggy had been; she's somewhere between pissed and disgruntled, so there's a lot less crying, thank God. Foggy really can't handle another round of resentment and angry tears and hangovers.
"So, wait, you-" Karen says after all her other questions have been exhausted, her eyes going wide with dawning realization, "-you could hear us in here, when you were out there?"
"I-" Matt ducks his head. "Couple blocks away, actually, yeah."
Suddenly a whole new vista of 'fucking with Matt' opens up before Foggy. Because, sure, they might also be fucking, but that doesn't supersede Foggy's contractually-obligated duty as a best friend to fuck with him. Plus this looks like a little bit of both, so win-win.
Foggy laughs, struck by a thought. "If Karen hadn't spotted you, would you have just stayed outside listening?"
"Hadn't really thought that far ahead," Matt admits. Therefore: probably, yes.
"You masochistic perv," Foggy says, grinning. "No, wait, that makes it sound hotter than eavesdropping on your actual partners who are getting it on in your actual bed while you're huddled outside in below-zero weather actually is."
"Self-flagellating?" Karen offers.
Foggy shakes his head. "Somehow, that sounds even kinkier."
Matt is getting That Look, like he can't decide whether he's embarrassed for Foggy or by him. Which is only fair, given the amount of shit Matt's pulled over the years that Foggy's only begun to understand, in fits and starts and usually at the worst possible moments. Like the time last week when they'd been taking a deposition and Foggy had abruptly realized that Matt had known that he'd had a guy hiding in his closet back in junior year.
(Justin had not been amused, and the relationship had fizzled out less than a week later.)
"So, okay," Foggy says, "You'd have gotten your earful and snuck in later after we'd fallen asleep? What if we'd left when we were done? That doesn't seem right, does it, Kare?"
She shakes her head and grins, adding, "Not even a little." There's mischief in her eyes, & Foggy suspects that he's halfway to the kind of embarrassing emotional attachment where he's gonna be all ridiculous and start second-guessing himself until the whole relationship inevitably crashes and burns... but then, Matt's never been (directly) involved in his relationships before, so maybe he's got a safety net there.
Come to think of it, Matt's been his safety net for as long as they've known each other.
Aw, crap, now Foggy's got two people he's going to get ridiculous about. That's going to suuuuuuck.
May as well enjoy it while he can. Speaking of which, Karen's set aside the medical supplies, and her hands are pushing on Matt's shoulders, nudging him 'till his back hits the headboard next to Foggy and she's kneeling over his lap. Foggy can just see the lower curve of her ass under the tails of his shirt. "It's not just hearing, you said?" she asks.
Matt's eyebrows hover somewhere between wary and confused. "Yeah, no," he says, "It's- it's everything, everything except-"
"So even if you hadn't heard us," she muses, and Foggy thinks he sees where she's going with this, "and if we'd left, you'd still have known we were here?"
Matt nods, mouth working soundlessly for a moment. "Smell you, maybe," he says, finally. "Sheets might still be warm..."
Foggy gives in, curls his hand around the back of her thigh, the line of his forefinger fitting into the crease at the top, the side of his palm brushing over Matt's leg. "Good to know," he says. "Then what?"
"Wha-?" The rest of the word gets cut off when Matt inhales sharply, understanding. "-oh."
"C'mon, Matt," Karen cajoles. She drags her nails through the beard just under his jaw, scratching lightly, and Matt arches, baring his neck. "We gave you a show."
Now Matt bares his teeth, something more primal than a smile, and fuck fuck fuck this would be reason number thirty-eight why Matt and Foggy had never really gotten involved before the latter found out about the vigilante thing: because Matt spent so much time hiding the parts of himself that hook right into Foggy's lust-addled lizard brain.
Not that he hadn't noticed that Matt was attractive before, but dorky, floppy-haired best-friend-since-college Matt is waaaay different than secret-vigilante Matt Murdock. Especially when he's here, safe in their care, all that intensity exposed but banked, flaring at their touch.
And at his own, now, too. They asked for a show, and damn if they're not getting one, Matt's bruised and battered hands light on his own skin, skimming over lean muscle, one thumbnail grazing a nipple so that he hisses out a breath before his fingers fumble at the fastenings to his pants. It's a team effort then; Karen lifts up, moves aside, and Foggy helps strip the weird too-soft armor off, and Matt kicks it away along with the boxer-briefs beneath it.
"Jesus, Matt," Karen says, running one hand along his leg. "You expected me to not know when you look like this?"
"To be fair..." Matt says, giving her the ghost of a smile.
"Oh don't even," Foggy says as he shucks off his own boxers. "Blind or not, you gotta know; you're all muscles and retroactively-worrying scar tissue."
"If you say so," Matt says. They resettle, Karen playing little spoon against Foggy as they lie on their sides facing Matt. Her head is propped on her folded arm, and Foggy leans up on one elbow to see over her shoulder, his hand sliding over the curve of her hip. Matt reaches out to pull her into a kiss, and she sways into it, eyes drifting closed.
It's times like this that Foggy gets stuck on a loop between 'I am the luckiest man alive to see this up close' and 'why the heck do they even need me around?' And right on cue, Matt turns to him, smiling slow and fond before kissing him, too, slick and dirty and deep.
Karen sighs happily below them. "Though I'm enjoying the view, it's not the one I was hoping for," she says.
Foggy pulls away. "Right! We're pretending we're not here."
"Seriously?" Matt says. "Of all the things we could be doing-"
"So, so many things," Karen agrees. "But that's not what I want. How about you, Foggy?"
"I'm with Karen. It's not as if we won't be getting anything out of it," Foggy says, and his hand slips down, fingertips just grazing the thatch of hair between her legs. Karen's breath hitches, and when he glances at her, she's giving him a sly, sidelong smile that he has to kiss, a little messy from this angle but still sweet, still hot.
"Ff-" Matt says. "Fuck, fine." He pushes away, rolling onto his back. He's always been completely unselfconscious in bed - occasionally, unpredictably (infuriatingly) apprehensive about asking for something he wants, but never anything less than comfortable in his own skin.
Foggy might envy that a little, but he'd never admit to it, heart rate be damned.
Not that he has any complaints, though, no sirree. Because right now, he's got an armful of warm, soft Karen and they've both got front row seats to a hell of a sight. Matt doesn't generally rush, happy to spend so much time on foreplay that Foggy's been known to make shortstop jokes, but tonight, he's apparently decided to not fuck around. His hand's around his dick, hard and flushed and getting harder within the tight circle of his fingers. He catches his lower lip between his teeth, brow furrowed, and Karen makes a high noise in the back of her throat.
"...yeah," Foggy agrees in a whisper. She squirms against him, reminding Foggy of the rising urgency of both his own arousal and hers in one delightful little wiggle of her hips. Karen's legs part at Foggy's touch, and he strokes through her folds, already slick again and familiar enough that he knows he can sink one finger into her easily. He does, thumb rubbing gently along the buried ridge of her clit.
She shivers in his arms, and Matt makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a whine. "I- I can-" he says, words failing him, pre-come leaking over his hand.
"Shit, Matt," Foggy says, realizing. Matt can hear the soft wet noises Karen's body makes as Foggy adds a second finger, can probably smell her from across the apartment, let alone in the same bed, sense the spreading flush over her skin as she writhes. He can probably tell that Foggy's hard enough to pound nails, dick grinding against the curve of Karen's truly spectacular ass with each roll of her hips.
Karen can certainly feel it, and Foggy can see the flicker of her smile before she says, "Don't- don't come, Foggy, you should fuck him when he's done."
It's like she knows what that'll do to Matt, what her breathy obscenity does to them both, and Foggy pushes deeper into the clenching wet heat of her, knuckles twisting against her entrance, thumb just, just catching against the head of her clit every time she pushes into his hand.
"Kare-" Matt says, panting, "Karen, I want- let me hear you-" His strokes speed up, and his stomach clenches with each thrust, and Foggy almost regrets not knowing anatomy, because there's a couple of flexing lines at Matt's hip that he can't stop staring at but can't name.
"Foggy," Karen gasps, and then again, "Foggy, fuck, yeah," tightening around his fingers, and Foggy drops his mouth to the curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder, sucking gently as counterpoint to the sharp edge of his teeth, while her voice rises in pitch and in volume, losing coherence. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of this, of feeling her shake apart in his arms, calling his name.
In contrast, the only warning Matt gives is a low, ragged inhalation; Foggy glances up in time to watch him tense in an arc, straining upwards as he groans, come landing on his belly, his chest, dripping over his fingers as he works himself through it. Thoughtlessly, reflexively, Foggy's hand tightens, and Karen shudders with a little, rippling aftershock.
"Foggy," she says, low and insistent, "get the lube."
Matt blinks at them both, looking hazy and messy and well-fucked already. He smiles and stretches out, wicked and inviting, and says, "No rush," with feigned nonchalance.
So really, if Foggy's brain chooses to implode at that very second, it's really not his fault. Not even a little.
(Fortunately, it doesn't.)
- end -