Work Text:
It's really, honestly amazing, how well things are going.
Out on the streets, things are moving much slower than Matt prepared himself for. Fisk's arrest has left a power vacuum that no one seems to be filling, not yet. Maybe they're afraid – saw what happened to him, after all, half the world in his pocket and it still blew up in his face. Or maybe they were so accustomed to letting Fisk and the others pull the strings, there's no one (left) around (yet) who even wants that foothold. Whatever the reason, it's been a few months, and Matt is mostly dealing with isolated incidents, individual muggers, would-be assaulters – one especially unlucky duo's car broke down on their way from Point A to Point B, and one glove compartment full of cocaine later, Matt may have put a dent in a smuggling line that was never meant to stop anywhere near the Devil's domain.
It's a nice thought, anyway.
Foggy hasn't quite forgiven him, he can tell, but they are – they are moving forward, moving on, starting to relax around each other again. It's beginning to feel less and less like a show they have to put on for Karen's sake.
And – and – they're getting clients. Paying clients, mostly, enough to support themselves through the occasional pro bono case that they can't make themselves refuse (which is, really, every pro bono case, but they're – making a lot of connections, gaining favors, at least).
Everything is great. Terrific, even.
So it doesn't matter, really, that Matt can't sleep, even on the nights he technically takes off. It doesn't matter, really, that he lies awake as long as he can, listening, listening hard for any sign of anything, because it doesn't make sense, does it, that no one has stepped in to take Fisk's place, what are the actual odds on that vs Matt just not noticing them.
And it doesn't matter, really, that being in the office for any length of time feels like – like he's holding his breath, waiting for one of the three of them to explode. It doesn't matter that there's something Karen's not telling them; that's (even less) okay, because there's something they're not telling her, so that's – it's fair, at least, right? Everyone has secrets. Even Foggy, now.
It doesn't matter that Matt knows Foggy hates keeping this secret, it doesn't matter that Matt – also kind of hates it, at this point, because it's Karen, and –
It doesn't matter.
Maybe Karen's secret is something – not small, it's not small, not to be wearing on her the way it is, but maybe it's. Maybe it's something personal, something already over with, maybe she lost somebody he doesn't know about, maybe she's dealing with family problems, maybe she's still mourning Ben and Elena, maybe it's none of Matt's business and he should stop worrying about it. In which case, he hates keeping his secret – probably twice as much, as he would, if he knew for absolute certainty that her secret was also huge and dangerous and putting all three of them at risk.
It doesn't matter, how much time he spends talking himself out of calling Claire just to talk to her, just to hear her voice, just to – what, prove they can have a normal conversation? Give them one instance of casual social contact, nobody bleeding, nobody kidnapped, nobody frantic.
He's not even sure where she is.
But that doesn't matter, either, because wherever she is, he's not there, and that's. For the best. She's out there living her life, doing – something important, probably, or something fun, something relaxing, maybe she's happy. He's not going to ruin that by calling. She calls him sometimes, lets him know she's leaving town, lets him know she's back. She never tells him where she's going, which probably means she doesn't want him to ask, so he doesn't.
Everything is fine.
It doesn't actually matter that Matt is walking on eggshells on too little sleep, it doesn't matter that when the office isn't filled with laughter or brainstorming it's thick with all the things three people can't say, it doesn't matter that he feels like the other shoe is about to drop right on top of Hell's Kitchen, that he can barely make himself eat some days, that it hurts to think about anything in his life that isn't case-related, it doesn't matter.
It doesn't matter. Everything is going great.
He even believes that, mostly. Almost all of the time. He can't eat, but that's just nerves, just anxiety, that's fine. He can't sleep, but that's just – it's fine, and anyway, he might miss something if he slept more than he does. Foggy hasn't forgiven him but he's still here, so it's fine. Karen is always the first one in the office nowadays, and then either she's the last to leave or she skips out as early as possible, like she suddenly can't stand being in the same room with – them? Both of them? Just Matt? Just Foggy? People in general?
It's fine.
It's all fine.
Karen leaves early and takes paperwork with her, laughs at herself for being so tired, promises it'll be finished when she comes in tomorrow. Matt believes her. He even believes she's tired. She's just not sharing why.
Neither is he. Fair is fair.
So Karen leaves.
Matt keeps working, and he can hear Foggy doing the same, gradually and then exponentially losing his enthusiasm for it, tapping listlessly at his keyboard, rifling through papers. Then he stands up, crosses to Matt's office, raps on the doorframe like Matt doesn't know exactly where he is. Habit, probably.
“Hey,” Foggy says, more a sigh than a word, and that's – Foggy is tired, too. Foggy is tired and Matt didn't – didn't pick up on it. It's become the default – all three of them are tired, all the time, all the time, Matt is surrounded by Foggy and Karen's exhaustion and enveloped in his own and that's become the norm. “I think I passed useless about five miles ago, buddy, how 'bout you?”
“Yeah,” Matt says, without really meaning to, but, okay, he said it. Huh. He pulls out his earpiece, toys with it for a second before he catches himself and sets it down. “Yeah, probably.”
Foggy is – leaning in the doorway, now, he thinks, and that – really shouldn't make him feel trapped. But.
Matt stands, abruptly, and strides forward, because he needs to know that Foggy will move.
He does. Very quickly, and startled, his heart thuds faster, sharp intake of breath, and now Matt wonders if he – not just startled, did he scare him? Does he – did Foggy think he would –
He left his cane in his office. Going back for it feels – impossible. Too many steps in that process. All Matt can do is stand here and sway.
Foggy is holding very still. “You seem, uh. Little out of it, Matt, you okay?”
Matt opens his mouth and – has no idea what to say. None. Words are gone. He nods, instead. Turns to begin the long process of retrieving his cane, touches the doorframe with one hand – stops.
Something is – happening, here. It shouldn't be, it really shouldn't, everything is fine. Matt's legs stop doing as they're told, his shoulder hits the doorframe and he slides down it, drops into a crouch with one hand over his mouth, the other splayed on the floor because his balance is suddenly shot.
Foggy is one very loud alarm bell, spiked body heat, adrenaline surge, “Whoa, whoa, okay, what's going on? Are you – hurt?”
Matt shakes his head. Gulps down a breath, lowers his hand away from his mouth – he misread his own signals, there, thought for a moment – but no, he's not going to be sick. “I don't know what's happening,” he rasps, hates every crack in his voice. He's not going to be sick. “I don't know – what's happening to me.”
Foggy moves – drops to the floor, Matt can't tell if he's crouching or kneeling or sitting, tries to distract himself figuring it out, doesn't even know what he's trying to distract himself from.
Because everything is fine.
Foggy doesn't touch him. He's within Matt's reach, Matt could – Matt could, but Foggy's not touching him, and Foggy hasn't forgiven him, so Matt doesn't know if this is a respecting-Matt's-boundaries thing or –
“Foggy,” he croaks. “What's – I don't – I don't know –”
“Easy, buddy,” Foggy murmurs, and he sounds nervous, he sounds upset, he sounds scared. “Everything's okay.”
“Everything is awful,” Matt barks, and the first sobs tear through him.
Foggy grabs him.
It's startling and off-putting and the best thing he could have done, it's fuck your boundaries, I'm hugging you, it's Foggy.
Matt lets himself be maneuvered, checks himself out of all spatial awareness for a few terrifyingly blissful seconds and when he checks back in he is being propped up by a wall on his left and Foggy in front of him, Foggy with an arm around him, still on the floor.
He can't catch his breath. Everything is crashing down, all around him, on top of him, crushing him, and he can't even name any of it. It's all too big, it's all too old, it's all things he's used to feeling by now so why is he crying.
Everything is –
Everything is –
there's a heat in his face and in his hands, ice in his chest and his stomach and some sort of pressure, some sort of upwards momentum from inside his ribcage, something wants out
Matt surges forward, bows his head against the solid warmth of Foggy's shoulder, and stops fighting.
It hurts.
Crying is supposed to be – a release, isn't it, catharsis, that's what people say, and he's even found it to be true in the past but this just hurts, physically, and in every other way. He doesn't even know, concretely, why it's happening, and maybe that's the difference. The sobs are not running their course, they are not winding down, they are building on each other, building and building, like if his distress can just mount itself high enough, the justification will eventually turn up.
He keeps half-blanking out. Comes back to himself wailing something wordless into Foggy's shoulder, thinks tiredly, passed hysterical about five miles ago, buddy, tries to laugh. Foggy is shaking. Or that might just be him.
...No, no, it's both of them. Probably. He's pretty sure.
Wailing, though, what - what is happening to him, what – the financial office next door closed down for the night five minutes before Foggy came to talk to him, this could have been so much worse, what is happening?
His glasses are digging into his face and he fights himself not to rip them off and throw them, removes them carefully, sets them aside and hopes they'll both have the presence of mind not to step on them whenever this – whatever this is, when it ends.
“I just want this to stop,” Matt tries to say, gets enough of each word out to be intelligible, apparently, because Foggy pulls him closer and whispers I know, I know, buddy, I know into his hair.
And Matt thinks he might be content to stay exactly where he is for the rest of his life, which is - no. He wrenches himself away. “This – this – and all of this – all of this with – Karen, with – between us, I don't know what we're – doing, and I can't –” He doesn't even know what he's saying, there are words just falling out of his mouth, of their own accord, this is ridiculous and he wants it to stop. “Out th- out there, I'm, I have to be, I'm missing something, it can't – be that easy, it can't – it won't last, I don't know – what I'm doing, I don't know what I'm saying, please tell me to shut up, I'm not! I'm not even – that upset!”
“All evidence to the contrary, my friend,” Foggy says, and his voice is shaking harder than the rest of him but he sounds like he's trying to be funny, so Matt tries to smile. “Like, seriously, all evidence, there's. There's a lot of it.”
Matt wants to argue, he really does, but he's busy trying to stay as relatively calm as he suddenly is. Deep breaths, just take deep breaths and don't say anything else, and maybe he'll be able to let go of Foggy and stand up sometime in the next – like, okay, minutes is probably too much to hope for but he wants to go home tonight.
Which was – not the plan, an hour ago. He was planning on going out tonight, and it hits him suddenly that this – this could have happened, while he was out in the armor, and that is suddenly the funniest thing in the world.
“Are you laughing,” Foggy says, doesn't quite ask, it's too flat for that, and he sounds – wary. “Matt. Are you laughing.”
“I was – I was – I was gonna work tonight, you know,” Matt forces out through probably-dangerously-close-to-hysterical-again giggles. “I was.”
Foggy makes a noise that is equal parts laugh and sigh. “I'm thinking that wouldn't have gone too well.”
“Probably – probably not,” Matt says, still giggling, and then absolutely nothing happens and he's back over the edge again, sobbing, hands sliding uselessly over his face, trying to banish tears that never really even stopped. The sharp tang of saltwater is everywhere, he can't pinpoint it, can only hope he hasn't made Foggy cry, on top of everything else. It doesn't sound like it, at least.
“You'll get through this,” Foggy says, quietly, pulling him closer, until Matt's head is back on his shoulder. “Listen to me, shit like this happens, okay, trust me, it just. It does. You'll get through it. And we – we'll be okay, eventually, all three of us, we will. Okay?”
No. Not okay. Wishful thinking and a frankly dangerous thing to hope for. Matt can work towards 'okay' but he can never expect it, never get that complacent, never let his guard down far enough to believe the people he cares about are ever going to be totally safe, or that he is ever going to end up anything but –
bloody. and alone.
Oh.
Oh, you know what, fuck it, he's going to believe it, for however long it takes to fucking – just pull himself out of this. He's going to – he's going to listen to Foggy, on this, just. For now.
“Say that again.” His voice is awful, his throat feels like – nails on a chalkboard. “Tell – just. Tell me. We're gonna be okay.”
“We're gonna be okay,” Foggy says, instantly, and his heart is already beating fast, too fast, Matt can't know one way or the other whether Foggy himself even believes what he's saying. Possibly that's – for the best.
We're gonna be okay, Matt thinks, over and over again, louder and louder, and clings to Foggy, and waits for everything to stop.
It's been – half an hour, maybe. Forty-five minutes, at the most. (Please, Matt thinks, if we've been sitting here for an hour –)
He's – calm. Really. Not even shaking anymore. Foggy still kind of is, and Matt braces himself, waits for the questions, waits for so what the hell was that, exactly, but all Foggy asks him is “How do you feel?”
And Matt still falls right back apart.
“Okay,” says Matt, the next time, and it didn't take as long, but they've definitely – it's been an hour. They've been on the floor for at least an hour. “Don't – please don't ask me. Anything. I don't know. I think that's. That might be the problem. Part of the problem. I – make me stop talking, please –”
Foggy, obligingly, puts his hand over Matt's mouth.
“Right,” Foggy says. “So, speaking from pre-Colombia personal experience that I am not getting into right now, this is a thing that does happen, do not be alarmed. Nod if you are hanging on my every word and absolutely listening to me and not being alarmed.”
Matt nods. Foggy's hand is still on his mouth.
“Awesome. This might – keep happening, kind of? Like. I don't know exactly what's going on and neither do you and I'm not asking, okay, I know, I know, shush, no talking. This might keep happening until you figure out exactly what is happening, or you might – like, honestly, you might wake up tomorrow morning or next week and be totally fine, it's weird, and it's – actually kind of hard to tell the difference between being fine and just being lulled into a false sense of security, and that is. That is probably not helpful. Hm.”
Matt tries to sit up straighter, gets out a muffled “Foggy-” and then the hand over his mouth presses a little harder.
“I am acting on your orders here,” Foggy says, and it's – kind of nice, honestly, kind of funny, Foggy is just. Messing with him. Matt could get away in a heartbeat if he really wanted to and they both know it. “Don't give me that look, you can taste what kind of shampoo people use from three rooms away, we both know you're not gonna lick my – augh.”
Matt snickers, and heroically does not spit on the floor.
“Gross,” Foggy complains, and Matt hears him shaking out his hand, tracks the saliva scattering and cracks up. “Gross, Matt.”
“I've been,” Matt says, and the laughter is weak but not nearly as dangerous as it was last time, “I've been – crying on you – for an hour – but that's gross.”
“Yes,” Foggy maintains, but he hands Matt his glasses and pulls him to his feet. And lets him lean against him. Matt feels – drunk, slightly. “Where's your cane?”
“Office,” he mutters, and forces a cough, because his throat is tightening again because he left his cane in his office, isn't that how this all started, fuck, not again. “Wait, wait – wait.” He grabs at Foggy's arm. Stands there, dizzy and breathing hard, until the prickling behind his eyes stops threatening to turn into round three. “Can you... can you just. Get it. Please.”
“Yep.” Foggy's voice is all business, and he squeezes Matt's arm once and then breaks contact.
Matt focuses with everything he has on Foggy's progress into and out of his office. Anything to think about, instead of – anything else.
“So,” Foggy says, and hands over Matt's cane and bag – Matt heard him packing his laptop up. “When I say this might happen again, I mean it is probably going to happen again, at least once, and I am... available, okay? Like. There's some stuff you don't want an audience for, I get that, believe me, I locked myself in a – never mind, anyway, if you want to, you can call me. Okay? In fact, no, you know what, please call me, unless – unless you genuinely think I will make things worse, okay, please promise me right now that you're not gonna sit tight and endure or whatever, out of pride or guilt or – just. Please. It sucks.”
“Okay,” Matt says, quietly. He slips his bag over his shoulder, hesitates briefly before taking Foggy's elbow with his free hand. “I'll call you. I promise.”
He thinks he might even mean it.