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Of all the places for the car to call it quits, Foggy guesses this place isn’t too bad.
“Nasty storm to get caught in, boys.” The matronly woman behind the desk says when she catches sight of Matt and Foggy, slopping wet and dripping all over the worn in carpet in the front hall. Foggy wonders if the awkward silence between him and Matt can be passed off as nothing more than frigidness brought on by the icy rain water.
“Really came out of nowhere.” Foggy agrees as amiably as he knows how, because his parents raised him with manners, and Maureen behind the desk is not to blame for any part of Foggy’s current predicament.
(He shifts and tries not to frown when he realizes that even his underwear got drenched on the run from the car.)
Maureen eyes them both sympathetically, nodding. “How can I help you, tonight?” She asks, and Foggy shifts on his squeaky heels, shoulder bumping into Matt’s. His entire left side tenses so quickly he thinks it might have turned to stone. Foggy clears his throat. “We’re having car trouble and neither of our phones have any service our here. Can we borrow a phone and maybe a towel, if it isn’t too much trouble?”
“Not at all, dear. Right this way.” Maureen motions for them to follow her. Foggy hesitates for a second before offering Matt his arm and immediately hates himself for. They’re both out of their element out here, metaphorically and literally.
Foggy almost apologizes for the rain-soaked sleeve Matt has to grab hold of but his voice has fled again, disappeared just like it did back in the car. Matt’s hand slides into place over the crook of Foggy’s elbow, touch lighter than usual. Foggy tries not to read too much into that.
“Mind your step, sir.” Maureen says as Foggy and Matt follow her into a small sitting room off the hall a few steps back from the front desk. Matt’s cane taps gently against the small step that leads down into the sitting room. It looks like something out of a picture, cozy and warm, overstuffed yellow sofas facing one another and buttery light, a fireplace with a fire going behind the grate. There were pictures all along the mantle and a framed quilt hanging over it, an intricate star ringed by complex interlocking circles in different shades and patterns of blue. It looks nothing like the elegant cabin they’d rented further north and Foggy’s pretty grateful for that. Just the memory of that place makes Foggy’s stomach swoop unpleasantly.
“Just a moment, Mr…”
Foggy stops fidgeting on his seat trying to find the best way to sit so that he won’t soak the upholstery. “Uh—sorry, it’s Nelson. Foggy, though. Please. And this is my—” His tongue literally twists itself inside his mouth trying to unsay every word he’s ever said in his life, “Matt.”
My Matt.
Foggy wonders if Maureen can see the steam rising off him from how quickly his body temperature sky rockets. Matt’s goddamn ninja senses can probably tell.
Maureen is apparently a thorough professional, because she just smiles neatly, offering them both a congenial handshake and warm welcome. “Just warm up here, I’ll be right back with the phone and some towels.”
Then she steps away on light feet, taking her gentle cheer with her.
Foggy looks at his shoes and tries not to feel like a coward.
-
Maureen, who might in fact be a literal angel, comes back with towels, a phone, and tea.
“I thought you two could use something warm.” She says, setting the tea tray down on the small side table next to Foggy’s armchair. “I’ll be at the front desk if you need anything else.”
Foggy hands Matt a towel and doesn’t stare at his hands as he tries to dry the worst of the rain water off.
(Matt has nice hands. Foggy’s always thought so, even after Matt started turning up with bruised knuckles. Foggy knows those hands, the strength of them, their precision, the grace with which Matt can move them over the pages of a book or a screen reader or along any surface he’s trying to decipher. And now, well now Foggy knows them in a completely new way and it makes his skin feel like it’s shrunk two sizes, like it’ll burst along the joints if he moves the wrong way and he doesn’t know what to do with himself.)
Foggy stands, peels off his sodden jacket that was definitely not water proof, and rests it on the stone ledge next to the fireplace. “I’m gonna go ask if there's a number for a tow truck or something.”
Matt nods, and Foggy can't read anything into the gesture even if he wanted to, it’s so perfectly perfunctory.
Maureen does have a number for a local tow truck but they're a hundred percent closed for the night, so Foggy leaves them a message and gives them the number to the B&B since his cellphone isn’t an option.
There’s a neat row of hooks behind Maureen’s head with keys hanging off them but Foggy still makes sure to ask rather than assume there’s a vacancy.
“One room I presume, dear.” Maureen says, and her voice is the verbal equivalent of a wink. There’s something congratulatory to her tone, and 48 hours ago Foggy would have offered a fist bump because fuck yes but today his ears just burn hot and he nods.
-
Foggy runs out to the car to get their bags, barely manages not to eat it as he runs back up the stone walkway. Matt’s already relocated to the tidy little room just off the staircase on the second floor, looking distinctly ruffled now that he’s begun to dry.
Foggy clears his throat again, trying to will the awkwardness away by effort alone. Matt’s still wearing his damp trousers and wet shoes, sitting on the bench at the foot of the bed. He’s so close Foggy could reach out and touch him. It’s tempting.
“Sorry about—I know I promised I’d get you back to the city tonight.” It stings a little, but a promise is a promise, and Foggy gave his word when he proposed the outing, swore to Matt he wouldn’t be away from the city for more than a night.
“It’s alright.” Matt says, still perfectly cordial. It makes Foggy want to grit his teeth or pull his own hair out by the root.
Foggy takes a deep breath. Blows it out. Repeats. “I brought your stuff up, so you can shower if you want to.”
Matt goes strangely pink. He’s still wearing his rain-speckled glasses. “You can go first.”
Foggy nods, chilled, frustrated, worried. “’kay. Holler if you need anything.”
As nice as it is to peel off his wet clothes, which have started to dry uncomfortably against his skin in clammy patches, getting in a warm shower isn’t as relaxing as Foggy hopes it will be.
For starters, he can’t stop thinking about Matt stilling like a picturesque statue in the other room. Then there’s the shudder-worthy memory of falling on his ass when Matt tried to pick him up in the shower at the lodge. God, his lower back is still smarting, something fierce.
Foggy clenches his eyes shut like that’ll help erase the sensory memory of slipping out of Matt’s grasp.
God help him.
He’s never considered himself a man easily embarrassed but he’s also never tried (and failed) to execute a romantic weekend with a significant other.
Foggy forces out a long, slow breath, hopes the steady fall from the showerhead is enough to mask it from Matt, sitting outside. He opens his eyes again to the pale beige tiling, reaches for one of the little bottles of complimentary shampoo. He sniffs it before squeezing a good sized dollop out onto his palm—it’s lemon, but a nice refreshing lemon rather than the harsh cloying scent of article cleansers—and then starts working it into his hair. He works his way through his shower routine on autopilot, mentally debating all the while whether he owes Matt an apology for this failed experiment or a cold shoulder.
On the one hand, Matt tried. It took some wheedling and a butt ton of planning but Matt ultimately agreed to come. Sure, Foggy had to put up with a life’s worth of innuendo from Jessica and too many borderline invasive questions from actual billionaire Danny Rand. To say nothing of the weird pauses that had sprung up in conversations with Karen after Foggy mentioned it. Those hadn’t lasted long but they had happened all the same and Foggy knows he shouldn’t just brush it under the rug, because they’ve shared a boyfriend now, but the thought of that conversation is so high school it makes Foggy cringe.
All the same, at the end of the day Matt packed a bag and got into the front seat of Foggy’s ancient sedan for a trip out of the city.
On the other hand, Foggy can’t help but resent the fact that he had to wheedle. He can’t stop himself from being peeved that they could only agree on a night, that the pressure was on from the beginning to make the most of it, and how it feels like that’s what soured everything.
Foggy always thought getting away from it all—the sirens and helpless citizens and crime lords hell bent on breaking the law within earshot—would help to lessen that feeling of uncertainty that sometimes colors their time together but now it seems like getting out of the city made them self-destruct.
Almost from the minute they got to the cabin Danny totally hooked them up with, they were as bad as two teenagers trying to lose their virginity on prom night. Awkward. Clumsy. Trying way too hard. Every time Foggy started to relax something would happen to mess it all up. Burning dinner. Not being able to operate the state of the art fireplace. Getting into a stand-off with a raccoon. Even their attempt at fooling around in the shower had gone pear-shaped, which boggles Foggy’s mind because he knows for a fact that he and Matt are great at sex. Like, gold-star worthy.
And now Matt’s sitting out there, probably stewing on a night of crime fighting wasted and whether or not he can make the trek back to the city on foot if he sets off now.
Foggy actually pauses while toweling himself off to wonder the likelihood of Matt climbing out the window and scaling down the trellis.
He puts on his pajamas from the night before, partially prepared to walk out into a empty room. Instead there’s just Matt, bundled under one of the thick fleecy blankets, one bare shoulder and the pale, shiny scar bisecting it, on display.
His clothes are spread out in front of the heater, next to their shoes, but Matt’s sitting up against the headboard, head tipped towards Foggy as soon as he clears the bathroom door.
“Hey,” he says, and Foggy’s heart squeezes and then goes limp as a lump of stone inside his chest, he’s so relieved to actually hear Matt and not some polite robot version of him. “Maureen wanted to see if we’d settled in okay. I asked for some sandwiches.” He gestures with the blanket in his hand to the plate on the bedside table. “You should eat.”
Foggy swallows his own tongue, carefully accepting whatever kind of truce this is. “’Kay. Thank you.”
He sits next to Matt, pillows propped against his back. They drink lukewarm tea and eat their ham and cheese sandwiches, simple but filling, the quiet thawing gradually even as the storm continues to rage outside.
-
The bed in this room is smaller than the one at the cabin—a monster king that totally lived up to the name—but there’s still enough room to allow for space between them if they want it. Inches away Matt lies perfectly still. He smells like lemon.
. The room is dark, even with the curtains open. Outside the window the world is pitch black. Foggy, city-born and raised, tends to forget what it’s like to be so completely removed from a billion blinding lights. If it weren’t raining, Foggy thinks he’d actually be able to see stars.
Matt clears his throat. “Sorry this trip wasn’t what you wanted.”
Foggy folds his hands over his stomach, remains calm. He can’t actually tell if Matt’s trying to bait him or not. “Yeah, same.”
Matt shifts, kicks the blankets slightly. “I—uh—know you were looking forward to it.”
Foggy closes his eyes. There’s a faint throbbing between his eyes, a headache not too far off. “Well, y’know. Que sera, sera. Right? Can’t change what’s happened.”
“Hmm.” Matt breathes in the quiet, neither agreeing or disagreeing. He doesn’t sound happy. The pro and con list from the shower reappears in Foggy’s head. It’s harder to remember the pros right now, with the death nell of their trip ringing in Foggy’s ears.
“I mean at least now we know it doesn’t work right?” He knows his heart is giving him away, turncoat that it is, but there’s nothing for now. It’s probably going off like a snare drum in Matt’s ears, beating out a passive-aggressive tune.
Matt sucks in a deep breath. “You breaking up with me?” The humor in his voice is thin, and Foggy’s stomach drops into free fall.
“What?” His voice actually squeaks at the end. He almost reaches over to turn on the bedside light but it seems less important than addressing whatever this is head on. “Are you breaking up with me?”
Matt’s hand locks around Foggy’s wrist, squeezes with near brutal force. “No—I—no I’m not. Are you?”
“I asked the question,” Foggy nearly hisses, more out of incredulity than anger, “You don’t get to ask me that.”
Neither of them seem to know what say after that, but Matt’s fingers are still closed around Foggy’s wrist, grip barely loosening.
“Did you think we were breaking up?” Foggy asks, feeling unbalanced in a whole new way from before. This thing with Matt isn’t new—in their more romantic fits of fancy they’ve gone so far as to claim they’ve been on this track since that first day in room 312—but that doesn’t mean it always feels like solid ground either. Foggy wishes it could, wishes opening his mouth and telling Matt the whole-faced truth could have been enough to stop the world from turning underfoot so that they might never be knocked off balance again. He wishes knowing Matt felt the same way could erase the queasy unease that squeezes the air out of his chest, the solid-stone mass pressing down on his ribcage when he least needs it.
The last six months with Matt, doing this, have been a whirlwind and a safe-haven both, finding their footing and regaining their step simultaneously, both of them determined to explore the new terrain of a romantic relationship and retreading the well known paths of their decade old friendship.
Foggy worries, not for the first time since he pulled up outside Matt’s building, that he pushed them both too far beyond their limits this time.
“You were really looking forward to this.” Matt answers plainly, something bordering apologetic hovering in his tone.
“And you really weren’t?” Foggy asks, forcing the question out of his mouth because if he doesn’t he’ll choke on it.
Matt huffs a laugh but its hollow, scraped thin against the insides of his throat. “I’ve never been farther than 116th street.” He jokes, like he used to in school whenever people brought up traveling.
Foggy frowns, “What’s that mean?”
“I’m not—I not used to being outside the Kitchen.” Matt’s fingers boarder on clammy against Foggy’s skin and Foggy wonders what story Matt’s reading in his pulse, beating just under Matt’s fingertips. “I wasn’t—it was just weird, for me, not having all of it around me.”
Foggy nods, sucks his bottom lip between his teeth. Matt’s explained his senses a couple of times, vaguely and in better detail, and Foggy understands it a little better now that Matt’s moved beyond his whole ‘world on fire’ spiel. But aside from imagining Matt’s world as a collection of radar screens in an old timey submarine, Foggy can’t really imagine the world is like for Matt. He considers his words carefully before saying, “It must be…weird.”
Matt shrugs, uneasy. “It’s just, an adjustment. New information to consider. And—it’s just different. I felt sort of useless. And then things were just—not working out—and I knew we didn’t have long—and I wanted it to be good. I don’t—I don’t know when we’ll do this again, if you even want to try again—”
“I do.” Foggy rushes to answer, “I do want to try. Or not. We don’t have to do this. I mean obviously not this, but this getaway, we don’t need to do this. We can do something else, I just—I wanted to do something different—something serious because I am, Matty, I’m serious about this and I wanted to—” Foggy can feel his face going hot the longer he talks. “I just don’t want to have to share you sometimes, which I guess is shitty but you can’t blame a guy for wanting. But maybe dragging you all the way out here was overkill.”
Matt rolls closer, hand traveling up Foggy’s arm to close over his bicep. “I’m sorry I dropped you.”
Foggy rolls over, nudges Matt until he’s on his back. Foggy isn’t afraid to rest his weight on Matt, sinks onto the hard plane of his chest. He slips his hand down Matt’s side, rubs his thumb over the soft skin there where Matt’s sweater has ridden up. He wonders if Matt’s heart is beating as hard as his.
“Sorry if I made you feel like this was make or break for us.” Foggy offers, needs Matt to understand he means it. There are lines in the sand Foggy and Matt know neither will cross, boundaries that needed to be set in order for them to be in each other’s lives without destroying one another. And Foggy worries, might always worry about the thing that might break them, again, but he also knows this isn’t it.
“It wasn’t just you.” Matt answers, both hands grabbing at Foggy’s shoulders, holding him close. “I just—this is important to me. You’re important to me, Fog. You have been for—always. And I know my track record isn’t the best for showing it, but I want you to know—and I’m not good at this type of thing.”
‘Karen thought you were great except for the lying.’ Foggy doesn’t say because he’s not technically supposed to know that, a confession shared at the bottom of too many glasses of wine after a memorial service held for an empty casket. Still, he’s inclined to agree.
“Hey,” Foggy says, cutting Matt’s nervous ramble short, dropping a kiss to Matt’s cheek, the side of his nose, the corner of his mouth. “You’re shit talking my partner there, Murdock. I don’t hold for that kind of thing.”
Matt breathes, chest rising sharply against Foggy’s before it deflates, sinks again. “I love you, Fog.”
Foggy’s heart is a literal marching band, could probably do multiple laps around the entire isle of Manhattan right now, and just this once he doesn’t care whether Matt can hear it or not. “I know you do.” He says, and Matt laughs under his lips, happy and disbelieving, one hand closing over the back of Foggy’s neck to pull him into a deeper kiss. “Wow, didn’t think you’d Han Solo me.” Matt wheezes out between inelegant snorts, and Foggy pinches his hip, shifts until he’s lying directly atop Matt, knees spreading to plant firmly on either side of Matt’s thighs. “Shut up, you know I love you.”
Matt kisses him, sloppy and needy, and Foggy groans when Matt’s hands roam down his back, grab at his ass, pulling him closer by the backs of his thighs until Foggy’s being upended and landing on his back, Matt’s hips bearing down against his.
“Oh, fuck.” Foggy breathes out, scrabbling to pull Matt’s sweatshirt off, wiggling so Matt can pull at the waistband of Foggy’s sweats.
“Shh,” Matt whispers, still laughing, fuck, actually giggling, and the sound fizzes in Foggy’s bloodstream like pop rocks mixed in soda pop. “Maureen’s gonna hear you.”
“Not if you’re louder,” Foggy counters, slipping his hand into Matt’s pajama bottoms, closing his hand around Matt’s half-hard dick and giving it an encouraging stroke. Matt buries his face against Foggy’s shoulder and moans.
Bless, Foggy thinks gleefully, thanking God and the saints above for how easy Matt is for this.
“You’re evil.” Matt groans against Foggy’s neck, biting what will probably be a bruise into the skin there. Foggy just sets a steady pace, drawing another shivery sigh from Matt, whose hips pump forward in a tiny jerk, chasing the feeling of Foggy’s hand.
“Better keep me in check then, Daredevil.” Foggy whispers against Matt’s temple, breathing in the fading scent of lemon.
Matt, hero of Hell’s Kitchen, defender of justice, handsome duck and love of Foggy Nelson’s life, rises to the challenge.
-
“What do you hear?” Foggy asks, forehead pressed against Matt’s back, in the valley between the peaks of his shoulders. He can feel the rumble of Matt’s voice when he speaks. He likes the feeling.
“Hmm.” Matt answers, quiet for a long minute. “Rain dripping. Puddles. Leaves. A lot of leaves. Rustling. Different types of birds. A few cars far out on the road.” Matt shrugs, a loose lazy shift of his right shoulder. His hand closes over Foggy’s where it’s resting against his navel, holds it in place. “The couple down the hall is watching a movie. You’re about to go to sleep.”
“Now you’re just showing off.” Foggy mumbles, determined to keep his eyes open a moment longer just to prove Matt wrong. Matt chuckles under his breath, though he hardly sounds bright eyed and bushy-tailed himself.
“Wanna go to the Pacific Northwest and find Bigfoot with me?” Foggy asks, struggling to hold back a yawn. "We could crack that case wide open."
“Maybe for our one-year anniversary.” Matt answers drowsily. Foggy closes his eyes, kisses Matt’s back, tangles their legs closer together. Matt hums quietly, wiggles closer.
They’ll wake up in the morning and the rain will be going strong again, but Matt will have lost the brittle tension in his shoulders and Foggy won’t feel like they’re walking on eggshells. They’ll share a pot of coffee in bed and buttered scones, strawberries that are a little underripe but will still stain Matt’s lips red. They’ll be late getting back on the road and neither will mind. They won’t be in a hurry.
“I'm gonna hold you to that.”
"Okay." Matt whispers, stroking the back of Foggy's hand softly.