Fic: Stay In My Arms (If You Dare) [4/5]
Title: Stay In My Arms (If You Dare) [4/5]
Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Rating: NC-17
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Matt wakes from dreams of Foggy with an erection and a pounding headache.
He skips his usual workout in favor of a long shower. Peeling the bandage away and letting the water hit his bullet wound does what the headache couldn't, and vanquishes his boner. He finishes showering, thinking hard as he does.
He was positive, back when the Russians nearly killed him all those months ago, that they were working for Fisk, or at least with him. So either they’ve flipped on Fisk and are trying to chip away at his organization - or Fisk has flipped on Foggy. Matt had better figure out which one it is, and fast. The Russians are dangerous like rabid dogs, unpredictable and snarling. Fisk, though, is dangerous like a cancer: you might not even know he's there until it’s too late.
Still, Foggy might be safer under his protection at the moment. It all depends on why the asshole brothers came after him last night.
And why last night, is the other question? Could it have something to do with whatever Foggy’s been busying himself with the past few days? And is there a way to ask him about it that doesn’t tip Matt’s hand?
Matt resolves to try, as he dries off and carefully rebandages his wound, as he gets dressed and starts a pot of coffee. That, and to stop flirting with Foggy. It’s served its purpose; now it’s clearly just confusing something in Matt’s subconscious.
The coffee’s just finished brewing when Foggy stumbles into the kitchen, unshowered and sleep-muddled. “Ugh, my head,” he says, voice scratchy. Something prickly and wanting shivers up Matt’s spine. “Don’t ever let me drink that much again, Matt. You’re supposed to be guarding my body, not pickling it.”
Matt has to swallow before he speaks. “Sorry,” he says, and pushes a cup of coffee into Foggy’s hands - light and sweet, the way Foggy likes it. “I promise to save you from yourself as well as outside threats from here on out.”
He’s not sure if it’s the brush of his fingers against Foggy or the reminder that Foggy’s life is in danger that wakes Foggy up the rest of the way, but suddenly Foggy is brisk and uncomfortable. “Right! Thanks. Uh...how’s your leg?”
“It’s. It’s fine.” Matt steps back and pours a cup of coffee for himself, lets the bitter edge of it chase the rest of his headache away. If Foggy’s uncomfortable it’s Matt’s own damn fault. “I think we should talk about what happened last night. With the Russians,” he clarifies when he feels Foggy start to blush.
“Oh! Right, yeah, crazy people shooting at me, let’s talk about that,” Foggy says.
“You told the police you'd never seen them before,” Matt starts.
“Because I hadn’t,” Foggy says, a slight edge to it. “Did you think I was lying?”
“No! No, of course not,” Matt hastens to reassure him. He thinks about telling Foggy he can hear lies and decides against it. Clients don’t like knowing how little privacy they have from him, and...well, he likes Foggy, but Foggy is still working for Wilson Fisk, and he’s clever enough to figure out how to mislead Matt with half-truths if he knows to do it. “I’m just wondering if you know of a reason they might be out to kill you. Something you...maybe wouldn’t have wanted to tell the police.”
Foggy’s silent for a long time. Matt’s almost sure he’s not going to answer when he says, “I’ve been doing some research.”
“Research?” Matt repeats.
Foggy nods. “On my employer. Not that I...I’m not accusing him of anything, you understand. But when a man in a mask attacks me - twice - and asks about him, I start wondering if he’s not the only one who should be asking questions.”
There’s a buzzing in Matt’s ears. He sits down heavily on the nearest stool, rests his forearms against the cool marble of the butcher block.
“Some of the things I’ve been finding...I don’t know. Numbers that don’t match up. Weird timings. Connections to people who aren’t...who don’t…” He shakes his head. “Anyway, there were some names in there that made me take a second look. Like Rigoletto - known mobster, did ten years in Sing-Sing a while back. He’s dead now. Massive heart attack, supposedly...but then why was it a closed casket funeral? Or this Prohaszka guy - murdered by some psychopath with a bowling ball who got off on a technicality, and suddenly ‘Prohaszka Cab Company’ is showing up on expense reports. And when I look up ‘Prohaszka’ in Bulletin back issues, every article also mentions the Bratva.”
“The Russian mob,” Matt says dully.
Foggy’s heartbeat picks up. “I don’t - I’m not saying it’s Mr. Fisk,” he says, obviously backpedaling. “It’s a big organization. It could be happening without his knowledge. It’s probably happening without his knowledge.” He’s lying. He knows it’s Fisk. He’s anything but stupid. “But I guess someone heard I was asking questions they didn’t want asked, and…” He makes a soft noise. “Sorry. I shouldn’t say any more. My client’s still protected by confidentiality, and besides, the less you know the better. I don’t want anyone coming after you to...to...Matt, are you okay?”
“What? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He’s not fine. He’s going to be sick.
“You sure? You’re, like, deathly white all of a sudden.”
“Yeah. Just...you’re not the only one with a hangover,” Matt says, and holds up his coffee cup. “I’ll be better after some quality time with this.”
“...Okay. I guess I’ll go shower.” Foggy pauses on his way out of the kitchen, and Matt’s pretty sure Foggy’s giving him a worried look.
The minute Foggy’s gone Matt puts his coffee down and buries his face in his hands. It’s either that or hurl the cup across the room, and that’d bring Foggy running in a heartbeat.
It’s his fault Foggy’s in danger.
The man in the mask asked about Fisk - first Matt, then Danny. That would make anyone suspicious, let alone a clever lawyer. Naturally Foggy would investigate. What else would he do?
And what would Fisk, or his underlings, do if an expendable lawyer started getting nosy? They’re all bloody to the shoulder. What’s one more murder?
And Foggy doesn’t want to tell Matt details because that would put Matt in danger. He hasn’t been squirrelly because he’s moving everything he has to a Swiss bank account. He’s been squirrelly because he’s been trying to protect Matt - Matt and Karen and his family, his innocent mother and father in the home he bought for them in the suburbs, and oh God, what has Matt done?
He wants to throw up. He can’t throw up. Foggy’s in the only bathroom.
He makes himself stand up, makes himself pour out the coffee that’s making the acid rise in his throat. He’ll make this right. It’s the only thing he can do. He’ll stay glued to Foggy’s side during the day, and wring answers out of the streets at night. No matter what it takes.
No one - not the Russians, not Fisk, not the devil himself - is hurting Foggy Nelson on Matt’s watch.
*
Wesley comes by the office that day - an unprecedented frequency, twice in two days. Matt usually hangs out by the front door of the office, but he follows Wesley into Foggy’s private office instead this time. Sure, it’s broad daylight and Karen’s right at her desk, but Wesley is Fisk’s right-hand man, and Matt doesn’t trust him as far as he can throw him. Plus, it can’t hurt to remind Wesley that Foggy’s not without friends.
Wesley turns to look at him before he sits down and says, in a voice like a raised eyebrow, “Is there a problem, Mr…?”
“What’s up, Matt?”
Matt moves to stand next to Foggy’s chair, facing Wesley. “Just providing security, Mr. Nelson.”
“Matt, it’s Mr. Wesley. He works with me. Can’t you, you know…” Foggy waves his hand in front of his own face. “...sense that?”
“You have now been attacked three times. Until such time as the threat to you is neutralized, I don’t think it’s wise to leave you alone with someone,” Matt replies evenly.
“That’s going to put a damper on your love life,” Wesley says. Matt glares at him.
“Matt, I don’t think…” Foggy glances up at Matt, and something in Matt’s face must convince him it’s not worth the argument, because he just sighs and says, “Fine. Stay. If that’s all right with you, Mr. Wesley…?”
“Of course,” Wesley says smoothly. “I’m glad to see Mr…Matt is so conscientious in his duties. Even after being shot.” Matt and Foggy both startle slightly. “Oh, I read the police report. I’m very concerned about your safety, Mr. Nelson, as is my employer. These attacks are becoming more frequent. I had no idea the man in the mask was working with the Russian mob.”
“You think he is?” Foggy asks.
“What other explanation could there be?”
“Mm,” Foggy says. His heartbeat tells Matt nothing. Matt frowns. He knows he’s being ridiculous - that to Foggy, Matt and the man in the mask are two entirely separate people - but he still doesn’t want Foggy to think of him as a killer.
“Given the increased frequency of the threats, my employer is prepared to loan you several members of his personal security team until this is over,” Wesley oils on. “Not that Mr. Matt here hasn't been doing an exemplary job, but my employer’s security is the best in the world.”
Oh, no. Leaving Foggy with Fisk’s security? Matt might as well slit Foggy's throat himself.
“I thought you said the Defenders were the best in the world, when you suggested I hire one,” Foggy says. His tone is blase, playful even, but Matt knows him well enough by now to recognize the tension in it.
“Well, yes - of publicly available security,” Wesley says.
“Please tell Mr. Fisk that while I appreciate his generous offer, I'm more than happy with my current security,” Foggy says. “After all, Matt’s saved me twice now. I have every faith that he can do it again, should the need arise.” Every word of it is truly meant, if his heartbeat’s any indication. Matt could kiss him.
No. No kissing.
“Very well,” Wesley says, sounding marginally annoyed. Matt fights to keep the grin off his face. “The offer stands, if you change your mind.” He stands up. “Oh - you'll be getting an invitation in the mail, today most likely. My employer is hosting a benefit for the Hell’s Kitchen revitalization efforts. He'd love to see you there.” He gestures towards Matt. “Bring Mr. Matt here, if you like. He looks like he cleans up nicely.”
“Thank you, that sounds...fun,” Foggy says. He's looking in Matt's direction, but Matt can't read his facial expression from his tone.
“Well.” Wesley inclines his head slightly. “I’ll leave you to it.”
He leaves Foggy’s office. Matt follows him to the front door, and Wesley turns to look at him as they go. “Were you afraid I would get lost?”
“I’m just doing my job, sir,” Matt says, and makes the “sir” as disrespectful as the word will allow.
Wesley stops in the doorway. It sounds like he’s smiling. Matt would really like to know what it takes him to stop smiling. “You’re very devoted to Mr. Nelson, aren’t you, Mr. Matt?”
“I take my responsibility to my client very seriously,” Matt replies. He’s not a big man, but he steps in a little closer, making himself as imposing as he can. “No harm will come to Mr. Nelson on my watch.”
“And what an acute watch it must be,” Wesley says - and then, before Matt can respond, adds “Ta!” and vanishes out the door.
“Wow,” Karen says from her desk. “What a dick.”
*
“You’ve been more careful lately,” Claire says as she bandages the cut on Matt’s back. It was short but deep, needing just a few stitches. “Any particular reason you’ve suddenly gotten smarter?”
“My patrol hours are more limited these days,” Matt says. He doesn’t want to leave Foggy alone for too long. It’s especially frustrating because he’s getting nowhere with tying Fisk to the Russian mob no matter how many low-level goons and drug runners he beats up. “Plus, Fo-- my client would worry if he saw me injured.”
“I worry about you all the time, it doesn’t stop you from fighting thirty guys at once on two hours of sleep,” Claire says tartly. “What’s this guy got that I don’t? Besides many thousands of dollars to keep you in paper thin workout gear, I mean.”
“Sorry,” Matt says, because there’s genuine concern under the teasing. “Maybe worry was the wrong word. He’d be suspicious.” No, that’s too strong in the other direction - and Foggy would worry, is the thing. He doesn’t want Matt getting hurt. “Concerned.”
“You worried about getting fired?”
Matt laughs. “Oh no, he already tried that. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re...bodyguarding him without his consent?”
Everything Matt says is coming out wrong tonight. “No, of course not. I just...I got injured protecting him and he was upset. I had to explain that that’s par for the course. I’m certainly not leaving him if he’s in real danger. I’m not going to let him get hurt.”
“Hmm,” Claire says, and hands him his shirt.
Matt pulls it on. “What?”
“Well, last time you mentioned him you said you were only going to give it a little bit more time before giving up. Now you’re pledging your troth or whatever.”
Matt smiles. “That’s not what pledging your troth means.”
“I know what I said,” Claire retorts.
Oh God. Not her too. No wonder Matt’s brain - and dick - is getting all mixed up about Foggy, with everyone harping on him like this all the time. “I’m doing this to keep Hell’s Kitchen safe. He’s part of Hell’s Kitchen. That’s all this is.” He tugs the mask back on. “He’s a good man, Claire. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged down by the monster I’m after.”
“Sure,” she says. “Hey, I gotta tell you - even with the mask on, you’ve got a shit poker face.”
There’s no sense in dignifying that with an answer, so Matt just climbs out the window.
*
“I don’t think you should go.”
Matt can hear Foggy’s exasperated snort from his bedroom. Well, of course he can - he could hear every step of Foggy getting ready for the Fisk benefit. The water pattering off his body in the shower as he hummed snatches of operetta offkey. The scratch of his razor over his chin. The brush of a crisp starched shirt over his skin and the zip of his fly and the gossamer-faint whisper of a silk tie being tied.
“Yes, Matt, you’ve made your opinion on the matter perfectly clear,” Foggy calls. “I’m still not gonna change my mind.”
Matt finishes fastening his cufflinks and reaches for his jacket. At least he’s going as Foggy’s plus one. Foggy didn’t even suggest someone else. Matt won’t have to leave Foggy’s side, and he’ll finally be in the same room as Fisk, and probably at least a few of the upper echelon of his organization. It’s a great opportunity to gather intel on his enemy.
That doesn’t mean that he wants Foggy going anywhere near the man who Matt’s almost positive is now trying to kill him.
“You said yourself that you think someone in Fisk’s organization is behind the attacks on you,” he calls, shrugging into his jacket. They've both stuck with the polite fiction that it's one of Fisk’s underlings and not Fisk himself who's been threatening Foggy, as they've endlessly rehashed this argument over the past week. “Which means they could be at the benefit.”
He’s tempted, for the thousandth time, to tell Foggy his own suspicions about Fisk. Foggy’s brilliant; if they pooled their knowledge, they might be able to build a solid case faster. But that would mean telling Foggy how he knows what he knows, which would mean telling Foggy that he’s the man in the mask...which would mean losing Foggy’s trust, and maybe going to jail himself. He can’t risk it.
“And what exactly are they going to do to me there?” Foggy shoots back. “It's a fundraising benefit in a private mansion. I doubt there’ll be any heavily tattooed Russian mobsters on the guest list.”
Matt leaves his own room and stands in Foggy’s door. Foggy’s facing away from him, fussing with his hair. He smells...he smells expensive, all silk and starch and a subtle cologne that he ran by Matt’s nose before putting it on. Matt's tux has the faint scent of antiseptic and must of a rental, but Foggy owns his, and it just smells like him.
“I just want you to be safe,” Matt says quietly
Foggy turns around, and his heartbeat picks up. “Well, I hope so, or I'm gonna have to leave a really scathing review on Yelp.” He swallows. “Need a hand with the tie?”
“Please.” Matt can handle regular ties fine, but bow ties are tricky even for sighted men, and he's never totally sure if they're crooked when he ties them himself.
Foggy steps in close and Matt lifts his chin, giving Foggy better access to his throat. “I gotta tell you, Matt, Wesley was right about you cleaning up nice. No one should look this good in a rented suit.”
His knuckles brush Matt's Adam’s apple. Matt doesn't want to talk about Wesley right now. “Aren’t you worried?”
“In general, yes. About tonight? Only that it’ll be mind-numbingly boring, or that I’ll have to talk to people with names like Chet.”
“Foggy…”
Foggy sighs. “Matt, I have to go. How’s it going to look if I don’t show up, huh? If...if someone doubts my commitment to my employer and his goals, my sudden absence isn’t going to change their mind.” His tone brightens slightly. “Besides, you’ll be there. And you won’t let anything happen to me.”
He finishes straightening Matt’s tie and smooths down the front of his jacket, hands warm even through three layers of fabric as they glide down Matt’s chest, then steps back to admire his handiwork. “There. Perfect,” he says, and that’s not a lie either.
Matt can’t stop himself from catching Foggy’s wrists before he can drop his hands to his sides. He can feel Foggy’s pulse beating fast and light beneath his fingers. He’s so close.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promises, and wishes, just for a moment, that Foggy could hear his heart as well, to know he means it. “I swear it.”
He can hear Foggy’s breath catch. He can sense Foggy swaying closer, hear his lips part as he does…
...and Foggy steps back again. But when he speaks, there’s a smile in it. “Well,” he says, “that’s good enough for me.”
*
For the first hour, Foggy’s fears about the Fisk benefit seem more prescient than Matt’s: it is, in fact, mind-numbingly boring. Only Foggy's quiet murmurs at Matt’s elbow enliven the proceedings. Matt has to fight to keep from laughing at his commentary, too low for anyone else to hear. Especially when someone named Biff Bickersworth introduces himself over canapés.
“Biff,” Foggy groans, after Biff has finished the thrilling saga of remodeling his tennis court and wandered off in search of new victims. “All that time worrying about Chets and I should have been looking out for Biffs.”
Matt bites the inside of his lip. “Your name is Foggy,” he points out.
“Yes, and if I ever introduce myself as ‘Foggy Nelson, of the Hell’s Kitchen Nelsons, old sport,’ don't wait for the Bratva. Knock me over the head yourself and put me out of my misery.”
Matt can't help his quiet giggle. “You could have told him your father owned a hardware store. Offered to help with the remodel yourself.”
“Mention blue collar work here? Bite your tongue, Mr. Murdock!” Foggy says, faux-scandalized. “He would’ve fainted right into these little blini things and that would have been a tragedy. Here, c’mere.”
He's holding one up to Matt's mouth, sweet creme fraiche and briny caviar, and Matt opens his mouth to take it before he realizes he's doing it. Foggy pops the mini-blini into Matt's mouth, fingers brushing Matt's lower lip as he draws them back, and Matt's glad he immediately turns back to the table to get one for himself, because then maybe he won't see the hot flush crawling up Matt's neck.
“Good, huh?” Foggy asks, turning back to him.
Matt swallows. “Exquisite.”
There's a buzz of noise from the other end of the room, a shift in mood, and Matt sense Foggy craning to look. “Well, there he is,” Foggy says. His pulse is beating faster.
“Fisk?”
“In the flesh.”
Matt concentrates. It's hard to sort through the crush of bodies in the ballroom, but he picks through the moving forms until he gets to the center of the crowd, where a man is shaking hands one by one on his way to the microphone. He's a big man - tall and heavyset, yes, but also more solid than Matt was expecting. Everything about him - the way he stands, the way he moves, the way he breathes - conveys sheer physical power. His heart is a steady bass drum, a roll of thunder.
This is the man Matt has set himself again. It’s going to be a harder fight than Matt bargained for.
Fisk makes a speech in a choked, halting voice, like he’s wrapped a leash around a wild bear and is struggling to hold it back. It’s nothing less than Matt expected, the standard hypocritical line about improving Hell’s Kitchen and taking it back from the darkness that is attempting to consume it. The strange thing is that his heart never wavers once. He actually believes what he’s peddling, and that makes him infinitely more dangerous.
When he’s finished, Foggy sighs and fortifies himself with another blini. “We’d better go make nice. Come on - once I say hi we can get out of here pretty quick.”
“Right.” Matt tucks his hand into the crook of Foggy’s arm - he didn’t bother with his cane, but he is wearing his glasses and it’s a reasonable compromise between his amorphous roles as Foggy’s bodyguard and his date - and they set off across the room. They have to weave between servers carrying out trays of champagne, and Foggy snags glasses for both of them on the way.
Wesley is standing at Fisk’s elbow, next to an older man grumbling complaints under his breath as he passes a glass of champagne to a woman wearing a stunningly luxurious perfume. Matt braces himself, but just as they draw near, Fisk excuses himself from his party and follows a man who, from his voice, Matt is pretty sure is their state senator, off to another group a few tables away. Matt’s not sure if he should be frustrated or relieved by the reprieve.
Wesley spots them, however. “Ah, Mr. Nelson and Mr. Matt. You made it. Vanessa Marianna, Leland Owlsley, this is Franklin Nelson, part of Mr. Fisk’s legal team.” Matt doesn’t curl his nose at Wesley’s use of “Franklin,” but only barely. Then he does wrinkle it - something nearby smells off. Someone’s perfume?
Foggy extricates his arm to shake hands. “Pleasure to meet you. This is Matt Murdock, who is...enjoying Mr. Fisk and Mr. van Lunt’s hospitality with me this evening.”
Matt can hear Owlsley’s snort, but he’s pretty sure everyone was supposed to. Ms. Marianna, however, ignores it. “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves,” she says, in a rich, accented voice.
“It’s been very interesting,” Foggy says diplomatically as Matt tilts his head slightly, trying to identify the source of the strange smell. It's not unpleasant, exactly, just…wrong. “That was quite a speech Mr. Fisk gave. Very passionate.”
“He’s a passionate man,” Ms. Marianna says, and - oh. That’s love in her voice. She loves Fisk. Isn’t that interesting?
“You can say that again,” Owlsley mutters.
“Well, I for one salute him,” Foggy lies brightly. “Would that we could all be so passionate about such a worthy cause.”
“Hear, hear!” says Ms. Marianna, raising her glass. Foggy lifts his, clinking it against hers before bringing it to his lips and -
“Foggy, stop!” Matt says, too loud, and everyone in their conversational group freezes, Foggy and Ms. Marianna and Owlsley. He knows they're staring at him, but he doesn't care. He's figured out what the smell is. “It's been poisoned.”
“What?” Owlsley scoffs, and Ms. Marianna laughs as if it was a joke, but Foggy takes it seriously.
“Are you sure?” he asks, lowering his glass.
Matt's already sniffing his own glass. “Positive. I can't identify the compound yet, but it's not anything we want to ingest.”
“Mr. Nelson, this is really not an appropriate joke to…” Wesley starts to say, but he's interrupted by startled gasps and a scream as a woman nearby topples over. Behind them, a man staggers and collapses onto a seated guest. Glasses drop from nerveless fingers to shatter against the marble floor.
“Holy shit,” Foggy says, leaning away from his glass as if the poison will leap out of it into his mouth. All the hearts around Matt are racing, especially Owlsley’s. Matt plucks the glass out of Foggy’s hand, places both of theirs on the nearest table, and puts a protective hand at the small of Foggy’s back. If there's a poisoner around, he doesn't want to take his hands off Foggy until they're safe at home.
“I'm getting Mr. Fisk,” Wesley says, but Fisk is already pushing through the crowd towards them, his security team behind him.
“Vanessa!” he says, putting a hand on her arm. “Are you all right? Do you feel sick? Dizzy?”
“I’m fine, Wilson,” she says, turning into the shelter of Fisk’s protective bulk. “Mr. Murdock stopped us before we could drink the champagne.”
“Wesley, call the police and emergency services, and make sure security doesn’t let anyone leave until we have more information. Leland, you’d better get out of here before they lock the doors,” Fisk says, and Owlsley and Wesley make themselves scarce. Fisk turns back to Ms. Marianna. “It’s the champagne?”
“Apparently.” Ms. Marianna nods towards Matt. “It seems Mr. Murdock...smelled it?”
“Matt is my bodyguard,” Foggy explains quickly. “He has heightened senses, so he...uh, sensed it.”
“I work for the Defenders,” Matt says, using his free hand to pull his business card out of his pocket and pass it off to Fisk. He makes sure to have a few on him at all times for situations exactly like this. The last thing he needs is for Fisk to assume Matt knew about the poison because he had something to do with it.
Of course, Fisk might have had something to do with it. It seems like overkill just to get to Foggy, but maybe he has other enemies here and figured he could take them all out in one fell swoop.
But no, Ms. Marianna almost drank the champagne too, and Fisk seems genuinely alarmed by that. He wouldn’t risk her. He must have been the target.
Fisk reads the card, then tucks it into his own pocket and gravely clasps Matt’s hand in both of his own. His skin is oddly cool. “Thank you, Mr. Murdock. I owe you an immense debt of gratitude.”
“I’m just glad Ms. Marianna wasn’t hurt,” Matt says, his other hand tensing on Foggy’s back. “Or Mr. Nelson. His safety, and that of his associates, is my utmost priority.”
“It seems that you and I are much alike,” Fisk says, and lets go of Matt’s hand to put an arm around Ms. Marianna. “We protect our own.”
Matt can’t help his smile from going sharp at that. “Whatever it takes.”
“Indeed.” Fisk turns to one of the guards standing next to them. “Francis, please make sure Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock are able to pass through security as quickly as possible. I don’t want them inconvenienced by all this.”
“Yes, Mr. Fisk.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murdock,” Ms. Marianna says, and Matt and Foggy are ushered away, past crowds of frightened one percenters and into a waiting cab.
As the cab heads north towards Hell’s Kitchen, Foggy lets out a great whoosh of a sigh and slumps against Matt. “That’s three I owe you now.”
“It’s my job,” Matt demurs. He keeps his voice soft. Foggy’s heartbeat is starting to slow back down to normal.
“I like your job,” Foggy says, and lets his head tip onto Matt’s shoulder.
Matt knows they should talk about what just happened. Maybe not here, with the cab driver in earshot, but soon - about who would have tried to poison Fisk, and whether they’re the ones who are actually after Foggy, and whether Fisk’s comment about protecting his own was a veiled threat.
But the motion of the cab and the weight of Foggy against him are a comfort as the adrenalin bleeds out his system, the feather-soft brush of Foggy’s hair against his chin a distraction that chases serious thoughts away.
They can talk about it later.
“Yeah,” he says. “I like my job too.”
*
Sunday comes again, and with it Matt’s day off. He wakes up well before Foggy, who likes to sleep in on the weekends, and uses the time to fetch proper cappuccinos and fresh-baked bagels with lox from Foggy’s favorite breakfast place. By the time Foggy walks out of his bedroom with a sleepy groan of a yawn that makes the back of Matt’s neck tingle, Matt’s got the table set and his computer playing the morning’s headlines through his earbud.
He pauses the feed and smiles in Foggy’s direction. “Morning.”
“Hey, you didn’t have to do this,” Foggy says. The pleased note in his voice makes it more than worth it, though.
Matt shrugs, feeling warm. “Well, I was getting a bagel for myself anyway, so…”
They linger over breakfast, and Foggy takes over reading the news highlights so that they can discuss them together. “I’m sorry,” he says abruptly when they’re halfway through, putting down his coffee cup. “This is your day off, and here I am keeping you when you probably have plans.”
“Not until later,” Matt says. “And you’re not keeping me. Like you said, it’s my day off. I wouldn’t be here unless I wanted to be.”
“...Oh,” is all Foggy says, but a minute later Matt feels Foggy’s bare foot kick gently at his ankle under the table. Matt smiles and kicks back, and that seems to cover it.
He heads to Fogwell's in the late afternoon, black costume tucked discreetly into his gym bag. It’s more of a warmup than a proper workout, because as soon as the sun goes down he goes back to his own apartment - which feels oddly bare and empty, now - and changes.
He's been doing his best to squeeze what information he can out of the streets - tracing heroin deals and arms exchanges and beatings from protection rackets - but coming up short. Nothing adds up, nothing makes a complete picture he can act on. But he’s got his teeth in this one and he’s not letting go. Not until Fisk is stopped. Not until Foggy is safe.
He’s by the river when he hears snatches of Russian and catches a whiff of the cheap cologne the asshole brothers and their men favor. Smiling sharp, he edges closer and catches the name “Cardenas.” Elena Cardenas?
“He says he wants her out of apartment,” a familiar, accented voice says, and there's the tinny crackle of a response over the phone. So then yes, they are talking about Elena Cardenas. She's holding firm despite Foggy’s coaxing and so he’s been doing his best to get her apartment repaired despite Tully’s strong arming. Matt’s been thrilled with her resistance - until now.
“No one gets paid until this is done,” the asshole goes on. “If you do not handle tonight - ” A sharp bark of laughter. “That gets rid of fat lawyer too. I guess police are not all bad.”
Foggy.
Matt hurtles forward, clearing the distance between him and the Russians as fast as he can. There are three, he realizes as he draws close, and he lays into them before they know what’s happening, laying one out with a single uppercut before kicking another so hard in the gut he promptly vomits.
The third - the asshole brother who’s not Anatoly - spits something nasty-sounding in Russian and goes for his gun. Matt kicks it out of his hand.
“You fucking - ” the asshole swears and lunges, glancing a lucky punch off Matt’s temple. Matt reels, staggers back, and kicks the asshole in the ribs. Before he can catch his breath Matt’s on him, slamming him into the wall behind him so hard his brains probably rattle in his skull.
“Nelson!” he growls. “Franklin Nelson and Elena Cardenas! Who were you just talking to? What are they going to do to them?” The asshole says something in Russian and Matt slams him against the wall again. “Answer me!”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” the asshole says. “Read it in tomorrow’s paper. Or go by old lady’s apartment tonight, you’ll see.”
Matt wants to punch the sneer out of his voice, but he doesn’t have time - whatever’s happening, it’s happening now.
“If they die, so do you,” he promises, and knocks the asshole out with a right hook. Then he’s hauling himself up the fire escape, taking off southeast across Hell’s Kitchen, leaping from roof to roof because it’s quicker than fighting the pedestrians and traffic signals below. He hears voices below point him out since he doesn’t have time to stay out of sight, but he can’t care. He’s got to get to Mrs. Cardenas’s apartment. She’s a helpless little old lady, and Foggy…
Matt clenches his fists and runs faster.
He’s two blocks away when he hears familiar voices. “Senor Foggy! Thank you for coming, I do not know what they want, they are saying I go to jail…”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Cardenas, that’s not going to happen.” Foggy. Foggy is there, he should never have left the apartment alone but of course he would rush out to help his elderly client alone, even without Matt. Even if he knew he was risking his life.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, shyster.” Matt doesn’t know that voice. He doesn’t like it.
“Look, officer…”
“Detective.”
“My apologies. Detective...Blake, is it? My client has done nothing wrong. There’s been some sort of mistake here.”
“Really? ‘Cause I got three witnesses say she’s been selling heroin out of here.”
“What?” That’s Foggy and Mrs. Cardenas together. Matt’s close enough to hear their startled heartbeats now.
“That’s ridiculous! Mrs. Cardenas is no drug dealer!”
“There’s a junkie stoned out of his fucking mind right outside her door, pal. How do you think he got that way? Now move over.”
“I’m not letting you take her.”
“Look out, Blake, he’s getting violent - ”
“I see him, I see him - ”
Matt’s close enough to know Foggy’s just standing peacefully in front of Mrs. Cardenas, his heart beating fast with terror, close enough to hear the hammers of the detectives’ guns click -
- and then he’s there, crashing through the window, no time to worry about glass in his clothes because the cops are turning, alarmed, and firing. Matt flips sideways and hurls one of his billy clubs at one of the cops, catching him in the throat. “Get away from them!”
“Blake!” the cop still standing says as the other one chokes and retches. Matt puts himself between the cops and their intended victims. “Move, asshole, or I’ll put you down too.”
“I’m not letting you touch them,” Matt growls - and over the thunder of blood in his ears, he hears Foggy’s heart stutter in surprise.
“You think there’s not a price on your head too?” the standing cop asks. “You know how much the big man’ll pay me for bringing you down after all the shit you’ve been pulling? I pop you and the old lady off and bring Blondie here to sing a little song for him, and I can retire somewhere warm next week.”
Matt hears his joint creak as his finger tightens on the trigger, and throws the other billy club. He hates to lose the weapon, but it’s worth it - it connects and the gun goes flying.
“I’m gonna clear the doorway,” he mutters to Foggy over his shoulder. “When I say the word, you take Mrs. Cardenas and you run, do you hear me?”
“...Matt?”
Shit.
Matt’s heart plummets, but there’s no time to worry about that, because Detective Not-Blake is charging him, fists swinging. Matt takes a fist to the face and feels his lip split. He parries, hooks an arm around Not-Blake’s neck and is about to choke off his air when -
Thwump! “Hey, asshole!”
“No!”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, Blake’s got a gun on Mrs. Cardenas, Matt didn’t even realize he was up again but he is and he’s got a hand on her arm and a gun to her temple. It was Foggy who shouted no, Foggy who Blake shoved to the ground and who is scrambling back to his feet, ready to try for Blake again.
“Foggy, get back!” Matt snaps before he can catch himself, and fuck, if Foggy wasn’t sure of Matt’s identity before he’s got to be now. But Matt can’t care about that - can’t care if the whole world knows who he is, as long as he gets Foggy and Mrs. Cardenas out of this alive. “You pull that trigger, Blake, and I snap your partner’s neck,” he growls, and isn’t even sure if he’s lying.
“You snap his neck, I pull the trigger,” Blake says. “Hoffman, you good?”
“Man, shoot this asshole so we can get out of here,” Not-Blake says, kicking back and connecting painfully with Matt’s knee. Matt tightens his grip until Not-Blake’s gasping for air.
“Stop this,” Foggy says. His heart’s beating out of control. “Fisk wants me, right? That’s what you said. So fine. I come with you.”
“Foggy, no - ” Matt says as Mrs. Cardenas starts protesting in Spanish.
“You don’t need to kill Mrs. Cardenas,” Foggy says. “You just want her out of this apartment, right? Without her lawyer, how long do you think that’ll take?”
He’s either being desperately naive or just trying to buy Matt some time here. Dirty cops like these aren’t going to leave witnesses to a kidnapping alive. They’ll come back to finish the job. But for now, it works. Blake shoves Mrs. Cardenas at Foggy, who catches her with some mangled Spanish words of reassurance, and gestures with the gun. “All right, all right, get over here.”
Matt tightens his grip on Hoffman’s neck. “I won’t let you take him.”
“Listen, you piece of shit - ” Blake starts, but Foggy cuts him off.
“You have to,” he says, moving into Blake’s reach. Blake grabs him by the jacket and points the gun at his head. “I need you to keep Mrs. Cardenas safe. I think you owe me that much.” There’s an undercurrent of bitterness in his voice that makes the bile rise in Matt’s throat. He put that bitterness there.
He nods. “I won’t let anyone hurt her. And Foggy - I’m going to do my job.”
He hopes Foggy knows what that means. He hopes Foggy knows Matt will come for him.
Foggy doesn’t say anything, though, and so Matt drags Hoffman over to his dropped gun, puts his foot on it, and slides it behind him towards Mrs. Cardenas. “Senora Cardenas, coge la arma.” She picks it up, trembling. “Damelo, por favor.”
He loosens his grip on Hoffman enough to hold out his hand, and Mrs. Cardenas places the gun in it. Letting go of Hoffman, Matt steps back quickly, keeping the gun trained on Hoffman and Mrs. Cardenas tucked behind him.
“Anything you do to him,” Matt says as Blake and Hoffman back towards the door with their prisoner. “I will bring it down on you tenfold. So keep that in mind.”
“We're just bringing him in for a little chat,” Hoffman says. “You want to tell the big guy a thing or two? Just look us up.”
They drag Foggy out of the apartment, then, and the door closes on their laughter.
Chapter 5
Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Rating: NC-17
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Matt wakes from dreams of Foggy with an erection and a pounding headache.
He skips his usual workout in favor of a long shower. Peeling the bandage away and letting the water hit his bullet wound does what the headache couldn't, and vanquishes his boner. He finishes showering, thinking hard as he does.
He was positive, back when the Russians nearly killed him all those months ago, that they were working for Fisk, or at least with him. So either they’ve flipped on Fisk and are trying to chip away at his organization - or Fisk has flipped on Foggy. Matt had better figure out which one it is, and fast. The Russians are dangerous like rabid dogs, unpredictable and snarling. Fisk, though, is dangerous like a cancer: you might not even know he's there until it’s too late.
Still, Foggy might be safer under his protection at the moment. It all depends on why the asshole brothers came after him last night.
And why last night, is the other question? Could it have something to do with whatever Foggy’s been busying himself with the past few days? And is there a way to ask him about it that doesn’t tip Matt’s hand?
Matt resolves to try, as he dries off and carefully rebandages his wound, as he gets dressed and starts a pot of coffee. That, and to stop flirting with Foggy. It’s served its purpose; now it’s clearly just confusing something in Matt’s subconscious.
The coffee’s just finished brewing when Foggy stumbles into the kitchen, unshowered and sleep-muddled. “Ugh, my head,” he says, voice scratchy. Something prickly and wanting shivers up Matt’s spine. “Don’t ever let me drink that much again, Matt. You’re supposed to be guarding my body, not pickling it.”
Matt has to swallow before he speaks. “Sorry,” he says, and pushes a cup of coffee into Foggy’s hands - light and sweet, the way Foggy likes it. “I promise to save you from yourself as well as outside threats from here on out.”
He’s not sure if it’s the brush of his fingers against Foggy or the reminder that Foggy’s life is in danger that wakes Foggy up the rest of the way, but suddenly Foggy is brisk and uncomfortable. “Right! Thanks. Uh...how’s your leg?”
“It’s. It’s fine.” Matt steps back and pours a cup of coffee for himself, lets the bitter edge of it chase the rest of his headache away. If Foggy’s uncomfortable it’s Matt’s own damn fault. “I think we should talk about what happened last night. With the Russians,” he clarifies when he feels Foggy start to blush.
“Oh! Right, yeah, crazy people shooting at me, let’s talk about that,” Foggy says.
“You told the police you'd never seen them before,” Matt starts.
“Because I hadn’t,” Foggy says, a slight edge to it. “Did you think I was lying?”
“No! No, of course not,” Matt hastens to reassure him. He thinks about telling Foggy he can hear lies and decides against it. Clients don’t like knowing how little privacy they have from him, and...well, he likes Foggy, but Foggy is still working for Wilson Fisk, and he’s clever enough to figure out how to mislead Matt with half-truths if he knows to do it. “I’m just wondering if you know of a reason they might be out to kill you. Something you...maybe wouldn’t have wanted to tell the police.”
Foggy’s silent for a long time. Matt’s almost sure he’s not going to answer when he says, “I’ve been doing some research.”
“Research?” Matt repeats.
Foggy nods. “On my employer. Not that I...I’m not accusing him of anything, you understand. But when a man in a mask attacks me - twice - and asks about him, I start wondering if he’s not the only one who should be asking questions.”
There’s a buzzing in Matt’s ears. He sits down heavily on the nearest stool, rests his forearms against the cool marble of the butcher block.
“Some of the things I’ve been finding...I don’t know. Numbers that don’t match up. Weird timings. Connections to people who aren’t...who don’t…” He shakes his head. “Anyway, there were some names in there that made me take a second look. Like Rigoletto - known mobster, did ten years in Sing-Sing a while back. He’s dead now. Massive heart attack, supposedly...but then why was it a closed casket funeral? Or this Prohaszka guy - murdered by some psychopath with a bowling ball who got off on a technicality, and suddenly ‘Prohaszka Cab Company’ is showing up on expense reports. And when I look up ‘Prohaszka’ in Bulletin back issues, every article also mentions the Bratva.”
“The Russian mob,” Matt says dully.
Foggy’s heartbeat picks up. “I don’t - I’m not saying it’s Mr. Fisk,” he says, obviously backpedaling. “It’s a big organization. It could be happening without his knowledge. It’s probably happening without his knowledge.” He’s lying. He knows it’s Fisk. He’s anything but stupid. “But I guess someone heard I was asking questions they didn’t want asked, and…” He makes a soft noise. “Sorry. I shouldn’t say any more. My client’s still protected by confidentiality, and besides, the less you know the better. I don’t want anyone coming after you to...to...Matt, are you okay?”
“What? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He’s not fine. He’s going to be sick.
“You sure? You’re, like, deathly white all of a sudden.”
“Yeah. Just...you’re not the only one with a hangover,” Matt says, and holds up his coffee cup. “I’ll be better after some quality time with this.”
“...Okay. I guess I’ll go shower.” Foggy pauses on his way out of the kitchen, and Matt’s pretty sure Foggy’s giving him a worried look.
The minute Foggy’s gone Matt puts his coffee down and buries his face in his hands. It’s either that or hurl the cup across the room, and that’d bring Foggy running in a heartbeat.
It’s his fault Foggy’s in danger.
The man in the mask asked about Fisk - first Matt, then Danny. That would make anyone suspicious, let alone a clever lawyer. Naturally Foggy would investigate. What else would he do?
And what would Fisk, or his underlings, do if an expendable lawyer started getting nosy? They’re all bloody to the shoulder. What’s one more murder?
And Foggy doesn’t want to tell Matt details because that would put Matt in danger. He hasn’t been squirrelly because he’s moving everything he has to a Swiss bank account. He’s been squirrelly because he’s been trying to protect Matt - Matt and Karen and his family, his innocent mother and father in the home he bought for them in the suburbs, and oh God, what has Matt done?
He wants to throw up. He can’t throw up. Foggy’s in the only bathroom.
He makes himself stand up, makes himself pour out the coffee that’s making the acid rise in his throat. He’ll make this right. It’s the only thing he can do. He’ll stay glued to Foggy’s side during the day, and wring answers out of the streets at night. No matter what it takes.
No one - not the Russians, not Fisk, not the devil himself - is hurting Foggy Nelson on Matt’s watch.
*
Wesley comes by the office that day - an unprecedented frequency, twice in two days. Matt usually hangs out by the front door of the office, but he follows Wesley into Foggy’s private office instead this time. Sure, it’s broad daylight and Karen’s right at her desk, but Wesley is Fisk’s right-hand man, and Matt doesn’t trust him as far as he can throw him. Plus, it can’t hurt to remind Wesley that Foggy’s not without friends.
Wesley turns to look at him before he sits down and says, in a voice like a raised eyebrow, “Is there a problem, Mr…?”
“What’s up, Matt?”
Matt moves to stand next to Foggy’s chair, facing Wesley. “Just providing security, Mr. Nelson.”
“Matt, it’s Mr. Wesley. He works with me. Can’t you, you know…” Foggy waves his hand in front of his own face. “...sense that?”
“You have now been attacked three times. Until such time as the threat to you is neutralized, I don’t think it’s wise to leave you alone with someone,” Matt replies evenly.
“That’s going to put a damper on your love life,” Wesley says. Matt glares at him.
“Matt, I don’t think…” Foggy glances up at Matt, and something in Matt’s face must convince him it’s not worth the argument, because he just sighs and says, “Fine. Stay. If that’s all right with you, Mr. Wesley…?”
“Of course,” Wesley says smoothly. “I’m glad to see Mr…Matt is so conscientious in his duties. Even after being shot.” Matt and Foggy both startle slightly. “Oh, I read the police report. I’m very concerned about your safety, Mr. Nelson, as is my employer. These attacks are becoming more frequent. I had no idea the man in the mask was working with the Russian mob.”
“You think he is?” Foggy asks.
“What other explanation could there be?”
“Mm,” Foggy says. His heartbeat tells Matt nothing. Matt frowns. He knows he’s being ridiculous - that to Foggy, Matt and the man in the mask are two entirely separate people - but he still doesn’t want Foggy to think of him as a killer.
“Given the increased frequency of the threats, my employer is prepared to loan you several members of his personal security team until this is over,” Wesley oils on. “Not that Mr. Matt here hasn't been doing an exemplary job, but my employer’s security is the best in the world.”
Oh, no. Leaving Foggy with Fisk’s security? Matt might as well slit Foggy's throat himself.
“I thought you said the Defenders were the best in the world, when you suggested I hire one,” Foggy says. His tone is blase, playful even, but Matt knows him well enough by now to recognize the tension in it.
“Well, yes - of publicly available security,” Wesley says.
“Please tell Mr. Fisk that while I appreciate his generous offer, I'm more than happy with my current security,” Foggy says. “After all, Matt’s saved me twice now. I have every faith that he can do it again, should the need arise.” Every word of it is truly meant, if his heartbeat’s any indication. Matt could kiss him.
No. No kissing.
“Very well,” Wesley says, sounding marginally annoyed. Matt fights to keep the grin off his face. “The offer stands, if you change your mind.” He stands up. “Oh - you'll be getting an invitation in the mail, today most likely. My employer is hosting a benefit for the Hell’s Kitchen revitalization efforts. He'd love to see you there.” He gestures towards Matt. “Bring Mr. Matt here, if you like. He looks like he cleans up nicely.”
“Thank you, that sounds...fun,” Foggy says. He's looking in Matt's direction, but Matt can't read his facial expression from his tone.
“Well.” Wesley inclines his head slightly. “I’ll leave you to it.”
He leaves Foggy’s office. Matt follows him to the front door, and Wesley turns to look at him as they go. “Were you afraid I would get lost?”
“I’m just doing my job, sir,” Matt says, and makes the “sir” as disrespectful as the word will allow.
Wesley stops in the doorway. It sounds like he’s smiling. Matt would really like to know what it takes him to stop smiling. “You’re very devoted to Mr. Nelson, aren’t you, Mr. Matt?”
“I take my responsibility to my client very seriously,” Matt replies. He’s not a big man, but he steps in a little closer, making himself as imposing as he can. “No harm will come to Mr. Nelson on my watch.”
“And what an acute watch it must be,” Wesley says - and then, before Matt can respond, adds “Ta!” and vanishes out the door.
“Wow,” Karen says from her desk. “What a dick.”
*
“You’ve been more careful lately,” Claire says as she bandages the cut on Matt’s back. It was short but deep, needing just a few stitches. “Any particular reason you’ve suddenly gotten smarter?”
“My patrol hours are more limited these days,” Matt says. He doesn’t want to leave Foggy alone for too long. It’s especially frustrating because he’s getting nowhere with tying Fisk to the Russian mob no matter how many low-level goons and drug runners he beats up. “Plus, Fo-- my client would worry if he saw me injured.”
“I worry about you all the time, it doesn’t stop you from fighting thirty guys at once on two hours of sleep,” Claire says tartly. “What’s this guy got that I don’t? Besides many thousands of dollars to keep you in paper thin workout gear, I mean.”
“Sorry,” Matt says, because there’s genuine concern under the teasing. “Maybe worry was the wrong word. He’d be suspicious.” No, that’s too strong in the other direction - and Foggy would worry, is the thing. He doesn’t want Matt getting hurt. “Concerned.”
“You worried about getting fired?”
Matt laughs. “Oh no, he already tried that. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re...bodyguarding him without his consent?”
Everything Matt says is coming out wrong tonight. “No, of course not. I just...I got injured protecting him and he was upset. I had to explain that that’s par for the course. I’m certainly not leaving him if he’s in real danger. I’m not going to let him get hurt.”
“Hmm,” Claire says, and hands him his shirt.
Matt pulls it on. “What?”
“Well, last time you mentioned him you said you were only going to give it a little bit more time before giving up. Now you’re pledging your troth or whatever.”
Matt smiles. “That’s not what pledging your troth means.”
“I know what I said,” Claire retorts.
Oh God. Not her too. No wonder Matt’s brain - and dick - is getting all mixed up about Foggy, with everyone harping on him like this all the time. “I’m doing this to keep Hell’s Kitchen safe. He’s part of Hell’s Kitchen. That’s all this is.” He tugs the mask back on. “He’s a good man, Claire. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged down by the monster I’m after.”
“Sure,” she says. “Hey, I gotta tell you - even with the mask on, you’ve got a shit poker face.”
There’s no sense in dignifying that with an answer, so Matt just climbs out the window.
*
“I don’t think you should go.”
Matt can hear Foggy’s exasperated snort from his bedroom. Well, of course he can - he could hear every step of Foggy getting ready for the Fisk benefit. The water pattering off his body in the shower as he hummed snatches of operetta offkey. The scratch of his razor over his chin. The brush of a crisp starched shirt over his skin and the zip of his fly and the gossamer-faint whisper of a silk tie being tied.
“Yes, Matt, you’ve made your opinion on the matter perfectly clear,” Foggy calls. “I’m still not gonna change my mind.”
Matt finishes fastening his cufflinks and reaches for his jacket. At least he’s going as Foggy’s plus one. Foggy didn’t even suggest someone else. Matt won’t have to leave Foggy’s side, and he’ll finally be in the same room as Fisk, and probably at least a few of the upper echelon of his organization. It’s a great opportunity to gather intel on his enemy.
That doesn’t mean that he wants Foggy going anywhere near the man who Matt’s almost positive is now trying to kill him.
“You said yourself that you think someone in Fisk’s organization is behind the attacks on you,” he calls, shrugging into his jacket. They've both stuck with the polite fiction that it's one of Fisk’s underlings and not Fisk himself who's been threatening Foggy, as they've endlessly rehashed this argument over the past week. “Which means they could be at the benefit.”
He’s tempted, for the thousandth time, to tell Foggy his own suspicions about Fisk. Foggy’s brilliant; if they pooled their knowledge, they might be able to build a solid case faster. But that would mean telling Foggy how he knows what he knows, which would mean telling Foggy that he’s the man in the mask...which would mean losing Foggy’s trust, and maybe going to jail himself. He can’t risk it.
“And what exactly are they going to do to me there?” Foggy shoots back. “It's a fundraising benefit in a private mansion. I doubt there’ll be any heavily tattooed Russian mobsters on the guest list.”
Matt leaves his own room and stands in Foggy’s door. Foggy’s facing away from him, fussing with his hair. He smells...he smells expensive, all silk and starch and a subtle cologne that he ran by Matt’s nose before putting it on. Matt's tux has the faint scent of antiseptic and must of a rental, but Foggy owns his, and it just smells like him.
“I just want you to be safe,” Matt says quietly
Foggy turns around, and his heartbeat picks up. “Well, I hope so, or I'm gonna have to leave a really scathing review on Yelp.” He swallows. “Need a hand with the tie?”
“Please.” Matt can handle regular ties fine, but bow ties are tricky even for sighted men, and he's never totally sure if they're crooked when he ties them himself.
Foggy steps in close and Matt lifts his chin, giving Foggy better access to his throat. “I gotta tell you, Matt, Wesley was right about you cleaning up nice. No one should look this good in a rented suit.”
His knuckles brush Matt's Adam’s apple. Matt doesn't want to talk about Wesley right now. “Aren’t you worried?”
“In general, yes. About tonight? Only that it’ll be mind-numbingly boring, or that I’ll have to talk to people with names like Chet.”
“Foggy…”
Foggy sighs. “Matt, I have to go. How’s it going to look if I don’t show up, huh? If...if someone doubts my commitment to my employer and his goals, my sudden absence isn’t going to change their mind.” His tone brightens slightly. “Besides, you’ll be there. And you won’t let anything happen to me.”
He finishes straightening Matt’s tie and smooths down the front of his jacket, hands warm even through three layers of fabric as they glide down Matt’s chest, then steps back to admire his handiwork. “There. Perfect,” he says, and that’s not a lie either.
Matt can’t stop himself from catching Foggy’s wrists before he can drop his hands to his sides. He can feel Foggy’s pulse beating fast and light beneath his fingers. He’s so close.
“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promises, and wishes, just for a moment, that Foggy could hear his heart as well, to know he means it. “I swear it.”
He can hear Foggy’s breath catch. He can sense Foggy swaying closer, hear his lips part as he does…
...and Foggy steps back again. But when he speaks, there’s a smile in it. “Well,” he says, “that’s good enough for me.”
*
For the first hour, Foggy’s fears about the Fisk benefit seem more prescient than Matt’s: it is, in fact, mind-numbingly boring. Only Foggy's quiet murmurs at Matt’s elbow enliven the proceedings. Matt has to fight to keep from laughing at his commentary, too low for anyone else to hear. Especially when someone named Biff Bickersworth introduces himself over canapés.
“Biff,” Foggy groans, after Biff has finished the thrilling saga of remodeling his tennis court and wandered off in search of new victims. “All that time worrying about Chets and I should have been looking out for Biffs.”
Matt bites the inside of his lip. “Your name is Foggy,” he points out.
“Yes, and if I ever introduce myself as ‘Foggy Nelson, of the Hell’s Kitchen Nelsons, old sport,’ don't wait for the Bratva. Knock me over the head yourself and put me out of my misery.”
Matt can't help his quiet giggle. “You could have told him your father owned a hardware store. Offered to help with the remodel yourself.”
“Mention blue collar work here? Bite your tongue, Mr. Murdock!” Foggy says, faux-scandalized. “He would’ve fainted right into these little blini things and that would have been a tragedy. Here, c’mere.”
He's holding one up to Matt's mouth, sweet creme fraiche and briny caviar, and Matt opens his mouth to take it before he realizes he's doing it. Foggy pops the mini-blini into Matt's mouth, fingers brushing Matt's lower lip as he draws them back, and Matt's glad he immediately turns back to the table to get one for himself, because then maybe he won't see the hot flush crawling up Matt's neck.
“Good, huh?” Foggy asks, turning back to him.
Matt swallows. “Exquisite.”
There's a buzz of noise from the other end of the room, a shift in mood, and Matt sense Foggy craning to look. “Well, there he is,” Foggy says. His pulse is beating faster.
“Fisk?”
“In the flesh.”
Matt concentrates. It's hard to sort through the crush of bodies in the ballroom, but he picks through the moving forms until he gets to the center of the crowd, where a man is shaking hands one by one on his way to the microphone. He's a big man - tall and heavyset, yes, but also more solid than Matt was expecting. Everything about him - the way he stands, the way he moves, the way he breathes - conveys sheer physical power. His heart is a steady bass drum, a roll of thunder.
This is the man Matt has set himself again. It’s going to be a harder fight than Matt bargained for.
Fisk makes a speech in a choked, halting voice, like he’s wrapped a leash around a wild bear and is struggling to hold it back. It’s nothing less than Matt expected, the standard hypocritical line about improving Hell’s Kitchen and taking it back from the darkness that is attempting to consume it. The strange thing is that his heart never wavers once. He actually believes what he’s peddling, and that makes him infinitely more dangerous.
When he’s finished, Foggy sighs and fortifies himself with another blini. “We’d better go make nice. Come on - once I say hi we can get out of here pretty quick.”
“Right.” Matt tucks his hand into the crook of Foggy’s arm - he didn’t bother with his cane, but he is wearing his glasses and it’s a reasonable compromise between his amorphous roles as Foggy’s bodyguard and his date - and they set off across the room. They have to weave between servers carrying out trays of champagne, and Foggy snags glasses for both of them on the way.
Wesley is standing at Fisk’s elbow, next to an older man grumbling complaints under his breath as he passes a glass of champagne to a woman wearing a stunningly luxurious perfume. Matt braces himself, but just as they draw near, Fisk excuses himself from his party and follows a man who, from his voice, Matt is pretty sure is their state senator, off to another group a few tables away. Matt’s not sure if he should be frustrated or relieved by the reprieve.
Wesley spots them, however. “Ah, Mr. Nelson and Mr. Matt. You made it. Vanessa Marianna, Leland Owlsley, this is Franklin Nelson, part of Mr. Fisk’s legal team.” Matt doesn’t curl his nose at Wesley’s use of “Franklin,” but only barely. Then he does wrinkle it - something nearby smells off. Someone’s perfume?
Foggy extricates his arm to shake hands. “Pleasure to meet you. This is Matt Murdock, who is...enjoying Mr. Fisk and Mr. van Lunt’s hospitality with me this evening.”
Matt can hear Owlsley’s snort, but he’s pretty sure everyone was supposed to. Ms. Marianna, however, ignores it. “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves,” she says, in a rich, accented voice.
“It’s been very interesting,” Foggy says diplomatically as Matt tilts his head slightly, trying to identify the source of the strange smell. It's not unpleasant, exactly, just…wrong. “That was quite a speech Mr. Fisk gave. Very passionate.”
“He’s a passionate man,” Ms. Marianna says, and - oh. That’s love in her voice. She loves Fisk. Isn’t that interesting?
“You can say that again,” Owlsley mutters.
“Well, I for one salute him,” Foggy lies brightly. “Would that we could all be so passionate about such a worthy cause.”
“Hear, hear!” says Ms. Marianna, raising her glass. Foggy lifts his, clinking it against hers before bringing it to his lips and -
“Foggy, stop!” Matt says, too loud, and everyone in their conversational group freezes, Foggy and Ms. Marianna and Owlsley. He knows they're staring at him, but he doesn't care. He's figured out what the smell is. “It's been poisoned.”
“What?” Owlsley scoffs, and Ms. Marianna laughs as if it was a joke, but Foggy takes it seriously.
“Are you sure?” he asks, lowering his glass.
Matt's already sniffing his own glass. “Positive. I can't identify the compound yet, but it's not anything we want to ingest.”
“Mr. Nelson, this is really not an appropriate joke to…” Wesley starts to say, but he's interrupted by startled gasps and a scream as a woman nearby topples over. Behind them, a man staggers and collapses onto a seated guest. Glasses drop from nerveless fingers to shatter against the marble floor.
“Holy shit,” Foggy says, leaning away from his glass as if the poison will leap out of it into his mouth. All the hearts around Matt are racing, especially Owlsley’s. Matt plucks the glass out of Foggy’s hand, places both of theirs on the nearest table, and puts a protective hand at the small of Foggy’s back. If there's a poisoner around, he doesn't want to take his hands off Foggy until they're safe at home.
“I'm getting Mr. Fisk,” Wesley says, but Fisk is already pushing through the crowd towards them, his security team behind him.
“Vanessa!” he says, putting a hand on her arm. “Are you all right? Do you feel sick? Dizzy?”
“I’m fine, Wilson,” she says, turning into the shelter of Fisk’s protective bulk. “Mr. Murdock stopped us before we could drink the champagne.”
“Wesley, call the police and emergency services, and make sure security doesn’t let anyone leave until we have more information. Leland, you’d better get out of here before they lock the doors,” Fisk says, and Owlsley and Wesley make themselves scarce. Fisk turns back to Ms. Marianna. “It’s the champagne?”
“Apparently.” Ms. Marianna nods towards Matt. “It seems Mr. Murdock...smelled it?”
“Matt is my bodyguard,” Foggy explains quickly. “He has heightened senses, so he...uh, sensed it.”
“I work for the Defenders,” Matt says, using his free hand to pull his business card out of his pocket and pass it off to Fisk. He makes sure to have a few on him at all times for situations exactly like this. The last thing he needs is for Fisk to assume Matt knew about the poison because he had something to do with it.
Of course, Fisk might have had something to do with it. It seems like overkill just to get to Foggy, but maybe he has other enemies here and figured he could take them all out in one fell swoop.
But no, Ms. Marianna almost drank the champagne too, and Fisk seems genuinely alarmed by that. He wouldn’t risk her. He must have been the target.
Fisk reads the card, then tucks it into his own pocket and gravely clasps Matt’s hand in both of his own. His skin is oddly cool. “Thank you, Mr. Murdock. I owe you an immense debt of gratitude.”
“I’m just glad Ms. Marianna wasn’t hurt,” Matt says, his other hand tensing on Foggy’s back. “Or Mr. Nelson. His safety, and that of his associates, is my utmost priority.”
“It seems that you and I are much alike,” Fisk says, and lets go of Matt’s hand to put an arm around Ms. Marianna. “We protect our own.”
Matt can’t help his smile from going sharp at that. “Whatever it takes.”
“Indeed.” Fisk turns to one of the guards standing next to them. “Francis, please make sure Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock are able to pass through security as quickly as possible. I don’t want them inconvenienced by all this.”
“Yes, Mr. Fisk.”
“Thank you, Mr. Murdock,” Ms. Marianna says, and Matt and Foggy are ushered away, past crowds of frightened one percenters and into a waiting cab.
As the cab heads north towards Hell’s Kitchen, Foggy lets out a great whoosh of a sigh and slumps against Matt. “That’s three I owe you now.”
“It’s my job,” Matt demurs. He keeps his voice soft. Foggy’s heartbeat is starting to slow back down to normal.
“I like your job,” Foggy says, and lets his head tip onto Matt’s shoulder.
Matt knows they should talk about what just happened. Maybe not here, with the cab driver in earshot, but soon - about who would have tried to poison Fisk, and whether they’re the ones who are actually after Foggy, and whether Fisk’s comment about protecting his own was a veiled threat.
But the motion of the cab and the weight of Foggy against him are a comfort as the adrenalin bleeds out his system, the feather-soft brush of Foggy’s hair against his chin a distraction that chases serious thoughts away.
They can talk about it later.
“Yeah,” he says. “I like my job too.”
*
Sunday comes again, and with it Matt’s day off. He wakes up well before Foggy, who likes to sleep in on the weekends, and uses the time to fetch proper cappuccinos and fresh-baked bagels with lox from Foggy’s favorite breakfast place. By the time Foggy walks out of his bedroom with a sleepy groan of a yawn that makes the back of Matt’s neck tingle, Matt’s got the table set and his computer playing the morning’s headlines through his earbud.
He pauses the feed and smiles in Foggy’s direction. “Morning.”
“Hey, you didn’t have to do this,” Foggy says. The pleased note in his voice makes it more than worth it, though.
Matt shrugs, feeling warm. “Well, I was getting a bagel for myself anyway, so…”
They linger over breakfast, and Foggy takes over reading the news highlights so that they can discuss them together. “I’m sorry,” he says abruptly when they’re halfway through, putting down his coffee cup. “This is your day off, and here I am keeping you when you probably have plans.”
“Not until later,” Matt says. “And you’re not keeping me. Like you said, it’s my day off. I wouldn’t be here unless I wanted to be.”
“...Oh,” is all Foggy says, but a minute later Matt feels Foggy’s bare foot kick gently at his ankle under the table. Matt smiles and kicks back, and that seems to cover it.
He heads to Fogwell's in the late afternoon, black costume tucked discreetly into his gym bag. It’s more of a warmup than a proper workout, because as soon as the sun goes down he goes back to his own apartment - which feels oddly bare and empty, now - and changes.
He's been doing his best to squeeze what information he can out of the streets - tracing heroin deals and arms exchanges and beatings from protection rackets - but coming up short. Nothing adds up, nothing makes a complete picture he can act on. But he’s got his teeth in this one and he’s not letting go. Not until Fisk is stopped. Not until Foggy is safe.
He’s by the river when he hears snatches of Russian and catches a whiff of the cheap cologne the asshole brothers and their men favor. Smiling sharp, he edges closer and catches the name “Cardenas.” Elena Cardenas?
“He says he wants her out of apartment,” a familiar, accented voice says, and there's the tinny crackle of a response over the phone. So then yes, they are talking about Elena Cardenas. She's holding firm despite Foggy’s coaxing and so he’s been doing his best to get her apartment repaired despite Tully’s strong arming. Matt’s been thrilled with her resistance - until now.
“No one gets paid until this is done,” the asshole goes on. “If you do not handle tonight - ” A sharp bark of laughter. “That gets rid of fat lawyer too. I guess police are not all bad.”
Foggy.
Matt hurtles forward, clearing the distance between him and the Russians as fast as he can. There are three, he realizes as he draws close, and he lays into them before they know what’s happening, laying one out with a single uppercut before kicking another so hard in the gut he promptly vomits.
The third - the asshole brother who’s not Anatoly - spits something nasty-sounding in Russian and goes for his gun. Matt kicks it out of his hand.
“You fucking - ” the asshole swears and lunges, glancing a lucky punch off Matt’s temple. Matt reels, staggers back, and kicks the asshole in the ribs. Before he can catch his breath Matt’s on him, slamming him into the wall behind him so hard his brains probably rattle in his skull.
“Nelson!” he growls. “Franklin Nelson and Elena Cardenas! Who were you just talking to? What are they going to do to them?” The asshole says something in Russian and Matt slams him against the wall again. “Answer me!”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” the asshole says. “Read it in tomorrow’s paper. Or go by old lady’s apartment tonight, you’ll see.”
Matt wants to punch the sneer out of his voice, but he doesn’t have time - whatever’s happening, it’s happening now.
“If they die, so do you,” he promises, and knocks the asshole out with a right hook. Then he’s hauling himself up the fire escape, taking off southeast across Hell’s Kitchen, leaping from roof to roof because it’s quicker than fighting the pedestrians and traffic signals below. He hears voices below point him out since he doesn’t have time to stay out of sight, but he can’t care. He’s got to get to Mrs. Cardenas’s apartment. She’s a helpless little old lady, and Foggy…
Matt clenches his fists and runs faster.
He’s two blocks away when he hears familiar voices. “Senor Foggy! Thank you for coming, I do not know what they want, they are saying I go to jail…”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Cardenas, that’s not going to happen.” Foggy. Foggy is there, he should never have left the apartment alone but of course he would rush out to help his elderly client alone, even without Matt. Even if he knew he was risking his life.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, shyster.” Matt doesn’t know that voice. He doesn’t like it.
“Look, officer…”
“Detective.”
“My apologies. Detective...Blake, is it? My client has done nothing wrong. There’s been some sort of mistake here.”
“Really? ‘Cause I got three witnesses say she’s been selling heroin out of here.”
“What?” That’s Foggy and Mrs. Cardenas together. Matt’s close enough to hear their startled heartbeats now.
“That’s ridiculous! Mrs. Cardenas is no drug dealer!”
“There’s a junkie stoned out of his fucking mind right outside her door, pal. How do you think he got that way? Now move over.”
“I’m not letting you take her.”
“Look out, Blake, he’s getting violent - ”
“I see him, I see him - ”
Matt’s close enough to know Foggy’s just standing peacefully in front of Mrs. Cardenas, his heart beating fast with terror, close enough to hear the hammers of the detectives’ guns click -
- and then he’s there, crashing through the window, no time to worry about glass in his clothes because the cops are turning, alarmed, and firing. Matt flips sideways and hurls one of his billy clubs at one of the cops, catching him in the throat. “Get away from them!”
“Blake!” the cop still standing says as the other one chokes and retches. Matt puts himself between the cops and their intended victims. “Move, asshole, or I’ll put you down too.”
“I’m not letting you touch them,” Matt growls - and over the thunder of blood in his ears, he hears Foggy’s heart stutter in surprise.
“You think there’s not a price on your head too?” the standing cop asks. “You know how much the big man’ll pay me for bringing you down after all the shit you’ve been pulling? I pop you and the old lady off and bring Blondie here to sing a little song for him, and I can retire somewhere warm next week.”
Matt hears his joint creak as his finger tightens on the trigger, and throws the other billy club. He hates to lose the weapon, but it’s worth it - it connects and the gun goes flying.
“I’m gonna clear the doorway,” he mutters to Foggy over his shoulder. “When I say the word, you take Mrs. Cardenas and you run, do you hear me?”
“...Matt?”
Shit.
Matt’s heart plummets, but there’s no time to worry about that, because Detective Not-Blake is charging him, fists swinging. Matt takes a fist to the face and feels his lip split. He parries, hooks an arm around Not-Blake’s neck and is about to choke off his air when -
Thwump! “Hey, asshole!”
“No!”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, Blake’s got a gun on Mrs. Cardenas, Matt didn’t even realize he was up again but he is and he’s got a hand on her arm and a gun to her temple. It was Foggy who shouted no, Foggy who Blake shoved to the ground and who is scrambling back to his feet, ready to try for Blake again.
“Foggy, get back!” Matt snaps before he can catch himself, and fuck, if Foggy wasn’t sure of Matt’s identity before he’s got to be now. But Matt can’t care about that - can’t care if the whole world knows who he is, as long as he gets Foggy and Mrs. Cardenas out of this alive. “You pull that trigger, Blake, and I snap your partner’s neck,” he growls, and isn’t even sure if he’s lying.
“You snap his neck, I pull the trigger,” Blake says. “Hoffman, you good?”
“Man, shoot this asshole so we can get out of here,” Not-Blake says, kicking back and connecting painfully with Matt’s knee. Matt tightens his grip until Not-Blake’s gasping for air.
“Stop this,” Foggy says. His heart’s beating out of control. “Fisk wants me, right? That’s what you said. So fine. I come with you.”
“Foggy, no - ” Matt says as Mrs. Cardenas starts protesting in Spanish.
“You don’t need to kill Mrs. Cardenas,” Foggy says. “You just want her out of this apartment, right? Without her lawyer, how long do you think that’ll take?”
He’s either being desperately naive or just trying to buy Matt some time here. Dirty cops like these aren’t going to leave witnesses to a kidnapping alive. They’ll come back to finish the job. But for now, it works. Blake shoves Mrs. Cardenas at Foggy, who catches her with some mangled Spanish words of reassurance, and gestures with the gun. “All right, all right, get over here.”
Matt tightens his grip on Hoffman’s neck. “I won’t let you take him.”
“Listen, you piece of shit - ” Blake starts, but Foggy cuts him off.
“You have to,” he says, moving into Blake’s reach. Blake grabs him by the jacket and points the gun at his head. “I need you to keep Mrs. Cardenas safe. I think you owe me that much.” There’s an undercurrent of bitterness in his voice that makes the bile rise in Matt’s throat. He put that bitterness there.
He nods. “I won’t let anyone hurt her. And Foggy - I’m going to do my job.”
He hopes Foggy knows what that means. He hopes Foggy knows Matt will come for him.
Foggy doesn’t say anything, though, and so Matt drags Hoffman over to his dropped gun, puts his foot on it, and slides it behind him towards Mrs. Cardenas. “Senora Cardenas, coge la arma.” She picks it up, trembling. “Damelo, por favor.”
He loosens his grip on Hoffman enough to hold out his hand, and Mrs. Cardenas places the gun in it. Letting go of Hoffman, Matt steps back quickly, keeping the gun trained on Hoffman and Mrs. Cardenas tucked behind him.
“Anything you do to him,” Matt says as Blake and Hoffman back towards the door with their prisoner. “I will bring it down on you tenfold. So keep that in mind.”
“We're just bringing him in for a little chat,” Hoffman says. “You want to tell the big guy a thing or two? Just look us up.”
They drag Foggy out of the apartment, then, and the door closes on their laughter.
Chapter 5