Chapter Text
Foggy holds Matt’s folded up white cane on his lap, trying not to let it slip from his grasp as the wheelchair gently vibrates him, rolling along the bumpy ground. “Jesus, you’d think they’d make the route from the hospital at least a little ADA compliant.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve already drafted my lawsuit.” Matt says, his tone more mundane than either of them feel. “When you roll in and I play up the blind act, how could we lose?”
Matt is standing behind him, holding the handles of Foggy’s wheelchair tightly, pushing him slowly along the uneven sidewalk. Foggy looks up behind him and… wow. Even from below, Matt is still stupidly charming.
His hair is a beautiful red, his glasses catching the light of the midday sun. His lips are curled up into the same sad smile he’s been wearing for months. Ever since Foggy’s diagnosis, Matt has been taking time off from Daredevil, barely leaving his partner's side for more than a few hours at a time. Even their law office has been put on hold; Nelson and Murdock is shuttered until further notice. Shuttered until ‘ Foggy gets better ,’ as Matt says, but they both know the truth.
“What are you thinking about?” Matt asks gently.
Foggy’s heart skips, which earns him a worried look. “Oh, just about how I’m being chauffeured around by the most attractive man on the planet, meanwhile I look like a melted candle.”
Matt’s own heart skips a few beats at the compliment.
“You don’t look bad, Fog.”
“Oh yeah? Tell that to the kids who keep looking my way, wondering who let uncle fester out.”
Foggy’s skin is pale and gaunt, ever since the chemo started and his appetite vanished, he went from over 200 pounds of huggable cushion to 136 on a good day. His skin hangs on his frame just like his old suit does; like it’s about 3 sizes too big for him. He’s swimming in his vest and bowtie. Eyes red rimmed and with large dark circles, his once full headed hair now a patchy bald scalp hidden under his irish cap. He’s got an itchy wool blanket tucked around his legs that Matt’s been fussing with since they left the hospital.
“I think you look nice.” Matt says breezily, and Foggy is surprised to feel some life flushing back into his pale cheeks.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Murdock.” Foggy grins, crooked and teasing. “Plus, you can’t see. I trust your opinion the least.”
Matt promised to take him out on a lunch date, you know, a real one where they dress up and everything. Where they wear their Sunday best and pretend to rub elbows with the finest, as law partners. They even made a reservation at a fancy restaurant. (Nevermind the fact that Foggy will spend the rest of the night vomiting up the food anyways) Matt tries not to think about how hard they both blushed at the word date. Matt also tries not to think about how much he liked that.
The hospital was stuffy today. It wasn’t so much the heat or the humidity of Foggy’s hospital room, but the weight pressing down on them, one that has nothing to do with the temperature. Matt can barely stand to be in that place sometimes. Beyond his own unpleasant memories, it’s just the sounds of people dying, their chemical breath clogging up his lungs, the feeling of time having no meaning. It’s a wonder Foggy hasn’t gone insane yet.
But he hasn’t. Matt is honestly confused why Foggy isn’t more scared. He can hear it sometimes, when he leaves Foggy’s room to go get something from down the hall. He tries not to clench his jaw when he hears how fast Foggy’s heart gets, his breathing ragged, tears slipping out even as he tries to stop them. He knows that dread feeling of death being around the corner. And yet, whenever Matt comes back in, Foggy is all witty lines and soft smiles. Like he’s accepted that he’s scared, but also that someone is here for him. Like he’s not standing on the edge of a knife. How can he be so positive? So pragmatic? Matt tries not to bite his own tongue off when Foggy’s doctor comes in to give them more bad news. He refuses to believe that this can end with anything other than them walking out of here together, cancer free and ready to take on the world.
It’s not easy watching Foggy lay in his hospital bed day after day. Even walking to the bathroom now leaves him exhausted, his muscles weak and shaky after a few steps. Foggy has also made a habit of falling asleep holding Matt’s hand most days, Matt softly rubbing his fingers across the thin knuckles. Both of them try to pretend it’s something platonic.
They roll into Central Park easily, the path becoming less rough and transitioning to smooth asphalt.
Foggy was going stir crazy, and Matt promised.
“So, where do you wanna see first?” Matt asks, his head tilting and his nostrils flaring, “There are some flowers blooming by that bench over there. Nice view of the lake too.”
Foggy smiles. “Still kinda weirds me out you know that. Can you hear the flowers opening or something?”
Matt grins crooked, pushing the wheelchair closer to the benches. He parks Foggy next to the armrest of the bench, facing the scenery. Matt takes the seat next to him, their shoulders almost touching. “Nah. Actually, I can smell fresh pollen. And the lake is easy, since I’ve never heard the ground slosh and move like that.”
“Oh really? You’ve never had a shot of Josie’s moonshine, then.”
Matt laughs, tilting his head back in that perfect way he always does. God, Foggy feels drunk and he hasn’t even touched a glass. It’s his only saving grace that Matt can’t see the absolutely besotted smile on his face.
The air goes quiet between them, and Foggy takes a deep, rattling breath. It smells like cut grass and spring. Sunlight warms his face and he closes his eyes, soaking it up. Wind blows, warm and buzzing with the sounds of the birds and the people walking nearby. It feels like a symphony of life being orchestrated just for them. Waves lapping softly against the shore, sunbeams falling down through the clouds like gifts from heaven. He wonders how he never realized life could be so beautiful. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever get this again.
He wipes the tears forming before they can fall, and Matt turns his head, quietly pretending not to notice.
“So,” Foggy says, clearing his throat, “Remember college, when we’d head back up here on the weekends?”
Matt nods, his chest panging at such an old memory.
He remembers the soft moments, the silly little games they would make up. The way Foggy’s voice got so loud when he was excited about something. He remembers the feeling of a warm hand on his arm, guiding him around, full of hope and ridiculous confidence. Like they belonged everywhere, like nothing could touch them. It feels like it happened to two other people.
“And you remember how I used to narrate everything?” Foggy grins, scanning the park until his eyes widen, catching something. “Well, two o’clock, by the fountain. Someone should call the CEO and let him know his Chief Financial Douche isn’t making it back by lunch.”
Matt’s head tilts in the direction Foggy is looking. Expensive fabrics shifting as a man breathes slowly and deeply, his cologne overpowering and pricey. A ketchup stain on his tie, a half eaten hotdog slowly slipping out of his hand as he starts slumping onto something made of creaking leather; a briefcase.
“Let me guess, Mr. Wall Street over there is about to faceplant on his briefs?” Matt guesses, his eyebrow quirked.
“Ding Ding Ding!” Foggy crows, his smile growing wider, “I can’t wait for his hotdog to splat on the floor. Maybe we’ll see some rats fight for it, like a nature documentary.”
Matt smiles too, the enthusiasm infectious. He listens in, hearing a group of children walking through the park with two older women, their laughter loud enough to give him a headache. One of the women, an older one, starts yelling. Matt points. “What about that lady over there? The one who smells like cigarettes and old books?”
Foggy looks around for a moment before wincing at the verbal thrashing he can tell is going on. “Oh, that would be Scrooge's sister, who apparently got a job as a teacher despite having a scathing hatred for children. Seriously, Matt. I wish you could see this lady. Her eyes practically glow red.”
Matt giggles, honest to god giggles, and leans his head against Foggy’s shoulder. The resulting stutter of a heartbeat almost doesn’t show on Foggy’s face. Almost. He can’t help it.
They play it like that for a while, tossing jokes back and forth like normal. Like they’re still those college kids, still untouchable. But Matt can feel it. Foggy’s bones, all sharp angles pressing against his shoulder. His voice getting thinner every time he talks. Eventually, Matt is describing the sounds of squirrels in a nearby tree when he realizes that Foggy stopped responding.
“...Foggy?” Matt asks, zeroing in on his friend.
Foggy’s breathing is light but deep, his head resting on his shoulder in a way Matt knows will make it hurt later. His eyes are shut, his mouth parted and drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. Foggy usually can’t make it through a day without a few naps, even on the good days. This excursion has been a lot on him and Matt knows it.
He lets Foggy sleep for a minute, listening to the sounds around them, his smile slowly fading. Matt can’t understand how Foggy can find the beauty in everything he sees. The birds, children playing, the sunlight shining down on them… it all just sounds like a reminder, like a clock ticking. Like the whole world has decided to move on without them. Matt clenches his jaw at the unfairness of it all. Even Foggy’s heart sounds like a bittersweet reminder of the reality neither of them want to face.
Matt hesitates, his fingers twitching before reaching out. He delicately runs his fingers along Foggy’s cheek and lips, sensing how the skin hangs, paper thin and frail. The last time Matt did this was in college, when Foggy felt plump and warm and alive. When his face still had a fullness to it. Now, it’s all paper skin and glass bones. Still… he’s still beautiful. Even now, he’s still the most beautiful thing Matt’s ever felt. He shuts his eyes, even though it makes no difference.
Foggy stirs, his eyelids fluttering at the touch. Matt jerks his hand away.
“M…Matt?” he asks, gently sitting up and realizing where they still are. He wipes the edge of his mouth, his hands shaky. “How long was I out?”
“Not long, buddy. Figured I should let you get a beauty nap before we go have lunch.” Matt replies, earning him a snort. Matt stands up, stretching his back.
Foggy’s lips are rough, cracked and dry, and Matt subconsciously licks his own lips. He reaches into the little backpack slung across the handles of Foggy’s wheelchair. Pulling out a water bottle and a bendy straw, Matt gently nudges it into Foggy’s hands, and Foggy gives a little scoff.
“Thanks, Mom.” He says sarcastically.
“Drink.” Matt’s voice leaves no room for argument. “Please.”
Foggy’s hands shake as he goes to lift the water bottle, his lips trying to catch the straw. He gets about halfway up before his hands tremble so bad the water spills over the side. “Shit,” Foggy mumbles under his breath, his arm not strong enough to lift it the rest of the way. His back slouching, he lets out a frustrated sigh.
Matt shifts, hand moving forward but stopping short.
“If you need help…” Matt says, his voice quiet and carefully controlled.
Foggy sighs louder and relents, holding the bottle towards Matt.
Matt takes it gently, holding the water and bringing the straw up. Foggy latches on and starts taking sips, careful not to choke on it. Matt rubs Foggy’s shoulder gently as he drinks.
After a while, Foggy lets go of the straw, glancing up at Matt before looking away. “...Thanks.”
“No problem.” Matt says honestly, putting the cap back on before tossing everything into the backpack once more.
“So, where to now?” Foggy says, his tone overly bright.
Matt clears his throat, thinking. “We still have that lunch reservation at Minetta, we should probably head over there now.”
Foggy’s smile flickers, too quick to catch unless you’re Matt Murdock. “And you’re paying, of course?”
“When do I not?” Matt grabs the wheelchair handles, guiding them back onto the path. “Besides, our debt’s already combined. No divorcing me now.”
Foggy tries not to giggle over the thought of them practically being married. Financially, at least.
“So, was the park good?” Matt asks softly.
Foggy adjusts his blanket, tucking his legs in as they start their long walk. “...It was. It really was.” Foggy says, looking back up at Matt’s face once more, his smile settling into something more sweet.
-----
White cane and wheelchair be damned, it seems New York is attempting to squash them.
Matt can’t see faces but he knows they’re getting annoyed looks. At least five people have bumped into Foggy’s shoulder with their bags, the rush of the afternoon foot traffic on the sidewalk nearly suffocating. Taxi cabs relentlessly honk their horns, an endless barrage of sounds and smells and textures that’s left Matt frowning as he pushes an increasingly nervous Foggy to their lunch date.
“I wish we could’ve taken a cab…” Foggy mutters, looking up and around at the faces that pass by. A few glance out of pity, most out of annoyance. Foggy shrinks back a little more into his seat.
“You wouldn’t let me carry you bridal style.” Matt goes for a joking tone but ends up somewhere near apprehensive. “Honestly, Nelson. What’s the point of being sick if you can’t milk it?”
Foggy gives a weak smile at the joke, and Matt grips the handles a little tighter.
Neither of them expected it to be so busy in this part of town, at least not at this time of day. What a fool they both were. Foggy’s wheelchair is bulky and awkward, and Matt can hear him gripping his armrests like his life depends on it.
Matt is a block or so from their destination when a particularly quick woman knocks Foggy so hard with her bag, his irish cap knocks off his head with a tiny, pained hmmpf .
“Hey!” Matt yells, locking onto her arm and grabbing it with more force than strictly necessary. Her head whips towards him, her heart hammering up a few notches. “What the hell is your problem-”
“Matt.” Foggy says quietly, and Matt falters. Foggy reaches for his fallen hat with shaking hands, pulling it over his bald head in embarrassment. Matt slowly releases his grip on the woman's arm.
“Asshole.” The woman calls over her shoulder as she continues on.
In her wake, Foggy shakes his head, a strange tension in his heartbeat that pings in Matt’s brain as a warning to back off. Matt can smell the nervous sweat beginning to emanate from Foggy’s pores.
“Foggy?” Matt asks, his head tilting.
“It’s… fine. We’re gonna be late for our reservation.”
A moment of silence passes them by.
“Are you sure-”
“Can we please just go, Matt?” Foggy interrupts, his eyes glancing around anxiously.
Matt still doesn’t move, and Foggy makes a pitiful attempt to push his wheels himself. The loud exhale of effort and the shaking of weak arms brings Matt back to reality. He grabs the handlebars and starts pushing as he hears several curses being muttered about them. Apparently, New Yorkers have never heard of personal space before.
By the time they make it to the restaurant, there’s a line out the door, and Matt pushes the button that makes the entrance swing open and stay there. A rush of warm air welcomes them into what can only be described as a fancy sounding establishment.
“Excuse me, sir, do you have a reservation?” A woman standing near the entrance asks, apparently the hostess.
“Um, yes. Erm… Nelson and Murdock, table for two at 12:30.” Foggy mumbles out, glancing down at his blanket like it’s suddenly become interesting.
The woman flips through her reservation book, and Matt hears her smile. “Ah, yes. Here we are. Please, follow me and I’ll show you to your table.”
Matt pushes the wheelchair slowly past the line of impatient walk-ins standing in the cold, and the second they reach the main room, Foggy’s heartbeat skyrockets.
“What’s wrong?” Matt leans down and whispers.
“...Oh, nothing. Just everyone staring at the skeleton being rolled in.” Foggy explains, his eyes flitting around the room. His hands reach for his hat and pull it down tighter. Matt sighs, this conversation wearing him out.
“You are not a skeleton.”
Foggy subtly shakes his head, not believing him, apparently. His heartbeat has been anxiously fluttering ever since they made it onto the main road. Now, it’s sounding like a sledgehammer beating against cloth. Matt can hear the small gulps Foggy is making, his gaze kept downward, only flickering up just to wince and look back down. Foggy’s never been the type to be so self conscious, not even when they were freshmen and Foggy would stumble over his words, all false bravado, trying to impress pretty girls.
The memory makes Matt’s chest sting with familiar jealousy.
Matt takes a long sniff of the air as he pushes the wheelchair through the tables, tracking the hostess in the back of his mind. “I already know what I’m ordering.”
Foggy’s head perks up a little, barely noticeable. “Oh?”
“The spinach fazzoletti . Guy on your two o'clock ordered it and…” Matt’s nostrils flare subtly, “The pasta was made this morning, eggs from a local place on the corner. Even the flour was milled not too long ago.” Another sniff. “The duck sauce has fresh tomatoes and just the right amount of garlic and oregano.”
“Impressive, my little bloodhound.” Foggy says quietly, making Matt snort. They pull up to their table while the hostess drags one of the seats away, and Matt gently rolls Foggy into place before sitting on the opposite side. Menus and glasses of water are neatly placed in front of them, and the hostess jarringly grabs Matt’s hand and connects it with his drink. Matt tries not to grimace.
“Your server should be over here shortly. Please, let me know if either of you need anything else.” She says politely, the tension in her voice barely noticeable.
“Thanks.” Foggy mumbles as she walks away.
Matt knows the tone of her voice. Maybe Foggy hasn’t gotten used to it yet, but that pity is impossible not to hear for him. It makes them both have second thoughts about coming here. Still, the ambiance is nice, though, soft conversations floating around them. It’s pleasantly humid. A loud clearing of the throat lets Matt know Foggy is about to speak before he does.
“A blind man and a wheelchair user sit down in a fancy restaurant… Why do I feel like this is the start of a bad joke?” Foggy blurts out, attempting humor but the delivery is all shaky and wrong.
Matt gives him a wobbly smile, “A fancy restaurant? What makes you say that?”
Foggy stares at him blankly, blinking twice. “Are you kidding me?”
Leaning forward onto his laced fingers, the tablecloth gently resting on his lap as Matt tries his best to look in Foggy’s general vicinity.
“Describe it to be.”
Foggy scoffs, slouching back into his chair. “Well, for starters, there’s a real vase with real flowers and a candle in the center of our table, not to mention a real tablecloth. It doesn’t even have any stains on it.” He explains, slowly relaxing as he talks. “The room is dimly lit and there are soft yellow lights everywhere. The floor is checkered black and white, like a chess board, and the walls have little floral patterns of brown covered by lots of old photos. Probably historic.” Foggy chuckles, his gaze settling on a nearby table. “The waiters are all wearing vests and ties and everything. The menus are neat, and… dear god. Is that really the price?!”
Matt smiles, a genuine one this time, a warm feeling settling over him as Foggy becomes less and less tense. He could tell straight away this place is old, the smell of heavy dust lingering in the air. The creaking of the old floorboards, the light clink of expensive jewelry on nearby diners. Freshly cut lilies sitting in real porcelain. Matt gently reaches across the table, feeling for his glass of water and totally not meaning to bump into Foggy’s fingers, which were resting on the table in front of him. So what if he gets a rush from the way Foggy’s breath quietly hitches at the contact?
Matt takes a long sip of his drink. “What are you gonna order?” he asks, his smirk slightly irritating.
Rolling his eyes, Foggy takes a look at the menu in front of him, scanning down the options. “Well, I could go big and get the New York strip, but considering everything we’re paying for right now, I think I’ll go with the steak frites.”
“Money is not an issue.” Matt retorts, his tone brisk. “Seriously, Foggy. Get whatever you want.”
Foggy gives a weak little grin at that. “Matt…”
“Come on, Fogs. I’ve seen you barely flinch at ordering three entrees before.” Matt quips, his tone bordering on pleading. Like nothing has changed, like this might not be the last time Foggy gets to eat food that isn’t from a hospital. Matt’s jaw clenches.
“Matt, come on. I don’t want to spend a ton of money on something I can’t even taste very well.” Foggy explains, readjusting his loose suit and bowtie. “Besides, we both know that the treatment is expensive-”
“Foggy. I said I would handle it.” Matt’s voice is like ice.
Foggy pauses, glancing up. He tucks his blanket in one last time before settling in for a tough conversation. He spreads his fingers lightly across the menu. “Matthew. I know you said you’d help pay for my treatment. And I am grateful, I am.” Foggy gently reaches across the table, settling over Matt’s hand with his own. Matt swallows, not in a pleasant way this time. “But we aren’t rich, and I sure as shit don’t have the money to be splurging right now. I don’t know where you’re getting the money from, but please promise me you’re not digging yourself into debt. Please don’t do that, because I’m not worth it.”
Matt feels like he’s been slapped. He chokes.
“You are.” Matt says wetly, clearing his throat before it can shake. “You are worth it, Foggy. Every penny.”
They both know their eyes are watering, and both are too polite to mention it. Foggy quickly wipes a tear away, sniffing and leveling his own voice before it can catch. “I know you mean it, Matt. I just meant… it’s not worth spending money on something we both know has almost no chance of working. The doctor said my treatment is like a bandaid on a bullet hole. I don’t want to… I don’t want to leave you with all that debt.”
“I’ll figure it out, Foggy.” Matt explains, shaking his head. “I always figure it out.”
“But what if you don’t, Matt? What if you spend thousands just for me to die anyways?”
“No.” He says abruptly, his tone final. Matt’s face is made of stone now.
“Matty-”
“No.” Matt says, his voice sharp. Foggy can see the way Matt shuts down before his very eyes. “That’s not happening.”
Foggy’s lip trembles lightly before he swallows down the lump in his throat, turning away. It takes a moment for him to be able to speak again.
“I just want to be prepared, Matt.”
They sit for a moment, fidgeting, the roar of the restaurant's chatter seeming deafening in comparison to their silence. Foggy can see Matt’s head tilting, deliberating. He’s almost certain Matt is honing in on the beating of his heart.
Matt pauses, licking his lips. His throat bobs, “Fogs…”
“So sorry for the delay, gentlemen, I’ll be your waiter this evening.” A man says pleasantly, making Matt jump slightly at the interruption. He didn’t even hear him coming. The bubble has been popped, and Foggy looks up with a tense smile as the waiter glances between them.
“Are you guys ready or do you need a little more time to decide?” He asks smoothly, his hands posed to start writing.
Foggy glances to Matt, the clench of his jaw and the way his shoulders are squared. His whole body tense and closed off. Foggy knows this is a sore subject. Whatever leeway they were making, however close to finally breaking down their carefully crafted walls, it’s gone now. They might as well enjoy the rest of their evening.
“Yes, I’ll have the steak frites, please.”
Matt’s frown is only barely visible.