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Dropping his bag to the couch, Foggy turned toward the half closed bedroom door. To the left the bathroom light was still nonexistent, but there were to his eyes no dead vigilantes inside. His eyes flicked instead toward the bed, which was empty, naturally, the silk sheets twisted and draping off to the far side by the window. Light streamed, as it always did at all hours of the day and night, and Foggy noticed with a start five pale toes peeking out from under the cascade of sheets. In two quick strides he was at the far side of the bed, standing over a very tangled, very pathetic Matthew Murdock.
“What the actual fuck, Matt.”
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Bookmark Notes:
Wow this is just sad.