Archive of Our Own

“I’m not going to cry,” Foggy says under his breath. “I’m a grown man, I’m not---”

Gold light flickers over polished wooden pews. Foggy stands on the stage to the left of the groom and about two inches from burning his hair off on one of the three hundred candles. In the front row, Anna Nelson ducks under her giant peach hat and blows her nose. There’s a few more blonde people in the room than the law of averages generally allows, but it’s a Nelson wedding. Most of the Nelsons are one dish-water shade of blonde or another.

Three rows back from Foggy’s stepmother, Matt’s dark tangle of hair stands out like the X on a treasure map. He full-body twitches when Foggy’s eyes land on him.

Foggy clenches his hands behind his back and turns his attention to the wide doors. The music starts. There’s a huge creaking sound as everyone turns at once, even Matt, who does it out of tradition.

The doors open.

Foggy’s chest begins to sputter like a busted faucet. Oh, damn. It’s his baby sister.

Candace enters the room on Edward Nelson’s arm and the sprinkler system behind Foggy’s eyes code reds instantly. He huffs and blinks rapidly. Anna honks again.

Vincent (the groom) wheezes like a balloon deflating. Foggy steps within catching distance, but Vincent jiggles his knees like he was taught and doesn’t pass out. Which means Foggy can watch Candace walk down that aisle like it’s the 1st grade beauty pageant all over again. Aw, crap. Foggy sniffles. She’s technically his half-sister, but that’s bull crap. He was at the hospital for her birth. He’d face-planted against the window of the nursery and got his snot all over it as he goggled over her how cool her weird-shaped head was and why was her skin so wrinkly and yellow?

Candace is dry-eyed when she gets to the altar but Edward is a sopping mess. She kisses their dad on his glowing red cheek. He burns even brighter and sobs a little. On her way up the stairs, Candace winks at Foggy.

Fuck off, Candace!

Tears stream down Foggy’s face.

The ceremony is short. Candace has no patience for anyone else’s wedding ceremony or bar mitzvah ceremony or burial ceremony or birthday celebration or, come to think of it, any kind of party. It’s a miracle she was able to stay off her computer long enough to attend her own wedding. If Foggy were to get married---bad train of thought. Candace and Vincent exchange vows they wrote themselves while holding hands and a minister guides them through the ritual of exchanging rings. And then, that’s it. Candace puckers up dramatically, Vincent plants one hell of a kiss on her, and she’s a married woman. Legally, this time, unlike that thing in Ohio that no one talks about.

Behind him somewhere, Anna wails like she’s at Aunt Hillary’s wake again.

Everyone stands to watch the newlyweds depart. So much nose blowing happens that Foggy’s thoughts turn to Matt, so Foggy seeks him out of the crowd. Matt looks a little pinched between one of Foggy’s cousins and one of Foggy’s other cousins. He’s a little pale maybe. Those super senses must love all that mucus shuffling. Foggy follows the rest of the wedding party outside to the cool night air and city traffic and stands on the steps to receive the guests. Foggy gets asked the usual questions: How are you? Are you married? Any kids yet? Why did you give up that internship?

When Matt comes through the receiving line, the wedding party reaches out to him to let him know where they are. They’re pros, Foggy thinks, making himself sad. Matt has been a part of nearly all the Nelson family functions since the age of eighteen. He’s single-handedly made ableism part of the Nelson vocabulary. A gust of air stirs up Candace’s hair as Matt leans down to peck her on the cheek like she’s family. When he pulls back, Candace beams up at him and he beams back. Where does the act end and the man begin?

Foggy watches Matt come down the line of people, kind of like if Indiana Jones had just sat on his ass while waiting for that giant ball to flatten him, and when Matt reaches him, Foggy does not put his hand out to shake. It’s a dick move on his part. Matt can’t act like he knows Foggy is there, so Matt has to just stand there silently in front of Foggy, waiting for the person in front of him to move on so Matt can get to the groom.

It’s the closest he’s been to Matt since Matt shoved him out of the way of the gunfire. There’s a tiny cut by his nose, freshly scabbed over and pink around the edges. Other than that, Matt is square-jawed and handsome. Shining with health. He certainly doesn’t look like he’s wasting away from the repercussions of his bad habits. Foggy hates him.

Matt’s head turns in Foggy’s direction when Foggy’s heart starts jack-hammering.

“Asshole,” Foggy says so so quietly.

Matt sucks in air. He can’t react.

Aunt Betty finally stops frenching Vincent’s hand. Matt continues past Foggy and Vincent shakes Matt’s hand heartily (traitor) and talks at a near shout like Matt is deaf not blind. Matt steps back like he got hit by a gust of powerful wind. Foggy winces reflexively, but focuses on grasping Little Pete’s hand forcefully enough to break a smaller man’s bones. Little Pete has a thing about weak handshakes. Foggy made the mistake of gently shaking Little Pete’s hand once when he was little and subsequently found himself duct-taped upside down to the staircase.

He still can’t wrap his own presents. He has to buy gift bags for everything.

The guests clear away from the street at last, heading toward cars or walking in the direction of the reception hall. The wedding party has a white stretch limo to bring them to the hall because Vincent is that guy, and Foggy loves that guy, but when he tries to climb in, Candace puts her palm on his face and pushes him right back out. He holds onto the door and blinks at her. She smiles and points behind Foggy’s shoulder. Foggy doesn’t have to turn around to know Matt is lingering on the steps.

“Walk with your friend,” Candace orders, eyes gleaming hellishly.

“Candy,” Foggy moans. “He is not my friend. We have *talked* about this---“

“Yeah, and I heard you! But are you really going to leave a blind guy to navigate his way through the dark city streets? C’mon! He could get hurt.”

“Firstly!” Foggy counts down on his fingers. “What does it matter if it’s dark? He can’t see! And secondly, and more important than the first, give Matt some credit. He can take care of himself. How do you think he got here? Luck?”

“It’s my wedding.” Candace points to her wedding dress to illustrate her point, and well, she’s not wrong. “I’m the boss.”

Drinking something pink from a glass flute, Vincent nods helpfully. Foggy decides then and there that thing that bothers him about Vincent’s face is that it is also a rat’s face. Vincent reaches up to scratch his cheek as if he can sense the direction of Foggy’s thoughts.

Candace pries Foggy’s fingers off the door and smirks at him as she swings it shut, forcing Foggy to step back or lose his nose. It pulls away from the curb almost immediately with a completely unnecessary screeching of tires, and with them goes what could be his last goddamned opportunity to ride in a goddamned stretch limo. Goddamnit.

Foggy glances at his watch. The photographer will already be at the reception prepped to take photos by now, photos that Foggy is supposed to be in. Candace’s is cutting things close with this act of sibling betrayal. Not to mention the quality of the photos; Foggy will be sweaty and thinking about Matt the entire time. Nothing new there. Ha.

Foggy chuckles pitifully to himself. The traffic whizzing by swallows the sound.

“You don’t actually need to walk me,” Matt says from behind him, and Foggy rolls his eyes at the sound of Matt’s low voice. Matt has wandered closer. Foggy can smell the subtle and expensive cologne Matt reserves for his hottest dates. “I can find my way there.”

“You know that and I know that,” Foggy says. “To the rest of the world, I just look like a jerk.”

Foggy turns and eyes Matt up and down critically. Matt twirls the cane and manages to make it look bashful. God, he’s really too fucking pretty. It’s obscene.

“Come on, already,” Foggy says and holds out his arm.

Matt cracks his knuckles like he’s about to throw a punch before he takes ahold of Foggy’s bicep. Foggy doesn’t look down at Matt’s knobby fingers compressing the coat sleeve because he’s afraid his heart will lurch and he’s certain that Matt will interpret what that means correctly: I miss you. You ruin me. Let me come home. Instead, he calls upon years of terrible war movies, squares his shoulders, and marches.

It’s ten blocks to the reception. Close enough for most of the guests to be chugging along ahead of them. Twirly skirts and glimmering fabric poke out of the crowd ahead, along with the occasional titter of familiar laughter. It’s admittedly surreal to be on this darkening street among a crowd of strangers, to have his family swirling so close but out of reach, with Matt on his arm like he never cut Foggy loose. It feels like a fog could swoop in and steal away everyone he loves.

“You seem nervous,” Matt says. “Your sweat tastes bitter.”

Foggy stumbles a step. Matt’s hand tightens on Foggy’s arm.

“I feel like you never mentioned you could taste my sweat,” Foggy says and sweats aggresively.

Matt shrugs. His chin follows a hunched figure wearing a hoody before he redirects to Foggy.

“It’s not a bad taste,” Matt says. “I taste a lot of what I smell. Don’t get weird about it.”

“Me?” Foggy says. “Me. Get weird? It’s like you don’t even know me.”

“Calm down,” Matt says casually, and Foggy has to admit, he is getting a little screechy. Matt tugs them forward and it’s then that Foggy realizes they’ve stopped in the middle of the crosswalk. An annoyed taxi driver lifts the back of her hand at Foggy. Get a move on!

Matt is terrible for his health.

“Maybe don’t talk to me,” Foggy advises when they are back on the sidewalk.

Four blocks to go. They pass one of his uncles who has stopped to peer at the boarded over window of an establishment that may or may not have been a strip club that may or may not have actually been a prostitution den. Matt double takes and makes a gag-me face at Foggy. Foggy primly does not acknowledge it.

“Come on, Fog,” Matt says. “Karen’s been talking to me for six months. Ease up a little.”

They wait at another crosswalk. Foggy glares at the don’t-walk sign until it lets them go.

“Good for Karen,” Foggy says. “You should have brought her. And talked to her. Actually, maybe we can still call her---” Foggy goes as far as to reach for his phone, but Matt stops him with a gentle touch to the back of Foggy’s wrist and Foggy shuts up and goes stiff. Matt backs off immediately. Foggy peers anxiously ahead. He can discern four distinctly Nelson-shaped heads in the distance. Maybe they should run to catch up.

“Ok, so no talking,” Matt says. “Maybe you could do some listening then?”

Foggy picks up the pace. He drags Matt around two old men holding hands.

“Or not,” Matt says a little breathlessly as he dodges a bicycle rack.

Foggy can’t help looking over his shoulder, skimming his eyes over the beautiful curve of Matt’s jaw structure to where the old men stroll leisurely behind them. One of them, nearly bald and with glasses so thick they magnify his eyes by about 6000 percent, lifts his head off the other’s shoulder. He blinks those big eyes at Foggy and smiles softly in gentle comradeship. Foggy smiles tightly back because he’s a sucker for daydreamers. When Foggy shifts his focus ahead again, he notices Matt ducking, the fingers of his free hand grazing over Foggy’s coat sleeve as if trying to measure the thread count.

“This is new,” Matt says. “I like it.”

Foggy is not a complete asshole, so. “Thanks, Matt.”

When they get to the reception, the doors are wide open. Light and music spill out onto the steps. Most of the wedding party is lined up by the stair railing, but Candace and Vincent are off somewhere. Foggy pulls his arm away and Matt turns to him. Foggy can’t let him talk.

“The stairs are to your right,” Foggy says. “10 steps, maybe eleven. Anna is by the doors. She can help you find your seat. I have to…” Foggy gestures emptily.

“Right,” Matt says. He sways uncertainly on the sidewalk while Foggy waits to escape, then purses his lips and steps forward, close enough that Foggy would stumble back if not for the danger of falling off the curb. Matt grasps Foggy’s bow tie with both hands and gives it a tug, undoing it. Foggy jerks to look reflexively and his chin knocks Matt’s fingers.

Matt nudges Foggy’s jaw and grazes Foggy’s throat with his knuckles. Foggy lifts his gaze to the sky. Not a single star is visible beyond the city light. He begins reciting city zoning regulations within his head. Little tugs on his neck make him lose track of the codes. He looks down and finds Matt’s thick eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he struggles to perfect the bow.

“Not too subtle,” Foggy whispers. “You shouldn’t be able to do this.”

“People explain away what they don’t understand,” Matt whispers back. His breath is warm and smells like mint. “They won’t even notice.”

When he’s done, Matt tweaks the bow just a little bit more then lifts his head and seems to almost look at Foggy in the eyes, but Foggy knows that if he tugged those glasses down, Matt’s soft gaze wouldn’t connect.

“You look really good, Foggy,” Matt says. “I like when you dress up.”

“You’re not serious.”

“You always said I could tell. You were right. People keep turning to look at you. A girl made a comment about you on her phone. Your weird cousin Timmy keeps---”

“Ok, stop there,” Foggy says. “I dealt with that in therapy. I can’t afford the new material.”

“Even with what you make now?” Matt smiles and pats Foggy on the chest with both hands, stepping back. He takes out his cane and snaps it open with a flick of his wrist. It should not look as cool as it does. “I feel like it would be more constructive to start paying for Timmy’s therapy.”

Foggy can’t help but chuckle. Matt smiles with his teeth and Foggy cannibalizes that like it might mean something, and Christ, what a shit show. He wishes he could turn back time or speed it up, affect it in some way so he’s not just standing here being stupidly in love with Matt Murdock when it’s so clearly not working for them. Foggy glances over Matt’s shoulder and sees some eyebrow raising being done by the wedding party.

Candace has appeared out of nowhere to smirk at him regally from the top of the stairs. The tiara looks like something she was born to wear. Foggy boxes his body and clears his throat, looking very firmly to the left of Matt.

“Have fun,” Foggy says. “Thanks for the help with the tie. There’s drinks while the guests wait for the photographs to be done.”

Matt frowns. “Alright,” he says quietly. “I’ll talk to you later, Foggy.”

Candace stops Matt as he begins tapping up the steps. She does it by gently reaching out and touching his elbow. Matt startles in faux surprise and Foggy huffs, crossing his arms. Two years ago, it wouldn’t have seemed like such a circus act. Matt Murdock, the sad clown.

“Avoid Aunt Betty,” he hears Candance tell Matt. “She’s on new meds. She will try to touch your junk. Not might. Not maybe. Be ready for it. Guard your family jewels.”

Matt says something back, a low rumble, and they both laugh. Foggy rolls his eyes and goes to meet the photographer who appears to be carrying something heavy and round that looks vaguely like a UFO. When he looks back, Matt has vanished inside the hall and Candace is watching him, looking a little too serious for a new bride. Foggy smiles and gives her two thumbs up and manages to drop the UFO.

It bounces, so it’s probably ok. The photographer trips up the steps and a lightbulb smashes, which probably isn’t ok.

Photos go well. He’s sweating a little and yes, thinking of Matt, but he’s gotten adept at drowning out his thoughts with a healthy dose of white noise, sugar, and denial. Candace makes him cry again when she asks for a photo of them. The photographer has to stop to give Foggy time to compose himself. The photo, when printed, will show Foggy and Candace leaning back to back in a circle of street light. Tough guys, these Nelsons.

“I hate weddings,” Candace tells him during one of the group photos.

“Nelsons live for weddings,” Foggy reminds her out of the side of his mouth.

Smiling, smiling, and okay, there’s the flash.

Foggy blinks the spots from his eyes.

“I’m eloping next time,” she says. Vincent pops her on the butt as she wiggles out from between them.

“Cut back on the cheese and maybe she’ll stick around,” Foggy advises, and Vincent looks at him with faint suspicion. The rat.

*

Vincent had insisted on a live 80s cover band. When the photographer is finished with Foggy, a Boy George epic is weeping half-heartedly from the reception interior. Do you really want to hurt me? Do you really want to make me cry? Foggy fixes the tie he’s already managed to damage, fingers lingering where Matt’s had, and steps into the Slytherin underground. That’s what Foggy calls it inside his head anyway: green fabric drapes the walls to hide garish yellow-painted bricks and the tablecloths are silver with green runners. Even the candles are silver. Candace maybe never got over Draco Malfoy and forgot to mention it.

Foggy does a visual sweep of the room. The candles don’t do much to cut the darkness. White-shirted servers slip in and out of the shadows with drinks. He can see a lot of familiar faces underlit by the flickering flames. Matt’s there. Of course he’s there --- sipping something dark from a short glass. The candles shine on the red in his glasses, flames reflecting in the lenses. There’s an empty space next to him. Foggy’s already been put in his place about this: sit by Matt, keep him company, don’t cause a scene. Good boy. Fetch.

He does a round to kill some time while the newlyweds are still outside. He shakes hands, kisses papery cheeks, and explains over and over again that yes, his business venture went under but he’s doing very well at a corporate firm, thank you very much. No, he doesn’t want to work weekends at the shop. Or the morgue. Thanks, though.

“How’s that young man of yours?” Great Aunt Matilda asks, tremors shaking her.

It’s hard for her to speak, each word a victory, so Foggy won’t play it off like he doesn’t know who she’s talking about. So Matt will hear every word. Whatever.

“We’re not friends anymore,” Foggy explains gently. “I can’t speak for him, Til-Til.”

She shakes as she reaches for his hand and squeezes it. Foggy bends and hugs her and her thin white hair tickles his neck. She smells like basic lotion and face powder. When he lifts his gaze, Matt is three tables away talking to a group of Foggy’s younger cousins. They’ve idolized Matt since Foggy started bragging about him 8 years ago. Matt tilts his head in Foggy’s direction as if he feels Foggy’s attention on him and Foggy looks away.

Edward bursts in from outside, eyes beet-red from crying. He goes straight to the stage where the band is playing Careless Whisper. The lead singer, a stern-faced black-haired man with a weird scar under his eye, crouches when Edward approaches him. They speak quietly to each other. The singer nods and gestures to the band. The music quiets down enough to hear the chatter of the Nelson brood pique then fade to a hush of scattered coughs and murmurs.

Foggy hovers near Aunt Matilda, arms crossed. She takes a trembling sip of water.

“Ladies and Gentleman,” the singer burrs inattentively. “Mr. and Mrs. Rodere!”

Applause rips out. Chairs clatter and scrape as everyone stands at once. Foggy claps and shakes his head as Candace and Vincent strut in from outside. Candace does a catwalk turn and Vincent shakes his booty while attempting to moonwalk. Foggy shifts to the side when an elbow nudges his ribs. Matt settles next to him, mirroring Foggy’s stance. He stirs a thin straw in his martini. It has a pink umbrella.

“Stop frowning,” Matt says, with an easy smile. “You’ll make your sister sad.”

Matt bumps his shoulder. Foggy steps widely to the left and stands behind Matilda’s chair with his hands braced on the back. Maybe a bit dramatic. She glances at Matt and pats Foggy’s hand. Matt wanders away, sipping from the glass. He twirls his broken down cane in his other hand like a baton. One of Foggy’s second cousins perks up as Matt passes, like a groundhog sensing spring. She climbs out of her chair and follows after him while her mom snaps photographs.

“Foggy,” Aunt Matilda says. “Did you break his heart?”

Foggy chokes on his tongue. “Til-Til, it isn’t like that,” he argues.

“He keeps looking over here,” his aunt says. “With a face like a frog licked him.”

“He can’t even see!”

“Oh, that’s right.” Aunt Matilda fans her face. Foggy looks up in time to catch Matt smiling into his glass. He empties it and sets it aside just as Scarlett, the young cousin, grabs his leg. Matt plays at being surprised, yipping and waving his hands wildly in the air. Scarlett jumps up and down, crowing with laughter. “I keep forgetting because he’s such a capable young man. It’s too bad it couldn’t work out between you two. Love isn’t everything, I suppose.”

Foggy doesn’t even know where to put that. She’s not wrong. He squeezes her shoulder and refocuses his attention. Candace and Vincent begin their first dance as husband and wife. She twines her arms around his neck and stares up into his eyes with all the glow of the candles reflecting from her eyes. A bubble of intimacy seems to shield them from their audience; they laugh into each other’s face, speaking lowly to one another in absolute privacy. Matt would probably know what secrets they’re trading. If Foggy asked.

Foggy glances over just as Matt tilts his head in Foggy’s direction. Matt lifts his eyebrows. Caught again. Scarlet tugs on Matt’s jacket and Matt bends to pick her up and return her to her mom. Foggy pulls his eyes away, but he can feel Matt coming like a baseball whizzing at his head. It’s a weakness that starts in the knees and turns his muscles into pudding.

“Come on, Matt,” Foggy says under his breath. “Go away.”

“What?” Aunt Matilda says, looking up at him.

Foggy kisses her cheek and leaves her, heading Matt off by the weird uncle table.

Vincent dips Candace. Her tiara falls off. Vincent keeps her hanging and reaches around for it blindly while he kisses her, then tips her back up and plops it messily atop her elaborate coif. Cameras flash from all sides. More than one photo will capture Matt and Foggy facing off, old Uncle Sebastian with his finger buried deep in his nose behind them.

“Foggy,” Matt says.

Foggy grits his teeth.

Matt reaches out and touches his elbow.

“You’re being selfish,” Foggy says.

Matt’s fingers bounce away as if burned.

“My sister’s wedding,” Foggy says so low he knows only Matt can hear it. “You show up and, and, use it---"

“I was invited,” Matt says. “They put the invitation in braille. I couldn’t say no.”

“All fine! All good things, I’m glad for you, but you do not need to speak to me. You do not need to follow me around and, and, give Til-Til false hope! She thinks you’re my sweetheart, you know? So---stop already.”

“The table seating puts us together---I thought maybe you might not want to spend the whole night in awkward silence---”

“I am great at awkward silences---”

“---forgive me for trying to make things easier--”

“---actually, I prefer awkward silences to other kinds of silences, really---”

“---I should have known you’d rather argue---”

“Boys!” Edward says, clapping one heavy hand on their shoulders.

“Mr. Nelson,” Matt says quietly. He’s as red as a tomato suddenly.

Edward tilts a knowing smile in Matt’s direction and Matt shrinks. He drops his chin and does his version of staring at his feet. His glasses slip down his nose. He pushes them back up.

“I’m going to dance with my daughter,” Edward says to Foggy. “Maybe you should go make sure the food is almost ready? Candace wants to eat before we start any of the games.”

“Sure,” Foggy says. “Sorry, Dad.”

“For what?” Edward says kindly. “I was just passing through.”

The music changes. The lead singer announces the Father/Daughter dance. Edward squeezes Foggy’s shoulder hard, and by the way Matt’s knees dip, mirrors the gesture on Matt. Then he goes out and plucks Candace away from her new husband, swinging her around by the waist and making her honk with laughter. She sounds like a sick duck.

Matt doesn’t say another word. Candlelight flickers over the side of his head, making the auburn in his hair glow like the anatomy of a fire. Foggy shakes his head and walks away. He hears Matt huff behind him but keeps walking. Foggy was fine when he woke up this morning. He’s been fine all week. All month. Not really all year, but these things take time. And now here he is, stooping low enough to fight with Matt at his sister’s wedding.

He’s better than this. Matt’s the problem. Matt makes him crazy.

Six songs later, after Candace and Vincent are starting to shine with sweat and Candace has a wad of five and ten dollar bills bulging from the front of her dress, the caterers come out of the kitchen like a line of carpenter ants, trays raised in the air. They load up the buffet table and pull off the dish covers in a choreographed sequence before fading away to the kitchen, not a single word spoken by any of them. It’s kind of creepy. Foggy organizes the buffet line table by table and catches Candace rooting around Vincent’s tuxedo jacket for his share of the dollar-dance money.

That’s his girl – eyes always on the prize.

The band sings Foreigner with stirring intensity.

Matt bumps into him again in front of the food table. Foggy bites his tongue while he loads potato salad onto the fake fancy plate. One scoop. Two scoops.

“Hey, uh,” Matt says. “Does that have mustard in it?”

“Of course.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Yes,” Foggy says. “It’s great that there is mustard in this potato salad. I’m trying to behave, Matt. You’re making it difficult.”

“I just want to have a conversation,” Matt says. “You don’t talk anymore?”

“We had a conversation, as I recall. Our last conversation.”

“C’mon, Foggy. Don’t be so---hey, does the singer know you?”

Foggy looks over his shoulder. The singer strums the electric guitar inexpertly, long hair falling over his face. He doesn’t look familiar.

“No clue. Why?”

“His heartrate picks up whenever he looks over here.”

“Maybe it’s you, Matt. You’re not exactly difficult to look at.”

Matt starts to shake his head then pauses visibly. “You, uh---you think so?”

Foggy takes Matt’s plate from him and flops potato salad on it violently.

“Ok, so here’s the deal.” He puts a slice of turkey on Matt’s plate, white meat only because the texture of the dark stuff creeps Matt out and Foggy has a tremendous amount of brain space wasted on facts like that. “Temporary truce until this wedding is over because I do not want to get on Candace’s shit list. So let’s get you some food, we’ll sit down at the table Candace has so thoughtfully shoved us side by side at, and we will talk casually and superficially about absolutely nothing. Good?”

Matt sniffs a dinner roll. “I’m all ears,” is what he says. He steals a second roll.

“That stopped being funny in our second semester.”

“You don’t mean that.”

They sit at a table with three of Foggy’s cousins. Triplets.

“Stephanie,” Foggy says in greeting. “Susan. Shaun.”

Stephanie rolls her eyes and continues staring wistfully at the dance floor.

Matt’s knee brushes Foggy’s thigh under the table. Foggy bumps his top teeth with the fork. He stomps on Matt’s toes.

“Ow,” Matt says.

“I want to dance,” Susan says, chin on her hand.

“I’m not dancing,” Shaun says. “I’m allergic to your hairspray.”

Matt puts his ankle over Foggy’s. Foggy elbows him in the gut. Matt bends forward, gasping.

“Who asked you,” Susan says. “I’m talking to Matt.”

Matt freezes hanging over his plate. Foggy takes a big bite of the dinner roll, chewing with his mouth open as he watches with open interest. Is this pale-faced coward the same guy who runs around in cosplay gear beating up ninjas?

“Matt is with Franklin,” Shaun says, like he’s saying it for the millionth time. “They’ve been together for like six years now or something. Can you give it up already?”

“Actually,” Foggy says.

Matt clamps an arm around Foggy’s neck and squeezes.

“Sorry, Suz,” Matt says. “This one gets jealous. And it’s ten years.”

“Excuse me,” Foggy says. Matt crushes Foggy close and plants a firm kiss on Foggy’s temple. Kind of noisily actually. And wet.

“Gag,” Susan says. “Long terms are so boring. Is there an open bar?”

Stephanie shakes the ice in her glass and tips the rest of it back in answer. Foggy turns his head at the same time as Matt. The glasses have slipped down Matt’s nose. The hazel of his soft eyes are nearly gold in the candlelight. Foggy huffs and pokes Matt’s glasses, settling them into place. Matt’s lips part and the neurons heat up in Foggy’s brain space.

Matt tried to get him to dance once, at a school thing. He remembers Matt pressuring him quietly in a dark area of the room while a disco ball spun diamonds through the shadows. He remembers how flushed Matt was, how quick he was to lean on Foggy, the wet slice of his mouth slick with fruit punch. He remembers being far too drunk not to screw things up between them.

Foggy looks away and bends over the plate, scraping for the last of the potato salad.

“Are you giving a speech?” Matt asks.

Foggy nods. He glances at the head table pushed into the corner and loaded with enough candles to make Foggy second guess the wisdom of allowing alcohol. Candace and Vincent lean against one another, shoulder to shoulder, heads tipped together as they feed each other bits of fruit. Foggy’s heart rolls over, slow and heavy. Matt sighs next to him.

“She seems happy,” Matt says. “What does she look like?”

Foggy hesitates, but---it can’t hurt.

“She’s wearing a tiara,” Foggy says. “The jewels in it are green. She’s blonder than usual, so she must have had it dyed. Her hair is up, but there are curls falling down. The gown is white. Full sleeves made out of lace, but it uh, glitters. Like sun on snow.”

"Sun on snow,” Matt echoes. Foggy turns to him and sees Matt smile. “That’s nice, Foggy.”

“I’m a little out of practice,” Foggy admits.

“No, I like it. What color is your tie?”

“My---” Foggy looks down. “Oh, it’s green. Why?”

“It was soft.” Matt frowns. “The singer is looking at you again.”

“Huh,” Foggy says. “I don’t think I know him.”

“But sometimes people just know you,” Matt finishes for him with a lopsided smile that is sadder than anything Foggy has ever seen and that includes himself, outside the dorm, whisper-yelling at Marci to throw his pants out the window. Foggy boggles. If he didn’t know any better, if he weren’t completely trained out of hoping after years of being half in love with Matt Murdock, he’d think…

Matt shifts and Foggy notices Edward headed in their direction, big belly shaking as he moves swiftly around cousins and siblings. Vague anxiety makes Foggy’s scalp prickle.

“How many references to horribly embarrassing childhood moments were you able to fit in one speech?” Matt asks.

Foggy wipes his mouth with a napkin and stands.

“I lost count,” he admits. “Candy Cane, as I will from here on out refer to her, was so naïve to bestow this righteous honor upon me. It’s only fair that I add some excitement to this drab affair.”

Matt shines up at him, and a bubble of the sweetest, most-gentle hurt pops somewhere behind Foggy’s ribs and floods his veins. He breathes in shakily and his father takes ahold of his elbow, guiding him toward the stage. Matt’s a goddamn emotional viper.

“Matt is sticking close,” Edward observes. “That’s not unusual, but I thought you said he had no interest in continuing your partnership.”

“He doesn’t,” Foggy says. “Even if he did, I don’t.”

Edward gives him a look.

“Why do none of you believe me?” Foggy asks. “I am a man of my word.”

“Try not to cause any unnecessary bloodshed with your speech,” Edward advises, completely ignoring him. Smart man. “I can only afford to bail one of you out of jail, and since it’s Candace’s wedding, I think you’d be out of luck for a few days, buddy.”

Foggy smiles innocently.

“I think I’m going to sit down for this,” Edward says, rubbing a hand over his belly like he’s anticipating a stomachache.

Foggy climbs the stage. The singer that Matt says keeps staring at him lifts his head and meets Foggy’s eyes directly as Foggy ascends. His eyes are cold and black and Foggy’s public speaking butterflies fall flat. Huh. The man’s eyes flicker over him as if from a distance.

“Cool guitar,” Foggy says.

The singer strums an off note, roughly, and moves to the side. Foggy cracks his knuckles like he’s preparing to fight and steps up to the microphone, clearing his throat. He looks out at his family, and the few unknowns that are probably from Vincent’s side, and looks at Candace and Vincent, who stop talking and turn to him. Candace smiles at him softly. Foggy nods and his eyes find Matt, who is frowning, a weird tension on his shoulders that looks----

Foggy opens his mouth.

“Sorry about this,” the singer says brightly and grabs Foggy by the front of his throat. Foggy chokes. Everything happens really quickly after that. The singer yanks Foggy back against his body, which is oddly compact and sinewy for an 80s cover band enthusiast, and Matt leaps to his feet, knocking the metal chair over. Foggy gets pushed to his knees and doesn’t feel the landing.

The bored joy in the room shatters; people scatter in panic. His youngest male cousin starts crying with his fist stuffed in his mouth, struck frozen as the bottoms of gowns and pants rush by around him, then he’s plucked off dance floor and tucked sideways under his father’s arm, lost in the chaos. Foggy inhales a long breath that shakes his ribs and barely feels himself get patted down, the phone slipping out of his pocket to be tossed in a black trash bag. White-shirted caterers herd them into groups of six, pointing automatic rifles at their heads. Foggy gasps as the singer grabs him by the hair and rips his head up. He smiles down at Foggy and the scar under his eye doesn’t move, like it’s frozen.

“Foggy!” Matt yells.

Foggy rolls his eyes down, tries to get a look at him, but all he sees is more of his family being pushed to their knees just like him. He watches it blankly. His vision starts to flicker out.

“Uh-uh,” the singer says. “Focus on me now, Franklin. Foggy? Or is it Foggy-bear? You have so many nicknames I’m not sure what to call you.”

Off on the side, Foggy hears grunting, like someone being repeatedly hit. Edward starts swearing boomingly, before he’s suddenly entirely silent. It makes Foggy’s stomach turn over, but it also lights a fire under his numb ass. He needs to think. Breathe, he tells himself. Definitely don’t puke. The singer knows Foggy’s name. He was staring at Foggy before. This isn’t random.

“What can I do to make this go the right way?” Foggy asks. He looks up to meet those opaque eyes and catches the glitter swimming like snakes in them. “How do I keep my family safe here?”

The man strokes Foggy’s hair away from his head. “It’s a little too late for that, I’m afraid.”

Foggy tries to crane away from the touch, but the man backhands him hard enough to slam him sideways. He lands on his bad shoulder and hits his head. Stars burst in his skull. Pain swoops in right behind the pretty colors. Wet gasps chase each other around the room, but a hoarse male shout drowns them out. Foggy groans and lifts his head blearily, red wet trickling into his eye. Matt.

Someone turns the overhead lights on so that the room looks more like a gymnasium than a reception hall. The sea of pale faces makes him dizzy. He finds Candace kneeling, one of the sleeves of her gown torn, tiara gone. They’ve separated her from her new husband. Where are his parents? Maybe they got out. Someone had to have made it out. Nelsons were like cockroaches, only blonder.

He spots Matt halfway across the dance floor, the space between them cut in half. One of the white shirts is stepping on Matt’s back, pinning him down. His glasses are gone. His face is turned in Foggy’s direction and there is a kind of banked rage on his face unlike anything Foggy has ever seen before. He can’t do anything without outing himself, Foggy realizes.

“I’m ok,” Foggy whispers. Blood drips from his head onto his hand.

Matt turns his face and grinds his forehead against the floor.

Someone rolls Foggy onto his belly and grabs his arms, yanking them behind him. A thin piece of plastic, likely a ziptie by the sound and feel, cinches his wrists. The boots of the singer pass into Foggy’s field of view, military grade, and block out the rest of the room. The man bends. His stringy hair and boney face come into sight, upside down. Gravity make everything but his scar sag.

“I think I’ll call you Mr. Nelson,” the man decides. The snakes in his eyes scatter when he smiles crookedly. “Yes, I quite like that. Mr. Franklin Percy Nelson. Fisk sends his regards.”

Foggy is going to die tonight.

With that, the man stands and grabs the microphone. Foggy’s heart thuds dully. His chin drags across the stage as he turns to follow those feet across the stage. He blinks more blood out of his eye.

“Honored guests,” the man says into the mic and it crackles with feedback. “Oops, sorry about that. Bride and Groom! I’m terribly sorry to interrupt the party, but you did pay for a show, and I’m a man who believes in delivering.” He turns and flicks the mic cord, walking back across the stage with it slithering behind him. “I could tell you that you have nothing to be afraid of, but you would know I’m lying, and,” he shrugs and lifts a hand in the air as if to say what can you do? “Well. You should be afraid. My employer isn’t looking for a bloodbath here, but he’s not against it if it proves necessary. Please don’t make it necessary.”

A child starts crying and there’s a desperate female hushing.

“At this moment, your servers tonight will comb through you and ask you one question. Does Mr. Nelson---or Foggy, as you may call him---love you? Yes or no is all that is required. No qualifications. No explanations. Yes or no. The only wrong answer is a dishonest one. I really hate dishonesty.”

Foggy allows himself to shut his eyes for a moment and rests his cheek on the stage. Grit left behind by shoes sticks to his skin. He breathes out, sends a twig skittering, and starts taking inventory. A lighter in case the candles go out. His wallet. His tie clip. A handful of notecards for his speech. God, that stupid speech. He worked on those jokes for weeks.

What would Matt do? Probably break off one of his fingers and stab someone with it. Use his skull as a battering ram. His stupid hard head, Foggy thinks viciously.

“Twelve!” the man suddenly shouts into the microphone, sounding excited. Foggy startles and his heartrate spikes. “Bring your guest to me. I want the full set up here.”

“Yes, Number One,” twelve says flatly.

Numbers, Foggy thinks. Maybe if they never learn names, they’ll be safe. But these men aren’t wearing masks. They came with bare faces. Visible scars. That’s not a good sign.

Foggy opens his eyes to see Matt levered to his feet, arms behind him. He turns his face toward Twelve and whatever is in his sightless eyes makes the other man twist his arm up hard. Matt grunts and bends under the move, sweat already visibly darkening his shirt.

Number One fixes his stare on Matt as he is ziptied like Foggy and led to the stage. Up the steps, he stumbles and lands on one knee and Twelve trips over Matt with a grunt, landing half on top of him before rolling quickly to the side. He jerks Matt off his knee by the back of his neck and shoves him up the remaining steps. Foggy has seen Matt fake-fall often enough to spot the trick.

Number One circles Matt, examining him from head to toe. He waves a hand in front of Matt’s face to test Matt’s eyes and Matt’s jaw flexes. Foggy has seen this a dozen times before, done thoughtlessly and in poor taste, but never before realized how keenly Matt knew his environment, how it must have grated. Number One snaps his fingers an inch from Matt’s nose and smiles widely when Matt flinches. He repeats it until Matt gives in and turns his face aside.

“I admit I was surprised to see you here,” Number One says. “I knew you had been invited, but I didn’t think you’d have the nerve to show. I misjudged you. How odd.”

Matt says nothing.

“Well come here,” Number One says, taking hold of Matt’s arm like he’s luggage. Matt pulls his arm away and Number One grabs him again, tighter. “Kneel by your friend. Slowly now. That’s good. Eight, please pick Mr. Nelson up so that he can have a better view. There we go. Nelson and Murdock together again. Perfect.”

Number One clutches Matt by the hair, presenting his face to the crowd beside Foggy’s. Foggy picks out Anna grouped with some of his aunts. She’s sitting quietly, arm around her sister-in-law, comforting her sobs. One of the numbers comes over to her and blocks Foggy’s view.

“You have so dearly missed your friend, haven’t you Mr. Murdock? All those nights sitting in the dark office you once shared with your plucky best friend. You were spotted outside his building several times. Fisk will be happy to know you just. Couldn’t. Stay. Away.”

Number One yanks Matt’s hair with each word at the end and Matt’s lips pull back from his teeth in a snarl. Foggy shuffles as close as he dares and strains to reach out with his bound hands, pinky just grazing the edge of Matt’s palm. Matt reaches back. He captures two of Foggy’s fingers with his own and the snarl peels off his face. He strokes Foggy’s palm until Foggy gets a symbol.

“What?” Foggy says under his breath. “Is that a light bulb?”

“They’re holding hands,” Eight says.

Number One drops Matt’s head roughly and pulls back. Matt’s fingers convulse around his.

“That’s unexpected,” Number One says, delighted. “Are you in love, Nelson and Murdock?”

Foggy’s hand goes limp.

“Speaking of love.” Number One snaps his fingers again.

The numbers stiffen as one and march through the crowd. They snatch up Anna. Then Matilda, who can only shuffle shakily. Two men pluck Edward off the floor, nose bloodied. The only person left is Candace. When one of the numbers puts his hands on her, she decks him. It’s as solid as any butcher legacy could hope. He spits blood and she grins at him, bracing, but the number is all business. He picks her up again and this time he carries her. They pass Vincent who is standing secured to a pole with a rope around his neck and his hands bound in front. He trembles as she floats out of his reach, knees giving out a little before he scrambles back up the pole.

Foggy’s most important people are then lined up in on their knees in front of the stage and bound. Zipties for everyone. Foggy looks each of them in the eye. He has to.

Number One pokes his head between Matt and Foggy.

“Fisk wishes to convey a message. You shouldn’t have threatened Vanessa.”

Foggy shakes his head. “I don’t know what you mean. Please.”

“Mmm,” Number One says. “I’m starting to think the message isn’t for you, Mr. Nelson.”

Number One pulls out of sight again. Foggy looks sideways at Matt, who has begun to tremble. If Matt’s scared, this is bad. Foggy has already sweat through his clothes. He begins to shiver.

“There's thirteen of them,” Matt whispers. “Five are guarding the exits, but the roof is unsecured. If we could get to the roof.”

“I’m not leaving my family,” Foggy says.

Matt swallows. His fingers stretch for Foggy’s again. “Please, Foggy.”

Number One hops down from the stage and drops the mic, leaving it dangling and dragging against the side. The collision reverberates through the standing speakers. Foggy can’t take his eyes off the man. He’s very thin, but not in a wasteful way. The only part of him that looks vulnerable is his neck, which is long and skinny and likely the cause of the hair. He makes sure Foggy is watching, then begins a slow circle of Foggy’s nearest and dearest. As he gets behind them, he hovers a hand over each of their heads and looks for Foggy’s reaction. A macabre nonconsensual version of Duck Duck Goose.

Edward nods at Foggy when Number One comes to him, pleads with his eyes when Foggy breathes through his nose, keeping his mouth shut and his face flat.

“Interesting,” Number One Says. “You love your father, but you don’t love him best.”

“This is not about love,” Matt says for him. “You’re a sociopath.”

Number One shrugs. He moves on to Anna, then Matilda who has to be held up to keep her on her knees and it makes Foggy start crying at last, warm tears that leak down the sides of his nose.

“I think we can do better,” Number One says, patting Matilda’s crispy hair like she’s a dog.

Candace’s mouth trembles open when Number One stops behind her. Her lipstick is smeared across her cheek. She tilts her chin up even though it wobbles.

“The Bride,” Number One says. “He loves you the best, doesn’t he? He sent you money while you were in school. Came and got you in Ohio. He feels responsibility toward you.”

Candace fixes wide eyes on Foggy. Foggy stares back in mute horror. Number One watches their eyes meet and smiles too big for his face. Foggy shakes his head.

“Well this was easy,” Number One says. He crouches down and pushes Candace’s hair to the side so that he can murmur quietly in her ear. She starts to cry, bending forward at the waist, little hiccupping gasps escaping her. Number One smiles again, this time at Foggy.

“Matt,” Foggy says.

“He just told her that she’s not going to make it to her honeymoon,” Matt grits.

Foggy struggles to get to his feet and falls sideways. Hands grab him and yank him up, nearly ripping his arms out of his sockets. They start dragging him across the stage. A solid thud follows Foggy and Matt grunts. Through the tangle of his hair, Foggy sees two of the numbers holding Matt down while Matt writhes and bucks, arms trapped under him. Matt growls and kicks one of them in the face. Blood sprays the air like wet paint.

“Stop,” Foggy tells him. “Don’t make this worse.”

Matt goes still, breathing hard.

Foggy tries to flick the hair out of his eyes. This could be the last time he sees Matt.

Number One pushes Edward onto his back and steps over his prone body, approaching the stage. One of the numbers puts a black bag over Candace’s head and lifts her by her underarms. The number holding onto Foggy leads him down the stairs.

“Time for that lesson,” Number One says and looks at something behind Foggy.

“Foggy,” Matt hisses, and then a black bag is put over Foggy’s head, cutting out the light. Foggy immediately starts gasping for air. The bag smells stale. The air he sucks in through it tastes like a penny would. The bag is thin enough to see shapes, the rough outlines of movement, but no detail. It’s like that time he walked with his eyes closed to try to get a better understanding of Matt, but couldn’t keep himself from peeping through his eyelashes. Only horrible.

The same set of hands that guided him down the stairs begins leading him across the floor. He can feel a wedding ring. The man has square fingers like Foggy’s.

“Where are we going?” Foggy asks. “Why do we need a hood now?”

Number One is quiet, treading lightly to Foggy’s right.

“Don’t hurt Candace,” Foggy says. “Please. She did nothing to you.”

“That’s not my call,” Number One says serenely. He sounds like he’s chewing gum now.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to bring us to a Starbucks for an evening macchiato? No hood, no service?”

“Shut up, Foggy,” Candace says, from right next to him.

Foggy hears doors open ahead of him and a low murmur of words being exchanged. He feels Candace’s arm brush his and tries to press closer, but the number with a ring holds them apart. A group of footsteps follow behind them as they’re lead out into the cool night air and a part of Foggy is relieved. That cuts the men holding his family hostage by at least a third. Matt can handle that no problem.

“Do whatever you want,” Foggy says out loud. “Do whatever you have to.”

“What’s that?” the man holding Foggy asks.

“Permission,” Foggy says.

He pictures Daredevil’s bloody smile and echoes it under the hood.

They don’t walk for long. That would probably draw attention Fisk wouldn’t approve of. Foggy tries and fails to count the steps. They pass a group of cheering men, probably college kids. Drunk. They can only see this as a hilarious ritual. A rite of passage. They won’t remember it in the morning. They’re pulled to the right. Foggy remembers an ally. The hood is spare enough that he sees brake lights glow red. There’s a metal screech as doors are opened. Candace is pulled away from him and Foggy clenches his hands into fists behind his back. Candace curses at the abrupt handling.

“Don’t you touch my fucking dress,” she hisses. “You motherfucking pigs---“

Her voice echoes. Foggy gets lifted in turn, shoved at a pair of waiting hands that turn him and settle him on the floor of what must be a van. His head spins. Bodies follow after him. He’s not sure how many; the van dips and wobbles under their weight. Foggy sniffs, gets the stench of body odor and metal, but not much else. Not much to go on.

“Fucking assholes,” Candace spits. “Fucking… motherfucking…. Scumbuckets.”

“Don’t insult them,” Foggy tells Candace. “We don’t know what they want yet.”

“They want you!” Candace practically yells. “What the fuck are you involved in, Foggy?”

“It’s going to be fine,” Foggy says. “Really.”

A gunshot rips through the air inside the building. Foggy’s sudden stillness is palpably mirrored by the other men in the van. Screams rise up as if from a carnival ride. Two bursts of gunfire, close together. Foggy would pound his fists in the air if he could. He wants Daredevil to tear them apart.

Number One’s voice comes from somewhere in the front.

“That’s interesting,” he says calmly. “Start the van, Three.”

“Number One,” Three says. “The boys---“

“Are highly trained operatives. Under contract. Start. The. Van. We have what Fisk wants.”

The van cranks to life. Music comes on immediately. Careless Whisper. Research?

Candace laughs next to him hysterically.

“First Ohio,” she says. “Now this. I’m never gonna figure out this wedding thing, am I?”

Foggy doesn’t answer. He tries to focus. The van jolts forward, then turns left, moving slowly. The traffic must be heavy. If he tries, he can faintly hear the other engines surrounding them. Laughter on the street. He could scream, but that would just get other innocent people involved or maybe they would hurt Candace. No, he won’t scream. They pick up speed eventually and his tailbone takes the brunt of the road worker strike. This time of night they’re probably on Hillen Street---it’s quieter. No bars here, only stores that close up around five and rarely open on the weekends. After that, though---Foggy can’t track where they go. There are too many turns. It feels like they must be crossing their own path. Or Foggy isn’t meant for the role of an action movie star.

The traffic seems farther away at one point. Like they’re outside the city.

“Talk to me, Foggy,” Candace whispers, from the dark. They hit a bump that knocks their shoulders together. Foggy leans toward her voice and shifts as much as he can without falling over.

“You want me to tell you a story?” Foggy asks. “Princess and the Pea?

“I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“I know, Candy. Maybe it’s more for me than for you.”

“You really think we’ll be ok?”

Foggy is so glad that she can’t see his face.

“I’m sure of it,” he says. “I have a---well, I can’t call him my friend. Let’s just say he’s somebody I used to know. But he’s coming. And he’s going to save us.”

One of the numbers laughs, low and rumbling. Foggy swivels his head in the direction of the sound and the elastic drags against his throat.

“No one can save you from Fisk,” the number says, and oh great, here comes the speech. “Fisk isn’t a man. He’s an idea. You can’t kill an idea. That’s what makes him so powerful.”

“What the hell does that even mean,” Foggy says. He’s done, so done. He wants to go home, get out of this monkey suit and go the fuck to sleep. “Are you in a cult? Is this a stupid idea cult? I’m sorry, but if this is a membership drive, I think you picked the wrong wedding.”

"I thought you said we shouldn’t insult them,” Candace says in a small voice that belongs to a much younger version of herself.

Oh. Right. Hostage 101.

“Not that cults aren’t reaffirming or---or functional, in their own way,” Foggy tries.

The number moves, a scrape of cloth over the bench, and then is sitting next to him on the floor, body heat like a furnace. It’s not the man with the ring. The smell of him makes Foggy turn his head away. He’s intimately close. He sticks something sharp against Foggy’s neck and three guesses what it is.

“Go on,” the shirt says. He turns the blade so that it nudges under the elastic. “I prefer it when they talk back.”

“Settle down, children,” Number One says. He sounds bored.

The knife goes away, but the number claps an arm around Foggy’s shoulder and pulls him in tight. It’s the least welcome embrace Foggy has ever experienced and he danced with chaperone at his senior prom, and not the cute one.

“Just making friends,” the number says before letting him go.

Number One laughs. “Just don’t ruin Vanessa’s surprise.”

Something heavy hits the roof and rolls across it like thunder. Foggy looks up like he can see past the hood. He feels the number do the same. Thump. Thump.

Foggy smiles to himself.

“What the hell----” the number says, then there’s a flat pop and glass shatters up front.

Foggy clenches against the wall. Tires screech. Dull thuds. Cursing. The van jerks sharply, swerves like a stray bullet, and throws him off the floor and into the air. Free fall. Candace cries out, then goes silent. Foggy hits another male body, bone and muscle, and uses its soft places relentlessly to cushion his fall. He thinks the man hits his head because he doesn’t struggle when Foggy uses him as a human airbag. The van jerks again as Foggy is kneeing his way up the body and throws him back on the floor, hard. Bright pain slams his bad shoulder.

“Candy?” Foggy asks desperately.

“Hello, Mr. Murdock,” Number One says on a thread of excitement. “I recommend you release my driver before he kills us all.”

“Fuck,” the driver says thinly, like the air is being squeezed out of him. “Fuck.”

“Stop the van,” Matt growls. “Foggy! Hold on!”

“We really can’t do that,” Number One says, and there’s a click, and then the crack of a gunshot close enough that Foggy’s ears ring and he seizes away from the noise, slamming his face down. The van speeds on. Foggy lays there not breathing, listening to the sudden quiet up front, the rush of air coming in through a broken window. Wry laughter floats in around the tinkle of more falling glass. Foggy lifts his head and starts breathing again.

Matt, you crazy asshole.

“That’s unfortunate,” Number One says.

“Foggy,” Candace whimpers, from the floor. “Foggy, I think---there’s a lot of blood---“

Up front, the scuffling resumes and the van starts swerving wildly. On the floor, Foggy wriggles on his stomach like an overgrown caterpillar to the tune of grunting and struggling and another cutting concussion, followed by Matt swearing up a storm. Fragments of glass rain down over Foggy and he slides over it with the soft parts of his body. He bumps into a slumped shape that’s not his sister. A warm puddle soaks through his coat.

“It’s not mine,” Candace says quietly. And Foggy remembers the knife.

“Give me the wheel, Matthew,” Number One says, not so calmly now. “Or do you want me to end your precious Foggy so soon?”

Foggy shakes his head frantically and at last displaces the bag. Yellow streetlights whip crazily through the shattered windshield. He can see Candace shoved against the front seat on her side, one leg trapped under the bench that prevents her from sliding around, the bag covering her head. The bottom of her wedding dress is soaked, dark and wet. At her feet, the man who had held a knife to Foggy’s throat is sitting, holding his gut with the butt of the knife sticking out of it. He looks at Foggy with wide, pale eyes, mouth gleaming darkly.

Foggy wiggles closer, soaking up the blood with his clothes. The man watches him as Foggy strains into the tightest ball he can make of himself and yank his arms down, wrenching his shoulder. He can’t help the low cry that escapes him.

“Foggy?” Candace and Matt say as one.

“It’s ok,” Foggy says, panting. He yanks again, gagging at the pain, and gets his bound hands around the obstacle of his feet. “I’ll be right back.” He gets to his knees, warm wet seeping into his pant legs and up front, Number One is kneeling up over the steering wheel, driving with one hand and aiming the gun out the window with the other. The limp hand of the former driver dangles between the seat, blood dripping over his watch and off his fingertips. His head wags with the sway of the van. Foggy crawls up a little more and he can see Matt’s bare hand gripping the door over jagged pieces of glass but the rest of him is out of sight. Matt can’t do this. There’s no way he can do anything from that position but get shot.

“Hey, Candy?” Foggy says.

“What, Foggy?”

“I’m really sorry for ruining your wedding.”

Candace doesn’t answer. Yellow light spins over her hood.

Number One leans more over the wheel and glances away from the road, trying to get an angle on Matt. He shoots again and Matt cries out, fingers spasming loose from the door. He slips on the metal shell. Foggy can hear his feet skitter on the side as he fights to steady himself.

Foggy crawls forward grimly, every thought wiped out of his head. Number One looks at the road once more and the van finally slows down, creeping to a stop. Number One looks back out the driver side window. Foggy hears water. That big smile is back on Number One’s face. A snake with a mouthful of shark bones. No one could love him. No one will miss him.

Foggy brings his bound hands down around Number One’s head and yanks, pulling the other man tight against his front. Everything goes really quiet. He listens to his own heartbeat, steady like an axe hitting oak, and ducks away from the spindly fingers that snatch at his face and hair. Number One kicks and jerks, oily fish noises coming out of his throat, then goes still. Foggy squeezes harder, heart suddenly pounding. Number One gasp wetly.

“Foggy,” Matt says.

Foggy turns his head and there’s Matt’s face in the window, half of it caked in blood, thick eyebrow flattened and crusted. He’s not wearing any sort of mask, not even his regular one. Foggy squeezes and the body in his arms jerks again.

“Let him go,” Matt says, lifting one hand in a calming gesture. “He’s unconscious.”

“I know that,” Foggy says, but there’s Candace. It’s her wedding day.

Matt exhales through his nose, nostrils flaring, and Foggy slowly lifts his arms away from Number One’s throat. The other man stays slumped against him, like a trusted friend taking a nap. He’s light. Matt reaches through the window, wincing, flicks on the emergency lights and picks up the gun from where it had landed on the dash when Number One threw it in the struggle. Foggy pushes the body off him so that he slumps onto the dead driver.

“He’s still breathing,” Matt says. His sightless eyes stagger in Foggy’s direction. His mouth works twitchily, dried blood creasing. “It’s ok. You didn’t kill him.”

“I don’t care,” Foggy says.

He moves to sit against the back of the driver’s seat. He looks over and Candace is breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly. He looks down at his own hands and then uses them, still bound, to pluck the hood off her head. It comes away easily enough, though the elastic tangles in the bobby pins in her hair. She blinks rapidly as she focuses on his face. The mascara has run down her face and the smear of red lipstick on her cheek has softened to a baby pink. Foggy reaches out and cups his hands around hers. They’re cold. Her new wedding band shines in the dim compartment. They turn as one and look toward the twin doors.

Matt opens them and streetlight floods in, over Foggy and Candace, and the two motionless bodies. The man Foggy had used to cushion his fall is still slumped backward over the bench, head at a fucked up angle, leaking blood from his temple. He could be alive. The other guy definitely isn't anymore. His eyes are still open, but unmoving.

Matt gestures them forward without a word. His suit jacket is gone, half the buttons missing from his dress shirt, and one arm seeps blood. Foggy helps Candace get her leg unlocked from under the bench, but the dress is caught. Foggy winces when it starts to tear, but she shakes her head, bobby pins scattering, and yanks on it. They stand together, hunched under the low ceiling and pick their way past the bodies. Foggy breathes in, and out. At the tailgate, Matt limps aside still hanging onto one of the doors and Foggy and Candace crawl out into the free air.

“Here, let me---”

Matt reaches for Foggy’s hands with a small knife, one arm held stiff, but Foggy retreats and nods toward Candace. Matt hesitates, a fine trembling in his fingers, then moves away. He cuts Candace’s plastic and then tugs her in with his good arm, hugging her close with his hand cupping the back of her skull. She makes a sound and clutches the sides of Matt’s ruined dress shirt, burying her face in his shoulder, torn and bloody dress stretched out on the pavement behind her. Foggy watches silently until Matt lifts his face in Foggy’s direction, then Foggy turns away.

They’re on a quiet bridge headed out of the city. The skyline is a few miles away, visible through a layer of trees. No headlights in either direction. He can hear actual crickets. He walks around the van, beyond the flashing emergency lights, toward the broken window. Bloody handprints cover the white metal. They’ll have to get rid of that somehow before they call the cops.

Through the window, Foggy sees the two slumped bodies. His knees begin to shake. He inhales, then inhales again. His chest feels huge. There’s not enough air in the world to fill it. He stumbles away, toward the side of the bridge and collapses against the railing, trying to exhale. The river runs black below. Foggy closes his eyes and brings his bound hands up, pressing the balls of his palms against his eye sockets, until the black goes pink. What were the words of his speech? He can’t remember.

“Foggy,” Matt says quietly, from very close.

Foggy lifts his face out of his hands, exhaling finally. Matt smiles carefully and wraps one hand around Foggy’s wrist, tugging Foggy’s hands out as if to receive a present. He cuts Foggy free. Foggy’s hands drop to his sides, shoulder jolting at the sudden collapse. Foggy winces and Matt does too, pulling his own arm in and holding it close to his body with deep white lines of pain fraying his expression. Blood continues to ooze sluggishly through a rip in his shirt.

Foggy stares at him.

“He shot me,” Matt says.

“I can see that,” Foggy says numbly. He reaches out and touches a white part of the shirt near the wound. Matt’s throat works, smeared with dirt and sweat. Foggy fingers closer to the wound, prodding. The bullet hit Matt’s upper arm. There’s not an exit wound. The back of the sleeve is intact.

“Here, uh.” Foggy yanks on his tie, pulling it undone and free from his collar. “Let’s wrap it, I guess? I never took first Aid, is that the right---”

“Yeah,” Matt says at length. “That’s good.”

Foggy wraps Matt’s arm with the tie and knots it tightly once, then again. The green fabric almost shines under the lamplight and hides the worst of the blood. Candace hugs herself a few feet away, shivering despite the warm air. Foggy watches her from the corner of his eye while he works on the makeshift bandage. She stares at them fixedly.

“So this is what you’re involved in,” she says as Foggy tests the tightness of the knot and Matt hisses at him and tries to nudge him away. “I knew you had a line on Daredevil, you lying fuck.”

“He’s not involved,” Matt says, lifting his arm to inspect the wrap.

“I am a little,” Foggy argues.

Matt lets his arm drop and raises his head.

“Not anymore,” Matt says and he sounds tired.

“Are you even blind?” Candace asks. Matt sighs and Candace wrinkles her nose at him, looking at him like he’s an alien, but not in the usual way she looks at him like he’s an alien.

“It’s complicated,” Foggy answers for Matt. "But yes."

Candace leans against the side of the van. The bloody handprints lead away from her like sets of strange map markings.

“And I thought I had heavy breakups, Fogs,” she says. “Hey, do either of you have a cigarette? No? Well, fuck.”

Foggy finds it within himself to chuckle a little. Candace quirks a smile at him in answer. The light in her eyes is beginning to seep back. It always does. Matt interrupts with a hand on Foggy’s jaw. Foggy lets Matt lift and turn his face as if it helps Matt see the gash on his brow or the bruise swelling his eye shut. Matt’s eyes are only blank on the surface. Underneath that thin layer of sightlessness, a riot of severe emotion threatens. Only there’s no one left for Matt to beat up on except himself.

“Just banged up a little,” Foggy says of the thousand tiny hurts flaring underneath his clothes. “You were there for the worst of it. You’re the one who got shot, Matt.”

“They never should have touched you,” Matt says. “You need to stay close, Foggy.”

Foggy feels his eyebrows jump.

“I don’t need a bodyguard, Matt,” Foggy says. “Well,” he amends. “I need a friend more. You know?”

Matt rubs his thumb over Foggy’s cheek, flaking away some of the dried blood.

Candace speaks up. “Shouldn’t we be calling the police or something?”

Foggy turns to her and Matt’s hand moves to the back of Foggy’s neck, hanging on. Foggy glances between them, then at the mess of the van.

“We have some work to do first,” Foggy says.

They use the shredded bits of Candace’s gown to wipe up the blood Matt had left behind wherever he touched. It’s not perfect, but they won’t get any fingerprints out of it. Foggy makes sure to wipe some of his own blood off on the side of the van to further confuse things. Daredevil fell out of the sky and saved them, not Matt. Foggy makes Candace repeat it until she sounds like she believes it. They can’t do anything to keep the men in the van from blabbing that Matt’s Daredevil. They’ll just have to deal with the fallout from that and hope for the best.

“No one will believe them if they talk,” Candace says. “Matt’s blind. People will find a way to explain it to themselves.”

Matt turns his face toward Foggy. Foggy shrugs.

“If this goes sideways,” Matt says, when they’re done cleaning up.

“You know a very good lawyer,” Foggy says. “Thanks for saving my family, Matt.”

Foggy reaches out and clasps Matt’s good arm. Matt ducks his head and his thick eyelashes fan out unfairly over his cheekbones.

“He deserves at least a kiss, loser,” Candace says from where she’s squatting in the middle of the road, smoking a cigarette she found on one of the bodies. She blows a smoke ring at them and flicks the ashes off the tip. Foggy looks up at Matt reflexively; the lamp picks out the red in his hair. Matt waits, a softness under his hard edges. Foggy lets his hand fall and withdraws, clearing his throat.

“Time to make that call,” Matt says and scratches the back of his head.

Foggy nods and backs away more, dialing 911 on the pilfered phone. Matt fades away then, limping down the twin yellow lines and then off to the side of the bridge, toward the woods. Foggy knows he’ll be close enough if one of the men wakes up, but doesn’t want him to go. Foggy pulls in a shuddering breath and turns away from the now distant shape of Matt, sending the call.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

*

The police find the actual cover band duct taped together in a closet in the reception hall.

They never find the real catering staff. They never existed.

*

Two busted jaws. Three fractured kneecaps. Eight concussions.

One spine injury.

It goes on.

Foggy hears the tally of injuries for the third time. Matt didn’t cut any favors when he rained judgment down on the men who had ruined Candy’s wedding. Foggy doesn’t smile when Brett tells him the first time, but it’s a knot coming undone. He knows that the people behind the mirrored glass are more interested in him as a Daredevil witness/potential accomplice than as a victim.

Strangely enough, Foggy’s told, the lights had been shot out at the Nelson-Rodere wedding just before all these injuries had occurred. No Nelson or Rodere could account for Daredevil’s activities. With the numbered men maintaining a well-timed pact of silence, Foggy and Candace are the closest Hell’s Kitchen has to a lead on Daredevil.

“Bleeding in the brain,” Brett drones on. “Collapsed lung. Herniated disc.”

“Am I supposed to care?” Foggy cuts in. “They put Aunt Matilda on her knees, Brett. If the Daredevil had sent any of those guys home in body bags, you wouldn’t see me complaining.”

Brett shuffles through another set of folders, clearing his throat.

The police hold them longer than is typical of innocent bystanders. Thirteen hours and counting. He’d traded zipties for bad coffee and folding tables.

He only sees Candace in passing and they’re not allowed to talk, though she sneaks a perky wave at him before she’s ushered down the hall. She’s out of her wedding dress and in basic scrubs. It’s not a good color for her, but Nelsons have never fared well under fluorescents. He wonders if she’s gotten to speak to Vincent and his brain tries to veer toward Matt. The raw look of him cutting Foggy free. Brett is pulled out and replaced by a cop Foggy has never me, a stodgy woman with butterfly pins in her hair and strong perfume. Foggy catches what sleep he can with his arms curled under his face on the table.

Finally, they give him a phone call. 1-800-Hogarth-Save-My-Ass-Please.

She swoops in like a well-dressed bird of prey. It takes her fifteen minutes.

“The only employee I expect this from is Jones,” she says, clicking ahead of him down a water-stained hallway, typing away on her phone. “And I’ve insured her down to her boot laces.”

“Yeah, but she’s not really your---” Foggy stops. Jeri raises a neatly plucked eyebrow at him, then leads him through the push doors to a waiting room where Candace is slouched backward over a set of plastic chairs. She opens one eye when she sees them, then groans, cracking her back.

“Charming,” Jeri drawls, then quietly to herself, “oh no, she’s cute.”

“Um,” Foggy says. “Candace, this is Hogarth, my boss. Hogarth, this is my sister. Obviously. She has my button nose.”

“Clearly,” Jeri says. She actually puts her phone away to shake Candace’s hand.

Foggy lifts both eyebrows. “Ok, chop chop, princess: the witch is dead, the stagecoach is a pumpkin, and the point is, we’re free.”

Candace wilts. “Oh, thank god. They fed me a Lean Cuisine. It was terrible.”

“Oh, you sad privileged little millennial. When I was your age, we ate Lean Cuisines for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And it was delicious.”

Jeri looks between them, then sighs. “Already over it,” she says.

Brett cuts them off on the way out and ignores the way Jeri tries to run him through with a sword using only her eyes. He presses a folder to Foggy’s chest.

“You care about the process,” Brett says, not fucking around. “I’ve---I’ve come as close as I can to understanding and accepting Daredevil as a necessary evil, but you. Foggy. Don’t lose yourself. Hell’s Kitchen needs you to keep working from within the law. I always thought you’d make a good D.A. If you’re protecting Daredevil, consider this: don’t.”

Foggy takes the folder. Glossy ends of what must be crime scene photos stick out the top.

“Is that all?” Jeri asks sharply. “Good. If any of you contact my client in the next 48 hours to do anything other than offer your sincerest condolences on a truly harrowing experience, I’ll litigate you so hard your grandmother will feel it.”

“My grandmother?”

“Your grandmother,” Foggy confirms and crosses his heart.

*

Foggy’s parents are sitting on the stone steps in the shade from the pillars when Foggy and Candace make it through processing. Jeri abandons them to the soggy feels. Vincent stands when he sees Candace and looks like a breeze could carry him away. He really needs to lock his knees.

Anna lifts her arms straight out and storms at them like an emotional zombie. Foggy holds on for a long time, face buried in her yellow blazer. She kisses his temple, then his cheek, scrubbing his hair back from his face. He can’t meet her eyes without bursting into tears, and seriously, there is not enough salt left in his body to handle a fresh bout of waterworks, so he ducks and hugs her again.

“My baby boy,” she whispers. “I was so scared.”

“Me, too,” he admits. There’s no shame in it. “How’s Aunt Matilda?”

Anna purses her lips, wincing. “They have her on lorazepam right now. You should go see her when you can. She’s always loved you best. It might calm her.”

Foggy nods. He looks to his side and finds Candace in a similar situation with Edward. She lifts both eyebrows at him, arms hanging limp at her sides as she’s picked up and rattled like a ragdoll. Vincent hovers close, a clear ten years older than yesterday. Foggy wonders how long rats live.

Their reunion spills out onto the streets. More of the Nelsons are there. They take turns clutching at Foggy and Candace, spilling their version of events, and eventually, Foggy pulls away from it all, points at his busted up face and cites a headache. He wants to go home.

“You’re not staying with us?” Edward asks, face gleaming with tears. “We made up your room. We should stick together right now.”

He sounds like Matt. Or Matt sounds like him. It’s all tangled.

“I’ve lived alone this long,” Foggy says. “I’m ok. Really. I just need some sleep.”

Edward’s hand trails down his arm as Foggy turns to make his escape. Foggy’s too tired to feel more than a ripple of guilt. He’ll face himself tomorrow. He pushes through the crowd of blonde heads, fights past the shoulder clutches, and gets halfway down the street before Candace jumps on his back and tries to ride him to the ground. Foggy spins her off and catches her before she hits the cement.

She grins at him without a word. Foggy kisses her forehead and walks away.

Empty taxis pass him and there are at least three bus stops that look clean enough to sit at and wait, but he walks. He takes the long way and chases the fading sun down the street, through the maze of compressed neighborhoods he grew up in. In this world, if someone bumps into you, you check for your wallet after. That’s just what you do. You don’t agonize about it. And then there are the suspicious food carts. The obscure unauthorized vendors. The old men swapping gossip on graffiti stained stoops. Music and news from so many windows and pockets that walking two feet is like scanning the radio.

He drops the folder Brett gave him down a storm drain.

The moon is out when he climbs the stoop to his apartment building. Eddie is passed out by the mailboxes again, which means AA must be going smashingly for him. Foggy rolls him over so that he doesn’t choke on his vomit.

He finds his door unlocked. Foggy sighs and pulls the key out of the lock, shoulders slumping.

After being kidnapped and held hostage less than twenty-four hours ago, he should be afraid. His palms should be sweating and his heart should be seizing and he should be running for cover. This could be another attempt. But it’s not. He knows it’s not.

Foggy squares himself and pushes inside, shutting the door and locking it.

The kitchen light is on. It seeps from the hallway into the living room.

Foggy follows the sound of clattering toward the kitchen. Matt is there, in a t-shirt and sweat pants, rapidly chopping a pound of carrots with his unfocused eyes lifted at the wall. His glasses are on the counter. There are faint scrapes on his face and he hasn’t shaved, prickly beard shadow crawling up his neck and filling out his jaw. He looks exactly like himself and it pokes Foggy’s bruises to find him so comfortable in Foggy’s dingy apartment. Foggy leans against the entrance way, crossing his arms. Matt scrapes the diced carrots off the cutting board into a bowl and reaches for a bag of green beans, hands sure. Two years ago and he might have pretended to hesitate. Or maybe Foggy wouldn’t have been paying attention.

“You like balsamic, right?” Matt says, starting to chop the ends.

Foggy shrugs. “Is it food? Yes, I like it. Did Candace call you?”

Matt nods and puts the knife down. His shoulder blades flex under his shirt.

“It should have been you, Foggy,” Matt says, turning.

The four feet between them feels like a mile.

“It’s just been so hard between us,” Foggy says, eyes prickling. Exhaustion makes his voice waver. “I want to go back to how it was before.”

Matt shakes his head. “It can’t be like that anymore.”

He skirts the counter, stiffly but intent, and blocks out the light when he comes close. White gauze peeks out from under the shirt sleeve, cinched by a metal clip. Foggy crosses his arms against the urge to check the bandage. Matt’s shirt brushes his elbows.

“That doesn’t mean it has to be hard,” Matt says. “I wasn’t---I took you for granted, I know that. I can do better.”

Foggy drops his eyes and his chin. His hair slips out from behind his ears and shields his face as he knew it would. Practical armor. Give him a suit and tie and he’d be ready for this.

Did you want me to convince you? Matt had asked.

No, Foggy had told him, swollen with pride.

“You told me to leave,” Foggy says.

He hears Matt swallow, then feels Matt’s fingertips on the side of his neck.

“You were so angry,” Matt whispers. “It scared me.”

Foggy nods. Matt scared him, too. He still does.

“Maybe we can do better,” Matt says. Matt’s hand slips around, fingers warm on the back of Foggy’s neck. He breathes on Foggy’s cheek. “What do you think?”

Foggy flicks his eyes up. Matt comes closer somehow, chest pressing on Foggy’s arms. A cajoling pressure. It’s unfair how he looks, softened by a shirt with years old ketchup stains, so available and sturdy when he’s exactly the opposite. But that’s not always true either, is it? Foggy sighs, strained by the weight of the light on his eyes. He can smell himself: old coffee and stiff sweat.

It must be worse for Matt.

“Say something,” Matt says, barely loud enough to hear, which is unfair; Foggy’s not the one with super senses here. “Your heart is pounding, but I… I can’t guess about this, Foggy.”

“How’s your arm?” Foggy asks. “I would have called tomorrow, I just---”

Matt cuts Foggy off with his mouth. It’s barely a kiss. A scrape of his dry warm lips. It’s theft, really. The kiss trails off timidly to the corner of Foggy’s mouth and holds. Matt squeezes Foggy’s nape, waiting, and Foggy can feel Matt trembling. He can’t be feeling too hot. Foggy pulls away an inch and stares at Matt’s half open eyes. In the dim light, they look almost yellow at the edges. It takes Foggy back to green-shaded library lamps. Hunched over the same book for hours. Looking up, seeing Matt’s fingers stumbling over a page, glasses long gone.

“Come on,” Matt cajoles, dropping his forehead onto Foggy’s, and oh, that’s not okay at all. “You put up with me for ten years last time. That’s pretty good, right? Give me another ten. Five.” He pauses and lifts one corner of his mouth wryly. Bitter at himself. “I’d settle for one.”

He sounds like he’d take less than that, actually.

“Jesus, Matt,” Foggy says.

Matt’s forehead wrinkles happily. He knows a win when he hears it.

He tries to kiss Foggy again, but Foggy ducks away and pulls himself free despite Matt’s little rumbling groan. He pushes by Matt’s uninjured side. He’s not ready for whatever that is. Friendship, first. The rest will have to wait or not happen at all.

“What did you even do to these carrots?” Foggy mutters, shaking the bowl.

Matt turns, scowling. “What’s wrong with those carrots? They’re beautiful carrots.”

“They were,” Foggy mutters. “Shit. Get out of my kitchen. You’re not allowed around the knives anymore.” Foggy opens up a cabinet door and pulls down a pan. “We’re having pasta, not whatever fancy vegetarian shit you were planning. I’m out of milk, could you---omph.”

Matt hugs him from behind and knocks the air out of him. Foggy feels Matt’s heart pounding and lets himself settle quietly within the vice grip, Matt’s hard forehead digging a fresh bruise into the top of his spine. He puts a hand on Matt’s hairy forearm and stares at the flickering light over the sink.

“You don’t want penne?” Foggy asks when he feels the dampness soak through his shirt.

Matt chuckles once, a barking hiccup that is ridiculous.

Absolutely ridiculous.

End.