There is No Return Policy on Foodstuffs

by Atsuyuri-sama

Some very rare people are brought together in a splash of color. Foggy was almost that lucky. Almost. (Slash)

Title: There is No Return Policy on Foodstuffs

Rating: M (18+)

Summary: Some very rare people are brought together in a splash of color. Foggy was almost that lucky. Almost.

Warnings: Matt Murdock/Foggy Nelson, brief Marci Stahl/Foggy Nelson, soulmate marks, greyscale to color, apparent homophobia, unrequited love, emotional hurt/comfort, slow build, oblivious!Matt, angst, near death experience, alluded heterosexual encounter, language, hopeful ending, unBeta'd

A/N: I recently finished binge-watching the Daredevil Netflix series. Matt Murdock/Peter Parker is still a ship very close to my heart… but this rendition of Daredevil has also opened my eyes to the beautiful world of Matt/Foggy. In honor of that: here, have a thing.

Some very rare people are brought together in a splash of color.

For them, the universe decides, no stops, that the minute their eyes meet, they are destined for each other. They lose the greyscale world that everyone is born seeing, and between one blink and the next, they understand intimately what 'technicolor' really means.

Franklin "Foggy" Nelson knows these rare few are lucky beyond belief; his parents were one such couple. He has seen first-hand what knowing you are meant for each other can do for the stability of a relationship. He blames his parents on the fact that he's a not-so-closeted romantic.

Foggy was nothing like his parents. He started Blinking color in bits and pieces when he turned thirteen; it was either that he was an embarrassing almost-match for what felt to a self-conscious teenager like half of the city, or that his (eventual) soulmate was someone with… lots of different potentials. It would be a good thing that he was so adaptable, if the latter was the case.

It was normal, his parents patiently reminded him, for someone to Blink a color upon seeing a potential soulmate. If the two tried out a relationship, their level of success would be measured by how many more colors they grew to see. Complete success was marked by a full rainbow of colors (for both parties) for over five minutes. Once the Coloring set in that long, the soulmate was found, and greyscale would never be a problem again.

But they always followed that up with a reminder of the more common ending, the Aesop Foggy always flinched at. Sometimes, people found that the relationship didn't work out, after all. They might lose their color(s) gradually, or snap rigidly back from color to greys. It might fade with the relationship, or it might persist for a time after the breakup. But the end result was a return to flat greys, always.

He couldn't, they stressed, go into a relationship – or expect to stay there – based solely on the goal of Blinking and Coloring. Color only came with the relationship, only came with commitment and respect and devotion and affection. A relationship could grow into a solid soulmate bond… But such a bond could not spring up out of selfish motives, ever. He would only make himself miserable if he went at it that way, as so many (many) impatient, selfishly-motivated people did, these days.

Foggy was so glad they'd pounded that into his head. It hurt less that way, when – at twenty-one – he had a moment of almost-technicolor.

Drops of Jupiter was playing in the background while he fought for the final spot in the Punjabi class, and he'd looked up at the cautious, "S'cus me, is this—Is this room 312?"

His first thought was, White cane. Blind? Followed closely by, Holy shit, blue sweater. Color.

His manners caught up with him, and he apologized on autopilot, hearing his mouth as though from a great distance. A healthy – pink-peach, blush-red – glow was even then filtering over the grey of the man's skin as Foggy watched; he was only able to keep his head (however mildly) because his heart was already racing from his desperate and futile fight against the computer's poor wireless connection, so while it was a shock, there wasn't much more his body could do to register it.

As the yellow walls of the room exploded into view, he babbled (pointlessly, obviously), "Oh! You—You're my roomie!"

Shaking Matt's hand coincided with the glow off the man's glasses – the dark purple tint a shade paler than the overall black.

A slightly incredulous grin, and an adamant, "They didn't get knocked out!" from Matt heralded the arrival of the deep brown of their headboards.

The orange cast created by the cheap bedside table lamps on the walls made itself known just as the words, "Yeah. You're just a guy, right? A really, really good-looking guy," poured, clumsy and awkward, out of his own mouth.

Matt's sudden silence, and the peculiar twist of his mouth sent it all draining away, faster than rain down a pane of glass. The greys slammed back into place as the horror and loss-before-it-began raked icy claws over his insides. Foggy mentally staggered, tripping into the only place that was probably safe, with this straight, male, college roommate: women.

He might not be Matt's… cup of tea. But that didn't mean he couldn't make the best of it. Possible soulmates made the best kinds of friends if a relationship wasn't possible, he'd heard. He'd make the best of it.

-TNRPF-

Black, white, and shades of grey were the world; Matt and Foggy didn't need to eat those when they practically breathed them.

-TNRPF-

Two months of being careful roomies with Matt were hard. Foggy was a bit enamored with the guy who'd nearly given him a technicolor Blink; there was no getting around that. And if anyone ever said that living in close proximity to an attractive crush was easy, as long as you knew they were one-hundred percent Not Interested, that person was a lying-liar.

But two months and three days was when it started getting harder. Foggy was fighting with an essay due in his ethics class, and Matt volunteered to go get him something from the cafeteria.

Foggy barely heard him, and didn't really give a shit, trying to determine how best to word the definition, and function, of both morals and ethics without involving religion. He waved the other man off.

Twenty minutes later, Matt was back… with a box of Lo Mein and shrimp from Foggy's favorite restaurant, and a cache of fortune cookies. The blind man gently coaxed Foggy away from his laptop with enticing gestures at the cartons he'd set on the bedside table. In spite of the fact that Foggy was the funny one, Matt had him chuckling madly almost instantly.

They spent half an hour stuffing their faces and talking about anything except homework.

Full and content, Foggy didn't even notice when Matt steered him back towards his essay until he was halfway through with it. The windows were dark, and Matt was snoring softly on the other side of the room. Affection filled Foggy, for the man who shared his dorm room, and pulled the tension from his shoulders. This was what a best friend was, and Foggy was glad that he'd given Matt a chance.

He finished his essay far more easily than he'd thought it would take, and went to bed as quietly as he could.

It wouldn't be until the morning cast light on the world that Foggy would realize that he was Blinking shades of blue again. This time, in spite of looking at Matt and knowing it was futile, the color didn't fade.

-TNRPF-

Blue was for the bubblegum-flavored candy sticks that Matt liked from the convenience store on the corner. Blue was for the tiny blueberries that Foggy loved to snack on.

-TNRPF-

Over the next months of their friendship, Foggy learned all about Matt, and vice-versa. Knowing that Matt's version of Christmas was microwaving dinner and listening to Lifetime movies all alone, Foggy confidently invited his roommate to his house for Christmas.

His offer made Matt freeze, and stutter, but Foggy wouldn't hear 'no' for an answer.

His mother's dark eyes twinkled when she met Matt, and Foggy watched her smile indulgently at the blind man. His father laughed and offered Matt a beer, as Foggy grabbed one of his own. His (much) younger sister giggled shrilly, twirling in her blue sweater-dress, before Matt pulled the five year old up onto his shoulders and asked her to talk abouteverything she saw.

Matt might not have had much in the way of family since his dad died, but Foggy watched fondly as the Nelson clan did its best to be a suitable replacement. Matt kept up admirably.

His hair gleamed in Foggy's sight, a warm red under the flickering light of the Christmas Eve fire, as the taller man recited T'was the Night Before Christmas to Cindy from memory.

-TNRPF-

Red was the color of the tiny clumps of dark cherries that Matt couldn't get enough of. Red was the slices of tomato, without which Foggy deemed no sandwich complete.

-TNRPF-

During their second year, Foggy met a wild woman by the name of Marci. It was like being faced with a snake: you knew it was wild-dangerous, but you also couldn't look away.

She wore heels as thin and long as nails, and walked with a lioness' deadly strut, with eyes like blue ice. When she spotted him idly admiring her person, she pinned him against a wall and kissed him hard enough to turn his knees to jelly. When she let go, he was painfully hard, struggling to breathe, and speechless. She'd slipped her cell number into his back pocket when she groped him, too.

He fretted over it for weeks.

He had Matt; he was… filled with affection for his roommate, affection that could definitely develop into something more.

But Marci was… wow. And Foggy was a hot-blooded male who had not engaged with anyone other than his right hand since before he met Matt. His body wanted.

Every time she passed him, because he didn't push her away and half-wasn't inclined to, she kissed him, or pressed against him, or groped him. She purred in his ear all the things she wanted to do with him, she pulled a dark hickey to the skin of his throat, and she danced her nails lightly enough over his arms to leave goosebumps. He was waking in the middle of every night, desperate and needy, panting and unfinished, her phantom gaze on him in the dark… She was driving him to distraction.

Matt finally grumbled that he should just fuck her already, his face flushed faintly red; the unresolved tension was "visible even to the blind man, Fog!"

With Matt's 'blessing', he did. It was intense. She was controlling (and that was what he'd been attracted to: the way she took charge). They both enjoyed themselves.

But it wasn't personal, or particularly caring. And it certainly wasn't Matt.

Foggy had the sense that she loved how he'd made no bones about it; they took care of each other's urges, and moved on. That was fine with him; he didn't want to have to explain himself to either her or Matt, later on down the line.

A week later, Matt's own fling dumped him, and they had a Nelson-Murdock-only movie night. They threw burnt popcorn at one another, until the floor was greasy with butter-laden hand- and footprints; Foggy alternated between giving honest descriptions of the scenes and wildly inaccurate, laughter-inducing tales; and Matt dissected the sound effects for what they really were, much to Foggy's delight.

The sunshine spilling, golden-yellow and bright, through the windows the next morning, drew a contented grin from Foggy, even as he buried his face back in his pillow to escape the spike of pain it contributed to his hangover.

-TNRPF-

Yellow was for the banana that Matt religiously added to every ice cream sundae he ate. Yellow was the nacho cheese that Foggy indulged in on stress days, straight from the bottle.

-TNRPF-

It was their third year in college – still dorm buddies, and this time sharing nearly all of their classes – when news of a pool party swept the campus.

Matt didn't know how to swim, and large groups of people made him nervous, but Foggy begged him to go. He needed a wingman, he explained, because this gorgeous co-ed who had caught Foggy's eye was going to be attending… Really, though, after that experience with Marci, Foggy knew he didn't want to 'get' anywhere with anyone; he wasn't dating Matt, but it still felt like cheating. He really just wanted to get out and do something.

That still didn't stop him from putting up the front. Matt was on-again-off-again dating all the time, and he'd asked about Foggy's love life (jokingly) a couple of times already. So Foggy made crap up, and off they went.

For months afterward, Foggy flinched at purple jerseys.

The bastard jock who hadn't been watching where he was going had been wearing one; his elbow clipped Matt in the too-tight crowd, and sent the man over the second-story railing and into the pool below.

Matt had been standing as far away from the water as he could get, and this shit still happened!

Amid the startled (but as-yet unconcerned) yelps, Foggy leapt over the railing immediately after his friend, eyes pinned to the red flash of hair. He pulled out an unresponsive, water-logged Matt, and now the crowd was getting restless. Before he could really begin to panic, Matt's unfocused eyes snapped open, and he was vomiting water between helpless gasps for air.

They left the cane and dark glasses at the bottom of the pool; Foggy simply manhandled Matt as far away from the party as he could. They collapsed, still wet and now shivering, in their shared bathroom. It was Matt who had the presence of mind to remove their clothes and turn on the hot water, to stave off colds. It was Matt who coaxed Foggy into soft, yellow pajama bottoms, and under the covers. It was Matt who turned out the lights and locked their door. Foggy couldn't; he was still processing the fact that he had nearly caused Matt's death, just because he wanted to go to some damn party.

He didn't realize he'd begun to sob until Matt crawled in next to him, twining around him like a clinging vine. The next morning, he was making breakfast, tiny in Foggy's favorite CU sweatshirt, and they silently agreed never to speak of it again.

When the cane and glasses made an appearance in their mailbox, along with an apology box of Matt's favorite brand of applesauce and a promise of free admission to any and all events over the entire course of their tenure at Columbia, Foggy flinched.

Matt sighed, and cursed "poor-ass choices, chicken-shit apologies, and stupid party-going college students" under his breath for the rest of the weekend, faint blue bruises under his eyes.

-TNRPF-

Purple was the eggplant that Matt smelled from the other side of the dorm, and immediately declared rotten. Purple was the plum that Foggy bought on a whim, and discovered a fondness for.

-TNRPF-

Graduation came with panic, and testing, and staying up so long to study that – though they sat side-by-side, initially just in case one of them fell asleep – Matt and Foggy both had practically forgotten the other existed. They were both drawn with exhaustion, eyes red and bloodshot, and with probably more caffeine and energy drink in their veins than blood.

There was more than one nervous breakdown on campus, though thankfully neither of them succumbed.

The brisk breeze on the day of Foggy's final test made him laugh like a loon. Matt laughed, too, because Foggy did. They had both done it; they would both graduate, and hold diplomas declaring them legal practitioners of law! It was reason to celebrate!

The nearest bar – a favorite, Josie's – had a cheap bottle of some purple crap or other. It smelled horrid. Matt scoffed, said they were graduates in all but ceremony, and they needed to take one final risk while they were still college students, in the name of youth. He did a shot, before going pale and coughing like a chain smoker.

Foggy dropped one back, too. It was just as bad as it sounded like it would be.

The artificial, yellowing lights of the auditorium made the graduation no less auspicious. Foggy swelled with pride, to see Matt – resplendent in his blue robes and many cords-for-achievement – stand among the Summa Cum Laude crowd; his own place among the Cum Laude was nice, too, of course. But he had people who were going to be proud of him no matter what. He had long-since resolved to be the one being proud for Matt.

They listened to the speeches, and crossed the stage. They shook hands, and stood in neat rows. They all tossed up their hats, and that was that.

Foggy's family mauled them both, cheering louder than many of the families in attendance. For once, the attention didn't embarrass Foggy quite as much, after seeing the bashful, small grin on Matt's ducking face. Foggy made a scene, deliberately shaking Matt's hand in a formal way for the sake of pictures and posterity. Matt snorted, put up with it, and then slung his arm over Foggy's shoulder and hauled him close.

For a moment, Foggy forget to breathe: he'd never noticed the small grey against the healthy flush of skin, until it was no longer grey. Matt's skin was carpeted with tiny brown freckles, as numerous as the stars in the sky.

A flash going off drew Foggy back into the real world, but he had a feeling that photo would speak for itself. He was in deep… Nor could he bring himself to care. He grinned a grin that Matt couldn't see, and dragged a familiar hand up to his cheeks just so his delight was clear.

He got a muted, honest chuckle, and his heart fluttered.

-TNRPF-

Brown was the color of the meatballs at that Italian place that Matt swore by. Brown was for the darkest, most bitter chocolate that Foggy avoided with a passion.

-TNRPF-

Fresh out of Columbia University, and he and Matt were lucky enough to be snapped up as interns by a legal giant: Landman and Zack.

Foggy was ecstatic. Matt was ready to learn how to save the world.

They consolidated the funds they slowly accrued (interns, family, and disability pay), and got Matt a refreshable Braille display. It would last Matt years; it was a worthy expense.

They also got a collection (yellow, blue, grey-something, red, yellow, blue, grey-something, purple, grey-something, pink) of dinosaurs for Foggy to line up in their closet of an office. It added color to the office that most people their age would be unable to recognize, anyway; it was an undeniably worthless expense.

They sat through their first case, and watched as Landman and Zack's people efficiently used the law to their own directions. It was a beautiful display of the Law, and lawyers, and Justice. All Foggy and Matt did – were yet able to do, as interns – was take notes. But they were part of a big-name firm, at long last! Even being bottom-rung couldn't shatter Foggy's excitement.

And when Matt grinned in his direction, for once caught up just as much in the hype, Foggy's heart swelled once again. All he wanted, sometimes, was just for Matt to be happy, happy and safe. And right now, that was what it felt like his whole world was made up of – this beautiful man, approaching his dream job, newly graduated, and becoming successful.

And he was smiling at Foggy.

(Foggy glanced over, and found the first grey-something dinosaur was actually orange. It was just as alarmingly bright a color as he remembered, but it was worth it.)

-TNRPF-

Orange was for the soft skin of the apricots that Matt loved to smell (but hated to eat). Orange was the color of the sweet potato fries Foggy had learned to make as a kid.

-TNRPF-

The shine wore off.

They sat together through hours and hours of cases. The details were dry, corporate, and ruthless. They watched numerous little people take the fall in the face of giant corporations. They went back to their closet-office day after day, slowly growing more and more desensitized to the cases.

Then came an old man who was being accused of exposing the secrets of his old company to a third party. The old man had a weak team, and a weak case. Matt and Foggy had recently been approached with an offer to become partners instead of mere interns. Matt had calmly intoned a grateful response that also allowed them a little room to think about it. This case was the buffer zone – whatever they chose, the choice would be declared after this old man was judged. The case was quick and brutal, and they could both see how Landman and Zack were dragging the poor man down.

The old man was deemed guilty. Matt pulled off his glasses for Foggy (eye contact just wasn't the same when one of the participants was blind, though he'd never tell Matt that), and got his determined face on.

Foggy listened as Matt insisted the old man was innocent, and this was all wrong. The law was supposed to help the little guys get a chance to face the big guys on equal footing! This was just abuse of power; this case had been done by-the-book, and had still turned a rotten verdict.

Foggy listened as Matt told him he was going to refuse, and as Matt offered the option to build their own, uncorrupt practice.

He'd paid no attention as he became jaded by the cases. He'd not noticed when this had become more about money and recognition than doing to the right thing and helping the innocent. He'd slid down a slippery slope.

But Matt had noticed. Matt was watching out, and was the perfect North-pointing compass. Foggy knew – knew with every fiber of his being – that he was undeniably in love with Matt in every way possible, and would follow him, trust him, advocate for him, to the ends of the earth.

He tumbled down a much steeper, much more permanent, slope.

Foggy grinned shakily when, as he emptied the so-named 'bagel box', he looked up as saw with perfect clarity the brilliant (slightly unfocused) green of Matt's eyes.

He'd found this slope to be acceptable, Your Honor.

-TNRPF-

Green was the color of avocadoes. Matt and Foggy would be damn good avocadoes-at-law.

-TNRPF-

The bottom of Foggy's world had dropped out in the space of a couple of hours.

Mrs. Cardenas was dead; probably, she was murdered. Wilson Fisk was at the top of his game, and un-fucking-touchable. Karen was getting absolutely manic about this whole thing, and it was scaring Foggy.

And then there was Matt. The man for whom Foggy saw Color.

Right now, Foggy hated color.

Red, for the blood pooling under Matt's prone body. Orange, for the neon glow that the billboard outside of Matt's living room shaded the area with. Yellow, for the sickly cast of Matt's beaten and broken skin. Green, for the dazed and pained eyes of his best friend. Blue, for the tint over Matt's lips as the man struggled to breathe. Purple, for the livid bruises already blooming over pallid skin. Brown, for the original, motley shade of a blood-soaked carpet.

Black, for the mask laying in an incriminating puddle on the floor. Grey, for the innocuous couch (the only thing in the room not laying broken or messed up; what had happenedhere?). White, for the rolling whites of Matt's terrified, half-unconscious eyes.

Foggy hated color, because it all spelled out just how much he trusted and loved a man who obviously didn't afford him even the minor courtesy of trusting back, after years of unwavering loyalty, support, and friendship. And he couldn't even bring himself to hate Matt. Not even now.

Instead, jaw still aching from the surprisingly-accurate punch Matt had thrown earlier, a sickness roiled in his gut, borne of concern and terror and confusion. Even now, part of him wanted to gather Matt up into his arms, comforting and protecting for all he was worth.

So, instead of acting, Foggy watched Hottie McBurner-Phone (she knew, damn it – she was good enough to tell, but Foggy wasn't?!) care for Matt. And then he showed her out, and waited.

And he waited.

And waited.

Waited.

Until, finally: "Just tell me one thing, Matt," he choked, fighting tears and not bothering to disguise the hurt, "Are you even really blind?"

Eventually, it became, "How many fingers am I holding up?" and he was so fucking mad, and so hurt, and so damn betrayed!

Matt didn't even need to look – of course not, 'world on fire', right? – his eyes fluttering uselessly as he wearily rasped, "One."

All the anger drained away, and the words tumbled out of Foggy's mouth before he could stop them, "All these years, I actually loved you."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Matt start; he didn't need to see it, the way Matt gasped, half pain, half revelation. He grunted in unwilling sympathy – those wounds were bad, whether he was mad at Matt or not – and continued, heedless of the tears he finally let loose, "I can see in color. Because of you, and mostly since we met. You asshole."

A wounded noise – one of emotion, and not flesh, and Foggy knew these things because he paid attention to Matt, something Matt couldn't be bothered to do, given what his senses surely could have told him over the years about Foggy – burst from Matt's mouth. He seemed to shrink in on himself; it was impressive, if only because the wounds and the blanket had already done a substantial amount to aid the appearance of smallness.

"… what? Foggy?" Matt sounded lost. "Why… didn't you—?"

"Tell you?" Foggy interrupted, roughly. "Because, Matt, when we first met and I called you 'handsome' – tried to give the man who didn't even see in black and white a clue or two, an opening to ask what happened – you reacted like there was nothing worse than being hit on by a man. It made me see in greyscale all over again, it was so shocking and definitive a rejection.

"But the more time I spent with you, determined to make something of our relationship because – at least once – the universe had deemed us fit enough for Color, the more I grew to just like you as a person. My parents were Technicolor, you know?"

Matt meekly nodded. Of course he knew; Matt knew everything about Foggy, now.

"They always told me that if I tried to force it for the colors, I'd fail. That the colors came with the realness of a relationship, not the other way around." Foggy scrubbed a tired hand over his face, and continued with a sigh, "Looks like they were right."

"That first night, it didn't come all at once. It was a slow build of color. When you backed out all I'd been missing was green. Over the next couple of years, as I built that relationship – I assume you know the one: trust, and loyalty, and friendship, and truthfulness?"

Matt had enough gumption in him left to faintly bristle, "But you weren't—"

"Do you really want to go casting those stones, Matty? 'Cause my one lie, while big, wasn't gonna kill someone. Yours, on the other hand, was your senses, your capabilities, your hobbies, and your illegal – not to mention deadly – activities. Do you really want to go there with me, right now?"

Matt flinched.

"As I built that up, I slowly got more and more colors back. Do you know when I got my last?"

"… no."

"When you convinced me to start our own practice; you have the most amazing green eyes. I realized that – whether you had it in you to love me or not – I would follow youanywhere. You have had me by the lead from day one, Matt, and you never even knew it. I think most of the people at Landman and Zack suspected something; I was never over-secretive about it, I didn't think. I guess you are blind, where it counts."

Foggy couldn't stop the sob, because he was hurting, and it was even worse, because he knew without a doubt that all he was doing was hurting Matt back. Matt had always been his compass; he was flailing and lost, here. And they were both hurting.

"And I still love you. I'm terrified by what all of this means, Matt! If one day you didn't come back, and I hadn't found you here – hadn't learned this – what do you think I'd havedone without you, huh? If one day you—What if you don't come back one day, Matty? What then?!"

"I… don't know, Franklin. I'm… I'm so sorry."

Foggy gave up, and simply cried. At least the tears kept him from picking out colors.

It was silent save his own pitiful noises, for a long time. Pained squeaks from the couch, as Matt fought tears and the pain of his cracked ribs, brought Foggy back. Before he knew what he was doing, he was crouching over Matt, hands gentle but firm, smoothing over Matt's chest. "Hey, come on, man: breathe. You just—Just breath, Matty, that's it."

A hand still smeared with blood tangled in the front of his shirt, and Matt whimpered, "I'm sorry, Franklin, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you, but I was so scared; I'd never even told my dad. I'm sorry!"

"And your nurse?"

"She…! I didn't have a choice, Foggy!" Matt gasped, earnest and desperate, expression painfully open. "She found me half-dead in a dumpster; she figured out I was blind before I was even conscious!"

"Alright."

"A-alright?"

"No. But, I mean, I get it, I think." Foggy let his head fall against Matt's shoulder, careful of how it landed. "It still hurts, you bastard. I don't think you understand me when I say that you own me, when I say that I am yours, and I live for you. So it hurts, and it's gonna take a hell've'a lot more than just a coffee to fix this shit. But I'm glad you're alive."

"Ah, Franklin. I-I didn't know what to think. But I think I might lo—"

Foggy snapped up, and glared at Matt (for all the good it would do). "No way do you get to pull that shit with me, Murdock! Not after this! Don't you dare!"

Matt had gone stiff under his hand, and he looked utterly turned around. Foggy looked at those green eyes, and deflated some. He stroked the hair off of Matt's sweaty forehead, apology in his touch.

"Later, Matt. When you've shown me I can start to trust you again. When I know what you're doing every time you're not answering your calls; when I know what whack-jobs are wandering into your life from the distant past; when I get used to that creepy heart-reading shtick you can do—Do you know how unsettling it is to know that?"

Matt frowned guiltily, "I can't control it, Franklin. It's like… like you controlling what you smell coming out of the kitchen; it's involuntary. I'm sorry."

Once again, Foggy scrubbed the hair out of his eyes, and he sighed fit to be a bellows.

"Shut up, Murdock," he shook his head and stood up. The pure panic on Matt's face was at once arresting, and placating – he hated that he could bring that level of terror into Matt's eyes, but he liked that Matt was finally paying attention.

Before Matt could do more than draw breath, Foggy was reaching down and gently tugging Matt to his feet. He twisted his arm around Matt's waist, and supported a worrying amount of his weight all the way to his bedroom. Matt simply followed along, meekly. Carefully, Foggy lowered Matt onto the mattress, and then tucked him in.

"Shut up," he repeated, tiredly, absently stroking Matt's hair. "I get it: You're sorry. We'll work out the details later; for now, you need to rest and recover. You look like somebody put you through a meat grinder. And you're allowed to call me Foggy, you nut. We haven't severed all ties. Go to sleep."

He began to step away, but Matt's hand grabbed his wrist – and wow, after years of facing the fact that the man was blind, that was eerie. A breathless, "Wait!" stopped him. He turned his head expectantly, humming in acknowledgement.

Matt's face was twisted in discomfort, and his grip was trembling. "Will you—I mean. Can you please… I just—"

Foggy sighed and turned completely around. "Spit it out, Matt!"

"I don't want to be alone."

A pang in Foggy's chest left him breathless, before understanding filled him. Hope like a hot air balloon – too tight, too hot, and desperately uncomfortable – blazed in his chest. He moved slowly, telegraphing his movements, and leaving all kinds of room for Matt to speak up, as he moved the covers aside and then crawled in beside Matt. It was instinct to wrap his arms around the injured, unsure man in an effort to reassure and soothe; he let it happen.

It was a balm to the soul, and a benediction, when Matt relaxed utterly in his grip. Worry and anxiety take it out of a person far more than one expects; Foggy was more than halfway to sleeping when he heard Matt speak, voice soft and husky and regretful.

"I won't say it – not yet – because you don't want me to. But you have to know you had me pegged wrong, Fog. I freaked because you were treating me like a person, not because you were a guy flirting with me. You know people treated me like glass before you; I couldn't believe that I really had a chance with you. But I did, and I was too stupid to see it, even after all these years."

Matt sighed gustily, and mumbled, almost gone himself, "You really are incredible, Franklin Nelson, and now that I know it's real, if you give me the chance I don't really deserve anymore, you bet your ass I'm never letting you go."

Matt's breathing evened out. Foggy's limbs were warm and heavy, caught up in another person. This – after years of heartache and longing, and more troubles on the horizon – might have a shot at ending up happy, after all. He wasn't banking on it; he'd never had the greatest luck. But there was a shot.

And what a shot it was: Matthew Murdock.

Foggy Nelson and Matt Murdock, soulmates and avocadoes-at-law.

The universe doesn't lie when Color is involved.