A/N: I know, it's been forever. But I watched the Defenders and even though it's far from perfect, I had a lot of feelings. Just FYI, this is unedited and there's some talk of religion (because, well, Matt) - no offense meant to anyone. Please read and review!
Foggy's never been a fan of churches.
Maybe a part of it is the inevitable association with an altar boy he met once when he was a kid, a 5'10 blonde jock of a jerk who kept saying 'Frankly Franklin' as if that was some kind of brilliant dig and also definitely ruined the name Nathan forever.
He's also not really fond of the church scene. The high ceiling, the melancholy statues, how everything's so grim and dankly lit. It's like the architectural embodiment of a frown.
And then there's the crucifix thing – at least in catholic churches, which, thanks to Matt, have been the only churches Foggy's been to in the past decade and a half.
Even so, he's never quite understood the point of having a depiction of a man undergoing literal torture hanging on your wall. Like sure, it probably helps the whole guilt and shame thing, and now that he thinks about it he figures probably the only reason Matt hadn't put one up in his apartment was because he couldn't see it and so feel properly, perpetually chastised by God, but man. Those things can sure give innocent adult atheists a wallop of nightmares.
But churches were Matt's thing, after all, so it's appropriate to come here. He gets that.
Still, though. The place gives him goosebumps.
"It's been days, Karen," he tells her, really gently. As strong as Karen is, all the time, whenever her eyes get all big and glittery like now Foggy can't help but feel some sort of instinct to crouch down, draw back, be less loud and intimidating. He still doesn't know what Karen was running from when she came to them, to Nelson and Murdock, but it almost makes him want to put on a stupid costume and punch a few assholes himself.
Karen isn't really willing to listen, gentle or not. But maybe, she says. Maybe maybe maybe –
"Maybe," he agrees after a moment, mostly just because of the big eyes.
"Sit with me," she says, and he does.
They sit there for a good long while, and eventually his arm finds itself around her thin shoulders. That's something he's always appreciated about Karen, while crushing on her and afterwards, too: once you're in with her, you're in, and there's no going back. Karen holds on as tight as she can and it doesn't really matter that Foggy had liked her like that, once upon a time, and that it could easily be weird, she grabs his arm without hesitation and takes comfort and gives some, too, as if they're family, as if they can count on each other for stable ground no matter what.
It's a rare thing, that.
Eventually they stand, make it slowly down the aisle (not like that). Something about the mahogany of the pews makes him think idly of the chocolate Marci stole from him that day at lunch while they'd half flirted, half verbally demolished each other over a case of tax evasion. (It's their thing. He chooses to think it's cute.) He reflects on that for a while because it's funny, how things go on when other things stop.
Foggy thinks he's in the clear when all of a sudden Karen says, "How – how're you doing, Foggy? I mean I, I know it's stupid – but. Still. Are you doing okay?"
He looks at her in surprise. "Well," he says lightly, and smiles a little. "Under the circumstances. New York almost collapsing and all."
"Right, it's just, you know –" she slows, bites her lip, wrings her hands. "I haven't seen you cry about Matt."
Foggy doesn't really know what to say to that. All right, so he's a crier, and Karen knows that. Karen's seen him through a lot, and besides, he's a modern man. Modern men have feelings.
So you'd think he'd have some, now that Matt's gone.
It's true, though, what Karen's said. He hasn't yet. Cried, felt. Maybe it doesn't feel real to him either, yet.
Or maybe that's just how it is, with best friends – like the worst breakup ever when you come apart, but that only lasts for a few terrible months of feeling like a naïve, heartbroken idiot, and then you just try just remember them fondly somehow, remember the good times instead of the bad, because that'll make you the bigger man, right, that'll prove that you're over it, really, until eventually you only occasionally wonder what they're up to, and then get back to the Sunday crossword as though you never wondered at all.
(At some point you might feel so fine you even call them up once, invite them to try to make things right again, and you're not surprised or even hurt when they refuse.)
But then they die, and… and what, exactly? How are you supposed to feel, when your best friend isn't in your life anymore, and then they're dead? It was already over for you. You've already grieved. What makes it any different now?
After all, you wouldn't have seen them if they were alive anyway.
It might be the healthy thing to do, the modern man thing to do, but Foggy hasn't cried yet. And to tell the truth, he's not sure he ever will.
Maybe… maybe he's just over Matt, and Daredevil, and the Matt that is Daredevil. Maybe some part of him had known, when he'd handed over that duffle bag, that it was really goodbye. Maybe that last conversation hadn't been the acceptance Foggy'd thought it was – go be yourself and save a few million people, you ridiculous catholic idiot, just come back – and instead more like here, go, do what you gotta do.
I'm okay with you dying now.
"I'm sure I will at some point," he offers, weakly. "Hasn't been that long, you know."
Karen's eyes are big, and piercing. He shifts uneasily.
"Okay," she finally says quietly. I'm here either way, she doesn't say, but makes clear all the same.
"Speaking of which," Foggy says in an effort to be light, but loud enough that it echoes. He winces and lowers his voice, remembers again how much he dislikes churches. "When do you think we should file a missing persons?"
"I've seen you here before," someone says. "Never at mass, though."
Foggy starts, turns to see an old man with the face of a more kindly Vladimir Putin. "Oh I don't go," he says apologetically. "I'm pretty much an atheist."
"That doesn't have to be a reason," the man says, sounding almost amused. "But in that case, what brings you here?"
He shrugs. "I don't even know, to be honest." A sigh escapes him, and he muses, "Trying to understand someone, I guess."
The old man sits by him slowly, like his joints might creak if he pushes them any further. "Anything I can help with?"
"Nah." Foggy leans back in the pew, looks ahead again and then flinches as he sees the crucifix, redirects his gaze to the mosaic which, well, maybe slightly less creepy. "Well. Maybe you can explain the whole guilt thing to me."
"Are you feeling guilt for something?"
He stifles a laugh, surprised. "Ah, no, not me. That's not my style."
The man looks at him for a moment, and then sits back, mimicking his pose. "It is my belief that religion is always there for those who need it. It acts as a moral guide, helps people walk their path in the world, make difficult decisions. Some people may take it to an extreme."
"No kidding," he mutters.
Another pause. "Guilt is a very human concept, I think. And not an entirely useless one, when it can lead to righteous deeds from unexpected places. But I've found that often the greatest guilt comes with a very strong moral character, and a deeper humility. It is often when people are righteous, and convinced of their morality, that evil can be inflicted with impunity."
"That tends to come with religion too," he points out. He knows Matt had strong moral fiber or whatever. Daredevil ate his catholic Wheaties religiously – that's probably what got him killed.
"No doubt."
"So why have religion at all?" he pushes.
"To give morality to those who need it. And, for those who do, to offer hope."
He scoffs. "Hope for what? That you'll go to hell and face eternal damnation if you step out of line?"
The man smiles a little, unruffled. "Hope that somebody's watching."
His mouth tugs into a frown. "I'm not sure how much good that does," Foggy says honestly. "This guy I knew –" His throat closes suddenly. He swallows. "…This guy I knew. He always had to take everything on. Always had to put himself out there." Foggy stares out at the church, and hates it all. "The guy literally couldn't sleep at night if he thought there was something he could be doing to help someone."
The old man – must be a priest, or a reverend, or a pastor, or whatever Catholics have – says, "You sound angry."
Angry? Foggy shakes his head. "No, it's just that - you can't live like that. No one can live like that." He turns to the old man. "I'm not saying you can't do good things and change the world. Just that… you need to pick your fight. And then do what you can, in an ordinary way, in a smart way, and then you go home, and think about other things, you know? You go on and make life livable. It's not ignorance or denial, it's being realistic. You can't beat yourself up for not making the world perfect – the world's never going to be perfect."
"Is that what you wish you'd told him?"
"I did tell him. I think." He blows out a sigh. "Maybe not enough. I don't know that it mattered, really. No one could stop him. The guilt ate him up and he died."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
He smiles crookedly. "Yeah, me too," he says, and stands. "Look, uh, Reverend –"
Wryly. "Father Lantom."
"-Right. Thanks for your help. I'm sorry if I was rude." He stops, makes a face. "No, I was rude. Sorry for that. I suppose I was just… looking for answers I already knew."
A nod. "That's perfectly all right, you know."
He nods back and turns to leave, decides that he's never coming back.
Well, he thinks at Matt, you can't say I didn't try.
"So he's gone?" Lantom says, as though reading his mind. "Matt Murdock?"
Foggy stops.
Right. Of course this guy knows him by name. Matt probably had weekly superhero confessionals in super-secret alcoves. It shouldn't surprise him.
It shouldn't surprise him at all.
"Yeah," he says, and then thinks of Karen. "Probably." He avoids the priest's eyes. "Sorry for your loss."
A long pause, then a sigh. "Sorry for yours," he says heavily.
Foggy has barely turned to leave when the old man speaks again.
"Foggy, wasn't it? You should know. Your friend was a very admirable man. And a very conflicted one. He wanted very much to be there for you. But you're right.
"No one could have stopped him."
A door slams shut somewhere down the hallway. Foggy and Marci roll their eyes at each other.
"Please tell me I'm getting my office back soon," Foggy whines.
Marci taps his nose. "It's only until the end of the week, Foggy Bear. Besides." She tosses her mane of blonde hair, looks down at him with a very manicured arched eyebrow. "You can always kick the interns out of their room, you know."
"Thus firmly establishing my dominion over them," he agrees. "I could also share your office?"
She grins. "Please. We've already shared too many things, don't you think?"
"Just one bed," he protests, thinking of some very, very late nights. "And a table," he remembers, and is rewarded by a bark of laughter. Foggy sighs, then glowers back at the admittedly ritzy but wholly out of place desk. "I hate renovations."
She smirks and pushes off his desk, adjusting her skirt. It's amazing what gray business casual can do, Foggy muses. "You want superpower proof walls, don't you? At least as long Hogarth's pet project sticks around."
"Who?" he says, confused, and Marci just winks at him as she slinks behind her office door - at least that's a perk, their proximity. His regular office, currently being torn apart, is at the other end of the building. "Okay you can't just disappear like that," he calls after her, and hears her giggle (she only giggles for him, he loves it). "That's not how we do things here!"
He looks at his paperwork and sighs. Back to work, and distracting hallway sounds, and loud footsteps, and a shadow over his paper.
"Nelson, right?"
He looks up, reviews the last bit of his conversation with Marci, and thinks he understands. "Jessica." He'd seen her briefly, back in the station. Once when he sent Matt off to die, and once when they waited for Matt and nobody came. "You can just call me Foggy."
She opens her mouth, but before she can say anything he tells her with a wry smile, "I've heard it all, trust me."
"Right." Jessica fidgets in her leather jacket, looking a little cool but mostly terribly awkward. "So listen." She pauses, shakes her head. "…Foggy. I'm not really good at this kind of thing, but I wanted to… anyway. I'm sorry. About Matt."
"Me too," he says, suddenly tired. "Everyone is."
She hits his desk with her hand and leans over, meets his eyes with a determined glare. "No, I am sorry, okay? I should have come to you first. You should have heard it from me. I'm sorry for that. It was really shitty of me. I was just –" she straightens and then half-sits on his desk (what is it with his desk today?), crossing her feet, her hands back in her pockets. "I was just glad I got to come back," she says harshly at her scarf, sounding angry with herself. Reluctant.
He blinks, startled. He has a feeling she doesn't do apologies very often. "Uh… thanks. That actually… that actually means a lot."
Jessica nods stiffly, looking vaguely uncomfortable.
"And anyway," he says with a shrug, reluctant himself. "I get it. You making it out of there, it's a good thing. I'm glad you did. And we're – Matt – we're not your responsibility."
Now she's peering over at him with a frown, awkwardness fading. "I don't know about that."
"Hey," he says, suddenly realizing that this was more than just a 'sorry for your loss' conversation. "I don't know what happened down there, but I really, really doubt it was your fault."
She lifts a shoulder indifferently, looks away. "I could have done more, maybe," she mutters. "Carried him over my shoulder or something."
"Why is every woman I know terrifying," he wonders, half in an attempt to make her smile. (She does, but it's a very vague, quick thing). "Look, as tough as I'm sure you are, I promise you Matt's skull was thicker than you could ever imagine." That does get him an amused quirk of her mouth. "All you can do now is whatever you were doing before Matt Murdock came into your life. Just maybe… I don't know. Help people more often. Wear red sometimes."
She almost snorts at that last one. "Ha," she says in amusement. "As if."
He smiles at her.
"Well, you seem like you're doing all right," she says.
Foggy gestures at his abominable desk. "Got plenty of work to keep me occupied," he replies, and almost laughs at himself when he remembers about the last time he said something similar.
Fat lot of good that did.
She hesitates. "I thought you'd be… sadder," she says. "Not that I can judge or anything. Just saying."
"I lost him way before he died," he says, because he has the sudden feeling that with her, he can. "Didn't want him out there in the first place," he explains, at her questioning glance. "Had a whole fight about it. The non-violent sort."
"But you gave him the –" she pauses. "His clothes. You gave him his clothes."
He chuckles dryly, shuffles a few papers aimlessly. "Yeah. I thought…" he shrugs, shakes his head at himself. "I don't know what I thought."
Jessica takes a breath, sighs loudly. "Look," she snaps. "I didn't know him very well. Or for very long. The guy was ridiculous, and kind of an asshole."
"Sounds like Matt," he says lightly.
"But I liked him. And he bought us time to get away, so I'll always owe him for that." She pushes herself to a stand, brings one hand out of her coat pocket. "My card. If you ever need anything."
"Alias Investigations," he reads aloud, then looks back up. "Ditto, by the way," he says, and to his surprise, finds himself meaning it. "If you ever do."
Jessica Jones smiles a little. "Later, Foggy," she says, raising a hand in goodbye and leaving in long, determined strides, like some kind of reluctant movie hero.
"Bye," he says softly. And wonders at himself.
It was a long day at work. Foggy comes home and kicks off his shoes almost violently, not bothering to see where they land. He pads over to the fridge, stares into it, closes it, then turns around and sighs at his living room in general.
And then he freezes.
"Holy shit," he says automatically.
"Hi, Foggy," the specter of his dead once-best friend greets him, looking pale and thin like ghosts probably look, but otherwise rather clean, and, more importantly, solid.
"Did you break into my house?" he asks distantly.
"You still keep the extra key in the electric closet," Matt explains awkwardly. His usual scruff is almost a beard now, which is very wrong on very many levels. "I just. Foggy. I know I've no right to be here, but I wanted to tell you – well, I wanted to see you."
"Uh huh," Foggy says, still processing. He feels for the counter behind him and leans on it. "So. Uh. Where have you been, exactly? Because we were all pretty sure you were dead."
Matt winces. "A… a convent. It's a – it's a long story."
"Right," he says. "Nuns. That… almost makes sense."
Matt bites his lip, shoulders hunched, then clearly decides to bulldoze ahead. "I'm sorry, Foggy. You gave me my suit and I went ahead and screwed it up anyway."
"Well." He swallows. "You did save a bunch of people. Your friends. And, you know. New York."
"I couldn't have done it without you." Foggy bites back on a laugh. "No, really. Thank you."
"Thank –" this time a bit of laughter does escape him. "Matt. You idiot. I basically sent you out there to die."
"I would have gone out anyway, you know that." His not dead friend comes closer, and Foggy wishes he could melt into the counter even as he nods. "I tried to stay out of it at first," Matt says. "I couldn't. And I don't want to anymore. But… I went too deep. I need to do better. Act smarter. Take better care of myself."
His heartbeat rushes at his ears, slow and steady. Maybe this is what it's like for him, he thinks.
Kinda sucks.
"Sounds like that convent was good for you," he says faintly. "Good thing you didn't die, huh."
"Foggy," Matt says. "I'm sorry."
"Everyone's always sorry." His new catchphrase. "I thought you were dead, Matt. And now you're not, so what now? What now, Matt? Do I just get to wait until the next time you feel suicidal? How many times do I need to grieve for you?"
His friend's face crumples. "I'm sorry –"
"I don't want you to be sorry, goddamn it!" he snaps, hands shaking. "I want you to not be dead! I want you to stay not dead! Did you even tell Karen? Jessica?"
"I'll call them, Foggy, I just wanted to see you –"
He sees red. "Why, Matt?" he shouts. "Why me? Of all people, why me? We aren't even friends anymore!"
And then, very quietly, very gently –
"Because, Foggy. It's like you said. We're family."
Foggy looks at his best friend for a long, terrible moment, and then, well.
He's a modern man.
(As it turns out, so is Matt.)