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Take A Moment

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A/N: I mean it when I say, I never, repeat NEVER, write romance, so if this sucks, then let me know and I will never, ever, ever write iit again. Takes place after episode ten. Warning: may contain spoilers.

Disclaimer: none of these characters belong to me. I apologise in advance for any foul language.

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[14:09] We need to talk.

[14:30] Call me.

[20:45] Matt?

[10:01] I know we didn't part on the best of terms but complete radio silence? Really? Grow up.

[18:23] Oh, I get it. So YOU'RE ignoring ME now, is that it? Great. Real mature, Matt. Real mature.

[01:55] Jerk.

[12:26] Need I remind you, YOU are the one in the wrong here, not me.

[15:20] I can't believe you.

[09:08] MATT.

[11:15] Who ever knew you could be so frickin' childish? Not me, obviously. Clearly I don't know you at all.

[11:34] Guess it shouldn't come as such a shock.

[08:10] Can you please answer me?

[10:04] I even said PLEASE. Cherish it, 'cause that's about as much as I'll grovel.

[23:47] Starting to hate you now. Little bit.

[19:14] Matt, seriously, call me back. I've left you a ton of messages. You're using up all my credit. This is ridiculous.

[13:31] Are you honestly still mad at me? Dude, it's been THREE WEEKS.

[04:38] Maaaaatttttttttttt.

[02:17] MATTHEW MURDOCK, YOU GIANT DICK.

[02:35] I keep seeing you. I keep seeing you EVERYWHERE. Matt, please. This is killing me.

[12:15] God, you're an ass.

[19:33] What, are you too busy hurdling off buildings and clocking petty criminals in the nuts to call me? I want to make this right, but you're making it really hard to be nice. Or, you know, actually get the two of us in the same room, but whatever. Probably got better shit to do than talk to your best friend, am I right? Or is it ex-best friend? I dunno. Got a nice ring to it.

[16:44] Update: you're still a dick.

[20:56] Walked up to a guy today wearing this really classy gray suit; you'd love it. But I guess that's the point, huh? Yeah, well, it was stupid, a stupid shot in the dark, and I got my hopes up. Tapped his shoulder and everything. But he wasn't you. Why is it never you?

[00:22] Matt, we've been friends for how many years now? Tell me that means something to you.

[01:01] I miss you.

[17:24] I dropped by your apartment for, like, the thousandth time today. Either you're dead or you skipped town or your burner phone is broken, or hey, maybe you're just a colossal douchebag. Pick one.

[17:27] Sorry, I just miss you so much - (deleted)

[14:45] Your number's not disconnected. I checked.

[18:59] Getting a little worried now.

[02:05] I'm sorry, okay? For everything. I didn't mean it. Any of it.

[04:29] What more do you want from me?

[04:45] Nothing. The answer's nothing - (deleted)

[20:40] Remember that cologne you used to wear back in college? The one that always made me sneeze? Got a whiff of it on the subway. Couldn't stop thinking of you.

[01:08] So here's the deal: I don't care that you lied. I don't care that you ruff up bad guys in your spare time. I don't even care that apparently I don't know you at all. I just want you back. Come back, Matt.

[03:23] Matt.

[03:30] Please.

[00:56] I can't do this. I can't keep hoping and waiting and staring at my cell phone for some sign that you still care. I feel like I'm losing my damn mind. I've looked everywhere, Matt. Don't you get that? EVERYWHERE. The firm, Josie's, your secret tailor, old clients, your favourite stores and parks and that little coffee shop round the corner from your dry cleaners that you sneak away to when you just want to get away from it all. Sometimes I just walk. Up and down random streets hoping to catch a glimpse of you. I'm here and you're there, wherever the fuck there is. Somewhere I can't goddamn find you. I hope it sucks there. I hope you feel as shitty as I do.

[09:55] Where the hell are you?

[18:19] I asked around. No-one's seen the masked vigilante in weeks, but that's no surprise. If you wanted them to know where you were, they would.

[05:33] Im d runK and IcANt slepe and! Ive co me to hte onclusion tht I thINK I luvyou. I think Ive awlays lo ved you

[11:02] Ignore that last message. If, by some miracle, you understood it at all, do everyone a favour and ignore it like you've ignored the rest.

[07:13] Fuck.

[06:46] I've tried, Matt. I've tried so fucking hard but I can't hate you. I can't hate you because if I do, it'll hurt. And it hurts too damn much already.

[01:17] I'm sorry and I don't know why.

It's getting dark and he can feel a headache stirring in the centre of his forehead and the signal on his phone sucks and his back aches from standing in court all day, but he can't bear the thought of going back to his apartment.

There's a…slight chance Marci might be lurking around back there.

Ever since she stole his spare key, she's been popping out of nowhere at the most inopportune moments, when all Foggy wants is to be left alone. He's been in a bit of a funk lately, he'll admit, and it's really no excuse, but there are times when he just needs to combat the loneliness with the intimacy of soft skin on skin between the warmth of sheets in a house that will never be his home.

Sometimes he feels like those moments, those fragile fragments of delusion, are the only thing keeping him from crumbling.

But they don't last. Sooner or later, he plummets back to earth and Foggy isn't sure he can handle that kind of fallout tonight. He hates himself for letting her dangle and he's not mentally prepared to let her down gently just yet (nothing's ever simple, or gentle, with Marci). It doesn't seem wise to do so in his current frame of mind.

So, no. He'd really rather not right now. Is that so wrong?

It certainly doesn't feel right.

Foggy considers flagging down a cab, but changes his mind at the last second, preferring the shallow puddles and dusty smog of orange as the sun sets over awkward silences and furtive glances in the rear-view mirror. Plus, it'd mean forking out unnecessary cash to cover his fare and truth is he ain't got all that much to spare. Not with the firm on its last legs without Matt to chip in, bringing in high-profile cases and charming the odd new client.

He aimlessly wanders the cold, gritty city, hours cascading this way, as he wades deeper into unfamiliar territory and catalogues his dour surroundings. It's freezing out, and as Hell's Kitchen falls behind him, burning in the distance, Foggy can only pray he doesn't stray too far, never to return. Slowly but surely, the silver glow of the crescent moon vanishes in a muddle of fog and dusk and darkness borders him in.

He is shoving his hands into his pockets when he feels the first splotch of rain on his forehead. It's light at the onset, so Foggy ignores it. He huddles into his suit jacket, which offers very little warmth, even going so far as to turn it up at the collar - though he's sure, he must look ridiculous. Under illuminated patches of streetlights, he cautiously tramples through the cold, moisture melting into his thin suit and seeping through to his socks somehow.

Dammit, that's the last thing he needs. A damn hole in his sole.

Only moments later, the sky crackles and, suddenly, it's teeming down. Black clouds have been swarming the sky in preparation for about an hour or so now and it was only a matter of time before they unleashed a heady downpour, but Foggy still heaves a weary sigh because of course. Of course, it would start fucking pissing down. That's just his fucking luck.

Cutting through the fierce winds and shielding his face with one hand, he dives for cover by sprinting towards the nearest building - a seedy-looking watering hole with a wilting overhead sign reading Sandino's in an insipid, grim glow - and pushes his way blindly inside.

Immediately, he yanks off his tie and with some difficulty, undoes his top two buttons with numb, maladroit fingers. Next, Foggy strips off his now saturated jacket and rolls up his sleeves. Feeling marginally better and with the urge to kick something briefly passing, he inhales deeply and scours his fortuitous refuge.

Shivering violently, Foggy shakes off his hair like a wet dog, droplets of water tumbling down his cheekbones and gathering in the arc of his lower lip, trickling inside. He tastes beads of his own sweat. His hair is now entirely flat, sticking to his forehead, and so black that it blends effortlessly into the murky backdrop, hazy with swirls of soft smoke and crawling with questionable persons and the bitter stench of hard liquor and impressively potent body odours.

He climbs up onto the bar stool and sprawls over the counter, red-tipped ear pressed against the cool wood as he groans deep in his throat. After straightening momentarily to order a drink, he slumps back into position and attempts to wait out the cold sensation that trembles in his gut.

He's tired. He is just so fucking tired.

Sick of wondering what he could have done, how it could have turned out differently, of feeling down and beating himself up over nothing, pining after something unattainable - a blurry dream, crafted in ideals.

Who does Foggy think he's kidding, anyway? There's no-one around to fool. Those nights when he lies awake, tense and fidgeting under the covers, going cross-eyed staring at the bright screen, rubbing his eyes and staring, forever staring in fear of the cheery ping that alerts him of a new message or email or a missed phone call. It's not him. It's never him. But still, his heart jolts at the sound.

More than anything, Foggy wishes for closure. Because surely a flat-out rejection would be better than this vast breathing space to ponder, breeding empty fantasies? His mind is free to pore over the details; every trivial exchange, every inside joke, rewriting history as he goes.

There is nothing Foggy hates more than believing that he and Matt ever could have had a future, that the other man felt anything toward him besides comradeship, because the sheer notion is ludicrous, but he can't let it go. It has borrowed into his brain and created a cosy nest of pretty lies and misconceptions. But, hey, whatever helps him sleep at night. Anything to make the absence a teensy bit easier.

It's been two months and yet he's more stuck than ever. Without an answer, Foggy doesn't think he can ever possibly move on. At least, not fully. There would always be niggling doubts, those tiny seeds of hope waiting to explode. He's a lawyer; he needs proof, but without any concrete evidence, there is jackshit stopping him from filling in the gaps of his knowledge and twisting the facts to suit his purpose.

Foggy doesn't know how to keep himself from searching for what isn't there, to focus on what is. And it scares him to think that this is it for him. He had his chance and now it's gone.

Fighting the impulse to dip his fingers into his pockets and dig out his cell (one last text), Foggy balls his hand into a fist and grits his teeth 'till they hurt. He'll be the first to admit he might have become a little too reliant on the option of firing off a text to a certain someone whenever he pleases on a particularly crappy day, but that doesn't mean he has to give in to temptation. He doesn't want to be so needy, like a clingy ex-girlfriend hung up on the past. Not that he's hung up on Matt, but…yeah, okay, there's no denying it. It's waaayyyy too late for that.

Besides, he also didn't want to be that sad, lonely moron drinking alone on a Saturday night, but here he is. Doubtlessly radiating desperation. It's a wonder he doesn't reek of it. Or maybe he is. Maybe he's past the point of smelling it.

Foggy recalls the first time he ever felt something, a sort of spark, for his best friend and roommate, the stupidly handsome Matthew Murdock. Years ago, back when they were in their early days of college. He hadn't realised it then, but looking back, it seems so obvious. He was infatuated with the dark-haired, soft-spoken boy with the sensual lips and smooth, silky voice like bottled sex. He was intelligent and funny, people were drawn to him like magnets, and he had the most beautiful, melodious laugh unlike anyone he'd ever met.

Foggy sought to spend every waking moment with him.

See?

Obvious.

And at night when Matt would stumble into the room after a gruelling day's studying over at the library and he'd pretend to be asleep and the next thing he'd know, the air would be pierced by the sound of shuddering gasps and husky moans as Matt palmed himself under the covers. He'd lie back and imagine Matt caressing his throbbing length, grasping the head of his member and jerking, hard, biting down on his luscious lips to stifle a pained whimper. Toes curling, hips bucking, his large strokes would increase in speed and suddenly he'd come in an explosion of colour, slick with sweat and spurting thick, milky liquid all over his taut stomach that oozed between his thighs. More likely, he used a sock or a tissue like any other normal guy, but Foggy enjoyed the idea of Matt, sweet, innocent Matt, lying helpless in a cooling pool of his own cum.

And Foggy, bulge straining in his boxer shorts and hands itching to rub himself to completion, just one tiny stroke, struggled not to openly groan as the springs of his roommate's bunk squeaked slightly and suddenly broke off, harsh breaths evening out into stillness.

Foggy had more 'wet dreams' in that first year than he'd care to admit.

But he's getting off topic. Anyway, there was this one time - after an incident involving a few jackasses that even now Foggy would love nothing more than to throttle, where Matt was being teased mercilessly and Foggy had had to step in - that it really hit home that he would do anything, absolutely anything, for this loveable nerd who meant more to him than anything in this whole God forsaken world. It was a blistering, brutal protectiveness that has never truly gone away.

But he'd put it down to nothing more than another testament to their closer than close friendship, and that was the end of it. Or so it seemed.

Later, once they were back in their dorm, Foggy had been scanning one of their assigned textbooks from their dickhead of a professor that weighed more than a couple tons, when he became aware that he'd been reading and rereading the same paragraph for a solid ten minutes, utterly incapable of concentrating for even a second. He couldn't stop replaying the incident in his head, remembering the look that had dominated Matt's usually reserved face and the rigidity of his jaw line as they poked and prodded and shovedshovedshoved, over and over, with cruel, pointed grins. Matt was this close to snapping.

But all Foggy could think was how could someone so furious be so distraught at the same time?

It was the first time he'd ever caught a glimpse behind that stoic mask, that Foggy ever saw Matt lose his ever-so-careful composure.

He couldn't forget it - that look of skinned scars.

Then, Matt, out of the corner of his eye, tearing him from his reverie completely, had tossed him one of his scathing looks. The kind that makes his palms sweat and his skin tingle as Matt tilts his head back and narrows his eyes like he's waiting for you to slip up and do something so incredibly stupid.

'Don't tell me you're one those people, are you?' he murmured, and he didn't know how, but Foggy's heart sort of dropped and he wondered if he'd disappointed him somehow.

'One of what?' he'd asked, loudly swallowing. This was gonna hurt, he knew. Matt has that way about him. You think it's something innocent, that nothing could possibly come of such a question, and then, BAM, it's like somebody punched you in the face and it's painful and it's devastating, 'cause he's staring at you and you're backtracking and suddenly, faced with that pinched brow and quirked-up lip, you wonder how it ever seemed innocent to begin with.

One wrong move and it's over.

'The kind who starts trying to fix it.'

'Uh…Fix it?'

'Don't deny it,' he reproaches, 'You witnessed a different side of me today; an ugly one. My blindness is no longer a novelty to you, it's something that needs to be fixed.'

'I can't fix your eyesight, Matt,' Foggy had laughed off, a watery smile pasted on his face, 'I'm not under any illusions, if you're wondering. I don't possess the power of God or magic healing abilities or anything like that.'

'I know,' a ghost of a smile was lingering on his lips, humourlessly, 'And I didn't mean for you to take it so literally.'

'Then…what did you mean?'

'It's not my being visually impaired that you want to fix, Foggy. It's how other people respond to it. You wish to spare me the distress of encountering the inevitable Neanderthal with the inane, juvenile attitude. But the reality is, you can't control it, nor can shelter me from it, so I suggest you don't waste any time trying. There will always be the misinformed, or wilfully ignorant. It's not your job to set them straight, so please can you stop feeling sorry for me?'

Foggy had startled. 'I never-'

'Yes, you did. Or do, as it stands. But I'm not that fragile, Foggy, that I'm going to break down at a handful of mean-spirited jibes. Give me some credit. I've been dealing with this for the majority of my lifetime.'

He'd blinked, cleared his throat, opened his mouth and forced the words out. '…You're right,' Foggy said, damn near speechless, 'I'm sorry.'

'Apology accepted.'

And they never did speak of it again, but somehow it was never the same. Something had shifted in Foggy's mind's eye. And the respect he held for this…this unbelievable man was never to be matched by any other.

Maybe it was his own fault he'd reacted so badly to the Big Reveal. Maybe because he held Matt in such high-esteem, Foggy couldn't reconcile his Matt with any Matt that would be okay with breaking the law and putting strangers into comas as a heedless pastime. Maybe his view of Matt had unwillingly shifted again.

Not that his worst-case scenario assumptions were true, but he had no way of knowing they were false, either. And therein lay the issue.

What if….all this time…Foggy's been in love with a man that doesn't exist? That never existed.

It had felt like he was grieving, he'd been positively heartbroken, but Foggy has long since realised that he'd rather have any Matt, than no Matt. Even if this Matt wasn't his.

Finally, - nowhere near as intoxicated as he'd like, but fed up nursing his scotch - Foggy downs the last of his spicy drink, shaking the tumbler to catch every last drop, before sliding off the stool with an ear-popping yawn, draping his sodden jacket over one arm. He throws down a wad of dollar bills and staggers out of the bar with bleary eyes and a wandering gaze and it isn't until his nose is colliding with his shoulder that it registers.

Matt.

It's like someone poured ice-cold water down his spine, because suddenly, there he is and he's staring at him (or, at any rate, in his vague direction, Foggy's uncertain which), and there is only the tiniest space between them, so easily removed.

Though he's sorely tempted, Foggy refrains from commenting on his partner's dishevelled appearance - hair unkempt, shirt crinkled under his half-buttoned vest, jacket cast aside, ever-darkening circles under bloodshot eyes. Because despite his signature rosy lips glistening in the dim light and the white-knuckled hand trembling faintly as it grips his cane and the stubble that peppers his angular jaw, slowly unclenching, all Foggy can see is the quiet anguish shinning so clearly in his best friend's unfocused eyes, plain as day. The same anguish he can feel, deep down, mirrored on the inside.

There is a heaviness about him, in the hard set of his shoulders and the careful way he carries himself, that was never there before. Not throughout all their time together has Foggy ever seen Matt look so…lost.

'Foggy,' he says and the name is a blessing and a curse.

'The only and only. Wasn't like you could avoid me forever.'

He frowns. 'That's not-'

'Yeah, it is. But let's walk and talk, shall we?' Foggy suggests, acid littering the foundations of his casual tone, 'I'd rather not freeze to death talking to my dickhead of a former-BFF.'

Hands in their pockets, they start walking and it's silent for the longest time, before Matt pipes up with a hesitant, 'So…how have you been?'

'Perfect,' Foggy answers, 'Absolutely fucking perfect. But you already knew that.'

'Yeah…I suppose I did.'

'You, on the other hand, you look…'

'Terrible,' Matt supplies, with a grim smile, 'The word you're looking for is terrible.'

'Not gonna lie, a small part of me rejoices at that.'

'I don't blame you. You were always jealous of my invincible good looks,' he remarks with a teasing lilt to his mouth, but it barely has time to appear before it disappears as he adds, 'Nothing to be jealous of now.'

'Eh…I wouldn't say that.'

The most awkward of silences follows.

'Foggy…' Matt whispers, pained.

A touch of heat enters his voice as he retorts, 'Save it. You ditched me. Whatever. No point skirting around the subject.'

'I never intended to hurt you, Foggy. You have to understand that. I-'

The other man makes a noise of disgust. 'No. No, don't you dare apologise, acting all cut up and conflicted. I mean, what is this? Poor Matt, with his web of lies and forced solitude day? No, don't pretend like you didn't know. You knew that I was fucking broken and all you had to do was pick up a phone, let me know you were still alive and kicking.' And as angry and austere as it sounds on the surface, there is an undercurrent to his tone that is dangerously brittle.

'I wanted to-'

'But you didn't!' he yells, pushing a frustrated hand against his head and digging his heel into his scalp, wrenching back his scruffy hair and inhaling eyes begin to prick, hot and moist. 'If you didn't want to have anything to do with me, then fine! I get it. But at least have the decency to tell me to piss off in person!'

Matt's features contort, tone ringed with brutal sincerity as infinite brown orbs fasten on him pleadingly. 'I am so sorry, Foggy-'

Foggy laughs weakly. 'You're sorry? You don't get to be sorry!'

'-I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought it was best for you-'

'You don't get to make that decision for me!' he snaps, lips warped in a furious snarl. 'I hate you! I fucking hate you!' It's feels as if someone has ripped out his innards and lit his remains on fire, misery and rage burning through his core. He can't seem to catch his breath.

Nostrils flaring, Foggy clamps his jaw so tightly that it might ache, but it's impossible to tell with the grief spearing his lungs and wringing out his stomach.

'I know,' Matt murmurs, tensing muscles the only sign of remorse.

'You are literally the worst fucking friend in the entire fucking universe.'

'Yes, okay,' he nods, 'I deserve that.'

'You are such a giant dick.' He smiles but it feels like a lie. He smiles but it's brittle and it splinters. But that doesn't matter.

'So you've said.'

'I hate you.'

'Okay.'The chestnut brown of Matt's iris' glitters more vividly than ever, stinging with a subtle tenderness that Foggy can't stomach in the least.

He stands, panting. Then, summoning every last ounce of liquid courage, he makes a snap decision.

Foggy drives his wooden legs forward and mashes his mouth against his best friend's. Matt stiffens momentarily, before dissolving into the kiss, snagging Foggy's shirt and jerking him closer, bumping noses as their bodies are brusquely aligned.

With a soft moan, Matt's lips part and Foggy plunges into the warm depth, sinking into the swollen, yielding meat. Their tongues entwine and eagerly spar with one another, licking and tasting and totally devouring, they're completely insatiable. There's a flare of mint and apple shampoo and traces of an earthy musk from someone's cologne, but he can't remember whose. His legs go weak at the knees and his head spins as Matt exhaustively caresses his nerve-endings.

It's wet, it's clumsy, it's…it's an unstoppable, devastating frenzy.

With a breathless groan, the kiss deepens, as Foggy claws the back of Matt's shirt, raking his nails across the crisp material and forcefully scrunching the fabric into a tight, sweaty ball. Roaming fingers and flashes of teeth ignite surges of unadulterated pleasure with Matt winding an arm around his waist and Foggy fisting a hand through his dark hair.

Finally, they wrench apart, pulling in curt gasps of air, chests heaving.

'This doesn't change anything,' Foggy states after several moments, not forgetting, even for one second, the reek of untruths hanging between them, jagged and bitter. 'You made it so that I had no-one.'

'We'll start over,' Matt promises, appearing more than a little off-kilter, 'No more secrets, I swear.'

'I want to kiss you and kill all at once.'

Matt places his hands on the sides of his face, forcing Foggy to look at him, and smiles. The little stubble Foggy has roughly grazes his skin, reminding him that he hasn't shaved in over four days, but Matt ignores it. Slowly, he leans in and lowers his head so that the warmth of his forehead, the slant of his nose, his inviting soft lips, all touch his. Gripping his hip, Foggy draws him nearer and laces his fingers through his hair where they have grown entirely too comfortable. Both of his arms are slung over his shoulders, curling around his neck, and Foggy feels each and every one of Matt's laboured breaths as they prickle his face.

'I know.'

Foggy sprinkles slow kisses along his chiselled jaw and lightly nips his neck, drinking in every gorgeous part of him as he drops another peck between the liberated buttons of his shirt, and tips his head up to briefly skim his lips against Matt's, before reluctantly pulling away.

'I still hate you,' Foggy tells him.

'We'll work something out.' Something like amusement stains his voice.

Ducking his head, Matt produces this shy, strikingly beautiful smile that does funny things to Foggy's heart, a cutting tightness squeezing his chest. And yes, they still have issues to work through and it's never going to be all buttercups and rose petals, but Foggy is so sick of sabotaging his own happiness at every turn and resolves right then to take a deep breath and just live in the moment.

'But you know what?' he smiles, tugging Matt downwards for another kiss, '..I think I might love you, too.'