#hws30days

“That’s not stupid at all,” Foggy says, allowing the hand on Matt’s shoulder to slip over to rub his back between his shoulder blades.

“I thought she was my soulmate,” Matt adds, with some vitriol, in the direction of his drink, like he wants to spit the words in there to drown them.

“She wasn’t,” Foggy replies, firmly, because it seems like the right thing to say up until Matt’s face crumples.

“I think she was,” he says, miserably, as he buries his face in his hands. “I think she was and she left anyway and that’s it for me.”

“I don’t—hey, listen, Matt,” Foggy says, shifting his chair over so he can wrap his arms around Matt’s shoulders completely. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I said she—I didn’t know her that well. Maybe she was your soulmate. I don’t know! I’m not convinced that’s anything but a nice story we like to tell ourselves to make life more bearable or to impose meaning on random events.”

“This pep talk sucks,” Matt says, in the vicinity of Foggy’s collar. Foggy can feel his breath on his neck and it’s weird but not enough to get him to move away.

“Sorry. What I mean to say is, if soulmates are real, and Elektra was yours, then it’s not over yet. Maybe you’ll meet again someday.”

“I hope not,” Matt says, darkly.

Foggy resists the urge to roll his eyes at yet another vague but still concerning allusion to this terrible breakup. He’s trying to be sympathetic but Matt’s whole Catholic guilt lone wolf shit does test him sometimes, if he’s being honest. Still, one look at Matt’s pale, sorrowful face in the neon lights of this dive bar is enough to remind Foggy what they’re doing here.

“I think it’s much more likely that, if we have soulmates at all, we probably get more than one,” Foggy continues, hoping that if he just muses vaguely enough, he’ll stumble on something that makes Matt feel better. “So, you’ll get another chance to—”

“You mean like you and me?” Matt asks, and Foggy’s brain does a full factory reset as he tries to parse that question. He can’t possibly mean…

“Oh, like—yeah, you and me and, well, everybody could have more than one soulmate. Exactly.”

“No, that’s not—” Matt shakes his head, which, given his current position, is functionally just nuzzling his face into Foggy’s neck. “I mean, how you and me are soulmates. Kind of.”

“You and me?” Foggy asks, casually despite not feeling casual at all. “You think so?”

“You’re—yeah. I mean, you’re basically—you’re family to me but…also more than that. If that makes sense.”

It doesn’t and Foggy’s been holding himself back from drinking too much tonight because he wants to be able to get Matt home safely, but he does feel like he might throw up on this table right now. He tucked away the part of him that found Matt attractive somewhere deep and secret and well-fortified in his soul a long time ago, in the interest of not fucking things up with his best friend in the entire world, and he certainly can’t trust anything Matt says now when he’s drunk and lonely and heartbroken. But he’s never loved anyone as completely as he loves Matt and it’s such a pathetic, hopeless situation that he doesn’t let himself think about it except on really special occasions when he wants to feel bad.

“I’m not sure anybody has ever loved me as much as you do,” Matt says, like it’s not a crazy thing to say, here in a shitty bar near campus, after a breakup with his girlfriend, to someone he’s never even kissed.

“I doubt that,” Foggy says, even as he, selfishly, wants to claim it, even as he knows it to be true. “You’re very lovable.”

“We should get married.”

Foggy laughs, because what else can he do, under the circumstances. “Now? It’s pretty late. The courthouse won’t even be open.”

“No, I mean, we should get married someday,” Matt says, petulant like Foggy’s the one being ridiculous here for not following his thought process. “When we’re older. If we haven’t met anybody else.”

That last condition is enough to break Foggy’s heart all over again, but he does an admirable job hiding it, he thinks. Matt’s drunk and very distracted, and more importantly doesn’t know anything about how Foggy feels, really, despite his proclamations on the subject a moment ago, so it feels safe to assume he won’t notice any signs of disappointment or hurt in this split second before Foggy swallows those feelings and pretends to be his usual upbeat self. That’s who Matt really needs right now, and so that’s who he’ll be.

“How much older?” Foggy asks.

“Old,” Matt says. “Like, thirty.”

“Okay,” Foggy nods, already able to find this funny. Matt won’t still be single by the time they’re both thirty. He’ll be married by the time they graduate law school, most likely, so it won’t be an issue. Foggy doesn’t like to think about it, but he knows it’s true.

“You’ll do it?”

“Maybe,” Foggy says. “Ask me again when you’re not blackout drunk.”

“I’m fine,” Matt objects. “I’m not blackout. Not even close.”

“Then we can pick this conversation up in the morning, no problem!”

Matt nods, drunkenly. “Absolutely.”

“Okay, sorry. The girl from the play you have to kiss is Diana, right? Diana Weisfeldt?”

“Yeah,” Foggy says, stretching out his legs in front of him. Diana’s nice enough, though he doesn’t know her very well, but she’s two years older than him and just pretty enough that he’s got to worry about kissing her in front of people and not embarrassing himself. He’s never thought about her much before now, when he’s suddenly got to kiss her in the spring musical.

“Okay, well, between me and you, I don’t think you have to worry about Diana falling in love with you.”

“Ouch, thanks, Matt. Between me and you, your hair looks stupid today!”

“I’m not—” Matt laughs, thrown off like he wasn’t expecting it at all. “I wasn’t trying to insult you! I just…heard something that makes me think her affections are engaged…elsewhere.”

“Oh,” Foggy says, scuffing his shoe on the metal bleacher. “Sorry. In that case, your hair looks fine.”

“Sure, like I’m going to believe that now,” Matt says, with a wide smile, like he’s being sarcastic, but he does brush his hair back from his forehead, like he actually feels awkward about it now.

“What did you hear?”

“Huh?”

“I asked what you heard,” Foggy repeats. “About Diana?”

Matt rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “Oh. I couldn’t—it’s not for me to say, it’s just—don’t worry about kissing her is all I meant. I’m sure it will be fine. It’s just acting, and I’m sure you can manage a normal looking kiss with her. She’s cool, right?”

“Yeah, she seems like it,” Foggy says, hiding his disappointment. Matt always seems to know what’s going on with everybody, despite the fact that he only started at this school earlier this year.

He’d gotten assigned to Foggy’s homeroom and Foggy, in turn, had gotten assigned by their teacher to give him a tour of the school, which was fine. Foggy likes meeting new people and Matt seemed cool, especially after Foggy recognized his name from the newspaper all those years ago. He had the gangly half-starved look of the frontman of an emo band, just without the eyeliner or the tight clothes, which made him handsome in Foggy’s estimation, which itself was entirely based on what he heard girls saying when they thought no one was around. Matt’s clothes are always a little too big for him and a little faded and completely unfussy in a way that suggests he doesn’t worry about the way he looks ever, which is how Foggy kind of wishes he was. Even on that first day, he noticed all that, and the sort of folded up way that Matt carried himself, like he really didn’t want to impose in any way. He’s also the only blind kid at their school and, despite the evidence that Matt can manage on his own and maybe the fact that it was a little patronizing to even think this way, Foggy felt an immediate responsibility towards him, from that first interaction.

It didn’t help that Matt was sort of funny in a quiet way, where he’d say something under his breath that would take you a minute to really hear and then another to fully get and then you’d be laughing at a dumb joke that no one else heard way after he’d made it. That didn’t matter, though, because Foggy always caught Matt smiling to himself, secretly pleased, when he made Foggy laugh. It certainly didn’t help when a few days later, after this handsome, mysterious kid with dark glasses and perfect manners and an even more perfect jaw (according to the cheerleaders who sat behind Foggy in Pre-Calc, at least) arrived, the rumor got around that Matt had only transferred to this school because he’d gotten kicked out of his last one—a Catholic school, of all things—for fighting too much. Some people said he’d gone after a teacher, which sounded made up to Foggy. It wasn’t hard to imagine Matt getting into a fight in general because, despite his good manners, there was an edge to his pleasantries on occasion that even Foggy could sense, a limit to his good graces that no one had, luckily, discovered yet but existed nonetheless. But fighting a teacher seemed like an exaggeration on the part of the rumor mill, for sure. Foggy had never gone to Catholic school, so he wasn’t certain, but he thought the teachers there were, like, nuns and stuff. Surely, Matt wouldn’t punch a nun, would he? That would be kind of extreme.

Still, Foggy had been grateful that fate had thrown them together and given him a chance to befriend Matt before that rumor started, because Foggy didn’t want to be the guy who was only nice to Matt after he heard he had anger issues. Matt seemed to like him too, despite an abundance of cooler, better options. It was probably just loyalty that motivated him to keep seeking Foggy out. A lot of people think Matt’s cool and even more girls want to date him, from what Foggy’s heard. He could definitely do better, but he might not know that. Or maybe he just likes that Foggy didn’t ask him anything about his old school. It’s hard to tell. Foggy’s not complaining, anyway.

“It’s like I said, don’t freak out about it,” Matt says, oblivious. “It’s just kissing.”

“Right,” Foggy says, to the middle distance. There’s a pigeon on the sidewalk carrying a lottery ticket in its beak. He hopes it wasn’t a winner. “Just kissing.”

“I mean, you’ve kissed a girl before. It’s just like that, but…on stage…”

“Right. Exactly. Just like that.”

“Foggy,” Matt says, slowly. “You have kissed a girl before, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Foggy lies, and sees Matt wince. “I mean, kind of. More or less.”

“‘More or less’? What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve…you know…the concept of kissing is not foreign to me, not entirely, but…you know, technically, I’m not exactly—I haven’t precisely, well…”

“You haven’t kissed a girl,” Matt interrupts, flatly.

Foggy shakes his head miserably. “No.”

“Not at all?”

“I don’t think there’s degrees of kissing!” he practically shouts, before catching Matt’s expression. “Oh my god, there are! Okay! I’m going to go…walk into traffic.”

“Hey,” Matt says, grabbing his arm. “It’s fine! You don’t need to be embarrassed!”

“I definitely do, actually, because I am and I will be forever!”

“No, it’s really fine. And honestly, your freaking out makes way more sense to me now.”

“I don’t want my first kiss to be in drama club,” Foggy whines, now that the thing he’d been holding back is out in the open. “That’s so weird!”

“It’s not that weird! Think of it as practice!”

“That’s honestly worse. Your first kiss is supposed to be important and, ideally, romantic. Mine’s going to be in front of Ms. Calder!”

“Well, if it helps, my first kiss was not romantic either, so…”

“When was it?” Foggy asks, too eagerly. “What happened?”

Matt looks slightly uncomfortable. “It was, uh—I was 11. It was at a birthday party.”

“That sounds nice! And normal.”

“It was a part of a game,” Matt says. “So it wasn’t special or anything. The same girl kissed two other people at that party. So did I, actually.”

“Oh my god,” Foggy says, burying his face in his hands. “So not only did you have your first kiss five whole years before me, but your second and third kiss happened the same day? With different people?!”

“And my fourth,” Matt says, looking chagrined. “But that was the first girl again.”

“How many people have you kissed?” Foggy asks, turning to give him an awed expression. Matt pulls a face, and he realizes it’s a weird question. “Right. That’s not cool to ask. It’s probably a lot, though, right?”

“I haven’t kept track,” Matt mumbles, awkwardly.

“Cool,” Foggy nods. “Okay. Reminder to self: do not keep count of number of kissing partners. If and when I ever find someone who wants to kiss me.”

“You will,” Matt replies, looking pained. “It’s not—it’s fine that you haven’t yet! You’re just—!”

“So help me god, if you call me a late bloomer right now, I’m not responsible for what I do!”

“No,” Matt laughs, shaking his head. “I wasn’t going to—everyone matures differently!”

Foggy shoves him and Matt sort of grabs his wrist to extend their scuffle a second longer. Yet another reason Foggy wouldn’t be surprised if Matt did get expelled for fighting: he loves to get up in people’s space. He does it innocently enough most of the time, being more tactile than the average guy, but Foggy can tell he kind of likes to push his luck now and then. Foggy yanks his arm away with more force than he needs to.

“Easy for you to say,” he grumbles. “You’re kissing up a storm out there!”

“Not really. I mean, I do okay.”

“You’re doing more than okay from where I’m sitting,” Foggy says, and Matt has the audacity to look guilty, which makes Foggy feel bad. He’d meant it as a compliment, but it clearly hadn’t landed that way, so he attempts to pivot. “The answer is clear. You must teach me your ways, Obi-Wan.”

Matt snorts. “Well, first you’ve got to start by skipping the Star Wars references—”

“Okay, fair enough.”

“And then—wait, you’re as handsome as me, right?”

Foggy nods vigorously, even though the physical comedy will be lost on Matt. “Absolutely,” he replies. “One might even say more handsome. In the right light.”

“Perfect,” Matt laughs. “Then, yeah, you should have no trouble with girls.”

“And yet, here I am! Unkissed! The injustice of it is hard to bear!”

“You can always just wait around for your shot with Diana…”

“Who knows how many guys she’s kissed that she’ll have to compare me to,” Foggy complains.

“Probably not a lot,” Matt says, mildly. When Foggy gives him a pointed look, he smiles in a way that’s both vague and devilish and then shrugs. “Not everyone’s as easy as me.”

“That’s certainly true,” Foggy replies petulantly and Matt laughs. “No, I mean, Diana’s nice and all, but it’s not—” He sighs, even though it’s far too dramatic under the circumstances, and continues, “It’s just not what I thought it’d be. And I’m going to be so nervous until it happens.”

“Yeah, that’s no good,” Matt says, sympathetically.

“It’s fine,” Foggy says, pushing himself to stand. It’s probably past time for him to head out. He’s been whining about this for a while and his mom is definitely going to send out a search party soon enough. And Matt probably has better things to do than listen to his problems, anyway. “I should get home. I’ve got homework and stuff to—”

Matt stands too, very suddenly, and while Foggy is still yammering on about whatever just to fill space, leans in to press his lips to Foggy’s in a brief but utterly life-altering kiss. It’s not really passionate or anything like that, but it is insistent, which helps dissipate the immediate thought that Foggy has that this is somehow an accident, that maybe Matt tripped and fell and kissed him on the mouth. He didn’t see any evidence of that and he was looking right at him when he stood up, but bleachers can be precarious and Matt’s blind and maybe Foggy blinked and missed it? It could happen, but also it seems unlikely given the way Matt is just lingering there, as if to give no room for plausible deniability. It doesn’t turn into making out and there’s no passionate embracing, like in the movies and also like Foggy was sort of hoping might happen when he finally got around to kissing somebody, just because that seems more romantic. The kiss stays closed mouthed and respectful, friendly more than anything else, really, except that Foggy now knows how soft Matt’s lips are from touching them with his lips and he’s going to be thinking about that probably forever. And even though there’s no tongues involved in this kiss, he can feel how damp Matt’s lips are from running his tongue over them right before initiating the kiss and he’s also going to need to think about that forever as well. All in all, he’s got a lot to think about and little time to really react.

The moment it’s over, Foggy is overwhelmed by the urge to do it again, because surely now that he’s not surprised, he can do better. After all, that’s why the whole stage kissing thing was bothering him, because Diana didn’t deserve his first shot at kissing ever. She deserved someone with some skill, at least, especially since she was just acting. He didn’t want to put the burden of pretending he knew what he was doing onto someone who wasn’t even getting real enjoyment out of it. He feels the same instinct with Matt, not because it’s the same situation, but because he needs Matt to know he can rise to the occasion, that he’s not thoroughly pathetic. He improves with rehearsal and he wants that on the record.

Though, of course, he can’t do that. Matt might not be acting, but he didn’t kiss Foggy just now out of genuine feeling. He was trying to help him and be a good friend, but it was an act of pity. He was putting Foggy out of his misery, which was considerate, but it doesn’t mean he wants to keep kissing him. He’s the one who pulled away first, after all.

“There,” Matt says, looking pleased and utterly unbothered. “Now you don’t have to be nervous anymore.”

Foggy nods, not knowing how to articulate that Matt has, instead, given him several new reasons to be nervous. “Thanks,” he replies, faintly.

“I know it’s still not romantic, like you wanted, but…”

Matt trails off and he doesn’t look nervous himself, but there’s something anxious to the way his gaze, never really riveted on the person he’s talking to so much as angled in the general vicinity of their face, skitters off into the distance rather than staying on Foggy that betrays the smallest chink in the armor that is Matt’s confidence. Like he thinks Foggy might actually be mad at him for this, rather than just absolutely reevaluating everything he thought about who he is as a person as of two minutes ago.

“For one thing, my eight year old daughter won’t stop tricking her babysitter into letting her watch scary movies and then crawling into bed with me in the middle of the night because she can’t sleep,” Foggy says, grabbing the plate from her. “How’s that?”

“Don’t throw it away!” Milly calls.

Foggy pauses. “Baby, you don’t have to eat it. I’ll make you more with actual cinnamon.”

Milly looks at him like he’s grown an extra head. “I know,” she says, slowly. “I just wanted to show Dada what you did.”

“Okay,” Foggy says, rolling his eyes and returning the plate. “Just for that, maybe I won’t make you more toast.”

“Sure, starve me for telling the truth. That’ll go over great with the other trusted adults in my life when I snitch on you.”

“It’ll never hold up in court,” Foggy replies, already putting two more slices of bread into the toaster.

“Besides,” she says, ignoring him and popping a sliced strawberry into her mouth. “I don’t crawl into your bed, I crawl into Dada’s.”

“It’s the same bed,” he explains. “Just because you cuddle with Dada and kick me all night doesn’t make it any less my bed. And what’s up with that, anyway? I have it on good authority that I’m the more cuddly of the two of us. Why don’t you ever snuggle me?”

“You want it too bad,” she says, taking a two-handed drink of her orange juice.

“Devil child,” he mutters. His mother once told him, when he and Matt were first looking into adoption, that your children will act as cosmic comeuppance for all the things you put your poor parents through as a child yourself and he hadn’t believed her. Maybe he just thought that, because Milly didn’t share any DNA with them, that his and Matt’s most exhausting qualities wouldn’t rear their ugly heads in her at all. And, boy, love her as he does, he was wrong on that count.

“Dada would never do this to me,” Milly continues, happily. “And he can’t even see! Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

“About looking into boarding schools?” Foggy asks. “Definitely.”

“Mean!”

“You’re saying you’d miss me?”

“No,” Milly says, crossing her arms. “But I’d miss Dada and my friends and my teachers and Aunt Daisy and—ooh, can I borrow your phone?”

“Why?”

“I want to text Aunt Daisy a picture of the paprika toast.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Come onnnnn,” she whines. “She’ll think it’s funny!”

“That’s exactly why I’m not giving you my phone.”

“You’re no fun,” Milly grumbles, sinking down to rest her chin on the counter dejectedly. Her head immediately pops up again when Matt appears behind her. “Dada! Wait til you see what your husband did!”

Matt stops to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Please don’t say your hair because it feels…uh, chaotic?”

“I haven’t even gone near it this morning,” Foggy says, as he fetches the toast that’s just popped out of the toaster. “That’s all natural.”

“Well, that’s something,” Matt replies, coming into the kitchen. “So, what did you do?”

“He made me cinnamon toast,” Milly interrupts, enthusiastically. “Here, try it!”

As with Foggy, the toast doesn’t even make it to Matt’s mouth before he’s frowning. “That’s…not cinnamon, honey.”

Milly cackles while Foggy glares at her. “I made a small mistake,” Foggy says, over the chorus of his daughter’s laughter.

“What is that? Chili powder?” Matt asks, sniffing delicately.

“Paprika.”

“Oh.”

“And I have been soundly roasted for my error,” Foggy says, mostly in Milly’s direction. “So, I don’t want to hear it from you, okay?”

Matt shrugs. “Okay.”

“Apparently, you would never make such a mistake in your life, because you’re a good dad and I’m some sort of rodeo clown who ended up here by mistake.”

Matt looks at him, very clearly stifling a laugh. “She only thinks that because she’s led a charmed life where I almost never make her breakfast,” he says. “Give it a week, she’ll be begging for you back.”

“You’d just let me eat fruit snacks for breakfast,” Milly says, as Foggy puts her new breakfast down in front of her.

“Yes, and then you wouldn’t have all the nutrients you need to learn new things at school and get smart enough to become the first female president of the United States,” Foggy says. “And then where would we be?”

“There better be a female president before I’m old enough,” Milly says, darkly and with a mouth full of toast.

“Better eat a balanced breakfast just to be safe,” Matt says, pushing off the counter to go find some coffee. “And be nice to your dad.”

“How will that help me become President?”

“People skills,” Matt says.

“Surviving into adulthood,” Foggy says, at the same time.

Milly blows a raspberry at him, but eats the new toast without complaint. Matt’s scouting around for the sugar bowl now and Foggy stops him with a hand on his elbow.

“I already put sugar in it for you,” he says.

Matt smiles. “I don’t care what Milly says. You’re the best rodeo clown a kid could hope for, and a very good husband too.”

“Thanks,” Foggy replies, and allows himself to be pulled in for a kiss. He gets to enjoy that for about ten seconds before Milly makes another disgusted noise behind him. He sighs and pulls back. “What’s wrong with the toast now?”

“Nothing,” Milly exclaims. “It’s you two that are grossing me out!”

“Sorry your dads are in love with each other,” Matt says, with a smile and a faint blush. “You live a tough life.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Milly says, as she shoves an improbably large bite of her toast into her mouth without issue. She’s not even finished chewing when she asks, “Will you walk me to school today, Dada?”

“Why? Are you worried I’ll do that wrong too?” Foggy asks, putting an arm around Matt’s shoulders.

“I’d be happy to, baby,” Matt interjects before Milly can say something smart-alecky back to him. “Go get dressed, okay?”

Mill hops down from her chair happily and practically skips to her room. Matt nudges Foggy’s shoulder with his nose.

“What’s up with you two?” he asks.

“I don’t know. She’s just pushing my buttons.”

“Successfully,” Matt replies.

“Yeah, well,” Foggy shrugs. “I slept half the night with her foot in my face while she cuddled with you. I’m a little cranky, I guess.”

“Feeling left out?” Matt asks, smiling, as he turns to wrap his arms around Foggy’s middle.

“I’m definitely the cuddliest person in this household and I want it acknowledged.”

“I agree,” Matt says, kissing him on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to Milly. She’s a maniac.”

“She takes after you.”

“Not true. I love to cuddle with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, leaning in to kiss him again.

“We could make that happen, you know,” Foggy says against his lips. “Drop the kid off at school, cancel our appointments for today, play hooky from our responsibilities, stay in bed all day…”

Matt seems to be thinking it over, tempted. “We couldn’t,” he says, not quite convincingly.

“We could. I know our bosses and, trust me, they’d want us to get laid.”

“I’ve said it before but those guys are weird,” Matt jokes. “They’re honestly too involved in our sex lives.”

“Yeah, it’s an HR nightmare,” Foggy replies, kissing him again.

“You two better not still be kissing when I come back,” Milly hollers from the bathroom, where she’s brushing her teeth (or so Foggy guesses from the sound of running water).

“We definitely will be,” Foggy shouts back, as Matt collapses into his shoulder laughing.

“I’m going to go attempt to get our daughter’s hair fit for public appearance,” Matt says, giving Foggy another quick kiss on the lips.

“And I’m going to text Kate that we’ll be in late this morning.”

Matt pauses. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Foggy consults his watch. “Our first appointment is at 11. I can do plenty to you in that amount of time.”

Matt looks a little startled by that, but not in a bad way. “Kate’s going to know what that text means, you know.”

“That just means there will be someone to share in Milly’s pain over us being disgustingly in love after all these years. Unless that’s your way of saying no?”

“Definitely not. Just warning you that we’ll get a lot of grief for it later.”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“You always do,” Matt replies, and Foggy’s definitely not being conceited when he says Matt’s tone sounds downright dreamy.

He heads off to help Milly finish getting ready and Foggy tackles the few dishes in the sink while he waits for another pot of coffee to finish brewing. A few minutes later, Milly appears in the kitchen, dressed and with her hair pulled into a neat bun. Neither of them can do anything particularly fancy with her hair, not least because she won’t sit still long enough for all that, but Matt does a good job for someone who’s never had long hair or siblings. A now presentable Milly pulls her backpack and coat off the hook on the wall and stops by Foggy’s side expectantly.

“What do you need, kiddo?” he asks, as he dries his hands on the towel hanging by the stove.

“Hug goodbye,” she says, lifting her arms towards him and he kneels to capture her in a big hug.

When she finally pulls back, she still looks hesitant, like there’s something she needs to ask him. It once again strikes him as crazy how much she reminds him of Matt sometimes.

“What’s the matter?” Foggy asks, tucking a picturesque loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You feel alright? Is all that paprika I fed you bothering your stomach?”

Milly shakes her head, looking away. “I just wanted to—Dada said that his dad would have made him eat that gross toast because they never wasted food when he was little.”

“Did he?” Foggy asks, already making a mental note to kick Matt’s ass when they’re alone together. “Listen, baby, your Grandpa Jack, he…didn’t have a lot of help when your Dada was young. They had to be really careful with their money and Dada was in the hospital for a while…”

“I know,” Milly says, nodding. “I’m just—thank you for making me new toast, instead.”

Foggy feels a lump in his throat that he struggles to swallow past. “Hey, you don’t have to thank me for that, okay? It’s my job to make your life as good as it possibly can be. Even if I have to make you a hundred pieces of toast every morning.”

“That would be expensive.”

“Still,” Foggy says, firmly. “I’m sorry if what Dada said made you upset.”

Milly scrunches up her face like she’s eating the paprika toast all over again. “He said it like it was funny,” she says, mildly horrified.

“God, okay,” Foggy replies, running a hand over his face. Matt would consider that a charming anecdote about his father. Speaking of people who are going to need a hug from him… “Don’t worry about that. Just have a good day at school, okay?”

“Okay,” Milly says, all concern gone as she hops in place excitedly.

Matt appears around the corner then, pulling on his coat. “Ready?”

“Just gotta get my shoes,” Milly shouts as she zooms off in the direction of the door.

“Alright,” Matt says, as he comes into the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a few.”

“Okay,” Foggy says, as he leans in to kiss him goodbye. “Oh, and maybe no more stories about your dad before school, yeah?”

Matt blinks at him. “What? Why?”

“We’ve talked about how sometimes the anecdotes from your childhood that you think are charming and scrappy are actually alarming to the people who love you now,” Foggy says, gently.

“Yeah…” Matt says, uncertainly, before his expression clears. “Oh. Shit.”

“It’s fine,” Foggy replies, rubbing his back. “I already explained that she can ask for as much food as she wants. Just maybe reinforce that with her on your way to school?”

Matt looks pale and queasy even as he nods. “Right. God, I didn’t—I’m sorry—”

“I know. I’m not mad.”

“And you still want to play hooky from work with me, even though I’m the world’s biggest idiot?”

Foggy kisses him on the forehead. “Of course. You’re still a very cute idiot.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Listen, I told Milly it’s my job to make her life as good as possible, and that’s true, but it’s also my job to do that for you. And right now, the best way to make your life better is to take you back to bed and—”

“Ready!” Milly shouts as she skids around the corner. “Are you guys still kissing?! What about my education?”

“She’s right, you know,” Matt says, pulling back and looking a bit better, though still tremulous. “We’re terrible parents.”

“Maybe I should look into boarding schools, after all,” Foggy jokes, crossing his eyes goofily at Milly over Matt’s shoulder.

“I’m never going to be President at this rate,” Milly laments.

“Alright, let’s get you to school,” Matt says, holding out his hand for her.

Foggy leans down to give Milly a kiss on the top of her head. “Don’t let your dad walk into traffic, okay?”

“I won’t,” Milly says, swinging their joined hands between them. “I promise.”

“That’s my girl. Have a good day, baby cakes.”

“You too, daddy cakes.”

“I’ll be back shortly,” Matt says, smiling at the two of them.

“I’ll be here,” Foggy replies, as suggestively as he can manage. It must work because Milly snarls in disgust.

“If you two start kissing again, I’m taking myself to school,” she says, leveraging her full weight against Matt to drag him towards the door. “Or running off to join the circus. You won’t know which until it’s too late.”

“She gets that from you,” Matt says, tiredly.

“I was going to say I think she gets it from you.”

“Maybe she has a point about us being gross.”

“A date needs ambience,” Matt continues, undeterred. “Candles, or mood lighting, at the very least. Music or…something! We have none of that.”

“I can get that wind-up lantern we have in case of power outages, if you think that would help,” Foggy says. “And I think I have a kazoo in my office.”

“Why do you have a kazoo, of all things?”

“Marlena’s daughter gave it to me last time they were here. I think it counts as our payment for that case, by the way.”

Matt shakes his head, refusing to be amused. “We’re drinking bodega wine and eating…God, what are we even eating?”

“Your choice of—” Foggy is interrupted by the crinkling of plastic—“frozen breakfast burritos or…pizza bagels.”

“We’re grown men,” Matt says, scandalized, but somehow his smile escapes his attempt at containment. “This is pathetic.”

“I don’t know when you suddenly got too good for convenience store fare, but I’ve never made any such claims.”

“Your mother would kill me if she knew this is what I let pass for a romantic dinner.”

“Believe it or not, Matt, I don’t report back to my mother after every date,” Foggy replies, sounding like he’s very much resisting the urge to laugh. “Where on earth would you get the idea that I did?”

“I don’t know,” Matt sighs. “I’m being irrational, I understand.”

Foggy pats his hand where it’s resting on the table. “I’m disappointed too,” he says, gently.

Matt sighs again, even more dramatically. They’d had big plans to go out tonight, to finally take a night to themselves after cases had taken up most of their nights and weekends as well as their days. It wasn’t like they could afford to say no, not when people needed their help and when they needed to pay rent, so they’d been steadily working themselves down to nubs for the past few months. Tonight was meant to be a small reprieve, and Matt had learned enough to know he might not feel the need for it as much as Foggy claimed to but he did still need a break now and then, whether he could recognize it ahead of time or not.

Then, of course, a trial for one of their clients had gotten moved up, which meant they had to get all their prep done in a very small timeframe and their plans for a night off had dutifully been thrown over in favor of work once again. Hence the late dinner of whatever Foggy could find at the nearest bodega, because of course he was the one to remember, amidst the tidal wave of work, that they still needed to eat something, at least. Matt really doesn’t know how he managed to stay alive before Foggy—though, now that he thinks of it, “before Foggy” is such a distant time in the past for him at this point that he struggles to remember it at all. Which is its own kind of alarming.

“You’re not going to break up with me over this, right?” Matt asks, and again, it’s a real sign of growth that he can say it out loud at all, that he can even admit to needing the reassurance.

“God no,” Foggy says, rubbing Matt’s knuckles with his thumb. “First of all, this isn’t even a little bit your fault—”

“It was my idea to start the firm in the first place, though, so technically—”

“And secondly,” Foggy continues, ignoring him, “if I broke up with you, I’d never find someone else who would put up with this kind of thing on a regular basis. You’re the only person who understands. I got very lucky. Breaking up with you would be like hitting on a 17 in blackjack.”

“I don’t know anything about gambling, but I’m guessing that was very sweet.”

Foggy laughs. “It was, thank you for noticing. If we ever get a moment of peace in our lives, I’ll take you to Atlantic City and teach you everything you need to know about blackjack.”

“I have a set of Braille playing cards at home,” Matt says, feeling his face heat for no real reason. “I mean, just in the interest of setting more reasonable goals.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Getting as far away as New Jersey is pretty unrealistic, for us.”

“I appreciate that you want to take me away someplace nice, though.”

“Of course,” Foggy says. “Only the best for you.”

“Exotic vacations to New Jersey, fancy dinners from the freezer aisle, six dollar wine…” Matt muses. “Who says you can’t have it all?”

“You haven’t seen anything yet, baby,” Foggy quips. “If you think dinner for two in the office kitchenette is uninspiring, wait until you experience making love on the office couch!”

Matt wrinkles his nose, even as he feels himself blush. “Yeah, that’s going to take some convincing,” he says, though he doesn’t admit that it probably won’t amount to all that much. Foggy can talk him into almost anything, because a major component of being in love is being dangerously stupid for another person, he’s found.

“I think I’ll let the cheap wine do the talking for me on this one,” Foggy says, reaching across the table to top off Matt’s glass—or, well, paper cup. “Drink up!”

“Not as well as Karen, but…”

Matt smiles, too brightly for the hour and for their current circumstances. “I see news of my humbling defeat has already reached you."

"As if there's a force on this earth that could actually humble you in any real way."

"True enough," Matt replies, his smile only growing. "It's clear to me now that I should have done my homework before challenging her, at least.”

"I hope you didn't put any money on it," Foggy says, casually.

"Nothing I couldn't afford to lose," Matt says, with a shrug. It's hard to tell in the subdued lighting of the bar, but he might also be blushing faintly. "If you're worried, I'll be generous with you. You can lose for free."

"Golly, thanks," Foggy says, drily, making Matt laugh.

"Sounds like a yes to me," he says, before nodding to the raised area in the back of the room where the pool table resides. “I’ll get it set up. Meet me there when you’re all set.”

“Sorry, am I buying and delivering your drinks now, Murdock?”

“Seems like it, yeah,” Matt replies, with a grin that threatens to overtake his face as he effortlessly walks back from the bar without turning away.

“And what do I get out of this arrangement?” Foggy shouts after him.

“The pleasure of my company,” Matt fires back, and then disappears again.

Foggy can’t deny that that’s enough of a draw for him, but he doesn’t have to be stupid and admit it out loud. Instead, he gets Matt’s drink without further complaint, as well as his own, closes his tab, and heads over to the slightly enclosed area at the back of the bar where there’s a pool table with Matt Murdock leaning against it. He hands the drink off to him, and clinks their glasses together before Matt can pull his away.

“Cheers,” he says, for no real reason, and watches Matt’s throat move on a swallow just a little too closely. He feels fine and normal otherwise.

“You know how to play?” Matt asks, inclining his head towards the table as he stands and makes his way to the rack of pool cues.

There’s something loose and warm in the way he moves around the rounded corners of the table, like this is his neighborhood bar and he knows it by heart. Foggy attributes it to the few drinks he’s had over the course of the night and a certain natural grace that Matt seems to possess, but having an explanation for it doesn’t dampen the effect of it at all. Just like he was fascinated by Matt’s throat a moment ago, Foggy now feels like he can’t take his eyes off Matt’s hips, which is a real problem.

“I’m a man of a certain age, Matthew,” Foggy gripes, in the hopes of distracting from his obvious enamored state with sheer bad manners. “Of course I know how to play pool!”

"Good, then I won't go easy on you," Matt says.

"I have a feeling that was never an option," Foggy retorts. "What's a guy like you get out of pool, anyway?

"A guy like me? What's that supposed to mean?

Foggy rolls his eyes. "Don't give me that. It's a pretty visual game!"

"True enough. I was going to ask you to point me in the right direction, depending on whether I end up with stripes or solids."

"I could lie."

"Yeah, but you won't."

"I'm a politician, kiddo. Don't be so sure."

"'Kiddo'," Matt repeats, evidently delighted by it. "You're in a real mood, huh?"

"I'm fine," Foggy says, too sharply. "You want to break or shall I?"

"You go ahead," Matt offers, generously. "I want you to feel like you stood an actual chance, at least to start."

"You're kind of an asshole, you know that?"

"Oh, I'm aware. You can save the energy you're about to put into pretending you don't like it, by the way."

"I don't like it!"

"Sure."

"I really don't," Foggy says, even as he's trying to fight a smile. And winning, but still. "Not right now I don't, at least."

"Yes, you do," Matt replies, knowingly. "Right now, me being an asshole is the only thing stopping you from taking your frustrations out on someone who doesn't deserve it."

Foggy sighs, defeated. "You don't deserve it either."

"Give it fifteen, twenty minutes and see if you still feel that way," Matt says, lightly, and nudges him with his elbow.

Foggy steps up to take the first shot, breaking the neat little triangle of billiard balls that Matt has assembled in the center of the table with the white cue ball easily. Nothing goes into a pocket, of course, not that he really expected it. He's fine at pool, generally speaking, but not great. It's a feeling he's beginning to get used to (and increasingly tired of) in the rest of his life as well.

"Let's keep it simple," he says, as he stands up. "Whoever sinks the most shots wins."

"Easy enough," Matt says, coming to stand next to him. "Where's the cue ball?"

Foggy steps in close to Matt's side, until their arms brush. "Eleven o'clock."

Matt nods and sinks down into his stance. Foggy steps back, both to get out of his way and to admire his form. Matt’s got a nice ass, which is something Foggy noticed about him basically immediately, being gifted by God with both the power of sight and the blessing of bisexuality. He can normally control himself enough to conveniently avoid noticing it, except for right now when it’s late, he’s a little tipsy, and Matt’s suit is perfectly tailored to show it off. It is, quite frankly, a ridiculous situation he’s gotten himself into. Even the dim amber lighting of the bar is blending with the glow of several nearby neon signs—they serve Heineken and Pabst Blue Ribbon here, apparently—to cast Matt’s skin in the dreamiest light possible.

Matt sinks three balls without trouble before Foggy can manage to tear his gaze away from his ass, and even then, it’s only to get distracted by the lovely shape his fingers make around the cue. He misses his next shot by about three millimeters, a miracle that Foggy attributes either to the power of his overwhelming horniness creating some sort of palpable disturbance in the atmosphere or God punishing him for his lustful thoughts by contriving a scenario where Matt’s no longer bending over a pool table in his line of sight. Either way, it’s a reprieve.

“That’s you,” Matt says, still stalking around the table like a jungle cat. Foggy might need to get out more, is the thing.

“How are you this good at pool, anyway?” Foggy asks, as he lines up his shot and delicately avoids letting his hips come into contact with the table. He thinks unsensuous thoughts and doesn’t look over at Matt at all, because, with his luck, if he does, Matt will be innocently fellating the pool cue or some similar such nonsense. Better to avoid it altogether, he thinks.

“Practice,” Matt says, smugly. “And very, very dim vision, technically.”

“I didn’t know that,” Foggy says as he sinks a shot, finally. Even that, the sound of the ball finding the pocket, is kind of erotic to him now because his life is a farce.

“Yeah. Most blind people have some vision. Total blindness is fairly rare.”

“So, what I’m hearing is you totally just let me lead you around most of the time because you really just like walking arm in arm with me. Is that accurate?”

“You caught me,” Matt says, with a soft smile, and Foggy misses his next shot completely. “Not bad.”

“3 to 1,” Foggy replies, pushing himself up.

“You’re on the board,” Matt says, passing behind him closely enough that Foggy catches the scent of his cologne mixed with the Jameson left in his glass. He takes another drink and Foggy wonders what his mouth would taste like right now and also if there’s a historically significant, beautiful river nearby that he could potentially drown himself in. They’re in small town New Hampshire, after all. The chances that Benedict Arnold did something stupid near here back in 1776 and there's a scenic spot with a plaque commemorating it are pretty high. There are worse places to drown yourself, he figures.

“Don’t patronize me,” he grumbles, instead of saying any of that out loud.

“I wasn’t,” Matt says, grinning as he settles into his spot for his next shot.

“How much did Karen beat you by, again? I feel like it might be helpful, for me, to know.”

“It’s not fair,” Matt says in an exaggerated whine that’s in no way convincing. His smile doesn’t help either. “I’m blind and she tricked me!”

“I don’t think her being better at pool than you expected constitutes a trick on her part, Matt.”

“She let me explain the rules to her for like ten minutes!”

“And I bet she let you do that thing where you got real close and showed her how to handle the stick from behind too,” Foggy says, infusing his tone with mock pity.

“Oh, she dropped the ruse well before that point, though I’ll be the first to admit I’m not above that move,” Matt says, unrepentant, and sinks another shot. “But I can always do that for you if you need some pointers!”

“Sure,” Foggy says, sweetly. “Come on over, big boy.”

Matt misses his next shot because he’s too busy doubling over with laughter. “Jesus, Foggy!”

“Don’t put anything on the table you don’t want people to accept, Murdock.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Matt says. “Your turn.”

Foggy sighs as he gets into position. Matt comes to stand at his side and, after a quiet moment in which Foggy attempts to line up his shot, puts his hand on the small of Foggy’s back. It takes all of Foggy’s concentration not to jump away from the touch, but he manages to keep his cool, just barely. 

“Your stance does need work,” Matt says, mildly, and kicks him in the ankle before Foggy can make a smart comment about what his lower back has to do with his stance. “Bring this foot out a little.”

Foggy complies, because his brain can’t think of anything else to do in this moment. “Better?” he asks.

“Good,” Matt replies, and Foggy likes the tone in his voice a little too much for his own well being. “Take your shot.”

Foggy does, and scratches. The humiliation, at least, cuts through the arousal rather effectively. That’s something.

“Saboteur,” he mutters as he goes off in search of the lost cue ball.

“I can improve your stance, but your aim is your own problem.”

“A likely story,” Foggy says, as he returns. “I’m hip to your little mind games now, Murdock.”

He puts the cue ball into Matt’s outstretched hand. Matt is entitled, per the rules, to place it wherever he likes on the table to set up his next shot, but he stands there cradling it thoughtfully in his palm, testing its weight, instead, for a long moment, like a total sociopath, adding more force to the argument that Foggy is currently being punished by a mean-spirited and vengeful god.

“You know massaging that thing won’t help you score, right?”

Matt gives him a smile that indicates he either appreciates some good trash talk between men or that he’s seen through to the very heart of Foggy’s desires and found them trivial and amusing in the grand scheme of things. Either way, it’s a good look on him. 

“Can’t hurt, can it?” Matt asks, smugly, and places the cue ball before lining up his shot and sinking it in one practiced, elegant motion. “5 to 1, correct?”

“Yep,” Foggy says, leaning back to watch the show without guilt now, since he’s paying for it so dearly at the cost of his self-respect. Matt sinks another shot and Foggy doesn’t even care because he’s too transfixed by the way the fabric of Matt’s dress shirt bunches up around his bicep and spreads taught between his shoulder blades. Foggy takes a healthy sip of his drink because his mouth is suddenly so dry.

"You know," Matt says, casually, with his ass unceremoniously in the air because pool is the greatest game ever invented, in Foggy's not-entirely-sober opinion (even if he is losing spectacularly), "we are rapidly approaching the point in the game where you can't actually win."

"Yes, I'm aware. Believe it or not, I can do basic math. It's one of my very few skills."

"I don't agree with that assessment."

"You don't think I can do math?"

"I think you have lots of skills," Matt says, as he brings his score up to seven. "The gift of foresight, for one."

"What?"

Matt smiles. "You were smart to accept the offer not to play for money."

"Oh, right. Sorry, I thought—you're right. That was smart.

"What did you think I meant?"

"Nothing, I—it's not important. I was just confused for a second there."

"Foggy..."

"Just take your next shot, Matt," Foggy interjects, harshly. "You're one point away from ensuring complete domination over me."

Without turning away from him, Matt reaches out to poke the cue ball with his cue, leaving it to roll hesitantly and without urgency into the bumpers around the edge of the table. "You're up," he says, with a helpless shrug, and comes to stand next to Foggy.

He sighs. "Matt, listen—”

"I didn't mean the tobacco thing," Matt says, ignoring him. All of the levity of a moment ago is gone. They're not cheerfully messing around anymore, it looks like. "That's not how I'd bring it up. You know that, right?"

"I do know that. You wouldn't—it's just that it's been on my mind. That's why I went there. It has nothing to do with you."

Matt nods, absently. "I hope so."

"It's the truth," Foggy says, grabbing him by the arm to emphasize his sincerity. "And you've been a real class act for not rubbing my nose in it. I deserved an 'I told you so' at the very least and you haven't given me one, so I should be more appreciative."

"You don't have to thank me for not kicking you when you're down."

"I went to you for advice on how to handle things with the Appropriations subcommittee and then blatantly ignored all of the very good advice you gave me. 'I told you so' would be getting off easy."

Matt smiles, reluctantly. "To be fair, I don't think you really went to me for advice. You knew what you wanted to do before you came to me."

"What was I looking for then?"

"Permission," Matt suggests. "Forgiveness. Maybe some mild fawning over your political acumen."

"All of the above, maybe," Foggy admits, warily, and rubs his face. "I'm sorry."

"For which part?"

"Ignoring your good advice, for one thing. And, well, if I made you feel like I was pulling rank on you, that's not good either."

Matt laughs. "You do outrank me, Foggy."

“Still,” Foggy says. “I like to think I’m not that guy, usually.”

“What guy?”

“The one who’s so far up his own ass that he can’t see anyone else’s point of view.”

“Oh, yeah,” Matt says, thoughtfully. “You’re definitely not that guy.”

“I was to you.”

“Not really. It was one situation where you didn’t take my advice. That’s going to happen if we work together for any stretch of time. It’s going to happen again, I’d guess. I hate to think you’re going to beat yourself up this much every time.”

Foggy nudges Matt with his elbow ineffectively. “You’re being too nice to me.”

“And you’re being too hard on yourself,” Matt replies. “Someone’s got to be nice to you. Might as well be me.”

“I notice this vow of kindness doesn’t extend to letting me win at pool.”

“Even I have my limits of good grace, Foggy,” Matt says, with a smile. “Besides, I already lost once tonight. My ego barely survived it.”

“Yeah, I know,” Foggy says, earning a confused look from Matt. “Karen asked me to check on you before she left. She was worried about your fragile mental state, that maybe you were weeping over your humiliation alone in the bathroom.”

“No such luck,” Matt laughs.

“My theory was that we had you to thank for the back-to-back Shania Twain songs on the jukebox at the time.”

“Also not true, but only because Shania Twain isn’t exactly sulking music.”

“Speak for yourself,” Foggy says. “I could sulk to Shania.”

“Well, that’s why they pay you the big bucks, I guess,” Matt replies, absently leaning his weight onto the pool cue. “I didn’t know you were paying such close attention.”

Foggy pauses with his glass midway to his lips. “What?”

“When Karen and I finished our game,” Matt says, still brightly but with a strange edge, like he’s not sure mentioning this is the right thing to do. “I thought you were still outside with Jeri.”

“I was,” Foggy says, and then reconsiders. “I mean, I was for most of your game, I think. When I came back in, you two seemed to be finishing up.”

They also seemed to be laughing and touching a whole lot, which is why Foggy hadn’t come over. He’d slunk off to drink at a table with Marci and Ben and a few of the new people Jeri had hired to run the campaign while they went nine rounds over the wording of a single sentence in the speech for the President’s official announcement for the bid for re-election. The senior staff and the campaign staff were finding it difficult to mesh together so far and it meant that this important speech was stuck in limbo between them like a child of divorce in a nasty custody battle. Everyone, it seemed, was having a miserable time of it lately, which was especially inconvenient because there’d never been more scrutiny on the administration before this particular moment.

Matt was, technically, campaign staff but he’d been on the payroll longer than anyone else, because he’d been doing polling for them for a while now and they’d just decided to extend his contract and fold it into their re-election efforts. So far, he was keeping his head above water and wasn’t getting embroiled in the stupid little pissing matches happening elsewhere, which was impressive. He’d also been pitching in and helping with the announcement speech where he could, but there were a lot of egos to soothe or flatter in that area and it wasn’t what they were specifically paying him to do. Still, Foggy’s been pleased so far watching him navigate these tense situations and remain professional and undeterred in spite of them. It’s partly because Foggy had been the one to recommend Matt in the first place that he feels such obvious pride, but it’s hard to ignore that there’s another reason for it. He’s trying to make peace with the fact that he’s more than incidentally in love with Matt and constant proximity is not tempering it at all. In fact, seeing Matt every day now and watching him succeed at the thing he loves doing makes Foggy so absurdly happy, it’s almost like these professional victories are happening to him by proxy. Which means, in terms of ever getting past this unfortunate crush, Foggy is monumentally fucked.

“You should have come over,” Matt says, still talking about his game of pool with Karen, oblivious to Foggy’s inner torment. “She said you would, when you got back.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt anything.”

“You wouldn’t have.”

“I’m bad company tonight,” Foggy says, spreading his arms out defensively.

“You’re never bad company, as far as I can tell.”

“What did I ever do to earn such loyalty from you? Just let me call myself an asshole, man.”

Matt sighs, disappointed. “You made one mistake, Foggy. You’ve got to—”

“I made a mistake that could cost us the election!”

“It could, but that doesn’t mean it will! It’s still early and we’ve got a lot of ground to cover. And, more importantly, you got the Justice Department 30 million dollars to go after the tobacco industry! That’s what they asked you to do! That’s a victory! Why don’t you see that?”

“Because there was a larger victory that I left on the table in my need to get anything done in this fucking town,” Foggy says. “I mean, not this town. We’re in Bumblefuck, New Hampshire. But you know…”

“Yeah, believe it or not, I followed that,” Matt says, unimpressed. “And smaller victories are nothing to scoff at. I think you’ve been in this business so long you’ve lost sight of that. Small victories are how you build your way up to bigger ones. In fact, most big victories are comprised of smaller ones. You’re good at what you do, Foggy. You know all this!”

“I don’t feel good at this anymore.”

“Yeah, well, speaking as someone who grew up around professional boxers, I’ll tell you that the right time to ask a man about his next fight is not when he’s just been K.O.’d. You’ve still got the flashlight in your eyes checking for a concussion. I wouldn’t make any career judgments right now.”

“You think we’ve been K.O.’d?” Foggy asks.

“I think the administration’s on its ass right now, for sure,” Matt replies, with the steely calm of a real political operative and Foggy’s pride in him is not misplaced even a little, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t get back up. The numbers I’m seeing are better than expected and they’re built on all the good you’ve done for the last three years. People will remember why they voted for you guys in the first place soon enough.”

“God, I hope you’re right.”

“I am and I think that earns me the right to say something that might hurt your feelings a bit.”

Foggy takes a fortifying sip of his drink, bracing himself. “Go for it, then.”

“As great as you are, this election won’t be won or lost on your actions alone,” Matt says, gently. “I know it’s tempting to decide that what you personally do or don’t do is the most important thing in the universe, to take every setback as a condemnation of your efforts and proof that you need to double down and do more, but you’re a part of a team. It’s not up to you to win this election by yourself. And it won’t be your fault and only yours if we don’t.”

“Why would that hurt my feelings?” Foggy asks, far too casually. He doesn’t know who he thinks he’s trying to fool here.

“Because it would hurt mine,” Matt says, “if our situations were reversed.”

Foggy understands that for what it is: an offer of a hand up off the ground, an acknowledgement that he and Matt are the same in this regard. It’s not nothing and he’d be wise to take what’s being given to him here, but he’s not quite there yet.

“I could have done more, Matt.”

“And you’ll have plenty of chances to do so. Tomorrow’s another day.”

“I think it’s always going to haunt me, the things we didn’t get through, the things we compromised on to appeal to our opposition. I think it’ll kill me, eventually.”

“You’ve done a lot of good too.”

“Yeah,” Foggy agrees, solemnly. “But enough? I’m not sure.”

Matt lets that sit, rather than trying to placate him with some sort of truism, which is nice. It’s meaningful to him that Matt knows this isn’t some empty question coming from him, that Foggy really means it when he asks it. He feels certain that this is something Matt worries about too, that this is a question Matt’s asked himself at the end of many days before. It’s dangerous, honestly, feeling this close to someone. This kind of intimacy isn’t something he feels capable of shaking off and pretending isn’t there, most of the time.

“You didn’t answer my question before, you know,” he says, eventually, even though it feels sacrilegious to break this particular silence.

“Which one?” Matt asks, shifting the cue back and forth between his hands in what could be a nervous tic or maybe he’s just bored with this conversation. It’s hard to tell.

“The one about what I did to earn such loyalty.”

Matt shrugs, staring into the middle distance. “You got me this job, didn’t you?”

“Not really,” Foggy says. “I remembered your name. That’s about it. Everything else was a result of your hard work.”

“Then, I guess it’s all for remembering my name.”

“That’s the real answer?”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Matt replies, leaning into his side. “If you win this game, I’ll give you the real answer.”

“I’d need a miracle for that to happen,” Foggy grumbles. “Are you sure I can’t just bribe you?”

“Okay, final offer,” Matt answers, with a cryptic smile, “you get the eight ball into any pocket on this turn and you win.”

“That’s a stupid bet, Murdock. Where did you learn to gamble?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“You’re winning seven to one. Are you out of your mind?”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just that confident that you won’t be able to make the shot.”

“Or maybe you just really want to tell me your deepest, darkest secret.”

“My deepest, darkest secret has nothing to do with you, Foggy. You’re getting a shallow, well lit secret out of me in this bargain, if anything.”

“We’ll see,” Foggy replies, breezily, as he approaches the table to line up his shot. He doesn’t have Matt’s lithe sort of confidence or any kind of delusion that he’d paint a tempting picture right now even for someone who could see him, but he is stupidly determined, so he likes his odds in this situation just fine.

“Oh,” Matt interrupts, innocently, at the precise moment Foggy was going to pull his cue back and take the shot. “Since we’re now wagering on the outcome of this game, I should ask: what do I get?”

“What do you get?” Foggy repeats, irritated. He feels certain Matt timed that question to throw him off and he’s not pleased about it. “You’re going to beat me in the most humiliating way possible! What more do you need?”

“I’d like a secret too.”

“Fine, but you had better be satisfied with an equally shallow, well lit one from me too.”

“That kind of depends on what kind of secret you consider the answer to my question to be.”

“What question?”

“What made you remember my name?”

Foggy actually stands up to consider this fully. It’s hard to tell with Matt, if he’s aware of the way Foggy can’t help but flirt with him sometimes and how seriously he takes it. Matt gives as good as he gets, Foggy thinks, but whether he knows that Foggy would gladly make real on all the innuendo he throws at him is another matter. All of which just makes it that much more confusing why he’d make this request in the first place. Does he want flattery? Does he want some confirmation that the new opportunities in his career were gotten honestly? Or does he want Foggy to admit to something here? And why would he want that? To laugh at him? To clear the air? To prove his suspicions about why he got this job are true?

Foggy’s not prepared for any of those scenarios. Matt is maybe just joking around (though he certainly doesn’t look like it) but he’s asking for a bigger secret than he realizes. And Foggy will not be explaining that to him, because even that would be admitting too much. They’re going to be working together closely for a while yet and Foggy’s not going to ruin it now, not right out of the gate. He’s got more instinct for self-preservation than that.

“Fine,” he says, setting his sights on the eight ball again. “You have yourself a deal. Now, shut up and stop distracting me.”

Matt crosses his arms over his chest, looking self-satisfied and unconcerned. This expression changes into one of shock and disbelief at the sound of the eight ball landing in the middle pocket on the left side of the table.

“Like I said,” Foggy states, rounding the corner of the table, “that was a bad bet.”

“You cheated,” Matt exclaims.

“How?”

“I didn’t hear the cue touch the ball. Did you—did you just move the eight ball with your hand?!”

“Of course,” Foggy says, with a shrug. “You never said how I had to get the eight ball into the pocket, only that it had to happen on my next turn.”

Matt laughs in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous! And very clearly against the rules!”

“Not against the ones you set, though. Technically.”

“Yeah, technically, I guess,” Matt says. “But don’t you feel bad winning this way?”

“Of course not,” Foggy answers, gesturing widely with the cue still in his hands. “I’m a pathetic little man, Matthew.”

“Five minutes ago, I would have argued with that kind of negative self-talk, but I’m no longer feeling generous towards you at all.”

Foggy shrugs as he reaches past Matt for his drink. “I would totally understand if you didn’t want to uphold your end of the bargain, by the way. I mean, if our situations were reversed, I would still do it, but I’m a class act, through and through.”

“You’re a cheat is what you are,” Matt says, and it might be the inadequate lighting in here playing tricks on him, but Foggy thinks there might be color rising in Matt’s cheeks. “This is why no one trusts anyone in Washington, you know.”

“I know,” Foggy says, indulgently. “Like I said, it’s up to you. But you’ll also recall I warned you never to put something on the table that you don’t want your opponent to accept.”

“I didn’t mind the idea of you winning, I just didn’t think you’d cheat to get it!”

“Then you underestimated how baffled I am by your loyalty to me.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Matt says, leaning back to rest more fully against the table behind him. “I think it’s obvious why I’d…what makes me feel that way towards you.”

“That’s still not an answer,” Foggy replies, at the same moment he realizes Matt leaning back didn’t put that much space between them after all. He’d gotten pretty close to reach for his drink and, maybe, just to push this conversation from trash talk more firmly into flirting territory. For someone who doesn’t want to fuck things up, he’s really pushing his luck.

Matt exhales noisily, and Foggy can feel it on his neck, that’s how close they’re standing. They’re in a bar, of course, so they have their excuses. It’s noisy, with the patrons and the jukebox and the TVs. They could need privacy, given the jobs they have and the sensitive nature of the information they have access to as part of them. But that’s not why Foggy’s doing this and he suspects that, even if he’s just following Foggy’s lead, Matt doesn’t ultimately have a better reason.

“Why did you remember me?” Matt asks, quietly. “I mean, me, of all people? What made me stand out? What did I do right?”

Everything, Foggy wants to say. You do everything right. You’re smart and conscientious and charming and everyone likes you and everyone remembers you and you’ve got a mind and mouth that won’t quit and an ass to match. Remembering you wasn’t the hard part. Forgetting you someday will be. “Matthew Murdock,” Foggy says, carefully, appreciatively, like he’s really savoring every vowel and consonant. “Very alliterative. Extremely easy to remember.”

Matt’s answering smile is slow-dawning to the point of decadence and he tucks his chin to hide it. “My middle name is Michael, you know.”

“Goddammit,” Foggy groans, because he can’t say what he’s really thinking, which is, come back to my room and I’ll make sure you never want to leave. He’s so fucking in love, it’s honestly stupid.

“As for me,” Matt says, a moment later, after careful consideration, “and what you did—why I feel so—what you asked, I mean…”

“Yeah?”

“It’s just that—”

A loud, chirping ringtone severs the tenuous connection of the moment. Foggy stares openly at Matt’s face as he doesn’t react to the interruption at all beyond stopping talking mid-sentence. After a few tense seconds, Foggy clears his throat and steps back.

“I think that’s you, Matt.”

Matt blinks, like he’s waking for a dream and he doesn’t know where he is. “Right,” he says, without confidence and fishes his phone out of his pocket. He holds it like he doesn’t remember owning such a thing in the first place for a long moment before he flips it open to answer it.

“Hello?” he asks, frowning in concentration. “Oh, Nadia, hi. Yeah, no, not too late, don’t worry. Can you give me one second?”

He pulls the phone away from his ear and puts his hand over the receiver before addressing Foggy. “We’re doing some polling of potential voters on the West Coast tonight, and they need to give me the early data.”

“Right.”

“The speech writing team is going to want this information tomorrow. It will impact the messaging.”

“Understood,” Foggy nods. “You, uh, need to take this, then.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Matt admits, looking apologetic.

“Don’t worry. Cell service is a little better outside, if that helps.”

Matt frowns briefly before his expression clears and he nods briskly. “Thanks. That might be a good idea.”

“I’ll, um, clean this up,” Foggy says, gesturing to the pool table. “You go ahead.”

“Alright,” Matt says, chewing his lip. “Will you head out after that?”

“I might. I could, I guess. Why?”

“No reason.”

“You want me to wait? Walk back to the hotel with you when you’re done?”

“You don’t have to,” Matt responds, looking awkward. It’s a nice out, and it would probably be better to put a little space between them—it’s just too tempting for Foggy to be around Matt like this, late at night, in casual environments, with alcohol and dumb wagers blurring the lines between them that should be crystal clear.

“I’ll wait,” he says, instead, hating the sincerity in his voice. “I don’t mind waiting.”

Foggy’s stomach sinks. “It is?” he asks. “What did I do?”

“You looked too damn hot in this week’s episode, apparently.”

“I—what?” Foggy asks, feeling so utterly stupid. None of those words made any sense to him, which is troubling because most of them were pretty simple. “Wait, did I look really sweaty or something?”

“No, dumbass,” Daisy says, “I mean ‘hot’ like ‘god, he’s so hot, I want to have his babies,’ which, by the way, is a real tweet I read about you not fifteen minutes ago.”

“What?!” Foggy basically shouts, which makes Matt lean forward in his seat and give him a questioning look.

“Your humility is really beyond the pale, Franklin. It’s like you don’t know you’re hot!”

“I don’t know that,” he says, still freaking out slightly. “I’ve been called that by three, maybe four people in my whole life before today! It’s not a common occurrence.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” Daisy says, because she’s fundamentally loyal and it makes her confused sometimes. 

“Well, if it’s happening a lot, it must be behind my back, then.”

Matt, apparently done with being out of the loop, reaches across the table to poke Foggy’s wrist with his index finger. Foggy replies in turn by patting Matt’s hand with his twice, hoping that conveys that there’s no emergency. 

“Well, it’s happening a lot on Twitter right now,” Daisy replies. “Which, I guess is still behind your back, technically.”

“That’s…great, I guess…”

“I thought you’d be happier,” she says, sounding worried. “You seem upset.”

“It’s just weird to think about,” Foggy says, keeping his tone mild. He’s not mad at Daisy by any stretch, but having people outside of the neighborhood know who he is and have strong opinions about him has proven to be a tougher concept to reckon with than he originally anticipated. “It’s that thing of being perceived in a way that I have no control over.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Daisy replies, thoughtfully. “I just…I thought you should know you’re the Internet’s reigning boyfriend at the moment.”

Foggy laughs, still feeling weird but in a warmer, cozier way than before. “Well, it’s an honor to be somebody’s boyfriend, I suppose.”

Matt’s head perks up at that, like a dog who’s heard a strange noise, and Foggy resists the urge to laugh at him for it. Karen returns with their next round at that precise moment, too, and makes a face at this pronouncement as she slides Foggy’s beer across the table to him. He also sees her look over at Matt, as if he’ll have more answers somehow.

“I’m guessing based on your blasé reaction to this news that I shouldn’t send you a curated collection of mine and Colleen’s favorite tweets about how gorgeous you are?” Daisy asks, innocently.

“For the sake of my mental health, you probably shouldn’t,” Foggy replies, “but honestly, today’s been a weird one and we had a miserable time in court, so it might cheer me up.”

Daisy squeals excitedly, which is not a noise Foggy knew she made before this very moment. She didn’t even make that noise when she won Bake-Off, not that he’s allowed to tell anyone that yet. “That’s what I like to hear,” she exclaims. “Alright, well, get ready for some screenshots. And also sorry in advance for any psychological damage I may cause.”

“Thanks,” Foggy laughs. “Both for the apologies in advance and for making sure I knew about this.”

“What are friends for?” Daisy sighs happily, and then hangs up without a goodbye.

“What’s going on?” Karen asks as she takes a sip from her beer.

“Have you been on Twitter today?” he asks, in response.

“I’m a journalist, Foggy. Unfortunately, most of my life is spent on Twitter.”

“Do you follow any Bake-Off people there?”

“I might follow the official twitter for the show itself, but I’m not sure. Why?”

“Apparently, Twitter is freaking out about me in last night’s episode.”

“Really? What do they have to freak out about?” Matt asks, frowning.

Foggy shrugs. “I don’t know. Just me, I guess? I looked good or something.”

“I told you that you looked good last night,” Karen says, gesturing broadly to convey her annoyance. “You didn’t believe me.”

“You’re one of my best friends, Karen. You have to lie to me about that kind of thing!”

“No, I don’t! And I wasn’t!”

“Well, you’re about to be vindicated,” Foggy says. “Daisy and Colleen are sending me screenshots.”

As if on cue, Foggy’s phone lights up with several messages being sent to his and Colleen and Daisy’s group chat and the notifications don’t slow down at all for another full minute.

“God,” Foggy says, just looking at the new messages pouring in. “She wasn’t kidding.”

“You want to read them,” Karen asks, with a bright, dangerous look in her eye, “or shall I?”

Foggy hands over his phone without a second thought. “Probably better if you do it,” he says, feeling genuine panic and terror at the idea. It’s too late to go back now, though. He’s gotten her hopes up.

“Oh my god,” Karen says, after he’s gotten his phone unlocked for her. She puts her hand to her mouth to disguise her…horror? Amusement? Both? It’s hard to tell.

“What?” Foggy asks, anxiously, and Matt turns over his hand underneath Foggy’s palm so he can give it a quick squeeze, which…that shouldn’t be as soothing as it actually is. It’s, frankly, ridiculous that it helps so much.

“Foggy,” Karen says, excitedly, “you’re a sensation!”

+

guy with no problems • juliachildsplay

um… hello?? Foggy coming into the tent with those little braids??? I’m experiencing symptoms????

the hateful nate • nateorade

I’ve been online too long because the minute I saw Foggy Nelson with his hair in braids, I just shouted OOOHHH GENDER!! at the top of my lungs. my gf and my cat both left the room in protest.

kelly nguyen • gaygrenadine

me normally: it’s so embarrassing when cis dudes get so much credit for the mildest defiance of gender norms… me seeing foggy’s braids in GABO: yasss queen thank you for my rights 🌈🙌 gender is sooo over!!

brynn it to wynn it • flibbertigibbety

I did not actually think Foggy could get hotter to me than when he responded to people ridiculing his French pronunciation by revealing he speaks fluent Punjabi, but I was WRONG!! 

Ezekiel (he/they) • ezeydoesitt

how is anyone getting any baking done right now when foggy is there looking so so good?? couldn’t be me!!!

world’s #1 trilla apologist • eldritchedeelite

lord, I am not one of your strongest soldiers… foggy in that salmon colored t-shirt and those braids… I am WEAK

dinah (derogatory) • surelytemple

my two cents is that Ava deserves star baker this week because she is somehow still baking with foggy nelson’s whole beautiful self directly in her eye line. talk about performing under pressure.

bram (not stoker) • bramblinnmann

I am watching bakeoff with my family right now and it’s getting very difficult to pretend to be straight in front of them when Foggy’s out here looking this hot

your future canceled wife • thecouturevulture

THEM: hey how was bakeoff this week? what did everyone make? was it good? ME: FOGGY NELSON WORE HIS HAIR IN BRAIDS!!! 

citizen paddington  • genderemporia

I literally couldn’t tell you a single thing that happened in this episode of GABO. Foggy appeared onscreen and my brain shut off for the next hour. I came to and I was googling wedding venues, idk man

Kira Iris • villainesque

I don’t condone people getting obsessed with public figures and violating their privacy but if some of yall wanted to be weird and find out if Foggy’s “partner” he references is a business thing or a romantic thing, I would look the other way just this once

Default Username, Esq. • shrimpheavencanwait

thank god foggy nelson isn’t on social media or I would be embarrassing myself I would be in those DMs like cheese filling in a danish I would be bringing shame upon my ancestors for that man I promise you

Helena Bee 🐝♿️ • bananabreadcrumbs

that part of the episode where Colleen walked behind Foggy and pulled one of his braids to say hello and he smiled at her??? It just hurts to see other people live your dreams???

spy x savage x fenty  • coolnormalchill

foggy deserves star baker because he cured my depression and my gender dysphoria in one fell swoop and that’s that on that

Lindy the SEO bitch • easilysearchablebrandname

other bakers: [make the snack] Foggy Nelson: [is the snack]

sayid’s secret account! • sayidsayless

I didn’t hear who won star baker, I didn’t see who got sent home, l learned nothing about sweet dough, I was busy googling foggy nelson Instagram foggy nelson partner foggy nelson star sign 

hb lovecraft • hazelbleu

I've already decided to call out sick from work tomorrow so I can spend the whole day watching the inevitable Foggy fancams that will come from this week’s GABO. It’s my duty as an American.

go gert go • yorkestown

if there’s any uneven bakes this week, we all know it’s because Foggy was simply too hot to handle and it threw off everyone’s baking times

SORRY 4 PARTY BROCKIN’ • attackthebrock

foggy saying that one thing he loves about bakeoff is never having a shortage of people to share his bakes with, because normally it’s just up to his partner to finish them. ME AND WHO TBH????

nora mcclain 👻🥀🖤 • themostest

Foggy explaining the hot cross bun recipe he’s making prompted my (allegedly) straight husband to say, out of nowhere, “I’d let him put a bun in MY oven!” Like, sir??? I’m right here???

stardew valley girl • wooloolemon

it’s crazy how many babies are going to be born nine months from the airing of Great American Bake-Off Season 3 Episode 6

Tolkien Straightguy • helmsdeepthroat

it’s pretty normal for me to end an episode of bake-off hungrier than I was before, but I’ve never finished one this THIRSTY my god

maddie📍grad school hell • doctorwormphd

seeing foggy with those french braids made me crazy y’all!! I almost redownloaded tinder I was so lost in the sauce

blandine montpetit ☮️💟 • peaceandloafs

Ava’s star baker moment was so deserved, I’m just sorry we were all too distracted by Foggy being the cutest human alive to really appreciate it. But not sorry enough that it won’t happen again.

+

“We’ve strayed very far from the light of god, I think,” Foggy says, with his face pressed into the sticky surface of the table, which…yeah, bad idea, but one of many he’s had tonight. Matt pats the back of his neck with a hand that was maybe supposed to be more in the direction of his head and ended up somewhere more weirdly intimate by accident. Foggy lifts his head to put an end to it, not because it didn’t feel nice but precisely because it did and that in turn makes him feel a bunch of messy emotions he doesn’t like. “Karen, what are you doing? Are there more?”

“Yes, but they’re getting a little redundant, honestly,” she says, squinting at his phone’s screen. “Everybody wants you to impregnate them, apparently.”

Matt chokes on air at the same time as Foggy chokes on his beer, so it takes both of them a few seconds to recover and respond. 

“They what?” Matt asks, looking pale.

“The power of a new hairstyle,” Karen says, with a self-satisfied smile, though she directs it at Matt, for some reason. They have a lot more meaningful looks and mysterious half-conversations these days than they used to before Foggy went away to film the show. At least, that’s how it feels to him and if Karen didn’t have a boyfriend that she seemed to love a lot, he’d be worried that she and Matt were going to try dating again, for all it was a disaster the (admittedly brief) first time. Instead, it feels like they developed a shorthand while he was away and, granted he also made a bunch of close friends who he essentially talks to in baking-themed twin speak, it still makes him feel strange. He didn’t think him being away for the time that he was would change so much, but apparently it did. Matt and Karen speak in code now, and the Internet wants to fuck him. Life is strange.

“Do you really talk about me on the show that much?” Matt asks, apropos of nothing, it feels like.

“What? What do you mean?”

“A lot of those tweets referenced you talking about your partner,” Matt replies, looking thoughtful. “That’s me, I assume.”

“Yes, obviously,” Foggy says as his face heats. “Why shouldn’t I talk about you?”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t. I just didn’t realize it was enough to be noticeable.”

“One thing I’ve learned about the Bake-Off viewers is that they notice everything,” Foggy says. “And I don’t mean to talk about you a lot, but you’re important to me and you’re in most of my stories and…all that…”

Matt seems to be thinking hard about that, while Karen is sitting with her chin resting in the palm of her hand, still scrolling through Foggy’s phone. 

“What are you doing over there, Page?” Foggy asks, in the hopes of distracting everyone from the corny admission he just made that got met with silence. 

“Just sending a few of these to my phone,” she says, with a sheepish look. “I want to show Frank.”

“God, no!” Foggy yelps as he reaches out to snatch his phone back. “I don’t need Frank knowing about these! It’s bad enough Matt had to hear them!”

“Why is it bad for me to know?” Matt asks, startled out of his reverie by the mention of his name.

“Because you think all of this is stupid!”

“All of what? Twitter?”

“No,” Foggy sighs, and then thinks it over. “I mean, I assume you do think Twitter is largely stupid, actually—”

“And you’d be right,” Karen adds.

“What I meant was you think all this stuff about the show is stupid.”

“No, I don’t,” Matt says, frowning. “I mean, I confess I don’t understand half the stuff you say on the show or about it, but that doesn’t mean I think it’s stupid. If anything, it makes me think I’m stupid.”

“Well, you certainly can’t be impressed by everything Karen just read us,” Foggy replies, gesturing with his phone. He’s aware, in the back of his mind, that he’s doing that thing you’re never supposed to do and negotiating against himself, but he can’t really stop it, for some reason. “It makes the fans of the show sound insane!”

“I understood even less of that than I do of the baking terminology, honestly,” Matt admits, “but I think most of those people have the right idea.”

“You mean, hitting on Foggy via Twitter? You think that’s the right move in this situation?” Karen asks, and there’s some kind of play acting going on in her tone, like she’s goading Matt about something that Foggy doesn’t have the context for.

“I’m saying Foggy’s loveable,” Matt replies to her with an unexpected amount of heat. “I don’t know why he acts like he isn’t.”

Foggy blinks at them, feeling like he’s stepped into the middle of an old argument he didn’t know about. “Am I still a part of this conversation, or…?”

Karen’s expression clears first and she turns to Foggy with a reluctantly amused expression, like she doesn’t know what to do with him, he’s so silly. “Of course you are! Matt and I were just agreeing about how great we think you are! That’s all!”

“Yeah, sure,” Foggy replies. It sure as hell didn’t sound like two people agreeing on anything, but he’s willing to let it go. “Well, if I’ve learned anything from this uncomfortable incident, it’s that I should braid my hair more often.”

“And that you look good in that salmon-colored shirt,” Karen adds, helpfully. 

“Which is too bad, because I spilled ink all over it a few weeks ago.”

“Writing with a quill again?” Matt asks, innocently.

“No, I was helping Ruthie,” Foggy says, rolling his eyes when Matt’s smiles stupidly at his own joke. “Her newest hobby is calligraphy.”

“I thought she was into knitting now?” Karen says.

“Old news,” Foggy replies. “I’m just praying her next kick is baking so it can be something I’m even remotely good at.”

“I suppose it’s too much to ask that she gets really interested in reading up on legal precedent, huh?” Matt asks, thoughtfully.

“Yeah, probably,” Foggy laughs. “The point is, my magical salmon shirt that apparently makes me irresistible to random people on the Internet is out of commission.”

“Oh, well,” Karen sighs. “You’ll just have to subsist on the attentions of your local admirers.”

Foggy takes a sip of his beer. “I wasn’t aware I had any of those,” he says.