Chapter Text
The thing with flying is, it’s about more than conviction. Wings are about conviction and principle, that’s the root of their strength, their tangibility, but flight, flight is more than that. It’s about trust, trust that your wings, will hold, that your beliefs won’t waver. Flight is always a leap of faith. Matt is good at those, or maybe just careless of the consequences, and there is nothing quite like the whisper of air under and through his primaries when he takes flight. He loves it, he loves flying even more than he loves fighting. That freedom that he can never have on the ground, and tonight, tonight he feels as though he could fly forever.
“Go and be an Angel.” Foggy had said with sun yellow wings spread out behind him and something Matt couldn’t quite read in his tone. And so Matt had gone to fight the mad twisted, fallen angel that Fisk was with Foggy’s blessing echoing in his ears, and he’d never felt so sure of himself.
He hunted down Fisk like a falcon hunts a pigeon, death on the wing. Fisk never stood a chance, not with his conviction ragged and fraying around the edges, from grief, and anger, and the unravelling of everything he worked for. He was still dangerous, still mad and utterly convinced of his own rightness, but his wings were not what they were, and Matt’s were stronger than they’ve ever been.
Besides, flying is a leap of faith as much as anything else, and Fisk has never been one to take the risk. His wings always were strong enough to fly, but unlike Matt, he’d never actually tried before. He’d never practiced the way Matt had and the gap in experience showed. Matt caught him long before he could reach the helicopter, and more reliable, mechanical means of flying.
Matt struck from above, wings folded tight in a falcons dive, and the force of the collision was enough to knock Fisk’s breath from his lungs. Then they disentangled themselves from each other and the air was a blur of punches, and kicks, and lightning fast blows of the wings whenever either of them was willing to lose a little height. They were all over blood and bruises with loose feathers flying everywhere, in red and black, and the sick rainbow sheen of an oil slick. They were both fighting with everything they had, but for once Matt had the advantage. Fisk was strong, but he wasn’t a trained fighter, and he relied a great deal on his weight when it came down to blows. Fighting in the air it was almost impossible to bring his greater mass to bear, and Matt’s acrobatics and training, the hours of practice Stick had put him through, the nights of experience he’d gained against the worst of Hel’s Kitchen, truly came into their own.
It was the best kind of high, he was fighting Fisk, and winning. He had the advantage over the mountain, monster of a man, that had nearly crushed him, that had left him broken, and bleeding and half dead. He had the advantage, and Foggy was waiting for him at home, with wings like sunshine, and a smile in his voice, with that knowledge sitting under his heart, there was no way Matt could lose.
By the time the police arrived Matt had forced Fisk to the ground. Brett was first on the scene with his voice steady, his gun drawn, and his translucent purple and blue wings in full view. Law and truth, and it was thanks to those wings that Matt had always known Brett was an honest cop, that was why he’d sent Hoffman to him, and that was why he stepped back now and left Fisk in his hands. Brett would see the man to trial, Matt had somewhere else to be.
Matt came back in through the window. Foggy tried to act like he hadn’t been waiting up.
“So how’d it go?” He asked, mock casual.
“I got him.” Matt still hadn’t folded his wings away, and almost subconsciously Foggy started to unfurl his in response. They were both quiet for a moment. Surprisingly enough it was Matt who broke the silence.
“Foggy I…” He trailed off in half desperate uncertainty.
“Yes Matt? You do realise I lack psychic powers. You will need to use your words.” Matt gave him a look that would probably have been a hundred times more effective if Matt hadn’t aimed it at the wall just above Foggy’s head. Foggy just raised an eyebrow.
“When I was out there, fighting Fisk I just couldn’t stop thinking…. You know you’re important to me right Foggy?” Foggy sighed.
“I know. You’re important to me too Matt. That’s why it hurts so much when you lie, when you hide things from me.”
“I’m not lying now. I… while I was fighting Fisk, I couldn’t stop thinking about you, I… wanted to tell you the truth.” He stood up a little straighter, a little more determined and let the uncertainty vanish from his voice. “I love you. I guess I have for a long time, but I was too afraid to admit it to myself, and certainly too afraid to admit it to you. But I was fighting Fisk and all I could think of was the sound of your voice and the colour of your wings, and I’m so tired of lying.” Matt was clearly afraid but, Foggy didn’t hesitate, just stepped up to Matt and folded him up tight in his wings. He could feel Matt’s own wings shift, fold back over his until they were both encased in blankets of living feathers.
“Thank you” Foggy whispered, and his voice shook with and odd combination of relief and joy, “Thank you for telling me the truth.” And then he pulled Matt into a deep searing kiss, and for a while after that all either of them could feel was the warmth of skin and the silky soft texture of feathers. This, Matt thought, was what home felt like.