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“Sister Maggie! To what do I owe this totally welcome surprise?” Foggy thinks he's bluffing remarkably well for seeing his best friend’s abandoned-him-for-thirty-years mom alone at their makeshift law office on one of Matt's rare days off. The nun’s back is as stiff as her freshly starched collar; maybe he didn’t do quite well enough. Then again, Karen said she was “Consider me feeling… totally welcomed,” she says, a painfully familiar dry tone, as she finds a seat and tucks her tunic carefully under her, “I know you probably expected me to leave when I didn’t see my-Matthew.” Maggie coughs to cover herself, but they both notice the slip.
“Yeah, I will admit the back of a deli doesn’t seem like where you’d want to wait. He puts us in uncomfortable positions, I guess.” he finishes with a chuckle as he sits across from her, lamenting the groan of the old chair under him (honestly, nothing like loaned chairs to make you feel insecure about your weight and your business practice at the same time). He'd expected maybe a conspiratorial chuckle, or if his in-joke didn't land, a polite nod, but instead her eyes sharpen.
“I actually came to see you;” he can see her holding back a chuckle as he automatically straightens in his chair, “and no, I'm not here to save your eternally damned soul.” Catholic humor. He's pretty sure sarcasm is in the Ten Commandments. “I know the impression you have of me is somewhat… conflicted. And, as Matthew no doubt has it in his head that explaining our relationship would be some great betrayal, I'm here to do it myself.”
Foggy would be lying if he said that conflicted wasn't putting it mildly. He doesn't outright hate the nun; Matt would never let him criticize her, insisting ‘she has her reasons’, but Foggy thinks whatever reasons she has for not revealing herself to her blind son whose father just died are at least a little bullshit. He clears his throat; “Okay then.”
She smooths her hands over her habit, yet makes staunch eye contact, “I left the Church to be with Matthew's father. When I had him… you have to understand, we didn't know what we do now about postpartum,” Foggy tries not to let guilt immediately wash over him, “all I knew was this emptiness . I couldn't take care of him, couldn't even look at him, I just sat and listened to every thought in my head telling me I’d abandoned God, brought an innocent into this world of sin.” Her voice breaks, but her head is still held high, “I couldn't take care of him; I could barely take care of myself, hardly eating or bathing. The Church took me in again, and over time the fog around me lifted. For those first ten years, I could live knowing he was safe and loved, and devoting myself to God through helping others; I convinced myself it was enough. Then Jack...” her breath hitches, and for the first time she looks away, “and he was alone. I couldn't bring myself to tell him as I knew I was still unfit, I couldn't be the mother he needed, and the guilt of that decision is something I'll carry to my death. But I took care of him in the way I knew how, as a servant of the Lord, and with that distance I could remind him to brush his hair, or comfort him from nightmares. That was almost every night, I'd sit with him, and though it could never be enough I'm glad I could give him that.
“But one night I didn't come to him. Just that one night, and he never asked for anything from us ever again.” Her voice is thick with unshed tears, emotion she seems almost angry with herself to be showing.
Foggy’s breath is knocked out of him. He knew from the nature of the conversation that he'd be hearing heavy things, but that one statement isn't just sad or hard to hear; it shifts his entire view on his best friend. Looking back on the years he's known him, Foggy can't remember a single time Matt has asked for his help. Or anyone's help, for that matter. He'd assumed it was stubbornness, pride, but now he realizes what he should have thought from the start: Matt doesn't ask for help because he thinks he doesn't deserve it.
Still, Sister Maggie is not finished, and in the back of his mind he gets an inkling that explaining herself is not the only thing she's here to do. “Then Stick came. If I'd known what that bastard was doing, if I had only seen—” she cuts herself off, clearing thinking she's shown too much emotion.
Foggy is still reeling from his revelation, so bringing up Matt's weird blind ninja mentor is just confusing. “What do you mean, ‘what he was doing’?” he asks.
She snorts, an angry sound, “Aside from teaching a twelve-year-old orphan that kindness is weakness, attachments will get him killed?” Wait, what? “He hasn't told me much; I think my reaction to that wasn't what he'd expected,” she smiles, something proud and sad, “but the bruises and broken bones he'd had around then make it pretty obvious. All we knew was that Matt stopped screaming , he could leave his room without flinching and covering his ears. Some of the Sisters called Stick a miracle.” the last word is spit out, making it clear he was anything but.
All Foggy can think is what he said to Matt that night, treating Stick as some sick joke. But the joke was on him, getting angry at his best friend for telling him he was abused . Jesus, he could be sick, because now so much makes sense, and how was he so blind to it? Anyone in their right mind could tell that Matt was hurting, has been hurting probably as long as Foggy’s known him, but never once did he ask why . Why he believes he can't have nice things, why his first instinct when things go wrong is to push people away; because it was beaten into him by some sick old fuck.
He speaks up, trying and failing to keep his voice steady, “H-how long was he with him?”
“Only about a year; we didn't get a notice, Stick just up and left. From how Matt reacted, he didn't tell him either.” Oh, great, another person who abandoned Matt. Foggy struggles not to add himself to that list.
Instead of being a rational adult and ending the conversation with polite farewells, he stands abruptly from his chair. “I have to go.”
Sister Maggie stands much more gracefully, yet nods in understanding; “Tell Matthew he's welcome at Mass, and that he hasn't been subtle in avoiding the new priest.”
—
It takes a good couple minutes for Matt to tidy up his apartment, removing any trace of Frank before Foggy visits. He had called before coming over, something they didn't used to do with each other. There are a lot of things they didn't used to do.
Foggy even knocks before coming in, something he'd stopped doing after realizing Matt could hear him coming up the stairs. Of course, he doesn't wait to be let in, instead walking over to the couch and sitting down, leg bouncing and heart beating slightly too fast.
Matt carries over two beers; some house-brew IPA for Foggy and a Mickey’s for him, and he can tell Foggy is nervous when he doesn't even make fun of his choice (Malt liquor may be cheap, but it's one of the few drinks that masks the bitter taste of alcohol enough for his senses).
When he'd called, Foggy hadn't given any real clue what he wanted to talk about, but Matt can shave off a few options. He doesn't smell any anger, which honestly gets rid of most of the usual suspects of Foggy yelling at him for whatever stupid thing he did this week.
He's never been good with silences (or silences have never been good with him, always meaning disappointment or failure or leaving) so he opens his mouth to speak, “Wha—”
Only to be interrupted by Foggy, speaking too suddenly for Matt to have sensed it:
“I'm sorry.”
It takes less than a second for Matt to know that it's true, but he can't begin to guess what Foggy’s apologizing for. The only things he can think of, minor spats or disagreements over case law, are nothing serious enough to justify the stress Foggy is feeling, sweat and heart too fast and something bitter in the air—guilt?
His voice shakes with a forced laugh, “I think that’s supposed to be my line.” And, because God is on a personal mission to make Matt's life as difficult as possible, his attempt to lighten the mood only makes the guilt-smell stronger.
Foggy sighs, the kind of world-weary sigh that Matt would do anything to prevent, “And that’s what I have to be sorry for.”
Matt blinks; “I-I don’t understand.” Foggy knows he has trouble with vague statements like that, tends to expect the worst. All of this feels… wrong, like without realizing it the other shoe’s been readied to drop, and Matt can’t sense where it’s going to land.
“I talked with your mom,” because this week couldn’t get any weirder, “and she helped me realize that… I’ve been unfair to you, Matt. God, I should have realized sooner, you’ve never been exactly subtle.”
“Wh-Foggy, you’ve been too fair with me, I don’t understand—” Foggy’s given him dozens of chances, certainly more than he deserves, and all Matt’s done is hurt him in return.
His response just seems to upset him more, that guilt guilt guilt is strangling the room, “I know you don’t. And that’s not all my fault, but I definitely didn’t help any. I put a lot of blame on you, because I thought you were doing it on purpose: hiding things, leaving, pushing me away. But you really were trying to protect me, weren’t you? In your life, with what’s happened to you—”
“Nothing’s ‘happened’ to me Fogs, nothing near what’s happened to other people.” And this is what he’d feared from the beginning, what he was so surprised to be absent from Foggy’s voice when they met: the pity, looking at him as some wounded creature that can’t help but lash out. He’s an adult, he’s responsible for all his mistakes.
“Matt, I’m not saying you didn’t do anything wrong,” finally another emotion is cutting through the guilt, even if Foggy’s frustration puts him on edge, “I’m saying that with how you grew up—hold off, before you argue—with how you grew up, you thought you were doing what was right. Answer me honestly: when you kept Daredevil from me, did you think there was any other option?”
He’s throwing everything at him so fast, it feels like he has an ear injury again, everything is off balance and unpredictable; “Uh-no, I didn't, but that doesn't—“
Foggy doesn't give him time, building to something; “And after I blew up at you, did you think I was leaving? That we weren't friends anymore?”
“W-well, yes, but you had every right,” he throws his hands in the air, as if some great truth has finally been revealed, “Foggy, I don't get it: what is this about?”
Foggy pulls him down to the couch, sighing and pushing his hair back (a habit from his longer locks that Matt can't help but miss, the swish of his hair against his shoulders having become so fundamental to his picture of his friend). “It's about me forgetting that this is your first real try at a friendship, bud. I kept on holding you to the standard of…” He huffs a laugh, jagged around the edges; “To the standard you hold yourself. I know that you don’t like admitting it, but half the shit you’ve been through is enough to have most people recovering for the rest of their lives. You don’t have to be perfect, Matt;” suddenly, there is a hand on his knee, warm and thumping Foggy Foggy Foggy , “you deserve a bit of leeway.”
If Matt wanted, he could bring up evidence to disprove everything Foggy is saying, especially his final point. If he wanted, he could show just how undeserving he is, show himself as the monster he’s always known he could be. But he doesn’t want to; he wants Foggy’s hand on his knee, the heat and pressure of someone next to him that he can pretend, just for the moment, will stay.
There is one thing he has to correct, though, in this strange bubble of care and honesty. “After Midland Circle,” and he doesn’t miss the sharp intake of breath; he can smell the anti-anxiety medication Foggy’s on, a smell that had only started when he came back, “when I didn’t tell you or Karen… I knew that was wrong, that there were other choices.” A twitch in Foggy’s hand like he wants to interrupt, but he needs to get this out, “I was recovering, for a lot of it; couldn’t’ve told you if I wanted to. But, later… I didn’t plan on seeing you again.”
“It’s your instinct to push people away, I get that. Or, I’m trying to.” He bumps Matt with his shoulder, a smile shaping the end of his speech.
Matt’s done it again, not made himself clear about something important. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t plan on seeing anyone again. I know it was selfish, but I wanted to stop,” his throat is tight but he forces through it, words that he’s only thought suddenly needing to be heard, “I wanted to stop hurting.”
There are arms around him, leftover fear sweat and expensive cologne but a cheap shampoo he’s been using since college. Foggy, hugging him tight as if he never wants him to go, as if he isn’t a selfish asshole. For once, he lets himself be held, leaning into his friend and soaking up his warmth.
“Oh Matty,” Foggy presses a kiss into his hair, something small and sacred, “I’m so, so sorry."