Eventually, Foggy thinks he might get used to waking up to the sound of footsteps in his apartment. Matt comes in through the window sometimes. On occasion, he even brings friends (?). Really, Foggy ought to be accustomed to odd noises and break-ins and even the occasional super-villain in his home.
He is not.
So, when he wakes up in the middle of the night with Frank Castle towering over him, he screams. Loudly. Like a little girl, even. And Frank…. whimpers?
No, that can’t be right, because Foggy knows that sound. He knows who that sound comes from and when, so he reaches over to his bedside table and turns his lamp on. Frank Castle is still there, dripping rainwater and carrying a gun and holding Matt up on his toes by the scruff of his neck like a wet kitten. Matt is the source of the whimpering.
“There’s something wrong with your boy,” Frank rumbles, and Foggy finally breaks out of his haze of shock and fear. Frank shoves Matt at him and Foggy scrambles up in time to grab him and lower him to the bed. He’s shaking and staring off into space, black mask pushed up around his forehead and chest heaving. Meltdown, then. Foggy reaches for his Matt Kit.
“When did this start?” he asks Frank, who’s hovering by Matt’s side and scowling.
“Dunno, ten minutes ago? He’s been weird all night.” Frank’s eyes and shoulders follow Foggy to the shelf where he keeps Matt’s meltdown-away-from-home kit. “What’s wrong with him?”
Foggy pulls the headphones out of the box and hands them to Matt. “Here, Matty. You’re okay. I’m going to take your mask off.” He does just that, throwing the thing aside with a wet splat and slipping the headphones over Matt’s ears. He hands the rest of the box to Matt, who curls around it and shoves his hands inside, presumably in search of his spiky ball. “He’s having a meltdown. He’s alright.”
Frank grunts. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Foggy says. He glances at Frank in the hopes that he’ll leave soon. Foggy’s not entirely sure why he’s here, and he doesn’t want him to stay. Apparently, he and Matt get along better than before, but still. Punisher. Foggy’s apartment. Crying Matt. Yeah, no.
Wait, how does Frank know where he lives?
“Your boy kept dragging me this way.”
Oh.
On the bed, Matt’s got his hands on the headphones, rocking back and forth with his eyes squeezed shut. He’s still making those little sounds. Foggy’s always thought of Matt’s meltdown mannerisms like the bright colors on poisonous animals. Big blinking signs that say, ‘don’t touch me, I don’t taste good.’ Frank, evidently, has never seen a dangerous snake before, because he’s reaching into Matt’s personal space before Foggy can stop him. Instead of touching him, though, Frank slips his vest off and sets it on Matt’s lap. Matt flinches and Frank pulls back, but then he grabs onto the vest and pulls it close to himself, burying his face in the worn fabric and quieting a bit. Foggy just stares, looking from Matt to Frank back to Matt again. Then, he gestures at the door. Frank follows him out.
“I should get him some ice water,” Foggy explains, heading for the kitchen. Frank trails behind him, silent as ever.
In the kitchen, Foggy gets a water glass (glass, Foggy, plastic tastes soft and smells worse) and fills it almost entirely with ice cubes before pouring water over the top. Matt likes to chew the ice. Frank holds a hand over the counter like he wants to touch it, but doesn’t. Foggy sets the glass on the table. Frank watches him with dark eyes. On Matt, Foggy can tell the difference between exhaustion and bruises. Not on Frank, though.
Frank blinks at him and Foggy moves to pick the glass up. Before he can, Frank speaks. “Red’s autistic, right?”
Foggy almost asks who ‘Red’ is before realizing that Frank must be referring to Matt. Pet names. Adorable. “Yeah. Yeah, he is. You didn’t know?” Matt doesn’t make a habit of telling, but Matt also doesn’t make a habit of befriending murderers, so Foggy isn’t assuming anything.
Frank shrugs. Foggy takes that as a ‘he didn’t say it, but it’s not like Matt Murdock has ever been subtle about anything ever, seriously, the only reason he manages a secret identity is because he’s blind, Jesus Christ. ’
“Does that… change your opinion of him?” Foggy asks. He has to. He’s Matt’s friend and, super-shit aside, he’s Matt’s protector. He stands between the soft parts of Matt and the hard parts of the world, even if the hard parts of the world are physically intimidating and convicted of terrorism.
Frank frowns. “No. Why would it? He’s Red. He’s fuckin’ weird. I don’t care why.”
Foggy bites down on a laugh and picks up the water glass. “Good. Want to bring this to him? I have to put his stupid ninja pajamas in the washing machine.”
Frank takes the glass from Foggy and nods solemnly. He walks away. Foggy stands alone in the kitchen for a moment, smiling into the dark. A friend. Matt’s made a friend.
Matt stays in Foggy’s room for a bit under an hour. Foggy checks in on him every ten minutes or so, but he stays largely quiet and immobile, curled in a ball with Foggy’s quilt around his shoulders and Frank’s vest in his lap. Foggy gets him to drink some water and chew some ice and Frank uncurls his fingers when they dig into the palms of his hands hard enough to draw blood. Watching Frank take Matt’s hands in his own wide, scarred ones and hold them gently, tenderly, feels so personal that Foggy has to look away. Maybe he miscalculated with the ‘friends’ thing.
Frank pats Matt’s hands, something between an admonishment and a comfort, and tucks them back into his lap. “Chill, Red,” he mumbles, and Foggy gawks when Matt doesn’t flinch at the sound of his voice. Matt rocks in his general direction, humming under his breath. “What?” Another hum. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.” He starts to turn away. “Fuckin’ asshole,” he mumbles, and Foggy would swear before any court he’s smiling. Matt hums one last time, knocking his head against Frank’s shoulder before Frank stands up.
Foggy steps out of the way when Frank stalks out the door, following behind him and pulling the door shut behind them. “Did you understand what he was saying to you?”
“Nah, he’s just makin’ noise. Got the general idea, though.”
“Oh, okay.” Foggy sets the mostly empty glass on the counter and decides that sitting down would make him feel just a little bit too vulnerable. He’s only an inch or two shorter than Frank, and he’d like to keep it that way. “Do you two talk a lot?”
Frank shrugs. “Isn’t that what Matt does?”
“Fair enough,” Foggy concedes. The conversation sort of dies, and then Foggy remembers that Frank’s still dripping wet. “Do you want a towel?”
Frank shrugs and Foggy takes as long as humanly possible retrieving one from the closet. When he brings it back, Frank’s still standing in the middle of the kitchen. Foggy hands him the towel. “So… Do you watch any TV shows?”
Foggy somehow survives fifteen minutes of small talk with the literal Punisher. They talk about… Foggy doesn’t actually know what they talk about, but they talk. Foggy talks. Foggy talks and Frank grunts and Matt slinks out of Foggy’s room and into the bathroom.
The shower turns on and Foggy rambles about a client they had last week who wanted to sue their uncle for alleged fish slaughter (third degree). Matt drops something and Frank grumbles something about “goddamn clumsy brat.” The water turns off and Foggy has a heart attack when Frank leans a bit closer to him. He’s just getting comfortable, though, and by the time Matt comes padding out of the bathroom, hair sticking up at funny angles and face clean underneath the cuts, Frank’s huffing a laugh at the end of Foggy’s tale of lawyerly woe.
Frank turns, watching Matt tip his head this way and that before looking in Frank’s general direction. “You done, Red?” he huffs.
If anyone else had said that to Matt, Foggy would have them out the door immediately. With Frank, though, the quip has a warmth to it, a humor that makes Matt’s lips quirk up at the edges. “I think so,” he says. “Tired.”
“Yeah, I bet. Go sit down,” Frank says, pointing to the couch. Matt complies, collapsing on Foggy’s couch and curling around his favorite pillow.
It’s funny, really. Taking care of Matt after a meltdown has been Foggy’s job since college. Now, in Foggy’s own apartment, Frank’s doing it. Frank, the Punisher, a terrorist who’s known Matt for maybe six months, is settling down next to Matt, an arm over the back of the couch and an eye on the door. Matt shuffles closer.
For a moment, Foggy’s not really sure what to do. But Foggy’s done stranger things, and pretending as if strange things are normal has always carried him through in the past. So, he sits down in the armchair opposite them and turns on the television. They’ll watch a movie. Normalcy.
And if the new normal involves Matt dozing off with his head in Frank’s lap halfway through Up, well, it’s not like anyone would believe him if he told them.