Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.
By Izzy

Once Hoffman had entered the police station, he took to the building tops and raced back to his apartment. Matt had carefully laid his work clothes out before leaving; he’d walk back into the office with nary a wrinkle.

The realization hadn’t really set in yet, that they’d done it, or at least, he’d done his part in the mask, and the rest would just be basic lawyering, and letting the FBI do their job. His blood was still running hot from the fight; he wasn’t sure when that crash would happen. Hopefully not in front of anybody.

Stripped out of the outfit, he didn’t have time to shower, but he went to the bathroom anyway, wiped himself down with a wet towel, making sure to grab the one freshly laundered. He wished that could keep him from smelling blood. At least it meant no one else would.

Thoroughly dried, he had his slacks on, and was just buttoning up his shirt when he heard the phone from where he had left it on the table: “Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.”

It hadn’t even been that many days since the last time he’d heard it, the day he’d gone to see Fisk and Foggy had been trying to get a hold of him, and he hadn’t answered because there was nothing then he would have allowed himself to say to him. And it wasn’t exactly an unexpected call; he’d known Foggy and Karen might get the news from the precinct before Matt himself could get back with it. Still the relief, after he’d spent far too long thinking he’d never get a call from him again, shocked him with how overwhelming it was, which was part of the reason he practically bolted to the table with his shirt flying about mostly open.

It was too much in his head as he picked the phone up, though, the way he’d spoken to Foggy before leaving. He couldn’t have done differently, he knew; there really had been no choice and no time, and he even had that fact confirmed now. But when he could still hear Foggy’s devastated final words in his head from that day when he'd learned the truth, his footsteps as he’d walked out, and his voice quavered a little as he answered, “Foggy?”

“Just got off the phone with Brett,” Foggy sounded glad, at least. “Hoffman needs some lawyers.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Matt, feeling some of his tension leave him. “Meet you at the precinct?”

“Yeah,” he said, “and Karen wants to come too. She’s just putting some things in order first.” Indeed, Matt could hear the sound of her footsteps in the background, though it didn’t sound like she and Foggy were in the same room. Especially when Foggy dropped his voice and said, “You did the thing.”

“Yes,” he said; at least he wasn’t lying any longer. “And I only got there in a nick of time; Fisk’s men actually found him first. I was lucky they decided to taunt Hoffman before shooting, that’s literally how close it was.”

“I see,” said Foggy, and Matt could hear the sadness now, and the resignation as he accepted what all that meant. “Where are you right now?”

“In my apartment,” he said. “Changing.”

“So we’ll have to walk slow to avoid getting there first,” he dropped his voice further. “Unless you want to tell her.”

Foggy was going to push that, Matt realized. And perhaps, sooner or later, they would tell Karen. But he couldn’t help thinking it was still too soon for that. “Not today. I’ll move as fast as I can.” He was already working on his shirt buttons one-handed. “Call me again when you’re underway?”

“Yeah,” he said. A pause, Matt waited for him to say goodbye. But instead he said, “Matt…it’s going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay.” He was clearly telling himself that too, but he did sound like he believed it.

“I know,” he said. “See you soon, Foggy.”

“Bye,” said Foggy, and they hung up. Matt did the last button on his shirt, donned his shades, and then threw on his jacket. He kept his hand on the phone even after he slid it into place. He suspected he’d feel that intense gratitude again next time it rang, and maybe even the time after that. He’d nearly lost all that, and he knew he’d never stop being grateful that he hadn’t.