Apartment 6A

BY : Prentice
Category: Marvel Verse TV > no category yet
Dragon prints: 783
Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Warning for gross bodily fluids and elbow jabs.

As far as Foggy was concerned this was all Karen’s fault. There really was no other explanation. After all, she was the one who had insisted they go out for drinks after work– “C’mon, Foggy, you know you want to, especially after dealing with that asshole from Lieberman & Zach; ugh, god, I swear if he had called me ‘sweetheart’ one more time I would have kicked him in the balls” – and then promptly abandoned him when they got there.

Okay, maybe not promptly since she had actually had a couple of drinks with him before leaving. Not that he could blame her. He probably would have abandoned himself too if he had a hot girlfriend waiting for him at home like she did.

Still, though, it was her fault – and he was going to make her pay for it.

A lot.

lot a lot.

Because, gross, some drunk had just vomited all over his new shoes, the woman next to him, in an attempt to get away from said drunk, had just dumped her drink into his lap, and somehow still managed to elbow-jab him in his right eye hard enough that he could already feel it swelling.

That wasn’t to mention the arraignment hearing he had to get to in the morning. Now with what would be an epically swollen black eye. Great, just great. He was going to kill Karen for this.

She was the shittiest best friend and employee he could ever ask for. Period. Full stop. She sucked.

Hand carefully cradling his eye – holy fuck, what the hell did that woman have for elbows, nun chucks? – Foggy awkwardly shuffled off his bar stool, grimacing when his shoes squelched and the last bit of icy margarita in his lap slid slowly to the floor.

Dead. Karen was dead. Her girlfriend was too. The both of them, they were going to be –

“Here,” a voice said from beside him, a vaguely white bar towel thrust into his field of vision.

Blinking in surprise – that was a mistake, god his eye hurt – Foggy turned, shoes squishing softly as he took in the man standing beside him. Dark haired and scruffy, he was – kind of ridiculously good looking. Especially for this place.

Also, possibly blind, going by the tinted shades and white cane. Unless it was some sort of weird fashion statement. Foggy doubted it, though. Blind guy chic wasn’t really a thing as far as he knew.

“Thanks,” he muttered as he took the towel, weirdly grateful that Mr. Ridiculously Good-Looking couldn’t see how very, very gross he was right now. Did he mention that he was gross? Because he was. He really, really was.

He had vomit soaking into his socks for god’s sake.

“It probably won’t do much good,” Mr. Good-Looking acknowledged, tone apologetic as he shifted closer to the bar. It was mostly vacant now, no one wanting to get too close to the drunk a couple of guys were prying off the floor or the pool of vomit he’d left behind. Foggy didn’t blame them; he didn’t want to be near him either.

“Better than nothing,” Foggy sighed, wiping at his pant leg. It didn’t do much good. Most of the margarita had already melted; soaking into the fabric and making it look like he’d pissed himself. A lot.

Great, this was exactly what he needed. A crotch and pant leg that looked like he’d pissed all over it. Not to mention the vomit smell. Finding a cab willing to take him home tonight was going to be fun…

“God, this sucks,” Foggy mumbled absently, giving up on the trouser leg. It was a lost cause anyway. “I should have never agreed to go out tonight. No, screw that; I should have never gotten out of bed this morning.”

A small huff of laughter and Foggy glanced up, eye throbbing. Mr. Good-Looking was still there, cane propped against his own body as he leaned against the bar. A smile, crocked and not a little endearing played at the corners of his mouth.

Foggy kind of hated him for it. A little. A little little, because, jesus, that face could be considered a lethal weapon and now he had to bring a smile into the mix while Foggy was standing here smelling of vomit-y margarita mix?

Life was not fair.

“You should probably put some ice on it,” Good-Looking suggested, hand lifting to gesture vaguely at his own face. “Your eye, I mean. Before it swells too much.”  

“Yeah,” Foggy agreed, wincing at the sudden sting in it at the mention. It was already pretty swollen, his vision just this side of blurry. “That’s the plan. I just,” he shifted, shoes making a sound he never needed to hear again. “I’m actually slightly afraid to move.”

“Ah,” Good-Looking said, smile slipping into a slight grimace. “I didn’t think he got you that bad. I’ll just – here, let me,” turning, he seemed to look sightlessly over the bar towards the bartender. “Hey Josie, could you give us a trash bag and some napkins?”

Head tilting, Foggy watched as the woman behind the bar nodded and leaned down,  rummaging beneath the counter before coming up a few seconds later with a black bin liner and a stack of cheap paper napkins. She slid them down the bar, Good-Looking catching them easily. Foggy blinked; even with eyesight, he wouldn’t have caught them so easy.  

 “One of the boys will clean up the mess when you’re done,” Josie said, before turning away, a bottle of whiskey already in hand as she turned towards the other end of the bar and the woman who’d just saddled up to it.

“Her sons,” supplied Good-Looking when Foggy didn’t say anything, the strap of his cane sliding up his wrist as he unrolled the trash bag. “Or, well, I say sons. They’re really just regulars who Josie’s taken a shine to.”

Eyebrows rising, Foggy shook his head. “Come here often I take it?”

Another smile, this one slightly wider than the last. “Sometimes. The city’s tried to shut it down a half a dozen times but I helped Josie with the liens so sometimes she lets me drink free.”

Head shaking again, Foggy couldn’t help but give the guy a quick one-eyed glance over. He didn’t look the type to come here, especially with the suit and tie. But then again –

“Wait, you’re a lawyer?”

Shaking out the trash bag so it would open, good-looking guy nodded. “Yeah, I just bought an office space a few blocks away. It isn’t much but I got it for a decent price. It was one of the building that was damaged during the –”

“Wait,” Foggy interrupted. “You’re Murdock?”

Pausing, the other man frowned. “Yes, I’m Matt Murdock? Is that a problem?”

“What? No!” Foggy sputtered, hand lifting in a sign of peace. That was utterly useless because the guy was blind. Right. “It’s just, my friend – secretary – my friend-secretary, Karen. She was telling me about you. Or,” he shifted, shoes squelching. “Of you, anyway. Our office isn’t far from your office and she was –“

“Scouting out the competition?” Murdock – Matt – supplied, smile back in place.

“Not,” Foggy hedged. “Exactly. It was more of the ‘I told you, you should have bought that place’ variety of telling. One of the drawbacks of having your best friend work for you, I guess.”

Smile growing, Matt laughed. It was a nice sound. One that Foggy kind of hoped he could get out of him again.

“I guess so,” Matt agreed, before gesturing vaguely towards Foggy’s shoes with the trash bag. “Put those in here. You can use the napkins if you need to.”

Nodding, Foggy did just that. Grabbing a handful of napkins, he carefully settled against his bar stool as he leaned down to gingerly pull off his shoes and socks – oh god, this was disgusting, they were moist – and drop them into the trash bag Matt was kindly holding open for him. He wished he could wash his feet off – even with the napkins, he knew they were going to feel dirty until he got some soap and warm water on them – but didn’t want to risk it.

Vomit was one thing, but vomit and urine? Yeah, there was no way in hell he was going to put himself through that. Not ever.

 “So now you know my name,” Matt prompted when Foggy dropped the last of the soiled napkins into the bag and took it from him. Hastily, he tied it closed. “Mind if I get yours?”

“Oh,” Foggy started, flushing. He’d forgotten he hadn’t said. “Um, I’m Franklin. Franklin Nelson, but my friends call me Foggy and you, my handsome new friend, are definitely my – uh, new friend.”

Grinning, Matt laughed again, teeth flashing between his parted lips. God, even those were attractive. How the hell did he even do that?

“Glad to hear it, Foggy” Matt said, easing away from the bar a little. “Want me to get Josie to call you a cab? I doubt you’ll want to try to get home on bare feet.”

“Oh, uh, no, I mean,” He grimaced, glancing down at his naked feet. They still felt damp and slightly sticky. “I don’t know if a cabby would take me right now. I kind of – stink – and look like hell.”

For a moment, Matt seemed to hesitate, fingers opening and closing around the end of his cane before seeming to come to a decision.

“You could come to my place,” he offered. “It’s not that far and you could clean up a little while you’re there. I might have some slippers or something you can use.”

It was Foggy’s turn to hesitate. The idea was appealing, especially if Matt was telling the truth about his place being not far, and he really did want to clean-up, but –

“I promise I’m not a serial killer,” Matt promised, mock solemnly.

Foggy snorted. “You’re a blood-sucking lawyer. How can I trust you?”

“I’m a man of my word,” Matt replied easily. “C’mon, Foggy. I’ll even throw in a pair of sweatpants if you ask me nicely.”

Chuckling despite himself – god, this was a terrible idea – Foggy agreed. “All right, all right, but I promise you, if you’re lying, I know a good attorney.”

“Funny,” Matt smirked. “So do I.”

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