I Guess I Just Didn't See It Coming
Fogwell’s Gym was nestled in between two crap alleys full of dumpsters and other various trash bins that were always speckled with blood, urine, or some other bodily fluid that Foggy didn’t want to think about. It was a dingy place, a perpetually yellow sort of color, like it was being run through the piss filter that Hollywood loved to put over Mexican-set scenes in movies, a rectangle sign outside arrogantly boasting that this piece of shit building was where ‘champions were made.’
Yeah, Foggy thought, real champions…
Pushing the door open, the smell of sweat and… sweat, assaulted Foggy’s nose. He wrinkled his face, slightly, and cleared his throat as he tried to remain polite, moving into the space where Matt’s father spent most of his time, back when he’d been alive, during Matt’s childhood. Somehow, despite the creakiness of everything, the loneliness of the place, it was almost nostalgic. As though the punching bags had a rich history, to tell a former glory nestled into the ring planted in the center of the building, like a stage through which glorious battles had been won and lost by heroes and respective villains of the boxing world. He could almost see the gambling onlookers, smell the scent of dirty money being handed over to one man from a cigar-smoking other, the suffocation of cigarette smoke filling the interior of the building.
Foggy didn’t like this place, but he could see why Matt liked it. Matt was a bit of a stickler for tradition—he enjoyed things with history, consistency, and reliance. Maybe that was why he still prayed the rosary faithfully every single day (a fact Foggy was made aware of, when they were forced to share living quarters, in college, and assumed Matt kept up once they parted separate ways, after they’d passed the bar) or why he took the same route to Nelson and Murdock each and every day. So, for Matt, he wouldn’t comment on the dinginess of it, he’d be polite and gentle about the place that meant so much to his best friend—
“Not exactly the nicest place in the world, but it means a lot to me.”
Thankfully, Matt beat him to it, breaking the proverbial ice with a little jab—he was good at that, really, turning something meaningful into a little joke, and then pulling back the meaning again. It was how they communicated.
“I used to sit right here and listen to my dad and the other fighters just go at it, maybe do a little homework, or something…”
Foggy looked to the side to see his coworker and friend dressed in a grey sweatsuit, his cane clutched eagerly in his hands, folded up to a manageable size—clearly, everything had stayed the same inside of this place for a very long time, and it was a source of comfort and reliability for Matt. Foggy supposed, then, that being a blind man… maybe it was refreshing to walk into building layouts and not have to worry about tripping over himself.
“Hey, it has its charm,” Foggy replied smoothly, a soft feeling overcoming him as he heard the rare tenderness in Matt’s voice that only crept out when he was really thinking on a fond memory, looking around the place again, at the ceiling, and the walls, and the crusty-looking bags hanging… and yeah, he was lying, but Matt didn’t know, so it was fine.
“Yeah? Well, come here. I want you to meet my sparring partner—I think Karen’s found him already, I can practically hear her twirling her hair around her finger,” Matt chuckled, moving towards a far corner—where a wooden bench resided. On the bench sat a gym bag, black, simple, and sitting on the bench, wrapping his hands (big hands, broad hands, Foggy noted) with what looked like bandages, but he knew to be, well, handwraps, that were used by boxers to prevent avoidable injuries to their wrists and fingers. Thumb in the loop, he wrapped it over the back of his hand, over the wrist three times, over the hand three times, between each finger, making an ‘x’ shape, and finally around his thumb—Foggy’s eyes stopped following the mesmerizing, practiced movements that those busted-up fingers were making, pulling the wrap taught and tugging it tightly with his teeth, belonging to…
To a very attractive man, with broad shoulders, and a cropped head of militaristic hair. A prominent nose, slanted eyebrows, stubble—wearing a black t-shirt that was taught around his well-muscled arms, and grey jogging pants. He could understand why Karen had practically made a beeline, and was currently cozied up next to the man on the bench, ankles politely crossed, watching him wrap his other hand with what seemed like piqued interest.
Foggy felt hyper-aware of his tubby stomach and love handles, in the presence of so much… hunk. He crossed his arms over his chest, in a vague attempt to hide the aftermath of Bonnie’s Donuts and Teddy’s Bagels that loved to hang around his midsection.
The infamous mystery man then looked up at Foggy, raising an eyebrow as he looked between him and Matt, before he swallowed, and spoke.
“Didn’t know you were bringin’ spectators,” he spoke gruffly, simply, face shrouded in a little bit of shadow from one of the bags—mystery really taking hold of his figure, Foggy figured. And he spoke with limited interest. Like he didn’t have much to say in the first place. Beside him, he could see Matt beam.
“These are my associates, Karen—who I can tell you’ve already met—and Foggy Nelson,” Matt introduced, “Karen? Foggy? This is my sparring partner, Frank Castle.”
It had taken a moment to register, but the idea was slowly sinking in—this was the man (the sighted man) who was content with beating the shit out of Matt in the ring, and no matter how hot he was, how it made Foggy’s monkey-brain short-circuit a little bit when he watched him bite at his hand-wraps to pull them tighter, that was still so, so uncool. Not to mention, Foggy noted, as the man suddenly stood up, that he was huge; six two, at least, and definitely had a couple of inches on Matt’s five ten frame. Not to mention, Matt’s smaller build—muscular, yes, but… there were levels to it, Foggy knew.
There was no way this was fair. No way that this guy wasn’t doing this because he got sick kicks; outmatching and outranking Matt in sheer muscle-mass and size and definitely skill, because no matter how much Matt trained, Foggy knew that any and all skill he had with technique would be overrode by the fact that he was fucking blind.
“So, you’re the guy that’s been beating the shit out of my partner for the last, what, two months?” he couldn’t stop the words from escaping his mouth, his brows raising slightly. Almost as though he was challenging Frank to deny the statement.
Frank finally finished with his second hand-wrap, and he looked to Matt—and then to Foggy, and back to Matt again, and let out a little ‘huh,’ as though he was trying to figure something out. A look of genuine surprise overcoming his face, and something laced in… what was that damn kicked puppydog look for, what the hell—
“Partner,” Frank quipped at Matt simply, and Foggy felt his back go ramrod straight as he realized that what he’d said could be taken in very two different perspectives—depending on whether or not one was familiar with judicial terminology when it came to overseeing a law firm. Which, he meant no offense, but Frank Castle didn’t exactly look like he was familiar with the white collar version of the law—he moreso looked like a blue-collar worker, a man who worked with his hands, more than anything else…
“Law partners—we’re lawyers, we’re partners at our own firm, Nelson and Murdock, it’s lawyer speak—” Foggy backtracked, suddenly, his face feeling strangely hot despite the cold air inside of Fogwell’s, his lips dry, his tongue sandpapery, his hands clammy, “...we’re lawyers. It’s—it’s something you call another lawyer who partially owns the firm you both own, it’s… you own the firm together, you’re partners, we own Nelson and Murdock, we’re… we’re lawyers.”
Way to botch that one up, Fogs.
“I know you’re lawyers,” Frank replied, then. Somewhat stoic. But almost understanding. Foggy felt embarrassment curling up inside of his stomach.
“Partners in law,” Matt reconfirmed, a gentle sort of expression on his face, “just formal terminology, Frank.”
“Don’t know much about that kind of terminology,” Frank then added—and he seemed to forget that Foggy had ever said the word ‘partners’ to begin with. Though, Matt was thoroughly entertained, Foggy could quite tell, and he was thankful that the asshole couldn’t see how embarrassed Foggy’s expression was, at the moment.
“This is the man who’s been treating me like a real opponent for the last few months, Foggy,” Matt clarified, moving to set his cane (and glasses) down on the bench that Karen was still idling on, having gone from ogling at Frank to seemingly reading over some… file? That she’d brought with her to Fogwell’s. For the love of…
“Karen, get in here, I need somebody on my team arguing for Matt’s defense—”
“I don’t need you to defend me, Foggy, really, I love that he doesn’t hold back—”
“---because clearly Matt is incapable of making safe decisions!”
Frank chuckled, then, and moved past Foggy (not before clapping him, roughly, on the shoulder) to move towards the ring in the center of Fogwell’s. He hopped into it, and leaned back against the ropes, spreading his arms out to hold onto them at a wide angle (and God, Foggy could see every single muscle in his back with that movement) before he looked back over his shoulder at the three of the stooges that stood around waiting for the fight to begin.
“Red’s a whole lot better at fighting than he lets on,” the man stated—and Foggy wanted to gag.
This guy was justifying beating the snot out of a blind dude in his free time, wasn’t he?
“A whole lot better,” Matt agreed, making his way to the ring as well, pre-wrapped hands in white wraps flexing as he stood in the center of the ring. He moved a little closer to Frank, then, and asked him some sort of question Foggy was too out of earshot to hear. He watched them for a moment, noting how Frank’s body language tensed slightly, and then he looked back to Karen.
“You gonna watch?” he asked curiously, moving to try and peek at what she had in her hands, “Kar, you know you can just… leave the files in the office, right?”
Karen looked up at him, with her gorgeous, gorgeous eyes—the bluest, palest damn things he’d ever seen in his life, like river rocks staring back at him—and her mouth morphed into a little ‘oh’ as she realized that she had in fact zoned out in her reading adventures instead of paid attention to what had gone around her for what she knew was more than a minute or so.
“Sorry, Fogs, sorry,” she quickly shoved the file into her bag, “It’s just—I’m stuck on this thing, with Fisk, and I just—”
She tucked her hair behind her ear, and pushed herself to a standing position. She was wearing shorter heels today, so she was only around five nine instead of her usual five ten or eleven, curse her high heels—he knew he had no shot anyway, but her looking down on him (even if it was just an inch) still hurt his pride, when it happened.
“What is it? Maybe I can help,” Foggy offered, then, and Karen nodded as she walked with him to the edge of the spectator-field around the ring, looking up at Matt and Frank—the latter of which looked slightly irritated at the former.
“---and this is bullshit, Red, are you serious? Makin’ me look like some kind of—”
“Frank, I need this, okay? Just box—”
“Everything good up there?” Foggy called, an unimpressed expression resting on his face as his eyes bore into Frank Castle’s soul. Sure, he was hot—but as far as Foggy was concerned, he was still a piece of shit. And they were still accessories to what was about to be a beat-down on a fucking blind man, so forgive him for mean-mugging a little—
“Everything’s fine,” Matt replied sharply, curtly, “we were just… discussing the best strategy, is all. To fight. Laying down the rules, and such.”
“What strategy, I thought Blind Matt Murdock was content to ‘swing and hope for the best?’” Foggy sharply replied, the corner of his mouth upticking slightly with the remark.
Matt snorted.
“Yeah, yeah,” he settled—before he moved to the opposite end of the ring, holding onto the ropes.
“You’ll do great, Matt!” Karen chirped, cupping her mouth with her hand, before she looked up at Frank, who was looking down at his feet—as though he had reservations about fighting. Which, he should, if he were half a decent man, Foggy thought; but, as soon as Matt barked out the order, the United States Army poster-child had his fists raised in defensive positions, and he was gently rocking from one foot to the other, light on his feet, light on his toes.
“I’ll tell you later, Foggy,” Karen then told him, glancing to the side to meet his gaze with an affirmative nod. He nodded back—knowing that he would get a full earful of whatever crumb-trail that Karen was following to hopefully lead her to the demise of Wilson Fisk. It was all she talked about, these days, and though he was interested in pursuing the case as much as the next guy, he also did have to wonder at what point it became a realistic sort of thing to just… drop it. He knew that was terrible, shit, but Fisk was powerful, he had practically half the police force in his back pocket, so what was the real purpose of going up against him? Foggy didn’t know if their little firm could really do much, even if they did find something that could bring the legal hammer down on his fat bald ass.
He broke himself from his thoughts to focus on the ring—immediately drawn to Matt. He almost felt ashamed for thinking that Matt was going to look like anything but what he looked like, now. Foggy had never had the privilege of watching Matt box, but he’d sort of assumed that he’d be the same haphazard unsure-of-himself Matt that he’d seen when he’d followed him to Fogwell’s, that one time. But he was… light, and confident, and his body language was powerful, and as soon as Frank got close enough to him, he delivered the swiftest punch towards the other man that Foggy had ever seen—
Too bad the guy missed.
“Oh,” Karen sucked in air through her teeth, grimacing slightly, as Matt’s fist swung past Frank—a terrible miss, really, but what was to be expected from a guy who couldn’t see?
“It’s okay, Matt, you’ll get him the next—”
And then Frank Castle, sparring partner of two months, clearly hiding some sort of either sadistic fetish for beating the shit out of vulnerable people, or anger issues that pushed him to target those who couldn’t defend themselves—punched Matt Murdock square in the face. Hella fucking hard—like the guy owed him money or called his girlfriend fat or something, and Matt stumbled back, a gasp leaving him that was all-too real-sounding to be any sort of show, and he fell on his ass, a shaky hand reaching up to cover his nose—which was, undoubtedly, broken.
“...time.”
Foggy was in the ring in a moment, scrambling up through the ropes, his heart beating like a hummingbird in his chest—he closed the gap between him and Matt, kneeling beside his best friend, ignoring how rough the ground felt through his jeans, and he reached to pull Matt’s hand away from his face, a sharp inhale passing through his own lips as he saw the damage that had already been done. Matt’s face was a collection of quickly-forming bruises, and the swollen lump on his nose, red and bloodied upper lip, and teary-eyed grimacing expression sold the appearance of bruised skin, bruised ego better than anything else.
“What the fuck is the matter with you?” Foggy turned around, then, so quickly his hair slapped him in the face before settling—staring with a certain rage in his heart directed towards the soldieresque man in the opposite corner of the ring. Frank was staring at the ceiling, and he sighed heavily, before closing his eyes. Like he was contemplating something heavy—but moreso like he was irritated.
Irritated… at Matt? For going down so easily, maybe? Foggy hissed gently through his teeth, and he felt the strange desire to wrap his own hands in ‘x’ patterns and beat the shit out of the guy in front of him. Well, it was a fantasy. Unfortunately, one that would not be brought to fruition. At least, not today. Not for a very long time, because it required that Foggy actually get serious with a workout routine.
“Jus’ needed to let off some steam, I guess,” the man replied, though it almost seemed forced. Like he didn’t want to be here, performing in front of Karen and Foggy.
“By breaking a blind guy’s nose!?” Foggy shouted, crossing the distance between them, shoving his finger into Frank’s chest, poking him with a real ‘I’ll tell you what, mister’ attitude, “I should prosecute your ass so fucking hard you piece of—”
“Foggy, please,” Matt croaked out, from his position on the floor; or, his rising position on the floor, as Karen was in the ring as well, helping him to his feet, holding his arm gently, and examining his face for herself, a saddened expression resting across her features that betrayed her expectations for this fight in the first place.
“Oh, Matt…”
“This is such bullshit,” Frank grumbled out, practically barreling past Foggy and crossing the distance between him and Matt—he shoved the man’s chest, then, perhaps a little harder than necessary, “you owe me one, Red.”
“Frank, I—” Matt was cut off, and whatever he was about to say was drowned out by Foggy’s anger.
“Owes you for what? For fucking beating him up?” Foggy loudly countered, “I swear, if you think you can eek anything out of Matt on top of being a fucking—borderline abusive piece of shit—”
“Foggy!” Karen hissed out, “come on.”
The look that she was giving him was indicative that she did not approve of his actions, words, or anything else. Embarrassment flooded through his cheeks; he was making a fool of himself, here, instead of tending to Matt, who’d just gotten his face bashed in by an asshole in the tightest shirt known to man.
“Yeah… yeah, whatever.”
Frank was leaving the ring anyway, now, going over to the bench and pulling a black hoodie on over his shirt, pulling the hood over his head, and grabbing all of his shit in an angry sort of way before storming off towards the door. Matt frowned softly—knowing that he was going to need to reconcile this, soon enough, but a certain satisfaction was curled up in his stomach as he felt the protective auras of his friends and knew that his plan had worked.
“Frank!” Matt was calling, again—a look of genuine distress resting on his features, as he attempted to jostle his way out of Karen’s gentle (though surprisingly firm) hold.
“Leave it, Matt, let him go stew in whatever weird shit he needs to stew in in order to feel better about himself,” Foggy grumbled, returning his attention back onto his friend.
Hurt friend.
Standing here, in a damn boxing arena, with a broken face.
Blind friend.
Blind fucking boxer.
Karen was gently dabbing at the side of Matt’s face with his shirt, figuring that at least keeping the blood out of his mouth, out of his eyes, was the best thing to do. Not that it’d matter, but she couldn’t stand to be idle and not doing something, when he was dripping blood onto the ring floor.
And then Matt broke the tentative silence, once the slamming of Fogwell’s door by a clearly angry Frank was a couple of minutes in the past.
“I guess I just…” Matt sniffed, slightly, blood tangy and metallic on his tongue, “...didn’t see it coming?”
Fogwell’s was silent for a couple of moments—and the joke really settled in.
Karen laughed, though maybe it was a little sad, as she swiped at the corner of her eye. She clearly felt… bad for Matt, here. Was she crying? Or close to it?
Foggy could understand.
Matt wanted to be normal, so badly, Foggy knew, but he just… couldn’t do some things. And this… was something he couldn’t do. And it must be hard, to have the only thing he remembered his father by, to be one of the fucking things a blind man couldn’t do.
Foggy closed his eyes, and shook his head.
“Dude, I hate you,” he told the other man, “I really fucking hate you right now.”
“You love me,” Matt smiled, though Foggy noticed how it was smaller, less happy, than the ones he’d been flashing just minutes prior to his fight (if it could even really be called that, ‘fight’ Foggy’s ass, it was a one-sided assault) teeth bloody from the runoff of his broken face, “you know you do.”
Foggy laced Matt’s arm around his shoulder, guiding him out of the ring—and towards the door. Karen fetched his cane, and his glasses, and he didn’t step outside into the dreary Hell’s Kitchen weather without either in his possession, one clutched tightly in his hand and the other resting on his face despite the skewness of its newfound position due to his injury.
“...I know, yeah,” Foggy murmured, once they got out onto the street—all traces of Frank Castle gone, “And I love you so much that I’m gonna pay for our cab ride to the emergency room.”
“Emergency room?”
“Yes, emergency room. Your nose is broken, man.”
“Foggy,” Matt stopped willingly following the man, resisting slightly. A blood droplet fell from his lip down to the ground, splattering against the pavement.
“I can’t go to the hospital,” Matt said definitively, shaking his head.
“You’re bleeding out of your face, dude, you need to get this looked at—I mean, what if it heals all wrong and you get to be disfigured for the rest of your life, like—”
“I mean, I wouldn’t really care—”
“Matt! You should care if your face gets jacked up!” Foggy returned, frustratedly, “Look, I came here, to this gym, to watch you fight—I did. I said I would, I came, and I met the piece of shit who’s been boxing with you, and within like, a minute, you’re broken on the ground in front of me—I did all of these things, while knowing that this would be the outcome, and I am so, so worried about you, and stressed out. So I am going to say this, and I’m going to say it once—you are going to the damn hospital, no ifs, ands, or buts about it, and you’re going to get your nose checked out, set, and looked at by a competent doctor who knows how to tell if a facial injury is super serious or not, because if you don’t, then I’m going to be up all night wondering if you’re going to get some sort of brain injury from getting wailed in the sniffer so damn hard—”
“Foggy, Fogs, come on, I think he gets the big picture,” and there came Karen, the mediator, to the rescue, again, “Matt, I really need you to think about going to the ED for me. Please? Just to—just to make sure that there isn’t anything else that’s broken. Please?”
Matt pursed his lips, and he breathed a sigh.
“One condition,” he added. Foggy’s shoulders relaxed, slightly, and he nodded.
“I just nodded. What’s your condition, man?”
“You don’t tell anybody who did this, where I got it, or what you saw, okay?” Matt demanded.
Foggy’s brows furrowed—”what?”
“You heard me. Frank’s name isn’t mentioned, not even once.”
“Come on, man—”
“Foggy, we should respect if he wants to keep this to himself, it’s only fair—”
“Exposing that piece of shit is fair, Karen! You know what isn’t fair? Bringing eyes to a damn fistfight when your opponent can’t see! Punching a blind guy square in the face, and then vaguely threatening him in front of two separate people—shoving him in the chest and tellin’ him that he owes you for punching him in the face! None of that is fair!”
“Foggy—”
“That dude should be in jail! Not just for assaulting Matt, but for convincing Matt that it’s okay that he’s getting his ass kicked in that ring—that he’s beating on him because he respects him as an opponent or some shit, which is one of the most fucked things I’ve heard in a while—”
Matt’s grip on his cane was tighter, and he frowned deeply.
“Foggy.”
Foggy stopped—he was breathing a little harder than usual, sure, but he wasn’t so worked up that he wasn’t willing to listen to Matt, when the need arose. He furrowed his brows, worry plastered all over his face, and he just buried his face into his hands, letting Karen hold onto Matt, delicately, by herself.
“This is… this is not okay, Matt, I…”
“You can’t tell them who Frank is, or how I got these injuries. Or any of the injuries that are on me, okay?”
“You have more?”
“I fell down the stairs. I got mugged—anything but the truth, do you understand?” Matt was insistent, imploring Foggy for a sense of allyship that the other lawyer was truly reluctant to give.
A car drove past them—wind tousling all three of their heads of hair, playing in it like something tender—and a horn beeped in the distance. Somewhere, nearby, somebody was playing some sort of Latin pop music on a shitty, old boombox probably halfway hanging out of the window (horrible, horrible sounds that nobody should have to be subjected to, in Foggy’s opinion). That was Hell’s Kitchen, though.
“Why?” was all that Foggy could muster up to ask, shrugging his shoulders in a sort of defeated way—eyes gentle and soft and mouth downturned in a concerned manner, “I mean… just, why are you protecting this guy, Matt? Is it because he makes you feel special? Like… like he somehow values you more, or something, because he’s willing to spar with you? I don’t understand it, I’m not gonna pretend to understand the weird thing you’ve got going on here, and I know it might have something to do with your—”
His voice hitched, as Karen’s eyes widened at him, and she shook her head quickly.
No. No, that was crossing a line—he could see it all over her features.
Foggy didn’t mention Matt’s father. He caught himself before he could.
“It’s not because of any of that,” Matt reassured, gently, then, “it’s because… well…”
“So what is it, Matt? I mean, what could possibly make you want to protect some guy with anger-issues who seems keen on wailing on you in the ring?” Foggy asked, gently setting a hand on Matt’s shoulder. He searched his friend’s face for any indication of deceit or signs of untruthfulness, when Matt opened his mouth to speak, next.
“It’s because if you start throwing Frank's name around as the guy who... put all these injuries on me, my knee, my eye, my nose, they're going to start looking into him. And it's really not what it looks like, and I'd rather not have to deal with the headache of it all. And despite what you just saw in there, Frank cares about me, he's a nice guy, he's kind---he just gets a little too excited, in the ring. He's---look. Foggy. Karen."
"...yes?"
"Frank Castle isn’t just my sparring partner. He’s… also my boyfriend.”
Devastatingly, in far too many ways to count, Foggy found absolutely none.