Silver age fluff (or an attempt at it) for @pluckyredhead, set during the Mike Murdock debacle.
Foggy wedges the phone under his chin as he fumbles a bottle of scotch. “Nel—oh fishsticks—son.”
“Bankrupt the firm yet?” an amused voice asks.
“Matty! Spot any flying saucers up there at Carter College?”
“I didn’t spot much of anything, Foggy,” Matt says wryly, “but the lecture went well.”
“Bring home any co-eds?” Foggy jokes, but it’s flat as soda left on the coffee table the morning after a shindig. He sighs. “Matt, I think I might hate your twin brother.”
Matt snorts. “But he’s the life of the party.”
“Not any party I want to go to,” Foggy grouses, hooking his finger under the telephone cradle and taking it with him while he paces. “He’s–he’s a clown. And a cad. I know he’s Daredevil, but–saints alive, Matt, it’s hard to believe he’s related to you.” He sighs again. “Aw, don’t listen to me, I’m just bellyaching. So when are you coming home?”
“Miss me already?” Smirking tone.
“Every day.” Foggy says without thinking, then blinks. “I mean.”
“You mean what?”
Foggy hesitates as he watches ice cubes swirl in the glass of scotch. He’s seen more of Mike Murdock than Matt in the last weeks, and he’s also been under the thickest, blackest, most jealous raincloud of his life. He’s not so much of a fool that he thinks the two have nothing to do with each other.
He thinks of the obnoxious tilt of Mike’s grin, a funhouse mirror reflection of Matt’s charming, genuine smile, and jumps in with both feet. “I mean. Yes. I do mean. Matt, I miss your face when you’re not here.”
“You can just look at my brother’s,” Matt said, dryly.
“Mike can take a long walk off a short pier and hug an octopus,” Foggy says, and Matt makes a sharp, surprised bark of laughter. “And you’re dreaming if you think I could get by without you in my life.”
“Fog…” Voice startled. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re an enormous heel sometimes, Matt. But you’re still the best man I know, and if I didn’t have you, I’d. My whole life would be.” He breaks off. “You’ve ruined me for all other men, Matt. Your brother included.”
Matt clears his throat six or seven times. “Have you been drinking?” Matt asks, airy as a falling anvil.
“I sure am holding a drink. I put some ice in it. I’m watching it melt.”
“Do you mean it? That you love me like you said?”
“Love? Who said anything about love?” Foggy says lightly, but he can’t keep his voice even, and he coughs. “Yeah. I mean it. I used to think that, you know, if it wasn’t going to be you and Karen, or you and some other amazing lady, it’d be you and me. Sometimes that meant two crotchety old bachelors having a drink at the end of a long day, sometimes it meant something else.”
“Something else like. When I come home, I come home to you.”
“Yeah, something like that,” Foggy says, trying to keep the wistfulness out of his voice.
Foggy knuckles his eye socket. “Yeah?”
Foggy stares at the receiver like he’d never seen a telephone before, then drops it and runs to the window, and standing at a payphone, in a circle of streetlamp light, his face tipped up towards the window of Foggy’s apartment, is Matt.