#Cause if this isn’t an old Italian mob couple idk who is

[xblackreader]

>> Just convinced my grandmother that this was a picture of an actor and his actress wife.

Her immediate thoughts: What’d I tell you? Them Italian men…

Cause if this isn’t an old Italian mob couple idk who is

[pomegranate-belle]

V-day ask meme 5 with mattfoggy?

5. Character spends all day trying to give a valentine to their crush, only to be foiled in increasingly ridiculous ways

So this became... 3k words. I feel like this trope is very high-school oriented, but somehow the fic ended up being comicsverse so idk. It’s set... Somewhere in a post-whatever-run-we’re-on-now future where Kirsten is back and Matt’s not stupidly sleeping with mob boss wives. Also, massive apologies to any X-Men fans; I do not know shit or fuck about characterizing Magneto and Professor X, I just wanted Sir Ian and Patrick Stewart to cameo in this fic—

—

Despite all the commercialism and the overwhelming scent of flowers and processed candy, there’s just something about the aura of Valentine’s Day that Matt likes. People young and old get excited for it — whether for romantic purposes or just because chocolate will soon be on sale — and their feelings infuse the air in a way Matt can’t quite pin down to one or another of his senses. The Valentine Vibe, Kirsten had called it when he tried to explain the sensation to her.

He’s... Ecstatic, to have her back in his life, there’s really no other word for it. They’re not quite what they once were — in fact, Matt has no idea what they are except she’s there and they love each other but they’re not the kind of people who kiss each other anymore. Still, after climbing out of his latest spiral to find her waiting at the top? He can’t think of a better dynamic to have with an ex. She’s still Kirsten, after all. She’s still intelligent and funny and brave and doesn’t take his shit.

She’s also begun to take a particularly pointed interest in his relationship with Foggy that he thinks he should maybe be a little frightened about. Her intention is that Matt, so she says, ‘stop pining and seduce him already’ — which is easy enough for her to say, but just because he and Kirsten followed an absolutely fantastic trail of sexual tension to an even more fantastic relationship does not mean the same thing will work with Foggy.

You don’t seduce Foggy Nelson, and Matt would know. He’s been trying unsuccessfully for fifteen years and he is not subtle. Matt knows he looks good even if he can’t see it himself; the empirical evidence is pretty, uh, evident. But whenever Foggy sees him shirtless his only reaction is to toss a shirt at him and tell him to cover his shame with a warm fondness that’s simultaneously disappointing and heartwarming. Matt’s not even on the menu to Foggy, he’s concluded. But, well. Matt’s always been a champion of lost causes, and all that.

Besides, best friends give each other stuff on Valentine’s Day all the time. Foggy loves chocolate, and he’ll probably brush off what the ‘oh my god Matt you big softie this is totally the sappiest one in the store’ card Kirsten helped Matt pick out says as being a joke, so it’s not like there’ll be any negative repercussions. Matt’s resolved. He’s gonna do it.

Unfortunately, Foggy’s in a meeting with a client when Matt shows up to probably-unsuccessfully sweep him off his feet. The secretary says it’s set to go on another two hours. Matt doesn’t have that kind of time to bandy around now that he’s trying to be responsible with his work-life balance, so he makes a tactical retreat.

Fine. He’ll just take Foggy out to lunch and give him his valentine then. No problem.

—

They actually do make it to lunch, which gives Matt a false sense of security. He decides to save the valentine for the end — like dessert. It’ll be sweet, he’s certain, and he’ll be able to savor Foggy’s happiness the entire time he walks him back to his office.

Matt is just about to pull out his gift and offer it to Foggy when his phone starts announcing Jessica Jones’s name. He spends about three seconds too long debating whether to answer or not.

“If you ghost her she’ll beat the crap out of you,” Foggy points out, standing with a metallic rasp of chair legs against the floor. “I’ll head out and let you take that.”

Foggy sounds content, smells like deli ham and honey mustard and potato chips — a not-super-healthy sandwich lunch masquerading as something more so by way of a thin layer of lettuce — and gives off the same soothing body heat he always has, excepting his bout with cancer that Matt tries not to think about. To make a long story short, he feels like home to every one of Matt’s senses, and it’s a struggle not to ask him to stay. Still, the insistence of Matt’s phone prevails, because he knows what Jess is calling about. He’d asked her to help keep an eye on Mike and let him know if he was up to anything — if she has something to report, it’s bound to be important. So, Matt offers Foggy a nod and then pulls out his cell to answer her.

—

Of course, both he and Foggy are busy all afternoon, but Matt knows that Foggy usually knocks off early on Fridays, so he wraps up his own business — meeting with Jess to discuss strategy, any work that can’t be pushed to later — as efficiently as possible and follows suit. His plan is to meet Foggy right as he’s stepping onto the sidewalk — waylay him and present him with the valentine before anything else can interfere. Except that as he’s strolling along down the street, Matt happens to hear a mugging going on down an alley that he’s passing. Breaking that up takes more time than he’s willing to admit — god, he’s getting old — and even vaulting over a few rooftops doesn’t make up the delay. Foggy’s gone when Matt reaches his destination. He lets his head fall back against the brick wall behind him, breathing heavily, and then reaches for his phone.

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice is tinny and confused and perfect over the phone line. “What’s up?”

“Dinner?” Matt asks. “I was thinking Italian tonight, want to meet me at Maria’s at five-thirty?”

There’s a long, long pause.

“Yeah, sure thing, Matty. I figured you’d already have plans...?”

“Nah, nothing. See you then.”

—

Fourth time’s the charm, that’s what they say, right? Maria’s is quaint and quiet and always smells like good bread and cheese. He and Foggy aren’t the only ones there — a few couples seem to be scattered around the room, including a pair of teenage girls that are probably on a first date based on the way they fumble their words and their silverware. There’s also two elderly men, one in a wheelchair, who sound like they might be playing chess on a travel board while they wait for their food. They all add to the atmosphere instead of disturbing it, though, which is nice. Across the table, Foggy clears his throat, scraping the tines of his fork through his food.

“So. Lunch and dinner? I feel like you’re buttering me up for something,” he says. “We don’t have to move back to California, do we? Because I will, but I only just unpacked my last box a few weeks ago and it’s going to be a pain to pack it all up again.”

“No! No, nothing like that, Foggy,” insists Matt. “Seriously. I just want to spend time with you. Is that really so out of character?”

“On Valentine’s Day?” Foggy points out, and his silverware clinks against his plate. “I mean, kind of.”

The implication isn’t lost on Matt — don’t you usually have a date? — but he doesn’t address it. Foggy is his date, but couching it like that out loud is a little too presumptive, even for him.

“Well, not this year.”

Matt smiles his most charming smile, and it nets him a fond sigh, the kind that’s normally paired with Foggy ruffling his hair.

—

Again, Matt waits until the end of the meal. This time, they get to dessert, and the moment is perfect. They’re comfortably full, happy, and relaxed. It doesn’t matter if Foggy sees the gesture as romantic or not, because at least Matt can be satisfied that it was done as romantically as possible. His sense of aesthetics, such as it is, will be appeased.

Which is, of course, the moment the door of the restaurant bursts open.

“Magneto!” shouts a man, storming into the restaurant with heavy, clomping bootsteps and shattering the moment to pieces. “I’ll kill you!!”

Matt is going to kick this guy’s ass.

What is he even yelling about? Magneto? Magneto’s not—

And then one of the old men stands. Every spoon in the restaurant rattles towards him when he pushes back his chair, prompting a sigh from his dinner companion. And so it turns out that maybe the guy bursting through the door isn’t as off-base as Matt assumed. That old guy really is Magneto. It actually takes Matt a minute to realize that the man in the wheelchair across the table must be Charles Xavier. Xavier just isn’t someone Matt hangs around a lot, he tends to steer clear of both him and his academy when possible. It’s not mutants Matt has a problem with, though — it’s telepaths. The idea of someone poking around in his brain pan without so much as a by-your-leave gives him goosebumps. And not the fun kind.

As Matt considers all this, the scene continues — he notices distantly that the teenagers are being ushered towards the kitchen and away from the action. There’s a few whiffs of air as punches are thrown by the unknown assailant, and an unpleasant burning smell. Matt’s torn between shuffling Foggy away from danger and joining the fray himself, but when Foggy reaches out and grabs his hand for comfort he finds he can do neither.

“Let me very firmly impress upon you the enormity of your rudeness,” says Magneto, his voice crisp and cold.

Matt can’t even tell what he’s doing — something about Magneto’s powers is messing with his radar sense in the most disorienting way — but it sounds painful. Matt debates with himself the pros and cons of shaking off Foggy’s grip and intervening.

“Erik,” Xavier says warningly, though there’s still something quietly warm suffusing his tone.

“Oh, very well.”

The would-be assassin hits the floor with a thud that rattles the dishes on Matt and Foggy’s table. He’s breathing, a little bit labored, but still alive. And unconscious. Also possibly bleeding a little bit, but it’s hard to tell with the scent of all the metal in the air.

And that, he supposes, is why you don’t mess up Magneto’s dinner plans.

Magneto and Professor X make their leisurely escape, leaving Matt’s romantic moment with Foggy thoroughly in ruins. He lets it go, sighing into the last bite of his tiramisu and gives the plan up as a bad job. Maybe next year, he thinks wryly as he and Foggy get up together to examine the man left on the floor.

“He’s wrapped up in a chain of spoons,” Foggy narrates quietly, nudging the guy with his toe. “Wasn’t sure if you could tell that, you looked confused. He must have some sort of acid powers though because he managed to melt a few on their way in. I think maybe he just fainted when the chain tightened. Are you able to sense any really bad injuries?”

Matt tilts his head and concentrates.

“No,” he determines at last. “No, nothing.”

That settled, they split the check and book it before they can get caught up in a police investigation or a mutant hunt.

Their apartments are in opposite directions, so there’s not even an excuse to give Foggy the valentine on the way home. And anyway, Matt’s feeling so discouraged that he’s not sure he even wants to go through with it anymore. He turns for home, planning to crumple up the card and maybe eat the chocolates himself.

“Matt.”

There’s a tug as Foggy grabs his sleeve. He turns towards the warmth of Foggy’s body, the sounds of his heart and his breath, and tries to offer a smile.

“What?”

Foggy gives him a quiet huff in return.

“Come on, Matt, give me a little credit. You’ve kept coming up with excuses to meet me all day. There’s something you wanted to say, and you still haven’t said it,” he explains. “I can tell. So let’s head back to mine and you can finally get it off your chest.”

Matt feels, suddenly, seen. It’s an unsettling and vulnerable feeling, but he knows beyond all doubt that he’s safe with Foggy. That it’s silly of him to be surprised at somebody knowing him so well when that somebody is Foggy. There’s not much the two of them can hide from each other after being best friends for so long. Mood improved a little, Matt manages a more genuine smile, and they walk on together.

—

“So, what exactly is your problem, Matt?” Foggy asks once they’re safely inside.

And it’s not as if he says it in a rude way, he actually sounds very earnest and concerned, but that just impresses on Matt all the more how stupid this entire situation is. He’s twisted himself in knots all day over one dumb little gift for one dumb little holiday. Annoyed with himself, Matt divests himself of his glasses, cane, and suit jacket, opens up his briefcase, plops the valentine and accompanying small box of chocolates inside down on Foggy’s coffee table, then flops onto the couch on his back.

“That,” he says, gesturing towards it. “That’s my problem, ok?”

Foggy laughs.

“That’s what all this was about? A valentine? You had me worried you were getting ready to pull some crazy stunt or another.” He pauses, likely studying the items set on the coffee table. “Chocolate and a card, huh? For Kirsten, I’m guessing? I had a feeling the two of you would be getting back t—”

Matt is extremely tired of Foggy’s assumptions.

“No, it’s for you! I’ve been trying to give it to you all day!” he complains, throwing an arm over his face — he might be a grown man but after the day he’s had he’s allowed to be a little dramatic, ok?

“Me?”

Foggy sounds surprised and pleased, but not like he’s having any sort of revelation about Matt’s feelings for him. Which is fine. That’s what Matt had expected, after all.

“Yup.”

“Well, if it is for me, then I guess I don’t have to feel guilty about wanting to eat these,” Foggy says, and there’s some rustling of cardboard and plastic as he opens the box of sweets and chooses one.

Raspberry-filled, Matt’s nose tells him as soon as it’s bitten into. With a pleased hum at the taste, Foggy picks up the card and opens the envelope. There’s further quiet, inarticulate sounds after that — noises Matt remembers from studying near Foggy, the sound of him not-quite-reading-aloud.

There’s a pause.

Foggy’s heart does a funny kind of stutter in his chest, then speeds up considerably. He swallows the chocolate in his mouth with a gulp that sounds distinctly nervous.

“Um. Matty...”

And now Matt’s nervous too. He sits up, clenches his fingers in the fabric of his slacks to keep from reaching for his glasses.

“What? What is it?” he demands.

“Did you, uh... Did you know Kirsten wrote in this?”

Oh no.

“What did she write?”

“Well, there’s a pretty long spiel about what she’ll do to us if we hurt each other,” Foggy says, with a jovial tone that rings very hollow. “But she also says I need to get over myself and kiss you because you’re an emotionally stunted duckling and won’t make the first move.”

“... Ah.”

Matt’s still trying to calculate the relative distance to the ground if he flings himself out the window when Foggy’s hand lands on his shoulder.

“Is she right?” he asks Matt.

“About what?”

Though he tries for a devil-may-care grin, Matt thinks it probably comes out a little anemic.

“About you wanting to kiss me, Matthew,” Foggy says drily. “we both already know you’re emotionally stunted.”

Matt shrugs.

“I do. But you don’t, and that’s fine, I’m... I don’t need...”

“I don’t?” asks Foggy, sounding incredulous. “Matty, come on. There’s pretty much nobody on Earth who’d turn you down and you really think I would?”

“But...? You never said...”

Foggy sighs and steps back. Matt gets the feeling he’s probably shaking his head in despair at Matt’s apparent idiocy.

“And why would I, Matt? I mean. You know what I mean! I’m just not the kind of person you would... They have leagues for a reason, buddy.”

That self-depreciation, light but tinged with a very deep melancholy that Matt knows is drilled right through to Foggy’s core, drives him to his feet in agitation.

“Objection!” he snaps, and doesn’t care how ridiculous it sounds. “I’ve flirted with you before! How could you think...”

“You flirt with everything that moves, Matt, I knew you didn’t mean it. That’s just who you are,” Foggy explains patiently.

“Well...” He can’t exactly deny it. “Yeah, but I did want to kiss you. Do want to kiss you. All the time. Except after you eat something gross and unfit for human consumption.”

Foggy offers up a quiet laugh, then, and it smooths some of Matt’s ruffled feathers when he can’t detect any bitterness in the sound.

“Real smooth, Casanova,” Foggy says. “That was sarcasm by the way. I’m rolling my eyes at you.”

“But you still want to kiss me too,” Matt replies, because he’s beginning to think it’s true and he knows Foggy finds it both irritating and endearing, but more the latter, when he’s smug about things.

“You really are unbearable. What do I see in you, I ask myself,” laments Foggy, even as he steps forward and cups Matt’s cheek in his hand.

Matt can hardly stop grinning long enough to swoop in and kiss him first.