Disclaimer: Daredevil was created by Stan Lee and Bill Everett with input from Jack Kirby and is owned by Marvel Comics. No financial remuneration is being received for this work of fan-fiction.

Written for Brenda as part of the Yuletide 2017 exchange.

Thanks to Elle, Kathy and Debbie for the beta!

A/N: Some dialogue taken from Daredevil Vol. 3, No. 13 by Mark Waid and Khoi Pham, Vol 3, No. 18 by Mark Waid and Chris Samnee, Vol 3, No. 19 by Mark Waid and Chris Samnee. References: Daredevil Vol. 3, Nos. 13–14, 16, 18–23.

"Nothing is never nothing. It's always something." —Celia Ahearn

Never Nothing

Foggy rummaged through his desk drawer, shifting around the peanut butter cups, the Twinkies, the jerky, and the Clif bars he'd bought to shut Matt up about how he never ate anything remotely nutritious.

"Foggy, they're Iced Gingerbread, White Chocolate Macadamia, and Coconut Chocolate Chip!"

"I know! And they were in the health food section!"

Thinking about it now, he couldn't help smiling a bit, even as he massaged his forehead and kept looking for the aspirin he knew he had in there somewhere. He'd been getting these headaches a lot recently, and though it was tempting to blame Matt and his new cheerful, bubbly attitude, that was an unrelated headache all its own. Might as well blame Monday, too, he thought to himself. Like Matt, it's not exactly a cause, but it's probably a factor.

He found the aspirin bottle and headed for the water cooler. His wrist was smarting, too. Maybe the pill would take care of that also. He unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up, the better to rub the joint and blinked when he saw the purplish bruise that covered nearly half of it. How on earth…? He didn't remember banging it into anything and, with a mark that large, you'd really think he would. He touched the bruise gingerly, but the spot didn't seem any more tender than the rest of him. Whatever was causing the pain in his wrist, it didn't seem to be the bruise. But then, what was it?

Foggy filled a paper cup with water and downed two aspirin. Then he went back to his desk to wait for it to work. Or to wait for Matt to show up, back from chaperoning that field trip for the blind school. Whichever came first. He had a pile of beige file folders on his desk, each one representing a new client. He slid the first one off of the stack and tried to look it over. His headache wasn't really that bad. He should be able to do this.

He couldn't concentrate. He kept thinking about the bruise. And the pain in his wrist that the aspirin wasn't doing a thing for. It wasn't helping his headache, either.

It was probably nothing. People got headaches all the time. This wasn't the first one he'd had in the last little while, just the worst. He'd probably slept on his wrist or something like that. He could have bumped into something. It wouldn't be unusual if he had. Unlike Matt, Foggy had always been something of a klutz. Just because he couldn't remember doing it didn't mean he hadn't. Yeah. It was probably nothing.

He couldn't focus on the data in the file.

After a few minutes of staring down at the top page, he turned to his computer, shifted the mouse to get rid of the screen saver, and typed a few keywords into Google.

As he'd expected, headaches, bruises, and aches and pains could mean absolutely nothing. Or they could mean something. Maybe he was being a hypochondriac. If Matt were here, Foggy could tell him what was worrying him and Matt would reassure him and tell him that he was fine, just a little under the weather. And they'd laugh about it and by the end of the day, Foggy's pains would be gone and the bruise would subside and the swelling would go down—

Wait. When did that swell up?

Foggy swallowed hard. Matt would tell him not to worry, if he were here. But Matt wasn't. And Foggy was worried. It could be nothing.

But it could be something.

He hesitated a moment longer. Then he reached for his phone. "Yeah, hi. This is Fog—uh… sorry. This is Franklin Nelson. I'd… uh… like to make an appointment with Dr. Buckley…"

The appointment was scheduled for three days later on his lunch break. Matt never showed up. Not that Monday nor the Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday that followed it, though he did take the time to email Foggy that he was working from home. Which meant that he had too many injuries that couldn't be explained away to the rest of the office staff. Foggy supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Matt's life was a good deal more adventurous than Foggy's would ever be. And he was an Avenger now. Just because he was still picking up his email didn't mean that he was even in the same solar system at the moment, never mind the same city. At least he was still answering his emails. It was when he didn't that Foggy's imagination started really kicking into overdrive, thinking about all the places Matt could be.

At any given time, Matt could be recuperating at the Night Nurse's clinic from some injury or other. Or lying in an alley, bleeding to death. Or—

Foggy gave himself a mental shake. He had to get a grip. This was Matt he was thinking about. Matt, who had always been a bit flaky, even if he'd been trying to behave otherwise lately. There was only so long he could keep up the act. Actually, as annoying as it might be, flaky Matt would actually be somewhat normal. Yeah, Matt's being out of the office probably meant nothing.

But it could mean something.

His head hurt.

Foggy had been seeing Dr. Buckley since junior high. Since her office had been right by his school, he'd been in the habit of rushing in whenever he thought something might be the matter. And something was always the matter. He got out of breath running up three flights of stairs and was positive it was asthma.

"You need to exercise more."

His pulse would be racing for what seemed like a very long time after gym class. He had to be experiencing early heart attack warning signs.

"It wouldn't be nearly as bad if you got in shape. I can refer you to a registered dietician if you'd like help setting up a weight-loss plan."

According to a medical website, there was a chance that his aching shoulder was a torn rotator cuff.

"Looks more like a mild sprain. And Franklin, you're my patient, not Dr. Google's. How about letting me tell you what's wrong, hmm?"

He'd made this appointment partly because he wanted to see her roll her eyes again and tug at her now-graying hair in mild annoyance while she informed him that it was just stress, or nerves, or his not being a kid of sixteen anymore. He was ready for her to tell him that it was all in his head and there was nothing to be alarmed about.

And she did. Kind of. Well. Actually, she gave him a prescription for a stronger pain reliever and told him to call again in a week if his symptoms didn't clear up. But it was probably nothing.

But it could be something.

One week later, Matt still hadn't come in and Foggy's headaches were worse. The swelling in his wrist had gone down, but he'd found another bruise on his hip when he was taking a shower. He called Dr. Buckley for another appointment, sure that he was setting himself up for a discussion of hypochondria and psychosomatic symptoms, coupled with a lecture on getting more sleep and less food.

Instead, once he got there, she listened to him with a serious expression and, after he'd gone through the symptoms he'd been noticing recently, she opened up a drawer under the counter and pulled out a form.

"Franklin," she said, "I want to be very clear. The symptoms you're describing could point to a number of issues, many of which are fairly minor. However, they could also be pointing to something more serious. I'm going to refer you to an orthopedic oncologist I know—"

"W-wait," Foggy interrupted her. "Oncologist? You mean, like… cancer?"

Dr. Buckley gave him a smile that was meant to reassure but didn't quite manage it. "It's one possibility," she said calmly. "Among many. I think we'll all feel better once we can rule it out."

"And if we can't?"

She was still smiling, but it wasn't a professional smile. More like the sad kind you wore when you had to tell a friend about a death in the family. "Then the sooner we know what it is, the better your chances of beating it." She wrote the referral quickly. "I'll send this off momentarily and you should hear from him within the next two days. If you don't, call me."

Foggy let out a heavy breath. "Okay…" he said, his voice hitching a little.

"And Franklin? It's probably nothing."

But it could still be something.

He got the call from the orthopedic oncologist the next day, scheduling him for a slot in a week's time. Foggy was getting more nervous by the moment, both about the aches and pains, and about his missing partner. Matt had stopped answering his emails. And Alyssa swore he hadn't phoned in either.

The final straw came on the following Monday when Matt didn't show for his three o'clock appointment. Now Foggy was really worried. His head was throbbing. And his hip was bruised worse than his wrist had been and the pain from above and below was killing him. He didn't remember what he'd banged it into, but it had to be something for it to hurt this much. He got up to get a glass of water for the painkiller and before he'd taken five steps, a wave of agony washed over him, the room spun, and he had to sit down. The chair was too far away. Instead, he staggered to the wall, leaned his back against it, and slowly slid to the floor.

And that was when he heard Austin—the newest member of their new staff—calling him through the closed office door.

"Mr. Nelson? Alyssa says Matt's three o'clock has been waiting for a half-hour. Any idea where he is?" When Foggy didn't answer immediately, Austin called his name again.

Foggy took several slow deep breaths and the pain subsided to a more manageable level. His irritation, however, amplified. Damn it. He'd hoped that flaky Matt was a thing of the past, but here he was again, dropping off the face of the earth, standing up clients, and trusting good ol' Foggy Nelson to cover for him without so much as a phone call or a by-your-leave. He'd fired off a dozen emails between Friday and now, asking Matt to let him know if he was indisposed and wanted Foggy to handle the case and if he did, then Foggy needed to look over the files. Matt hadn't responded and Foggy had gotten too used to his walking in at the eleventh hour, cool and collected, to stress overmuch. Well. Another time, he probably would have, but now, between the bruises and the swelling and the aches and pains… Well, he already had one headache and perhaps he could have been excused for thinking that, at least this time, it wasn't Matt. Great. It looked as though he now had two headaches after all.

"I'll…" he coughed, "I'll be right out, Austin. Just give me a minute." If anything had seriously happened to Matt, Foggy knew he'd feel horrible for being annoyed. But right here, right now, if Matt was still alive…

…Foggy was going to kill him.

Meanwhile, though, there was a client waiting to discuss a case with his partner. And while part of Foggy—okay, a very large part of Foggy at the moment—was tempted to let Matt try to clean this mess up on his own when (when, not if) he turned up, he knew that it wouldn't just rebound on Matt. The firm was Nelson and Murdock. If Matt behaved unprofessionally, it might as well be Foggy doing the same. With a sigh, he dragged himself to his feet and forced himself to walk to Matt's office, hoping that the rest of the staff couldn't detect how lousy he felt and how much of a struggle it was to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Matt had been so… together… lately, that Foggy still half-expected that he'd slipped into his office via the window at 2:58 and would be out with a huge smile on his face, just as soon as he'd patched himself up and stopped the worst of the bleeding. Maybe later, the two of them could compare notes on their bruising and Matt would try teaching him some ninja healing or pain control technique or something.

He knocked on the door. "Matty? Matty, I asked twelve times for the Bucchino files—" He said as he pulled it open. The office was empty.

Foggy winced. Then he made his way over to Matt's desk. "Sorry," he mumbled to his missing partner. "Know you hate it when I rifle through your stuff, but this is an emergenc—" Then he pulled open the desk drawer. And what he saw inside…

…was something that absolutely, positively, should not have been there.

For a moment, Foggy staggered back, sick to his stomach for more reasons than one. Then his jaw hardened. He could not deal with this now. And, in fact, he wouldn't. Not now, not ever again. There was nothing that Matt could say or do that could explain… this. Nothing.

Or so he told himself. But all the while, he was hoping that he was wrong and that there could be something that would make all of this right again.

He heard nothing from Matt. At the appointment, he didn't hear much from the oncologist either. A lot of umm-ing and aah-ing and serious looks.

"Give it to me straight, doc," he said, trying to joke. "Am I dying?"

The doctor gave him a faint smile. "Not today," he said. "Mr. Nelson, I'd like to book you in for some tests at Sloan-Kettering. The symptoms you're describing are somewhat worrying. They could also clear up by themselves. Sometimes they do and we can't explain why they occurred, much less why they stopped."

"But you don't think so."

"I think we need to order those tests. If they come back negative, we can rule out cancer."

"And if they don't?"

"Then the sooner we get you into treatment, the better your chances." He smiled more reassuringly. "Look, you came here to try to find out what's wrong and from what you're describing, I have to concur with your family doctor. There could be something. My job is to determine what—if anything—it might be. I'll have my receptionist call you within the next forty-eight hours to let you know when we can get you in at Sloan-Kettering."

"Uh… I've got court dates coming up," Foggy murmured. His hands were ice cold and starting to sweat. This wasn't supposed to happen. The doctors were supposed to pooh-pooh his fears, tell him to take a couple of aspirin and sleep it off, chalk it up to stress, or tell him it was all in his head. They weren't supposed to actually find something.

The doctor's face was dead serious. "And you could potentially have a life-threatening condition. I think it's probably worth it for you to miss a few court dates now so that you can be there for many more in the years to come."

Foggy swallowed hard.

"And Mr. Nelson? If we knew what the tests were going to show, we wouldn't need to administer them." He smiled. "This could still turn out to be nothing."

"Yeah," Foggy nodded. "But it could also be something."

"Let's not go borrowing trouble yet. I just want to narrow down the probable causes for the symptoms you've been experiencing."

Foggy forced himself to smile back.

When he got back to the office, he tried calling Matt again. When he didn't get a response, he phoned Kirsten. And then, he took Matt's appointment calendar and fed it into the paper shredder. He had enough to deal with right now without a flaky partner. He couldn't let himself get sucked into Matt's problems. Not now. Not anymore. His own health had to come first. And that was something he had to keep fixed firmly in mind, for the next little while.

Besides, now that he knew what Matt had been keeping in his desk drawer, he also knew that there was nothing that he could do for his best friend apart from urging him to put his mental health first and get into treatment.

He covered his eyes with his hand. Actually… there was something else he could do. But it was going to hurt both of them. He picked up his phone and called a number. "Uh… yeah. This is Franklin Nelson of Nelson and… Murdock. I-I need someone to come out and… and take one of the names off of our door."

And if THAT didn't convince Matt that Foggy was done putting up with his antics, nothing would.

The next few days were more intense than anything Foggy could recall having to deal with in recent months. His wrist was aching again, but this time, it was probably due to filling out medical forms and questionnaires. He'd been starved—some of the tests had to be run on an empty stomach—poked, prodded, talked to, talked at, and at the end of it all, they still wouldn't have the results for a few days.

He hadn't heard from Matt. Normally he would have been worried sick over it, but he had other concerns at the moment. He wanted to know that Matt was okay. Beyond that—to quote that song he'd heard the other day on the radio—his give-a-damn was busted.

By the time Matt ambled into the office after nine days AWOL, Foggy was fresh out of the ability to listen to whatever glib excuse his about-to-be-former partner could come up with. The guy with the paint scraper had finally shown up, not ten minutes before Matt's hat sailed into the office ahead of its owner, narrowly missing the hat rack.

That shtick is so old. And so dumb, Foggy thought, marshaling his thoughts and keeping his tone level, as he walked forward and intoned, "Matt, can I see you in your office, please?"

Before he turned to lead the way, he had the satisfaction of seeing Matt's cockiness drain away and he knew that his… was it about to be 'former' friend, too? Foggy wasn't sure. But he knew that Matt had caught on that something wasn't right and that Foggy was beyond ticked off. It was a suddenly-subdued man who followed him into the inner office. Unfortunately, that wasn't enough to change Foggy's mind about what he was about to do. At this point, Foggy had the feeling that nothing could.

Well, he hadn't expected Matt to take it well. At the moment, he didn't much care. Foggy couldn't be supportive and understanding this time. He needed someone else to support him, for once. Or, at the very least, he needed a break from Matt's troubles so he could focus on his own. They both needed help, Foggy admitted to himself. The difference was that Foggy wasn't in denial about it; he was getting some. And if Matt was ever going to face up to his own issues, maybe it was just as well that Foggy didn't have the energy to be his enabler right now.

He still felt lousy about doing it. If Matt was drowning, Foggy felt like he should be throwing a lifeline, not turning away from the shore.

You've done that, he reminded himself. You keep tossing them and he just doesn't grab hold. Right now, your only other alternative is to jump into that undertow and try to drag him out yourself. But first of all, you know that trying to grab onto someone drowning usually means that they drag you down with them. And second of all, to keep up the imagery, you're out in that water, too, and you've just gotten a cramp. You need to save yourself first. And if Matt were in his right mind, he'd tell you the same thing.

He was rationalizing. What if the tough-love approach backfired? What if Matt went to pieces all over again, the way he had when Milla had gone insane? What if, with this amateur-hour one-man intervention, Foggy had just sped up the timetable on Matt's inevitable deterioration? Because Matt wasn't going to get help. That would mean confirming that he was Daredevil, when he was doing his darndest to stuff that particular cat back into its bag, no matter how many times it managed to get a claw out and take a swipe at him.

Sheesh, Nelson. How many metaphors are you going to murder today?

Foggy had to keep believing that Matt would finally recognize that he had a real problem and do something about it besides pretend it didn't exist.

Unfortunately, he suspected that even this ultimatum would accomplish nothing.

The phone rang and he picked it up on the second ring. "Mr. Nelson, this is Doctor Gabriel's office. Can you come by tomorrow at eleven? The doctor would like to go over some of your results with you."

But not over the phone. Bad sign. Foggy swallowed hard before he confirmed the appointment and entered the oncologist's name onto tomorrow's calendar.

The last thing he wanted was to take on another case. Especially one that would normally have required Matt's brand of 'after hours' investigation. The guy wasn't actually looking to hire a lawyer. He was looking for someone to coach him to represent his sister in court. Because when the people who wanted her convicted were part of a mob syndicate, representation that was both competent and affordable was impossible to find.

Almost impossible. Foggy couldn't train the guy; this was no landlord-tenant dispute. But he couldn't turn him away either. He wasn't an especially religious man, but maybe doing a few more good deeds right now would score him some brownie points upstairs to be applied toward his medical issues.

Or the syndicate might just kill him before whatever was wrong with him got a crack at it.

This really was the kind of thing that was right up Matt's alley. Maybe he ought to—no he was not going to call him. Santiago had come in here for legal help, not Daredevil help. Foggy could handle this by himself. At least, he'd have to.

His office phone rang. And although, at this hour, he probably should have let it ring to voice mail, it occurred to him that it might be the doctor trying to tell him to run—not walk—to the nearest emergency room because whatever had been on those tests was really bad.

And then, an all-too-familiar voice said quickly, "It's me. I know you said not to call for a while, but I'm in very deep trouble…"

He's testing my resolve, Foggy thought furiously, saying nothing.

"I know you're there, Foggy. I can hear you sweating. Okay, I'm guessing about the sweat, but you have to admit, the odds are pretty g—"

Matt was really… something. Probably something Foggy wouldn't want attributed to him if he said it out loud. "Don't do that," he said flatly. "Don't try to joke the awkwardness away. Let me savor it." On second thought, he didn't want to hear it. "Forget it. You want help, call the Avengers."

He was about to hang up when Matt blurted, "It's about Milla."

Foggy froze. "Pardon?" he said in a very different tone…

He couldn't believe he was driving up to the asylum scant hours after washing his hands of Matt and his… Mattiness. There were only two reasons that he was making this trip. First, if someone had spirited Milla out of the institution, or if she'd escaped or been released and somehow tracked Matt down, despite his new address, then thanks to that restraining order that the Donovans had taken out against him, Matt couldn't check this out on his own. He couldn't risk admitting that he knew Milla's whereabouts, nor that she was with him.

And second, well, the Santiago case was exactly the kind of thing that Matt could investigate outside the normal legal channels.

He was still enabling, still getting sucked into that undertow, and he knew he had to make it to shore, with or without Matt. So he told Matt he'd get to the asylum, but once they'd both helped each other this last time, Matt had to lose his number.

He didn't think it would work. He had a suspicion that nothing would get Matt to get the help he needed.

But Foggy couldn't just stand back and watch his friend destroy himself. And he couldn't save him either, not this time and probably not all those other times either. He had to try something else, even if it meant getting more distance between them for a while.

He hoped Matt would forgive him one day. He hoped he'd still be around when Matt did. But for now, he had to accept that there was nothing he could do for Matt and it was time to do something for himself.

His jaw was set as he drove through the asylum gates.

Two hours later, he was sitting in a bar, trying to lose himself in an alcohol fog. Maybe if he drank enough, he really would forget. About the doctors and the testing and—

—finding Milla in a padded room, completely oblivious to her surroundings.

Matt had lost it. If keeping his dad's skull in his desk drawer hadn't proved it, hallucinating about Milla being in his home sure as hell did. Matt's grip on reality was slipping fast. And Foggy couldn't, simply couldn't help him this time. He knew it. He kept telling himself this. And yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that, had their positions been reversed, Matt would have been there for him.

Right. Like Matt was here for him now.

Okay, now he wasn't being fair. Matt's super-senses didn't include mind-reading. He could tell when Foggy was lying. Maybe even hiding something. But Foggy couldn't exactly blame him for not guessing.

Sure he could. Well, maybe not for that. But if Matt was cracking up, how could Foggy burden him with his own problems? Especially since he couldn't deal with being burdened by Matt's? It cut both ways.

And none of that changed the fact that, the way Matt was now, he was a danger to everyone around him.

He'd tried explaining that to Kirsten when she'd come to listen to his slurred apology for letting her get mixed up with Matt—even as quick as she was to retort that he hadn't 'let' her do anything she hadn't chosen to. Maybe he should have left it there. But he was still worried sick and drunk enough to think that venting was a good idea and Kirsten was sitting next to him. She heard him out reluctantly. And then, she said something that sliced through the booze and self-pity like a razor.

"I am a district attorney! I am an officer of the court with a sworn responsibility toward public safety! And you just told me that Daredevil has gone insane and is at large in this city and quite possibly dangerous!"

Foggy froze. "No," he stammered. "Wait…" He hadn't meant to say—

Hadn't he?

"Foggy," Kirsten said quickly, "unless you tell me right now that you are drunk and angry and you are talking through your hat, I have no choice but to have my office conduct a city-wide manhunt for Matt's own good!"

She was right. She was right and she was giving him an out. He could back away from what he'd been rambling on about. He could choose to believe that Matt would pull through this on his own, like he always did. He could decide to just… wash his hands of it all. Leave Matt to sink or swim, let him hit his rock bottom…

…Let him get himself killed because he could no longer separate delusion from reality?

No. No, he couldn't. He was fed up, furious, and damned well terrified. But… But he couldn't just walk away and do nothing.

"He needs help," he whispered. "Don't hurt my friend."

It wasn't enough. It was nowhere near enough. But it was still something and it was all Foggy could manage right now.

Two days later, Matt was back at the office with the proof that would clear his client and an explanation that would have sounded insane, were it not for the sworn statements by the people whom Matt had freed.

Foggy had been wrong. Matt hadn't been cracking up. He'd been getting gaslighted. And Foggy had walked away, when that might have helped send Matt over the edge for real. He thought about what had happened years ago, when Kingpin had faked evidence to get Matt disbarred. Matt had been reeling then, too. He'd disappeared for a time and Foggy had let him. When Matt most needed a friend, Foggy hadn't been there. It was one thing to recall that he'd wanted to be, to tell himself that he would have been, had Matt only reached out. But somehow, Foggy couldn't shake the feeling that he could have done more. What, he didn't know. But… something.

It's déjà vu all over again. He wondered if Matt's radar sense had caught him flinching. He swallowed hard. "You really were the victim in all of this, Matty," he said. "Now I get it. This explains everything."

Matt's voice turned cold. "Except why you'd turn on your best friend," he shot back.

Foggy tried to apologize, but Matt wasn't having it. He'd shut up and taken everything Foggy had said to him over the last few days, but now that he'd been exonerated, he was cutting loose.

"You apologize? It's like you were ready to knife me! After all the…"

It did no good to protest that he'd thought Matt had been lying to him. "I should have trusted you on this," he admitted. "And Kirst—"

"On this?" Matt lit into him. "How about, 'I should have trusted you,' period?" His voice grew more dangerous. "And why did your pulse rate punch when you mentioned Kirsten's name?"

Matt hadn't talked to her, yet. Damn. Foggy swallowed again and admitted that he'd told her everything.

"You told an assistant DA that I was a public mena—"

Suddenly, Foggy had had enough. "What if you are?" Oh, terrific. Just pour some oil on those flames and throw in a keg of butane while you're at it. And why not? Matt was okay, after all. And Foggy didn't think he could say the same about himself and it wasn't fair. He was the careful one, the cautious one—Matt was the one constantly taking risks and living in denial and… Stop. Stop right there. You don't actually wish that Matt was going through what you are right now.

No, he didn't. But that didn't mean he couldn't use a bit of support. And there was no way he could ask for it now. And…

…And Foggy would never have been fooled by Coyote's 'sleight of hand' act, as Matt was accusing, had Matt not been the one pointing Foggy's attention to the wrong shell in the first place.

And now, he was murdering metaphors again.

"You say Coyote's Coyote," he brazened. "Here's what worries me. You let your life get pretty out of hand before you decided to be glib twenty-four seven. And the only way that the Matt Murdock I know—a tortured Catholic of unimaginable integrity—could so utterly absolve himself of responsibility for… for Milla… for Bullseye's murder, for some really devastating choices… is if he's not himself somehow."

Matt's jaw tensed. "Anything you want to add to that?" he demanded.

I'm scared that I've got a disease that might kill me. I need to be supported by my best friend. I'm afraid that if I tell you what's going on and I lean on you and this is all an act, that you'll flake out. And you'll try to lose yourself in the costume, because you can't deal. And you'll run into someone you could normally handle, but because you'll be out of your mind with worry, you won't. Which means that I'll have inadvertently killed you. So, no, Matty—I can't tell you what's going on until I know that you are yourself and I don't even know if I know who that is anymore after everything you've been through over the years. Are we still friends? Is that even still possible? And if it's not, is it because of how I acted over these last few days?

There was a ton that he wanted to add to what he'd just said, but he just couldn't risk it now. "No." And then he realized that he couldn't just leave it there. He had to add… something. "Regardless, I shouldn't have cold-shouldered you. If you want help, I'm here for you." And then he took another breath and tried. "I-I need it from you too. Let's just put this behind us, okay?"

Matt spun on his heel furiously. "Go to hell, Nelson."

"Hey, c'mon. I've known you too long—"

"I don't care. If you're that convinced that I have been in no way compelled to atone for my sins… then you don't know me at all." And then he was gone and there was nothing that Foggy could think of saying to stop him.

He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. Then the phone rang and he swallowed hard, wondering whether it was the doctor's office finally calling to kill the suspense. He was almost looking forward to having that other shoe drop.

"Foggy Nelson speaking." Then he forced a bit of cheer into his voice. "Mr. Santiago! There's been a break in the case. I think we can get your sister that 'not guilty' verdict after all…"

This time, his doctor didn't seem so optimistic. "There are other conditions with similar symptoms," Buckley said. "It could still be a whole lot of things. Not all of which are serious."

Foggy tried to smile, but his lips refused to cooperate. "But it could be cancer."

"Yes."

"How likely?"

"Mr. Nelson—"

Foggy cut him off. "How likely?" he repeated.

"I'd say it's about an 85 percent probability at this point. But I still want to run some—"

"—More tests," Foggy finished. "Sure."

Great. He knew he should have called after Matt. Even if Matt wanted nothing more to do with him now, had he realized what Foggy was going through, Foggy was sure he still would have stayed, said something, done something…

Instead, it looked like Foggy was going to have to face this thing alone. He winced. Matt faced lousy odds all the time without flinching. If he wouldn't help Foggy overtly, maybe he could at least be a role model or something. Maybe.

Was it bad that he registered the wonderfully intermingled smells of bacon and limburger before he took in the apologetic smile on Matt's face? He was so relieved that Matt was back and so excited about the peace offering, that he almost didn't notice that Matt had finally shed the act he'd been playing for weeks, finally stopped shutting Foggy out with an "Everything's just fine, don't worry, I'm good," attitude that brooked no argument. Matt was opening up to Foggy the way he'd used to, before he'd started coming apart and tried patching himself together with varying degrees of success.

Best of all, Matt's explanations were making sense. And ringing true.

"When people make you feel like you're weak and helpless, it's empowering to know something they don't. And boy, did I need empowering."

"Back then," Foggy replied carefully and was relieved when Matt nodded.

"Back then. But here's the truth: learned behaviors die hard. They become a comfort zone… And along the way, it went from survival skill, to habit, to… to…"

"Emotional addiction," Foggy supplied. He'd long suspected it was something like that and it was great to be able to tell Matt so without worrying about being shut up or being shut out. But, when Matt told him that he wanted to start being more open with him and asking for Foggy to help him, Foggy knew that he couldn't give an unqualified 'yes,' not now.

Some cancers are already too far gone to treat by the time they're detected. How many times did my doctor write off my aches and pains as nerves, or stress, or something connected with my needing to drop a few pounds? What if some of them were early warning signs and she missed them?

"If there's time," he said, trying to sound casual about it, hoping Matt would pick up on his hesitancy.

He didn't right away. Instead, he barreled on, asking about restoring their partnership.

It was something, Foggy told himself. If they were back together, they'd at least be talking. And when the right moment came to bring it up—

"Wait," Matt said suddenly serious. "Go back to the previous question. What do you mean, 'If there's time'?"

It looked like this was going to be the right moment after all. Foggy's throat suddenly felt dry and his hands, clammy. And—

"—And why is your heart rate soaring?"

Yep. Definitely the right moment. And even if it wasn't, even if he was nervous, even if saying it out loud would make it true… After all the time he'd spent badgering Matt to open up and admit what was going on, Foggy couldn't raise his walls now and not be a hypocrite. And based on everything Matt had been saying, opening up couldn't have been easy for him, either. He took a deep breath.

"Matty," he said slowly, "I wasn't fair to you either." And then, the words started pouring out. "I think the reason I was so angry that you might not be dealing with your problems honestly and with courage is because I…" Whoa. Why hadn't he connected these dots until now? "…I need that from you right now. I need you to be the one who can teach me to how to do all that."

"Foggy, what are you talking about, please?"

He couldn't recall the last time that Matt had sounded this nervous. No, not nervous. Scared. And in a way, Foggy hated having to continue, if only because he bought into the whole 'Man without fear' hype and he didn't want to shatter that illusion. But he'd already said too much and there was no more holding back.

"I've… been sick, Matty. While you've been running around, I've been running to the doctors. And they're pretty sure…" He couldn't keep going. Once he said it, once it was out there, nothing could take it back. Like…

"Of what?"

…Like Matt's no-longer-so-secret identity. Foggy took another breath and tried to ignore the unnerving note of panic in his best friend's last question. "…They're running tests right now," he said, trying to break it gently.

Matt wasn't having it. "For what, Foggy?"

He closed his eyes and spoke the word. "Cancer."

And suddenly, Matt had come around behind the desk, and he had his arm wrapped around Foggy's shoulders, and he was pulling him into a hug, and there was nothing else Foggy had to say, nothing he needed to do besides relax and let go. Because he didn't have to worry about Matt going off the deep end anymore, or running off into the night to beat up on third-rate thugs because he couldn't deal with the weight of what Foggy had just disclosed.

"I'm here for you, buddy," Matt whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Ball's in your court. Just… tell me what you want me to do and I'm there."

Foggy nodded. And for several long moments, he just hugged Matt back and let the ball of stress he'd been holding onto start to shrink a little. Then he looked up with a slight smile. "Well, you know," he said slowly, "there is something…"

He'd asked for this. Foggy kept telling himself that as he wrapped his arms and legs around Matt's—Daredevil's—neck and waist and tried not to scream. He'd wanted this. Wanted to know what it was like to face the world without fear, wanted to know how Matt did it. As if tagging along with him could possibly explain that! Foggy was scared out of his wits. But there was something about the night air, the way the wind whistled past them, the way the ground seemed so far away that it wasn't quite real… the way he knew that so long as Matt was with him, nothing bad was really going to happen to him… that made it all seem okay.

So when Matt finally dropped him through the window of the newly reinstated offices of Nelson and Murdock and slid in after him with a cheery, "Well, li'l buckaroo, what now?" Foggy turned to his best friend with a big grin and exclaimed, "Again!"

And Matt happily complied. This time, they ended up perched on one of the water towers dotting the NYC landscape. And they just sat and talked, really talked. Mostly about serious stuff, but finding room to toss in a couple of jokes, all the same—some of which were actually funny—or at least, funny enough to make them both laugh like they'd used to. Well. Actually, in the old days, they would have needed a couple of beers or so instead of getting drunk on a heady mixture of night air and free-floating stress.

Trouble reared its head, as it always did in a city the size of New York, and Matt sailed off to deal with it, promising to be there in the morning when Foggy was due to get the final results from all of the testing he'd been undergoing. Maybe he'd be okay hearing the verdict alone—even if the news wasn't good—but he was still grateful that Matt would be there with him. Maybe there was nothing Matt could really do…

But just his being with him would be something.

He wasn't really surprised when Matt wasn't there at five minutes to nine. Sure, Matt had promised, and he'd sounded sincere, but when you moonlighted as a costumed vigilante, stuff happened that you couldn't control. Normally, Foggy understood and accepted that. All the same, he couldn't help being a bit resentful as his watch beeped nine and a text came in. From Matt.

Hey, buddy—

And then, the man himself strode into the waiting room, looking more put-together than he had for a long time. Or maybe it was just the haircut.

"Afraid I'd let you down?" Matt asked with a grin.

"No," Foggy said, mostly not lying. He hadn't been afraid of that at all until five minutes ago. Five minutes barely counted. (Even if it did probably count enough to set off Matt's lie detector. Matt let it slide, though.)

He sniffed the air and wondered what exactly Matt had been doing when they'd parted ways. Though, if he'd had to guess, his best friend had spent most of the night dumpster diving. "Wow," he muttered. "You reek."

"You should smell the other guy," Matt laughed. "He'll be heaving up his guts for hours."

The nurse came in then to show them into the main office and let them know that the doctor would be right there. For once, Foggy was calm. Matt was here. He could rely on him. Nothing bad was going to happen. Everything was going to be just fine. He knew that now. He knew…

He knew that Matt's hand was pressing down on his shoulder the way he'd once pressed down on Matt's. When the police had come to their dorm to inform them that Battlin' Jack Murdock had been gunned down outside Madison Square Gardens and the two of them needed to come identify his body. And as he looked over his shoulder, he saw the same fragile toughness that Matt had exhibited then. Foggy felt tears well in his eyes as he realized what that gesture had to mean now. And it was probably just his imagination or some trick of the light on the lenses, but he thought he saw something glint behind Matt's dark glasses, too. Rose-colored. I teased him about looking at the world through rose-colored lenses when he got them. Wonder if he even knew before I mentioned it, or if he just bought the pair that felt most comfortable.

Matt's jaw trembled for a moment. Then it set. And Foggy knew Matt was sticking around for the long haul, in case there was something—anything—he could do. And he wasn't going to say a word until he could talk without breaking down. But he wasn't about to run off and do something flaky, nor even something technically heroic, not if Foggy needed him more. And if there was nothing he could do, then Matt would do… nothing.

No. Not nothing. Matt would be there. With him. He wasn't going to face this alone. His best friend was going to be helping him through this, every step of the way. And that…

That was really… something.

More. It was enough.