"I could have - I should have stopped it."
Foggy knows it's real bad just from the look on Matt's face.
Matt's never had a poker face. Everything he feels is always right there in plain view and Foggy wonders if he even knows he's so easy to read. He wonders if it's because of Matt's blindness - if he forgets everyone else can see his emotions right there on his face, even if he can't see theirs - or if it's just because Matt is Matt: feelings always thrumming just below the surface and waiting to force their way out through the crinkle in his forehead or the twist of his lips or the red rimming his eyes.
Foggy knew from the start that Matt's face would, somehow, be the hardest part of this whole thing. He knew it from the moment he woke up, confused and in pain, and had to sit there and have everything explained to him by the doctors and nurses. Not that he needed an explanation of what had happened, because he vividly remembers the important parts.
He remembers how the first slice of the blade barely hurt - how he was more surprised than hurt, like he'd felt the indignant hot sting of a slap rather than a fucking knife through his cheek, but then, a millisecond later, he registered the hand on his forehead, yanking his head back, and then the second slice - knife hooking into the soft web of the other corner of his mouth - and then it hurt, more than anything he'd ever felt (although the beating, after, might've been a close second).
And maybe that's when he passed out - or maybe he sat, bleeding, in the alley for a while before someone found him? He can't remember that part, not exactly.
Anyhow.
This hurts more.
"Stop making that face at me," Foggy says, and Matt yanks his fingers from the corner of the wound. Foggy watches as he visibly settles himself, jaw working and grinding as he sucks back tears. "My face can't possibly look half as funny as the face you're making at me right now," he adds, softly, but Matt's too upset to crack a bad-joke fake smile.
Matt's mouth opens, then closes again. His face crumples.
"It's okay," Foggy insists. "I'm more pissed off about the broken leg, to be honest." It's not strictly (or even, y'know, loosely) true, but he needs Matt to stop crying before Foggy's feelings edge further out of the dealing with it zone and into totally not dealing with it territory.
"They're really," Matt begins, faltering. He starts again: "Can I touch your face? Not just the - I mean, your whole face."
"Of course, man." Foggy nods, and when Matt hesitates he leans forward to grab Matt's left hand (wincing in pain, just a little, from the broken ribs and the bruised - what did the doctor say? Foggy wonders. Spleen? Can you bruise your spleen?). He pulls it towards him and Matt's fingertips brush his nose, eyelashes, lips. He lets go as Matt's other hand comes up to join it and they travel gently, hesitantly across his face. Credit where credit's due, when he reaches the stitched-up Glasgow smile carved into Foggy's cheeks Matt only flinches half as hard as the first time.
"See?" Foggy says, lips brushing Matt's palm. "Still handsome as ever."
"Yeah," Matt agrees, sniffing and pulling a hand away to wipe at his nose like a little kid. "Jesus," he adds, low and raw. "I'm going to find them, Foggy. Whoever did this, I'm going to find them."
"I know," Foggy says lightly, shrugging. He knows it's a promise, just like he knows it's not worth arguing. "But I feel like I should make a responsible comment about, like, due process and all that."
"Screw due process." Matt shrugs, too, and cracks the tiniest of smiles.
He leans forwards and crosses his arms on the bed, resting his chin on his forearms. Between the dark circles under his eyes and the fact that he's still dressed in the ratty hoodie and sweatpants that he'd probably pulled on in the middle of the night when he got the call, it's clear he's exhausted. Defeated, too. It's not a look Foggy's used to seeing on Matt, and it makes his own bravery waver.
"It'll be okay," Foggy promises. They sit in silence for a moment before he adds: "I know you know I'm not lying."
"Yeah," Matt nods. He closes his eyes and, from the gentle frown on his face, Foggy can tell he's concentrating.
Listening.
"Yeah," Matt says again. "I know."