Hello, everybody; ModernDayBard here! If you can't tell, I'm a big Marvel fan, and that extends to their Netflix show, Daredevil. After scanning the works based on the show on here, I noticed several of them focused on Foggy's reactions to Matt's injuries, but few, if any, ever reversed the situation. Of course, the moment I noticed this, the following story began to grow in my mind, and bug me until I wrote it out and post it.
(SPOILER WARNINGS: This is set Post-Season 1, and while there aren't any Fisk-related spoilers, there are unavoidable spoilers for episodes 9/10. You have been warned.)
Of course: I don't own the shows or the characters, I was just borrowing them for a moment...I'll put them back where I found them, I swear...

Saturday, July 18th, 6:48 AM

The beeps of the machine were deafening to him, nearly drowning out the sound of Karen breathing just beside him, or her rapid heartbeat. She was frightened—well, he was, too. If he'd wanted to, he could've let more in, let those god-awful beeps disappear behind the cacophony of the hospital—of the ER just down the hall, of the ICU two floors above, or even of the maternity ward clear on the other side of the building. But he didn't; he couldn't. He had to listen to the machines, or better yet, to the too-soft breathing, the faint heartbeat they were tracking. If there were any changes he wanted—no, needed—to know.

That was why Matt Murdock focused all his attention on the too-still form of his best friend as Foggy Nelson remained unresponsive and unconscious. The blind lawyer did his best to ignore the persistent, overpowering scents of disinfectants and sterilizing agents and the ominous, human scents of bile, blood, and sweat they tried to mask. He ignored the uncomfortable chair he was sitting in, the frigid air of the hospital as the AC overcompensated for the New York summer—every tactile sensation except Karen's shoulder pressing against his and Foggy's hand in his own.

For her part, Karen was mostly still in shock. The three of them had been walking back from the office late, walking together for once—though Foggy was a few feet ahead, halfway across the street before she and Matt had left the corner, calling over his shoulder for the 'slowpokes' to hurry up.

Then, in one sickening instant a drunk driver had plowed through the crosswalk at high speed, and the light-hearted evening was demolished, replaced by a hellish, chaotic montage of 911 calls, ambulance rides, answering police questions, emergency surgeries, finally getting to see Foggy, only to be told...

Foggy's in a coma.

She'd thought those same four words maybe a dozen times in the past hour, but it still refused to sink in. When they'd first arrived at the hospital, the doctors and nurses had said a lot: broken bones, collapsed lung, internal bleeding, possible concussion, multiple lacerations... Nearly the whole night had passed before Karen heard the one word that could cut through her shock, ground her at least a little: stable. Eventually, somehow, Foggy would be alright.

At least, she had to keep telling herself that, especially now, as the long-haired lawyer was lying there, still and unresponsive, and looking nothing like himself.

A sob in her throat caught her off-guard, and she leaned forward, laying her hand over Foggy's and Matt's. "Please," she gasped out, surprising herself. "Please, wake up, Foggy. You've got to wake up!"

Matt had heard the sob. He wondered if he should lay his free hand on Karen's shoulder or arm—offer her the comfort that he didn't feel. That's what Foggy would've done, right? God, Foggy...

Before the blind lawyer could make up his mind, Karen spoke, and her desperate plea sliced into him like a knife. A part of him wanted to run from the room and hit something—or someone—another part wanted Karen to stop talking so that he didn't fall completely to pieces, but the largest part of him was rooted to the spot, holding onto his friend's hand, just wishing their roles were reversed.

After all, this wasn't right—he, Matt Murdock, 'the Devil of Hell's Kitchen', was the one who got into dangerous situations by facing off against deadly opponents. But Foggy's world was the world of law and generally polite society (though, granted, with a flavor only Hell's Kitchen could provide). So why was he, Murdock, perfectly fine and healthy while Nelson lay in a coma, in the no-man's land between life and death?

Yes, the beeps were deafening. Unfortunately, they couldn't drown out thoughts or fears.

Saturday, July 18th, 8:00 AM

About an hour later, the two of them were asked to wait in the hall while the doctor's did... something—Karen'd honestly stopped listening once she understood they'd have to leave Foggy's side. She and Matt managed to stagger out of the room, though whether her hand was on his arm to help her guide him or because she needed to lean on him, she honestly couldn't say.

Karen led Matt over to some chairs in clear view of Foggy's room so that they'd know as soon as they were allowed back in, but Matt stopped her before they sat down. "Karen, you should probably go home," he said, in a flat, hollow, voice that wasn't like him.

"What? No!"

"Karen," he cut in, losing a bit of that monotone sound, "you've been up all night. You should get some rest."

"So should you," Karen insisted, regarding her friend with worry.

Matt gave a dry chuckle, but he shook his head. "I'll rest tomorrow—watch him today and tonight. You can take over tomorrow morning."

Karen couldn't believe her ears. "Tomorrow morning? Hell, no, Matt—I'm coming back tonight!"

"...Fine. But no earlier! And try to get some sleep."

"Fine," Karen replied, triumphant for a half-minute...until she realized what Matt had conned her into agreeing to. "Lawyers," she hissed, and for a second, Matt had that little half-smile on his face, and it was a little easier to believe that everything really would be alright. The moment ended, but Karen tried to stay strong as she clutched at her purse straps, still hesitant to turn away.

Matt slipped his arm away from her hand. "Go, Karen; I'll call you if anything changes."

"You'd better," she insisted, finally resigning herself. Before she left, though, she took one last, long look at the blind lawyer, as if asking herself whether she thought him fit to stay. He had dark circles under his deep, brown eyes, and somewhere in the rush of calling 911, and getting Foggy to the hospital, he'd lost both his cane and dark glasses, leaving his unseeing eyes openly visible. Seeing him now with his stricken expression and haggard face, Karen was reminded of the impression she'd gotten the first time she'd seen Matt without his glasses: that he wore them not because he couldn't see, but so that no one else could read his sometimes too-expressive face. Without that line of defense though...

Matt turned his face away, as if sensing her assessing gaze, but Karen had always had already seen a depth of pain—of guilt—that both surprised and worried her. "It wasn't your fault, Matt, so don't even think of letting yourself believe that. Foggy'd kick your ass if he knew you were blaming yourself for a freak accident."

"Y-yeah," Matt managed at last, seemingly surprised that he'd been so easy to read.

"See you tonight, Matt,: Karen said at last, turning and walking away when all she really wanted to do was barge into Foggy's room, berate him for sleeping on the job, and watch him leap to his feet with that comically adorable, startled look he always had when she caught him goofing off at work.

Saturday, July 18th, 4:37 PM

Despite Karen's assurance, Matt couldn't stop himself from replaying the moment that everything went wrong in his mind, searching for what forewarning he'd missed in his distraction. The rational part of his mind told him he hadn't been on alert because there was no reason to believe anything was about to go wrong. But wasn't that his job: to stop the bad things before they could hurt the people he cared about most?

The slightest sound—the barest shift—rattled Matt from his litany of self-disparaging thoughts and made him focus all of his prodigious attention on the form of his best friend. Fogy was finally regaining consciousness, but Matt could tell from his rapidly rising heart rate and increasing blood pressure that the first sensation his friend as aware of was pain.

A low, agonized moan issued from the man in the hospital bed, and Matt felt like someone had driven their fist into his gut, knocking every last bit of wind from him. Foggy was in pain—worse than he'd ever been in—and he'd done nothing to prevent it, could do nothing now to stop it. He hadn't felt this helpless since his call to CPS had failed, and this time there was no father he could confront to put an end to this.

Matt shook himself, focusing on where he knew the call button was. Before he could reach for it, however, the door opened and someone—a nurse, as far as he could tell—began to come in. "H-he's waking up," Matt told her, hating the stammer in his voice, but this was more important than his pride. "He's in pain—c-can you give him something? Help him!"

In short order, Matt found himself swept away from Foggy's side in the sudden press of doctors and nurses. He hovered to one side of the room while they bustled about his friend. It was all Matt could do to keep himself from shoving past them and reclaiming his place by Foggy, but rational thought kept him from interfering with their efforts to help. However, had any of them tried to actually force him from the room, from his new place against the wall, what little self-restraint he had left would snap, and so would he.

Ordinarily, he'd have listened to their conversation, tried to understand what, exactly, was going on, but he couldn't focus on them over the cacophony of that damn beeping and Foggy's occasional moans.

For the first time in years, Matt Murdock had to fight the urge to put his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to block it all out.

Saturday, July 18th, 5:03 PM

Matt knew he should've called Karen as soon as Foggy began to wake—after all, he'd promised to call if anything changed—but he wanted more heartening news to deliver her than 'he's conscious and in a lot of pain'. That was why he decided to wait to call until after he'd spoken with Foggy.

He heard Foggy look up as he entered his friend's room, two cups of coffee in hand. "Man, Matt—you look worse than I feel."

Apparently, Foggy had regained his humor, but it took great effort for Matt to respond in kind. "Well, you know I never handled all-nighters well."

"Bull shit," Foggy spat back, but he was still smiling, at least. "You get—what—three hours of sleep on a good night?"

"Hey, I need those three hours. Besides..." Matt added, unable to stop the more serious words as they came out: "...last night was anything but a good night."

Foggy didn't know what to say to that, and watched in silence as Matt put the two cups of coffee on the little bedside table. He took the opportunity to truly size up his friend, taking in the blind man's haggard, distressed appearance. Matt's typical five-o-clock shadow was now downright messy since he'd neglected it for more than twenty-four hours, the shadows under his eyes were frighteningly dark, and there was no missing the fear and guilt still present in the other lawyer's expression—they'd known each other too well and too long to hide such things from each other now.

"So," he began as Matt turned back to him, still trying for a wan joke, "looks like I got my wish: you know what I feel like when you show up hurt like this."

The weak laugh died in his throat at the ferocity with which Matt turned on him. "Don't joke like that." All at once, anger and defiance drained out of the dark-haired man as he collapsed into the chair by the bed. When Matt next spoke, his voice was low and hoarse. "I'm sorry, Foggy...but yes, I am beginning to understand."

They didn't speak for a bit, and Matt could feel Foggy's eyes still on him. They both knew what would come next—both the question and the answer—but both men were reluctant to give them voice, to have the truth confirmed once more.

Then the blind man heard Foggy's breathing pattern change, and he braced for the inevitable.

"You understand, but you won't stop—will you? This doesn't change anything?"

It killed him to both wound and frighten Foggy yet again, but he'd promised himself he'd never again lie to his friend. "No."

Silence fell again after the word had been uttered—the single syllable as inexorable as a gavel's fall. Yet there was no bitterness; after all this time, only simple acceptance followed such an exchange. At last, Matt remembered the coffee. Reaching over, he took one of the cups for himself after passing the other to Foggy.

"If you feel up to more company," he offered at last, "I was going to call Karen; let her know you're awake."

"You haven't called her yet?" Foggy's laugh was quiet, but genuine. "Man, she will kill you."

At the thought of their secretary and friend (who they privately joked was the scariest person in Hell's Kitchen), Matt had to laugh as well. "Yeah. Yeah, she will."

So, yeah. I guess I tend to be a bit rough with the characters I borrow, physically and emotionally speaking. Does it make it better that I imagine Foggy making a full recovery afterwards? No? Okay. Sorry...
As always, if you saw something you liked, or something you think I can fix/improve on for next time, don't hesitate to leave a review and let me know!