Devil Horns

by drewbug

"'Oh, Matthew,' a weary voice says above him. 'What have you done to yourself now'" Post s1.

Devil Horns

N. Clevenger (May 2015)

Notes: You guys are rapidly making this my favorite fandom to write for – cover your ears, Ripper Street friends – and I suspect that as long as you keep wanting to read, I'll continue to write. Know that all your kind words warm my heart. What follows is really just an elongated escape, an excuse to whump on Matt some more and to write extra Matt/Foggy bromantic love. Please don't be fooled by the occasional impression of a plot.

Set in the Netflix corner of the Marvel canon, post s1 with a few vague references to landmark events. Fills the h/c bingo prompt square "hostages." I make no money, because they don't belong to me.

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When Matt was a kid, right after the accident, he used to have the most horrible headaches. Before he'd begun to learn how to shut everything out, to siphon off careful bits to gather only the information he wants, he'd lost days to the debilitating migraines. They still come occasionally – though thankfully never for as long or as often – when the world swells too large and he doesn't for whatever reason have the ability to block it out. If he doesn't catch the signs in time to hide himself away, to try and meditate his way past it.

Sometimes this works. Generally it doesn't.

But they say you can't truly remember pain, can't fully recall the whole sense of it. Ephemeral; everything at the time, but fundamentally transitory and slippery. Lost the moment it's gone. So – as he opens his eyes into darkness behind the mask, disoriented and hurting and with no idea where he is – Matt could be wrong when he thinks that this just might be the worst headache he's ever had.

It feels as if it should be. His new mask seems to be shrinking, squeezing his head. So much tighter than the old wool, but designed to match the curves of his skull. It fits perfectly, most days – every other moment before this one, actually. The pressure is incredible, and more than a little overwhelming. His eyes feel like they're bulging in their sockets, and the squeezing is only seeming to get worse.

He battles to claw past the pounding, the crushing, to figure out what's happening. Where he is. The skin of his face – and his lips, his scalp, the nerves behind his eyeballs – tingles like crazy, a maddening itch. But he can't bring his hands up to rub it away. They're bound behind his back – that can't be good – and when his pulse jumps in sudden recognition of this, it increases a matching throb in his head.

His feet are bound too, and if they weren't so numb he would have realized this sooner. It's rope holding his wrists – what feels under questing and fumbling gloved fingers a slick nylon strand wrapped around at least twice, before stretching to connect down by his boots – but he can't tell what's caught up his ankles. Stands to reason the restraint is the same, but Matt doesn't have enough blood left in legs to be sure.

Okay, definitely not good.

He'd been trailing a couple members of a street gang, low-level drug runners. Fisk might be put away, but there's no end to the crime in Hell's Kitchen. The Daredevil is named and known now, but only still becoming the symbol he needs to be. Matt had been out each night for the last three weeks – not necessarily due to any specific crimes or issues, but routine patrols – because the more he makes his presence felt now, the better chance the symbol has of growing into a force of its own.

His ribs are cracked. Nine and ten, low on his left side.

Focus. Matt flips through recent memory, working to find the trail of events that brought him here – here? – working to quell the panic, the pain. Coke dealers, dumb kids with more bravado than sense, and he'd had little trouble tracking them as he'd slipped across the rooftops. He hadn't really decided on his plan – they didn't seem to be doing much but wandering around tonight, and though he didn't want them on his streets, they could be useful in leading him to bigger prey – when his attention had been dragged elsewhere. A muffled scream, pleading whimpers, coming from a nearby alley.

There are footsteps on the ceiling. Matt's world reorients abruptly, and he understands now that he's hanging upside-down.

An explanation for the strange constriction of his mask, for the terrible pressure and itching and lack of sensation in his legs. The blood in his body rushing all to his head, pooling there at the lowest point while he dangles. He has no idea how long he's been like this, or if this was the reason for his apparent unconsciousness after he'd gotten trussed up here.

Where the hell is here?

Completely the opposite of good.

The shoes approach, legs stopping close enough to touch if he'd had his arms free. Two men, cheap cologne. Garlic. Matt sets his jaw and tries not to squirm while he hangs there, fighting through the unrelenting beat in his head to try and come up with something else. Something helpful.

There's not much, truly, the bloody tempo threatening to send him back into unconsciousness. A warning that flutters ominously at the edges of his thoughts, and it's all he can do to resist it; he doesn't think he's going to be able to for long. He needs to collect what ever information he can now, before it pulls him back under.

Youngish, he gets. Real specific there, Matty. Try harder. The one on the left is a smoker. The one on the right is taller. He thinks, anyway. Harder to tell from this angle. One of them – Smoker? – reaches out a hand and flicks him on the jaw with his forefinger and thumb, the handshake of a bully. Matt doesn't sense it coming, and when his whole body flinches his ribs shriek in protest.

Smoker laughs, and his fingers find the bottom seam of the mask. Matt struggles now, desperate to get away from those hands, but his range of motion in this position is severely limited. The most he can really do is wriggle like a worm on a hook, a futile effort that serves only to streak fire down his injured side. The blood sloshes around in his head, and the world fades out for a second. Maybe five.

"Leave it," a voice says. "In fact – don't touch him at all. You know how the boss gets when someone else unwraps his presents."

"He won't know." Smoker's got one hand gripping Matt's chin now, effectively holding him in place while his other fingers tease at the material stretching over Matt's cheekbones. It's an unbalancing dichotomy, the clamped unyielding steel versus that delicate, intimate touch. "Don't you want to see the guy?"

"He'll know," the other man says, a statement certain and final. "He always knows."

Matt's still trying to wrench his head away, the only defense left to him in this precarious predicament. After a moment Smoker acquiesces and releases him, with a vindictive snap of the tight fabric against his face; it feels like a slap to the overstimulated nerve endings there. He can't keep himself from flinching again, and Smoker cackles out a laugh as a firm shove to the center of Matt's chest sends him swinging.

The world goes soupy and nauseatingly liquid, his awkward position and the pulsing blood distorting everything. Matt drags in oxygen through his nose, unable to unclench his jaw. He's bleeding from a gash somewhere on the lower half of his face, a sticky iron trail that runs the wrong way to soak into the mask under his eye. He can't get any more specific than that as to the injury, and it pisses him off. Such a small thing.

Least of your problems…

"Cut him down. For now. We don't want him getting brain damage or anything. Who knows? The boss might want to talk to him too."

Too? As in also? The addendum is the only thing truly sinking in, the blackness marching quickly to smother the flames. Matt doesn't know what it means, but he's trying to ignore the anxiety that the possibilities are tickling through him. So focused on this that he misses the first part. He realizes that Smoker is grabbing for his ankles, a second before the rope snaps and he plummets to the ground.

His only option is to try and twist enough to land on his right side rather than on his cracked ribs, a frantic and reflexive goal that comes close to success. It makes little difference; Matt hits the floor, and pain surges through him like the rev of a muscle car engine.

When he can form thoughts again, the first one that floats out of the darkness is damp. The second is that there's somebody in here with him, someone other than the charming Smoker and his friend. Another deep engine rumble that swamps his senses, and Matt drifts helplessly away for a while. He has no idea how much time has passed when he resurfaces, but the new heartbeat's still here.

The only one in the room now, other than the unending rhythm still echoing through his own skull. Female. A teenager. Terrified, and huddled somewhere near the far wall. She's sobbing, an oceanic sound that rises and falls and is so much a part of the air that he hadn't caught it until now. Matt's still tied up, and he can't use his arms to even push himself onto his knees.

"Hey," he croaks out, and the volume of his voice scrapes a cheese grater across his brain. "What's your name?"

She doesn't respond, continues crying. "I'm going to get you out of here," Matt promises, in the Daredevil's raspy tones. It sounds convincing. Though at the moment he's not exactly sure how.

Still not clear on where here is, even. Difficult to sort through it all when the only things he can hone in on are those frightened sobs and the complaints of his battered body. The blood is cycling in earnest back through his exsanguinated legs, an electric current of tiny unpredictable shocks. Matt bites down hard on his lower lip, fighting to suppress a groan; he can taste blood, and the noise bounces around the small room anyway.

With the angle of his shoulders in this bound position, his intercostal muscles are stretched furiously; every breath makes it so much worse, feels like someone's stabbing him through his side. And there's something wrong with his left knee, a something becoming rapidly more apparent as his circulation returns. Matt tries to compartmentalize the sensations firing from the joint, to break them into terms like contusions and tears. All his throbbing head gives him back is hot and swollen.

This time the groan sounds more of a growl.

He needs to get free from these ropes. There's a wall two feet behind him, cold and solid and hopefully brick. Brick means jagged edges, a cutting force. Get the ropes off, get up. Step one in a plan still disturbingly shapeless.

Matt lets himself lie there a few heartbeats longer, the skin of his jaw heavy against the chilly concrete floor. Moving is going to hurt. Of this he has no doubt. But the sobbing still swirls to fill the room, and his two new best friends could be back any time. He needs to reach that wall. He can definitely reach that wall.

Two feet? Stick's surly brand of encouragement, one Matt can hear clear as glass though it's been twenty years. You're pissing yourself over two feet, boy? Get moving.

And now a voice softer, one Matt hears mostly these days only in his dreams. We always get up, his dad whispers.

Whether it's one or the other or both that win out, Matt doesn't waste the energy trying to decide. Using his shoulder – his bound feet, his right hip – he begins the excruciating process of inching backward toward the wall. His breath comes in strangled gasps that burst from both his mouth and his nose, and it annoys him when he can't do anything to modulate it. It's a toss up which protests each incremental movement more, his knee or his ribs. He catches himself for a moment truly debating this – as if it matters – and tells himself in Stick's timbre to keep going.

He's made it to the wall – substantial, real – when he notices the footsteps approaching the outside of the door. He has no clue if the room's lights are on, can't hear any sort of buzzing; instead of using the wall to sit up, Matt stays a slumped heap on the floor. His only hope that they don't remember where they'd left him.

It's a respite he badly needs anyway. He doesn't want to have to move anywhere ever again.

This thought circles back, and it tastes ridiculous. It's his job to get them out of here. To that end, Matt listens for any conversation accompanying the footsteps. "Another hour," he hears one of them say through the thumping of his pulse. "Maybe two."

Until the mysterious boss returns? Matt hopes so. It'll give him a little time.

Though not much, and whatever his brilliant, soon-to-be-revealed plan – because he'll come up with something; he has to – it's put on hold when the door to the room screeches open. No traffic noises coming from outside, other than an occasional dull vibration that Matt suspects could actually originate from within his own body. Underground, then? A basement room?

The shoes – sneakers, flat and rubber-soled – part ways just inside the door, Smoker heading his direction while the other man goes for the girl. Matt sends up an involuntary vague prayer that he doesn't already know what's coming, but Smoker proves predictable; his greeting is a kick to Matt's tensed midsection, and consciousness is stolen away with his breath.

But not for long, it seems, because Smoker is squatting in front of him. Smelling of garlic – Matt hates garlic. So quick to get phantom fingers into everything, but so reluctant to leave. He sucks in a deep breath of it as he abruptly becomes reaware, and the garlic coats his nasal passages and the lining of his throat. Matt coughs, this time barely managing to keep the groan behind his teeth.

"Man, you got some shit luck."

It doesn't feel at all a lie, but he can't figure out what Smoker's talking about. Matt's not going to help him out, though; he struggles to even out the roughness of his breathing, to listen for what's happening with the girl. Not to respond.

The guy giggles. Giggles, an absurdly feminine sound. In his voice it rings decidedly unstable. "You don't get it, I think. Allergic to crowbars, maybe – hey, you one of them aliens?" Fingers prodding at his shoulder, hard enough to rock him back into the brick wall. His head connects with a thwack over an area that feels already once-bruised, and Matt wonders if maybe he has a concussion on top of the rest of it.

Terrific.

But… crowbars? There's a strong memory of solid metal slicing through the air, though he finds it impossible to say if its sharpness stems from recency or merely frequency. It's a noise Matt hears a lot these days. The injuries clamoring from his ribs and his knee seem to lend credence to the presence of a crowbar at some point; as good an interpretation as any at the moment, at least until he can get a better sense of the damage.

"This isn't about you at all, man. It's about the girl. You're just a bonus, cuz you stumbled into it all."

Smoker's statement takes a while to seep through. The pain is growing more inescapable the longer he grants it his attention; Matt tries to crawl up the words back to the world's surface. Back to what he should be concentrating on. Not exactly a case of wrong place, wrong time – certainly this kind of thing is what the Daredevil was born for. He would have come intentionally to stop it, if offered the option. But not a trap for him, either. He's not sure if this makes the situation feel better or worse.

"Leave him alone," the other man warns from across the room. "Means don't talk to him, too. Let's get her set up for the video."

Smoker rises out of his crouch, moves without argument to join his friend near the girl. It seems like it should be comforting, this new obedience that means Matt might take less physical punishment in the span between now and getting out of here. But overall he finds it unnerving. If this guy's so scared of threats from a boss that's not yet even arrived, Matt knows the man is someone he definitely doesn't want to meet until he's got more of an advantage.

They're hauling the kid to her feet. Video. Video means… a ransom demand? Whatever their plan, he doesn't want to let her get away from him. If she's here, where he is, he might have a chance of being able to follow through on his promise.

Might? Stick scoffs, as Matt tries to get his knees underneath him, to use a feeble thrust of his jaw against the concrete to give himself a boost off the ground. Better just pack it in now, boy. You've already fucking lost.

He hasn't. He can do this. He's just started out a little in the red.

But he doesn't make it anywhere by the time they're dragging the writhing girl out of the room, the screaming coming from her worn throat no louder than the squeaking of her shoes across the floor. Matt can do nothing about it.

"Where are you taking her?" he yells anyway. His voice fractures halfway through, and the door closes over the end of the question.

Matt's not going to squander the time alone, no matter how badly he wants to just lie here. Though sitting up, he immediately discovers, means having to bend his legs to accommodate the rope between them and his wrists; his knee will have none of this suggestion, and he stays where he is, on his right side with his back to the wall. He quickly gets into a choppy rhythm, scraping the rope against the spiky brick, and at least this way he knows when to expect the explosions that erupt regularly in his side.

Matt listens for sounds of the rope beginning to fray, for noises coming from the rest of the building. The brick is insulating – stifling – and all he can hear is a dripping from a pipe in the corner.

It's almost a meditation, of sorts. He gives himself over to it entirely for a time, to the pattern of jerky miniscule motions and fat drops of water and routine pops of torment from his ribs. One of the twists of rope snaps, and circulation finally returns to his hands. Matt grinds his teeth together and keeps going on the second loop; his bunched fingers twitch spasmodically against one another with the new blood flow. He refuses to give voice to the pain, even if he's the only one in the room.

The brick defeats the other rope, but for a while Matt still can't move his arms. A lurch of his shoulder flops the left one limply over to the front of his body, a misguided attempt to get it functioning that rakes claws across his abdomen and up toward his throat. Smacks his knuckles into the concrete, too, a jarring impact that travels the length of his arm. The right one's not faring any better, pinned behind him, but eventually he works it underneath his body. It's trembling as he demands it leverage him up, but he's able to contort his torso enough to be able to reach his ankles.

Matt props himself against the pointy brick, fumbling at the restraining coils with clumsy and desperate fingers. He can hear footsteps coming back toward the door.

Two sets, but one noticeably lighter and less smooth than the other. Just one of them then, returning the girl. His odds won't get better. The rope slips free from his ankles, and he lunges for the door without giving his body time to find its balance; it's sheer chance that his stumbling gets him there before he ends up back down on the ground. Matt waits, shaking, slumped against the wall and breathing heavily.

The door opens and he strikes out, punching their captor in the temple hard enough to drive the other side of his head into the doorframe. Burt collapses, and the girl shrieks; Matt's arm shoots out to find her elbow as she gets out from under the unconscious man and tries to dart away. "Where's Ernie?" he hears himself ask. Licks his lips, resets. "The other one," he tries again. Fighting to soften the intimidation so inherent in Daredevil's growl.

"Upstairs," she whispers. He's not sure which of them is trembling more; the vibrations tingle up and down his arm, merging with the ones coming through his hand. Matt cocks his head, struggling to focus past it. They're at the foot of a narrow flight of stairs. There's a closed door at the top. It seems the only way out is indisputably and steeply up.

"We're getting out of here," he assures her; the ends of her long hair scritch across the back of his gloved hand with each of her frightened breaths. "Can you walk?"

He hopes that she can. He'll carry her, but he really doesn't want to. The stairs are going to be difficult enough on his own. He can smell blood, but he knows at least some of that cloying iron scent is emanating from him.

"Yes," she says. It's barely louder than the faint whine that's started up in his head.

"Good. Do what I tell you." Pain – frustration, pull it together – gives the instruction a bite he doesn't intend. "It's going to be okay," he adds more gently, putting effort into making it more of a salve. "Come on."

He leads her up the stairs, his left knee hardly conceding to bend now. He has to concentrate to lift his leg high enough to clear each step, an awkward motion of his hip that shifts every part of his left side. Has to do it both quickly and quietly, while also focusing on any sound or smell that indicates what he might be facing up there. As they get higher, Matt can picture the tiny closet space that the door at the top opens into, the room off of that. Both empty. He can't reach any farther still being underground, but he doesn't doubt Smoker's up there somewhere. Maybe getting anxious because his buddy's not back yet.

They get to the door and Matt rests a mask-covered ear against it, in an attempt to amplify the sounds coming from outside. Not because he needs its stability. He thinks he might be able to hear a heartbeat in a room beyond these first two, but it may be his own – impossible for him to tell, though the distinction should be blatantly obvious. Everything's too diffused. Too quiet.

He's still got the headache, and it's distorting the world into muffling and wavy lines. He must have a concussion, so few other explanations for this muted confusion of his senses.

No one's crying for you, Stick promises.

"Stay here," he tells the kid. An easy order – she's got nowhere else to go but back down. "I'll be right back. Keep the door closed." No lock on this side, but something to make her feel safer. Something to prevent her from seeing whatever might happen next.

Matt thinks that she nods, but he doesn't bother to search for the signs of it. There's nothing he can do, other than hope she doesn't get in the way. He tries to wipe the blood from his chin with the hand not wrapped around the doorknob, but it's dried and flaky and he can still feel it sticking to his skin.

He makes it out into the kitchen before he's attacked from behind, a single heavy step and hint of stale cigarette smoke only a second before something swings for his head. Matt spins around in time to block the fist, but he pivots on his left leg; the cry from his wrenched knee bubbles out of his lips before he can choke it off. He fights to rebalance his weight, and wonders if Smoker is smiling.

Matt bets that he is.

They dance around the kitchen – a staggering, tumbling ballet – and he maps most of the space with the angles of his body. The performance is in no way one-sided, but it feels like Matt's finding more than his fair share of the cabinets and counters. He's grateful for the slight cushioning effect of the material of his cowl as the back of his head finds another example of kitchen craftsmanship. It's not much, but it's something.

Smoker pins him to the counter, his weight pressing into Matt's chest far too close to his damaged ribs. Matt's gloved fingers grope across the flat surface behind him, seeking anything he can turn into a weapon. They find the deep grooves of something smooth, rectangular. Toaster.

Not much. But something.

An arc of calculated motion with all of the strength he can bring to bear behind it, and the toaster connects with Smoker's head. The man hits the kitchen floor a boneless lump, the pressure instantly sliding off of Matt's chest. He almost joins the guy on the linoleum.

It's a full two minutes that he hangs from the counter by his elbows, before he can lower himself carefully down to check for a pulse. It's there, but thready. The fingertips of Matt's gloves are slick with fresh blood. There's no need to bring them closer to his nose to be sure.

He needs to alter his focus. Needs to get back up. The other man, in the stairwell, could wake up any time. When they get out of here – once the girl's safe – he'll call an ambulance. If the guy's fortunate, he'll live that long.

Cold, maybe. But practical. He has to get moving.

It takes three attempts before he makes it back to his feet, but Matt decides that the first half-hearted swipe for the edge of the sink doesn't count. He steps around Smoker's body rather than over him, limps his way to the basement door. The girl's hunched behind it, a tiny ball of heat and presence, and when he pulls the door open he gets the impression that she curls still smaller.

"It's okay," Matt exhales. "It's okay." He repeats it as much for himself as for her.

The next step is to get out of the house. So far the plan seems to be coming together well, but he's not sure he can really take the credit. You looking for a medal? Stick sneers. Get your ass moving, boy.

No one else on this floor; of this, at least, he's positive. Not upstairs either. He thinks.

You think? Stick remains unawed with Matt's questionable skills. Useless.

"Shut up." He hadn't meant to say it out loud, hopes he didn't. Hopes that it's a coincidence when the kid suddenly stops crying with a huge gulp of air.

Matt doesn't want to scare her any more, but this isn't the time for coddling. Soothing her psyche is going to have to wait until he gets her physically safe. "We're leaving," he tells her, extending down a hand. When she won't accept it, he has no choice but to grab her arm and drag her up.

"I'm not the bad guy," he murmurs, agitated.

They're nearer to what Matt's assuming is the back door than to the front – few sounds of life either way, but he hears a car roll slowly by opposite the direction that he chooses. The car doesn't stop, but it reminds him of their ticking clock. Matt pulls the girl toward the back door. It lets them out into an alley.

He's afraid she'll bolt as soon as they get outside, and he doesn't think he's got the balance to restrain her or the stamina to chase her down. He's half braced for the probability when she unexpectedly slumps against him; she's on his right side, and that and the fact that he's already so tensed are the only reasons she doesn't take them both to the ground.

"What's wrong?" He should be able to tell without needing to ask. The whine in his head is getting louder.

The girl laughs, a noise cracking and utterly devoid of humor. "What's wrong? What's wrong?"

"Fair enough," he agrees, and he suspects it would have sounded all Matt were his voice not so permanently strained. "It's almost over. You'll be safe soon."

It's still night – the same night? – based on the infrequent traffic noises on the streets surrounding them, on the jasmine swimming through the air from a nearby window. Matt searches for landmarks more specific. He finds a pizza place a few blocks away, open late, and he thinks that he knows where they are.

Ironically, he knows the place because they use way too much garlic. He hopes it's not wishful thinking, just a memory of Smoker's pungent breath. If he's right, they're close to the church. Sanctuary.

No matter what though, they can't stay here. "Come on," Daredevil grumbles. Matt can't make it come out any other way.

The kid walks mostly on her own, but remains glued to his right side. It does nothing to assist with his lurching lead out of the alley, with their inelegant progression down the empty street. There's a cat in the dumpster a couple of yards to his left; pregnant and scrounging. Matt vaguely tracks her motion as she gives up and moves on, padding away from them.

"Who are you?" he grates out, an impulse to fill the silence swelling bigger than the effort of speaking. He's not used to the night being so quiet. So absent. "What did they want with you?"

"Who are you?" she chokes, almost another sob. Matt steers them down a new alley, though he's itching to take the more direct route. He has to be sure they aren't followed. "They kidnapped me." Her voice gets tiny, suddenly. Like she's fallen down a manhole.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Matt says, forcing himself to feel the solidity of the girl held in his arm. The pavement under his feet. It starts to rain, a light drizzle that turns all the odors around him to swirling vapor. He tries to ignore it, ignore everything but that beacon of garlic.

"How do I know that?" she moans, and now she's all small fists that hammer at his side as she tries to get away. He fights to keep her on his right, to get a grip on her wrists. "Who are you?"

The world is already slick with the rain; not enough water to wash things clean, but enough to leave its mark. Matt's gloves are slippery with it, the smooth fabric of the suit sliding over her skin when he finds its pulsing warmth. Whether by chance or intention, she delivers a blow to his cracked ribs; he stumbles backward, too much weight landing on his injured knee.

It folds underneath him, finds the ground with a squishy connection that he can feel in the back of his throat. A shocking fire that tastes electric and white shoots from the joint in either direction; it settles quickly into a burning that stretches up and down his leg, but Matt still thinks he's going to throw up.

He swallows deliberately, listening for the girl. She's here, but flighty. Ready to run. "Wait..." It's a creak, something that used to be his voice. "I know you're scared. Confused." Matt uses the muscles in his right leg to push himself up. Has to use the ones in his abdomen too, and his arm proves a futile brace for his ribs. "Do you know where you are?" he asks through a groan, now technically – if not particularly functionally – on his feet. "How to get home?"

It's stalled her; he locates her heartbeat, her breath, over his own. Uncertain. "I have some place safe," he presses on. "Close. You'll be able… be able to get where you –"

The world snags, wavers. Matt swallows again. Tries to get his feet into a firmer stance with which to do battle with gravity. "Home. People who can get you home," he forces out. "A church."

She inches a little closer. He doesn't throw up. Matt decides he'd best count this as a win and get them going again.

There's a wet patch on his knee, soaking between fabric and skin from inside or out. He devotes several long minutes working to determine if it's water or blood as they stagger their way back to the street. An irritating exercise when he ultimately can't tell, but something to give his attention to other than the garlic.

Other than how high-pitched that whining is becoming.

Beyond that, Stick urges, a rumble Matt wishes he could mute. Quit feeling sorry for yourself. Find what's beyond that.

Cicadas. A garbage truck a block east. Someone sleeping in a doorway in the next alley over. The fluttering of his blood in his ears; that cat, still prowling around the neighborhood. The kid's hitching breath, like she's trying not to cry. The patter of rain on the trash in the gutters. That obnoxious, incessant whine.

Stop. It's Matt's voice. Not Stick's. Stop.

Sometimes this works. Generally it doesn't.

His only certainty about the hour is that it's a late one, and he expects the heavy oak front doors of the church to be closed when they approach. He holds the girl back for a moment as they exit the last alley, preventing her from immediately crossing the street. The ingrained sense of sanctuary beckons, he won't deny it. But he needs to be positive that they haven't been followed.

Difficult to get anything now other than the omnipresent whine; it's formed itself into a bubble around him when he wasn't paying attention, a plastic-like shell he's been trapped in. "This way," he tells the girl, as he pulls her toward a side door. If Lantom's still here, it should be open. Matt can't really hear his own words, doesn't know if the instruction is at all coherent. He has to trust that the drag on her arm will get the message across.

This last distance is the hardest, a prank on behalf of the universe. Matt's never had a problem negotiating this path before, but tonight it's all cracks; his shuffling uneven steps painfully outline at least four of them. By the time they reach the door his breathing is undeniably ragged, and he realizes that his rescued victim is doing the best she can with her much smaller frame to support him.

Some savior you are.

Honestly, that one could have been either of them. Matt silently tells Stick to get lost anyway.

But he makes himself straighten up. Try the door. The knob turns under his hand, and he recognizes abruptly that he'd given no thought to what he might do if it hadn't. No point in expending the energy now; Matt directs the girl inside and closes the door – locks it, for the moment – and the scented cool embrace of their sanctuary wraps itself around them.

Smells that are so incredibly familiar to a Catholic boy – even a sometimes-lapsed one – and an overall feeling instantly identifiable as a Roman Catholic church. The lofty ceilings, the hushed empty chill. Wood polish, incense, melted beeswax. The echoes of an airy cavern waiting, begging to be filled. The promise of privacy and solace, even in so huge a space. Tradition. History. Reverence.

He starts to make the Sign of the Cross, a reflexive gesture prompted the instant he'd crossed the threshold. He catches himself – between holy and spirit – but it seems wrong not to finish it and he does. Even if it feels almost as wrong to be paying the tribute while wearing devil horns.

"Sorry," Matt mumbles. To God. To the universe. For everything.

Someone yanks on the rug running over the carpet under his feet, and he has to catch himself on the corner of the closest pew. The heavy thud ricochets around their heads, repeated over and over. Matt tries to listen past it, for the sounds of Father Lantom; he thinks he can hear movement in the sacristy.

"Back there," he tells the girl, pointing toward a door off to one side of the altar. "A friend. He'll protect you."

It takes a few seconds, but she goes. Flat, hesitant footsteps, but they're heading in the right direction. He can't trace them for long, the rising whine conquering his senses one by one; soon there's room only for the understanding that he's going to collapse. And that he really doesn't want to do it here.

Too exposed, too public. He'd locked that side door – he had, hadn't he? – but he never checked the ones up front. Anyone could walk in and find him. They might not think twice if he's slouched in a pew over laid out on the floor – assuming the horns stayed in shadow – but he'd prefer to not be visible at all. His world is narrowing. Inexorably. He needs to find somewhere to hide.

Or get out of the costume, at least, but it doesn't feel like he's got the time for that. Concentrate. Nearer to the altar than the vestibule. Nearer to the confessional? Reluctantly Matt surrenders the stability of the wooden bench, to shift a few steps closer to the wall. He tentatively stretches out his right arm – the left one still pinned to his ribs, a pairing that's beginning to feel inseparable – only to jerk back his fingers at a flush of heat. A shrine of candles, a stupid mistake. Rows of them, but he'd thought their fire at first just another deception of the burning in his eyes.

He's having trouble putting a name to anything. Least of all flames that are actually flames.

His knee buckles; his ribs shout. Matt stumbles sideways, into a door of smooth wood. It's what he was seeking; the space inside reverberates small and hollow when he raps his knuckles testingly against it. He gets the door open, the thing weighing far more than it should. Trips, when his toe catches the frame. Tumbles inside.

The door swings shut, ensconcing him in blessed darkness. Matt sinks into it.

---

"I believe you, child. Tell me where you last saw him."

Someone's coming.

Wherever Matt is, it's crowded with people; they clog the air he's trying to drag into his aching lungs. Deodorant. Hair gel. Aftershave. Toothpaste, soap, shampoo. Laundry detergent. Halitosis. Sweat and tears. Fear and repentance. It's drowning him.

"Where'd you get to, son?" comes a murmur. It's close.

Matt fights to breathe, to get free of them. To escape this strangling claustrophobia. A near-frantic shifting of his jumbled limbs, and his elbow smacks into a wall. He freezes. Bites back a too terrified whimper.

"There you are…"

He tenses, readies himself to spring. He may have been caught, but he won't let them take him without some resistance. He'll show them.

When the door opens it brings with it a rush of fresh air, a blissful sensation that nearly derails Matt's plan. But the presence in front of him registers and his brain cries flight, and he's shoving himself off the thin cushioned seat with both hands before he can catalogue anything else. His knee's not on the same page of the blurry playbook; Matt bounces off the doorframe as his leg gives out unexpectedly. Momentum carries him still forward. He sprawls face first onto the carpet.

"Oh, Matthew," a weary voice says above him. "What have you done to yourself now?"

It's a voice he knows, and it reaches a steady hand through the disorientation. Varnish. Incense. Sanctuary. The church, and Father Lantom.

"Father," somebody says; it takes too long for Matt to be able to tie that wrecked noise back to himself. Slurred, muffled by the carpet his face is smashed into. He tries to lift his head, but someone's crammed it with bricks mortared together by mushy oatmeal. "Father. Sorry. Are you…? Did I…?"

He's straining to complete the thought; he doesn't think he accomplishes it. But the priest answers him anyway. "No one's hurt but you. Stay with him. I'll get my phone, call an ambulance."

Precious moments are wasted working to figure out who it is that he's supposed to be staying with; Matt almost misses the last sentence. The important part. "No." He swipes through the air for Lantom, can't find him. "No ambulance," he insists, forcing his body up in one brutal surge so that he can slump against the flat end of a pew. As if this will somehow prove his point. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"Lying's a sin," the priest says, deadpan. "Big one. Right up there."

It makes Matt laugh, a second or two of amnesic amusement that he pays for with a bout of coughing that convulsively rocks his rib cage. "Yeah," he chokes, when he can breathe again. "I remember. Just need a minute."

"I'm betting you're going to need a bit longer than that. Though, with your fancy new outfit, it's somewhat difficult to tell. I can't see a whole lot of you." A finger hooks him gently under the chin, tips his head up to study what can be glimpsed of his face. "Really, Matthew? Horns?"

Matt flinches, jerks his head away. It collides with the pew behind him, and he flinches again. He feels as if there should be another apology. "I know," he says instead. "It's –" The explanation fizzles. Right now he's not really sure what it is.

"The girl," Matt remembers. "She's here?" It slips out even as he's searching for her; he finds her nearby, still scared. He suspects he's not helping with that, down here on the carpet.

"Yes," Lantom says, "and you can explain all about that in a minute. I'm leaving her here with you – I'll be right back. No phone, just a first-aid kit. All right?"

His knee feels swollen to at least three times its normal size. "Phone," Matt corrects. "Skip the first-aid kit. I just need you to call me a cab."

It isn't easy, making demands of a priest. Even as politely phrased as he can manage it, it bucks at a deeply etched system of order. He's trying to shape it as much as he can into a request, but they can both hear that he's not really asking. He wonders if Lantom can also hear why. Can get past the impertinence to the pain, the lack of control.

"A cab." The priest has always been too smart, from the very beginning. Matt should have stopped coming here after that first conversation. "I doubt you make a habit of riding around dressed like that. Or of having other people get you cabs at all, for that matter. Which tells this old man you've got no choice. And that I do need that first-aid kit."

"No." He tries to use the pew to push himself up, but the polished wood is slippery against the costume and he slides back to the floor before he gets very far. "You need to take of the girl. Please, Father. We weren't followed, but there are people looking for her."

"And you?"

Lantom likes cigars; it's something Matt's noticed before. Not a saturated scent – whispered hints of a habit. The lingering smell isn't always present, but when it is it rattles him a little. Occasional accidental glimpses into a life of an actual human being. It isn't fair, to expect priests to be beyond human – flawless, larger than life – but it makes Matt uncomfortable when faced with the reality that they share in the same mundanities as everyone else.

It's thick around him now, clinging to his clothing. They must have interrupted him, relaxing the end of his day. "I can take care of myself," Matt tells him. "When I'm gone, call the police." He gives Lantom the block they came out on, reflecting on how strange it feels to be able to confidently say this simple thing. Call the police. Fisk's corruption has been rooted out, but Matt's still working to accept the idea that the police are on their side. "You can have them send that ambulance there," he adds, catching the tiny hitch to Lantom's breath as the man registers what this means.

But the priest doesn't comment, accustomed as he is to stoically hearing all degrees of confession. There's a settling silence, punctuated only with their echoing respirations. Exhalations that float to the raftered ceiling. Inhalations that swoop around their heads before finding their lungs. Matt watches the aerial show, these bursts of current flying about winged and ablaze. Streaking around the place like prayers seeking their way into Heaven.

His head hurts. It's never stopped hurting.

"Do you have a coat?" Matt asks. "Something long?"

"I'll check the Lost and Found. You're lucky – I was going to take it all over to the shelter tomorrow."

Man, you got some shit luck. This isn't about you at all...

"Thanks," Matt says, over the top of Smoker's voice. He's grateful when Lantom doesn't debate the matter any more, when he hears his shoes turn on the carpet. But a crucial detail occurs before the priest walks away. "Father, wait – the cab."

Lantom sighs, a tired ancient sound that could have come from the walls around them. "Yes, I'll call you a cab. If I don't, you'll just disappear anyway, won't you?"

It's pointed, unhappy. But resigned. Matt ignores the question, the emotions. His modified breathing – too shallow, too rapid, and still that unavoidable stabbing protest every time from his ribs – is making him light-headed. He needs to get out of here.

"Give them the address of the pizza place down the block," he makes his mouth say, deliberately forming each word on his tongue. He can taste the memory of Lantom's cigar. Garlic. "Not the church."

Lantom may or may not have a reply to this; Matt's waiting for a confirmation, but he loses it in the roar from his knee when he attempts to move his left leg. He hisses through his teeth, both hands flying to the damaged joint. His body tries to curl around it, but his ribs keep him sitting slumped and panting. Matt's gloved fingers flex in the air around his knee, unwilling to actually touch it.

"Whatever you say, son." The rich smell of cigar smoke slowly recedes.

He trusts Lantom. He does. But he won't stay here; exposed, vulnerable. Matt's used to slogging through injury, trudging one foot in front of the other through pain. His body's excellent at doing what's required of it – he's meticulously trained it to be that way. Still there comes a time when willpower's no longer enough. A time Matt knows is ticking closer with every second.

Keeping his leg stretched straight – a rigidity only chosen for lack of another option – he hooks his right arm over the pew and begins to haul himself to his feet. It takes hours, days, and the moment he gets upright all the blood swiftly drains from his head. Matt crumples forward, fingers cramping as they clutch desperately at the edge of the wooden bench; substantiality flickers when everything goes into a sickening spin.

He tastes sulfur in the whirling darkness – mixed in with the sticky incense, burning harshly at the back of his throat – and wonders absurdly for a second if he's somehow been transported to Hell.

A squeak of a sound, a bright pop of fear. Concern. Matt realizes the girl is still here. Watching. He pushes himself closer to standing, propping his weight on shaking lock-elbowed arms. Forces himself to lift his chin, to turn toward her. "You never told me your name," he deflects, before she can speak. His false smile is a feeble approximation, but it tugs at every nerve in his face.

"Samantha."

This fought for acquiescence loosens Matt's smile a bit; the expression morphs into a grimace as one of his supporting elbows dips into a sudden and unproductive bend underneath him. He pitches dangerously over the top of the pew, rights himself before he fully topples. He's wobbly. Weak. And he doesn't feel as if he's adequately making his case here.

A jury of one or twelve – the performance is the same. No weakness, no fear. Confidence. Believability. Matt tries to realign the damning curve of his spine into something that implies this, but he can't make his fingers unclamp from the varnished bench. "It's okay, Samantha. It's over now."

Maybe, if he continues saying it, she'll be able to take it with her. Use the assurance to find some kind of comfort in the hours that will follow. It's all he's got to give her. The questions can be left to the police; right now he has neither the energy nor the desire to press her for what she might know.

Lantom returns; begins to say something, but refrains. He's holding a musty bundle of cloth, and Matt shifts to balance his weight on his right hip against the pew so that he can accept it. He's got no clue if the movement was as subtle as he'd intended it to be, but when he reaches out Lantom passes the coat over without discussion.

"What about…?"

A swish of clerical fabric and a fluttering of man-made breeze between their faces. The hand not buried in the borrowed coat goes to his mask as Matt guesses at the unseen gesture. "I'll take it off." It sounds petulantly self-evident. Exhausted. He cringes.

"But not in front of audience," the priest says, understanding. "Cab company said five minutes. Come on, little one – let's get you home."

"Thank you, Father. For everything." It's quiet, but still eminently audible in the empty church. Matt tracks them as Lantom leads the kid away.

He waits until he hears the distant click of the sacristy door before struggling into the coat - trenchcoat, way too big, his trembling gloved fingertips say – and he's thankful that no one's around to see how breathless the effort to get it on leaves him. It unfurls to his knees, covering most of the costume once he's managed to do up the big buttons. Matt hopes it's still raining, so maybe he'll look less ridiculous.

Though – if it has to come down to it – better creepy deviant than masked vigilante. Not a thought he'd expected ever to have, but he's planning to travel in the back of a cab. It's not exactly Daredevil territory.

Mask. Get moving, boy. Even Stick sounds tired. Matt gets his fingers under the seam at his cheekbones and pulls the thing off his face, and the resulting flood of fresh air over his skin is without question the best part of his day so far. It's almost enough to distract him from the undeniable awareness that the sweat gluing the mask to the front of his skull is a different wetness than he'd felt when he'd peeled it from the back. Matt knows that his hair is mussed in all directions, even without the assistance of a mirror. Every bit of it but the bloodied clump pressed thick against the curve of his skull.

He pulls off his gloves and prods at it, not simply a perverse urge to poke but a clinical view of the damage. There was a laceration there, but it's sealing on its own. He concentrates, doesn't think there are any lingering problems other than the – wretched, malicious, all-consuming – headache. But he should be able to tell, to be certain.

Matt curses himself when he can't. Winces when he remembers where he is.

He's limping toward the pizza shop – still raining, and he'd never have expected that to seem such a mercy – when he hears the cab pull over to the curb ahead of him. The trenchcoat collar's flipped up to hide the red and black at his neck, his cowl shoved deep in a pocket with his gloves and a clenched fist. His knee, his ribs, scream in defiance as he pressures them to work harder. Matt tosses a flimsy wave in the direction of the car as he weaves his way toward it, hoping the driver will see and understand that he's the fare.

He doesn't have his cane or his glasses, and he keeps his blank gaze directed at the pavement. Another moment of gratitude for the storm – maybe the driver will credit the rain with his passenger's reluctance to look up, rather than attribute it to anything shady or noteworthy. Matt doesn't want to be noteworthy, just wants to get home. He lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding when his hand finds the door handle on the first try.

His teeth grind together as he maneuvers his uncooperative knee into the cab, but somehow he succeeds in prying them apart long enough to spit out his address. There's a brief flare of vertigo as the vehicle drives away from the curb, a recurring constant of car travel that most days is easier to ignore. Most days it's quicker to fade, as well. Matt breathes through his nose, pretending to look out of the car window.

"Geez – musta been some fight," comes a friendly voice from the front seat. "What's the other guy look like?"

He's got no idea. Matt's fingertips play across a new bruise on his chin, exploring the margins. The artistic new shape. Shoulda seen the other guy…

"Accident," he mumbles, without bothering to invent more layers to the story. When he appears to go back to staring out the window, the guy up front takes the hint and leaves him alone. He'd thank him, but he doesn't want to encourage any further conversation.

Matt's battling to stay awake when his burner phone rings, the usual annoyances of cab travel muted into a backdrop hum by the persistent enemies pain and fatigue. But it's not the normal identifying chirp of a familiar name repeated – instead that shrill, anonymous ring he rarely ever has to hear – and the recognition of this has Matt instantly alert. He sits up abruptly. Catches the driver's surprised little jump, the man's jacket rubbing against the leather of the front seat.

Only two people have that number. And neither of them is calling to invite him to a movie.

With a bit of complicated wiggling, he fishes the cheap phone out of the hidden pocket he'd had made for it in the new costume. Clears his throat and flips it open, bringing it up to his ear. He fights to marshal his tone calm and collected. "Claire? Foggy?"

"I'm second? Murdock, how could you?"

"Foggy?" He doesn't sound hurt. Or scared. Not bloody, not beaten, not being held captive nor recently blown up; not any of the countless scenarios this number is supposed to be reserved for. He sounds drunk. "What's wrong?" Matt asks anyway, trying to figure out what he's missing.

"I mean, I suppose I could take it as an assumption on your part – my part? No, your part. An assumption on your part that you think I can look out for myself. Right? And that's like, flattering. So I will. Yup. Going with that one."

Matt presses the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose, hunched as much as he's able around the phone in a futile attempt to keep the conversation relatively private. He wonders if Foggy's voice is truly booming out of the speaker as loudly as Matt's hearing it. He fumbles for the volume button. "Foggy, I don't understand. What's going on? What's the matter?"

"Nothing's going on, that's what's the matter." Whether this weak play on words approaches the heart of the actual problem or not, it cracks Foggy up.

Matt, less so. "Where are you?"

"Where am I? Better question, my friend – where are you? Cuz if you're answering the Batphone –"

Matt's reflexes are disturbingly slow, but he manages to slam his palm down over the speaker before the rest of that sentence leaks out. He really isn't sure how much the guy up front can understand. When the plastic stops vibrating with Foggy's rambling, he lifts it back to his ear. "I'm on the way home. Tell me where you are, and –"

"Awesome," Foggy tramples over him. "See you there."

He hangs up before anything else can be said. Matt leans his head against the window, phone dead in his hand, and stares at nothing for the rest of the ride.

---

No need to go in through the fire escape; with his borrowed trenchcoat Matt can limp in the building's front door. He debates the fire escape anyway, stands in the puddled alley for a while after the cab drops him off. He's got at least one visible bruise that he knows of, and though he thinks the rain has washed all the blood from his hair he has no idea how much of a flasher he looks in this huge coat. He'd really rather sneak in the back.

He doesn't go so far as to actually reach up and pull down the retractable metal ladder, but his preference for the route holds him there long past soaked and shaking. The rain drips off the end of the iron, a dirty rustiness that splatters against his upturned face, into his mouth. Matt spits. Tells himself to go inside.

The elevator smells like wet dog, and he gags as the doors close to seal it in. Gravity presses down on the top of his head as the car rises, working to crush him into the rattling vibrations coming up from under his feet. He's been in worse shape than this. But at the moment it's difficult to remember what that felt like.

Matt steps out onto his floor. Makes himself lay out the well-known space in his mind before he travels it. Not a conscious effort he'd normally spend time on, but there are too many unanswered questions clinging to this night. The elevator doors close behind him and his knee complains that it's still supporting his weight, but he forces himself to pause, to reach for the sounds and smells that ordinarily he notices without trying.

Mrs. Addison is still awake, her television on; she's coughing, and he can smell her Marlboros. The Weavers had steak for dinner. Potatoes and gravy. What else? There are damp tracks along the carpet, an invisible path paved by those returned home after the rain had started. Outside, a car slams on its breaks and hydroplanes, but there's no collision. What else? The wet dog is two floors down. His head hurts. Useless. Skunky marijuana smoke wafting up the elevator shaft. Linus' apartment is empty. There's someone at the end of the hallway.

There.

A slow heartbeat, steady deep breathing originating from a low point near the floor in front of Matt's apartment. Foggy? He's not sensing any kind of a threat, and he starts to limp that way with a sigh. He'd intended to get inside and call his friend back, hoped that Foggy would have found some distraction and been on his way elsewhere. At the very least, that he'd have some time to clean up before the other man got here. But with every step comes further confirmation, and by the time Matt's reached him the entire world has become unmistakably Foggy.

Unconscious? There's no change in him as Matt approaches, as he leans his aching body against the wall beside him. Matt shifts all his weight onto his right leg, curls a hand over his friend's shoulder.

"Foggy." He gives the shoulder a shake. "Hey…"

"Huh?" The other man jerks awake, and Matt steps sideways to avoid his floundering. His knee feels disgustingly liquid when his foot's reintroduced to the ground; he works to twist the bared-teeth grimace into something more like a smile before Foggy looks up. "Matt?"

"Who else would it be? You're passed out in my hallway."

"'Passed out.' So derogatory. I prefer 'catnap.'" His voice sounds as if it's settling back into sleep.

Matt finds his shoulder again. This time the rattle is firmer; he's tired of standing out here in the hall. It shakes through his own torso to his ribs on the other side, and his teeth squeak together under pressure. "Well your catnap is blocking my door. Move."

"Can't find my key," Foggy mumbles, shifting on his butt to a spot against the wall where he won't be in front of the door. It's the same spot Matt's standing in, and he has to shuffle awkwardly around Foggy when he hears the other man coming his way. It's a dance with no leader, and Matt almost trips over his friend's legs.

"You're clumsy," Foggy slurs from the floor. "Why're you so clumsy?"

Matt doesn't answer him. He misses the keyhole on the first try, and the scratch of metal on metal shears through his brain. It takes several carefully measured breaths before he can get his hand to stop trembling long enough to make the next attempt accurate.

"Clumsy," Foggy says. "Cluuuuuumsy. You ever noticed what a strange word that is, Murdock? Say it. Clumsy. It's weird."

"Yeah," Matt agrees, as the doorknob finally turns under his hand. "It's weird. You coming in?"

"'Course." He doesn't move.

Matt's tempted to leave him there, but he'd rather have him unconscious on his sofa than snoring in the hall next to the open front door. He isn't certain how much longer he's going to be conscious himself. He knows he should really start doing some research – to learn as much as he can about this new "boss" – and he supposes he ought to do a bit of superficial first-aid. But he's desperate for a shower, the main thing on his mind. His only goal, really. And one that he can devote all of his remaining energy to, just as soon as he deals with Foggy.

"Foggy. Come on." Matt's not going to carry him. He's absolutely not going to carry him. He drops his key on the table near the door, and its tiny clatter bounces back. "Foggy. Help me out here. Please."

Something in his tone reverberates on a frequency that penetrates his friend's alcoholic daze. "Matt?" He can hear each thud of Foggy's hands on their path along the wood as the other man climbs up the doorframe to standing. "You okay?"

"Sure." Matt wonders what he looks like. He knows it's dark in here. "I'm not the one who spent the night with a bottle of liquor. What's going on?"

He moves further into his apartment as he speaks, unable to completely hide the limp. Foggy follows, and it sounds like he's having too much trouble staying upright to actually notice. He's glad he doesn't have a lot of decorative knickknacks lying about, because he gets the impression a lot of them would have been knocked over. "Don't wanna talk about it." It floats Matt's way in shredded pieces.

"Great," he says. "I'm going to shower – close the front door." A breeze drifting from that direction; Foggy's footsteps stumble, obediently change their course. It sounds like he's sleepwalking. "If you puke on my floor, I expect it cleaned up by the time I get back out."

"Pshaw," Foggy calls, clearly insulted. The door closes harder than it needs to. "I can hold my liquor to the bitter end, my friend. The only thing able to vanquish me shall be the luring embrace of sweet unconsciousness." He grunts as he runs into the sidetable; the furniture's legs hop across the wood floor.

"Great," Matt says again.

The shower is painful and out of necessity short, and he doesn't feel any better after having put himself through it. He'd been afraid, for a moment, that the only way he was going to get his swollen knee free from the suit was going to be to cut it out – an unappealing challenge with a material designed to prevent such a thing. In the end he'd sat on the edge of the bed and simply yanked it off his leg, and it was a testament to how far gone Foggy must be that he didn't hear Matt's smothered howl and come running.

The joint still hasn't forgiven him. It proves this with every hobbled step.

An eternity to just get across the length of his bathroom; the counter's thick with slippery condensation as he trails his fingers over it. When he pulls open the door and the steam swirls into the cooler air of his room, the first thing Matt notices is coffee. The second is that Foggy's sprawled out on his bed.

He grabs a pair of sweats and a hoodie that zips up the front, and limps back into the bathroom in his towel. He thinks Foggy's pretty out of it – though still clinging to consciousness – but Matt doesn't want him to see how much of an effort this is going to be if he's not. There's no sense of victory when he's proven correct in this; somehow getting the loose sweatpants on while braced against the counter is almost as difficult as getting out of the suit, and by the time he's eventually managed it he's covered in a new layer of sweat that's only encouraged by the close humid air of the room.

He can taste blood again. Matt pokes his tongue against the split in his lip, frustrated that he needs a moment to recover after merely putting on pants.

His ribs make the process of maneuvering his arms into the sleeves of the hoodie no more fun, and as he zips it up over his bare chest he's already dreading having to take it off when the time comes to wrap them. It's why he hadn't bothered with a shirt, why he'd picked something that zips instead of a pullover. He's still fighting to plan ahead, despite the nauseating beat in his head.

Boo hoo. No one cares. It wafts up from the steam and Matt scowls. He'd hoped Stick was done for the night.

He collects his well-used first aid kit – customized for the gamut of Daredevil's creative and unique injuries – and leaves the bathroom. He doesn't want Foggy to see it, but he doesn't want to come back. The breathing from the bed is unhurried and even, directed up toward the ceiling, and Matt thinks maybe he's in the clear as he crosses the space.

"This coffee," Foggy suddenly says. Matt's jumpy under the assault of random bursts of ebbing adrenaline; he nearly drops the kit in his hands. "Found it shoved in the back of a cabinet. Not going to poison myself or anything, am I?"

He's still on his back, his voice projected distinctly upward. Matt sets the first-aid kit on the floor – and he thinks out of sight – and rests his hip against the edge of the bed. He tells himself it's to take moment to reassure his friend that all is normal. Not because he needs the break halfway to the living room.

"Did it have a skull and crossbones on it?" He's impressed at how level his voice sounds.

"Don'think so."

"Then you're probably okay. I try to mark the poisonous stuff for guests."

"S'nice," Foggy murmurs.

Matt's gathering strength for the rest of his trek; it doesn't seem as if he'll be sleeping in his own bed tonight. He doesn't want to fight about it. He's staring off in that direction, mapping the distance and difficulty in his mind, when Foggy's voice comes again. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Sure?"

"Sure. Go to sleep."

"Okay." Foggy rolls over, away from him, and Matt hears the lump of trenchcoat he'd left on the bed dragged over Foggy's clothes like an afghan.

He takes as deep of a breath as he can, and pushes himself off of the mattress. Almost forgets the first-aid kit. When he makes it into the other room he heads straight for the sofa; Matt lowers himself gingerly onto it, dropping the plastic box on the floor by his bare feet. He lets his head fall back onto the cushions, trying to listen to his body. Trying to determine if there's anything that won't wait until tomorrow to be dealt with.

Hard to say. There's an irritating little voice that suggests perhaps this is a clue in and of itself.

He should wrap his ribs. It'll help. But it feels like a lot of work, and though his hand finds the jacket's zipper, he doesn't undo it. He's sitting there doing nothing but repetitively running his thumb over the metal pull tab, when Foggy's footsteps stagger out from the bedroom.

"Foggy? What's up?"

It's an angry walk, a stomping beyond drunken imbalance. Purposeful, and aimed directly for the sofa. Matt works to sit up and his ribs spark; he sucks in a breath, unable to keep his hand from going to his side. Something floppy, rubbery – mask, his fingertips tell him – is tossed into his lap, and Foggy's breathing rapidly above him.

"You said you were okay."

"What?" He nudges the first-aid kit under the couch with his heel, as if Foggy can't see him doing it. Maybe he can't, with the shadows. With the alcohol. "I'm fine."

"There's blood, Matt. On the inside of your mask." Foggy suddenly sounds a lot more sober. He crosses to the only lamp in the room, clicks it on. "I knew I needed coffee."

"Why are you going through my clothes?" It's cranky, childish.

"It was in the coat. A coat I've never seen before. What happened, man?"

"I'll tell you about it in the morning." It's plain that Foggy still doesn't exactly love the idea of Matt as the Daredevil, but at least his heart's stopped thudding in that terrible jagged rhythm every time the subject comes up. "Go back to sleep. I'm fine."

"Right, dude. You know, even without the medical school – even with all the alcohol swimming through my system – I'm pretty sure bleeding from the head doesn't equal 'fine.' More like the opposite."

"I'm not bleeding. It stopped."

"Why were you bleeding at all?"

"Why are you trashed?"

Foggy's breath catches; he moves off toward the open kitchen. Matt listens to the noises of him walking about in there. The opening of cabinets, the ceramic clunk of a mug set on the counter. The glug glug of the coffee poured into the cup. There's a vicious twinge from his knee, and Matt rubs at his outstretched leg while Foggy's still out of the room.

"Well?" he asks, as his friend's footsteps return.

"Well nothing," Foggy says, taking a sip. It smells oversweetened, by most of the world's standards; Matt wonders if he has any sugar left. "You're not the only one allowed to have secrets."

"I know that." It's a reactive, snapped-out response, and it sounds it. Foggy's not supposed to have secrets. One of Matt's most treasured definitions of Foggy is his honesty, his transparency. Riding on the tail of such a skewed, unexplained night, this new angle on his friend is making Matt jittery. Anxious.

He's breathing way too fast, growing light-headed again. Calm down. It strains at his ribs, and Matt gives up and wraps both arms around his torso. Calm down, dammit. Events finally digging their claws in now, suppressed emotions bubbling to undeniable. Shock. Foggy sits lightly on the other end of the sofa, and Matt fights to stop shaking.

He finds the low hum of the giant billboard outside his window, latches onto it with an attention that's all frantic grasping fingers. A constant noise for him to focus on, something to use in the battle to center himself. Gradually his breathing begins to slow. He's got no doubt that Foggy's watching him.

"You need more light in here," is all his friend says.

"Why?" It's little more than a croak; Matt clears his throat, but doesn't repeat it. He closes his eyes and drops his head back against the top of the sofa. He can't make himself loosen the arms hugging his ribs.

"So that those of us forced to use our eyes can actually do that. Not all of us can see in the dark."

Are you even really blind?

It's a slap of a memory of the man sitting next to him, flaring briefly louder than Foggy's actual presence. Matt winces. Licks his lips. "I'll remember that. For when we start having more slumber parties."

"You're adorable, Murdock. As always. Can you move to the table? The kitchen light's brighter."

"My head's fine." It might be more believable if it didn't sound so exhausted. Daredevil's growl less convincing this time.

"So not what I asked, my friend. Sadly, I'm not that drunk anymore."

His knee spasms again, upset by the mere thought of requesting that it function. "Maybe?" Matt says, wishing it didn't sound so much of a question. A tentative tensing of his muscles instantly locks up his entire leg, and he curls around it with a moan. His ribs abruptly much lower on his list of concerns.

"What?" Foggy demands. He sets the mug on the ground; a distant part of Matt's brain registers the slop of the coffee over the rim and onto the floor. "Matt? What?" It's a bit higher pitched on the second rendition.

"S'okay." Even he can hear how flimsy this sounds. "Just, ngh… just twisted my knee." He knows he needs to sit up if he wants to sell it. And he's going to. Any second now.

"Should I call Claire?"

"No." Somehow he's able to keep from groaning as he lets go of his leg and forces himself to lay back against the cushions. It feels like it might be something to be proud of, if it didn't sound instead as if he were gasping for air. "There's nothing she can do."

"How can you tell? Wait – nevermind. I probably don't want to know."

Truthfully he still can't get a good read on the injury, his headache continuing to cloud everything. But he knows Claire won't be able to definitively diagnose anything either, not without an MRI. And he's not going to the hospital. Not tonight anyway. Tonight he's going to sleep, and he's going to do it soon.

Once he can get Foggy to leave him alone.

"You want the bed or the couch?" he asks. As if it will be this easy. On the street outside, floors below them, an ambulance blares by. He tracks it as far as he can, but loses it only a few blocks away.

"I'm okay out here," Foggy says. "Even with the nightlight on steroids."

Matt lifts his head, turns in Foggy's direction. He thinks he missed a link in the chain of this conversation. Possibly faded out for a while. He'd never expected him to give up so quickly. "Okay," he says stupidly. He realizes this is his cue to get up.

He almost makes it, but the arm meant to push him up off the sofa fails in its one job midway through. Matt collapses, and for a couple of elongated minutes the universe is nothing but white fire. Bright and scalding and everything.

"Jesus. Matt?" Foggy's worried now. Scared.

"Don't think I can move to the table," he gets out through clenched teeth. Feeling the need to say something.

"Surprisingly, I picked up on that." There's the sound of threaded metal unscrewing, and a hollow, bouncy noise that he eventually identifies as the shade being removed from the floor lamp. "This bulb sucks," Foggy grumbles.

"Hadn't noticed."

"You're hilarious. What can I do?"

It's this last that undoes him. The sincerity of it.

His eyes are wet; he closes them. "Banged up my ribs," Matt admits from behind his eyelids. "Need to wrap them."

"Okay. Okay, that's easy, right? What about your knee?"

"That too." He doesn't want to let Foggy anywhere near his knee. Wants to build some kind of sci-fi forcefield around it so that no one will ever touch it again. "Ribs first. Easy."

Foggy seems to be calming since being given something productive to do, but Matt's sinking. The sustained influx of pain is burning out individual receptors, spreading to infuse into every part of his body. It's a lead blanket over his shoulders, and he has to fight against it to sit up.

He manages to lift his back from the cushions, but someone's stolen the pull to his zipper. Matt plays his fingers along the intermeshed metal teeth running up the center of the jacket. Still he can't find it. His annoyed breath is a puff of air; he can feel himself slumping forward, but notices absently that there seems to be little he's able to do to stop it.

Firm hands on his shoulders, trying to teach his body how to sit upright. The zipper slips down as if by magic, and the coolness of the room lights up the sweat on his exposed chest. A delicious sensation when held up to the rest. Tastes like that first drink of refreshing liquid, after you realize you're so thirsty that all you can think of is water.

Matt's really thirsty.

"So I'm pretty sure I saw this in a movie somewhere," Foggy says, rummaging through the contents of the first-aid kit. "Which means I know exactly what I'm doing." The bottom of the sweatshirt is tucked up out of the way, between Matt's shoulders and the sofa, and Foggy pulls in a sharp breath. His pulse speeds up again. "Good thing you can't see this, man. It's ugly."

Matt's not listening, too busy savoring the understanding that he's not going to have to struggle his way out of the hoodie after all. It seems a tiny miracle, a beautiful outcome he hadn't dared hope for. Foggy's already got the bandaging wrapped around twice before Matt notices how loose it is. "S'gotta be tighter," he grunts. "Shoulda watched more House."

The bandages reverse, begin again. "I watched House. Enough to know it's not lupus, anyway."

Matt coughs out a painful chuckle. "Maybe… maybe not, Doctor Nelson, but – nnnggh – it still needs to… to be tighter."

"Seriously? I'm already hurting you enough here, man."

"Yeah," he chokes, wishing he didn't have to. "S'okay. It'll help."

Foggy's hands are trembling throughout – a butterfly flutter against the warmer skin of Matt's torso – but eventually he gets the task accomplished. They're both breathing heavily by the time that it's done. More work still, though; Foggy tugs the edges of the sweatshirt back down, and Matt hears the resigned noise that slides from his own lips as he carefully rests his back against the sofa.

Only one of them can truly see it, but Matt suspects that they're both now looking at his knee.

"Same deal?" Foggy asks, crouching next to Matt's leg.

He licks his lips. He should ask for some water. Foggy always gets him water.

"First…" A vague flip of his hand toward his pant leg, a random firing of neurons that Foggy's somehow able to translate. He rolls the cotton up with an aggravating cautiousness, and Matt digs his fingers into the sofa cushions and almost begs him to get on with it. It hurts already; it's never ever going to stop hurting. This care is only dragging things out.

But he bites his tongue – literally, and he's already so sick of the taste of blood – and finally his knee is uncovered. He fights to sit up enough that he's able to reach it. Still reluctant to touch it, his hands hover an inch away. He can feel the heat coming off of it from here, and it doesn't make him any more excited about what he's going to do.

Matt waits for Stick to say something. The old man's oddly silent.

Point for the concussion. Another thought he'd never expected to have. He knows he's stalling, knows that if his brain can't deliver any information by itself, then he needs to see what his fingers can tell him. But when he orders himself to get moving in his own voice, it rings much less persuasive.

"That looks bad." Foggy's hushed declaration is a dramatic counterpoint to the thump of his heart. "You sure you don't want to call Claire?"

The question unfreezes Matt's hands, though their exploration of the joint can be called nothing other than hesitant. "It's just bruised," he grinds out. "Swollen. If it's not… ow, better in the morning… I'll – gah – I'll call her."

He can't tell if this is really the truth – either bit, because with the MRI consideration it's an even bet whether or not he'll actually end up calling Claire. But he doesn't know what's wrong with it. There's a firework finale playing out in his head, and it's hard to focus on anything else.

He gives up, shifts himself back against the cushions. "Do it." Daredevil again, crowding in where he's not wanted. Matt tries immediately to soften it. "If, you know, you're still on call."

"Doctor Nelson doesn't leave his patient until the case is solved. And – when he does – he always leaves with a sarcastic quip, and a day's worth of manly stubble. Trust me, you'll know when it happens."

"So you can't leave, because you haven't come up with a snappy one-liner yet?" The words stumble over themselves, but he gets most of them out.

"Basically yeah. Might as well finish this. Give my brain some time to resharpen the razor point of its customary wit."

Matt's able to dredge up something close to a theatrical groan. Unfortunately it merges with the real one he's been trying to suppress. "Great. So you're… taking the couch then? Be here all night."

"Hilarious."

Foggy's always been an overzealous learner, maybe not of the subjects he'd ever been meant to be studying, but of those that caught his interest. "Too tight," Matt squeaks, as his friend attempts to apply the lessons garnered from his ribs to his knee.

The bandaging unwinds. Rewinds.

"What happened, Matt?" Foggy asks from the floor. "Tell me that this – I mean, I saw you that night, how messed up you were. But tell me this isn't… I dunno. Routine."

"S'not." He swallows, tries to find some moisture in his mouth. "Some guys. They grabbed a girl. Guess I wasn't being as careful as I thought when I went after them." He pushes out a laugh, but it's a pathetic, floundering sound.

"Jesus," Foggy mutters.

A sin, Lantom's phantom voice says. Right up there. Apparently the fireworks display hasn't quite put everyone to sleep. "Your turn," Matt tells Foggy over the noise of it, over Lantom. "Quid pro quo."

His friend fastens off the end of the bandage. "I love it when you flirt with me in Latin."

Foggy's eternal determination to paint himself less intelligent than he is. Most of the time he finds it endearing, but right now he's working to figure out why finale doesn't seem to correspond to any kind of a finish to these fireworks. "The bender," Matt says.

"Bender? Do people still say 'bender?'"

"What people? The 'kids today?'"

"Touché." Foggy's pulled them off track. Maybe by design. Matt's about to call him out on it, when his friend stands up and knocks over the mug lurking by his feet. "Crap." Foggy disappears toward the kitchen, and all of the exploding lights in Matt's head suddenly smell of raining coffee.

He'd had a question. He'd wanted to ask Foggy a question.

The other man returns with a towel. And the memory. "Your turn," Matt slurs. "I shared. S'your turn."

"Fine," Foggy huffs from his knees by the puddle. Matt can hear it spreading, a creeping sound underneath the fireworks. "Marci. I saw her with some guy."

Important, his brain shouts, and the letters burst into recollected colors. The Braille shape of them, his only picture of them for a long time. The recognition of this is distracting, and his thoughts call again for his attention. This is important. Matt swallows. "Maybe it was work," he makes himself say.

"Yeah. Maybe. Only it didn't really seem like work, you know?" Foggy stands, and coffee drips from the corner of the saturated towel back to the floor. "Whatever," he says, on his way into the kitchen. "It's no big deal. I was kinda having a bad day anyway."

Foggy's upset. Foggy had had a bad day. Foggy didn't have bad days. Or at least not often, and not for no reason. If nothing else, Matt knows he needs to file this way, to hold tightly to this kernel of conversation to revisit later. Tomorrow. When he can shape sentences. He tells himself not to forget.

Water rushes from the tap in the kitchen; it hisses as if right next to his ear. Matt imitates it until Foggy shuts it off. It makes him feel a little better.

"Sorry," he says lamely, when Foggy comes back out.

"Thanks. Lemme look at where you whacked your head."

"So thorough, Doctor Nelson." Foggy's behind the sofa; he pushes Matt's head forward to shine light on the back of it, and waves swell to slosh amongst the fireworks. "Ugh, Foggy… beside manner." Maybe he should just throw up and be done with it.

"Well you're right – it's not bleeding. But there's definitely a bump back here." He apparently feels a need to prod at it; Matt tries to swat his hand away, but his arm doesn't make it that high before curling again around his ribs. "Does this mean you have a concussion?" Foggy asks. He joins Matt back on the sofa. "Do I need to keep you awake for like twenty-four hours or something?"

"What time is it?" Matt asks.

"Uh…" Foggy's sleeves slide up his arm to expose his watch. "Almost four."

"Set your alarm. For six." He doesn't want to freak Foggy out any more, isn't worried himself – definitely not worried, but it won't hurt to be sensible – and he tries to pitch it light-hearted. "Make sure I still know my name, stuff like that. We should get up for work anyway."

"Work. You know you're probably not going to be able to walk tomorrow, right?"

"I can't walk right now," Matt mumbles. He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but it's true. He's sure his apartment never used to sound so big. "Take my bed, man. I'm already out here."

"Okay," Foggy agrees. Matt's a little disappointed when there's no joke, but at least the fireworks finally seem to be slacking off. He slumps against the pillows, not bothering to attempt to lie down. He doesn't care. He'll sleep like this.

But Foggy cares, and familiar hands guide him into a position ultimately more comfortable. As much as any can be. There's a pillow wedged under his head, his knee, and a blanket that appears out of nowhere. Matt hears the lamp click off. "You need anything else? Got a stash of good drugs I should know about?"

"No, sorry." Foggy knows how much he hates any kind of medication, how it screws with him. With the meditation-assisted healing, he rarely even bothers with ibuprofen. But he thinks he still has some, knows it will help with the swelling. He doesn't have the focus to meditate right now. "Ibuprofen. Somewhere in the kitchen. Water. Please."

"Losing the ability to form complete sentences. You positive I don't need to keep you awake?"

"I'm just tired." He makes sure it's a complete sentence. Beginning to end.

"I guess you'd probably know. This isn't your first one of these, is it."

"No."

His first concussion had been right after the accident, a stupid fall off a curb. First time he'd broken his right wrist, too. Everything had been such a vortex of screaming overstimulation in the beginning.

"Well all right then," Foggy says, when Matt offers nothing more than the one syllable. "Great bedtime story. You should write a book." Matt listens to him crossing the room yet again. He thinks Foggy might spend more time in his kitchen than he does.

He's nearly asleep by the time Foggy's able to locate the ibuprofen, drifting in a hazy space of fractured sensation. There's a light tap on the back of his hand, where it rests protectively atop the blanket over his ribs, and he flips his hand over without comment to accept the pills. Sitting up far enough to swallow them is a challenge; he chokes on the water that follows, and he's more than ready for unconsciousness once he manages it and gets lying back down.

"Thanks," he remembers to say. It almost sounds like it's supposed to.

"Water's here," Foggy says, setting the glass on the floor by his head. Maybe he should get a coffee table; it just seems like a shin-level hazard he doesn't really need. "Don't knock it over."

Like the coffee? Wait – he doesn't think that was his fault. Matt wonders if there's a sticky patch on his wood floor.

"Thanks," he says again. He'll sort out the floor in the morning. "G'night."

"Yeah," Foggy says, heading for the bedroom. "I'll see you in a couple of hours." He shuffles through the open arched doorway. Flops down on the bed with enthusiasm.

"Can't wait," Matt mumbles. He pulls the blanket up closer to his chin.

end

---

End Notes: I've spent so much time writing in Victorian England, that I have to remind myself it's okay to use more current cultural references – obviously a few more thrown haphazardly in here. Matt's dislike of garlic is from ComicalEpiphanies' invasion into my headcanon, and appears not as theft but as a nod of thanks for advice given. And because I like the idea; I personally love garlic, but, you know… stinky. Especially to oversensitized noses.