Stick V Nelson-Murdock

by Dizzydodo

Kmeme Prompt: Stick is tired of waiting for Matt to wake up to reality, so he decides to use Foggy to make his point. Matt is furious. Rated for violence to Foggy and faint suggestiveness.

Written for a K-meme prompt and cross-posted to AO3:

Stick knows that Foggy is the main obstacle standing between Matt Murdock and his "destiny." Foggy, at the end of the day, is Matt's emotional anchor and keeps him in touch with the "real world" AKA the world of emotionally healthy people who aren't in secret wars that require a desire to eradicate your enemy in any way possible.

Stick tries to get rid of Foggy- either through blackmail, trying to manipulate him into thinking Matt doesn't like/love him, trying to scare him off. It eventually escalates into trying to put Foggy into real danger.

Foggy's not going anywhere, and he's not amused.

Daredevil is furious.

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It wasn't the blind man on the couch that surprised him.

It was true that he and Matt normally came home together, sweeping through the door riding a swell of satisfaction from another day spent proving they had made the right choice in founding Nelson and Murdock. But sometimes Matt would race home along paths Foggy didn't like to dwell on too much, sprawling out on his couch for a well-deserved drink before heading out sans business suit to lay the hurt on whatever unfortunate souls were next on his shit list.

Foggy didn't like to think much on that either, but he wasn't prone to dancing around it any more. Matt's nightly forays were as predictable as the sunrise and while Foggy hated the bruises and abrasions it left all over his body, he hated even more the veritable cloud of guilt that followed Matt around when he took more than a few nights off.

So it wasn't so much the fact that there was a blind man sitting on his couch that threw him off, but that the blind man in question was not Matt by any stretch of the imagination. Unless-

"Uh, Matt?"

The old man on the couch turned, a surprisingly fluid movement for a man of his age; Foggy could feel the contempt radiating from him clear across the room. Obviously Old Dude was forgetting whose apartment they were in.

"Do I look like Matt Murdock to you, jackass?"

Foggy shrugged, not quite managing to quell the embarrassed blush swiftly rising up his neck to stain his cheeks. He was so used to Matt's 'world afire' now that the gesture had become second nature again. "Welcome to New York, you must be new here. Points of interest include a tower where a Norse god lives when he's not off doing his divinity thing, rampaging green monsters that ride flying alien worms through the air, and the best damn Italian food outside of Italy."

It might have been his imagination, but he thought maybe the crushing weight of disgust bearing down on him lessened a little. Just a little.

"So if you're not Matt, I guess that makes you Stick."

He was hard-pressed to keep the anger flowing through his veins from coloring the name. Matt still didn't like to speak of it, but Foggy had pried a story or two from his reluctant lips on the subject of Stick and his less than tender mercies. Matt liked to pretend there was something softer in the man, a tinge of compassion that years of disappointment had buried deep. For his part, Foggy knew a Grade A Asshole when he saw one. That was his superpower.

"He's told you about me, that'll make this easier. I need you to leave."

"I think you've got this all wrong." Foggy stomped to the fridge, pulling out one of the craft German beers Matt favored. He still hadn't figured out how he'd fallen head over heels for a beer snob of all things, but one day maybe his mother would forgive him. He lived in eternal hope.

Some last shred of manners made him hold out another bottle, loathe as he was to encourage an actual conversation. "Drink?"

"Not the shit you keep in there."

Another beer snob. Figured Matt would pick up some of his less charming aspects from Mr. Miyagi's evil knockoff.

He popped the lid, taking his own sweet time to kick off his shoes and make his way over to the chair, crashing down to throw his legs over the side. No reason he shouldn't be comfortable during this impromptu home invasion, and the more casual he was about it the less likely Matt would be to realize anything was amiss. If Matt knew something was off he could blame it on Jehovah's Witnesses or something. Unless he could smell his old mentor from downwind, like a predator.

Let him have a cold. Allergies. Anything, Foggy prayed under his breath. So soon after everything else the last thing he wanted to talk about was how Matt's pseudo-father hadn't even met him properly and already hated his guts. Awkward. Obviously they were going to have to set down a few ground rules for visiting hours, starting with-

"This is my home, that is my couch; if one of us is leaving, it's you. Just FYI." A deep draught punctuated the statement. Very professional. Much manlier than calling Matt and freaking out because holy shit how had this man broken into their apartment and were those 'leave Matt or die' vibes he was sensing or just run-of-the-mill 'I want you to leave because I am jealous of what an awesome team you make' vibes?

A dry chuckle made him wonder if maybe mind-reading wasn't also one of Stick's many talents. "This is your home now? I wonder if Matt knows."

"He does. So do you or you wouldn't be here. Now, what can I really do for you?" Game face. He'd gone up against some of the most prestigious firms in New York and wiped the floor with their minions. Of course he'd had backup then, but Foggy knew he was no slouch across the broad expanse of a negotiating table. The modest coffee table in his own home should be no different.

"You can get the hell away from Matt Murdock before it gets both of you killed." Stick leaned back, hands white-knuckling his cane in the same way Matt's did when he was valiantly resisting the urge to deck someone into another dimension. "You're fond of him aren't you? Friends?" His tone gave the word a more salacious meaning, but whatever- guilty as charged. Nolo Contendere.

"We call it 'partners' these days, and I'd appreciate it if you'd get to the point. Grasshopper's going to be home soon and I really don't want him to get the wrong idea." He allowed a smile to creep into his voice, a smirk he was sure Stick would hear. Calming his racing heart was beyond his mere mortal capabilities, but surely he could write that off as thrill of the hunt? Matt wasn't here to call him on it, at least.

"That is the point. You're slowing him down- Matt knows the only way to keep his feet is to be quick on 'em, and you might as well be a literal shackle. If you gave half a damn, you would leave." Stick stood, stretching nonchalantly as though he hadn't just made the most absurd pronouncement Foggy had heard since that case last month where an abuser had walked free on a technicality. Until the Devil had caught up with him later.

This time Foggy was rather hoping he wouldn't.

"Leave, Nelson, or we'll be in touch."

"You can reach me through my attorney, Matt Murdock." He'd barely finished his sentence before Stick had reached the door, pausing on the threshold for a split second to jiggle the knob.

"And next time, lock the door."

He was gone before Foggy could think of a suitably pithy reply, which was just as well because diplomacy wasn't really his gift to begin with.

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It might have been different if this were the first weird thing to happen to him that year or month or week or whatever, but coming as it did on the heels of so much else… Foggy was a little shaken. A few sips of his cold beer and disbelief had faded into annoyance, which in turn gave way to anger, circling back around to concern. Stick's parting threat- and he knew damn well what that old bastard was trying to pull- didn't worry him unduly, but Matt would be an entirely different story.

"Leave." Stick had said, as though it were as simple as that. Foggy's blood boiled. How many had left Matt already, by their own choice or otherwise? His father hadn't even been around long enough to see him reach double digits, and Foggy was never going to forgive his mother for leaving him in an orphanage. "It's complicated," Matt said. Bullshit. It was simple- she had thrown him to the wolves.

Wolves like Stick. Who had done their leaving in turn until it was always Matt alone. Until he began leaving first to be sure he would never find himself abandoned again. No, Foggy Nelson wasn't leaving and he wasn't even going to give Matt the option of leaving him first. There would be no ridiculous guilt trips on his watch. Been there, done that, had the T-shirt to prove it.

Still, he knew he had good cause to be wary. So much else made sense now.

When he had gone back to his apartment not a week past it had felt different, not in a way he could pin down, more like everything had shifted just the smallest bit. It shouldn't have mattered, he spent so much time at Matt's place they had agreed it would be better to let the lease lapse and slowly begin moving Foggy's things over. There was new furniture to account for, and Foggy was careful about keeping it mathematically arranged; Matt liked his living space as neat and well-ordered as his desk.

Now he wondered if perhaps Stick wasn't responsible. A little message he had known would be received and understood, but Foggy had the feeling it was directed more toward Matt than he.

The unlocked door was a problem too, specifically because that door was never left unlocked. Matt always listened for the tell-tale click of the tumblers when he actually allowed Foggy to lock up, which still wasn't often. Meaning either Matt hadn't been paying attention this morning or Foggy could add 'charming locks' to the steadily building list of skills he credited Stick with. Left to his own devices, Foggy would put his money on Matt every time. Someone needed to paper-train the old man; pity there was no way to file for a restraining order without his partner finding out.

Except Matt wouldn't go for it anyway, "Paper and ink, Foggy, it won't protect you." Unspoken went the "But I will" They both knew was tacked on at the end. Bad enough Matt spent the night looking after his city, if he caught even a whiff of this he'd take to babysitting his partner too.

Which was why by the time Matt came home Foggy was already well on his way to preparing supper. Nothing like simmering meat to wipe a suspicious scent from the air; if it worked on bloodhounds it had to work on human super-senses too. Much as he would have liked to put on some bass-heavy music to cover the slight uptick in his pulse he knew from experience that would give him away faster than if he had shouted his mild deceit from the rooftops. It wasn't a real lie, he reasoned. It wasn't like he was telling Matt Stick hadn't been here, just that he wasn't going to mention he had.

"The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God" could stay in the courtroom.

"Something smells good."

It was working, he could see Matt drawing the subtlest of deep breaths. He had carefully refrained from making any of Matt's favorite dishes; Foggy had read enough crime fiction to know that too would be a dead giveaway.

"Is that lamb?"

"Like you don't already know."

"I thought I'd save the reveal for you if you wanted."

"Uh-huh. So, you're late. Traffic jam, pressing business, pressing 'business' or what?"

Matt startled. The movement was so small anyone else might have missed it; as it was, Foggy had spent years observing the many moods of Murdock and he caught the slip before Matt could stifle it.

"Business. Of both kinds. Nothing important. You?"

He laid his cane aside, reaching in for the nearest beer, frowning slightly when he found one missing. Shit, Matt knew. Foggy liked drinking in company, drinking alone was reserved solely for temper tantrums and the occasional melancholic fit. For one to be missing when he had been expecting Matt home so much sooner… dammit. This was exactly why his mother had wanted him to be a butcher; he had all the subtlety and cunning of a cleaver-

The fridge door was shut, the bottle was open, and he wasn't being cross-examined. Safe. For now. It was almost amusing: here stood the one man in the world Foggy knew for certain would never turn on him and yet he was more nervous now than he had been confronting a blind soldier chilling on his couch. One day he would get his priorities sorted, Foggy swore.

"Can you get the cucumber sauce stuff? I just washed my hands for the dozenth time and I think I'm gonna scream."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Matt was right next to him, just there, with no warning whatsoever. At least he didn't have to think of a good excuse for the way his heart started beating triple-time.

"What happened?" Matt's voice was so quiet that at first Foggy thought it might be his own guilty conscience speaking. It usually took on Matt's disapproving tones when it bothered to pipe up at all.

"Could ask you the same thing-"

"You hate lamb."

"I love lamb."

"It always makes you feel guilty."

"Geez, a man can't even make lamb in his own home without being subjected to the third degree any more. Truly this city has gone to the dogs. I surrender, counsel."

"Then answer the question, counsel."

Foggy clicked off the stove, content that he had bought himself enough crucial seconds to counter convincingly. He wasn't Cum Laude for nothing.

"I worry about you. A lot. When you were late, I thought maybe you'd been… detained. Or something."

Truth. All truth, yet Matt only sipped at his drink, eyes still strategically concealed behind his glasses for maximum intimidation effect. To be fair, it was very effective when one took into account that it was not only Matt Murdock, attorney at law one was staring down.

"All right, fine, I was jealous, okay? I've been stewing over whatsherface-"

"Jessica?" Slowly Matt removed his glasses; it was a symbol Foggy had come to recognize for the 'all clear'. He hadn't wanted to confess his little moment of absurd possessiveness but beggars couldn't be choosers.

"I mean, I know being in a relationship doesn't make you blind- no pun intended- but you could at least pretend you won't always go after the prettiest girl in the room. It gets old. Really."

Silence. Matt's half-formed smile disappeared as quickly as it had come, replaced with something that looked remarkably like shame. Foggy didn't trust it for a minute.

He busied himself with collecting plates and utensils while Matt worked up the courage to admit whatever it was that was almost but not quite burdening his conscience. Moments like these Foggy counted on that devout Catholicism to get him his answers.

"I know you think my sex appeal is universal, but her tastes ran a little more your way than mine."

"What the- Matt, we have talked about your invasive heart thing-"

"Are stethoscopes invasive?"

"Are you a practicing physician?"

Another sip, another quiet hum that was no answer at all.

"As I was saying, we have talked about your cardiac eavesdropping, and you know my position on it so… what did she say about me?"

"Nothing much, I'm afraid. I am a jealous man."

"Oh god. Tell me everything."

Matt spun him a story. Mostly truth, but carefully crafted to avoid any minor inconveniences like the fact that Foggy's would-be admirer was herself responsible for her boss' mismanaged funds or that his 'business' had become a little rough toward the end there and he was nursing a bruised rib through supper.

In short, he was about as open and honest with Foggy as Foggy was with him.

The stove had sounded loud even from downstairs, Foggy's feet shuffling to a rhythm only he knew, and the popping sizzle of meat in the pan. He knew they were having lamb the moment his foot touched the first stair on the landing, and he had known Foggy was hiding trouble the moment he hadn't instigated their usual banter. That it was something so minor as jealousy was comforting. He was a little overprotective himself, moreso than Foggy realized.

Maybe it was that same protective streak that gave him the nagging feeling he still didn't have the whole story. Or maybe he wasn't quite as good at separating work from home as he thought. Foggy's heart-rate had been normal aside from a small increase when he had first returned. He was as quick to laugh as ever, gesticulating wildly so that even without his added advantage Matt would have sensed it.

It was just… a sense of things being off-kilter. Easily explained away, easily excused. Foggy wouldn't keep any crucial details from him; he was an honest man at his core, and an intensely loyal one.

In fact it was probably his own guilt eating at him. Here he was taking time to bask in Foggy's company while somewhere out there Stick was loose. For Stick to be back in Hell's Kitchen so soon it had to mean trouble, except that every time he shifted Matt could hear and feel the crinkle of paper in his pocket. The bracelet Stick had dropped after his last visit. It felt heavy as lead.

He wasn't about to tell Foggy. To say that he had taken an exception to Stick's mere existence was an understatement. Heaven alone knew what he would do if he found out he was sharing city-space with one of only two men on the planet Foggy Nelson could be said to hate.

It was a problem Matt intended to deal with as soon as he had made sure whatever strange mood had gripped Foggy was banished back into the ether.

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It was well past the time that Matt should have left, he didn't need the alarm to tell him so. Foggy's weight at his back was solid and reassuring, breathing finally evening out into soft snores after a bout of insomnia that had left him tossing and turning for nearly an hour.

In their early days together, Foggy's snores had driven him to distraction, pillow clamped tightly to his ears, face buried under the covers in the vain hope that it would become easier to cope with in time. It had taken months to learn to process it like any other superfluous sound, rain on the rooftop or wind through the trees or the sirens that seemed to pass by every handful of minutes. When he finally had an apartment to himself again, he had faced the opposite problem. How was he supposed to sleep without the second heartbeat in the room and Foggy's steady breaths to tell him all was well?

He had adapted, and adapted yet again after that first night when Foggy had ever so tentatively hinted that maybe he should just stay the night.

"I mean, hailing cabs is one of my gifts and with the hangover we're looking at I have no interest in venturing out into public." His Vs always slurred into Fs just before Foggy hit the point of no return, vowels elongating a little and consonants dropping left and right depending on how much more he had to drink. Even then it was a voice Matt liked, not exactly cut out for the Met but better in his books for belonging to a friend.

He had been just tipsy enough to confess that to Foggy, just enough that he hadn't moved away when Foggy leaned in for a disappointingly chaste kiss that had worked wonders in sobering him up. Not too sober, but enough to convince Foggy that he was more than welcome to stay the night and why should either one of them give up the bed when it was big enough for two?

Best closing argument he had ever made as far as Matt was concerned.

And now Stick was threatening that. How long would Foggy hold out if Stick found him and started whispering poison in his ear? Matt knew from experience how reasonable his old mentor could make sheer insanity sound, and Foggy hadn't exactly had an easy time of it when he figured out Matt's after work activities. He had left and come back, but Matt didn't want to take the chance that he would leave again. Meaning he needed to get up and find Stick and tell him to get out of Hell's Kitchen before this became any more personal than it already was.

With an effort, Matt untangled himself from the silken sheets, the same ones Stick despised so much. It wasn't a luxury he intended to give up, this habit of 'surrounding himself with soft things'. If he had learned anything at all it was that this softness was the balance he needed to stay sane: the silk sheets in stark contrast to rough bandages, Foggy's determined optimism to wash away the bitter disappointment at all the injustices he couldn't fix, and the reassurance that both would be waiting for him even if the fights didn't always go his way.

Foggy's breath grew shallower, rising to consciousness at the brief disturbance. Matt waited for him to wake, knowing there would be hell to pay later if he had the opportunity for a farewell and didn't take it. Foggy did worry, that much was no exaggeration.

"Matt, you're still awake?" His voice slurred with fatigue, Foggy just barely managed to get it out before sleep took him again. It was definitely one of his more charming traits, Matt had long since decided, that Foggy could sleep like the dead whenever the mood took him. One of them definitely needed to.

"Be back in a few." Foggy wouldn't hear it, but it was a comfort to hear it spoken aloud. A promise even if he was the only one who knew it.

He dressed quickly and silently, delighting at the feel of his new suit's contours in his hands. It was sharp, Foggy said, usually with just a tinge of a flirtation in his tone Matt was fairly certain he hadn't even noticed. If his greatest concern was competing with his own alter-ego for Foggy's approval Matt reasoned life was still pretty good. He intended to keep it that way.

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It wasn't only his imagination that made the streets seem quieter; on average Matt could have expected to stop at least one minor infraction during the three hours he had spent prowling through the seedier streets of Hell's Kitchen. As it was, the worst he had encountered was a tagger just finishing up his work; doubtless New York's taxpayers would have thanked him if he had bothered to clean up the mess, but his prey was altogether more dangerous.

Stick preferred enclosed spaces, somewhere small with only one entrance and exit that wouldn't mind taking a tenant without ID. With that in mind Matt made it a point to happen by every no-tell motel he could think of, tracing his way back to apartments that should have been long since condemned and sweeping the hallways of some that were. Either Stick's tastes had become more refined or he simply wasn't in the area… or he was anticipating that his former pupil would hunt him down.

Overpasses, alleys, concealed doorways, Matt checked them all. He found a handful of homeless dwellers looking for shelter through the night but precisely none of them was the one he sought. Stick hated sleeping in the open, feeling exposed to elements and enemies alike but he had roughed it in far worse places as he had so often reminded Matt whenever he felt their lifestyle was becoming too comfortable. Was it any wonder he had become something of a hedonist in their time apart?

The parks were the very last place he checked, not because he expected that Stick would actually be there but because the thought of Stick being near anything so wholesome as a play-place for children had his skin crawling with dread.

Of course that would be the place he found him, seated on a bench facing a swing-set that creaked in the breeze, fingers tapping an idle counterpoint against the imitation wood.

Matt slid in beside him, conscious of the picture they must have made to any passers-by but too distracted to be anything more than mildly amused.

His amusement died a swift death as memory reared its ugly head: this was exactly how it had begun, and if he had his druthers this is how it would end too.

"Why are you here?"

"Not for you." Stick didn't so much as shift, ignoring it when Matt leaned back against the bench for at least a pale imitation of comfort. Stick had a tendency to imagine every conversation as a pitched battle, Matt remembered, and he who spoke first was the default loser. He didn't have the patience tonight for the riddles within enigmas Stick loved to weave.

"Are you going to involve me?"

"How the hell would I do that? Tell me, Matt, because I tried once to involve you and you spat in my face for the sake of some dream life you've built yourself."

"I worked hard for it." He had no need to be defensive, Matt knew, but he could hear it in his tone nevertheless.

"It'll come down on your head one day, but we've been there, had that fight. Might as well spit out whatever's on your mind and get the hell out of my face unless you've had a sudden change of heart."

"You were expecting me-"

Stick laughed, a bitter crackle of a sound Matt had always been half-afraid of as a child. "Is there any room in your offices for your coworkers with your ego?" He snorted, shifted slightly for the first time since Matt had sat down. "I was. With Fisk gone, this city will go to shit. Power squabbles will spill over into everyday life. You'll have your work cut out for you, and no one to blame but yourself. But somehow you think you'll have the time to keep your practice, and your soft comforts, and your pretty little secretary when the piper comes around."

Matt could feel the blood draining from his face, fear and anger mixing until it was all he could do to keep from throwing himself at Stick and picking up their last encounter where it had ended. He had been thinking so much of Foggy, of what cost this could be to them that he had entirely neglected Karen, not to mention Claire. Of course Stick hadn't, he never made a move without knowing the lay of the land and precisely where his opponent's weaknesses could be found.

"Stay the hell away from them or you're finished. One less soldier for your cause."

"I offered you a way out. A purpose. The offer stands, but your chains aren't invited." Matt felt the air shift as Stick stood, heard the gravel crunching beneath his feet over the sound of his own heartbeat.

Any inkling of fear had been replaced with cold fury. Matt let it course through him, bringing a peculiar sort of calm to his next words."And I came to offer you a friendly warning. This is my life, those 'chains' are my family, and if you threaten either one I will send you to hell."

"You let that title go to your head, but no, I have no use for you like this."

Stick began to walk away and Matt allowed it, wanting nothing more than to race home and check that Foggy was still sleeping where he had left him, oblivious to the fact that there was anything in this city more dangerous than the petty criminals that called it home. Perhaps even call Claire just to hear her voice on the line, snappish and brusque though she was sure to be if he caught her sleeping. Karen too, voice still trembling with a secret she wasn't ready to tell and that he wasn't going to force from her.

"Go home and think it over, boy. One of these days, those sadistic impulses you think you're hiding so well won't confine themselves to criminals any more. You'll break them, and you will be left alone. Again."

The words followed him no matter how fast he ran, replaying with perfect clarity until at last he crept through the door of his home, making his hasty way to the room where… Foggy slept, breathing still deep and even and infinitely reassuring.

He folded his clothes with less care than usual, not bothering to slip into anything else. He needed to be skin to skin if he was going to get any sleep at all.

Foggy turned toward him as he crawled quietly into bed. He was sleeping far lighter than was his habit, and in hindsight Matt would curse himself for not putting two and two together far sooner. But at that moment he was just grateful for the way Foggy curled into him, wrapping the blankets tightly about them and drifting off again, satisfied that all was well.

Stick's words did not dare follow him into his dreams.

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For once Matt was the first one awake, and for the first time in what had to be months he didn't cling to his sheets and will the sun to stay down for a few more hours. Sleep had taken him quickly, and whatever time he had lost searching for Stick was more than made up for in the quality of his rest. He silenced his alarm before it could chime, considered for all of a split second before delaying the second alarm too. Foggy's sleep had been restless; it was the privilege of owning their own firm, he decided, that they could choose what time to come in.

If Foggy overslept by an hour or so Matt and Karen were more than capable of compensating for his loss. Not that Foggy wouldn't drink his blood for it later, but desperate times called for desperate measures and Foggy's not being awake before him was one of the lesser known signs of the apocalypse.

He ate quickly, cold leftovers lest the scent of something cooking woke Foggy. His senses weren't abnormally acute, but breakfast was by far his favorite meal and Matt was half certain he had struck a deal with a Faustian devil to always warn him when someone pulled eggs from the fridge.

Thankfully he did not even stir in the slightest when Matt made his way back to the room, yanking on his suit with the sort of placid efficiency that drove Foggy to mischief. Ties had been known to twist themselves into improbable knots, entire jackets disappeared when he wanted to slow Matt down enough so they could walk to their office together. He missed the playful back and forth of it, but every time he paused long enough to check, Foggy seemed to be sleeping ever deeper. The complete lack of snoring gave away his exhaustion- nocturnal animal Foggy was not. At least not by choice, and only when copious amounts of alcohol and good company were involved.

Pricked with guilt Matt reached out to touch his shoulder, lingering a moment longer than was called for but unable to bring himself to shake his partner awake. It would only be this once, he assured himself. Foggy would forgive him eventually. Especially if his intuition proved correct and Stick was still somewhere in the city. He did not believe for a moment that he did not rank somewhere on the man's list of priorities during this visit. Be damned if Stick was getting anywhere near his home, his friends or his office.

Stick wouldn't stay long, he never did, and Matt could spare a few nights toward protecting his fragile peace.

The heartbeat thrumming through his fingertips sped up, breathing growing shallower while muscles twitched and stretched.

'S'it morning already?"

"No. Go back to sleep." He was a terrible liar, good thing Foggy never seemed to catch on to it. He buried his face in his pillow, and if he wasn't sleeping any more then at least he wasn't scrambling to get ready. Matt was able to sneak from the room and somehow make it out the front door without him waking. Let Stick come to him now, here on the street or in his office, Matt Murdock was every bit as capable of rebuffing him as Daredevil, and every bit as determined to see it done.

Foggy breathed in the scent of the pillow, trying not to notice the light creeping through between the pillow and his eye. Matt had thrown curtains over the damn window almost as soon as it had become clear Foggy far preferred this bed over his own, but some light was bound to get in. It was morning, he knew, but if his internal clock was running right then he should have at least another hour of shut-eye before he absolutely had to drag himself out of bed. Except that Matt had decided to creep out of the apartment early, and that was strange enough in itself that normally Foggy would have bounded out of bed the minute the outside door shut behind him.

He was asleep again before he could remember what it was that had him so on edge the night before.

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Nine AM. Foggy stared at the bedside alarm in disbelief. He squinted, checked again, but the number still read 'nine', only now it was nine and a minute and he was lying in bed and-

"Matt?" No. Matt had left. Matt had turned off his alarm clock like some kind of sleep-giving ninja and left. Foggy would have been grateful if he weren't so annoyed. On his best days it took an hour to get ready; what use showing up to the office looking anything less than his best? It wouldn't be an option today. He set the alarm for half an hour, scrambling for cereal instead of the warm breakfast he favored, brushing his teeth as he struggled with a tie Matt had obviously put his grubby, knot-tying hands all over, and sprinting out of the door before his coat was quite over his shoulders.

The forgotten alarm chirped behind him, chiming the half hour he hadn't quite taken to get ready.

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!

Much as he would have liked to walk, Foggy hailed a taxi less than a block from the apartment. Matt wasn't with him to speak with and his wallet was conspicuously missing from his pockets, leaving nothing more than the emergency twenty he kept tucked in breast pocket, another grievous injury he was going to let Matt know about at length as soon as he strode in. Matt was going to hear the frustration in his movements from an entire story away; he would come out to the lobby hoping to placate any bruised feelings, they could move the argument to his office… and then they could discretely kiss and make up.

Very discretely this time now that the 'knock before you enter for pity's sake, Karen' rule had been instituted. If he'd had his wallet, he would have brought coffee and donuts to celebrate. As it was, Matt was just going to have to settle for his usual sunny self. Probably better for the budget anyway.

A shadow crossed his mind then, the weight of Stick's words coming back to him. "Strike while the anvil is hot" as the old saying went; Foggy couldn't help but wonder if maybe Stick wouldn't try something to make him leave. Foggy could think of no more glaring a declaration of intent than showing up to work and brazenly kissing his boyfriend in the office. These were not the actions of a man who was leaving, and Foggy wasn't naive enough to think it wouldn't find its way back to the old man eventually.

If Nelson-Murdock stayed Nelson-Murdock it would make its way back to him. Fairly quickly, in fact. It would give him a reasonably good approximation of precisely what Foggy thought of his preposterous not-quite ultimatum, hopefully he would visit again so Foggy could go full Atticus Finch on his ass and then they need never speak again. It was a good plan, he assured himself, the very best of plans and it had nothing at all to do with a spiteful urge in his gut to show this old bastard that Matt was fine without him, would survive and thrive and become more than even he had dreamed. All without Stick.

"Damn, missed the turn. Hold on a second and I'll-"

"Not a problem, just drop me off on the other side by the crosswalk and we're good." He was spoiled enough just taking a cab this distance, no need to invite Matt's gentle mockery for not even walking the twenty feet of superfluous crosswalk near the office.

He clambered out, straightening his suit one last time and practicing a stern look that had him cracking up every time he felt it settle on his face. His mother's son he was not; solemnity had never looked good on him.

He was a little over halfway across when the car struck him before veering away. While Foggy was in no condition to notice, several bystanders would later remark that two witnesses had left the scene without giving a statement, one of whom had carried blind man's cane he seemed to have no use for.

!

!

Foggy would have liked to claim he bore up bravely given the circumstances. The simple fact of the matter was, speaking was beyond him for the first minutes after impact. Try as he might he couldn't seem to draw a good breath, and while he was numb all over he knew the moment that let up it was going to hurt like a sonuvabitch. He was not disappointed.

The first breath was like fire, scalding his throat and making his ribs creak with the effort of it. The first bystander reached him then, already speaking with someone on the other end of the line. He spared a moment to feel guilty for contributing to an already pressing traffic problem. Somehow that seemed like his most pressing concern- get out of the street, which required standing first. Except that his legs didn't want to cooperate and everything just seemed so damn bright.

He blinked the spots from his eyes and tried to stand again, annoyed when someone else approached from behind and pinned his shoulders, telling him to "Stay down" and "Don't move." He was conscious, he was breathing, couldn't they see that? It was fine, and he needed to get into the office to tell Matt he was all right before he noticed all the commotion. No way his super-senses hadn't picked up on that, and Matt's relation with motor vehicles was questionable at best after all his own accident had cost him. He needed to be standing by the time Matt got here.

"I'm fine."

"Yeah, you're fine. The ambulance is coming and you're going to be fine." It was aggravating how shaken the woman sounded, voice trembling worse than his hands were. He was fine.

"No, really, I just need to-"

The numbness fled all at once, cuts and scrapes and… frostbite? All of them checked in at once. Foggy gasped aloud, profanity pouring from his lips that probably would have made Matt's old man blush.

Matt.

He could hear the sound of shoes pounding against the pavement, a counterpoint against the tap of a cane Foggy knew was a bare afterthought. Much as he hated himself for it, he was selfishly relieved; Matt was here and everything was going to be all right again because Matt simply wouldn't let it be otherwise. The pain in his head finally let itself be known, nearly robbing him of consciousness just as Matt skidded to a stop at his side, completely forgetting to pretend he was anything less than a human wonder.

"Don't touch him, sir- please-"

"Foggy. Shit, Foggy."

Desperate hands cradled his face more gently than Foggy would have thought possible given how badly they were trembling. He tried so damn hard not to cry but it hurt and Matt's face was a study in tragedy, fingers drifting over his face to glide across his eyes and over cuts and bruises he was only beginning to feel now. His fingers came away coated in blood, more than Foggy thought a body had a right to. It was enough to rob him of the last vestige of consciousness; he slipped under to the wail of sirens and an almost inaudible prayer.

"My God, please. Jesus, no."

All the prayers the nuns had been at such pains to teach him deserted Matt, reducing him to incoherent pleas for mercy and bargains he would damn well keep if Foggy would just wake up and say his name right now. What the hell had happened?

He had heard the collision from his office, and though he would have been hard-pressed to say exactly how, he had known immediately that it was Foggy. Why the hell had he been in the street, what the hell had hit him, where was the driver? Matt was going to rip open the bastard's rib-cage and squeeze their heart until it burst. He was going to enjoy the warmth of their blood on his hands, the same way he cringed from the feel of Foggy's coating him now- his hands and cuffs were stained with the blood of the most important person in the world and someone was going to pay for it.

God helped those who helped themselves. Not a Catholic teaching according to his upbringing, but one that Matt had taken to heart at a very young age. Prayers turned to questions, shot like bullets at anyone who would listen.

"What make was the car?"

"I saw it. Ford, silver-"

"Which direction did it go?"

"Wait for the police, they'll-"

"Which fucking way?"

"Headed South."

"Plate?"

"New York. Had a 3 in it."

None of which helped him, but it gave him a string to cling to, frail as it was.

The screech of tires taking a corner too fast and the deafening yelp of sirens had him tensing, unconsciously leaning over Foggy's body to form a makeshift shield. He was Foggy's emergency contact, but the paramedics wouldn't know that; they would take Foggy from him and leave him trailing behind while Foggy might wake up panicking in an ambulance. He had to be there, he had to go.

Nevertheless, he forced himself to pull away and surrender contact when he felt the medics draw near, taking comfort from the rattling tap of the stretcher's wheels. Eight minutes to the hospital from here and Foggy's heart was still going strong, his breathing was still normal though Matt could hear the groan of fractured ribs every time he drew a breath. He should have woken again; the extended unconsciousness pointed to a concussion or worse. Matt refocused, pushing away his anxiety in favor of his new mission: get into the ambulance by whatever means necessary.

"Sir, please, you need to move."

He did, if reluctantly. There were more important battles to fight.

"I need to come along- would you prefer me in the back or front?" Never take no for an answer. Never even allow that it might be.

"I'm sorry, unless you're related-" Matt could hear Velcro and the click of metal pins, the shift of fabric as Foggy was ever so carefully moved to the bed. The medic's tone was not unsympathetic, but it was an answer Matt was not willing to hear.

"We're partners. I need to be there." Let them infer from that what they would. Matt knew he had no legal leg to stand on but… he could hear the consideration in their silence, the slight increase in each one's pulse. They were imagining their own loved ones here, spouses and partners and best friends. He could feel their mute acquiescence like the moment rain dispelled a humid day, the questioning glances and nods exchanged between them.

"Your cane-"

"I'll leave it." His voice was hoarse, cracking under a strain he hadn't felt since that night spent replaying over and over the feel of his father's still face under questing fingertips.

"No, here, prop it in the corner."

For once he didn't protest when one of them thoughtlessly snatched at his sleeve, guiding him after the stretcher and into the back cabin to a seat in the corner. The stretcher rattled in, Foggy rousing slightly from his unnatural faint at the jostling.

"Matt?"

"Here, Foggy. Right here." It was a miracle he could get anything past the lump in his throat; his voice ached with it.

"Good." Fear and relief mingled in equal measure. Almost Matt wished he could have slept through the trip to the hospital instead of clinging to the edge of the stretcher, pulse flying at a hundred and five beats per minute, gamely trying to answer every question while ignoring his pain.

Pain scale rating? "Four." Foggy said, and Matt could feel the guilty glance in his direction, hear the way Foggy's teeth clenched when they hit a pothole. He swallowed down the vomit that gave the lie to his words, trying to force his limbs into some semblance of normal movement. His wrist was fractured- buckle fracture unless Matt missed his guess, and his shoulder popped ominously when he shifted against advisement. His neck wasn't broken, but the medics couldn't know that.

All the while Matt held his tongue, seething quietly. Every muffled whimper, every smothered curse might as well have been a knife twisting in his gut. He counted them all, each one of them a reminder of why he had never wanted Foggy drawn into his world, each one representing a minute that he was going to make the driver weep for his redemption.

God help them both.

!

!

---

!

!

Foggy tried not to look too closely at the overhead lights as he was wheeled down the hallway. Somehow Matt had wriggled to his side, one hand firmly clamped on the stretcher and the other gripping his cane like he was about to Go To Town with it. His pain came and went in waves, each a little more intense than the last but bearable at least.

Reality was only just beginning to creep in. He had been hit by a car. People had died from less. He could have died, right there on the pavement before Matt even had the chance to clear the office door. Foggy tamped down on the thought before his heart began hammering against his ribs in earnest. He hurt bad enough, and Matt looked like like the grim reaper in a business suit.

Painkillers sounded wonderful. He hadn't hurt this bad in ever. How Matt managed it he would never know, but from now on he vowed to be doubly considerate of those injuries. Walk in the park it was not.

"Matt, 'M all right."

"Yes, Foggy." Still with the white-knuckled death-grip and a walk that said Matt Murdock was going places if he had to walk through hell to get there.

Clearly he wasn't going to relax until he had the all-clear from a professional. So be it, not like they had a heavy case-load at Nelson and Murdock anyway. Speaking of-

"You didn't leave Karen alone, did you?"

"She'll be fine."

"You did. She's probably freaking out. You should call her while we wait."

"I'll wait with you."

"All right." He didn't want to argue. In fact, he just wanted Matt to maybe lower the bar on the damn stretcher and climb in with him. Maybe then he could bury his face in a crisp, clean, perfectly wearable suit and ruin it with snot and tears until he didn't hurt so bad. It wasn't like he could hide it from Matt, anyway. He had that tilt to his head that said he was listening to Foggy's heartbeat, which meant he probably knew the painscale was bullshit. Honestly? Probably a six, but there was no way on God's green earth Foggy Nelson was going to let his partner see him wimping out.

What made it all the worse was knowing Matt would never see it that way, because who would expect Foggy Nelson, attorney at large, to be anything more than perfectly average in the department of 'sucking it up'?

The one silver lining to the whole affair was the sparkling clean and beautifully private room he was wheeled into. If only Matt would leave for a second everything would be perfect.

Matt obligingly retired to a corner of the room and very pointedly did not leave. Meaning somehow he was going to have to make it from stretcher to bed without wiping out because there was no way in hell he was being lifted. It wasn't happening. His pride smarted enough.

One attempted step was enough to convince him pride was for suckers. Fuck it, he was New York General's personal Dude-in-Distress until further notice.

Whether or not Foggy actually fainted when he tried that first step would be a matter of debate at Nelson and Murdock for years to come, either way, when he came to from a mild dizzy spell, Matt, he was draped in a blanket that was warm enough to have just come from the dryer and lying on a pillow he almost felt bad for dirtying.

"It's your pelvis." Matt said quietly, cane now clamped to his chest like a shield. It was a gesture Foggy had only seen a handful of times before and only when Matt's other coping mechanisms failed. "You shouldn't have moved."

"My bad. I didn't even feel my pelvis until about three seconds ago, but I assure you I do now. That's where the frostbite is."

"Fracture. You're processing it as frostbite, but it's several hairline fractures." His tone was matter-of-fact, slightly distracted and decidedly angry. Foggy shrunk from it instinctively, even knowing he wasn't the target.

Something must have alerted Matt to his distress because the next moment he was seated at the foot of the bed, hands folded calmly in his lap to keep from reaching for the one tool that might have comforted him.

"My toes are moving, see? No harm, no foul."

"I appreciate the effort, Foggy, but I would appreciate it even more if you would stop playing around until we have a second opinion."

'Playing around' was one word for it, though Foggy thought 'trying very hard not to flip out' was more accurate. Twenty-four hours after Stick visited and he had been mowed down by a car? That was enough of a coincidence to test anyone's belief. The old man was an Asshole, sure, but a murderous asshole?

Yes, his subconscious answered helpfully. Yes, Stick was capable of murder. If Foggy was a shackle it followed that he had to be 'struck'; pity the bastard had taken that turn of phrase so literally. The stairs leading up to the office were going to be a Bitch. Matt probably would have got up from this, dusted himself off and headed in for another average day of work. Foggy was ninety-nine percent certain it was going to be a couple days before he wanted to do anything more than lie around feeling miserable.

After that he would have to find some way to make discrete inquiries without Daredevil finding out. He'd sleep better once he knew where Stick was sleeping.

Matt stood abruptly, heading over to the sink to snatch at paper towels and soap, running hot water from the tap until it steamed. Foggy watched in uncomprehending silence, still blinking away the occasional spot, tussling with whether or not he could afford to keep Stick's visit from Matt. He wanted to. Badly. But after all those fancy words about trust and loyalty when Matt's alter-ego had made itself known… he couldn't really claim the higher ground if he went through with keeping it secret.

Which would put him and Matt on roughly the same level once and for all. Good. Settled. No tattling. Nobody liked a snitch.

"You smell like oil and tar." Foggy couldn't prevent a flinch when the warm paper came in contact with abused skin. Matt's touch was gentle, but every new sensation was already layered upon dozens of others and none of them pleasant.

"We should wait for the doctor."

"A nurse is coming, just rounding the corner now. He hasn't showered since yesterday afternoon, probably been on shift ever since."

Silence for one beat, two. Foggy held his tongue, watching the worry lines etch themselves permanently across Matt's brow. "You're bleeding all over. I can taste it on the back of my tongue-"

All of this would have been so much simpler if Matt's senses could have taken the night off.

"Head wounds do that. They bleed all over the place, hands too." The methodical swipes moved to the worst of the abrasions on his palms, stinging enough that Foggy shamefacedly bit back wordless groans. Matt winced and shifted with him, experiencing all of it on a sympathetic level his partner couldn't even begin to understand.

"Started clean-up, I see." The nurse's smile faltered only marginally when he took in the sight of his patient. Foggy was more than a little impressed, but Matt could hear the way his fingers tightened in his pockets, the grind of back teeth when he swallowed a sympathetic curse, muscles shifting when he unconsciously rocked back on his heels to distance himself from whatever picture Foggy made. It couldn't be pretty, there was so much debris all through his skin and almost nothing sounded right inside.

He smelled like agony and fear, only this time there was nothing Matt could do for it but wait for someone else to tend him.

"Any LOC?"

"Yes, twice. Once on impact, once in the room" Matt cut in. He felt the nurse frown, knew the question had been meant to gauge Foggy's state of mind, but he wanted X-rays and a damn CT scan right away. There were so many things gone wrong and all this useless banter only delayed what Foggy needed.

"I didn't faint." Foggy snapped.

"You lost consciousness."

"I didn't faint." He muttered, quieter this time. "But could I maybe get an aspirin or something?"

"I can do you a lot better than that."

"Thank God." The nurse didn't hear the heartfelt prayer, already ducking out of the room and heading right where Foggy wanted him- wherever the hell they kept the good stuff in this place.

"How do you feel?" Matt murmured, hands fussing with the blanket, plucking at Foggy's shirt to keep it away from cuts he hadn't even known existed and smoothing hair back from sticky patches he didn't want to think about.

"Nauseous, mostly. I think if I move I might hurl. And not in a fun 'night on the town' way either."

"That's anywhere from a six to seven, which is exactly what you will tell the nurse when they ask about your pain again."

"Yes, sir."

Not even a smile for his gentle mockery. "I'm trying to be funny here, which really isn't easy when my insides feel like they have been pulverized. Laugh, damn you." He suited action to words and immediately regretted it. "I feel like I've been hit by a-" Foggy trailed off, remembering again that he had, in fact, been hit by a car.

Matt began to reach for his cane again, paused halfway and reached for Foggy's least-damaged hand instead, clamping tight for a split second before holding it gently. Even that was painful, but when Matt tried to pull away, Foggy tightened his grip, unwilling to surrender the contact.

"You think I look bad? You should see the other guy's hood. I'm sure I dinged the hell out of it."

Foggy's attending nurse chuckled softly, but his smile never quite reached his eyes. He was worried, his fear was thick enough to taste, turning the light scent of clean perspiration bitter and rank. Because of another patient or Foggy?

The pills had done him a world of good, but every time he took a breath Matt could hear the creak of bone, and despite his impromptu towel bath, Foggy still reeked of blood. Matt wanted nothing more than to hurry him home and into a hot bath before tucking him into bed and forbidding him to ever leave the apartment again. He would cook a soup, something easily swallowed with the sore throat Foggy didn't yet know he was going to develop, though the attendant huskiness was just beginning to make itself known, and take the night to keep watch while he slept.

Tomorrow he would review every case Foggy had taken to find a motive, and when he did he would personally hunt down and deal with whomever had thought they could act without repercussion.

He couldn't even hear Foggy's voice without the faint echo of snapping, shifting bone, imagining the sound reinforced steel would have made as it collided with vulnerable flesh. They would pay for that too, he would leave it ringing in his victim's ears as it did his own.

"Is he all right?"

The nurse glanced up quickly, reminded of the other man looming patiently in the corner as implacably as a stone gargoyle and about as approachable.

"I got hit by a car, Matt. "All right" isn't really what I'd say, but I'll live. When can we get out of here, anyway? I'm starving."

"That's the adrenaline. It'll pass. In the meantime, you should rest. I'll get back to you when radiology gets back to me."

Which was a very neat non-answer, Matt thought, but the best he knew how to offer.

"I know what you think, Foggy, now I want you to leave it to the professionals."

"I'm awake-"

"And talking, you've said it a dozen times."

"I'd say it a dozen more if I thought it would make you believe I'm going to be okay."

Silence again. Foggy's respiration slowed, deep even breaths slowing replacing the birdlike flutter of a few minutes before. He seemed almost in a frantic rush to speak, frightened that Matt might fill the silence for more than a few seconds at a time. The behavior was not unfamiliar- he had observed it a time or two in witnesses attempting to divert him from his line of questioning.

No. Foggy was the victim here. He had nothing to hide.

Yet that nagging doubt persisted until at last Matt made his way to the bedside again, one ear focused on the vital readouts and the other on what his other senses could tell him.

"What have you done now, Foggy?" Spoken quietly in a musing tone that couldn't be anything but non-threatening. Guilty consciences unraveled so quickly when pricked, and Foggy was so very soft and easy to prick- his heart began to fly, a bare step below setting off the alarm, Matt thought.

"Don't say that to me. For a second there I thought I might have left the stove on or something."

"Or something. You're worried, you're nervous-"

"I am Hurting."

"And it did not begin today. You were flighty yesterday-"

"Flighty? Victorian housewives were flighty, I am unshakable."

"Yes, and that is precisely why I am concerned." Matt pounced on the admission, an instinctive cat-and-canary smirk settling about his lips even as his shoulders squared defensively. He had drawn blood, that it was his own partner's was irrelevant until he had secured him.

"Shit." It was hissed so low Matt was certain even Foggy didn't hear his own slip, even so he recovered quickly enough. "You can't use this, I am under the influence of a mind-altering substance I can't even pronounce. I am tired out of my mind and in agony, and torture is not an effective method of gathering intel and it is strictly-" He squinted, tongue fumbling for words that would not come. Matt felt the moment he crumpled in a way beyond knowing, more of an empathetic reaction on his own part.

"Don't, Matt. Please, don't."

Press until you encounter resistance, press harder until it gives.

"Don't what, Foggy? Dig? Why? What do you have to hide? All that high-handed talk of the secrets I kept and here you are trying to protect a would-be murderer. Why?"

It was the question that had been circling in his mind ever since he had first sensed Foggy's reluctance. Bullies were Foggy's hot button, what was a murderer but a bully gone too far? What possible reason could Foggy have for protecting his assailant?

Unless that wasn't who he was protecting at all. His answer was staring him in the face, but Matt conceded he could be blind even despite his heightened senses. It was right there, lurking just at the tip of his tongue so that when it escaped even he was startled at the suddenness of it.

"Stick."

For all of a second his breathing stopped, Foggy caught his own in sympathy, heart beating out a rapid tattoo.

It was the only explanation that made sense. Foggy had almost no sense of self-preservation; it was what had allowed him to cut ties with his family and run away to law school, it was the same force that made him surrender a comfortable, secure job and put everything he held dear in jeopardy to open a no-account law firm with a partner he had only known a handful of years. Hell, it had been staring him in the face. This was the man that had come back to him, even knowing who and what he was, the one that slept beside him each night and still forgot to lock the door in the morning because despite it all he still expected the best of everyone.

So the only reason Foggy would protect his attacker would be if in doing so he could protect someone he loved more. And Foggy loved him. Foggy loved him so much more than he deserved.

"It was Stick. Foggy, was it Stick?" The salt on the air was all the answer he needed.

"Blind men don't drive, Matt." His laughter was weak as milk, and Foggy knew it. Wretched guilt underpinned every word, fear sent his respiratory rate skyrocketing again.

"No, but that's easily solved." Matt wanted to scream. He wanted to wreck the equipment just beyond his fingertips and tear down the curtains, terrify the nurses and doctors into giving him the only answer that mattered any more and set out to find Stick. And then beat the life out of the monster with his own cane in the way he should have when he first found Stick sitting on his couch.

"The couch. He was in our home and you didn't tell me. The lamb, you covered it up. You drank with him— God Damn it, Foggy!"

"I'm sorry-" Matt pulled away violently, nearly upsetting a tray table in his haste. He couldn't point fingers after all the lies he had told, but Foggy was better than that. Foggy told him everything- where the hell did he get off thinking Matt Murdock needed protection? He was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen for fuck's sake, and Foggy wouldn't have lasted ten seconds in some of the corners he had backed himself into-

He had lasted a day and a half. Had held his peace and broken bread like he didn't know the sword was preparing to fall. For all that he was an idealist, Foggy was no one's fool. He had to have known Stick would act to remove him, which left only the conclusion that he had evaluated the risks and held his tongue anyway. Matt flew past rage straight to that place of eerie calm he had only ever found the first time the thought of killing Fisk had come to him.

His cane was in his hands, one foot out the door when Foggy finally managed to catch his breath enough to speak. He spoke the only words that came to his mind when he saw Matt's turned back, quite possibly the only words that could have made him stay.

"Please, Matt, don't leave. Not now. I swear when I can think straight I'll tell you everything, but please just don't leave me here. I can't- I don't know-" He gestured in such a way that it encompassed the machines and equipment, staff and building, noise and smell and pain. All of it.

Matt nearly pulled back, very nearly marched back to the side of the bed and took up his silent vigil again, but there were more important things that needed doing and more effective ways of making his family safe.

"Sleep, Foggy, you've been fighting it too long." He tried to imbue the words with forgiveness, but his thoughts had already skipped ahead to his plans for Stick and gentleness no longer came easy. He couldn't see the way Foggy's face collapsed at his words, but he felt it keenly.

Still, there was work to be done, and it was far more expedient to ask forgiveness than permission.

!

!

Foggy watched in hollow disbelief as Matt turned his back on him, unheeding of every question, every plea. He walked stiffly out of the room, obviously still wrestling with the choice he was making. If some benevolent God had looked down and offered Foggy a second chance, a choice between being struck again by that car or replaying in nauseating detail every second of Matt's placid expression as he had turned his back and left, Foggy would at least have considered taking the first option. He reserved final judgment for when those lovely pills wore off again.

It hurt all the more knowing Matt had heard the fear and uncertainty in his voice as he had laid it bare, and he had chosen to leave despite it. Perhaps the pills had made him slow, or maybe it had more to do with a one and a half ton machine meeting a two hundred pound human, but Foggy was having trouble processing exactly how Matt could have done that to him.

Or perhaps it was no more than he deserved. Their positions were reversed now, the table turned, but the scene was achingly familiar. No, counter-productive. He had apologized, Matt had accepted. It didn't make up for it, but in all fairness to himself the circumstances had been truly exceptional. Extenuating circumstances. The courts allowed it as a defense, and Matt was an attorney to his core; he would do no different.

He would come back. Matt would not leave him without closure.

One thing Matt had right- he did need rest, but how on earth he was supposed to sleep a wink with Stick out there and presumably still gunning for him was anyone's guess. It hurt almost as bad as his cracked ribs that Matt had not considered that, had left him here to deal with it when he was strung out on pain meds and stress. He began to hyperventilate, breath coming short and fast until it left him dizzy with the effort of trying to calm himself. Nice fight or flight there, kicking in several hours too late. Foggy tamped down on it, holding his breath, counting down- every trick he had ever used for managing stage fright when pushed into mock trials at school.

Of course it had been far simpler then, knowing that Matt either had his back or stood across the classroom, a calm and unshakable presence he had come to depend on over the years. Foggy latched onto the memories, feeling the pain ebb away with distraction. Sleep crept up on him, tugging at his consciousness but never quite pulling him under. Every time he began to doze his breathing would stop, waking him with a violent jolt. Briefly he debated ringing for a nurse, considered how busy they seemed and stopped.

It took him in the end, though only in a shallow doze. Enough that when he heard the footsteps in the hall he came to again. It was the swish of the cane that alerted him, too quick, not Matt's nearly hypnotic rhythm. He knew who it would be before the curtain even whisked open, and though it took a couple tries he had managed to push himself until he was almost sitting up. His ribcage burned like fire and Foggy was ninety-nine percent certain his pelvis shouldn't feel like it was pulling, but he was up and mostly awake. Too worried to even pretend nonchalance.

This was not a courtroom, he was not on his feet, there was no evidence to present or speech he could make that would protect him and for the first time he was actually starting to believe the barb that Matt had thrown at him the day of that disastrous fight- he wouldn't last five minutes outside the code of law he strove to protect.

He banished the thought as soon as it reared its ugly head. This wasn't a courtroom, but he was still Foggy Nelson and he had been a force to be reckoned with long before he'd acquired that diploma he kept hanging above his desk. His mother had been half a saint to ever tolerate his stubbornness. Then again, his mother had loved him dearly. Stick obviously did not.

He grinned, fought back a laugh that likely would have had him in tears and uselessly met the eyes of his opponent. It was a habit, one that allowed him some small illusion of courage.

"Tell me you're not the reaper."

"Have you reconsidered?" Straight to the point, no time for banter.

Foggy smoothed his hands along the thin coverlet, trying to hide their minute tremor. With any luck Stick wouldn't be as attuned to him as Matt was.

"What, you thought a love tap was going to change my mind? I'll be out of here in time for supper." Not. But maybe if he had a European supper it would still count. Assuming his appetite had returned by then. At the moment he was so tired Foggy wondered he could find the spare energy to move his mouth, which was to say real damn tired. There was nothing he loved so much as running his mouth until his opponents had no clue what they were meant to be refuting. It was a Foggy Nelson specialty, but he had lost all taste for it somewhere between being wheeled in and watching Matt walk out.

Always the common denominator came down to Matt.

"He's a grown man you know. If you have a problem with me, you should really mention it to him. Your advice is always rock solid, after all."

All the discipline in the world- of which Foggy deliberately practiced very little- could not have prevented his pulse from kicking into overdrive when Stick moved toward him, practically gliding across the floor. Finally pushed past his endurance, Foggy tried to press the summons for the nurse only to find his hand crushed against the bed, soft linen sheets stinging like fire on open sores. He blinked away the white spots, focused on snarling openly at Stick with all the contempt and anger he could muster, not untainted with pain. Or what he thought was pain, until Stick pressed his free hand into Foggy's chest, depressing the already hurting ribs until Foggy swore they creaked beneath the strain.

He would have screamed, but air was a precious commodity and he couldn't force more than a ragged gasp past the lump in his throat. The whiteness that had threatened at the edge of his vision consumed him, hearing swallowed up by a hollow ringing sound he had always associated with deep water. Even that disastrous spring break that had almost ended with his watery death wasn't as bad as this though. At least then the water had washed his tears away, and while breathing had felt like having molten lava poured down his throat he had eventually been able to draw a breath. And what was Matt going to do when he came back and found his partner dead?

Go off the deep end. He would not recover soon, if ever.

Foggy thought the pressure might have been relieved, past the ringing he could make out the low murmur of voices though making sense of their words was beyond him. It might have been English, Punjab… Whatever the hell it was he couldn't make it out. He didn't want to either. Foggy drew his first breath in eight seconds- eight seconds that might as well have been three hours- and quietly allowed unconsciousness to take him.

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Stick had to be near. Matt knew the old man and his ego too much to think he would pass up an opportunity to watch his plan come to fruition or give it a slight nudge in the right direction. He also knew that Stick was a murderous liar, and therefore by definition a coward. The choice to leave Foggy hadn't been easy; three times he had stopped, feet nearly turning back to the room of their own accord. Three times he had forced himself to take a breath and consider what he stood to lose if he did not deal with Stick in a way his mentor would understand.

But Foggy's heartbeat was erratic and his breathing ragged, even with all the walls separating them and the bustle of the hospital all around Matt swore he could hear the creak of bone and shifting tendon as Foggy tried anything to get comfortable again.

The thought of losing Foggy completely was worse, the idea of visiting not one but two graves and the people he cared most about in the world no longer being in it. Stick would expect this, he had not been the master for nothing, but Matt had to draw him out into the open. He had to be dealt with swiftly and decisively, in such a way that Foggy could feel safe again in his own city.

He never would, not completely. Not after Fisk or Mrs. Cardenas, Urich or any of the dozens that had died to make Hell's Kitchen what it was today. This one fear at least he could eliminate: Stick would never harm Foggy again, not after tonight.

Matt pushed onward, gripping his cane tighter with each passing second until his fingers ached with it. He settled in the cafeteria, a maelstrom of noise and scents that nearly overwhelmed him, but he could hear Foggy's heartbeat still, the steady clicks and whirring of the machine that told him all was still well. Foggy would live, a little battered, a little bruised, but very much alive. Stick-

Matt would try. For Foggy's sake and his own he would try, even with a violence crawling beneath his skin that he hadn't felt since that panicked call from Claire as she was dragged from her home.

The Russians had lived then. He had felt her eyes on him and known that for all she was angry and hurt, she did not want them dead. Foggy was different, a shower and a handful of sutures would not fix him; the nightmares probably wouldn't fade for months if then, and dammit but Stick was right- Foggy was soft in a way neither he nor Claire had ever been. If Stick had taken that from him, Matt was going to hurt him until his hands ached for days and his every step was a constant reminder that he could be pushed too far.

Absorbed in thoughts of Foggy, fretting over results he had yet to hear, running through calming exercises to keep from actually leaving hospital grounds to hunt Stick down, somehow he missed the falsely limping tread Stick affected when he wanted to be mistaken for less than he was. He missed the way nurse's and doctor's footsteps faltered when they moved to make room for the old man's motionless cane held out defensively before him. He missed the pull of the curtain and the metallic shriek as it moved. In fact, the one thing he could not fail to hear, the one thing that would haunt his nightmares until the day he finally hung up his suit, was Foggy's muffled scream, the way his heartbeat flew even as his breathing stopped, his choked attempt at a last breath-

Matt flew past the guest at the door, not hearing his cut-off expletive, barely remembering to keep his cane clamped to his side in his haste. He pretended not to hear the surprised gasps of staff and patients alike as he bolted past, ignored shouted requests to walk slowly in the hallway, and deftly changed direction at the familiar tap of security's standard issue boots.

The curtain's fabric split from the divider with a dull tearing sound, Matt could not be bothered to care. He could feel Stick standing there, fairly radiating malice as one cruel hand pushed into Foggy's ribs until a minor crack became a fracture. He could hear the final gasp just before Foggy surrendered to the pain of it, hear the muffled grunt of satisfaction Stick gave at seeing his work accomplished. Matt's gut churned with fury, his cane connecting with Stick's own before he was even aware it had changed hands.

"Back the hell away from him." It was the Devil's words on his lips now, stress and anger making his tone gravelly and low. He was grateful Foggy would not hear him; he had been through too much to add this to the list. As soon as they were home Matt would bundle him into bed and damn well keep him there until he no longer radiated such primal fear.

"I thought I heard your step when I came in. I didn't think I was going to get a moment alone with him."

Matt bit down on his cheek, using the sharp taste of iron to ground himself. "This is the last time. I'm telling you this now: I will kill you before you hurt him again."

He could hear Stick tilting his head, nothing to indicate he had heard Matt's threat. When he spoke it was with an overtone of disappointment that had Matt's hackles rising with the need to attack.

"No, you still don't have it in you. This is what I get for taking the guilty catholic boy. You never grew out of it."

That should have been the end of it, Matt prayed that would be the end of it. This was a hospital, a place of rest, and he did not want to bring their feud here, but when Stick turned toward Foggy again what fragile grip he had on his banked fury slipped for the briefest second.

The next moment Stick's throat was beneath his hand, bobbing with the effort of swallowing, the nails of one hand were digging into the skin of Matt's wrist through his suit and the other was pounding into his ribs, bruising- cracking, he hoped. It was what he deserved, it was what he had allowed to happen to Foggy. The chirp of radios drifted to him in the background, the scurry of anxious feet as staff leapt aside for security. Matt did not stop when he felt their hands on him, fixated only on the demon in his arms.

He barely noticed when Stick's fist slammed into his jaw, and again into his diaphragm. He was already ill, already so consumed with a fierce desire to hurt he couldn't breathe. He felt it when his knuckles connected with Stick's shoulder, pushing it from its socket with ease, he felt it when his left hook caught Stick in the kidney and when his elbow caught the man restraining him in the chin. The way Stick's ribs yielded beneath his hands was a revelation: if he hit a little farther to the left he could shatter the sternum, stop the heart, send Stick to hell where he would threaten no one ever again.

Matt sucked his lip into his mouth, prepared to deliver a blow that would make the choice for him. He tasted blood and sweat, felt the scrape of whiskers just beneath his skin, the steady throbbing everywhere that Stick's fists had landed and the weak flutter of his muscles as Stick writhed to break his hold, catching his wrist in a way that would fracture it if he didn't let go, perhaps even if he did. All pain he deserved.

Then the steady beep of the monitor pierced the haze of his bloodlust, the labored sound of Foggy still struggling to breathe past the pain even in his state. Foggy would forgive him in time. Foggy would comfort him, tell him it had been a case of momentary insanity. He would bankrupt them finding a defense attorney, one that would not need to claim conflict of interest, and when at last the cards fell however they did, he would stay, using all the skills and eloquence at his disposal to make Matt lay aside his guilt for a few precious hours every day.

He would never forgive himself, though. In his mind, it would always be his fault regardless of whether he was conscious for the final blow or not. Foggy would hate what the man had done, to Matt, to himself, to all the others that hadn't been saved, but it would never occur to him to commit murder over it.

Foggy was still the man that had lied for two months about being a vegetarian to avoid eating lamb because he had petted one once as a child. He had paced a thin spot into the rug outside his office the night after chasing down Karen's attackers with a baseball bat, wiping his hands against his suit as though he still felt the impact. He had been staunchly in favor of trusting that Fisk would be locked away, that there was no need to work outside the system he had dedicated the better part of his academic career to studying. He had been looking for an excuse to leave with Matt, follow him into hell on the off chance that they could make a difference. As attorneys, not vigilantes.

Matt's fist dropped, shoulders bowing beneath the weight of what he was about to do.

Stick would go free, and Matt would spend every night hereafter praying he didn't pay too steep a price for his mercy.

It was too much though, asking him to extend a hand in forgiveness to his enemy. He stepped away, adding another notch to a steadily growing tally he would confess when Foggy was well enough to do without him. Could a man confess and ask forgiveness when he could not bring himself to repent? And if a man that thought in his heart had as good as committed should he now make amends for murder?

The courts would not agree, Foggy would not agree, but even allowing Stick to gain his feet took all the willpower Matt could muster. Hearing him brush himself down, evade the well-meant assistance of gathered security, waving off their concerns in a manner that left them in no doubt who would have been the victim had their fight continued.

Matt had his own opinions on that score, but he held his silence as Stick was escorted out, no further words spoken between them. It went without saying that Stick would return, in months or years it hardly mattered, because Matt knew he was canny enough to have felt the intention in Matt's hands. Hurting Foggy Nelson again meant death, approaching him was at best a risky proposition. Stick would not take a risk without the guarantee of reward, and as far as Matt was concerned his duty toward his mentor was long since satisfied. The crinkle of the paper bracelet in his pocket sounded like nothing more than the crackle of good tinder.

He could feel the trepidation and the heavy stares as security limped from the room, a few of them nursing bruises they hadn't had at the beginning of shift. He wasn't sure if they intended to file a police report, and after the day he had had did not give a single damn. Yet shame made him incline his head in a respectful nod as they left, hands clasped before him and clenched tight until the skin split and stung. He welcomed it.

Alone at last, he made his slow way to the bed, fingers searching out the catch until he could lower the bar. Carefully, so carefully lest he jostle its occupant, Matt slid into the bed, moving as close as he dared. Near enough that he could feel every breath Foggy took, and that his heartbeat rang deafeningly loud in his ears.

Security did not return, neither the police Matt had half-expected. Several times he lifted his head at the squeak of sneakers of the floor, sharp disinfectant and the slosh of a mop telling him their mess was being cleaned up. No one spoke to him though he heard whispers out in the hall- what the hell was the protocol for that cane? Should it be confiscated as a weapon?

He tuned it out, not waking again until a nurse stepped in, x-rays snapping in hand and a quiet, familiar step behind him.

"Is Foggy all right? I had to hear it from our neighbors that one of my friends had been creamed by a car. None of this is okay, Matt. None of it."

"He'll be all right." It was more of a question than Matt wanted to admit, but he heard the shift of scrubs as the nurse nodded his agreement, x-rays still shuffling through his hands uncomfortably. That wasn't the end of the story, but it was enough to set Matt at his ease.

He spoke again with more confidence: "He'll be fine."

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"Foggy, how are you?" Karen's voice drifted out to him from the bedroom, low and soothing. It had taken the better part of the week to convince her neither Foggy nor he would mind a visit outside of office hours. Then again, it had taken nearly as long to convince Foggy he was in no condition to be handling paperwork while under the influence of painkillers.

"I'm down to Percocet, which I guess is cool because so far I'm just tired. Matt asked them to switch it after I told him I saw Batman on the roof."

Evidently Percocet also made Foggy dangerously honest, not that Matt would ever tell him as much. In fact he hadn't said anything at all about any sort of man on the roof, but after Matt had caught him trying to sneak to the window for the eighth time or so he had asked Claire if there wasn't something milder that wouldn't make him sleepwalk.

Batman, though? Matt wasn't sure whether to be amused or offended.

"That's good, I guess." Karen sounded as uncertain as he was, but she pushed ahead anyway, "Does that mean you're coming back to the office soon? Matt is lost-"

That was his cue. Matt swept out of the kitchen on cat's feet, light and swift. It had taken long enough to convince Foggy to stay down for once and he wasn't about to jeopardize that even for the sake of a friend.

"Are you staying for dinner, Karen?"

She leapt- Matt could hear her toes clear the floor for a split second before touching down again. Foggy's laughter drowned out the shocked gasp that escaped her; for months now she had been on edge, since they had put Wilson away. He would have to find some way of convincing her the kingpin wouldn't escape, anything to quell her near constant anxiety. If he had dealt with Stick- and a week without contact did not necessarily prove that- there was no question but that he could deal with the shade of Wilson Fisk.

"Um, no. No, I have leftovers in the fridge-"

"C'mon, stay. Matt's a half-decent cook-"

Matt was a damn good cook. He leveled a look in Foggy's direction he knew his partner would have no trouble interpreting.

"And he owes it to you for completely forgetting to call." Foggy's tone took on that bossy edge he was only just beginning to find again. For days after his release he had tip-toed around Matt, stinking of guilt. He had tried at first, to make a joke of it- the blind leading the lame, he had said, forcing a half-hearted laugh. It wasn't easy for him, the bed-rest and the time off work. They had argued for hours over whether Matt would even so much as bring him files from the office.

Matt had conceded eventually, but only because he knew Foggy wouldn't realize how very not himself he was without experiencing it first hand.

"No, really, I should go."

Matt tried not to appear too relieved, but he could feel Foggy getting tense again, already seeking out a way to justify what he perceived as his weakness.

"Helpless" was not a word Foggy Nelson had ever associated with himself, but the past week had changed that. Help to and from the shower, in the shower, even so much as sitting up during the first days. The first time he had sneezed after the accident had taken him to tears, and Matt heard his shame in the way his fingers clenched on the floorboards where he had fallen.

That was the beginning of bed rest. The doctor had warned him that would be best, but Foggy being Foggy he had exercised his right to autonomy and staunchly resisted it for two days.

When Matt had finally coaxed him to the bed it had felt like nothing short of a miracle. When he had tried to tuck him in, Foggy had put his foot down again, begging for some last scrap of dignity while he was laid up. Matt understood that feeling all too well, but he was only now beginning to appreciate what it must have taken for his father to stand back and offer his encouragement and support instead of smothering him, wrapping him up in so many layers nothing would damage him again.

Foggy would recover. A few months, the doctor said, for his ribs. Hard experience had taught Matt to budget a month longer than expected. Amazing all the things one learned about core muscles and the rib cage after that first broken rib. Maybe a year for his back, longer with his pelvis in the shape it was in. Pity they hadn't studied to be chiropractors. The concussion had been the source of his worry, but aside from a sensitivity to light for a few days after and a splitting headache his meds had managed spectacularly, Foggy claimed to be feeling well. At least until he remembered his hands were all but out of commission for another six weeks.

"I'll walk you to the door." Matt prayed the implied stay down fell on Foggy's ears.

Lo and behold his prayers were not answered. "We'll walk you to the door, because we're partners, and partners consult with partners before doing something, right?"

If Foggy had been in even marginally better condition, Matt would have kicked his shins to knock the smug tone out of his voice. As it was… "Agreed. Partners should be absolutely honest with each other."

Karen's muscles were tensing, heartbeat steadily picking up, radiating the same guilt Foggy had that first night. Matt hadn't read the cues then, tonight he had no intention of making the same mistake. Foggy too had bristled with offense- Matt could feel him trying not to lean too heavily when he curled a hand about his arm. He adjusted slightly to take more of Foggy's weight, forcing Foggy to offer it to him. Pride was a sin he was all too acquainted with.

"Sometimes we keep things back to protect each other. It's in the small print of the 'friends' agreement." He was defensive again, completely unaware of the interplay between Matt and Karen.

"Agreed." Matt had long since given up trying to talk Foggy out of his stubborn self-reliance; he wasn't really in the best position himself to lecture about it, and Foggy always managed to circle the argument back around to who had been keeping destructive secrets in the first place.

Karen nodded, swallowing a lump of pure fear.

He was going to have to leave Foggy tonight. What Karen would not share with her colleagues, she might confess to the man that had rescued her once before.

Tonight, then. After Foggy was asleep, after he had patrolled around their home to be certain the past hadn't come back to haunt them again. Maybe he could call Claire for good measure, get her to watch over Foggy with phone in hand.

It was going to be weeks before he felt comfortable leaving any of them alone again, but there was only so long the Devil could afford to be off the streets.

He waited until he heard Karen's footsteps on the first landing before saying as much to Foggy.

"Finally. Geez, I thought you were going to mother-hen me forever." Humor, but it was not untinged with genuine relief.

Matt smiled with him, mischief writ in every line of his face. "Szechuan tonight? With chopsticks?"

Foggy started to laugh, sobbed out a breath instead. "Fuck. Don't make me laugh, Murdock."

"Dead serious. I'll feed you, we'll flirt, and I'll show you a thing or two I learned about blowing off steam with extensive injuries. Trust me, I've learned a trick or two."

"Hell, yes. Please." He added belatedly, for once not hesitating to climb back into his silken prison. "I can't remember why I ever liked beds any more. A reminder would be fantastic."

It took every scrap of well-honed self-control for Matt to step away and ignore the disappointed huff that said Foggy was ready and willing to skip dinner. He did, though.

Just.

He made it to the door before he reconsidered, truly one of his more heroic feats.

Considering the ease with which Foggy divested him of his shirt, entirely without his hands, Matt knew surrendering to temptation had been by far the better part of valor.

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Concrit/comments are always appreciated! ^.^