Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Notes: Thank you for the responses to the first chapter! I hope this is a good first installment. Special thanks to the ticking clock who provided the prompt for this chapter. Please, enjoy!

…Of Shattered Glass

All that waiting for a call, and the first words out of Foggy's mouth are, "Why the hell didn't you call Claire?"
Matt laugh-winces-groans all in the same breath, in pain but not ready to admit that he's in pain. "That bad, huh?"

"It's worse than that bad!" and that's saying something. Foggy's eyes are still adjusting to the light in Matt's apartment. What looks to be a mess of glittering red on Matt's shoulder could actually be…no, no, that's actually what it is. In fact, being able to see it better only makes the wound look worse. Foggy has to correct himself, "It's worse than that too!"

"Guy hit me with a bottle," Matt actually makes the motion of brushing aside Foggy's concern in the air.

As if that makes it o-kay.

As if that makes it all better.

As if that makes the wound just disappear.

"And you didn't call Claire because, let me guess: you used up all your good judgment getting hit in the shoulder with a bottle?"

"Claire's out of town."

"Well, I'll text her a picture of this. That should bring her back in town."

"Foggy, Foggy, Foggy…" Matt's hand is a blur in the air from shaking so badly. "It's fine. There's not a lot of glass in the wound."

"There's still glass in there?!"

"Not a lot of it. A few shards, that's all. You're going to have to…you're going to have to abrade the skin, coax them out. I won't even need stitches when it's over. Just some antiseptic and clean dressings."

"Have you seen yourself? Sorry, dumb question. But if you could, you would know that you are gray right now. There are corpses – bloated, rotting, three day old corpses at the bottom of the East River right now – that look better than you."

"They probably feel better than me too right now," Matt musters a laugh. "I trust you, Foggy. I know you can do this."

"You're just saying that because I'm the only one you have to call."

"That doesn't hurt either. This does. I can guide you through it a little. I think I can focus well enough to find most of what you're looking for."

"Wonderful. That almost makes me feel confident," Foggy drops his duffel bag. He rips the first aid kit out of the side pocket and wrestles a pair of gloves onto his hands. He also grabs the tweezers. "Do you have another lamp in here?"

"No, sorry," Matt digs his fingers into the arm rest of his couch, "but don't worry. I'm not. I trust you, Foggy."

"I'm glad one of us does: where am I digging?"

"Give me a minute," Matt goes into his headspace. He takes a few shuddering breaths, muscles tightening with every passing second. It takes an eternity before he comes back to reality. "Bottom right. There's a few pieces."

"How do you know that?"

"I can hear them scraping my skin when I breathe."

"That's terrifying. If I ever ask and the answer is that creepy – ever again – never tell me the answer."

Matt's laugh is a wheeze, but it's a genuine laugh. Foggy's happy he can give him that much. He raises a hand to the wound and draws a circle where he thinks Matt wants him to dig, "Here?"

"Where?"

Foggy doesn't want to touch it. The wound is a series of rakes on Matt's back. He can feel the heat of the wound radiating through his fingers. "This is going to hurt."

"It already hurts."

Foggy sighs, "Good point." He presses the tweezers where he thinks Matt is directing him, gets his friend hyperventilating from the pain, and is rewarded with flecks of glass. He collects them and goes to wipe them off. There's nowhere except the coffee table. "Where else?"

Matt takes a few more deep breaths. He reaches around to point, losing words and what little colour he has left, but manages to guide Foggy to another section of skin. This time the glass is visible, a small clear tooth biting into Matt's shoulder.

"Anything else?"

Matt shakes his head. "I don't know where the rest of them are. I know they're there. I can hear them…"

"Scary, Matt."

"Sorry."

Foggy takes a deep breath. "I am just going to dig. Let me know if I get close."

Matt's eyes are closed when he nods. All his attempts at humour are gone. He can't pretend that this is funny, not when it hurts so damn bad. And Foggy, who holds a PhD in smooth talk, clams up and can't say a word. What the hell do you say to a person who took a bottle to the shoulder and has their BFF pick glass out of their skin as part of their Friday night?

"Right there," Matt finally says. "Agh, right there. Right there. Stop. Stop, stop, stop…"

Foggy finds the culprit, a smattering of splinters that have embedded themselves in Matt's flesh. "You can hear these?"

"I thought…you didn't want to know details…"

"I'm intrigued. Like watching a train wreck."

He gets a smirk. One of those sideways Matt Murdock smiles. Between gasps and grunts of agony. "It sounds like taking a steak knife to raw chicken."

"Okay," Foggy finds another fragment near Matt's shoulder. "Next time I ask, and I really mean it, remind me how much I don't want to know."

"It's not all bad, Foggy."

"This would hurt for normal senses."

"Yeah, it definitely hurts more for me," Matt agrees. "Ask me when I'm not a repository for broken glass."

"Done," and then, Foggy adds, "Thank God."

"Yes, you are," Matt breathes a sigh of relief. "Now for antiseptic."

Foggy moans, "Please don't make me do this to you."

"You'd rather it get infected?"

"Ugh…there is no way to be a good friend to you!"

He means it as a joke, but gray Matt, the Matt who belongs at the bottom of the East River, takes it very seriously. "You are a very good friend to me, Foggy."

The atmosphere in the room changes. Foggy can't make another sarcastic remark, because he doesn't want to rebuff. He pats Matt's shoulder – the one that hasn't been mangled by a maniac with a bottle – and says, "You're a good friend to me too, Matty. When you're not lying about being a vigilante. And asking me to pour alcohol on his incredibly gross injury."

"How's it look?"

"Like Krang from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles."

"Ugh," Matt laughs.

Foggy can't believe his luck: he picked an image that Matt has a referent for! He continues, prepping the bottle of rubbing alcohol, "Like pizza dough that's been tossed with the sauce on it."

Matt makes a bigger face. His laughs are starting to twist into a more pained expression. It's not a coincidence: Foggy finally got the bottle of rubbing alcohol open. Matt can probably count the molecules in the air from how much he's focused on what's coming up.

Foggy tries to distract him. And psyche himself up for the big moment, "Like chicken under a meat mallet…"

Matt forces a laugh.

"I'm going to do this," Foggy promises.

"Yeah, I know."

"With a cloth?"

"No, no, just…just dump it, Foggy. Just…"

Foggy closes his eyes, "I'm sorry."

"I know."

The rubbing alcohol hits Matt's skin and he pitches forward on the couch. Tendons are popping out of his sick, sweaty, corpse-y arm from how hard he's gripping the couch. Foggy rips the bottle away. He catches Matt before his friend can fall off the couch in a swoon. "Hey, hey," Foggy draws Matt back over the arm rest. He packs the wound with fresh gauze, pleased that it's not bleeding heavily. He draws a blanket around his friend's lower back and tries to generate a little bit of heat for him. When that doesn't work, he tries the more direct route. "Come here, Murdock. You're in shock."

Matt groans, but he's not in any position to fight back. His strength's completely drained by the fight to suffer in absolute silence. Foggy gets him into an awkward, warmth-giving, life-saving hug. One that doesn't exacerbate the giant, Krang-shaped wound on his shoulder. Matt is still shaking, but he's starting to settle against Foggy. He's stopped feeling like cold Jell-o.

He mumbles something. "What?" Foggy asks.

"Claire doesn't hug," Matt points out.

"This isn't a hug, I'm saving you from shock."

Matt laughs, "Yeah, sure, Foggy."

"I am administering first aid!"

"Yeah, this is how all the nurses do it."

Foggy scoffs, "The good ones."

Happy reading!