The fire is out of control.
A whole row of townhouses up in flames. Every fire engine in Hell's Kitchen working to douse the raging inferno with water, foam, and just about everything else they can think of. Firemen rush in and out, dragging burn and smoke victims out by the dozen, and yet more screams of agony can be heard piercing the night air, pleading, crying...
It's arson, Matt can tell by the overwhelming stench of gasoline and spent matches. The townhouses are bathed in the chemical odor, leading from door to door, and finally away into an alley across the street. He could track the arsonist with ease, knock out his teeth, and throw him to the NYPD like a nice, juicy steak into a den of lions. But that's a job for another time. Right now, he's got a more pressing issue to attend to.
The firemen and police don't see him coming. They're too busy fighting the flames and keeping out the gawkers. Ultimately, it's an EMT who notices him first. A shadowy, red devil stalking across the asphalt, ducking past the barrier tape, and kicking open the door to the east-most apartment. It's not visibly on fire, which is likely why no one has gone in yet to check on the folks living here. But the single heartbeat inside is growing weaker and weaker by the second, the smell of smoke so powerful Matt can't help but wonder how even someone with normal senses wouldn't notice.
Even behind the mask, his eyes begin to sting. The smoke is thick, funneling in from the ventilation somewhere on the second floor. He can feel it slithering through the air, stinging his skin and burning his throat. Still, he keeps moving, navigating by sound and touch since his nose and mouth are too busy suffocating.
The child is upstairs, alone. Very young and very scared. They're not unconsious yet but are too weak to yell for help.
Matt covers his mouth as he sprints up the stairs, feeling the vibration of his own footfalls to count the steps he has to take. Fifteen up and he hits a landing. He has to pause, both to breathe, and to listen. His lungs are shrieking and he can't keep his eyes open, but the heartbeat is still fading... On his left.
He turns, tilts his head. He can hear his ragged breaths hitting walls, the way his coughing echoes around. There's a doorway. Inside is something made of wood and cotton, a bed maybe. Glass, too, probably a window. Feeling blindly for the doorknob, Matt twists the handle, cursing when he finds it locked.
He doesn't bother calling out to the person inside to open up. They're too far gone to hear him. Stepping back, he gives the door a powerful kick, throwing his whole body's momentum. The hallway vibrates at the snap of wood, the bending of metal... The door swings open and Matt rushes in, coughing at the wave of smoke that slams him in the lungs. It's beginning to hurt just to breathe.
The child is motionless, save for shallow, raspy breaths. He fumbles for her, scooping the child up and all but tossing her over his shoulder. Back out the door, he staggers for the staircase, fingers trailing the wall, struggling to keep himself on a straight line when his world on fire is so distorted and every one of his senses are screaming in pain.
He trips on the second step down, clipping the wall and sliding a few steps before recovering. Gripping the bannister with one hand and shifting the young girl on his other shoulder, Matt stumbles down the last few steps, his knees beginning to sag as he reaches the bottom. His head has begun to spin.
Bursting out into the cool, night air is more than refreshing. It feels breathtaking, having that hot, singing smoke off his face and out of his sinuses. The closest EMT to him is already hard at work but the victim on Matt's shoulder doesn't have time to wait for him to find someone else. Daredevil trudges over to the paramedic, who stiffens at the sight of him.
"This girl needs help," he wheezes, laying her down in the dew-coated grass. "She's inhaled too much smoke and her throat has swelled shut. She's been out for probably a minute and a half. Pulse is around 40." He tilts his head, listening. "Your other patient will be fine. His lungs sound clear. Burn isn't too severe."
The paramedic is probably gaping at him like he's a lunatic but Daredevil just turns on his heel and heads for the next apartment. This time, he can tell it's an old man just by the way he sounds. Creaking joints, rasping, baritone coughs. Matt throws open the door and heads up the stairs again, finding the old man in the kitchenette, collapsed on the floor. He can taste copper in the air, even through the smoke. The man must have smacked his head when he fell.
Daredevil slings one of the old man's arms around his shoulders, pulling him to his feet. The geezer fights him weakly, deliriously. He's probably got a concussion on top of the smoke inhalation by the way there are drips of blood smashing into the floor tiles. Matt just holds him still as best he can and drags him toward the steps.
He's just about to start descending toward the front door when he pauses, his head instinctively jerking to the side. There's someone here, outside, that shouldn't be here. The cops are telling him to stay behind the tape. They're arguing about something.
Matt frowns when he recognizes the voice. What the hell is Foggy doing out here in the middle of the night? Arguing with cops, nonethless.
But Daredevil is snapped back to reality when the old man gives a feeble moan and slumps toward the floor. Readjusting the man's weight, Matt starts for the staircase.
He gets halfway down before the man swings at him again. The blow is weak but, admittedly, unexpected. Matt stumbles, swearing, and tries to grab the old man before he can fall. But it's too late, he's pitched forward, already off balance.
They go down together, Matt twisting around so the man lands on top of him. His shoulders clip every step on the way down, crashing to the floor so hard the light fixture in the ceiling rattles and pieces of burned drywall crumble onto his face.
"Ahh..." Matt winces, reaching up to push the old guy's weight off of him so he can breathe. That's when a set of footsteps approaches, their vibrations tingling up and down Matt's aching spine. It's one of the firemen, his tank of oxygen clanging against his back, dragging a hose. He sets one foot inside, freezes, then runs back out, shouting for help.
"We've got two men down in here!" he yells, and a handful of others come running.
Again, Matt struggles to free himself from the surprisingly heavy geezer but his head is spinning from the smoke and his muscles feel unaturally weak... It takes him a moment to realize he can barely lift his head off the floor, let alone push a two hundred pound man off of himself.
The world on fire is starting to fade away by the time the firemen arrive to help. The old man is taken and then Matt gets lifted up as well, carried under his armpits and his knees out into the bitter cold night. They lay him in the grass and someone kneels beside him, touches his throat, feeling for a pulse. They speak but his hearing is too muted to understand their words. Matt jumps when something cold and hard is pressed to his face, but the blast of air that rushes down his throat feels magical and he doesn't fight it when they strap the oxygen mask over his helmet, count his pulse, and check him over for injuries. All that matters is they don't try to reveal his face, so beyond that he doesn't care what they do.
He just wants to lay there, not move, and just breathe for a while.
The paramedic has other ideas, though. His hands prod Matt's neck and shoulders, probably feeling for injuries, where there are none. If he had a broken bone or dislocated joint, he would be able to tell. He'd be able to hear it. But he senses nothing. Just bruises. Lots of bruises. Matt turns away from him, groaning.
"Hey, just take it easy..." the paramedic says, sternly but with a certain kindness. He sounds like Claire. "You inhaled a lot of smoke and took quite a fall."
"I'm fine," Matt grinds out, suddenly finding his voice. "Nothing's broken." He stiffens, feeling the EMT's hands probing around his wrist, trying to roll up the sleeve of his suit. He wants to move away, to swat the gloved hands off of him, but his body is too heavy. "What are you doing?" he demands instead.
"I'm going to start an IV to help manage the pain."
Those words are enough to get Matt moving. He rips the oxygen mask off his face and struggles to sit up, fighting the paramedic who tries to force him to lay back down.
"Sir! You're in no condition to-"
"Hey!" Foggy's voice... Rapid footsteps. Foggy closes in on them, takes the paramedic by his elbow, leads him away. Even though he's whispering, Matt can hear what he's saying...and Foggy knows it. "Don't you know who that guy is?" he asks, urgently.
The paramedic pauses. "Um...Daredevil, right?"
"Uh, yeah! The Devil of Hell's Kitchen!"
Matt almost smiles. The paramedic's heart rate kicks up a notch.
"L-look, sir, you shouldn't be here!"
"Listen, I'm just trying to help you out here...I don't think you should be messing around with a guy like that."
The paramedic audibly chews his lip. "He was saving an old man."
"I'm not saying he isn't trying to help," Foggy argues. "I'm just saying he's dangerous. And all...turned around from falling. He probably hit his head. He's not safe to be around."
"I can't just-"
"Look, man, I'm a lawyer. If a patient refuses help, there's nothing you can do. That's what he was doing, right? Refusing your help?"
The paramedic is clearly lost. His heart rate is through the roof and Matt can almost smell his confusion.
Good old Foggy.
Peeling himself off the ground, Matt winces, touching the back of his head. The helmet covers it but he's fairly sure he's got a bump the size of golf ball... Nonetheless, he can't stick around here. Not with the threat of pain killers and hospitals around every corner. He staggers once he gets to his feet, but only for a second. After that, his head catches up to the rest of him and he hustles off into the nearest alleyway he can find, disappearing from the scene.
There are no more screams to be heard, anyway.
Everyone is either safe...or beyond helping.
Five minutes later, Matt's burner phone starts buzzing. He's almost home, just a few more blocks, but he pauses to answer anyway.
"Hello?"
"Wow, you sound like shit."
Matt blinks. "Claire?"
"Were you expecting some other grudgingly concerned nurse to call you at almost two in the morning?"
"I thought this was gonna be Foggy. Did he call you?"
"Sure did. Said you were in a fire. Breathed in a lot of smoke and maybe hit your head. How do you feel?"
"Uh, I'm alright. Sore throat, obviously, and one hell of a headache but I'll live." He's just reached his building. Going around back, he climbs the fire escape up to the roof and drops in through the corner window.
"I don't doubt it. But do me a favor, Matt, have Foggy come stay with you for the night."
"Claire-"
"I'm serious, Matt. Smoke inhalation is no joke. Neither are head injuries. Just one night, that's all I'm asking. I'm sure he wouldn't mind."
Matt sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "You obviously haven't been around us together recently..."
Claire pauses on the other end. When she speaks, her voice is low with concern. "What, are you guys...are you guys fighting? Again?"
"Not really fighting, just...I don't know. Things are tense." As if Neslon and Murdock offically shutting down and their friendship all but collapsing could only be considered 'tense'.
"Still, it would make me feel better to know you're not alone."
Stripping off his helmet and suit, Matt cracks a thin smile. "You worried about me, Claire?"
"Not often. But...I've seen a lot of cases like yours turn sour, Matt... Normally, I'd come over and stay with you myself, just in case, but I've got the shift from hell at the ER and I can't risk taking another sick day."
With a heavy sigh, which turns into a wheezing cough, Matt relents. "Alright, alright I'll...see what I can do."
"Thanks, Matt. Goodnight."
"Night, Claire." He hangs up and is just about to keep his word to her when he hears footsteps jogging up the stairs outside his front door, along with a thumping heart beat, and rapid breaths. He jumps at the pounding on his door, the smell of after shave, sweat, and Josie's whiskey sour.
Matt takes the extra moment to peel off his Daredevil suit. He knows it's only Foggy but he has a feeling the favor he's about to ask will go down better if he's not dressed like the devil... Wadding the suit into a ball, he tosses it into the wardrobe with a mental note to run it through the wash a few times to get the stench of smoke out. Foggy knocks a few more times and Matt jogs over, coughing as he opens the door.
"Hey," Matt says.
"Uh, hey..." Foggy smells lightly of smoke. "Can I come in?"
"Sure." Matt moves to the side and Foggy steps in, shutting the door behind himself. He stands there quietly for a while, his breath hitching every so often like he wants to speak, only he doesn't know what to say. Matt takes a mercy on him and walks back to the living room, giving his friend-former friend?-room to think. Besides, his apartment is chilly and he's only in his boxers. One pair of light grey sweats later and Foggy seems ready to speak. He's standing by the window, hands in his pockets.
"So what," he says. "You're Matt Murdock: lawyer by day, vigilante by night, fireman on the side...?"
Matt chuckles, he can't help it. "Not quite."
But Foggy isn't laughing. "You know, your super-senses or whatever might help you fight bad guys and do mad parkour...but they don't help you breathe smoke or...not get hurt from falling down stairs..."
"I know." Matt supresses the urge to cough.
"Thought you said you weren't trying to be a hero."
"I'm not."
"Coulda' fooled me. You know, you could have been really seriously hurt, Matt. So, what? Now I have to worry myself sick not only when I hear police sirens, but firetrucks too?"
"You don't need to worry about me."
"Sure." He scoffs, shaking his head. "I called Claire. Hope you don't mind."
"I know, she gave me a call."
"What'd she say?"
Matt sits down on the couch, trying to look casual even though his head has started spinning again. His stomach churns slightly, nausea rising in his stomach. Partly because of his probable concussion, and partly at the idea of asking Foggy to stay with him. It wasn't appealing before and it sure as hell sounds like a terrible idea now.
Still, he doesn't want to lie.
God he's so sick of lying.
"She said she was worried, didn't want me to be alone. Said smoke inhalation can be dangerous." Oddly enough, telling the truth doesn't make him feel better. Especially when Foggy's heart rate kicks up a notch.
"Dangerous how?"
"She didn't specify."
A long, uncomfortable silence falls between them while Foggy silently mulls over his choices, pacing to the kitchen in a weak attempt to seem natural. He grabs a beer from the fridge, closes it, then opens it again and grabs a second one, handing it to Matt.
"Thanks."
Foggy doesn't open his beer and neither does Matt. After a dragging, tense silence, Foggy sets his beer on the coffee table and says, "I could stay here for the night...if you want."
"You don't have to. I'm alright."
"Not according to Claire."
Matt sighs. He, too, sets down his unopened beer and sits forward on the couch, elbows on his knees. "Look..." He doesn't know what he wants to say, just that he feels like he needs to fight this somehow. The longer he and Foggy spend in the same room, the worse things get between them.
And he really doesn't want things to get worse, but honestly, he doesn't have the energy to deal with it right now.
"Stay if you want to," he mutters, suddenly tired. "I think I'm gonna hit the sack..." Matt doesn't bother trying to work out Foggy's reaction. His body feels like lead and it's enough work just to get to his feet.
Maybe it's a coincidence, or maybe it's because The Devil of Hell's Kitchen has just tripped over his own coffee table, but Foggy grabs Matt by the arm-none too gently-and guides him to the bedroom. Matt thanks him, quietly, subdued, and falls onto the matress with a heavy sigh that turns into a racking cough.
Foggy turns like he's going to walk out but pauses in the doorway as Matt coughs and coughs, wheezes, and coughs some more. "You need a drink?" he asks, but Matt doesn't answer. Can't, really. He's still coughing. Foggy hustles to the kitchen, listening to the choking gasps of Matt trying to catch his breath. He grabs a glass, fills it with water, and hurries back to the room, placing it in Matt's hand.
His friend takes a few, deep swallows, and his coughing fit fades after that. "Thanks," he rasps out, laying down. He looks spent. Eyes puffy and irritated from the smoke, nose and mouth chapped and red, skin slightly paler than usual. Foggy takes the glass and refills it in the kitchen just to get away.
Half of him feels bad. For Matt, for the obvious pain he's in, for the way they fight nowadays...and is genuinely scared his friend is gonna get worse overnight. The other half is mad as a hornet and wants to stomp out the door and never come back, to just throw everything to the wind and say 'screw Matt Murdock, he did this to himself!'.
The decision he makes falls somewhere in between.
He sets the glass of water on the end table beside Matt's bed without a word, then crashes on the couch and finally opens his beer. Matt's too. He falls asleep about an hour later, three more empty bottles littered around him.
When Foggy wakes the next morning, Matt is still asleep. It's almost ten in the morning and he has three missed calls. One from Marci, one from his new office, and one from Karen. He isn't really eager to talk to any of them but the fact that it's almost ten and his office has called reminds him that he no longer works for himself...he has a job. And office hours. And he's an hour late. Shit.
Jabbing out the number, it rings five times before getting answer.
"Foggy-bear, there you are. I was just about to start calling hospitals."
"Really?" Who are you and what have you done with Marci?
"No. Where the hell are you? You're late." There she is.
"I know, I'm-I'm sorry. I overslept and never set an alarm-"
"I don't care," she interrupts. "Just get your sweet ass down here before you lose your job and make me look bad."
"How would me losing my job make you look bad?"
"I vouched for you remember, Foggy-bear? Plus, everyone in the office knows we're sleeping together."
"They do...? Uh-never mind. I'll be right down!" Marci hangs up without so much as a goodbye and Foggy stuffs his phone into his pocket. Running to the mirror hanging in the bathroom, he's worrying over the wrinkles in his shirt and jacket when Matt pads out into the living room, yawning. He looks better than last night, not as pale. He pauses by the bathroom door, turns his head in Foggy's general direction and says,
"It's almost ten in the morning. Aren't you late for work?"
"Yeah." Foggy hurries out into the living room, brushing past Matt. He grabs his tie and sneakers and then curses, remembering his office's strict dress code. Basically anything with a rubber heel that costs less than three hunderd bucks is frowned upon and called 'unprofessional'.
"What's wrong?" Matt has gone to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. It smells heavenly. Too bad Foggy doesn't have time to breathe, let alone get a drink.
"You have some decent loafers or something I could borrow? Dress code."
Matt makes a face. "Your office has a dress code?" But he heads for the closet anyway.
"Yeah. Weird right?"
Matt pulls out a shoe box that doesn't look like it's been touched in ages. He brushes off the dust and hands it to Foggy. "Haven't worn 'em since college. Hope they fit."
Foggy remembers these shoes. Black, leather, expensive. They each bought a pair when they landed that internship at Landman and Zack, wore them once, then (in Matt's case) put them back in the box and never put themselves through that pain again.
In Foggy's case, sold them for thirty bucks to help pay rent one time.
Matt's shoe size is one too small but Foggy'll make it work. He thanks Matt profusely, crams his feet into the shoes, grabs his briefcase and heads for the door. "You want me to call Claire on my way and tell her you're still alive?"
Matt smirks. "I can call her."
"Yes, but will she believe you? The guy who literally says 'I'm fine' when his guts are almost spilling out."
"That's an exaggeration."
"Is it, Matthew?" Foggy can't help but smile. He's still pissed at Matt for being reckless but he's always been the type to forget about anger and grudges after a good night's sleep. It's a blessing and a curse, honestly. Sometimes he wishes he could stay mad, but it's not in his DNA. Kind of like cured meats and cheese...
Speaking of which, he's starving.
Thankfully Hogar, Chao, and Benowitz has free bagels. Seems like that's the only good thing about these soulless law firms... Well, that and a paycheck with more than double digits.
Pulling open the door, Foggy pauses one last time. "You're gonna stay home today, right? No derring-dos?"
"Uh, that's the plan for now."
"For now?"
Matt peeks around the corner, a thin smirk on his lips. "Go to work, Foggy. I'll be here."
Somehow, Foggy doesn't believe him.
Nevertheless, he has a job to get to. Shutting the door behind him, he sprints down the steps and out onto the sidewalk, hailing the first cab he sees.
Little does Matt know, he's planning an ambush. After work, he'll go by his friend's apartment. 'Drop in' to see how he's doing. That's if here's there at all...
Which he better be.
He may be the world's biggest dickhead but he's still Foggy's friend (though sometimes it's hard to remember that part...). And he'll be damned if he's gonna let him get himself killed. Not if he can help it.
Even if that means putting up with the occasional dickery.
