A/N So I'm a late again, sorry about that. This chapter has been a bit of a struggle and with real life and everything, it just took a bit longer. Actually, I think a biweekly update might be more realistic on the long run.

Regarding the last chapter: Somehow I've always pictured Claire with a flip phone (no idea where that came from) and I've had to rewatch some episodes to confirm that of course she has a smartphone. Which Matt wouldn't be able to use that without help, so I've fixed that. Thank you for pointing it out :-)

I can't thank you enough for your kind feedback. It's really great to hear from you and I'm so happy that you are enjoying this!


Chapter 4

It was in the early afternoon when Foggy knocked on Claire's door, duffelbag in hand and slightly out of breath from climbing the stairs. Worry knotted his stomach as he stared at the shabby door in front of him, waiting for it to open.

Matt's phone call had been a relief after a morning of tense waiting, which he had spent between leaving countless messages on Matt's voicemail and trying to convince Karen as much as himself that there was no need to be concerned. That Matt had probably just overslept after having a drink too much. That he would come in any minute. He had come up with several harmless scenarios that were meant to distract himself from the other explanations his mind offered him. Unsolicited, worrying explanations that manifested in images of nightmarish content: Matt's lifeless body floating face down in the Hudson. Beaten to death in some nameless alley, every bone crushed and broken. Bleeding out on the floor of his own apartment, face pale in the changing light of the billboard. The last image was most insistent, returning with a grim persistence.

Ever since Foggy had found him that night months ago, the sight had burnt itself into his brain, and it was on days like this when it reminded him of the reason why he hated what Matt was doing. At least today he knew that Matt was still alive.

Someone moved behind the closed door and Foggy knocked again, wanting Claire to hurry up. Matt hadn't been very precise on the phone, had just given him the most important information in a voice that sounded hoarse and pained and very tired. I'm at Claire's, I need dry clothes. Could you please come and pick me up. He wouldn't tell what had happened, apparently it was a longer story, and Foggy hadn't wanted to ask him with Karen listening in. So he had swallowed the questions sitting on his tongue, and being the good friend he was, he had left immediately, turning from his path only to pick up some clothes from Matt's apartment as requested.

He was just about to knock a third time, when he heard the bolt slide back and Claire's familiar face appeared in the doorway. The last time he had seen her, her arms and shirt had been stained with Matt's blood, her pretty face exhausted and marred with concern. Now she looked more relaxed and he took that as a good sign.

"Hey, Foggy," she greeted him. "Come in."

"I came as fast as I could. How is he?"

Foggy stepped past her, eyes immediately searching for Matt and finding him slouched on the couch, pale like a ghost, a thick blanket around his shoulders. The remains of his lunch were still on the table before him. Matt turned his blind gaze in Foggy's direction when he entered, giving him a lopsided smile.

"I'm okay," Matt answered hoarsely before Claire could say anything. "Thank you for coming."

"Sure thing, mate."

Foggy walked over to him, taking in the fading rash on Matt's face and his reddened eyes, and shook his head, dismayed at the sight. Okay was an obvious understatement, probably born from a well-intended attempt of easing his worries.

"You look terrible," Foggy told him. "What happened?"

Matt shrugged slightly. "I ran into some trouble last night."

Foggy narrowed his eyes at the evasive answer. If Matt thought he could get away with this, he was sorely mistaken.

"What kind of trouble?"

Matt hesitated, apparently tried to come up with an answer that wouldn't upset Foggy any further. Was probably listening to his friend's heartbeat, gauging how angry he was at the moment.

"He took a dive into the harbor," Claire interjected matter-of-factly, ignoring Matt's pleading glance. She pushed past Foggy and started to clean up the table, as she continued to brief him. "Inhaled some unknown toxic substance, which damaged his lungs. How badly remains to be seen. Then there's the graze wound on his shoulder, of course, and he took a hit to the head."

Foggy took a deep breath, trying to process the information and continued with the part that worried him the most. "A toxic substance?"

"War gas, probably," Matt said quietly.

"What, like mustard gas? Here in Hell's kitchen?" Foggy looked from Matt to Claire. It took a moment for him to make the connection. "Wait a minute. The shooting at the harbor last night. It's been all over the news."

"Yeah, I was there," Matt confirmed. "Left before the police got there."

There was only one reason Foggy could think of which would cause Matt to leave a fight.

"Because you were wounded."

Matt locked his jaw and nodded mutely.

"How bad is it really?" Foggy asked solemnly, sinking into the arm-chair as his agitation melted into profound concern. He'd noticed the controlled expression on Matt's face, the subtle furrow between his brows that he had come to know as a sure sign that Matt was in pain and didn't want anybody to know. But Foggy saw, the constant worry of the past months having been a great teacher. He shot Claire a questioning glance and she raised her shoulders in a helpless gesture.

"I'm no doctor, and since he refuses to go to the hospital, I can't say for sure. But his lungs and airways are inflamed, that much is obvious. The stuff seems to be corrosive when it comes into contact with water. That's why the rash is worst around his eyes and nose. I'm willing to bet his lungs look even worse."

Matt coughed as if on cue, a sick, rattling sound that caused Foggy to wince in sympathy. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'll be fine," Matt muttered quietly, tears in his eyes as he tried to keep another coughing fit at bay. It was obvious how much the conversation annoyed him. Foggy grabbed the water bottle from the table and handed it to his friend, who accepted it with a grateful smile.

"Probably," Claire retorted. "If you take it easy and get some rest."

Matt rolled his eyes as he took a swag from the bottle, which was a dead giveaway that he had heard that particular advice more than once today.

"I'll make sure he does," Foggy promised.

"Hey, Foggy," Matt cleared his throat, taking the opportunity to change the topic. "Did you bring the clothes?"

"Of course." Foggy handed him the duffel bag he'd brought and Matt unzipped it to pull out a soft shirt, slipping it over his head. The white bandage on Matt's shoulder caught Foggy's attention as he did.

"Anything else I should know?" He asked Claire.

"Yeah," she answered from the kitchen, shooting him a quick glance over her shoulder as she put the dirty dishes in the sink, then bent to pick up a plastic bag from the counter. "Actually, you could stop by a pharmacy and get some Ibuprofen. He doesn't want anything stronger, and Aspirin is really a bad idea right now. It's anticoagulant and might promote bleeding."

Foggy nodded, making a mental note. "Will do."

She carried the bag over to Foggy, and when he looked inside, he found a familiar mask and suit together with a pair of boots. They were still damp and smelled of mud and blood. He hadn't expected the sight to upset him again, but it did. Helpless anger coiled in his chest and for a brief moment, Foggy felt the overwhelming urge to get rid of the stuff for good, loose it on their way home or throw it into the next dumpster.

He didn't want to spend the rest of his life fearing for Matt, worried sick every time he was late. But in his heart, he knew that destroying the suit wouldn't change anything. It would only drive them further apart, and Foggy didn't want that. Even if he hated what Matt was doing, he still loved his friend. It was a painful realization, but Foggy knew it to be the truth. For now, all he could do was to be there for him when he was needed and hope that one day he'd come to his senses. Foggy just hoped that it wouldn't be too late then.

Matt must have noticed that something was wrong, as he stopped in the middle of tying his shoes, directing his unfocused gaze at Foggy.

"Is everything alright?" His voice was strangely soft.

Foggy snapped from his trance and glared at him, pained anger constricting his throat, and for a beat he felt like telling him. But there was nothing he could say that Matt didn't already know, and he didn't want to go back into this in front of Claire. So he just shook his head and sighed.

"Let's get you home, okay?"

It wasn't what he'd wanted to say and Matt knew. Foggy could see it in the way he tilted his head, listening to something only he could hear. But he played along, just like he always did.

"Okay."

Matt finished lacing his shoes and said his goodbye to Claire, thanking her for everything she had done, and Foggy chose not to address the subject again. At least until they were back at Matt's place.

They rode the cab in silence.


When Matt returned from his bedroom, hair still wet from the shower and dressed in a comfortable pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, he was feeling decidedly better. It had been a relief to rid himself of the lingering smell of harbor water and grime, and the painkillers that Foggy had made him take as soon as he'd purchased them were finally taking effect as well, reducing the burning agony in his lungs to a bearable ache.

Foggy had insisted on staying, had been worried that his friend might pass out under the shower after witnessing his trouble climbing the stairs, and sure enough he was still there as Matt entered the room. He found him standing at the window, gazing at the street below, a bottle of beer in hand. Even though his heartbeat had slowed a bit, his concern was still palpable, filling the room like a sad song.

Foggy remained silent as Matt padded over to the couch and settled down, merely took a deep swag from the bottle before looking out of the window again. For a moment Matt considered to say something, but then changed his mind. Foggy would eventually address whatever it was he wanted to say, and Matt had a pretty good idea what that was anyway. No need to press onwards. Just give him some time. Minutes passed in which Matt listened to the agitated thud of Foggy's heart, the regular in and out of his breath, and when he finally noticed a soft sigh, he knew that Foggy was ready to talk.

"I hate this, Matt."

It was what Foggy had been wanting to say ever since he'd accepted the plastic bag at Claire's apartment, and Matt felt a strange relief that the words were finally out in the open. He found outspoken, riled up Foggy a lot easier to deal with than the tense, silent one he'd experienced up till now.

"I know," Matt said sincerely. "I'm sorry."

He felt Foggy's gaze weigh on him as he pondered the response.

"I should have called you earlier," he continued. "You've probably wondered where I've been."

Foggy had. The lurch of his heart told Matt that he had feared the worst. "I hope you were doing okay at the office without me."

"If you're talking about your appointment with Mrs. Moyano, I took care of that. Karen's rescheduled the dates with your other clients." Foggy's voice was level, no accusation there, just information. This was not the reason he was upset with Matt.

"Thank you, that's good." Matt nodded. "What did you tell her?"

"Karen? That you've come down with the flu and needed me to get to the doctor's."

It was plausible and explained Matt's hoarse voice as well as his cough. If she called him, she wouldn't suspect anything. Nevertheless, he felt bad for making Foggy lie to her again.

"Thanks, man." He smiled apologetically. "I know this has been hard on you."

"I hate lying to her," Foggy said angrily and Matt could hear in his heartbeat how much he meant it. "Every time I tell her some fairy tale about how you got hurt, I feel like a downright asshole. You know that she trusts us, right? That she thinks we're friends. And I lie to her on a fairly regular basis because of you."

There was truth in what he said, and it felt like a stab into Matt's heart. He liked Karen, and it wasn't as if he didn't trust her. There were just too many people who knew about his secret identity already, and it put them in danger. Claire had cruelly experienced it herself. He couldn't subject Karen to the same danger, he'd never forgive himself.

Foggy took another swag from the bottle, shaking his head.

"One day you gotta explain this to her," he said. "She deserves better."

"Yeah, I know."

"Do you? Because I think if I hadn't found you in your costume that night, you never would have told me. And you're not planning to tell Karen either."

"I can't tell her," Matt reasoned. "I don't want her to get hurt."

"Then stop doing this!"

Matt shook his head. "We've talked about this, Foggy. I'm not gonna stop."

This wasn't only about him or Foggy. It was about everyone in Hell's Kitchen, all the people that he could help. It felt wrong to just sit back and do nothing when he could really make a difference here. Especially now when so many lives were at stake. "And … I'm sorry I had to call you to pick me up. It won't happen again."

"No. I want you to call me when you need help, okay? I just…" He made a helpless gesture at Matt. "I mean, look at you, Matt. You're half dead. Again."

He sighed. "I'm not half dead."

"Well, you sure look it. I worry about you, okay? Karen, too." He paused, shaking his head at him. "Will you at least take it easy and get some rest? Or do I have to stay here and make sure that you do?"

"Foggy..."

Matt didn't want to lie but he couldn't tell him the truth either. He had considered telling Foggy about the missing barrels, about the threat that these chemicals posed for everyone as long as they stayed here in Hell's Kitchen. Foggy would try to stop him at best. At worst, he would try to help and put himself in danger, probably Karen too, and Foggy was no soldier or cop. He didn't know how to defend himself against people like these.

It would only make things worse if he knew. So Matt tried to placate him, avoiding an honest answer.

"You don't have to worry about me, okay?"

"You're already planning to go out there again, aren't you." It was not a question. "The cops are still looking for the shooters. Don't tell me you don't want to help."

Matt sighed, realizing that there was no elegant way out of this.

"Look, Foggy, I'm not stupid. I know I can't fight like this."

That wasn't a lie. He had tried not to worry Claire, but Matt knew exactly how much his lungs had suffered from the chemical exposure. In addition to the pain in his chest, his muscles and brain were constantly low on oxygen, making him feel weak and dizzy. Taking on any trained fighter like this was suicide, and he wasn't planning on doing that tonight. However, there were other things he could do. Like talking to Brett about the matter, or some simple eavesdropping to gain information.

"I'm glad you understand that," Foggy replied, not quite convinced.

"I do."

"Good."

He could feel Foggy sizing him up, trying to tell whether he was telling the truth.

"So, I can trust you to stay here and rest? Because we've got an appointment at court this afternoon that at least one of us should show up at."

Matt remembered the custody case they currently worked on and had to agree with Foggy. If they failed to show up today, little Jenny and her mother would suffer.

"As I said, you don't have to worry."

Matt knew what it sounded like and he had to try hard not to shrink under Foggy's scrutinizing glance. It was a lie, no matter how he looked at it.

"I'll take your word for it."

Matt smiled at him in confirmation and was glad when Foggy's phone beeped, preventing him from making the lie any worse. Foggy pulled it from his pocket, swiping the screen.

"Shit," he muttered to himself. "I gotta get going."

"Karen?"

"Yeah. We wanted to meet at court." Foggy checked the time, then put the half-empty bottle on the table and grabbed his jacket from the arm-chair. "I'm late already."

He stopped to give Matt another look.

"Get some rest, okay?" His anger from before was gone. Now it was just the worry talking through him.

Matt nodded. "Thanks man. For everything."

Foggy smiled, letting him know that as far as he was concerned, they were okay.

"I'll drop by again after work and bring some dinner."

That was a bad idea. Matt didn't know when he'd be back tonight and he didn't want to imagine how Foggy would react if he found him gone.

"Please don't. Actually, I'd really like to go to bed early and get some sleep." Matt tried to sound casual about it, and judging by Foggy's heartbeat, he succeeded.

"Fair enough. It's breakfast then."

It was hard to return the smile Foggy gave him but Matt managed somehow, feeling very much like a jerk. He'd just lied to his best friend, who just wanted to help. But it was better than risking him to get hurt.

"See you tomorrow."

And with that, Foggy was out of the door.

Matt listened to the retreating footsteps echo in the hallway, then heard the front door fall shut. Foggy's blew on his hands when he stepped into the cold, the snow crunching softly under his shoes as he walked down the block. Matt heard him call out to a cab, followed by the sound of a car door opening and closing again. He tracked the receding engine until he could no longer hear it.

Sighing, he closed his eyes, running a weary hand across his face. He was tired. Exhausted. Every fiber of his body demanded rest, his mind was too woozy to take hold of a clear thought anymore. The conversation with Foggy had drained him. Maybe Foggy was right, maybe he should stay at home tonight.

In the back of his mind, he could hear Stick sneering. You little brat. You think you're exhausted? You don't even know what exhaustion means. Get on your feet before I make you.

Thinking of Stick always seemed to do the trick. Slowly, like an old man, Matt rose to his feet and padded over to the wall where he settled on the floor, legs folded Indian-style. There was no way he could stay at home tonight, he was responsible for this. It had been his fault that things had gone wrong the way they had. But before he left, he had to try and heal. Closing his eyes, he directed his mind to the base of his backbone, consciously straightening his back vertebra by vertebra, and rested his hands on his knees, palms upwards. No matter how exhausted he was, the ritual was so ingrained in himself, he could feel his mind emptying with the first exhale of breath that left his lungs. A few breaths, and the residual pain started to decrease, retreating into the back of his mind where it no longer bothered him. With that, profound stillness spread in his soul, a deep peace that continued to extend through every fiber of his being and finally allowed his body to heal.


TBC