Title: The Devil to Pay
Fandom: Daredevil
Author: gaelicspirit
Characters: Matt Murdock, Foggy Nelson, Claire Temple, cameos by Karen Page and Father Lantom, OC bad guys - GEN
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line.
Foggy Nelson would not call himself a brave man.
Still, he was hard-pressed to name anyone – his best friend not withstanding – who could claim bravery in the face of Taser rods and chloroform. However, he had yet to cry and the screaming was out of his control. It was simply impossible to stay silent when electricity was ramming through soft tissue.
He was fairly certain that the Tasers hadn't done any real, lasting damage, but what the hell did he know about Tasers? He was just a kid from Hell's Kitchen who went to law school instead of becoming a butcher.
And, who also had a best friend who apparently had a knack for really pissing people off.
Last night had been the longest, coldest night in Foggy's recent memory. After depositing Matt at his apartment, he'd remembered that he had no way of getting into his place since he'd left his keys at the office. He'd been this close to saying screw it and returning to crash out on Matt's couch, but he knew he had to get cleaned up for his mom's, so he'd returned to fetch his keys and surprised what was clearly a break-in, though even several hours later Foggy had no idea what they'd been searching for.
He'd woken slumped to his side, hands bound behind him, feet tied at the ankles, a horrendous headache and the taste of vomit in his mouth. He didn't remember getting sick, but the evidence was there. It had taken him several confused, emotional moments to realize that not only was he not alone, but he was no longer in their office. He'd been taken to an abandoned church. A scaffolding held court in the center of the empty sanctuary as though restoration had been started, but never finished and several industrial-sized paint buckets were strewn across a large, white tarp.
It had been just before dawn, and as Foggy had sat up he'd seen that there were at least six other men sitting or standing, each with some sort of weapon. Across the room, two older men – both with stooped shoulders and white hair – stood conversing with a woman. Her back was to him, but when Foggy shifted she turned at the noise.
"Son of a bitch," Foggy breathed blinking groggily.
Megan Sweeney moved forward, pausing right in front of him and planting a boot on one of the overturned paint buckets.
"You've got that a little backwards, kid," she said, and all signs of the anxiety and nervousness she'd displayed in the office were gone. "I'm the bitch."
"I'm starting to get that," Foggy muttered, wincing. "What the hell do you want with me?"
"Nothing," Megan replied, straightening up. "We don't want you at all."
"Uh…," Foggy frowned, watching as the two older men began to move closer. "So…why am I here, then?"
"Wrong place, right time," Megan replied. "As it turns out, we can use you, so don't worry."
"Really wasn't worried about that," Foggy replied, his eyes skipping to the taller of the two men. There was something familiar about... "Holy shit," he breathed. "This is about Matt, isn't it?"
Megan's smile was a cruel twist of her thin lips. "So it can think for itself."
"You're Rosco Sweeney," Foggy accused. Stop talking, Foggy, just stop. talking. His inner monologue strangely seemed to speak to him in Matt's voice. He looked over at Megan. "You were gonna kidnap a blind guy?"
Megan narrowed her eyes at him, the expression shifting her face from tired to mean. "You see this place around you? All this work? This was us, going legit." She swept her hand to the side to encompass one of the older men, who looked incredibly like her. "This was us…contributing to the history of Hell's Kitchen."
"Rebuilding a church," Foggy stated, trying to bring the threads together.
"May have started out a church," Rosco Sweeney said with a dry chuckle, "but it was going to end up a place for fighters. Good fighters…who follow directions."
"This wasn't about fifty grand at all." Foggy squirmed slightly, trying to alleviate the pressure on his wrists.
"Oh, it was," Rosco said. "With interest."
Megan moved forward and placed her boot on the inside of Foggy's knee, pressing it uncomfortably to the side. Foggy bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from groaning. He glared up at her narrow face.
"See…we lost our bankroll in the Battle for New York," Megan told him. "Building fell on him."
"How's that Matt's problem?" Foggy grunted.
"Your friend owes us," Megan sneered. "And just like with his old man, we plan on cashing in."
"That was…," Foggy sputtered a bit as Megan increased the weight on his knee, "twenty years ago! Why are you coming for him now?"
"No good coming for some kid," Rosco spoke up. "Better to wait until the man has something to lose. Besides," he coughed wetly into his gnarled fist, "helps to have incentive." He coughed again and the smaller man, who had stayed silent during the whole exchange, took his arm and led him away.
"I can't believe I felt sorry for you," Foggy spat at Megan.
With a smirk, Megan removed her foot and unceremoniously shoved the end of a Taser rod in his gut; the world grayed out as his screams bounced against the crumbling curves of the old building. Foggy lost a fair bit of time after that.
When next he woke, it was well into the day and he really had to pee. He was a little surprised that the Taser rod hadn't taken care of that for him – surprised and exceedingly grateful. Megan allowed his feet to be untied so that he could head to the edge of the empty church, but resisted permitting his hands to be unbound.
"Seriously? You ever try doing this hands-free?" Foggy asked her.
Megan looked at the two armed men who guarded him and both shook their heads. Clearly mercenaries drew the line at helping another man pee. She untied his hands, but stood with a knife at his back until he was finished. Foggy might not be brave, but he was smart, and he knew how to use his fear to his advantage.
He played the meek, defeated captive as Megan forced him back to the spot against the largest of the central pillars, near two of the overturned paint buckets, and when he sat she tied his hands in front of him. Foggy ignored his dry mouth and growling stomach, trying to determine what the trio of the two old men and Megan were discussing across the way.
Right now would be an awesome time to have your super-hearing, Matty.
He tried to determine what time of day it was, but the light was all wrong. Best guess was late afternoon. He had seen the Hudson to the west of them when he'd gone out for his pee break and the sun's rays had just started to slant across the water. Megan's loud curse brought attention back to them and he saw Rosco bending at the waist as he coughed, the smaller man resting a hand on his shoulder.
"Just get the explosives ready," Megan shouted at them. "He'll be here before I get back."
Foggy swallowed. Explosives? This did not sound good.
"You guys know what they're planning?" Foggy whispered to one of the men guarding him.
"Shut up," came the terse reply and Foggy was shown the business end of a Taser rod.
He raised his bound hands. "No, no, I'm good. You're right. Sorry."
Sitting as still as possible, Foggy tried to focus in on the low conversations around him. He realized that while Matt may have to focus due to hearing too much, the same practice was useful if the person wasn't standing terribly far away. Through stilted phrases and catching every other word, Foggy realized that the plan was as simple and as terrible as he'd feared: using him a bait, drawing Matt to the church, and then blowing them all to kingdom come – after the mercenaries escaped, of course.
Foggy sat in miserable silence as the shadows grew longer and the guards grew restless. He didn't know where Megan Sweeney had gone, but his imagination tried valiantly to fill in the gaps of knowledge. He kept his eyes on the two older men who had been conferring with Megan, trying to figure out exactly what they were going to get out of this deal. Megan had come into the office over a matter of fifty grand…if they blew Matt up, how were they planning on getting their money? Insurance on the building?
It wasn't until the sun slipped beneath the horizon and the first guard dropped that Foggy realized why their plan hadn't terrified him. It had one primary flaw: Matt.
There was no way his friend was going to allow them to trap him and kill him; he hadn't survived this long with the world the way it was to be defeated by a couple of old mobsters and a crazy woman.
He didn't know how Matt had found him – possibly due to Megan's purposeful planning, possibly due to his best friend having super-honed senses, he didn't care. Foggy never saw what hit the first guard, but when he collapsed with barely a sound, Foggy knew Matt was there. His entire body breathed a sigh of relief.
The only time Foggy had ever seen Matt in action as the vigilante, it had been in news footage – and pre-red suit. When he felt the breath against his cheek from the side of the pillar, Foggy was almost afraid to turn his head. Part of him was afraid to see Matt this way, to see him as the Daredevil, and part of him was desperate with curiosity.
"I'm here," Matt said, his voice pitched low and dangerous. "Don't say anything."
Foggy nodded uncertainly, forgetting entirely that his friend might not be able to pick up on such a nuance.
"I'm going to untie you and when I say, I want you to head for the Hudson."
Foggy swallowed nervously; the downed guard still hadn't been noticed, but he knew it was purely thanks to the night shadows shifting through the interior of the old church.
"Breathe," Matt said in his ear. Foggy obediently took a shaky breath, wondering how loud his slamming heartbeat had to be to Matt right now. "I'm going to get you out of here."
Foggy nodded again and held still as Matt slipped something into his hands. He tightened his grip around the object and realized it was a phone.
"You get clear, call for help."
"What about you?" Foggy couldn't help but ask.
He didn't realize how quietly Matt had been talking until the sound of his voice seemed to split the silence around him, drawing the attention of the guard nearest him. Before Foggy could think of what to say, Matt was a blur of motion next to him. The guard lifted his weapon, but Matt danced up the pillar, flipping his body over the top of the guard and grabbing the barrel of his weapon on the way down. He didn't pause, merely used the butt of the weapon as a club against the guard's head, felling him.
"Foggy. Go." Matt barked at him, looking every inch the devil in the red, reinforced suit, the mask covering his sightless eyes, the horns casting tiny shadows from the harbor lights.
Foggy scrambled to his feet, his hands still bound, the cell phone clutched tightly, and began to back away. He couldn't stop staring at this person who was also Matt Murdock. Guards came at him, in pairs, and Matt moved like water, slamming his forearm into a throat, flipping away from a bullet that cut into another, punching a third so hard Foggy saw the man's flesh ripple with the impact.
Matt seemed to see all around him, moving just seconds before he was struck, kicking back to shove an attacker away. The power behind his attack shocked Foggy. He'd seen his friend viciously work over a heavy bag at Fogwell's gym, grunts of effort chasing the sound of fists hitting leather, but seeing that same force exacted upon another person was staggering. How anyone got close enough to take Matt down was a miracle. The man was bad ass.
"Look out!" Foggy called, seconds too late as one of the bigger guards swung a discarded piece of metal scaffolding and cracked Matt soundly across the side of the head.
Matt staggered, going to a knee and another guard pressed his advantage, moving in and kicking Matt viciously in the side. Matt's body flipped and he landed on his back as two other guards moved in, using pipe, boots, and fists on the downed vigilante. Foggy heard Matt cry out with a few of the harder impacts and knew couldn't just stand there and watch his friend take what promised to be the beating of his life.
He shoved the phone in his pocket and found a broken piece of piping, rubbing at his bindings, working the ropes loose. He cast a look over his shoulder every few seconds, trying to see if Matt was getting up or was still at the bottom of the pile. He couldn't see anything aside from the three guards and felt panic rise up in his throat; he was not going to be the reason Matt was killed. No frigging way.
When he heard the roar, he stopped rubbing at his ropes and gaped in disbelief as Matt kicked out, launching one of his attackers away, the man's body slamming hard enough into the plaster to dent it. That seemed to give Matt a second wind and with a flip, he was once more on his feet, his fists savagely pummeling a guard's face.
Using the scaffolding to his advantage, Matt swiftly scrambled up the layers of metal pipes, then dropped onto two of the other guards – one of whom took severe exception to such treatment and slammed Matt against the crumbling plaster wall hard enough that pieces of the wall fell away.
Foggy felt that hit as Matt cried out in pain, but it barely slowed him.
Foggy resumed his rubbing, the ropes almost loose, as Matt took out two other guards, his gloved fists bloody, his breath ragged and rough, his body pure motion. Foggy felt his ropes give as Matt was slammed against another wall, using the impact as momentum to shove the guard to the floor. Moving toward one of the pipes left discarded on the floor, Foggy was inches away from helping Matt wrap up this mess when he felt an arm snake around his neck from behind and the cold eye of a pistol pressed against his temple.
In the chaos of the fight, Matt suddenly went completely still. Foggy blinked, both from the shock of the weapon on his temple and from seeing his friend go from exacting punishment to being motionless in a heartbeat.
And then it hit him: his heartbeat. Matt had to have been listening for it and when Foggy felt the barrel of the gun, it had spiked. It was racing right now, and Foggy knew Matt heard.
Body taut, Matt turned, facing them. Foggy could see blood on the side of his face, running down his jaw from a wound hidden beneath his mask. His lip was bleeding, and he was breathing fast and rough from both exertion and pain.
"You're gonna want to let him go," Matt said, and Foggy barely recognized his voice.
It wasn't the voice of the man he'd dumped drunk and boneless into his bed the night before. This was a different person entirely. A dangerous person.
"That's where you're wrong, pal," the man holding Foggy said. He cocked the hammer back on the gun and Foggy felt his gut turn to liquid.
"Foggy," Matt – Daredevil – said. Foggy found himself zeroing in on his friend's mouth, watching his lips move as he handed out orders. "When I say, I want you to run. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Foggy squeaked. Anything else was impossible at this point.
"He ain't getting a chance to ru—"
The man never finished his sentence. With shocking accuracy, Matt threw one of the two sticks held in a holster on his thigh, hitting the man in the throat, knocking him off balance and sending his aim sideways. Foggy heard the weapon discharge, but over that he knew Matt had told him to run. He didn't pause, didn't hesitate. He just ran.
As he breeched the opening toward the Hudson, he glanced back and saw Matt perched on the crumbling dais, blood dripping from his fists, shoulders rocking from the effort it took to breathe. He didn't stop; if Matt was going to get out of that church in one piece, he couldn't also be protecting Foggy, but when he did get out, Foggy knew he was going to need help. He made it to the road and grabbed the phone Matt had given him.
It took him a moment to register the significance of the fact that he was holding Matt's burner phone in his hand. Matt had known he was going to need help, too. That, or he was afraid Foggy would because he'd basically instructed him to call Claire.
"And here I thought that suit was doing such a fine job."
"Claire? It's Foggy."
There was a slight pause on the other end of the phone.
"Where's Matt?"
"He's in trouble," Foggy said. "Somebody grabbed me to get to him, but Daredevil showed up instead and kicked some serious ass but he's stuck down there with them and—"
"Whoa, whoa, Foggy, back up a step," Claire said, and Foggy could hear her moving around as she spoke. "Who's stuck?"
Foggy realized he'd separated Matt's identities into two people in his rambling explanation. "He got me out of there, but he's hurt and he's not out of there yet."
"Where are you?"
"Uh…," Foggy turned in a tight circle, looking for street signs. "Outside an old church on 12th and 44th. By the river."
"Jesus, that's my neighborhood."
"Listen, he wouldn't have told me to call you if—"
The explosion sent Foggy staggering back, his shoulder bouncing against a light pole. The phone and Claire momentarily forgotten, he looked back at the church in time to see a fireball erupt and the roof collapse inward, a great plume of dust and debris shooting from what remained of the structure.
"Oh, my God, Matt."
"Foggy!" Claire was screaming at him from the phone. "What the hell was that?"
"The ch-church," Foggy stammered, still staring, uncomprehending. Explosives. They'd said explosives. He just never thought…. "The church just blew up."
"Blew up?! Was Matt still inside?"
"I don't…don't know." Foggy felt his hands and face going numb, his ears buzzing and the world tunneling to a strange grey color.
"Foggy? Foggy."
He heard her voice like a tiny squeak in his ear as he sank slowly to sit on the concrete, his legs trembling too much to hold him up.
"Franklin Nelson you listen to me right now!" Claire bellowed.
That got his attention. "He told you my name?"
"I googled you. Listen to me, are you listening?"
Foggy nodded. Claire must have reasoned that because she plowed forward. "I will be there in five minutes. You need to see if you can find Matt, okay? Explosion like that, police and fire will be there soon and if they find him first—"
"Yeah, okay, I got it." He took a shallow breath. Using the light pole he'd backed into, he pulled himself to his feet.
"Keep this phone with you, just in case." And she was gone.
Just like that, Foggy was standing alone in a disaster site, his best friend somewhere in the middle of the chaos. His dress shoes slipped on the crumbling remains of the old church as he made his way through the silt-laden air, flames surprisingly few from the interior of the church. He found a way around the building toward the river, several other smaller explosions sounding from inside the church – the paint, he reasoned – causing him to flinch and duck. He didn't have a clue where to start. The dais he'd last seen Matt standing on, all red-suited and dangerous, was nothing more than a pile of dust among weak flames.
There were bodies in the rubble, Foggy could tell, but none of them were wearing red. He cast about, staring out toward the river.
"Matt!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "Matty!"
Five minutes apparently became two because Claire was the one to respond to his call.
"Foggy!"
"Here," he waved to her. Seeing her emerge from the dust and smoke toward him felt surreal; the last time he'd seen her was when he'd discovered Matt's secret. She was part of that – the secret, the discovery, all of it.
"Did you find him?"
Foggy shook his head, coughing from the smoke. It blew toward them and burned his eyes until for a moment all he could see were the dancing flames from inside the church. This is what you see…every day, all the time. A world on fire.
"Matt!" Claire called, her dark hair tied back, a duffel over her shoulder, presumably full of all things that would save Matt's life.
Foggy simply stared at her. He knew she'd found Matt in a dumpster, half-dead, and had saved him more than once, but…why? What made her keep coming back? What made her willing to live with this fear, this dread, this weight—
"Oh, my God, there he is," she breathed.
And then Foggy was moving, following her lead, close to the edge of the river. When he saw Matt's crumpled body, the first thought that came to him was that Matt had almost made it to the river. If he'd just made it to the river, he would have been okay.
Foggy dropped to his knees and as gently as he could – remembering how hard it had been for Matt to block out the sensations that assaulted him the night before – he rolled Matt to his back. The man was completely unresponsive and there was blood on Foggy's hand from where he touched him. Claire reached up and peeled back the Daredevil mask to get a better look.
"Oh, Jesus, Matt," she breathed.
Foggy could see blood covering the side of his friend's face and more staining his neck where it had spilled from his ears. He didn't know what to worry about first.
"We have to get him out of here," Claire said.
Foggy hoped to hell the woman was going to suggest a hospital. Apparently she thought and dismissed the same thing, because she looked up at him with anguished eyes.
"We can't, Foggy," she whispered. "Not like this. Even if they didn't arrest him, this would be over and that would…."
"It would kill him," Foggy said in a tight, choked voice. "Where then?"
"My place is just down the block. Can we carry him?"
"A whole block?" Foggy bleated, pressing a hand against his sore, Taser-burned chest.
"We have to do something; the cops'll be here any minute and they'll find him."
"You don't think it's gonna look suspicious, two people carrying the Devil of Hell's Kitchen down the street?" Foggy stared at her tense features, desperate for some kind of miracle.
"Let us help."
The man's voice came out of the dark and made Foggy jerk violently enough his motion caused Matt to groan in response. Foggy looked up and saw to his utter amazement that there were four people – three men and a woman – standing just off the edge of the debris field. He should have realized the explosion would quickly call people from their homes.
"He's hurt pretty bad," Claire said, slipping the mask back into place. Foggy was fairly certain it was dark enough – even with the light from the fire – that none of those gathered had gotten a good look at Matt's face.
"Can you fix him?" One man asked.
Claire nodded. "I have before."
"Dude saved my sister," the man said.
"Saved my boy," said another.
"He saved me," said a woman, stepping in to the light from the fires. "Please, let us help him."
Foggy found that his face was wet – tears pulled from the smoke or from the strangers of Hell's Kitchen stepping out from the shadows to carry the man who'd saved them to safety, he didn't know, but it didn't really matter. Matt was going to get help and that's all Foggy cared about.
"Careful," Claire instructed as the four strangers flanked Matt's broken body. "Watch his head."
"He's smaller than I thought," murmured the man whose boy had been saved.
Making a sort of net with their arms, the people of Hell's Kitchen lifted Matt from the ground and followed Claire around the rubble from the church in the opposite direction from where the sirens were approaching. Foggy followed the procession, never taking his eyes from Matt, hoping his friend didn't wake until they were safely inside.
"He don't weigh nothin'" said the woman. "How's he do all that fightin'?"
"He's strong," Foggy choked out, unable to banish the image of Matt's tear-streaked face as he said, this city needs me in that mask, as he watched them carry Matt to safety.
He'd been right. Dammit, he'd been right.
Once at Claire's apartment building, the group had to downsize as they all couldn't fit up the stairs. The largest man there, who'd been the first to step forward, shifted Matt's weight against him, the red Daredevil suit looking completely incongruous in the arms of a dock worker. Claire looked at the rest.
"You can't…please don't say anything about this," she begged.
"Lady, you think we'd 've helped if we wanted him found out?" the woman scoffed. "You just fix him up."
With that, they faded into the shadows as Foggy stared in amazement. Claire turned, not wasting more time, and led the way to her fifth floor walk-up, opening the door to the apartment so that the man could carry Matt through. Foggy tried not to stare at the sight of Matt – Daredevil, he reminded himself again – cradled in the arms of a stranger, his masked face rolled toward the man's shoulder while his arms and legs hung free. Moving fast, Claire grabbed a large bath towel and spread it out on her couch, then nodded for the man to set Matt down, which he did as gently as possible.
His package delivered, the man backed up, nodding first at Foggy, then at Claire.
"You need anything, or anyone gives you trouble, just ask for Tony."
Claire smiled at the man. "Thank you, Tony."
"I'll make sure he knows," Foggy promised.
"He don't need to know." Tony shook his head, backing through the doorway. "He got enough on his plate as it is."
Before the door was closed, Claire was back to focusing on Matt.
"Bring me that floor lamp, yeah, good. Put it right there, thanks," she said to Foggy with a combination of nods and gestures.
She eased the mask off once more, this time pulling it completely free and exposing Matt's sweaty, tangled hair, blood plastering it to one side of his head. Next, she pulled his blood-soaked gloves from his hands, then ghosted her fingers over the protective armor of the suit.
"Okay, how the hell do I get him out of—"
Matt opened his eyes with a sharp gasp, his body suddenly rigid, everything – even his breathing – utterly still. Foggy had never seen a look of such complete terror on his friend's face before.
"Matt, hey, hey, it's Claire," her voice was soft, reassuring. "You're safe. You're okay."
Matt didn't respond. Didn't even shift his attention toward her voice.
"Matty? It's me. You're in Claire's apartment, okay?" Foggy leaned closer, reaching for his friend's arm to reassure him.
The moment he touched Matt, however, the man reacted with surprising agility for someone who had been unconscious seconds before. He smacked Foggy's hand away with his right and swung wildly with his left at the same time, narrowly missing clocking Foggy on the jaw. As Foggy backed away, surprised, Matt jackknifed himself upright, gaining his feet with startling speed and backing away from the couch, his body angled toward the wall between Claire's windows.
"Matt, what the hell!" Foggy exclaimed.
Matt began to hyperventilate, his left arm held close to his body, his right out as though reaching for Foggy, but…not quite. Claire stood between them with her arms outstretched like a ref in a boxing match. As Foggy watched, trying to get a grip on the ninja move Matt was just able to execute, Matt groaned low in his throat, his body wavering. Claire started forward, but wasn't quick enough as Matt's knees buckled and he tumbled to her floor, landing in a heap on his left side, eyes closed once more.
For just a beat, no one moved, both Foggy and Claire staring at the red-suited body on the floor. Foggy shuddered, feeling a chill slip through him as he thought back to the night he'd found out about Matt's nocturnal habits; the man had stumbled in and fallen just like this.
"Serious déjà vu moment," Claire muttered, moving cautiously forward.
"You, too, huh?" Foggy croaked.
Gently rolling Matt to his back, Claire's quick fingers found the seal on the upper portion of his suit, peeling it open and expertly working it off his shoulders and down his arms.
"You look like you've done this before," Foggy commented, feeling a strange sort of bitterness worm into his chest.
"You work in an ER long enough," Claire huffed as she tossed the blood-soaked garment aside, "you learn just about every trick there is to get someone out of their clothes."
"Why didn't you just cut it off him?" Foggy asked, watching as she ran her hands quickly down Matt's legs, feeling for what, he wasn't sure.
"Don't think this material can be cut," Claire replied, moving back up Matt's torso until she paused at his left shoulder. "Looks like it's not bullet proof, though."
"Holy shit," Foggy breathed as his eyes caught on the bloody hole in Matt's skin. "That is a lot of blood."
"Too much. Help me get him up on the couch again," Claire instructed, grabbing Matt's shoulders and nodding toward his knees.
Foggy obeyed, helping her lay Matt on the coach with his left shoulder accessible.
"Look," Claire said, wiping sweat from her lip with the back of her wrist. "This is going to be a bitch. I don't feel an exit wound, which means the bullet is still in there."
"And we're still saying a hospital is out of the question?"
"He needs fluid and we gotta keep him from going into shock," Claire continued, ignoring Foggy. "I need to get these pants off of him – they're shit for keeping him warm. Go to the room on the right and you'll find a box labeled 'Mike'. You should find some sweat pants or something we can put him in."
Foggy moved automatically, responding to her authoritative tone. He was swiftly losing focus; he hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours and the combination of the Taser burns, adrenalin rush, and alcohol from the previous night were starting to take their toll. He dug through the box she'd indicated and found some grey sweat pants, a hooded sweatshirt, and some thick socks. Matt loved his socks.
When he returned, she had managed to remove Matt's boots and the bottom portion of his suit, tossing both aside and leaving Matt in just his boxers. She'd moved the light closer to his shoulder, had pulled on gloves, and had cleaned the area around the wound.
As Claire inserted a catheter into a vein in Matt's right arm, attaching the tubing to a saline bag, Foggy stood at Matt's feet, staring at his friend's face. Matt's brows were pulled together, his lips an angry red slash across his too-pale face. Several days of scruff along his jaw rippled as he clenched his jaw, feeling the pain even while unconscious.
"Something's not right," Foggy said suddenly.
"You wanna be more specific?" Claire asked, hooking the tab of the saline bag on the edge of the lamp and turning the valve so that the fluid flowed into Matt's system.
"He didn't know us," Foggy continued.
Claire paused, a pair of wicked-looking, large tweezers poised over the hole in Matt's shoulder. "He was rattled."
"No…that's not it. He's like…hyper vigilant. He doesn't get rattled like that." Foggy moved along the back of the couch closer to Matt's face, purposely not looking at what Claire was doing. "You remember that night I met you; he was half dead."
"More than half," Claire grunted as Matt flinched, crying out as she dug for the bullet.
He didn't wake and she continued.
"He knew us then," Foggy reminded her. "He was half out of it, but he knew us."
Claire exhaled as she pulled the bullet from the muscle in Matt's shoulder, dropping it into Foggy's outstretched hand. Matt shifted slightly, a soft moan escaping as he did so. Foggy saw Claire's eyes track his friend's face, then pause.
"What is it?"
"I can't believe I didn't notice this before," she replied. "His ears."
"The blood?"
"He must have been close enough to the explosion to rupture his eardrums."
Foggy felt himself grow cold, the weight of the bullet balanced in his palm suddenly increasing.
"Is it permanent?"
Claire shook her head. "It's hard to say, but I doubt it. I've seen ear trauma like this before. After about twenty-four to forty-eight hours, the ears begin to heal."
"Yeah, but…," Foggy swallowed. "Matt…sees with his ears. If he can't hear, he's—"
"Totally blind," Claire whispered, worry and wonder blending on her face. She shook her head once. "Come on; let's fix what we can at least."
Foggy felt the next hour pass in a cloud. He followed Claire's orders, watching as she stitched Matt's shoulder, cleaned the blood from his face and chest, checked his head and cursed impressively when Foggy revealed that the head wound was from a lead pipe. As Claire instructed him, Foggy helped her check his ribs, noting the feel of the cracked bone as well as the tight muscles that ran along Matt's narrow torso. She had him tear off strips of wide medical tape and placed them along the worst of the bruising, where he'd felt the bones shift beneath his fingers.
The strength he saw in his friend amazed him, especially considering the way Matt maneuvered through each day so cautiously, the way he'd barely touch his elbow when he'd silently ask for a guide, the way he skimmed his fingers along the wall to make out the bends and turns of a room. Seeing Matt like this – bruised and bloodied – it should seem to Foggy that his friend was broken and weak.
But instead all he saw was power.
Matt was pure, coiled power, nothing but bone, muscle, and skin out there fighting off the bad guys. Saving people from the darkness. Fighting for what he wanted: the people in his city safe from fear. Foggy felt a flush of shame swim over him as he remembered wanting to see Matt have to fight for something just once. He realized now that Matt fought every time he stepped outside – either as a blind man against the elements, or as Daredevil against the shadows.
As Claire was stitching the cut running along Matt's hairline, Foggy noticed his friend start to shake.
"He's shivering," Foggy pointed out. "Like…a lot."
"We need to elevate his feet," Claire said. "Get him warmer. He's going into shock."
Foggy propped the back couch cushion under Matt's feet and helped Claire pull the sweats he found over Matt's bare legs. Pulling the socks onto Matt's feet and grabbing the blanket from Claire, he carefully covered Matt's bare chest and shoulders, frowning at the shuddering sounds of misery that slipped out between Matt's shivering lips.
"Isn't there anything you can give him for the pain?" Foggy asked.
Claire pulled off her gloves, then rubbed her face tiredly. "Last time I did that he told me it made him," she waved her hand in front of her face, "disconnected. Like he couldn't focus or something. If he's already down another sense, I'm afraid what morphine will do to him. And he has to be awake for anything else."
Foggy dragged a hand down his face.
"I gave him a shot of lidocaine at his shoulder," Claire told him. "Best thing we can do now is keep him warm and…wait."
Foggy was so tired he was swaying on his feet. Wordlessly, Claire got up and grabbed another blanket, staring to push him toward her bedroom. Foggy planted his feet.
"Wait, no, I'm not going anywhere."
"I'm too tired to deal with two unconscious men in my living room," Claire told him.
"I'm staying with Matt," Foggy insisted. "He's there because of me; I'm not sleeping until I know he's okay."
Claire raised an eyebrow. "You play on staying awake for the rest of your life?"
"Fine," Foggy conceded. "Until I know he's okay this time."
Claire narrowed her eyes at him. "At least let me treat those Taser burns."
"How did you—"
"Matt's not the only one who pays close attention."
Sighing, Foggy nodded and allowed her to help him down to the floor, his back against the couch. She didn't have any pants that fit him in that mysterious 'Mike' box, but there were a couple of T-shirts that she was able to provide so that Foggy could lose the rumpled, blood-stained dress shirt he'd been wearing for two days, now sporting two distinctive charred areas where the Taser rod had caught him.
She coated the small Taser burns with some soothing cream and put a gauze patch over them, then forced him to drink a bottle of Gatorade as she watched. Once satisfied that he wasn't going to expire on her, they sat shoulder to shoulder, Claire near Matt's head, her hand resting carefully on his chest like a human heart monitor.
At first Foggy wasn't sure what to say to her; their only interactions had been over Matt's bloody body, trying to keep him alive. The fact that she'd known about Matt's secret before him still set his teeth on edge. Then she asked him how he'd ended up at the church, and it hit him that there was so much Claire didn't know. About Matt, about their friendship. She was more in the dark than he'd ever be, and yet she stayed. She was there, present, watching and waiting for Matt.
He owed her something for that. A modicum of information in appreciate for keeping his best friend alive. So, Foggy told her about the case – or, rather, the pseudo-case – that had brought them to the church. We he reached the part about the men who'd killed Matt's dad, Claire shared that she'd looked up Jack Murdock after a comment Matt had made about his ability to take a beating having been inherited.
"He ever say anything about his mom?" Claire asked.
Foggy shook his head, then groaned, dropping his head back as he remembered where he was supposed to have been that night.
"My mom's gonna kill me," Foggy said.
"I'm sure she'll understand once she hears the reason."
"You don't know Ma Nelson," Foggy muttered, eyes closed. "She owns a meat grinder and she's not afraid to use it."
Matt's low gasp had them both sitting forward and twisting around. The warm, sleepy feeling that had stolen over Foggy as he sat talking with Claire evaporated the moment he saw Matt's wide eyes, heard his friend's ragged, rapid breath begin to hammer from his lungs. Hesitantly, Claire reached for Matt's left hand, free of the blanket that was wrapped around him.
"Careful," Foggy cautioned, remembering all-too-well how dangerous Matt's fists could be when he was caught unaware.
"It's okay," Claire breathed. "I just need him to know that it's me."
She reached up and rested her fingers on the back of Matt's hand. Foggy saw him flinch violently, then grimace in obvious pain. He was tense, as though prepared to bolt, despite being stretched out on the couch, his feet elevated on the cushions.
"It's okay," Claire repeated, softly, like a mantra, though Foggy wasn't sure which of the three of them she was trying to reassure in that moment.
She carefully took Matt's fingers and guided them to her face. First her cheek, which drew Matt's focus, then she turned her head slightly so that her lips were beneath his fingers. Matt arched his neck, his back bowing slightly, looking as though he wanted to pull away, but forced himself to hold still.
"You're safe, Matt," she told him. "It's Claire. You're okay."
"Claire?"
Foggy felt a sob catch in his throat at the sound of Matt's voice. It was rough and raw as though he'd been screaming for hours; a sound so lost and alone it broke Foggy's heart.
"Yeah, it's me," Claire nodded, and Foggy heard tears in her voice. She kept Matt's hand at her mouth. "We found you and brought you to my place. You're safe."
"Foggy?"
"I'm here," Foggy replied without thinking.
"He's okay," Claire said against Matt's fingers, nodding again, clearly uncertain if he was getting her words or just her meaning. "He's safe. You got him out, Matt."
That news seemed to be Matt's undoing. He sagged into the couch, a dry sob shaking his body, and Foggy couldn't keep himself away any longer. He moved closer to Claire, resting his hand on one of Matt's knees. Matt flinched, looking unseeingly in the direction of Foggy's touch.
"It's okay, it's Foggy," Claire said against Matt's fingers.
Matt sniffed and hesitantly moved his hand from Claire's face. Moving as slowly as Claire had, Foggy took his friend's hand and put it against his own cheek, waiting until Matt relaxed, practically petting him in recognition.
"Claire," Matt said, turning his face vaguely in Claire's direction. "I can't…I can't see."
It was such an odd thing for a blind man to say, Foggy huffed out a choked laugh. Claire's entire focus was on Matt, however, and she simply took his hand to her lips once more.
"It was the explosion," she said, enunciating her words so that his sensitive skin could pick up what he needed to. "Your hearing will return."
"I feel…," Matt swallowed, blinking his eyes rapidly, his breath hitching painfully. "I f-feel everything."
Foggy winced, thinking of how Matt had said that to him just yesterday, when he hadn't been bleeding from multiple locations.
"I know," Claire said softly, her voice choked with emotion.
Matt shifted again, his face knotting in pain before he relaxed back against the couch.
"Try not to move," Claire told him. Matt pulled his hand away from her mouth and started to push himself upright on the couch. "Dammit," Claire pushed to her feet to get a better angle on stopping him.
"They w-won't – ahh…f-fuck!" Matt's face knotted in a grimace of pain and his muscles went rigid again. He held his left arm close to his wounded ribs and pressed his head back against the arm of the couch.
"What part of try not to move don't you understand," Claire snapped at him, exasperation lacing her tone.
"He can't hear you," Foggy reminded her.
"He told me once there are other ways to see," Claire said. "I'm willing to bet he knows exactly how pissed off I am at him right now."
"Claire?" Matt was panting from his exertions. He'd kicked the cushion away from the foot of the couch and was trying to pull himself to a sitting position without using his left arm or shifting his torso too much. It hurt Foggy to watch him. "Foggy?"
Foggy started forward, but Claire thrust out an arm, stopping him.
"What-?"
"Do not help him kill himself," Claire practically growled. "The man needs to learn his limitations."
Matt dropped his chin to his chest and gripped the back of the couch with his right hand. As they watched, he managed to pull himself upright with a low growl of effort, panting like a runner finishing a marathon once there and slumping sideways to the couch.
"I know…I know you're there," Matt said, slowly cradling his wounded arm, the blanket having fallen to pool around his waist. Foggy grimaced at the sight of the scars on Matt's chest – most of them faded and white, but one or two, particularly the one on his belly where a ninja had tried to gut him, were still knotted and pink. "I can sm-smell your perfume."
"Great. Now he knows I wear perfume," Foggy dead-panned.
"F-foggy's aftersh-shave," Matt continued, the side of his face pressed into the couch.
"I can't let him…Claire, c'mon," Foggy pleaded.
Claire sighed, and took a step forward, as Matt continued.
"Th-they won't stop," he panted.
Claire crouched in front of him and took his hand. Matt started in surprise, but Foggy saw him settle the moment he realized it was Claire's hand. He fumbled a bit but managed to rest his other palm on her face, his thumb ghosting over her lips. Foggy didn't miss the way her shoulders rippled as she shivered at this touch.
"They told me," Matt's rough voice was fading as he let his head drop back against the couch, his hand still on Claire's face. "They won't stop until everyone I love…is as dead as…as me."
Foggy felt his breath still.
"The explosion killed everyone in that church, Matt," Claire said against his fingers. "It's had to."
"Megan," Matt said, letting his hand fall away from Claire's face. "Megan wasn't…wasn't there."
Foggy watched as Matt's eyes slipped closed, then popped open wide as he tried to keep himself conscious.
"Who else?" Claire said from the ground, looking up at Foggy.
"Karen," Foggy said, reaching for his phone. The front display revealed that it was four in the morning, but at this point, he didn't care. "Karen is the only one I can think of."
Eyes on Matt's slumped form, Foggy felt his heart rate speed up as Karen's phone rang. If Matt could hear his heart, he'd no doubt be making the wounded man more anxious.
"'llo?"
Foggy exhaled. She sounded sleepy, not scared. Hurt. Dead. "Karen?"
"Foggy? Oh my God, are you okay? Where are you? Is Matt with you?"
Foggy smiled, meeting Claire's eyes as she tossed a look at him over her shoulder.
"I'm fine, listen, where are you?"
"My place, why?"
"You got somewhere you can stay? Preferably…outside of Hell's Kitchen?"
"What? Why?" He heard her shift, imagined her sitting up, a frown marring her pretty face. "Foggy, what the hell is going on? First Matt has me do this whole google Earth search and practically ancestry dot com Rosco Sweeney, then you guys vanish for a day and—"
"Remember the newspaper article? The one where Sweeney was standing with Matt's dad?"
"Yeah." She stretched the word out like caramel and Foggy knew she was making the connection.
"This is about Matt's dad. Someone…they grabbed me to get to Matt."
"Jesus, Foggy…."
"I'm okay."
"Where's Matt now?"
"He's…here, with me, but…."
"Is he okay?"
"He…," Foggy watched as Claire began to gently stroke Matt's upper left arm with one hand, readying a syringe with the other, "will be."
"Where are you? I'm coming to you."
"No. No, Karen, look, we need to know you're safe. That these guys can't find you. Can you do that for us, please?" He slipped an extra note of pleading into that last word.
Karen didn't say anything for a moment and Foggy continued watching Claire's ministrations. Whatever she'd injected into Matt caused him to flinch at the pinch of the needle, but he didn't so much as raise his head to protest. He looked close to passing out again and Claire took notice, readying some ibuprofen and water for him.
"Yeah, okay," Karen was saying in reluctant acceptance. "I've one place I could go. But you owe me a long-winded explanation."
"Thanks, Karen, really," Foggy let his relief show in his tone. "Just, text me when you're safe. I'll let you know as soon as it's okay to come home."
"Take care of…," Karen's voice trailed off and with a breath she finished, "each other, okay?"
"We will," Foggy promised and hung up, taking the glass of water from Claire's outstretched hand and watching as she eased Matt back against the couch, his friend's eyes closed once more. "What was that shot?"
"Broad-spectrum antibiotics," she told him, checking the bandage at Matt's shoulder to make sure he didn't tear his stitches. "Bullets aren't the cleanest things, you know."
"You just…have that? Antibiotics?"
Claire gave him a slight shrug, running her fingers gently through Matt's tangled hair. "On the down low, yeah. I started stocking up when I met our friend here. Anyone finds out, I could lose my license, but…I'd rather risk that then have him keel over from infection."
Foggy sank down to the arm of the couch. He'd never felt so tired. "You think he has an infection?"
Claire shook her head. "Not sure, but he's warmer than I'd like. Especially with his blood pressure being so low."
Foggy felt his chin tremble as the backs of his eyes burned. "I didn't know it was…," he choked off, trying to find the words while simultaneously fighting to keep his tears at bay. "I've never worried about someone so much, you know?"
Claire looked at him with sad, sympathetic eyes. "I know, Foggy."
"Is that why you guys aren't together?" Foggy asked.
Claire looked down, then back at Matt's now-peaceful face. "Yeah, something like that."
Foggy rubbed his face. "Can I take you up on that bed?"
"Yeah," Claire nodded, smiling softly up at him. "I'm off the next two days. Not how I planned to spend one of my rare weekends, but hey, you roll with it, right?"
Foggy felt the corner of his mouth pull up in a tired, reluctant smile. "Thanks, Claire."
"I'll get you when he wakes up."
Foggy started back toward her bedroom, the blanket she'd wrapped around him before draped over his forearm. Just at the doorway, he stopped and turned, seeing Claire carefully shift Matt forward and slip in behind him on the couch, his head and shoulders now against her chest.
"Did you hear what those people said? The ones that helped us carry him here?" Foggy asked quietly.
"I heard."
"This is…he is actually making a difference."
"He doesn't always think so," Claire said, her fingers tracing the edge of Matt's hair.
"Maybe someone should tell him, then," Foggy yawned.
He didn't clearly remember anything after that except for a soft, sweet-smelling bed and darkness too complete for dreams.