Matt was only supposed to almost die at night. That was the unspoken deal, right? He'd arrive in the morning with a new black eye and a split lip, and Foggy would wonder what worse injuries his shirts were hiding, and then at night he'd crawl into that damn costume and sneak around the streets getting into fights. It was at night he was in danger, at night he'd be beaten up and stabbed and shot, and it was only in the mornings that Foggy would quietly freak out, wondering if Matt was late because he overslept or because he was lying in a pool of his own blood in his apartment again, or already dead in some dank alley, waiting for some poor shmuck to find him.

He was supposed to be safe during daylight hours. That was the deal.

He was not supposed to almost die on the floor of their office, where he was just Matt Murdock, attorney at law. He was not supposed to bleed out under Foggy's useless goddamn hands three feet from his fucking diploma.

He added the fruit cups and sandwiches to his tray with a little more force than was strictly necessary, and they skittered in fear across the damp surface as though trying to escape. Forcing himself to take a deep breath he steadied the spinning pot of raspberry jello, adding a grape one with more care. No point taking his anger out on the confectionary. It's not like they'd shot Matt.

His hand curled into an automatic fist as he thought that. Someone had shot Matt, had purposefully camped out on a freaking roof, had intentionally trained his little sniper eyes on his best friend and pulled the goddamn trigger. Some royal asswipe had shot a blind guy in the chest. Sure, Matt wasn't blind blind, but the shooter didn't know that! God, if he ever got his hands on that piece of shit he'd make sure the motherfucker needed the ICU before the handcuffs.

Whoa. Foggy caught himself, one hand stretched out for a bottle of water. He wanted to beat someone up. Before incarcerating them. Because they'd hurt someone he cared about. Shit. Is this how Matt felt? Is this what it was like for him, all the time? This anger for the person who would destroy a life – multiple lives – just because they wanted to, or were paid to, or whatever the hell his deal was. This pounding ferocity to make sure they wouldn't hurt anyone else. He could feel rage pulse through him, twitching excitedly in each muscle, eager for a violent release.

He gave his head a shake, banishing the thought. No. This was different. This was his best friend for god's sake. Matt went out beating people up for strangers. Which, Foggy did have to admit, was noble. In its own illegal kind of way. He heaved a sigh as he paid for his tray, not paying attention to the transaction. He was too tired to go through all this again. Too bone-weary to try to understand Daredevil. His head ached, eyes squinting in the unobtrusive light. His skull felt more like it was full of wet cake than a brain at this point. He needed rest. He needed this horrific day to end, and end with Matt waking up, with no brain injuries or clinical confusion or any of the other nightmares Foggy's mind relentlessly conjured out of the half-forgotten ether of that medical drama Marci used to watch.

He almost walked past her, too lost in his quagmire thoughts to hear her call his name. The waving hand caught his eye and he blinked, smiling in surprise.

"Claire? What are you doing here?" She was sitting with a scraped pot of yoghurt lying on its side around a teaspoon, her hair loose around a face that looked only marginally less wrecked than Foggy felt. "Wait, stupid question," added a beat later. "You, y'know, work here, it's normal for you to be here. But then, you knew that. I –" He stopped himself and rolled his eyes. "Sorry. Hi Claire."

At least his trademark rambling had made her smile. God, she was hot.

"Hi Foggy. What're you doing here?" She glanced to the tray piled high with packaged food and back to the bags under his eyes. "Is it – it's not – did Matt get hurt again?"

Suddenly feeling like a forgetful dick he deflated around another sigh and sat down in the chair opposite Claire's worried expression.

"Yeah, he is."

Her eyebrows raised. "Sun went down like, an hour ago. What the hell happened? How is he?"

Foggy had a brief staring contest with an egg salad sandwich. The thought of going through it all again made him feel suddenly heavy, as though the words he knew Claire deserved to hear weighed down his suddenly sagging chest. He wasn't sure the air would be strong enough to sail them across the table. He took a deep breath, and tried.

"He wasn't –" he glanced around, checking the near-empty cafeteria for anyone within earshot. Just the vending machines. "He wasn't ... Daredeviling. We were in our office, downtown, and – and we were just joking about him being late this morning, 'cause we have this case and ..."

His throat closed around the words as memory solidified behind his eyes. He wasn't seeing the raven-haired woman opposite him anymore, or the shades of grey that made up the hospital cafeteria. He saw half of Matt leaning against his office wall, the door jamb cutting his image in two and erasing Karen. They were flirting again, of course, but it still gave Foggy's heart a lift to see Matt like that. He hadn't looked like that around a girl since college.

But they had a case to prep and he could make his blind googly eyes at his girlfriend on his own time, so Foggy called something sarcastic to get Matt's attention. There had been another joke, and Matt was laughing as he pushed off from the fax's shelf and made for Foggy's office. He'd glanced down to the file then so he hadn't seen it happen. He just heard a crack and looked up, half-expecting to see Karen standing over a fragmented mug of coffee. But Matt had stopped mid-sentence. And there was blood on his shirt.

Before that image could make sense he'd fallen down hard, gagging as his breath was punched out of him. Foggy leapt to his feet and stopped dead at his door as Matt yelled at Karen to stay where she was. That was when he'd seen the rounded break in the glass and years of living within earshot of gunfire kicked in. He ducked, keeping one hand on the door jamb, his eyes darting from the sun-soaked window to Matt, whose chest kept jerking as though he couldn't breathe.

"... he was just walking into my office." The words felt hollow, disconnected from the horror they described. "And then he was bleeding, on the floor."

Claire's voice broke over him like a wave and only then did he realise her hand was laid comfortingly over his wrist. "He just collapsed? Had he been acting normal before?"

He shook his head, understanding how he'd made it sound. He needed to be clearer.

"No. He –" The patch of red swelled against the white shirt. Matt's hand half raised to touch it. His mouth open. Frowning, confused. "He was shot."

"Shot?" Claire was quiet for a moment, her hand pulling away as she leant back in her seat. "Shot as in someone found out?"

Foggy shook his head, smiling humourlessly. "It has nothing to do with Daredevil. Sounds crazy. First thing I thought was someone figured it out, but no. It was this case we're investigating. Karen – our secretary – got too close to big secrets so they were trying to, I dunno, frighten her off."

"Then why not shoot her? Why Matt?"

He met her frustrated gaze and shrugged. "I have no idea. Maybe it was just a warning shot. We got cops outside Matt's door, and Karen and I aren't supposed to leave without an escort."

He pressed a hand against his forehead, wishing his headache would back off for five minutes.

"I heard a lawyer came in with a GSW earlier," Claire said thoughtfully. "My friend Louisa was working on him in the OR. Never thought it could be Matt. How's he doing?"

Foggy shrugged, letting his hands slap down to the table.

"Dunno. Okay I guess? He's got a breathing tube. Doc said the surgery went well, considering. Just waiting for him to wake up I guess."

"You planning on camping out with him till he does?" she asked with a smile, nodding at the pile of cartons and tubs stacked on his tray.

He snorted. "Yep. Spared no expense. This grand feast will fuel me and Karen through the night." The humour bled from his tone. "It's gonna be a long one."

Claire clapped her hands down on the table and pushed herself up in a flurry of determination. "Well, not alone you're not. I'm on rounds till eight tomorrow, I can keep an eye on you."

Foggy felt his heart warm as a genuine smile pulled at his lips. "Thanks Claire." He rose to his feet, grabbed the tray, and followed her back to the patient rooms. He held the tray out to her. "Fruit cup?"