Foggy

Matt's weight was surprising. For such a slim man, he was definitely compact, muscle mass being just that: mass.

Foggy hadn't expected his friend to go limp so quickly and he staggered as Matt shook, breath a staccato burst of warmth against his neck. Hefting Matt up so that he could get a better grip, Foggy dragged him back in through the door, past the bloody-faced body that Karen had pushed aside and into the darkened alcove.

"Karen," he gasped as Matt slipped lower, groaning as Foggy tried once more to ratchet him up. "Need you to call Claire."

Karen moved to help him hold up Matt but stopped and stared at him in shock. "My ER nurse Claire?"

"She can help."

"Foggy, I'm calling the police and an ambulance," Karen declared, a frown bisecting her smooth brow.

"Fine, sure, okay," Foggy, grunted, pressing up against the wall and lowering Matt to the ground.

Blood joined the snow in matting Matt's hair against his head, Foggy now saw, and was smeared across half of his face from various cuts on his cheek and around his mouth. His head lolled to the side and his eyes moved rapidly beneath his lids, which just weirded Foggy the hell out because what was he seeing in his dreams that put that tortured expression on his face? What was he seeing at all?

He hadn't seen anything since he was nine years old.

"But call Claire, too."

Karen shook his head. "Fog—"

"Father?" Foggy called down the stairwell, feeling something shift within him. As though the terror that had gripped him on the rooftop was simply gone with the abruptness of a popped balloon. "You still with us?"

"I'm here." His voice sounded weak and weary, but steady and alert enough that Foggy decided he was officially off of his worry list.

"We need a place to take Matt," Foggy told him, crouching and gathering Matt against him partly to try to warm him up, partly to reassure himself that Matt was breathing.

"We're taking him to the hospital," Karen barked angrily. "Look at him, Foggy! They beat the hell out of him!"

"I know that!" Foggy snapped. "You think this is the first time I've seen him like this?"

Karen blinked at that, drawing back as the significance of what he'd just told her sank in.

"You ready to explain his scars? The bruises? This beating? The man is blind, Karen."

"I know that," she replied, subdued.

"Besides, Bobby Henley just tried to kill him and that lunatic's still out there. And he knows who Matt is," Foggy reminded her. "How long you think it'll take him to find Matt at a hospital?"

Karen rubbed her face. "So…what? What do we tell them about all this?" She waved her hand at the body on the floor.

"You tell them I was attacked in my sanctuary," Father Lantom spoke up. Foggy looked over at him in surprise. The man was slumped on the stairs, shadows slightly masking the large bruise along the side of his face. "You tell him the Daredevil fought them off."

Foggy's eyebrows bounced up and he looked over at Karen. "It's not a lie."

Karen began to mutter beneath her breath, but dug her phone out of her coat pocket. Foggy grasped Matt beneath his arms, pulling the man up into a hug, then shrugged him over a shoulder, grabbing the wall with one hand to gain his footing.

"Damn, Matt. You're freaking heavy," Foggy grunted, grateful when he felt someone behind him, a balancing hand on Matt's back.

"This way," Father Lantom said, his voice startlingly close.

They carefully navigated the stairs to the bottom of the alcove, Foggy stalwartly trying to ignore Matt's increased mutterings as his body twitched across Foggy's shoulder. Lantom led him to the left at the bottom of the stairs, away from the sanctuary and through a pocket door Foggy hadn't even noticed when they'd barreled up the stairs.

On the other side of the door was a small room with a desk, an old couch, and a bookshelf filled with musty-smelling books.

"I use this room to prepare for mass," Father Lantom told him. "We can rest Matthew on the couch."

"Thanks, Father," Foggy grunted, trying to ease Matt off his shoulder and onto the couch.

Panting from the effort, Foggy straightened and pulled his jacket off. Grabbing a handful of tissues from the square box on the desk, he began to gently wipe the blood from Matt's face, starting with his chin where his bottom lip looked like it was split in half.

Matt began to twitch again, his hands moving like he was reaching for something, his face pulled into a frown. Foggy heard Karen enter the room and say something to Father Lantom but he was too focused on Matt's increasingly agitated movements to pay attention to what she was saying.

Without warning, Matt gasped, reaching for his face, his fingers clawing at his eyes. Foggy grabbed at his hands.

"Easy, buddy, don't—"

Matt's raw, terrified scream startled them all. Foggy jerked away, hands up in surrender as Karen instinctively reached for Father Lantom's arm for reassurance. Matt whimpered, ripping his hands from Foggy's grip and reaching once more for his eyes, another scream tearing from his throat.

"What the fu—"

"Something's wrong with his eyes?" Karen whispered urgently.

"No, no, it's the drugs," Foggy realized. "Goddammit, that Dust shit is hitting him."

"Foggy, didn't you say he feels things more than-?"

Matt fought against Foggy's grip, reaching for his eyes once more.

"I'm here, okay, Matty? I'm right here." Foggy held Matt's hands tighter, pulling them down and away from his face while Matt muttered something unintelligible, sweat matting his hair to his forehead.

"What's the word on Claire?" Foggy asked, breathless from the effort of holding onto Matt.

"She's on her way," Karen reassured him. "She's coming from her apartment, so I guess that's closer?"

"And the cops?"

"I believe they're here," Father Lantom said, looking out through the opened door. "Stay here. Keep him quiet."

He slid the door closed behind him.

"Karen, go watch for Claire," Foggy instructed. "She won't know where to go."

As soon as he was alone with Matt, Foggy suddenly felt vulnerable. The night he'd found Matt bleeding out in his apartment wasn't as frightening as this moment, not knowing what the drug in Matt's system was putting him through. Watching Matt shiver and sweat, his swollen eyes closed but roaming, Foggy was suddenly struck with the overwhelming urge to find Bobby Henley and beat the shit out of him.

No, worse. Shoot him up with Dust until he was living his own personal Hell.

Matt shuddered, his hands now loose from Foggy's grip. Foggy could tell a lot about Matt's moods by the way he slept…and by how hard he swung when he was startled awake. Even back in Columbia, Matt had been a restless sleeper. Before Foggy had known the truth of his friend's past, he'd known Matt had secrets. There were things not quite said, half sentences that ended in disarming grins.

But the biggest tell had been the way Matt slept.

Foggy wanted to ask what his friend saw in his nightmares but he'd never did. Instead, he'd simply tried to wake him, resorting to barking out a sharp, "Murdock! Wake up!" after Matt had nearly broken his nose the first time he'd shaken his friend awake. Even when he wasn't trapped in a bad dream, though, Matt slept tense.

As though he was waiting for the bottom to drop out of the world.

Knowing how he'd been kept separate from the other kids at St. Agnes, how he'd spent so much time on his own learning to navigate the world, Foggy found himself struggling with a balance between rage and pity. Sniffing, Foggy continued his meager ministrations with the tissues, trying to clean the blood away from Matt's face. When the pocket door slid open, he didn't look up, thinking it was Karen returning.

"How long ago was he dosed?"

Foggy jumped up, startled. "Claire?"

She was in sweats and a white hoodie, which she quickly discarded, shoving the sleeves of her long sleeved T-shirt up past her elbows.

"How'd you get in here?"

"Karen told me to come to the side entrance," she told him briskly, not offering more. "She's out there talking to the cops."

"Lantom?"

"In an ambulance." She sat on the couch at Matt's hip and snapped a pair of purple latex gloves in place. "How long ago?" she repeated, carefully checking Matt's bruised and cut face, lifting the hem of his T-shirt to glimpse his chest, pressing gently at the puncture marks just below his ribcage.

"Um…about twenty minutes?"

"Karen said two syringes?"

"Yeah," Foggy nodded, not taking his eyes from what Claire was doing.

He marveled at how she was able to efficiently roll Matt first to one side, then the other, removing his wet jacket before taking a pair of scissors from the pack she brought with her and cutting his T-shirt up the middle and through the sleeves, peeling it away from Matt's skin.

With Matt's chest exposed to the soft light of the prayer room, Foggy could see the extent of the damage as well as tracks of the old scars he'd mentioned to Karen, the largest on his lower right flank, still knotted and raised.

The man was purple and black with bruising. The marks Foggy had seen earlier in the week at the gym had faded to green and yellow and had been replaced by new imprints of fists, boots, and at least one cement floor, Foggy knew.

"Jesus, Matt," Claire muttered, moving to check the cut on his cheek and along his hairline. "A few of these cuts are going to need stitches. Did he hit his head?"

"Uh, yeah, about ten times," Foggy huffed. "He had some help, though."

"I bet my next paycheck he has a concussion, but with that drug—"

Matt arched his neck and cried out, his shaking suddenly increasing. Claire was immediately in motion, pulling out a saline bag and a small catheter. Matt began to hyperventilate; whatever he was reliving was not fun.

"Foggy, I need you to hold him still, okay?" Claire instructed.

"What are you doing?"

"We gotta try to flush that drug out of his system," Claire muttered, slipping the catheter into the back of Matt's hand and fastening it there before climbing up to the back of the couch and holding the saline bag up. "Just hold him still."

Foggy moved forward, but before he could reach out, Matt cried out once more, his back bowing upwards as though he were trying to escape the pain. His breath became staccato, uneven bursts of air, his fingers twisting and gripping along the material of the couch.

Kneeling down next to the couch, Foggy grasped Matt's shoulders in the only places he didn't see bruising. "You're okay, buddy, come on, just breathe, okay?"

Matt shuddered out a breath, not listening to or not hearing Foggy's coaching. Foggy kept up a low litany of encouragement as Claire fastened the saline bag to a crucifix hanging on the wall.

"Pretty sure that's a sacrilege," Foggy muttered.

"I'll say a few Hail Mary's," Claire retorted. She moved down around Foggy and checked Matt's pulse. "Shit, it's way too fast."

"What do we do?" Foggy asked as Karen slipped back into the room.

Claire rubbed her face, thinking. "We can give him a beta-blocker," she said, "but without proper heart monitoring equipment, I don't know how to fully regulate it."

Matt's breathing began to rival that of an Olympic runner. Foggy grabbed his friend's hand and began to rub his thumb into the hollow of Matt's palm, the way his mother had done for him when he was in full-on panic mode. He watched as Claire readied a syringe and injected a small amount of liquid into a vein in Matt's arm.

He glanced at Karen once, his fear and panic a living thing that reached out and wrapped around her. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wet, her cheeks flushed, but her back was ramrod straight and her hands strong as she gripped Foggy's shoulder in reassurance. Matt began to mutter again, the words choked and broken with staggered breaths.

"So loud…everything's s'loud…."

Claire had her fingers at Matt's pulse, her face pulled into a fierce frown. She pulled the latex from her left hand and laid it flat against Matt's chest. "C'mon, Matt, you're stronger than this. You can beat this, now, c'mon!"

"'m alone…always…. Better."

Foggy heard Karen's breath catch and felt her hair brush the side of his face as she leaned closer. "Please, Matt, just listen to my voice, okay? Just listen to me. You're not alone. You never were."

Matt gasped a few more times, like sobs after a torrent of tears. Foggy could feel his friend's hand jerk a couple times in his loose grip and then he went abruptly and eerily silent.

Still.

As if someone had pushed the pause button on their lives.

"No," Claire breathed, rising from her knees in one fluid motion. "No, nonono. Goddammit, Murdock, don't you do this."

"What? What is it?" Foggy asked, panic turning his voice thin.

"Move!" Claire ordered. "Out of my way, now!"

Foggy and Karen stood and backed up quickly as Claire swung up to straddle Matt, sitting on his hips and positioning her arms at his sternum.

"Cardiac arrest," Claire barked. "Fucking drug overwhelmed his heart."

Foggy felt his hands go numb. The world began to narrow, a tunnel of black curling up around the edges of his vision. He blinked, trying to clear his line of sight but suddenly realized he couldn't feel his lips. Without being truly conscious of it, he allowed Karen to push him into a hard, wooden chair that had previously been sitting behind the small desk.

He heard Karen speaking and watched in disjointed fascination as the two women fought to bring his best friend back to life.

"I have the air," Karen said to Claire, who simply nodded as she continued to count reps under her breath, her slim body rocking with the effort.

As Foggy watched, Claire finished fifteen reps, then paused as Karen tipped Matt's head slightly back, held his nose and breathed open-mouthed into him. One long breath, then she raised her head, Matt's blood streaked across her lips and cheek. Claire began again and Foggy found himself wanting to curl inwards in protection from the force of her thrusts. Karen leaned forward and breathed for Matt once more and Foggy saw Matt's torso buck slightly.

"That's it," Claire encouraged. "That's it, Matt, come on back to us."

Matt coughed roughly and Claire jumped off of him and, with Karen's help, turned him gently to his side, easing the effort on his lungs. His eyes stayed closed, but he was breathing. Foggy knew enough even in his shocked state to know that if Matt was breathing, his heart was beating.

And all of that was very, very good.

"You guys," Foggy said weakly, "you guys are amazing."

The two women looked over at him.

"What you just did. You just…. I'm just gonna…think I need to, uh, fall over or something."

"Karen," Claire said, her voice still worry-rough and commanding, "put his head between his legs."

Karen was at his side as though she'd teleported there, her cool hands on his neck, her soft voice in his ear. His vision was graying out again and he allowed himself to be manhandled until he was leaning over, his forehead resting on his right knee. He could feel Karen's hand at his back, rubbing soothing circles, her voice reassuring him that he was okay, that Matt was okay.

He could hear Claire speaking to Matt, but when Matt didn't respond, he knew it was just her way of offering the same type of reassurance, telling him what she was doing to him—stitching his wounds, binding his bones, cleaning his skin—so that he wouldn't startle in his hyper-sensitive state.

As the world came back into balance for Foggy, he eased carefully upright, Karen keeping her hands on him. It struck him, then, the story he was seeing in that small prayer room.

A man who willingly put his life on the line, who delivered and absorbed pain in equal measure, who would die to protect any one of them, was lying helpless and trembling while a slight, deceptively fragile-looking woman with staggering strength put his broken pieces back together again.

A lawyer who used sarcasm and humor as both a spear and a shield, who followed the letter of the law to defend the innocent and condemn the guilty, was pale and sweaty while a slim woman with a sweet smile and childlike eyes talked him back from the brink.

Those women had just saved Matt's life.

Foggy reached for Karen's slender hand, gripping it solidly but gently in his much larger one, and sighed as she leaned against him—as though for her own comfort as well as his. They watched as Claire finished stitching Matt's cheek and lip, placing butterfly bandages on the wound on his forehead, then changed out the saline bag.

"Should he be sweating that much?" Karen asked.

Foggy looked at Matt's face and bare chest. Both were shiny with sweat even as he wrapped his arms around his middle, shivering.

"His body is trying to get rid of the drug," Claire explained. "The victims we've seen in the ER have usually come around after two or three bags of saline and soaking through three sets of sheets."

"Isn't there any other way to—"

"Not that we've found," Claire interrupted, checking Matt's pulse once more. "I really want to take him to the hospital after that cardiac episode." She sighed. Foggy and Karen waited, neither ready to disagree with her. "But I didn't take him when he was bleeding out, so."

"Brett said that they would put a guard on Father Lantom," Karen offered. "They have an APB out on Bobby Henley, too."

"Is that the guy who did this to him?" Claire asked, looking at them over her shoulder. There was enough venom in her voice and eyes that Foggy instantly pitied anyone who crossed her in this moment.

"Yeah," Foggy replied, finally releasing Karen's hand so that she could sink down to sit on the floor next to him. "He's…er, well, he was our client. I'm pretty sure we're fired at this point."

A slightly-hysterical, helpless laugh bubbled up from Karen. She covered her mouth quickly, then looked with wide blue eyes over at Claire and Matt, then back to Foggy.

"I'm sorry," she said, unable to completely remove the smile from her face. "I don't know why I'm laughing. None of this is funny."

Claire offered her a tired smile, her hand still resting on Matt's arm. "It's actually a very natural reaction," she said. "Y'know, to finding out your friend is secretly a superhero—"

"Who gets his ass handed to him on a regular basis," Foggy broke in.

"—and your other friend knew all about it—"

"Even though he'd have been just find being in the dark for pretty much the rest of his life."

"—and your client is a lunatic—"

"Who may or may not have killed two people."

By the time Claire and Foggy were finished, Karen had shifted from helpless laughter to quiet tears. She pulled her knees up and covered her face with her hands, mindful of the stitches in both. Foggy sat quietly, giving her the space she needed to compose herself. Claire grabbed Foggy's discarded jacket from the floor and draping it over Matt's bare chest and shoulders.

Foggy didn't miss the way his friend seemed to instinctively burrow deeper into the soft fabric; he imagined the tweed-like material of the couch had to be like sandpaper against Matt's overly-sensitized skin. The jacket seemed to dwarf Matt, making it seem momentarily impossible that he was capable of orchestrating the violence and damage Foggy had witnessed just a few moments before.

"He saved my life, you know," Karen said quietly, sniffing away the last of her tears. "Day after I met him. I didn't know it was him. It was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. All in black, flipping around in the rain." Foggy looked down toward where she sat, watching as she remembered. "The other guy was just…he was big and scary and he had a knife and…and Matt, he…he just charged in. He used everything he could—chains, a fire escape, the ground. He was bleeding. A lot. But he saved me. And then he walked away."

"And showed up to work the next morning," Foggy remembered. "And told me he'd tripped while taking out the garbage."

"'s kinda true," Karen chuffed.

"He saved my life, too," Claire said quietly.

She was looking at Matt, gently brushing his tangled hair from his eyes. Her body was flush against his, as though he'd purposely curled around her as he combatted the pain of the drug. Who knows, maybe he had. The one thing Foggy knew Matt rarely ever got was comfort. He frowned as Matt began to mutter softly, his body shaking under the large jacket.

"I thought he said you found him in a dumpster," Foggy recalled.

"I did," Claire said, her smile both amused and pained. "But later, the men who almost killed him came after me."

"Jesus," Karen whispered.

"He never said," Foggy told her, apologetically.

Claire lifted a shoulder. "He wouldn't have would he?" She glanced at them. "How much does Matt ever actually say about anything he does?"

Foggy and Karen stayed silent, listening.

Claire looked back at Matt's shuddering form. "They hurt me. A lot. But then…he found me. And he hurt them. A lot." This time her smile was mean, cold, and Foggy found himself liking her more than he probably should, based on her complicated relationship with Matt. "And when it was over and they were…," she paused, cleared her throat, then continued, "he just gathered me up and told me it was okay, he had me."

She laid her palm on the side of his face. "I have you," she said.

The moment suddenly felt charged with something Foggy wasn't sure he was supposed to be witnessing. He swallowed and ran his hands through his sweaty hair, trying to think of what to say next. As per usual, Karen saved him.

"It's a good thing you're a little bigger than Matt, Foggy," she said, gently teasing. "Your jacket's basically the only blanket we have here."

"A little?" Claire chuckled, adjusting the jacket as Matt's trembling shifted it down over his bare shoulder.

"Hey, c'mon now," Foggy picked up the vibe of the room. "I'll have you know that I do marathons." Off of Karen's raised eyebrow he continued, "On Netflix."

The women chuckled appreciatively, and Karen patted his leg. It seemed they were going to settle in for the night; moving Matt at this point was going to be impossible and none of them were willing to leave. After a bit, Karen left at Claire's instruction and retrieved cool, wet clothes. As Claire used them to soothe Matt's sweaty skin, Foggy and Karen wandered the church in search of food. When they found the kitchen, Foggy said he felt a bit like he was going to be struck by lightning, taking food from the kitchen of a church.

"We'll buy Father Lantom some groceries when all this is over," Karen offered, cradling several apples in the crook of her arm. "Wait. Is that…an espresso machine?"

The pearled light of dawn had started to find its way through the stained glass windows of the sanctuary when the duo started back toward the prayer room, well-stocked with food and coffee. Half-way across the sanctuary, however, Foggy heard Matt cry out. Not just a wordless scream this time. This time, Matt was calling for him.

"Foggy!"

"He's fine, Matt, he's okay," Claire was saying as they entered the room, Karen closing the pocket door behind them. "He's not hurt, I promise."

Foggy set his collection of food on the desk and moved to stand next to Claire as she crouched over the couch where Matt lay. His jacket had been tossed on the floor and Matt's eyes were open, though he was clearly not even close to fully conscious.

"What happened?" Foggy asked, confused. Matt had been sleeping when they left—seemingly out of the woods.

"It just hit him," Claire said somewhat frantically, her hands on Matt's shoulders, trying to keep him from launching himself off the couch. "Some kind of fever dream. He thinks—"

"Stick, lemme go," Matt said, sounding as clear as he had all night. He reached up and grabbed Claire's wrist in an obviously painful grip. "Nobu…he's going to…Foggy won't survive that. Not that."

"Matty, hey," Foggy eased Claire out of the way and held Matt's wrists, freeing her from his friend's too-strong grip. "I'm right here, okay?"

With a shout of alarm, Matt jackknifed forward, hands flat on Foggy's chest and pushed him back with more strength than Foggy gave him credit for at the moment.

"Get the hell away from me," Matt growled, eyes rolling closed as his face folded in pain.

He wrapped an arm around his middle and curled inward. Foggy tried to use that opening to push Matt back against the couch, but Matt slapped his hand away, rolling to his side. He groaned, low and breathless, his face paling.

Claire lunged for the nearly-empty saline bag, but wasn't quick enough. Matt staggered upright, yanking the catheter from the back of his hand. He didn't even seem to register the new pain, or the blood that now ran down his hand and dripped from his middle two fingers. He kept his free hand wrapped around his side, but moved away from the people in the room, face tilting from one to the other, until his back was against the opposite wall.

"Matty, it's us, okay?" Foggy tried, not approaching him. "It's Karen and Claire and Foggy."

Matt's expression knotted in confusion. "Where's Stick?"

"There's no—" Foggy broke off when Matt's head jerked to the side as if someone had just spoken to him. He looked to Claire in confusion, asking, "Has this happened to any of the others? This…disorientation?"

Claire shook her head helplessly. "None of the others got as much as him."

Matt shook his head hard, as if trying to banish a thought, or clear vision that simply wouldn't be cleared. He reached up with an unsteady hand and wiped at his eyes, blinking rapidly and shaking his head again. Karen covered her mouth, capturing a rough sob. Foggy took a quick breath.

"Something's not right," Matt muttered. "What's…I can't…it's all dark."

"Shit," Foggy whispered, swallowing harshly.

Matt jerked his head up at the sound, then abruptly recoiled from whatever it was to his left that was haunting him. He put his hands over his ears, blood from the torn vein staining his fingers and smearing his bruised face, a low groan echoing from the base of his throat as he shook his head again. Foggy remembered his words just before the Dust stopped his heart: everything's so loud.

"Matty," he said softly, but Matt jerked away.

"It's all dark." He shook his head again, blinking.

"Oh, Matt," Karen said softly, tears clear in her voice.

Licking her lips, Claire stepped forward, her movements slow and careful in the small space between them and where Matt was trying to make himself one with the wall. Foggy watched as she rubbed her palms along the outer edges of her sweats, then stepped close enough to Matt that she could reach out and touch him. She paused before resting her hand on his shoulder; Foggy didn't blame her. He'd seen Matt in action: the man was dangerous, even when wounded.

Especially when wounded.

"Matt," she said softly. "It's Claire."

"Claire?" His voice was wrecked, not even close to his normal timbre. He didn't raise his head, but allowed her to rest her hands on his shoulders and draw closer. "It's dark."

"I know," Claire said, huskily. "The world isn't on fire, is it?"

Foggy felt the blood drain from his face once more, this time with realization. It wasn't that Matt was confused about not being able to see; it was that his 'sight' had been turned off. The drugs were messing with his perception.

"No," Matt whispered, the sound choked and anemic.

Claire slid her hand from Matt's shoulder to his cheek and held it there for a moment. "We are here, Matt. You can't see us like you usually do, but you can find us."

"I can't," Matt said, jerking slightly as though ducking a hit. He moved his hands to the sides of his head, gripping his sweaty hair with his fingers. "And he won't…he won't stop…just stop talking."

"Stick?" Claire asked.

"He wasn't here a minute ago, but—" Matt again ducked a sound heard only by him and this time his knees buckled.

Claire followed him down to the floor, kneeling in front of him. She looked over her shoulder at Foggy, questions clear in her eyes.

"I don't know," Foggy said helplessly, hands spread out to his sides. "All I got was a blind old man who taught him to fight."

"Sister Angelica said he was a violent man," Karen sniffed, wiping her eyes. "They brought him in to try to connect with Matt when he was like, ten, but she sounded like she'd been afraid of him."

Claire muttered under her breath. "Hijo de puta."

"If you're saying that's bad, I agree," Foggy replied.

"I need to get the fluid back into him," Claire said. "Only way he's going to beat this and have a chance to heal is to get those drugs out of his system."

Foggy chewed his lip for a moment, then made a decision. He only wished it didn't feel so much like he was stepping off a high dive and hoping there was water in the pool. Taking a breath, he moved forward, close to Claire, and spoke loud enough that Matt jerked in startled reaction.

"Hey, Stick!" Foggy barked. "How 'bout you try snatching a pebble from my hand and leave my friend alone."

"Are you seriously referencing Kung Fu right now?" Claire muttered sotto voce.

Foggy frowned at her. "Work with what you know, right?"

Matt, however, had tipped his head toward the corner of the room he'd been cowering away from. Foggy pressed on.

"You've got no power here," he practically bellowed. "He's got a new family."

For a long minute, no one moved. Then Claire scooted back slowly, as if afraid of breaking the hold of the moment, and grabbed new tubing and her last saline bag. Foggy crouched down where she'd been and faced off with Matt, wincing slightly at the tension in his friend's frame, the way the bruises on his torso crunched up against themselves.

"Hey," Foggy said softly, resting a hand on Matt's forearm and gently pulling it away from his ears. "He's not going to hurt you, Matty. I won't let him."

"Something's wrong with me, Foggy," Matt said, bowing his head so that his words were directed toward his knees. His skin was covered in sweat, a teardrop of perspiration bouncing down the tracks of stitches along his face. "It's all…it's burning. Everything. But I still can't…it's dark. I can't f-find you."

"It's the drug, Matt," Foggy told him, thinking about what Claire had said. Thinking about Kung Fu. "Try not to find us with, well, your way of seeing."

Matt shook his head and Foggy saw his chin tremble, the bruises there making the motion that much more tragic.

"Listen to me. I'm right here." Foggy thought back to that awful day after Claire had sewn Matt back together, when Matt had told him everything. The whole truth, as much as he'd been able. "Listen for my heartbeat."

Matt brought his chin up at that, tipping it sideways in the first recognizable motion he'd made since waking up with a scream on his lips. Sweat had tented his lashes, turning his battered face young. His blank eyes were resting somewhere to the left of Foggy's shoulder as he concentrated.

"It's too fast," Matt said, but then he reached his bloody hand out tentatively and brushed his fingertips on the edge of Foggy's hair, as if making sure what he sensed was truly there.

"Yeah, well, that'll happen when your best friend scares the shit out of you."

Matt swallowed. "Claire's here."

Foggy nodded, not thinking that Matt couldn't sense the motion at the moment.

"I h-heard her…f-felt her hand."

"Yeah, she's here, too," Foggy confirmed. "You can do this, Matty."

Matt's breathing grew slightly more rapid as he tipped his head again, clearly searching the room for sounds, smells, anything that gave him real versus not real.

"Y-you're wearing that perfume," Matt said, his voice pitched upwards. "The same kind you wore that first night. I liked how it smelled."

"Luckily," Claire answered, a wry smile on her lips. "Since we also had the cologne-happy Russian to deal with."

"Karen's here," Matt said, tilting his face in a different direction. "But…she's c-crying."

"I'm okay, Matt," Karen replied.

Matt covered his face briefly, then dropped his arms so that his hands hung from his knees. "Where…where is here?"

"Uh, it's like an alcove or something. At St. Pat's," Foggy replied.

"We're at my church?" Matt asked, his face scrunched up in confusion. He shifted as though to put his legs beneath him but paused, catching his breath. He pressed a hand against his side where the needles had left puncture marks. "Ahh, damn," he gasped. "Why does everything hurt so much?"

Foggy decided to let the language slip pass and rocked back on his heels, ready to help Matt stand when his friend decided he was able. "Probably because you beat up four guys and then got shot up by a shitload of Dust."

Matt ducked his head again, reaching for the back of his neck and gripping the muscle there. He was trembling again, not quite as violently as before, but enough that Foggy noticed. Claire moved forward, the saline bag in her hand.

"Matt, I need to keep flushing that drug out of your system," she said. "Can you let me do that?"

"I saw my dad," Matt said, bringing all motion to a halt. "Like he was right here again. I saw him die, only I couldn't have…'cause I wasn't there until after. And I…I couldn't see him then, really. I could touch him, but not…. Somehow, I…I saw him. And h-he…he looked so sad."

"It's the drug," Claire told him. "It triggers—"

"And I f-felt everything. The accident. Stick training me. Nobu's blade. I thought they…," he rubbed the back of his head. "I thought they were happening. Now. Again."

Claire just nodded and Foggy saw pain echoed in her tense expression.

"I think," Claire said, pausing to clear her throat. "I think you're on the tail end of this thing. You're with us, you're talking."

She drew closer and reached for his hand. Amazingly, he met her part way, gently grabbing her fingers, and arresting her movement. He moved his other hand directly to her face, cupping her cheek, then dropping it to rest on her shoulder. His movements were sure, steady. Almost as if….

"Matt?" Claire asked. "What do you see?"

Matt paused. Foggy lived four lifetimes in that pause.

"A world on fire," Matt said, his voice a tangle of relief and regret.

Foggy felt Karen's gaze on him and shook his head with a waved his fingers in a tell you about it later gesture. He saw Claire offer Matt a tremulous smile, then run a gentle hand down the back of his head.

"You think you can get up? Get back over to the couch?"

"Yeah," Matt nodded, allowing Claire and Foggy to reach for him and pull him carefully to his feet. Once there he wavered dangerously, Foggy's arm the only thing that kept him from crashing face-first to the floor.

"Easy buddy," Foggy grunted as he hefted Matt back to his feet and held him there until he seemed a bit steadier. "You're moving like me after a night of tequila."

"Can't have that," Matt murmured, not moving, still gripping Foggy's shoulder like a lifeline. "You make some pretty bad choices on tequila."

Foggy turned, sliding Matt's arm across his shoulder and moved him forward, Claire hovering close, but not quite touching him. Karen moved toward the couch and pulled Matt's ruined, sweat-soaked T-shirt away, laying Foggy's softer, not-quite-soaked jacket down to protect Matt's bare skin. As they reached the couch, Foggy bent and eased Matt to a seated position next to his jacket.

"In tequila's defense," Foggy teased as he shifted into a crouch in front of Matt, "I've also made some pretty questionable choices completely sober."

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Matt laughed. It was a broken thing, fragile edges of sound tripping around the room and teasing the air between them, but it was still a laugh.

Until it shattered and collected into sobs.

Matt's face fell, his lips folding down in an inverted bow, tears tracking the edges of bruises and his shoulders shaking with the effort. His fingers flinched and pulled at the seams of his jeans and his chest hitched with a desperate bid for air. The motion caught Foggy's eye and his gaze landed on fresh reddish-purple bruising on the center of Matt's chest where Claire had used all her force to bring him back.

That was Foggy's undoing.

Ignoring the two women in the room who would probably have been better at the nurturing and comforting, he leaned forward and clasped the back of Matt's neck, bringing him close enough their foreheads touched. Matt twitched, but didn't pull away. Tears slipped down his face, dancing through the scruff on his chin, and falling to his knees.

"You've probably thought of that night a thousand times," Foggy started, his voice soft, meant only for Matt even though he knew Claire and Karen could hear him. "Played it out, changed the angles, tried to figure out if you could have done something to stop it. Right?"

Matt simply nodded, his lips pressing closed over a low, pained moan.

"Matty, you were a kid. There was nothing you could do to save your dad, okay?"

Matt tried to pull away, but Foggy held him tight.

"And killing yourself to make this city a better place won't bring him back."

Foggy heard Karen clear the emotion from her throat behind him. Claire sank down on the couch next to Matt, an utterly exhausted sigh slipping from her parted lips. Matt tried to pull away again, this time with more effort and Foggy let him. He stayed crouched in front of him, but let his hand slide away, resting it on Matt's knees and watched as his friend let his head drop back against the couch, working to bring his emotions under control.

Foggy couldn't begin to think what it had been like for a ten-year-old blind kid, who'd only had his dad, to lose that lifeline, that connection to the world, and be thrust into a place where he'd been kept apart, kept alone, taught nothing but how to survive and fight. It was remarkable that the man had been able to actually function in society.

His outlet, his mission, while not remotely what Foggy wanted for his friend, was beginning to take on a recognizable shape. One that Foggy could begin to understand.

Claire picked up Matt's bloody hand, cleaned it gently and wrapped a bandage around it. Then, not saying a word, she eased the new catheter into a vein on the inside of Matt's arm, and opened the port to the last saline bag. Matt stayed sitting next to her, his head back against the couch, his eyes closed.

Foggy moved over to Karen and simply put his arms around her. It had been a pretty heavy night for her, all told. Leading her to the wall directly across from the couch, Foggy motioned for her to sit and then joined her, letting her lean her head on his shoulder. Claire met his eyes and he saw that she still held Matt's fingers.

"At some point," she said tiredly, "we really should all go home."

"Not sure where that is," Matt mumbled.

Foggy frowned; momentarily worried that Matt wasn't tracking again, but then Claire smiled sadly and rested her head on Matt's shoulder and Foggy decided it wasn't the time to press the issue. He leaned his head to rest on top of Karen's and closed his eyes.

That was the sight that met Father Lantom's eyes when he returned to his rectory later that morning. Foggy roused from the doze he'd allowed himself to slip into when he heard the pocket door slide open. The priest looked odd dressed in street clothes, the bruise around his eye a stark contrast to his white hair and pale skin.

Father Lantom met his eyes and smiled, then he moved over to the couch where Claire was asleep with her head on Matt's shoulder. Foggy was surprised to see that Matt's eyes were open, but then he realized Matt had probably heard Father Lantom long before the man had opened the door to the prayer room.

"Matthew."

"Father."

Claire stirred at the sound of Matt's voice, sitting up stiffly and yawning. Karen woke soon thereafter, all three staring up at Father Lantom with owlish expressions. They were all wan and exhausted, their wrinkled clothes looking like they'd rolled around in one of Hell's Kitchen's many back alleys. Foggy looked over at Matt and thought that, aside from the stitches and bruising—or, perhaps because of them—he was the only one of them to look close to his normal self.

"The policeman who escorted me back here informed me that the man who escaped has not been found," Father Lantom told Matt.

"Not surprising," Matt sighed, still not moving. "He spent two decades fooling everyone into thinking he was a victim when he actually murdered his father."

"You know this for sure?" Foggy asked, rubbing his shoulder where Karen's head had caused it to go numb.

"He told me. Up on the roof." Matt shrugged slightly. "Took me a bit to sort it out from…all the other stuff in my head."

"He was counting on the Dust to kill you," Foggy said, malice in his tone. "And it almost did."

"Father Lantom," Karen said, climbing to her feet. "What about Sister Angelica?"

Father Lantom looked down, his mouth pulled into a tight frown.

"She didn't make it, did she?" Matt asked quietly.

"I'm afraid the drug was too much for her system," Father Lantom told them.

Foggy looked over at Matt; though his friend hadn't made a sound, something suddenly felt off about him. "Matt?"

Matt shook his head. "She…she was the first person I met at St. Agnes."

"I'm sorry," Claire said, laying her hand on his leg.

"When I was younger, I…," he paused, brows pulling close. "I blamed her for…, well, everything." He rolled his head on the back of the couch. "Almost everything."

"You needed a focus for your pain, Matthew," Father Lantom offered. "I think now that she knew before you did what you were capable of."

The comfortable quiet of the room had congealed in the dim morning light that filtered into the room from the opened pocket door. Foggy could smell the coffee, sweat, and blood that soaked the air around them; and if he could smell it….

"How about we blow this popsicle stand, huh?"

Claire stood with a groan. "It's a good thing today's my day off," she yawned. "Don't think I could handle another Dust patient right now."

"Pretty soon," Matt promised from his position on the couch, "you won't have to."

Claire turned to him. "If you think you're going anywhere but home and to bed, you're insane."

Matt said nothing.

"Dammit, I'm serious, Matt," Claire snapped. "You're severely bruised. You've definitely got a concussion. And I'll bet you a million dollars—payable right now—you are hearing some old ships in your chest."

"Uh…old ships?" Foggy asked.

"Couple of cracked ribs," Matt allowed. "I'll be okay."

"Oh, so you beat the Dust and now you'll just meditate your way out of this?" Claire's tone was incredulous. "Don't suppose it matters that you died last night."

Matt blinked, his head lifting slightly from the couch. "What?"

"You wanna know why your chest hurts so badly?" Claire continued, shoving her loose sleeves up past her elbow as she worked herself up. "Because Karen and I gave you CPR."

Matt swallowed, apparently believing her when neither Foggy nor Karen spoke up to counter her statement.

"I didn't…I didn't know."

Claire took a breath, then glanced almost apologetically at Father Lantom before looking back at Matt. "You need rest to heal. And you need to stay off the street until this bastard is found. Because he knows you, Matt."

"He knows Matt Murdock," Matt said. "But there's a side of me he doesn't know."

"That side," Karen spoke up suddenly, stepping forward until Foggy imagined she was burning hot and bright in Matt's perception, "needs to let Matt Murdock heal. Because I didn't bring my friend back to life just to have Daredevil kill him."

Matt held completely still for a moment, then slowly nodded. Foggy exhaled, thankful for the badass women in his life keeping his best friend in check.

"Okay, so we're in agreement," he said, clapping his hands together. "You're on lockdown for at least—"

"Forty-eight hours," Claire broke in.

"Forty-eight hours," Foggy echoed. "Perfect opportunity for me to catch you up on your movie trivia."

"There is something else," Father Lantom broke in before anyone else could move.

"There usually is," Matt said on a tired sigh.

"My vows forbid me to reveal the nature in which I came by this information," Lantom said, shifting and clasping his hands behind his back as though he were at parade rest. "But they don't say much about you guessing correctly."

"What is it, Father?" Matt asked, showing the first sign that he might not be actually growing roots on Father Lantom's couch.

"In your research, did you come across Bobby Henley's mother's name?"

Foggy frowned. "Uh, Rita, wasn't it?"

Father Lantom pressed his lips together, looking at the floor. "Her name was Margherita Messala."

Foggy felt his teeth click together and he looked over at Matt, watching as the muscle along Matt's jaw bounced like a living thing. Without a word, Matt tightened his abs and shifted forward, a sharp gasp of pain halting him part-way there. Foggy reached out, Claire lifted her hands, but Father Lantom was closer and swifter.

He all but collected Matt up against him, pulling the younger man to his feet and holding him there, careful of the bruising that stared them all in the face. Matt didn't even pretend to look in the priest's direction. There was something in his expression—shame? Disappointment? Sorrow?

"I'm sorry, Father," Matt said quietly. "I should have kept you out of this."

"You didn't bring this to my door, Matthew. It was here, waiting for you."

"I couldn't…I couldn't keep you safe," Matt whispered.

Father Lantom shifted his grip until Matt was standing directly in front of him, still supported by the priest's strong hands. "I'm standing here, alive, because of you."

Matt swallowed. Foggy exchanged looks with Claire and Karen as they waited to see Matt's reaction. Matt nodded, but in that motion expressed only resignation, not acceptance. Foggy let his shoulder's drop and saw Father Lantom's frown deepen.

"Foggy," Matt said, pulling stiffly from the priest's hands. "We've got work to do."

"Hey, we just agreed—"

"Lawyer work," Matt amended. "I can do lawyer work on lockdown."

"At your apartment," Karen stipulated.

"From your couch," Claire added.

Matt nodded tiredly.

"It's good to finally meet Matthew's family," Father Lantom smiled, his eyes hitting each one of them in turn.

Foggy smiled and saw Karen blink in surprise and Claire cover her mouth in a gesture he was beginning to recognize as overwhelmed. She turned and grabbed Matt's now-dry coat, stepping close to him and carefully easing his arms in the sleeves, zipping it closed over his bare chest. Foggy and Karen donned their own coats and Foggy smirked when he realized that his smelled like Matt.

Matt started to head out of the small prayer room, pausing at the alcove where the cooler air waited for them. He took a slow breath, an arm still wrapped around his middle, and lifted his chin toward the stairs, as if playing through the previous night's events. As he moved forward once more in a stiff-backed, stuttering stride, Foggy and the others trailing after him, he called back over his shoulder.

"Karen, when this is all over, you have to tell us how you got to be so good with a gun."

Foggy jerked to a halt, looking over at Karen who stared back, pale faced. "How the hell did you know it was Karen?"

Matt kept walking, almost as though he knew if he stopped, he wouldn't be able to start again. "I can smell the gunpowder on her hands."

Claire huffed out a small laugh, moving past the shocked Karen and Foggy to catch up with Matt. "Guess he's done keeping things a secret."

"Come on," Foggy nudged Karen into moving, catching the reassuring hand Father Lantom placed on her shoulder.

"You have nothing to fear from Matthew," Father Lantom said to Karen, "or from the law. The man did not die."

"Thanks, Father," Karen replied, her voice shaking slightly.

"Should you ever need a place to talk, I have a mean espresso machine in the basement," Father Lantom patted Karen's shoulder, "and my door is always open."

Karen's eyes were wet but, her smile steady as she nodded her thanks. She followed Matt and Claire and Foggy exchange a look with Father Lantom in her wake. The man offered Foggy an enigmatic smile and then turned back toward his prayer room. Rubbing his face, Foggy dragged his tired body after his friends.

"Really pretty sure the universe just shifted sideways," he mumbled to himself, then as the big main doors created open, he added at the same decibel, "You hear me, Murdock?"

He didn't know whether to feel relief or trepidation when Matt called back, "Yes."