It was hard. Seeing the shell of his best friend. Knowing how scared he must be. How hurt. Knowing there wasn't a damn thing he could do to help him. Except be there. But what good could that really do for someone who was catatonic?

Catatonic. Another word that had once made sense but lost all meaning when applied to Matt Murdock. It was so unnatural, seeing Matt lie there, eyes open, knowing he was awake, but unable to respond to anything the way he should. His eyes would move around the room, sometimes. Might even look in your direction if you managed to break through the haze that held him captive. His hands would fist themselves in the blanket, worrying its edge as his hands shook from all the shit pumped into his blood.

Matt was awake, but he wasn't here. Not really.

Foggy really needed him here. He needed his best friend back. God, he needed him back. He needed to see that smile again, hear that calm voice tell him everything was gonna be okay, no matter how big a lie that was.

Right now it felt like nothing would ever be okay again. But Matt wasn't giving up. So Foggy wouldn't either. He had a plan of action, and after excessive Googling, four overlong lunches, and a missed delivery pickup, he was ready to execute it.

The door squealed dully against the floor as it opened, making Danny look up from his computer.

"Oh hey Foggy!"

"Greetings, Daniel." He tried not to look too closely at Matt, staring vacantly into the ceiling. "How's the essay going?"

Danny's shoulders slumped. "I still need three more references. I'm starting to wish there was a way to summon the Iron Fist, but like, in my head. I suck at spelling," he wailed, hanging his head dramatically and taking a deep, long-suffering breath. "But on the bright side," he added, instantly cheery again, and honestly, being around this guy would give Foggy emotional whiplash if it weren't so damn endearing, "Matt's responding to the benzos. Claire says things are looking up."

Relief swept ten pounds off Foggy's shoulders at that. "For real? That's excellent."

"Mm-hm. D'you want a minute with him? Last I checked the desk outside was clear."

Foggy grinned at Danny as he rose to his feet, gathering up his power lead. "Thanks, Danny." He tapped his satchel conspiratorially. "Pretty sure I've cracked it this time. He's definitely gonna snap out of it."

Danny smiled at him, almost managing to conceal his pity. Foggy'd said the same thing every day since Matt woke up and every day he'd failed to pull his best friend out of his stupor. At least it was Danny on guard, not Jessica. She was ... taking it hard.

"I bet you will, man," he answered in his usual encouraging tone. "Just remember – don't open the blinds."

Foggy gave a thumbs-up and a nod. No one had opened the blinds since Matt was first wheeled into the room. But Danny was like a little kid playing sheriff these days, with a hefty dose of idolisation thrown in. He took his role as guard so seriously it was like it was his big brother lying in that bed. Foggy hoped Matt could get to enjoy that when he woke up. He doubted he'd ever had it before.

"Oh and Foggy?" The door was cut off mid squeak as Danny hesitated.

"Yeah, bud?"

"I had this idea. Claire's not so sure about but I know it'll work if I can find the right ingredients. There was this, uh, healing ritual? We did it in K'un-Lun. I wanna try it with Matt. If you'll let me."

Foggy glanced from Matt – ow – to Danny – aw – and back again. He really was a sweet kid. "Um, why not? It's not dangerous is it?"

"Nope!" Danny said, far too brightly. Foggy instantly regretted his abrupt confidence in the idea.

"Well maybe tell me a little more about it later," he backtracked. Mystic K'un-Lun magic was how Elektra got sucked back into Matt's life, wasn't it?

Danny nodded – failing spectacularly to hide his disappointment – and slipped outside, the plug of his computer charger skittering along the floor behind him. It avoided getting caught in the door by a millimetre.

Foggy took Danny's seat as the door squeaked shut behind him. Matt's fist tightened on the blanket, rolling his wrist as though opening the throttle on a motorbike. Foggy settled his bag on his knees but didn't open it. If this didn't work, then ... he was out of ideas.

"Y'know," he said, his tone devoid of the casual lightness he'd been aiming for, "you're really taking the whole cold shoulder thing a little far, bud. I'm sorry I let you get stuck in a hospital but, honestly, you don't have to ignore all of us."

He looked hopefully at the impassive face. Matt's eyes were trained just above the door today. He didn't so much as twitch.

Well, when guilt and humour fail, try a forced emotional reboot. He opened his bag.

God, he hoped this'd work.

"So, I kinda broke into your apartment," he confessed, keeping his eyes on the photos he'd pilfered. "And snooped through your stuff. Which I know you'd hate, so feel free to wake up and yell at me, I mean, that'd be fine."

Another pointlessly hopeful pause.

"Right. You probably wouldn't anyway. I found those old photos you keep with your dad's robe. And I stole them."

He pulled the old boxing robe out of his satchel and leant forward to spread it over Matt's legs. He wasn't brave enough to try to slip it over Matt's arms, not with those bandages staring right at him the whole time. Instead he gently extricated Matt's hands from the blanket and laid them carefully over the silky material. The fingers clenched and unclenched around it a few times. Exactly the kind of repetitive motion Claire had warned him did not mean Matt was snapping out of it.

Jesus. This sucked so damn much.

"So, yeah, it's em, red. A nice bright red, like ... maybe like cayenne pepper tastes? A happy red. And the letters are gold –" he tugged the robe up so Matt's hands were within easy reach of the raised letters of BATTLIN' JACK MURDOCK – "and there's gold around the edges too. Also bright and happy. Like sunlight. Wait, that's no good, like, um, like orange juice. Yeah. 'Cause that makes sense."

Enough with the colours, idiot. Stop rambling.

Foggy cleared his throat and turned his attention, somewhat gratefully, to the little stack of photographs that was all Matt had kept of his childhood. He hadn't seen these since that night after Elektra broke him – the first time – and Matt had asked Foggy in that tiny voice if he could describe them to him.

"So, uh," he began unsteadily, clearing his throat again and shoving his own misery far enough down that he could pretend it wasn't there. "This first one is of you and your dad at your, looks like seventh birthday? Taking a selfie before selfies were cool, you little trend setter." He shifted his weight and looked closer at the photo, trying to see more than just the image. "You're pretending to punch your dad in the cheek and his other hand is like two seconds away from shoving a giant piece of cake into your face and you're both grinning like the giant dorks you are. Uh ... you guys have the same smile, actually. Real big and toothy. In a good way," he added quickly, glancing up to Matt with a reassuring smile. The sight of him sent a particularly painful pang shimmering along his heart and he turned abruptly back to the photos, remembering why he was doing this.

"Um, your dad's got his arm around you, the one that's holding the camera. He's got a wicked bruise over his eye and he's clearly growing out his beard or something. Uuhh ..." He hunted through the image for any details Matt would want, knowing full well what Matt would really want would be to see his father's face again and acutely aware he had no idea how to describe it enough to make up for that. Well. That was why he'd come up with phase two of this plan. But best get through the pictures first.

"Apart from having a hand-shaped hole in it, the cake looks nice. Store bought, unless your dad was amazing at baking." He held the photo closer, trying to make out anything significant in the background. No balloons, no banners, no pile of presents, no friends ... Seven-year-old Foggy wouldn't've recognised the scene as a birthday party without the Happy Birthday! written on the cake. Though the ay! was about to be smushed into little Matt's face.

"You were a really cute kid," Foggy noted. "Shame what's happened since, huh?" He couldn't help glancing up again and regretted it. "Just kidding. Your hair's all long and floppy. Makes you look like some reject from a kiddie boy band and hey, it was their loss, I've heard you sing. It's, uh ... it's actually kinda weird. You're looking right into the camera." He swallowed. "Right at me. This is back when you were just ... an ordinary kid. No superpowers."

Foggy slipped the photograph to the back of the tiny pile with shaking hands and cleared his throat again.

"Um, this next one is you and your dad at Fogwell's. You're sitting on the edge of the ring and he's standing beside you, leaning against it. It's a candid, your backs are to the camera. Um, you're wearing a stripey shirt – white and green, if you're interested – and your dad's just in a grey tee. You guys are just ... talking. You look pretty serious – maybe you're telling him about Thurgood Marshall or something." Foggy raised a fist and brought it down dramatically on the armrest, imitating Matt's preachiest voice. "We must dissent from the apathy! We must dissent from the fear!"

Under normal circumstances, that would've made Matt smile. His hands were kind of twitching, but, Foggy didn't know if that meant anything.

"Dissent from the apathy, bud," Foggy repeated half-heartedly. "Marshall says so."

Matt didn't budge.

Right. Onto the last photo then. Foggy tried to ignore how sad it was Matt only had three. There were whole albums of Foggy age nothing to last year back home. Full of family and friends and happy days out. All that was left of the happy part of Matt's childhood was a gloomy gym and gloomier apartment, and his dad's smile. Which he hadn't seen since he was nine 'cause his life was so fucked up.

"Um, this one," he said, his voice shaking, "is another candid, also in Fogwell's. Your dad's in the ring with gloves on, and wow, Matt." He glanced up and didn't even register at first that Matt had turned his head in Foggy's direction. His eyes were staring above his head, still looking painfully vacant. "You look so like your dad. But I think you're even musclier." Or, you were, before being in a coma for almost a month. "And he's got that same look in his face you get when you're about to demolish someone in court. Like you get when you talk about protecting the city. He's covered in sweat and he's um, punching one hand forward – don't hate me, I have no idea what kind of punch that is, apart from that, y'know, it's effective. The guy he's fighting has a face full of glove and his neck is at a weird angle so I'm pretty sure your dad won this one. Anyway, you're in the foreground and you're watching the match – this must've been before the accident, I think I remember you telling me that – and you're punching one fist too, copying your dad. I guess you're about nine or so here too. Um ... your dad's shorts are red. His nose is bleeding. You still have that floppy haircut."

Foggy raised his head. Matt was almost looking at him.

"Matt? Buddy?" He leaned forward and took Matt's wrist, tried not to shiver as his fingers curled around the scars there. "Can you hear me, dude?"

Matt blinked. Breathed. His hands worked the robe idly.

Foggy withdrew before his heart could shatter completely. He dug into his bag for his last hope and pulled it from its box.

"So this one," he explained, forcing his tone into cheery territory. "Is a subtle I told you so as well as, I hope, a nice surprise. So you remember me wanting a 3D printer? Yeah, those things are crazy expensive so no, I didn't get one – but I found this place in Manhattan that lets people use them. So, rather than pay too much money to build my private army of tiny mutant dinosaurs, just 'cause I love you so much, I had something else printed instead."

He scooted forwards in the chair and placed the plastic bust in Matt's hands. Then realised that wasn't enough and stood up, sat on the edge of the bed, and carefully took hold of Matt's right hand. Holding the bust in his other, Foggy, feeling weird as hell, ran Matt's unresponsive fingers over the three-dimensional portrait of his father's face.

"I found a good photo of Jack online," he continued quietly, helping Matt trace his fingertips over his dad's nose. "It was from some old site that did profiles on boxers in Hell's Kitchen. Obviously, your dad wasn't this small but seriously, 3D printing is not cheap, but he's smiling? And looking out, um, like straight ahead. And you really do look like him, you know. And –"

He stopped dead. Matt's hand was moving, the bones shifting under Foggy's gentle grip. Holding his breath, he let go and watched in amazement as Matt reached for the block of plastic – with both hands – and explored the contours of the face within with methodical, shaking strokes. Terrified this was another false hope, Foggy turned his gaze slowly to Matt's face.

He was frowning, his cheeks twitching minutely under the nasal cannula running under his nose. And there were tears in his eyes.

"M-Matt?" Foggy whispered, scared to believe what he was seeing.

Matt shifted his head in that way he did to let you know he was paying attention.

"Matt, can you hear me? Can you say something, bud?"

One of the tears winked out of the corner of Matt's eye and escaped into his hairline as though afraid of being caught.

"Daddy?"

Holy shit. It was the tiniest, groggiest little noise ever, and it pulverised his heart, but holy shit it was Matt. Foggy leaned forward, laying his hand on Matt's forearm.

"No, buddy, it's me. It's Foggy. I'm right here."

Matt's face twitched so it was pointed properly at Foggy now.

"Foggy? Is – what – Foggy, what's –"

"It's okay, buddy, you're okay. You're in hospital. You've been ... uh, pretty out of it for a while."

Matt's frown deepened, his hand moving around the little bust with more energy, almost needily.

"My dad – where's – I thought – he –?"

"It's just a picture, buddy. 3D printed. Yeah, it's your dad, but, uh, he's not here, Matt." God, he was grinning so wide his cheeks were burning from the effort, the ache a shadow of the pain in his heart as he watched his best friend remember.

Matt's eyebrows quirked in misery and a few more tears made a run for his hairline.

"You need anything, buddy?" Foggy asked, too quickly, too loudly. Trying to distract Matt from the fact his father was dead. He hadn't thought about this. "You thirsty? I, uh, I have no idea what I'm meant to do here. How're you even feeling?" His voice trailed off into a whispered afterthought as Matt's face crumpled like Foggy had only ever seen it crumple twice in his life. A tiny, strangled sob shuddered up from under the reddening bandages on Matt's chest and the tears sent a whole battalion out onto the no man's land of his cheeks and that did it. Screw the gunshot wound. Foggy pulled Matt carefully into a semi-sitting position and gathered him against his chest, tucking his head against his shoulder and holding him as though scared the force of his muted sobs would shatter him to pieces. He could feel Matt's arm still moving between them, his hand still tracing his father's face. Foggy held him as tight as he dared, his own battle with stoicism long lost under the assault of Matt's exhausted, near-silent cries. Cries which were strangled into uneasy breaths far too quickly, but Matt didn't pull away so Foggy just ran a hand along his back, over the washboard of his ribs, over the long, thin scars, and kept up a low hum of semi-coherent reassurances.

Matt slumped against Foggy, his paltry weight only adding another shallow fissure to the cracks along his heart. He heard the quiet thump as the block fell onto the bed. Matt was having trouble breathing now, every exhalation contorted by pain.

"Breathe with me, buddy," Foggy whispered, taking an exaggerated breath he actually really needed. "Just breathe with me. Nice and easy. In ... and out. I got you."

It took a few painful-sounding attempts for Matt to match the grounding rhythm, the shallow movements of his chest feeble compared to Foggy's. But he kept his hand rubbing comfort into Matt's back, kept his arms firmly around him. Kept sniffing back his own tears.

"Foggy," Matt sighed, his throat scratching from misuse. "Thank you, Foggy. You fo– ... you found me."

A mildly hysterical laugh bubbled up from Foggy's chest. God, he hadn't heard that voice in way, way too long.

"I always will, buddy," he promised, hugging Matt closer. "I always will."

AN: The photo of a stripy-clad Matt chatting with Jack in Fogwell's is canon, it's visible in the chest were season one Matt keeps his dad's robe and Braille alphabet and other mementos. And yes, I looked it up for this because I am a huge nerd and details will be the death of me.