Life is good.
Business at Nelson and Murdock has been thriving since the Fisk trial. They have actual paying clients now, but that doesn't deter the line of baked goods in the hallway that they eventually donate to others. Matt takes a sip of the good coffee and closes his eyes briefly in bliss.
There are bags under his eyes, though. The coffee is pretty much what's been keeping him upright for the past few weeks. He knows Foggy and Karen are concerned, but he's fine, he's fine.
(He wakes up during the night crying out, only for nobody to hear.)
(His hands shake sometimes. He's dropped too many things to count.)
(He doesn't think it should take this long to recover.)
(He's still trying to get back up.)
A deafening explosion rocks the building and their tiny office. Matt is thrown into a wall and knows nothing at all.
He feels like he should be familiar with this floaty darkness by now, but it still seems cold.
Life is not at all good. In fact, life is terrible. Matt would like a refund.
When he finally, fully comes to, he registers the ringing in his ears first. His breath hitches, and then he is coughing because of the smoke in the air. Fuck, please say he didn't lose his hearing too. Hello? Foggy? Karen? Anyone there?
Matt groans, feeling the vibration in his throat more than hearing it. He rolls over, and blinks dazedly up at the ceiling. At least, he hopes it's the ceiling. He hopes it's still there.
He sits up, head spinning, something warm trickling from his ears and his forehead and his nose. Definitely blood, but he doesn't want to think about it too closely. It reminds him of—
No.
His left ankle feels like hell, which is not an exaggeration. The whole place feels like hell, what with all the fire and smoke and eternal damnation. Maybe not the last part, but who knows? Matt thought it had all been over, but once he's lulled into a false sense of security, there's always a new thing in his life there to beat him up.
He digs into his pants pocket and miraculously finds his phone. Perhaps luck is on his side after all. He dials 9-1-1 and...and he must say something to the operator, because soon enough he's blinked back to cognizance and the call has ended, with sirens slowly getting louder in the distance.
Foggy and Karen. He has to get to Foggy and Karen.
He struggles, practically crawling to the partly destroyed wall of his office and using it to guide him to his doorway and his now nonexistent door. "Foggy?" he calls out, and then coughs. Blood splatters onto his hands, which is. Not good. "Karen?" he asks, wincing at the strain in his ribs, which reminds him of—
He sighs. Fisk is in prison. This is completely unrelated to him. How much longer will he haunt Matt?
"Matt?" Karen asks, sounding a bit far away, but that could just be Matt's currently shitty hearing.
"Where are you?" Matt asks with some amount of relief. If only Foggy would answer, too. "Are you okay?"
"I- I think my leg's broken," she says. "The ceiling caved in, and some of it fell on me. I can't move." Matt grimaces. He pushes self-deprecating thoughts to the side for now and starts crawling towards her as best he can. He brings his right hand down to propel himself further when it suddenly meets a sharp heat, and he pulls away immediately, gasping.
"Matt?" Karen asks, concerned, or more than that: scared, for him.
"I'm fine," Matt gasps out, pressing the burned hand to the cloth of his pants and hoping it doesn't get infected, which reminds him of—
Fisk. Pain. Darkness. Maybe this explosion was orchestrated by Fisk, and Matt will never escape him.
He hopes he's just being paranoid.
"Someone just bombed us! Our office doesn't even look like our office anymore!" Karen is screaming. "I highly doubt you're fine! Also, have you seen Foggy?"
Matt chokes back a highly inappropriate laugh. "No," he says, and his voice wavers. The sound of sirens is getting louder. "An ambulance should be here soon, though."
But in his head, he's thinking, Please be okay, Foggy. I need you. I'm not fine. Please be okay. I can't do this without you.