Nothing But the Truth

(N. Clevenger, October 2022)

Notes: A slice of something slightly different from my usual "Matthew 'M'fine' Murdock" (thank you doublemochalottie - I loved that), a scene inspired by reading one too many #whump prompts on Tumblr. Just a bit of fun to write. If this is your first one of my fics in this fandom, please don't judge the rest of them by it. Whumptober 2022 prompt #30, "Note to Self: Don't Get Kidnapped." Set somewhere between S1 and S2. Boo S2.

Netflix/Marvel canon. They'll never be mine.

Foggy wakes abruptly, pulled from a dream about Marci and a black French poodle that only spoke in haiku. He blinks blearily at the ceiling, rolls over and looks at the clock. Three-fifteen. Great. Why the hell is he awake?

The living room window answers, the squeal of uneven paint as wood slides over wood. He sits up like he's been shocked, mouth dry as he stares at the dark rectangle of his open bedroom door. There's someone here. There's someone here. His heart thuds so hard in his chest that it's making him dizzy.

A heavy thump, silence. Desperately trying to work up enough saliva to swallow, Foggy slides his legs over the side of the bed. There's nothing in here that looks like a weapon. He should call the cops. Call Matt?

Shit. What if it's Matt?

Just in case it's not, Foggy unplugs the small lap that sits on his bedside table. It's laughably light in his hands, but the base is pretty solid. Trying to make as little noise as possible, he creeps toward the door. The living room is nothing but shadows. Taking a deep breath, he plunges into the darkness. Two shuffling uncertain steps, and he trips over the body lying on his floor.

The little lamp hits the ground with a clatter and the tinkling of breaking glass; Foggy finds the carpet next to it with hands and knees that instantly voice their protest. The impact is jarring, but adrenaline ignores it as he scrambles around to get a look at what he'd fallen over.

Definitely a body.

In the darkness it's hard to make out any other details, the watery light coming in the window not quite reaching this far. The lump stirs, and Foggy grabs for the lamp; his fingers find carpet and a sliver of broken glass instead. He sucks in a breath at the bright pain, hands curling into unconvincing fists.

"Fog?"

His exhale fills the room. "Jesus, Matt! You scared the crap out of me!"

Matt rolls over onto his back with a groan, and Foggy closes the distance between them on his knees. "Sorry," he apologizes to the ceiling, his voice distant and floating in a way that Foggy does not like. "Didn't mean to. Needed someplace… This was the first, uh, the first place…"

Between the costume and the inky shadows, all he can see of Matt is the pale skin of his jaw. The white of his teeth, broken up briefly when he runs his tongue over them. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

The response is slow, unconcerned. "Some guys… gave me something. I don't know… They had questions."

"Wait, what?" His hands flutter uselessly in the space between them, unsure where to land. "What do you mean, 'some guys'? Gave you something?"

There's no reaction to Foggy's rising panic. "Don't know. Don't know who. Don't know what." Matt's hand comes up off the floor to scrub roughly across the lower part of his face. It's an uncoordinated, sleepy motion. "They had questions," he repeats, like this is supposed to explain things.

"Jesus. Okay." Foggy scratches at his scalp, thoughts spinning. "Okay, we have to get you to the hospital. Can you get up?"

He's expecting an argument. Not for Matt to simply answer "... course I can," and obligingly flip himself back onto his stomach and start to try to get up off the floor. It seems a massive effort, like he's having trouble getting his limbs arranged beneath him. When he attempts to push himself up with his left hand, he yelps and collapses, crumpled around it.

Foggy gets up and turns on the overhead light. Now he's got a clear view of the costume, but he can't see any more of his friend than before. He crouches next to Matt, overly conscious of his bare feet and the threat of the invisible glass scattered in his carpet. "Where are you hurt? Talk to me."

"Fingers are broken," Matt murmurs, still coiled around his hand. "Ribs hurt, but I think they're just bruised. M'hot. My head… God, my head is killing me. M'tired, Fog."

The honest litany is so uncharacteristic that it almost knocks Foggy backward onto his butt. "I… Did those guys give you, like, truth serum?"

"Maybe," he agrees, unperturbed. "They had questions."

"So you keep saying. Jesus."

"That's what you keep saying," Matt mumbles.

"Yeah, well, the situation seems to warrant it." Foggy drags a hand down his face, glances around his apartment for some kind of a suggestion as to what to do. The silent TV, the dirty dishes in the sink, offer nothing. "Let's get off the floor, okay? One thing at a time."

"Okay," Matt answers agreeably. He doesn't move. Foggy wishes he could see his eyes behind those stupid lenses in the mask.

He doesn't have the leverage or the strength to pull the other man up off the floor on his own. "You know, this would be a lot easier if you'd help," he says, shifting to get into a position to make the attempt anyway.

Matt flings an arm out in his direction, a clumsy effort at compliance that almost connects with Foggy's nose. He can't hold it up, and the limb flops back to the floor, utterly unhelpful.

"Or not." One thing at a time. He gets his hands between the floor and the rubbery costume at Matt's shoulder, tries to seperate the two with an awkward heave. Matt neither resists or assists, a heavy doll. Once he gets him relatively sitting up, Foggy immediately has to stop him from tipping over to the other side. Matt's head lolls forward, only Foggy's grip on his arm keeping his body from following.

Afraid to let go, he looks around for his phone. Probably in the bedroom. He's already sweating, doesn't know how he's going to get Matt to his feet let alone across town. He's going to have to call for an ambulance, and just hope his friend forgives him later. "Any chance you can sit up on your own for a sec?"

"Probably. But I'd rather lie back down… m'tired…"

"Noted. And we will definitely see what we can do about that as soon as we get somebody to look you over. But first I have to get my phone."

Matt's head lifts, falls again without getting very high; the devil horns bob with the failed motion. Comprehension shades in slowly. "Oh. Ohhhh… Hospital. I don't want to go to the hospital."

It sounds as if he's talking to himself. Foggy answers anyway. "Maybe not, but I don't know what else to do here. Claire's not in town, and someone needs to check you out. Preferably someone with more medical knowledge than me."

He giggles. Matt actually giggles. "You don't wanna check me out?" he slurs toward his knees.

"Not funny," Foggy sighs. "So not funny."

The giggling cuts off abruptly. "Sorry."

His legs are cramping in this squat. His ankle pops as he stands. "Okay, stay here. I'll be right back."

Matt swipes for his sweatpants, almost snags a bit at his calf. The empty hand falls limply into his lap. "Hospital s'a bad idea," he says, the distance in his voice belying the urgent surge of the action. "Can't be sure one of them's not still looking for me."

It's a little harder to breathe when he hears this, but Foggy manages to keep his tone fairly even. "All the more reason for us to call in the professionals. I mean, you know I believe in you, man, but you can't even hold your head up right now. What're you going to be able to do if they show up here?"

Matt's head bounces once, twice, before he manages to rock it all the way up. "Y'right. Shouldn't have come here… s'not safe. I'll go."

"That's not what I meant…"

It looks like he's trying to get into some kind of complicated yoga position with all the trouble he's having getting his legs under him. He finally makes it onto his knees, tries to brace himself on broken fingers. Pulling the hand back against his stomach with a hiss, he folds over it protectively.

"See, the thing about hospitals… I hear they can do great stuff with broken bones." Foggy shoots for jovial; he's really not feeling it. "And, you know, the whole being drugged thing."

"M'so hot," Matt whines against his thighs. The horns brush the carpet fibers.

With drugging and fractures and mystery assailants all looming, this seems like an easier place to start. "Taking that mask off would probably help." He realizes as he says it that he's going to have to get Matt out of the entire costume before he calls anybody. Another problem to be relegated to the growing list of their future.

"Mmm…" The uninjured hand makes a clunky pass over the cowl, fumbling and unproductive. He doesn't lift his forehead from his knees.

"Can I help?" Foggy asks, when the arm falls to the carpet at his side.

"Wanna take it off," Matt informs him. "M'hot."

He bites back another sigh. "Yeah, I know. Can I help you do that?"

"S'okay to let Foggy help. Trust Foggy. Foggy doesn't pity me."

The mumble could have been spoken directly into his ear with the intensity it twists at his gut; he swallows, knowing he wasn't meant to hear it. He kneels beside Matt, uses a grip on the horns to gently raise his head off his legs. "Okay, I'm just gonna, um.." He gives the whole thing a tug.

Matt makes a choked sound that could be relief when his head is exposed, sagging forward to drop his forehead back onto his knees. His hair's plastered wetly to his scalp, the cowl pooling like a hood between his shoulders. Foggy watches a trickle of sweat wind its way backward from his temple to his eyebrow.

"You don't look very good." He can only see a pale upside-down profile, but he feels confident in this declaration. "I really think I should call 911."

"911's for emergencies. S'not an emergency."

"No?"

The sharp note gets Matt's head up at last; he's so unbalanced that the jerky straightening nearly topples him. Foggy grabs his arm to keep him up. Matt sinks back on his heels and hugs his ribs, swaying under his hand. "Ow… Don't want to go to the hospital, Fog. S'too loud. I can be okay."

The phrasing of the last sentence feels like a stab wound. Foggy flinches. "I don't want you to pretend to be okay. I want you to actually be okay. Okay?"

"Oh." Matt blinks, his eyebrows pulling together. "I don't think I really am. Okay. But I will be. M'always okay."

There's a flush to his cheeks, brighter for the pallor of the rest of his face. Eyelids droop over unfocused pupils. "Saving that last part for later… the first bit is kinda proving my point, Counselor."

"You were good in court. Last week," Matt murmurs tangentially. "You're… lot more comfortable. Convincing."

"Thanks," Foggy says unhappily. A droplet of sweat catches the light as it plummets from a clump of hair stuck to Matt's forehead. "You still look hot. Are you still hot?"

He nods sluggishly, another drop glinting as it flies off into the carpet. "Uh-huh. Suit's always hot. Really sucks in the summer. Remember last month when you thought I had the flu? Heat stroke. Got really dehydrated. Claire had to put in an I.V."

"Jesus." It's like driving past a car accident. He's trying not to look. Doesn't want to look. But he could probably ask Matt anything right now and get the ugly truth. "Okay, we need to get that thing off. Like twenty minutes ago. Any ideas on the best way to do that?"

Unsurprisingly, he gets all of Matt's ideas. "Gonna have to stand up. Don't wanna stand up. Not sure if I can stand up…"

"Let's deal with the top half first, see how that goes. You don't even have to move yet. Just concentrate on not falling over."

"Okay. Sure. I can do that." The furrow is back to his eyebrows, a comical focus. Foggy warily releases his arm, hand hovering.

When Matt doesn't immediately pitch over, he turns his attention to the costume. "Gloves first," he decides; Matt obediently unwraps his arms from his torso and holds them out in front of him. They're trembling, don't stay up for long before they fall to his sides. He raises them again with the same effect. On the third try Foggy captures his right wrist, holding it as he yanks off the thick glove.

Matt flexes his fingers, blinking in their direction. He licks his lips. "M'thirsty."

"Sure," Foggy says, eyeing the broken hand Matt's now holding against his chest. "After we do this, okay?"

"Okay," he parrots.

Foggy reaches hesitant fingers toward his wrist. He doesn't want to do this, but he doesn't see how that tight sleeve is going to get over the thick glove. "Sorry, man. This isn't going to be fun."

"Okay," Matt says again, his arm unresisting as Foggy lifts it away from his body. The dull compliance is eerie. Foggy hates it.

There's no protest either as he tugs the tough material off each finger individually, though Matt's hand twitches in his grip like he wants to pull away. He's trying to be as careful as he can, but he can't get done fast enough when those terrible whimpering sounds keep escaping from his best friend's throat. A glance up reveals Matt's teeth buried in his lower lip, the skin around them bloodless white. He loosens the last finger, wiggles the thing entirely off.

Matt moans, pulling the hand back to his chest and slumping forward; Foggy catches his shoulder, keeping him upright. His head hangs limply, his breaths short and fast. "Sorry, man. I'm so sorry," Foggy repeats uselessly. "How're you doing?"

"Hurts. A lot. Might throw up on your floor."

"Hang on. I'm on it." He jumps up, darts to the bathroom and grabs the empty trash can there. Somehow Matt's still on his knees – if hunched and swaying – when he returns. Foggy sets the trash can on the carpet next to his leg; he curls his unbroken fingers around its edge, but doesn't otherwise move.

Foggy leaves him to go to the kitchen and get a glass of water. When he comes back Matt's bent in half again, the trash can under his arm hugged close against his body like a stuffed animal. He waits, taking a sip from the water, but there's no reaction to his presence. "Matt? You still awake?"

The answer's muffled by the rubbery suit. "Don't wanna be. M'so tired. All the time. Lately… feels like I could sleep for a week and wouldn't… it wouldn't make a difference."

Foggy frowns. He thinks about the past week, two. Searches his memory for signs that Matt was hiding the exhaustion that statement implies. He doesn't really remember anything abnormal; it makes him feel like shit. He'd thought he was better at reading his friend than that. "Well that sucks. Maybe you should take some time off. I know the guys in charge, could put in a word…"

"Don't want to disappoint Foggy," Matt says. "Gotta show him I can do both. That… this doesn't change anything."

It shatters through him, his fingers clenching around the glass so as not to drop it. "Jesus, Matt. I don't want you to kill yourself to make a point. This is… well it is what it is. It's okay to need a break."

"Not gonna kill myself. S'a sin." His voice wanders drowsily. "Like at school when I'd hear you jacking off when I was in the shower, and sometimes I couldn't help but do it too. Everybody was so loud there…. always fucking…"

Foggy inhales and chokes on his own spit; it triggers a coughing fit violent enough to splash the water out of the glass and over the side of his hand. So many of those words he never expected to hear come out of Matt's mouth. Especially not in that order. His thoughts ping pong around between them, not stopping long enough to name all the emotions he finds.

His brain splutters. There's a big part of him that wants to get into this now, while Matt's willing to answer any and all of his questions. Except he's not really willing at the moment. Foggy kneels on the carpet beside him, tentatively tries to lift the trash can out of his hold. "That definitely sounds like a conversation for later," he says, knowing they'll likely never have it. "Here, have some water."

Matt sits up in slow motion, lifts a shaking hand. Foggy's afraid to let go of the glass, keeping a grip on the bottom as Matt dribbles half the water down his chin and the front of the suit. When his fingers go unexpectedly lax, Foggy pulls the glass away.

"Good?"

"You're not good. You're bleeding. Are you bleeding? Am I bleeding?" Matt's eyes blindly search the room, seeking confirmation. "No, you're bleeding. I was bleeding on the roof of St. Luke's."

"I'm good," Foggy assures him, setting the water on the floor where it's hopefully out of the way. "Just my finger. It's already stopped." They've been avoiding the danger area of hidden glass slivers, made easier by the fact that Matt hasn't really moved. But he needs to do something about it.

"Oh." Matt takes a clumsy swipe at the moisture on his chin with the back of his hand. "I don't feel very well, Fog. S'too hot. And my head really hurts."

"Yeah, man, I know." Foggy rubs his eyes, wondering what time it is. "Let's get that suit off and see if that helps."

"Yeah." Matt vaguely wiggles his shoulders, like this might do something to further the goal.

Foggy shifts on his knees, looking for the magnetic zipper on the back of the thing. Matt's listless, drooping, and he has to do most of the work of getting it off himself. "So tell me about this guy who might be looking for you," he says, impressed with how casual he makes it sound.

"...'bout six feet tall, smelled like onions and cigarettes. Something wrong with his heart. Irregular. He's the one… tied me to the chair. Friend was the one who injected me." Matt sniffs, smacks his lips together. "Tasted like garlic. Hate garlic."

Foggy peels the material off his pale shoulders, gaze skipping over the terrifying number of scars that mar his friend's skin. A lot of them look way too recently inflicted. "His friend tasted like garlic?"

"Injection," Matt mumbles. "I might've killed him."

It's nonchalant in a we need more coffee for the office sort of way, and Foggy's fingers freeze. Does Matt kill people now? Has he always? Oh god, had he been living with some kind of serial killer? Is it possible he'd misjudged Matt even more than he'd thought?

"Hit his head," the sleepy voice continues, oblivious to Foggy's internal meltdown. "On the table. Too busy with the other one to check… had to get out. Was really dizzy. M'really dizzy…"

His heartbeat starts to slow, the image of Matt gleefully running around stabbing people replaced with something more familiar. Then he remembers that someone might still be out there looking for his friend, and it speeds up again. "But this other guy –"

"Had a stupidly big ring. Could feel it through the suit when he hit me. Steel-toed boots."

It's not helpful, and more than a teeny bit horrifying. "I mean, do you really think he's still looking for you? Like, should we be worried?" Purple and black bruises speckle Matt's left side, damningly exposed after Foggy slides the suit down his arms. A complimenting pattern to the broken hand. "Wow. Or we could worry about that."

Matt shrugs only his right shoulder. "Maybe. Went the other way. I couldn't go after him."

"No kidding. I'm surprised you could walk after this."

He laughs, a wheeze of air directed toward the floor. "Had a lot worse. Thought I was going to pass out during the Inez cross-examination. You were good though. Glad you were there."

The Inez case was only a month ago; he'd thought Matt had looked a little shaky, he remembers, but he'd seemed fine by the time they broke for lunch and Foggy had let it go. He's assumed that their problems could be resolved if Matt would just start telling him the truth. But right now he's had about all he can take of these revelations.

The suit's bunched up at Matt's wrists, binding them together where they rest on his thighs. Foggy moves around to get in front of him, knees cracking as they shuffle across the floor. "How'd you get over here anyway?" he asks against his better judgment, working the sleeve off over Matt's right hand. "Tonight. Like this."

"Hid in the back of a pickup, got lucky. Went most of the way. Gravel everywhere. Might be some in my boot."

He glances reflexively at the boots Matt's sitting on. Back to the top of his friend's bowed head. It's getting lower; he's actually surprised Matt's managed to stay upright this long. His knees must be aching like crazy, if Foggy's own are anything to go by. "Got it. But first, sadly, we have to get your other sleeve off. You ready?"

"No. It's gonna hurt. Just want to sleep." Matt squirms a little, but doesn't pull his arm away. Grotesquely swollen fingers peek out from the pile of costume in his lap.

It's beginning to feel like he's talking to a child. A child who's killed people and apparently used to masturbate while you jacked off in the other room… Things to think about later. Maybe. When Matt's not broken and half naked and shivering under his hands.

"Yeah, it's gonna hurt. And that sucks. But then it'll be over and you can sleep. I promise." He doesn't know when he discarded the plan of the hospital, possibly hasn't. The slice of his brain not strangled by fatigue and anxiety and way too much disclosure still thinks that it's a good idea. But Foggy knows from experience that Matt will be beyond pissed, and though he's definitely a mess he doesn't really seem to be actively dying.

He needs to find his phone. Do some googling about truth drugs.

Matt's head bounces a bit, but doesn't raise any significant distance. It might be a nod. "... want to sleep. Even with the dreams. Don't even care… too tired."

"Okay," Foggy says, with a conviction he doesn't feel. "Let's do this then."

There's a lot of dense fabric to pull over damaged fingers, and Foggy's forced to do it awkwardly one-handed while holding onto Matt's wrist as he tries weakly to writhe away. The howl he tries to smother against his bare shoulder calls up again the thought of 911. Hopefully none of Foggy's immediate neighbors heard and have the same idea.

Oh god, Karen's expecting them to be at work in the morning. What time is it? He doesn't have a clock in here, but it's still dark outside.

Matt groans, gags. Foggy pushes the trash can into his hand; he grips the edge so hard his knuckles go white, but he doesn't throw up. Chucking the top half of the suit as far away from them as he can – which turns out not to be very far – Foggy listens to the noise of Matt's panting breaths filling the living room. Maybe he'll just sleep off whatever they gave him. Then they can go to the hospital after the sun's up to get his hand fixed, preferably after Matt's done spilling every secret that crosses his mind. He definitely needs to keep him away from Karen until this shit's out of his system.

What the hell is he going to tell Karen?

There's no warning sound when Matt sways dramatically, pitching forward into Foggy and almost knocking them both over. His head comes to rest like a rock just below Foggy's sternum, and Foggy shifts to better brace his weight. He pretends like he can't feel that ragged breathing rippling the cotton of his sweats.

"Please don't throw up in my lap," he begs instead.

"Gross. Not going to throw up. Going to sleep."

"Like this?"

"S'nice. You're quiet, smell like Foggy… said I could sleep." He shivers. "Can I have a blanket?"

There's a nasty mark under one of his shoulder blades, still red and raised. Old bruises yellow and green scattered across half of his lower back. "I can do that. But I'm going to have to get up. Don't suppose you think you can move to the couch?"

Matt shakes his head, really more of a wriggle into Foggy's shirt. "Can't move. Dizzy. Legs don't work right and my head's splitting apart. Can't remember the last time m'head hurt this bad… that concussion, maybe."

Foggy wants to cover his ears. What concussion?

Ultimately, though, it doesn't matter at the moment. Matt's clearly flagging, whatever crazy depths of energy that got him here now utterly depleted. "Sleep-over on the floor it is," Foggy agrees. "But, uh, definitely over here." They're three feet from his estimation of any lurking glass, but he's careful to nudge Matt in the opposite direction; they shuffle a few inches on their knees before Foggy's tired of virtually dragging him. Matt moans, even nearer to dead weight than before. Foggy thinks he might end up with a bruise on his chest.

Matt starts slipping sideways, and Foggy guides him bonelessly down to the floor as best as he can. He moans again, burrowing the side of his face into the carpet fibers. Foggy gets up, grabs the large cushions lining the back of the couch. There's a string of mumbled complaint as he tries to wedge one of them under Matt's head, including another slurred word Foggy never thought he'd hear his friend say. Not knowing what to do with the other two, he lays them on either side of the sprawled body. Matt's arm snakes out to wrap around one, pulling it closer.

"Blanket," Foggy remembers. "I'll be right back."

The blanket at the bottom of his bed is polar fleece, soft and warm. When he drapes it over Matt, the corner of his friend's mouth twitches in a dreamy smile; Foggy's distracted by the shadow smudges under his closed eyes. How long have those been there? "Any better? Sure you're going to be okay sleeping down there?"

"Mm-hmm. Used to sleep on the floor sometimes with Stick. You have carpet. Blanket's softer, too. Stick only had scratchy blankets."

"Um… great, I guess." It's a name Foggy has no context for, one he's only heard once or twice when Matt's been completely out of his head. A name that'll get the subject changed faster than almost anything when he's not. Foggy could ask him now, could ask him right now and he'd answer. The temptation tickles at his lips, his vocal cords.

He's desperate to know, but he wants Matt to tell him because he wants to. Because he trusts him enough with the story. Swallowing hard, Foggy turns toward the kitchen. "You want some ice? For your hand?" he asks instead.

"Uh-huh. Really hurts." The blanket's too short to cover all of him; Matt curls even smaller beneath it. There's still a slight flush across his cheekbones under the grey cast creeping over the rest of his skin. "Gonna have to get it fixed. F'they put a cast on s'gonna suck. People are gonna think I tripped over m'feet or something, feel sorry for me. Gonna be a pain to read. Can't hit anybody."

"And we certainly don't want that," Foggy can't help but mutter as he heads through the kitchen door. But he's stuck more on the fundamental hassle of the sentence before. He knows Matt can read Braille with only one hand, but he's said that it takes forever. It isn't a complication that Foggy would have thought of on his own.

He makes a bundle of ice and the dish towel, carries it back out to the living room. Crouching next to the pillow nest, he hovers over the puffy hand where it rests on top of the cushion. "Matt? I've got ice."

His eyes don't open, but Matt makes a noise that at least lets Foggy know he's heard him. When the makeshift ice pack is laid gently across the backs of his fingers, his sudden exhale sounds like a sob. He's still wearing the bottom half of the suit, but with all the trouble they had with the top half Foggy's not going to be the one to suggest doing anything about it. Matt doesn't seem to notice. Or care.

"How's it going?" he whispers, after several long moments of silence. He's not entirely sure that Matt hasn't already fallen asleep. "Anything else I can do?"

"Blanket's soft. Smells like Foggy and chicken curry." Foggy cringes; he'd thought he'd gotten that all off. "Your neighbors… getting a divorce."

Foggy blinks, glances toward the door like the couple in question might be standing there. "What? Which neighbors? You know my neighbors?"

"Fighting. Downstairs."

"Oh." For a second he'd been afraid Matt meant the Deluccios. "Well that's sad. But I don't know my downstairs neighbors."

"Mine has a little dog," Matt murmurs. "Doesn't sound very happy."

Foggy doesn't have a response for this. Now that everything seems relatively settled, he wants to go back to bed. Deal with everything in a couple of hours. "Okay. You want your boots off?"

"Uh-huh. Gravel in one of them. Made my ribs worse when I went over the side, but he turned the wrong way… couldn't wait for him to stop."

"You jumped out of the back of a moving truck? No, wait, of course you did." He jerks the first boot off with more force than is probably necessary.

Matt grunts, pulls his bent knee up toward his stomach. "Had to. Turned the wrong way."

"Then what?" Foggy hears himself ask through his teeth. He doesn't know why; he doubts he wants to know. He's more careful with the second boot.

"Then the delivery truck. Passed the alley."

"Which you jumped off of too, I bet."

A frown flickers across Matt's face, but he still doesn't open his eyes. "Couldn't ask her to stop… didn't know I was there."

"Yeah," Foggy sighs. "I get it." He stands, stretches. Hopes he's only imagining the sky growing just a little lighter outside that window. "Go to sleep. You can give me all the gory details later, if you still want to."

"Wanna sleep… sleep when Foggy's okay." His lips brush the cushion he's hugging against his body, his eyelashes impossibly dark against his pale skin. He moves his hand, and the ice bundle shifts.

Foggy replaces it over his knuckles. "What are you talking about? I'm okay."

"Upset. Always upset with me now."

"Not with you, Matt. I'm upset because my best friend's lying broken in front of me. Again." He blows out a breath, running a hand through his hair. "And it's way too late to have this discussion. Go to sleep. It's okay."

The voice is small and sleepy, Matt's body finally shutting down. "Okay. F'you're sure. Just don't leave… everybody else…"

"I'm not going to leave; it's my apartment. I'm going to get my phone, then I'll be right here on the couch. Okay?"

Matt doesn't answer. Foggy retrieves his phone from the bedroom along with his comforter and pillow, dumps the whole jumble on the couch before grabbing one of the thick base cushions and dropping it on the general area of the glass. Good enough, when he can't imagine either of them moving any time in the near future. It only leaves him with one, but he's too tired to care; he curls up as well as he can on the remaining cushion, his legs hanging off the edge.

Matt's breathing through his mouth, snoring a little. In the quiet wrapping the end of the night, Foggy gets half way through an article about sodium thiopental before he too falls asleep. He's dreaming of that poodle again when Karen calls.

end.