"Goddamnit, Matt!"
Of course, Matt had passed out the moment Foggy asked the one question that mattered the most to him, the one he had to know wasn't a lie. Because if it was a lie, if everything between them was a lie, then that meant Matt never liked him, never really was his friend, never cared about him, never—
Right. His injured maybe not really friend/Dreaded Pirate Roberts vigilante ripoff had just passed out on the couch after being stabbed and gutted like a fish. Foggy slowly approached Matt, as if he would jump up at any moment (can you blame him? It had happened before) and put a hand on Matt's chest. Okay, so he was still breathing. That was good. He wasn't dead. Unless this was just a calm before the storm, a precursor to hyperventilation slash death, and shit, was being this bloodied the same as having a concussion—were you not supposed to let the person sleep?
Foggy let out a stream of f-bombs before fishing for Matt's burner and calling Claire. This was the sort of thing that required actual medical expertise at the very least. He dialed the number, sneaking wary glances at Matt (who was still dead to the world, which—bad analogy, he should not be thinking that right now) when she answered on the second ring.
"Matt?" Claire's voice sounded tired, which, fair—they had been up at god knows what time hours ago, trying to make sure Matt didn't bleed to death on his kitchen floor.
"Uh, it's Foggy, the guy who found Matt nearly half-dead last night before he had me call you. You remember?"
"Yeah, that's not the sort of thing you forget." Claire let out a sound that sounded halfway amused and concerned. "How is he?"
"That's the thing." Foggy glanced back at Matt, but yep, still dead—tapped out. "He was up earlier and we were discussing his questionable life choices before he tapped out." He couldn't help but add, "He doesn't have a concussion, does he? Because I heard you're not supposed to sleep with concussions, and that can lead to internal bleeding and stuff, and I'm mad as fuck at him right now but I don't want him to die—"
He didn't realize he was rambling until Claire cut him off. "Foggy, it's fine," she said, then amended, "well, as fine as Matt is, anyway. He's not concussed, but his body's probably exhausted from whatever the hell he did last night that left him looking he got hit by 5 trucks."
Well, that…wasn't completely reassuring, but not as not reassuring as Foggy would have thought. "Is there something I should be doing?" he asked. "I mean, ideally I'd get him a psych evaluation, but that's not really in the cards today, but—"
"He'll be fine." Claire sounded tired but so assured. Foggy let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. "After the beating he took, he just needs to sleep it off." She paused. "Actually, make sure he doesn't try to be a hero tonight."
Yeah, right. "Not sure hero is the word I'd use to describe him," Foggy muttered.
Either Claire had super hearing, too, or Foggy hadn't been as quiet as he thought he'd been. "What exactly did you say to Matt before he passed out?"
Foggy pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd said a lot of things. "Besides the fact that he's an idiot and liar and apparently a criminal?" His voice dripped sarcastically.
"You said that to him?" Claire asked. Her voice hardened.
"No, but that was the gist of it," Foggy said. "Claire, we've known each other for years. We went to school together. We both studied law, which, you know, is the exact opposite of what he's doing in this stupid costume." Claire sounded like she wanted to speak, but he cut her off. "I don't know how long he's been doing this Batman shit, but it's clearly been a while. And I'm pretty sure he wasn't planning on telling me or letting me know what was going on." The last words came out bitter.
"And you decided to tell him all of this no less than 24 hours after he'd been gutted?" Claire sounded furious.
"He lied to me!" Foggy shouted. "What am I supposed to say? 'Hey, Matt, you're apparently a ninja who's been breaking the law and reading my heartbeat since the day we met, but I'm totally okay with that'?"
"Jesus, no wonder he didn't tell you," Claire muttered. "He's hurt, Foggy." She put an emphasis on the word. "He almost died last night, and you think now's a good time to throw yourself a pity party?"
Pity-party? "You expect me to be okay with this?"
"I expect you to make sure your nearly dead best friend makes it through the day," Claire said curtly. "You seriously thinking him lying to you is more important than making sure he doesn't die?"
Foggy blanched. "I never said—"
"You're making this all about yourself," Claire went on as if he hadn't said anything. "Do you realize how selfish you sound right now?"
That stung. "You don't understand—"
"It's a good thing you never went into the medical profession," Claire snapped, "because your bedside manners suck. You don't scream at your patient with multiple stab wounds alone, let alone your best friend."
He felt something twist in his chest. Claire was making sense, but—
"He lied to me, Claire!" Foggy was not whining, he didn't sound like a petulant chill (shut up voice in the back of his head). "He's been lying since the day we met. How am I supposed to believe a word he says?"
"Matt lying to you about this doesn't mean he lied to you about everything," Claire shot back, and Foggy wondered if she had been a lawyer in another life.
"How am I supposed to know that? I can't read heartbeats like Matt apparently can!" That was never not going to be weird, or invasive, or creepy, or any of the other adjectives Foggy could think of right now to describe how wrong that was.
"You think because of this you suddenly don't know your best friend at all?" Claire questioned.
"I don't know what to think!" Foggy wanted to pull his hair out. "He didn't tell me, which means he doesn't trust me—"
"I don't think he trusts anyone," Claire cut off. "You know what he asked me when I first fished him out of that dumpster? He asked why I was helping him." Her voice sounded—almost sad? "He refused to let me take him to the hospital—you've seen it—and I have a feeling he's been doing this alone for a long time."
"He shouldn't even be doing this, Claire." This was exhausting. "He's helping people as a lawyer. Why does he need to take his fists to the streets like he's a part of some real-life fight club?"
"You're seriously asking me that?" Claire said. "You don't even know how many people Matt's saved. He's helped so many people. The first night we met, he saved a kid who'd been kidnapped." Foggy gasped, but Claire went on. "He's saved kids from human traffickers, people from rapists—I've seen it in my neighborhood, heard it on the news."
And if Claire's words didn't hurt like a son of a bitch. But that still didn't mean he had to be okay with it.
"That—that doesn't mean what he's doing is okay," Foggy spluttered. "He's a vigilante, Claire. He's breaking the law—"
"Seriously?" Claire snapped. "That's what you got out of what I just said? Did you forget the part where I said he's saved people?"
"He's also hurt people!" Foggy shot back. "I don't care how bad they are, he's put people in comas for Christ's sake! Any help Matt wants to do he's already doing as a lawyer—"
"Really?" Claire's voice was scathing. "How else do you think he could save someone about to be murdered in the streets? You think whipping out a law book will stop someone from being stabbed or shot?"
"I—"
For once in his life, he had no words. Karen had mentioned how the masked man had saved her. He'd called him a nut, and hadn't really thought about it at the time because Karen was safe, but what would have happened to her if Matt hadn't been there, in the right place at the right time? He shuddered at the thought.
"That's what I thought," Claire huffed after a moment. "Look, you have every right to be mad at him—I can't remember the last time I wasn't mad at Matt for one thing or another—but that doesn't make it okay to interrogate him and call him a liar when he's carrying seventy-two stitches. He's not exactly in a position to defend himself right now, so maybe save the lectures and shouting for after he's recovered?"
Foggy felt himself deflate. That sounded…completely reasonable. And now he was feeling like a bit of an idiot.
"You should be a lawyer," Foggy said weakly.
Claire snorted. "Not my calling. I don't want to think what would've happened if I hadn't been the one to find Matt in that dumpster." The last words were quieter.
"Yeah." And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? Because no matter how angry Foggy was—and he was so angry, he had never been this angry in his life, except for that time Candace had stolen his iPad in fifth grade—he knew Matt had almost died. More than once, according to Claire's various encounters with him. (The fact that he had a nurse on speed dial—Foggy couldn't think about that right now.)
He swallowed. "I don't want him to die, Claire."
"I don't, either." Claire's voice softened a little. "Which is why you need to stay there with him, preferably calmer than you were half an hour or so ago. The last thing Matt needs right now is a guilt trip. Trust me, he does that enough on his own."
"I know." Damn, here came the tears.
Claire sighed. "Look, maybe this is out of line—I haven't known him for as long as you have—but I don't know what's happened in Matt's life, but he doesn't seem to have anyone in his corner, or think there's anyone there to support him. You don't need to prove him right."
Foggy angrily swiped at his cheeks. He started to nod, but then remembered Claire wasn't actually in the room and it was a rather stupid gesture, so he just muttered something that he hoped Claire would take as agreement.
That must have been enough for Claire, because she then started giving him instructions like the ones she'd given after she patched Matt up last night, mentioned something about checking on Matt tomorrow, and Foggy was only vaguely aware of himself agreeing and dissenting before she hung up.
Foggy stepped back over to the couch. Matt was still unconscious. Even in his sleep, he looked uncomfortable. He seemed to curl into himself, taking up as little space as possible on the couch—his own couch, in his own house. And if his senses were heightened, then everything probably hurt like a bitch times a thousand. Foggy shuddered at the thought.
There was still so much Foggy was feeling, about Matt, about everything that had happened in the last 24 hours. He was tired; he hadn't gotten any sleep the night before, not even when he'd taken space in Matt's nice silk sheets. But sleep sounded nice now, especially since Matt seemed like he would be out of it for awhile. It would give him time to sort through all this—whatever this was—but more importantly, he wouldn't have to think, and he was all for shutting off his brain at that moment, especially since a headache was starting up, probably the latent hangover from last night's bad drinking decisions. Ugh.
Foggy shuffled his way to Matt's bedroom. He may have teased Matt about buying silk sheets when Matt first moved in (was that related to his super senses too?) but right now he wanted nothing more than to lay on those ridiculously expensive sheets.