Sound came back to Matt in waves.

There was the usual hum of the power running the billboard outside his window; the more subtle buzzing of electricity in his apartment. The sound of the fridge running, the distinct drip drip drip of water splashing into a cool, glass cup.

Wait—

Footsteps, some shuffling. The water was turned off, the fridge door was closed. Someone else was there.

Matt shifted from his spot on the couch, gingerly—and oh, now he remembered what had happened, why he was here, why he felt like he'd been stabbed seventy-two times and simultaneously ran over by the world's largest SUV.

And Foggy had found out he was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Shit.

But Foggy couldn't still be here, could he? Why would he have stayed? Matt screwed everything up. It was stupid to think he could still have Foggy's friendship when he was hiding all of this. It was stupid that Matt thought he could even keep this a secret forever. In the end, everyone left, and it was stupid to think otherwise.

He blinked back sudden tears and shook his head, which was not a good idea. His head exploded and throbbed—no, that was his whole body, everything was on fire, in the worst way possible–

Matt must have made some sound, because the person in the kitchen suddenly froze and bolted their way to the living room.

"Matt?"

Matt froze. He recognized that voice anywhere. "Foggy?"

The man in question made an agreeable sort of noise.

"You're not like…dying, are you?" "Because if you are I really don't know what to do, Claire left for her shift this morning and I don't know what the hell I'm doing, and you can't die while I'm still mad at you–"

"Foggy." Matt raised a hand to shut him up, and even that hurt. He bit back a groan. "It's fine. I'm fine."

"Well, forgive me for not trusting your judgement when you've been sliced in half." Foggy scoffed. "At least take this."

Something cool was thrust into his face—a glass of water.

Matt blinked. "What?"

"I'm pretty sure you're supposed to drink water to make up for blood loss or whatever," Foggy said. He sounded nonchalant, but his heart was telling a different story. "Which I wouldn't know. Since I haven't been stabbed on a day-to-day basis. But apparently you have."

Matt opened his mouth to interject but Foggy was holding the glass in his face rather insistently, and now that Matt thought about it something cool sounded good, so he reluctantly took the glass and took a generous sip before handing it back to Foggy to put away.

"Foggy—"

"Look Matt, I'm really, really pissed at you—words cannot describe how angry I am— and I'm also four different types of hungover right now, so I think talking is the last thing we should be doing." Foggy's breathing was heavy.

Matt slumped down. He had never heard Foggy this angry before, and he didn't want to know what the man was capable of; the cross-examination Matt had experienced earlier was more than enough to give him an idea of how very good Foggy Nelson was at giving him the tongue lashing of his life.

"You can go." Matt waved a hand as if to the door, and damn, even that hurt, pins and needles everywhere.

Foggy's pulse went up. "What?"

"You can leave," Matt said. "I'm fine now—"

"Bullshit!"

"I'm giving you an out, okay?" Matt snapped. "I know you don't want to be here. Just go."

"What makes you think I don't want to be here, Matt?" Foggy demanded. "Let me guess: your built-in polygraph told you that?"

"I don't need to hear your heartbeat to know you're pissed at me." Matt let out a shaky breath. "I can hear it in your voice. And earlier today. You're so angry with me, and you don't trust me, and—" His voice choked but he pushed the words out. "I know you hate me. You can say it. I know I deserve it."

Silence hit the room. "I don't hate you, Matt," Foggy said quietly. He ran an exhausted hair through his hair. "But I don't know who you are anymore."

The words stabbed Matt in the chest. This was worse than the fight with Nobu, this was worse than the collapsed lung at Claire's or any other injury he sustained. He never thought he'd hear those words from Foggy, never wanted to hear those words, but they were real, and Foggy's heart was still elevated but ran true. He really believed that Matt had been a complete stranger to him, even after all these years—

Matt needed to fix this. He had to fix this right now. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. What could even say at this point? That he was sorry? That he never meant to lie, to keep something this important to himself in the first place?

But that would be a lie. There was a reason Matt had never told Foggy about his abilities, about what he did at night. He didn't need sight to know that Foggy was looking at Matt like a complete stranger, like someone Foggy didn't know, someone who was dangerous, someone who was violent and a liar and—

Foggy was saying something again—no, he was yelling, again, demanding questions that Matt himself couldn't answer. After all the lies he told, how could he expect Foggy to believe anything he said? Matt knew those moments were true, some of the most treasured memories that he kept close to his chest; the first time they met as roommates, the endless one-nighters pulled, the bar-hopping, the horrible frat parties, the terrible attempts at being each other wingman, the internship, even the day or two ago before all of it had shattered.

Why was he even surprised at this point? Matt knew he ruined everything he touched. He brought disaster into every part of his life, even when he kept his less than savory thoughts, the violence, the devil locked out, only let loose in the shadows. It was selfish, to think that he could have the firm and Foggy's friendship and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen all at once, intertwined only to his knowledge and no one else's. This was a wake-up call.

Foggy's voice was still in the background, but it was muted. Matt heard the sirens on the streets, and the sounds of tires hitting pavement. He felt the hardness of the couch cushion. He felt each of the stitches, one by one, the only things holding the torn skin together. Counting the seconds until Foggy finally spent himself, let loose his last rant, and finally left. Maybe it was too much to ask his friend (no, not his friend, not anymore) to spare him the pain that tenuous hope brought, the sliver of thought that he and Foggy would get through this, that he could actually have him in his life, because he knew it wasn't coming.

It was what he deserved.