Missing scene between 1X09 and 1X10.
Disclaimer: I do not own Daredevil or any of the characters in this story. Everything belongs to Marvel; I just bring these guys into my headspace every once in a while.
"Jesus, Matt."
The sound of Foggy's voice jars Matt back into a world he wants no part of. Never in his life has he felt so much pain. It's everywhere-in his limbs, in his back, in his lungs-swallowing all of the world's nuance that usually allows him to see. All he can hear is ringing, all he can taste is blood, all he can smell is the bruising of his own flesh, and all he can feel is-
He screams. The pain intensifies. He screams again and tries to get up, as though somehow he can run from his shredded skin and muscles and bones.
A firm hand pushes him back down onto the floor. "Don't move, buddy."
Matt groans as the world spins around him and his eyes roll back into his head. And then the world goes silent.
Matt awakes again when a needle is shoved into his arm. The cool liquid makes him shiver as it runs through his veins. It's not long before he can taste the medicine in his mouth. He's tasted it before. It's Tica… Ticarill…
Matt shakes his head. Someone told him the name once before, but he doesn't remember now. He thinks it might be something to keep his wounds from getting infected.
His wounds. He groans as the pain hits him again, and tries to roll onto his side. Two pairs of hands fight to keep him down, now, one slightly stronger than the other.
"Shit, he's awake."
Matt doesn't recognize the voice. It's female, and he thinks he should recognize it, but nothing is familiar; his brain isn't working right. His senses still can't work above the sound and taste and feel of his own pain.
He's scared. He doesn't know where he is or how he got here. He doesn't know why it hurts so much. He doesn't know why it won't stop.
The second person in the room moves closer to Matt's head. "What do we do?"
Foggy.
Foggy's here.
Of course Foggy's here. It's the only thing that makes sense.
Gloved hands use scissors to cut away at the clothing on his chest. The female voice speaks again in strained, hushed tones. "Talk to him. Try to keep him from screaming again."
Matt uses all the strength he has to listen for Foggy's voice. Yes, Matt begs silently, please talk to me. I need to know I'm not alone. You can talk about anything you want-just don't stop. Don't leave me alone here.
It takes Foggy so long to respond that Matt is nearly unconscious again before he speaks.
"I…" His voice trembles with sadness and defeat. "I don't know what to say."
Matt's senses are working somewhat better when he wakes next. He can smell gauze and antiseptic and latex, but also familiar smells like leather and pine and silk. He can hear the steady buzzing of millions of tiny LED lights through the glass behind him, and so he knows that he is at home, in his own apartment, on his own couch, though he has no idea how he got here.
Instead of focusing on what he doesn't know, he focuses his mind inward toward his own body. Each individual cut and bruise is distinguishable from the next now: the dual slashes in his chest, the deeper cut in his arm, the two-three-broken fingers on his right hand, and the deep, angry gash in his side. He can feel everything, but it's all muted, sluggish. Slowly he realizes that someone must have given him painkillers.
As his pain levels are no longer a reliable measure of the damage to his body, Matt tries to move his hands to assess his wounds. It's no use. His reluctant limbs beg to remain still, and he doesn't fight it. For now, it's enough to know that his heart is beating and that his lungs are working. He'll sort out the rest when the painkillers wear off.
He's about to allow himself to fade back into unconsciousness again when he hears footsteps in his room. Briefly, he wonders if he's dreaming, because he always, always knows when he's not alone. But as he concentrates harder through the haze of painkillers, he understands that he's awake, and he's definitely not alone. The steps are heavy and the gait is slightly uneven, the toes of the left foot scuffing the ground with every step. Matt recognizes it immediately. Foggy is here.
No, that's not quite right. Foggy is still here. Matt remembers now that Foggy was here before-he's been here the whole time. And he knows now.
He knows.
Foggy has never been able to sit still. It's one of the things that makes his friendship so easy, especially for Matt. When people are still, Matt has a harder time reading them. If their heartbeat speeds up, it could be because of pleasure or pain; if they're silent, it could be because they're angry or thinking. Stick proved this lesson to him during their first encounter over ice cream, where Matt couldn't tell the difference between illness and love. Now Matt can read and combine cues better so that he can almost always figure out how someone is feeling without being told.
But Foggy needs to move, and that makes things easier for Matt. When he's happy, he is all pats on the back and bear hugs; when he's content, he taps his pen against his desk; when he's angry, he digs his hands into his pockets like he's trying not to hit someone (though when he's angry at Matt, he usually folds his arms across his chest, because Matt occasionally deserves a whack on the back of the head or two); and when he's upset, he paces.
Matt tries to call out to him, but the pain doesn't allow him to move. So he lies there, half conscious, listening to Foggy's pacing, so badly wanting to assure him that everything will be okay.
But even as he thinks it, he knows it's not true. Nothing is okay anymore. Matt's heard Foggy talk about the Man in the Mask enough to know how he feels about him. To Foggy, he's a vigilante who thinks he's above the law. And sure, he may have some morals (he saved Karen's life, after all), but the law is there for a reason, and anyone who operates outside of it is a petty criminal at best, and a mur-
No. No. Foggy can't think that about him. He can't really think that Matt would go that far.
A pain that has nothing to do with Matt's wounds burns in his chest as he realizes that that might be exactly how Foggy sees him. For weeks, all anyone has been talking about is the man who burned down buildings, who killed policemen, who murdered innocent men. That's the only side that Foggy knows.
Because Matt's never told him the truth.
He'd come close a few times. The closest was the first night he actually hurt someone-when he beat up that girl's father. He'd come home bloodied and bruised, but also exhilarated that he'd actually managed to put an end to a girl's nightmare. But when Foggy asked him about the marks on his knuckles the next day, as he was sketching the sign for the law offices that they were going to start together on a napkin, Matt suddenly realized how culpable Foggy would be if he knew what Matt was doing, and how much danger he'd be in if someone figured out the connection between them. So he'd told Foggy that he fell taking out the trash and let his friend have a laugh at his expense.
But Foggy finding out has always been inevitable, as much as Matt may have tried to convince himself otherwise. And now he's found out like this.
The pain in Matt's chest spreads to his stomach and his throat, shredding its way through the bandages and the painkillers as he realizes that this might be it. Everyone Matt has ever cared for, everyone he's ever loved, has left him, and this might finally be Foggy's breaking point as well. Matt's lied to him; he's done things-some of them horrible-in the name of a cause Foggy doesn't believe in. He's put Foggy's life in danger without his knowledge or consent, and he nearly had the audacity to die on him without ever explaining why.
Matt's body writhes, an involuntary response against the pain that now pumps through his heart like fire. He doesn't know if he can bear another loss. After all they've been through together, he doesn't know if he can lose Foggy, too.
At some point he becomes vaguely aware that the pacing has stopped, and in what feels like the next instant, he feels Foggy's fingers pulling away at the gauze on his side. His hands are trembling, his breathing is shallow and tense, and when the gauze finally comes free, Matt can feel the heat radiating off of his friends face, and smell the salt of tears that have become trapped in his eyelashes.
The pain claws at Matt's eyes now, spilling out from under his lids in hot trails. It's too much. Ignoring every protest from his battered, sluggish body, Matt summons all the strength he has left to reach out and grab Foggy's arm. Foggy freezes, clutching the antiseptic wipe he'd been using to clean Matt's wound.
Matt says the only thing he can think of, the only thing that will fit into a single one of his labored breaths. "I'm sorry."
Foggy jerks his arm free, and Matt hears him wipe his eyes on his shoulder. "For which part, exactly?" he sneers, continuing to dab-carefully-at Matt's stomach with the wipe, despite his tone.
For this, Matt tries to say. For what you saw, for what you know. For how you found out. For everything.
But he's wasted all his breath and nearly all his consciousness, so he closes his eyes and prays that someday, Foggy might be able to understand.
"Yeah," Foggy says, his tone gentler, though not forgiving, "how about you try apologizing when you actually have some idea what you're saying."
He places new gauze on Matt's side and begins taping over the edges. Matt is almost out again when he hears-he thinks he hears-Foggy sigh, "You can try again tomorrow. I'm not going anywhere."
Matt really hopes he isn't dreaming.