Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: Matt's MIA, so Foggy calls in reinforcements. Unfortunately, the only person good enough to find Matt is the man who trained him.

Author's Notes: Originally planned as a single installment for JIC, this quickly turned into a short, multi-chapter fic, one that will likely span about five chapters when all is said and done. I will be returning to Just in Case soon with a one-shot, but I just had to get this started. I found an older prompt from the Daredevil Kink Meme asking for an infected wound, maggots, and some body horror. The fact that Stick and Foggy ended up together was an added bonus.

I make reference here to details from my other fics: the lawsuit Stick mentions is from Best Served Cold, along with all the contacts Foggy has amassed. Also, the animosity between them lingers from an installment of Just in Case ("…Stick Comes Back").

The title and chapters are all lines of dialogue from the episode "Stick".

Readers, I hope you are all doing well and that you enjoy the set-up. I'll be back soon with more!

We Were Both Disappointed

One: Smart is Making the Right Decision at the Right Time

Foggy decides that the only thing worse than getting a call is not getting a call at all. Worse is staring at an infuriatingly silent phone in his best friend's empty apartment.

There's no need to call the cops. Technically, they're already looking for Matt. They've been combing Hell's Kitchen since early this morning when the devil was linked to a massive fire in a furniture store. There's more to the story, but the details have gone up in smoke, kind of like Matt has.

He's officially missing in action. And a missing person.

His cell phone goes off. Foggy answers too quickly to check who it is. "Matt?"

"Nope," Karen replies. She picks up on the panic in Foggy's voice, "Is he alright?"

"Uh…" don't tell her, don't tell her, don't tell her. Make anything else up. "Yeah, he's fine. Just…not coming into the office today. He's out of town."

It's almost as bad as his 'car accident' lie after Fisk and Nobu. Karen smells the dishonesty from a mile away. "Matt left town? To go where?" she knows as well as Foggy that everyone Matt has in the whole wide world lives within ten blocks of each other in Hell's Kitchen.

"Yeah, he…" Foggy spins through excuses in his head. Can't say "with a girl" lest he hurt Karen's feelings. Can't say "visiting family" because Matt doesn't have any. "…one of his profs at Columbia asked him to come do a guest lecture for his class. On disability law."

Wow, that sounds so plausible Foggy almost believes it. He can hear Karen starting to believe it too, or at least not dismissing it outright like the car accident thing. "Oh, wow, that's fast. Is he just gone for the day?"

"Yeah, far as I know," which conveniently leaves open the possibility of Matt never coming back because, you know, dead. He gets to another topic before he starts spilling his fears through the phone. "But enough about Matt. How are you?"

Karen is suspicious again, "I'm fine. A little worried actually: the streets are crawling with cops this morning. There was a fire last night. The man in the mask is supposed to have been involved."

"Well, you know that man in the mask: he likes to keep people guessing."

"I hope he's okay."

"Yeah, me too," Foggy sweeps another gaze around the apartment. He keeps waiting for the sound of terrified footfalls, for the thud on his best friend's body hitting the floor. For Matt to reveal that he's been in the apartment this whole time. He's crawled back from the brink in pieces and is ready to be put back together.

Nothing happens.

"Look, Karen, don't bother going into the office today. The neighbourhood's a mess with this manhunt."

"O-kay," she is super suspicious now. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, absolutely. I've got some…some family stuff to take care of." His best friend in all the world is close enough to be considered family, and he's currently MIA. "I'll see you later."

"Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, yeah," his voice shatters like glass on the words. Foggy swallows hard. "Minor crisis. Missing cousin. Happens all the time. I'll see you. You have a good day."

"You too," Karen says, audibly making a mental note to poke holes in his stories later. Damn it, he almost had her with the Columbia thing. He's a lawyer. Lying should come naturally to him!

Foggy wallows in the silence that follows the call. The apartment feels larger without Matt, and the soundlessness finds new places to swell until Foggy is dwarfed by his solitude. He is alone. Matt's gone. The cops are looking for him. They're going to peel his molten corpse out from the charred wreckage or fish him out of the river.

Or they might not find him at all. Matt's managed to evade the NYPD thus far, even when his daredevilling has landed him in pretty awful physical shape. Two nights ago he led them on a wild goose chase down three city blocks with a gashed-up hip. He might never be found, not without someone as good as he is looking for him.

Foggy taps his phone with a sweat-slick finger, nearly losing the device in the process. There is literally no better time than the present to call for reinforcements.

He really wishes there was someone else to call though.

There's a list of numbers he has from his research: most are disconnected, but to the ones that aren't, Foggy leaves a message. He starts with, "Matt's AWOL. Maybe dead. Please help." After a while, though, when there's still no sign of Matt and Foggy's nursing his second beer, he resorts to snark, "Come on, asshole. I'm in Matt's apartment. I'm unarmed and getting drunk. I'll let you take a free swing at me if you get your geriatric ass back to the city."

A woman answers from the other line in Mandarin, and she speaks so lovingly and patiently that Foggy knows he's being patronized. He bids her good day and hangs up.

"Ugh, I have to do something!" he storms a circle around the apartment, antsy and nervous. Matt's dead, Matt's not-dead – regardless, Matt's missing. He's in the city, maybe fine, maybe not, and Foggy has no leads, nowhere to begin, at least nowhere he can begin easily. And the one person who can help him is more MIA than Matt (figures).

He charges up the stairs to the roof. The wind bites at Foggy's cheek. His breath rises in a ghostly cloud into the afternoon sky. Why Matt can't pick the warmer days to go missing is going to be the first topic of discussion when all this is over. If Matt's still alive, that is. Foggy just needs to act. He's been calling and waiting and Matt's dying/dead and he, Foggy, is not alone on the rooftop.

"I really oughtta kill you, you know that, right?"

Foggy is too upset to resort to pearl-clutching no matter the old bastard's attempts at theatricality. He lets the hairs on the back of his neck point the way to where Stick's standing behind him. Fear grips him for a painful second followed by resigned apathy. Whatever: really, if the asshole wanted him dead, Foggy knows would have been dead a long time ago.

"How long have you been out here?" a glance over his shoulder Stick standing behind him. The old man's milky eyes are trained towards the city. The hilt of his katana is visible over one shoulder, the strap of his canvas bag over the other, and his cane is folded in his hand like a weapon. Foggy can't help but gulp. He remembers that cane all the way in his bones.

Stick smirks, obviously picking up on all the signs of fear Foggy is giving off. "Not as long as you've been inside burning up your list of contacts, wallowing uselessly in self-pity and bad beer."

Foggy is about to take offence, but, "You're here, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm here," and he isn't happy about it. Stick has better things to be doing, like indoctrinating more blind children into an army of ninjas by terrorizing the hell out of them. "You got some nerve calling me up. Our day in court isn't for another month. Looking to slap me with another lawsuit?"

"Matt's missing."

"Matt doesn't want to be found," Stick corrects Foggy. "I don't know if you noticed while you were crying in there on the couch, but there's an awful lot of cops roaming around."

"He always comes home," Foggy insists, "or he calls or texts or something."

The sound of Stick thinking is a quiet hum of breath, "Maybe he's finally come to his senses. Cut all this out of his life."

"Or maybe he's dead," Foggy snaps.

Stick nods, "That's more likely. The four other guys in that building did, which you would know if you'd actually been to the scene."

"I'm a lawyer. I just don't get to wander onto crime scenes because I feel like it."

"Tell them you're representing the man in the mask: the Daredevil," Stick's guttural voice makes the nickname sound ridiculous, derogatory.

"Because that'll make the NYPD want to cooperate with me! 'Hi, I'm here to represent the suspected terrorist and vigilante who burned down one of the oldest family businesses in Hell's Kitchen and maybe killed four people. The same guy you're currently wasting a bunch of tax dollars trying to find,'" Foggy shakes his head in defeat. "I wouldn't have called you if I had another choice."

"You always have another choice."

Foggy growls, ""If I had another choice that would work. Come on! I go down there, I might end up further from finding Matt than sitting here on the couch. Hell, I could lead them straight to Matt!"

Stick nods thoughtfully, "You are that lucky. And that dumb."

"Thank you!" Foggy is only too proud to admit it where his friend is concerned. "Now, can we please get to finding Matt?"

"We? You called me here to work together? The man you're suing for emotional pain and suffering?"

"You would bring that up at a time like this."

"I can find him faster on my own, provided he's not dead already."

"What if he's injured? Are you up for hauling him across Hell's Kitchen without the cops catching you? Leaping and diving over rooftops with a two tonne vigilante strapped to your back?" if Matt's life weren't at stake, Foggy would pay to see that. Stick is a powerful old bastard, but he doesn't have the kind of stamina needed if Matt's injured.

Stick bristles, knowing he's been beaten and despising the hell out of it. He attacks Foggy right back, "As opposed to what? Catching a cab with the target of a neighbourhood manhunt?"

"I can get a car," Foggy offers defensively.

Stick sniffs and knows. What the hell can he smell to know? Foggy doesn't want to ask. "Your girlfriend's car?"

They are not getting into that. "Does that really matter?" Foggy demands.

It matters enough to delay their departure, apparently. "What are you promising to get that?"

Foggy could lie, but he doesn't want to. Nope: this is Stick, the man who twisted Matt Murdock into some ninja vigilante who may or may not be dying/dead. He deserves an honest answer, "A few things I found online. Now may I text her, or do you want me to draw a diagram?"

Stick laughs lightly, mouth closed, chuckles confined to his throat, "Sure. Text her. I'll meet you at the furniture store."

"I'll meet you-"

But Stick's already gone.

"Asshole," Foggy mutters, heading for the stairs.

Happy reading!