Tying a Knot in the Devil's Tail

N. Clevenger (September 2017)

Notes: For those who wanted to see this crossover from Matt's POV. I'll warn you that this one's pretty open-ended even by my standards – a complete series of scenes, but really more like the first chapter of something longer – and to be honest I can't promise I'll actually finish it. (Who knows? I do so enjoy writing these boys together.) I give it to you now with the self-awareness that, otherwise, it will just languish in the cloud with the other 10k word DD mess that I can't stop poking at.

Fill for my H/C Bingo Wild Card square. Set post DD season2 (boo S2) but pre-Defenders (see end notes for a few vague thoughts). There's a couple of references to my earlier crossover "Sympathy For the Devil," but I don't think you need to read that one first. Netflix/Marvel/MarvelMovie canon. I make no money, because they don't belong to me.

Matt crouches at the edge of the roof, the simmering fever warping the air around him as his damaged shoulder throbs a beat out of sync with the city. Shivering, sweating, he locates the man he's seeking under the noises of the night. Home, asleep.

He doesn't want to do this. He thinks again about turning around and making his way back to Hell's Kitchen.

He swipes at his upper lip with a gloved hand, grateful now that he'd taken the time last month to plot out the complicated route to get here. It had seemed an unnecessary precaution then; he'd had no real intention of ever coming back, wanted to put as much distance between himself and this man as possible. But without that foresight he's not sure he'd have found the place tonight. This trip had taken twice as long as his practice run, his body uncooperative and his senses sluggish. More than once he'd thought he'd gotten himself lost, and he can still taste that tang of building panic.

He really doesn't want to be here. He misses the familiar air and angles of his neighborhood.

The sudden wail of a siren buffets him from the left to rock him onto one knee, and he reminds himself that he's got little other choice. The hospital's out of the question. His own efforts at first-aid have only made the situation worse. And while he doesn't necessarily believe that Foggy or Karen would turn him away outright if he unexpectedly showed up on either of their doorsteps with a hole in his shoulder, he hasn't been able to bring himself to take that chance. He's mentally played out the scene too many times today, each imagined version laced with their unyielding disapproval.

Wading in and out of awareness through the sticky fugue that had swallowed his day, the doctor had come to seem the best option. The only option. Still Matt had avoided the eventuality for as long as he could, stubbornly ignoring the growing pain, stiffness, heat. Refusing to acknowledge the bitter hints of what could be the beginnings of an infection. Stick had whispered all sorts of synonyms for stupid, but it wasn't until the remembered voice moved out of his head and into his living room that he'd started to consider listening. Especially after that last optimistic attempt to get at the wound had somehow left him sprawled and completely disoriented on his cold bathroom floor.

Whatever it is is in there deep, feels like it's being embedded further into the muscle with every shallow inhalation. He'll have to stop by Potter's workshop after this, find out why the suit's protective material failed. What new modifications, if any, can be made. Then he should probably try to put in at least a few hours of work on the Erikkson case, the details of which are admittedly a bit slippery at the moment. Right now he can't even recall when he'd last spoken with the client. No problem; he's got his notes. He'll figure it all out after he gets patched up, back home.

A breeze picks up – carrying the smells and flavors of Greenwich Village, highlighting the undeniable sheen of sweat layering his face – and he tries futilely to brace his left arm against his body as the shivering intensifies. In the building next door the doctor's sleep has shifted restless, his heartrate elevated and his breathing disturbed. There's an agitated murmur that's mostly indecipherable. Matt catches the word bargain. Something about a door.

He realizes he's faded out again when a reflexive jerk of his drooping head sends a whiplash of fiery tendrils up his neck and down his torso. He needs to get moving. Can't afford to pass out here. There's only an hour or so before dawn now, what with his stalling and the surprising length of the journey between neighborhoods, and he has no idea how visible he'll be up here in the light of day. Not to mention the very real and more imminent possibility of simply tumbling forward and plummeting to his death. It's something Stick's insisting he should definitely be more concerned about.

A TV clicks on in the building below him, a shower starts up. Coffee brewing. Matt shakes his head in an attempt at focus, gritting his teeth through a wave of vertigo and fresh pain. He's startled by the clunky rumble of a garbage truck that's mysteriously appeared on the next block over; he needs to pay more attention to what's going on. Needs to get to the doctor and have this taken care of quickly, so that he still has enough time to get home. He sways alarmingly when he pushes to his feet, but the jolt of adrenaline that follows serves to sharpen his senses. Finding the balcony he wants, Matt calculates the logistics of crossing this last stretch of distance.

Down the street, somebody's singing. Jangling and off-key. He's frustrated when he can't immediately tell whether it's coming from a building or the sidewalk. He should be able to tell.

Stick hisses that he's wasting time, that if he's not going to do this then he should turn around and go home. He's not wrong. Matt struggles to concentrate, to hold on to where he is and what he's doing. He steps to the edge of the roof, takes a redundant moment to size things up. Jumps.

The direction is true but his landing inexcusably clumsy; his boot clips what must be the balcony railing, and instead of coming down on his feet he's forced to tuck into an ungraceful roll. His momentum is stopped abruptly by a set of glass doors, the panes rattling in their frames when his weight smacks into them. Stunned, for a few seconds he can do little more than lie there gasping, trying frantically just to stay conscious. He can't hear anything beyond his shoulder's screaming.

The footsteps filter through first, their distance and direction skewed by the haze of fever and pain. His feeble attempt to move just drops him back against the glass, everything soupy and swirling. Matt hears the turn of a handle, the slide of a latch, and he's confused when the door he's slumped against doesn't move.

"Oh for chrissake," comes a voice floating from somewhere to his right.

The footsteps recede into the building, the door settles snug in its frame; Matt finally realizes that he's missed his intended destination by a balcony. He really needs to get up, into a more defensible position. He still isn't entirely sure he trusts this guy. Inside, the footsteps are headed this way.

He shoves himself to his feet, the jellied weakness in his legs an unbalancing contrast to the hot heaviness of his left arm. There's already a bruise forming across the top of his foot – swift punishment for his mistake, one Stick declares well deserved – and it won't take all of his weight without protest. He stumbles backward into the stone railing as the door opens, doing his best not to look as if he needs the support. The night settles in an unnatural tilt.

"Aren't you ever on the ground?" Strange greets him, his voice gravelly with sleep. "You know, street level?"

The city ripples around them, drifts away before snapping back. "I need your help."

"So I assumed. I think I'd have remembered if we'd planned a sleep-over."

Matt scowls in his direction, already certain that this was a bad idea. He debates leaving, tries to determine the easiest way to get back to the roof from here. It's difficult to think through the unabating rhythm pulsing through his left arm; it thrums up his neck to thump at the base of his skull. Hard enough even to stand up relatively straight, despite the aid of the solid stone behind him. His right hand tightens into a fist with the effort, with the suppressed desire to clutch at his injured shoulder. There's nothing he can do about the shivering.

"Well? Are you going to tell me, or am I supposed to guess?"

The impatience in Strange's voice pings a raw nerve; Matt suddenly decides he doesn't want to owe this man any more than he's already indebted for. "Forget it," he growls, having no plan now beyond getting out of here. He steps away from the railing. "I shouldn't ha—"

They're both surprised when his knee gives; Matt vaguely registers the jump in the doctor's heartbeat as he crumples awkwardly. The fire smears with motion both real and imagined, and the shockwave that rolls through his aching body when his knees hit stone wrests a groan from deep in his chest. The night flutters, dims. He shifts away instinctively when Strange reaches for him, wobbles and starts to topple to the other side. Can feel himself falling but can't seem to do much about it.

An unexpected hand on his left arm stops his motion with a jarring yank that tears through his shoulder. For a blink or two the world disappears.

When awareness returns Matt finds himself wedged into the corner of railing and wall, a good six feet between himself and the doctor if his senses can be trusted. They're both breathing heavily. He cradles his elbow against his ribs, fighting to piece together what happened. How much time he's lost.

"Have to tell you, you're not a whole lot of fun to be around," Strange grumbles. He's not on his feet either, and his voice has an oddly nasal quality to it; Matt can smell blood, but most or all of it's his own, spreading across the bandages. Next door, a baby's crying. The shrieking ebbs and flows in a distracting pattern.

"Hey, you listening to me at all?" The doctor stands, inches a little closer. Matt fumbles for the thick edge of the railing above him with his only working hand, his gloved fingers scrabbling over the stone; he's too vulnerable down here with Strange virtually towering over him. With clenched teeth and a surge of effort he forces himself up. Sways, sagging helplessly back into the corner as the night dissolves staticky and ephemeral. "Look, you came to me," Strange continues, sounding annoyed. "Tell me what's going on, or I'm going back to bed."

Sweat pools under the cowl, collecting over his cheekbones, down the back of his neck. But still he can't stop trembling. "Something stuck… m'shoulder," he grinds out. "Can't… can't get it myself."

"And you came here?" Strange scoffs.

Matt flinches, tries to straighten. "Thought you were a doctor," he mumbles, exhaustion weighing down his words. "S'was a mistake." He struggles to work out how to escape from here. They're three stories up, but right now he's half-considering just going over the side and taking his chances.

Stick calls him a moron.

"No, I –" Strange breaks off with a sigh, one Matt's got no context with which to interpret. "Come inside, I guess, and I'll see what I can do."

Matt hesitates, self-preservation – pride – urging him to leave. If he's honest, though, it's doubtful he'll make it very far; still a tiny voice in his head insists that he try. The garbage truck roars to a stop on the street below, and a faint ringing starts up in his right ear. He reminds himself that he came here for a reason.

When he finally agrees with a stiff nod, Strange turns and goes back inside. There's the usual billow of loose fabric behind him, like a long coat or a cape. Matt hadn't been able to decide the last time he was here. But then, not many of those memories are particularly lucid; he can't even remember how they'd gotten here from Hell's Kitchen. He's pretty sure his hazy recollection of stepping through a door in the sky can't be right.

Reluctantly he follows the doctor, refusing to favor his bruised foot with a limp. He doesn't know if the other man's watching.

The room is sparsely furnished, the boxy outlines of the bed and what's likely a dresser shimmering under the heat of his fever. The whole place smells of old woods and new textiles, is intriguingly huge and unoccupied. He should probably come back some time when he's actually functional and investigate.

"Sit down before you fall over," Strange tells him. When Matt doesn't immediately move, a firm shove to the center of his back sends him staggering toward the bed. "Quit it," the doctor says inexplicably. "Sorry."

He feels like he's missed something. But the way the ceiling's begun to drip – fat blobs that he can hear creeping down the walls – leads him to suspect that the issue might be his. He reaches the bed, eases himself down onto the corner of the mattress.

"Left shoulder?" Strange asks, coming up behind him. It sounds fairly rhetorical, but Matt grunts an affirmative anyway. "What's wrong with your leg?"

Matt winces, tensing even further with the man standing so close. "Nothing."

A whisper of cloth that might be a shrug. "Whatever. How does this thing come off?"

With a bracing exhale through his nose, he unfastens the hidden clasp and starts trying to squirm out of the upper half of the costume. He appreciates the doctor's lack of assistance, but he's too weak and uncoordinated to easily manage it himself. The pain in his shoulder rises to sickening levels with all the wriggling, and he can't get it fully extricated before he has to stop. Head hanging, panting, he hopes enough of it's been exposed for the man to do what he needs to do.

Strange picks at the tape on the bandage, and there's a jitteriness to his fingers that's not making Matt feel any more comfortable about this whole thing. It's taking forever to peel back the gauze, and he wonders what the guy's waiting for. Almost reaches back and rips the thing off himself.

His shoulder twitches violently when the wound's finally reintroduced to the air, setting off a series of spasms all down his left side. "Well this is a mess," Strange says, over the moan Matt fights to muffle. "I know you can learn how to do anything on YouTube these days, but maybe next time avoid the DIY surgery."

Matt doesn't respond, focused on not pulling away as the doctor pokes at the inflamed skin surrounding the hole in his shoulder. His right hand grips the edge of the mattress. "What is it?" Strange continues in his silence, his face close enough that Matt can feel the man's breath on his skin. "Doesn't really look like a bullet hole, even with the way you've mangled it."

"Don't know. Not a bullet." He'd heard… some kind of arrow? A dart gun? A puff of air that may or may not have been imagined out of a retrospective desperation to make sense of things. Then agony. When he'd come to his opponent had been long gone.

Strange's fingers shift to the suit gathered at the top of his shoulder, and Matt's grip on the mattress tightens against the urge to shove him away. "This material looks like it's meant to prevent something like that."

"Supposed to," he acknowledges bitterly. A trickle of sweat inches along his bared spine.

"Maybe you should talk to your tailor." Strange moves across the room, through an open doorway. Matt hears the sound of water running. "So is this going to be a regular thing? You showing up once a month, feverish and broken? I want to know if I should put it in my calendar."

"N'ermind," Matt mumbles, trying to push himself up. "Don't need you."

Gravity sprouts hands that rest on his shoulders, determined to keep him down. A sensation so anthropomorphic that he'd think it was Strange, but the other man's still over by the bathroom door. "Relax," the doctor says. "How'd you find me anyway? You never used the door last time, and I didn't give you the address."

He slumps on the bed, cradling his left elbow. "YouTube s'not the only place to get information." Unfortunately, the research he'd done on Strange to get this location had turned up little else on the place or what goes on here, despite the plethora of information floating about regarding his life as a surgeon. "You're famous."

Strange gives an unamused snort. "I used to be famous."

"Still famous enough that people know where you live."

"Hmm." Strange returns to the bed and Matt tenses again, struggles to at least sit up straight. Without warning the doctor begins scrubbing at his skin with what feels like wet terrycloth. "Quit squirming. And take off the damn mask."

Matt might not recall much from the last time he was here, but he remembers this. "No."

Strange stops what he's doing. "Do we seriously have to have this argument again?" he asks incredulously. "Look, unless your normal body temperature runs around a hundred and two – which I might actually be inclined to believe, given past experience – you've got a fever. You'll feel better if we can bring it down. And that starts with you losing the mask."

There's more, but Matt isn't really listening. The doctor seems overly fond of the sound of his own voice, happy to prattle on with or without external input. He hasn't forgiven Strange for unmasking him before; maybe the man had thought he had a good reason, but it still tastes like violation on the back of his tongue.

Outside, the city's nothing but a blur of sound. Inside, the room's melting around him.

"I've already seen your face," Strange says, wiping away more of the blood on Matt's shoulder. "What's the problem?"

It's not just about protecting his identity, his secret. He's feeling unbearably vulnerable just being here. Like with his glasses, there's an irrational sense of security behind the mask. He's too miserable right now to want to give that up.

Stick makes exaggerated sobbing sounds, tells him to grow up. Points out that he's going to be a hell of a lot more vulnerable if he passes out because he's overheated. It's a good argument; he seems to be even warmer now, and though seated he feels himself sway. Scowling, Matt reaches up with his right hand and yanks off the cowl. Strands of wet hair flop onto his forehead as he blinks into the cooler air of the room, and he has to admit – if only to himself – that it feels wonderful.

"See?" Strange says condescendingly from behind him. "Was that so hard?"

He doesn't answer, jaw clenched to keep his teeth from chattering together; the initial fleeting relief is already starting to fade, leaving him chilled. Cramps ripple up the length of his neck, all of his muscles rigid as he tries pointlessly to keep himself from shaking. "Can you help me or not?" he growls toward the floor, his head bowed.

"Well, first let's see if this works."

This snaps Matt's head up; it's too vague, way too nonchalant. He can feel Strange's palm hovering no more than an inch above the wound, and he has to force himself not to wiggle away. Matt thinks his hand's still trembling. "What –?"

"Just hold still," Strange says.

He's going to get up, but the ringing in his ear that never quite went away swells, changes pitch. It drops him back down onto the bed, instantly saps any remaining strength in his legs. His shoulder's hot, burning. Seems like it's somehow getting worse. He'd swear he can feel the projectile moving; barely, but nauseatingly, agonizingly. The groan that slips away from him sounds distorted, sounds like it came from the far side of the room.

Everything's spinning but he looks for Strange, trying to determine what the doctor's doing. It's getting difficult even to remember his own name with the ringing pressing down on him from one side and the searing pain from the other, but what he can see of the man seems inexplicably strained. Heart beating fast, breaths short and ragged. Matt pries his teeth apart, intending to tell him to back off.

Strange makes an ugly noise, strangled and ripped from his vocal cords. Matt's ears pop. Something explodes in his shoulder.

The punch of it bends him forward over his knees, writhing and grasping at his arm. It vaguely registers that Strange is on the floor on the other side of the bed, but it's hard to pay attention to anything other than the brutal sensations flooding from his abused shoulder. Someone's whimpering, a shredded pathetic noise; when Matt realizes that it's him, he tries desperately to stop. There's a burst of clumsy frenetic motion behind him.

When he can more or less think again, the first thing he's aware of is the undulating sound of someone vomiting. Matt winces. "Strange?" His voice is rusty, likely too hoarse to be heard in the next room even if the other man were inclined to answer.

Without giving himself time to debate the wisdom of moving, he awkwardly pushes to his feet with one hand. His legs wobble beneath him and the air goes liquid and thick, but he grinds his teeth together and teeters unsteadily toward the bathroom. It's not really concern that motivates the effort. He wants answers. And, though it's hard to be certain with the erratic waves of pain that continue to blossom from his shoulder, he thinks that thing's still stuck in there.

"Strange," Matt tries again, feeling more hunched with every staggered step. Impossibly, the distance to the door keeps shifting; when he finally does reach it, it appears abruptly. There's a curtain hanging in the doorway, and he lifts his working arm to brush it aside. His own disorientation is the best explanation he can find for the way it seems to repel him, to shove him back with an almost autonomous strength.

This isn't a coherent thought. Bewildered incomprehension is the only thing there's time for as he stumbles backward, tripping over his own tangled feet. He can't stop himself from going down; the floor helps by rushing up to meet him. The shout from his shoulder pushes out through his lips.

Imitating his unreliable equilibrium, consciousness deserts him.

When he wakes again, he's hot and achy and face down on somebody else's bedsheets. The bolt of panicky adrenaline isn't at all mitigated by the realization that he's wearing nothing but his underwear. Matt scrambles to sit up, to pull together between the frantic beats of his thudding heart where he is and how he got here. The bright pain that rips through his arm when he moves knocks him back down onto the sheets with a choked groan.

Strange. He'd come to find Strange. The fever pulls the bits of his thoughts apart before he can see their connections; the torment in his shoulder makes it difficult to form the thoughts in the first place. Strange. Matt looks for him, locates two distinct heartbeats in the big empty building.

He's moving again when this registers, fingers groping wildly in the sheets with an urgent need to find his clothes. There's nothing in the bed. More prepared for the pain this time, he manages to shove himself up, swing his legs off the mattress to get his bare feet on the floor. The room lurches in the direction of his motion, and for a moment he can only sit still and hang on as he searches for his flighty balance.

"… to the hospital to get a brain scan," an unfamiliar female voice says in another room. "And then I can run a few tests on you while we're there, too."

"I said I'm fine," Strange grumbles, his heartrate more agitated than hers.

"You look like you're about to collapse."

"Well I'm not."

Matt's initial attempt to stand is a failure he's glad no one witnesses. "What exactly happened?" he hears the woman ask, her sigh floating through the walls.

He makes it to his feet on the second try, the resurgence of the ringing in his ear quivering the air and nearly swallowing Strange's reply. "Nothing. I couldn't get it out."

Matt unsteadily crosses the short distance to the dresser, fumbles for the knob on the top drawer. The room rocks around him, and he has to stop and rest his forehead on the smooth wood as a hollow nausea curls through his stomach. The cool surface only briefly dims his headache.

"Who is this guy?"

"A friend. Or something. We go way back."

He slides the top drawer open without lifting his head; it's empty. "A friend," the woman echoes. "He almost broke your nose."

This gets Matt's attention; the world dips dramatically to one side with the jerk of his head. He clings to the open drawer with his good hand, fighting to stay upright. Trying to figure out what she's talking about.

"I can pretty much guarantee he's not going to want to go to the hospital," Strange says, changing the subject back to one that Matt's not any more happy with. The doctor's voice still carries its nasally tone.

He opens the next drawer. It's also empty.

"His pupils are totally nonresponsive. So unless he's blind, we need to –" There's a stuttered thump that sounds like a body bumping something solid. "Jesus, Stephen!" the woman exclaims.

Scuffling noises, rapid breathing. "M'fine," Strange insists unconvincingly. "And there's no way he's blind."

"Then we need to go to the hospital. All of us. Stay here, and I'll see if I can wake him up."

Footsteps coming this way; only one set, lighter than Strange's tread. Matt bends to reach the bottom two drawers, cracks the top of his head on the one above when he sways into the dresser. Sweat prickles across his chest, gathers at his lower back along the waistband of his shorts. There's nothing at all in the bureau.

"Oh," the woman says behind him, coming through the door. "You're awake."

"Where are my clothes?" he demands, without turning around. He wonders if she can hear the fear in his snarl.

"I'm sure Stephen has something you can wear. We're going to the hospital."

"No." Gravity presses down on the top of his head, threatening to buckle his knees. "Just give me my clothes. I'm leaving."

"Can you tell me where you are?" she asks him. "What day it is?"

The second answer might be a bit trickier, but unfortunately he knows exactly where he is. "Yes. I want to talk to Strange."

"He's –"

"Right here," the doctor says from the bedroom door. Facing the other way Matt cringes, upset with himself for not tracking the man's approach. "What?"

The put-upon arrogance that colors the word pisses Matt off, and he turns on Strange without thinking. "What happened?" He's toe to toe with the man before his balance or his brain can catch up. "What did you do?"

"No way. No fucking way."

The error drops with a stunning thunk in his gut; he should've forced them to return his things, should've gotten out of here before they'd realized. He's trembling, nearly naked, but he keeps his chin up. The nearest he can get to staring Strange down.

"I can't… How…?" Strange shifts around like he's trying to get a better look at his eyes, his breath warm on Matt's cheekbone as he leans in. "Back at that warehouse you took out four guys. You just showed up on my balcony, for chrissake."

Matt moves to push him away, and though he'd swear Strange's arms hang at his sides something swings up fast to propel him into the wall. He manages to turn just enough that he doesn't hit directly on his injured shoulder, but still the impact closes up his throat, blanks his senses.

"Knock it off, both of you," the woman says. It sounds like she's under water.

Matt starts to slide down the wall; he doesn't make it all the way to the floor. Strange has a hold on his right arm, is seemingly trying to wrangle it over his shoulders. "I didn't do anything," the doctor protests, his voice thin.

"He's bleeding again."

"Yeah. Wong is not going to be happy."

He's manhandled toward the bed despite his weak attempts to squirm away; he channels what little focus he's got into searching the building for this Wong person. As far as he can tell, the three of them are the only ones here.

It's beyond disturbing not to be certain.

He's not certain either which one of them stumbles. The bed's close, and they both tumble down onto it; the woman squeaks, moves nearer. Matt struggles to untangle himself from the doctor, the sheets. "What did you do to me?" he asks again. This time the question's a lot more slurred.

"Tried to help you, like you asked." The mattress shifts as Strange gets to his feet.

Matt slumps on the edge of the bed, uncomfortable with the way they're both standing in front of him. The woman doesn't seem to be a threat, but it's two against one. Laughable odds on any other day, but right now he can't even sit up straight. "How?"

"Magic." Strange says it like a shrug.

Matt blinks. "What?"

"You're obviously not deaf. You heard me."

He doesn't want to play whatever game this is. This is the last time he's coming back here. "Magic," he repeats in disbelief.

Strange snorts. "You're a blind guy who fights crime, and magic is the craziest thing happening here?"

"There are other ways to see," he mumbles automatically. It'll always be true.

The woman swoops in from his left without warning; Matt flinches as she presses a soft towel against his shoulder. She's calm and efficient, and her shampoo smells of apples. The artificial sweetness lies sticky on the back of his tongue.

"Oh, the paper I could publish on you…" Strange murmurs.

Matt's on his feet in an instant, gets an entire step toward escape before he falters. The room tips, pinwheeling away from him, and he pitches into Strange. The guy's got his hands on him; he strikes out with uncoordinated elbows and knees, determined to get away. A blanket's thrown around his shoulders and suddenly he's swaddled, unable to move. He flails futilely for a few seconds more, but begins to get dangerously light-headed. If he passes out now, he'll be at the mercy of whatever Strange wants to do with him.

"Enough," Strange says. "Let him go already."

The blanket releases Matt abruptly, dumping him face first onto the bed. He can't stop the involuntary noise he makes, but he tries to bury it in the rumpled sheets. Apparently he'd misjudged Strange's friend. And he must be worse off than he'd thought, if she could hold him so restrained.

"Stephen…" The woman says above him, her tone resignedly chiding.

"What? All right, fine. I'm not going to publish a paper on you. Is that what everybody needs to hear?"

He's not lying. For the moment, anyway. But Matt's still having trouble letting go of the anxiety. And the fever's rising, coating his senses with a smudged dreamy filter. It takes an exhausting effort, but he rolls over onto his back. "You can't… you can't tell anyone about me," he forces out, trying to gather the strength to sit up again.

"People already know about you. You're famous."

The way he says the last sentence tugs at something distant in Matt's brain, but if it's a reference he can't place it now. He swallows against the scratchy dryness in his throat. "They've heard of the Devil," he croaks to the ceiling. "They don't know who I am."

"Neither do I. You're not exactly chatty."

The woman moves, wrapping her fingers around Matt's left wrist before he can pull away. "We have to get that out of his arm. Pulse is plus one on this side, getting thready."

"Yeah, that's why I called you," Strange says petulantly.

"Turn back over on your stomach," she tells Matt. He hesitates. "Don't worry, I'm going to do this the old-fashioned way."

He searches for the best route out of here; his syrupy mind can't get past the thought of trying to get home wrapped in a bedsheet. "Why? Magic s'not good enough?"

"Hey, that is one very foreign body you've got stuck in there," Strange answers. Matt thinks he sounds defensive. "It's got a weird energy to it. When I tried to pull it out, it… reacted. I don't know what you've gotten yourself into, but I can't wait to see this thing."

"Great," he says flatly. As long as it means it comes out. He turns his flickering attention on the woman. "You're a doctor too?" It seems an important thing to ask.

"She's a fantastic doctor, and if you knew me you'd know that's high praise. Now turn over so she can remove that thing and I can figure out what it is."

Gentle fingers touch his bicep, and he shivers. "The longer we wait to do this, the better chance you'll lose some or all of the functionality in that arm," the woman says.

He came here for a reason. He came here for a reason.

"Why…" Matt fights to maneuver limbs that no longer seem attached. He's still distressingly light-headed. "Why'd you call her? 'Stead of doing it yourself." Slowly he manages to readjust his position on the bed.

"Because you're such a joy to be around," Strange responds dryly. "I wanted this to last as long as possible."

He definitely needs to get out of this place. Who knows how many more people Strange plans to parade through here before this is over. But first he has to get this thing out of his shoulder. He justifies the closing of his eyes as an intentional conservation of his energy; just as soon as she removes the projectile, he's getting his clothes and he's gone.

His muscles are leaden; the sheets cling to the sweat on his chest, his face. Despite his efforts to stay awake, he realizes he's been drifting when the snap of latex brings him abruptly back. There's the sound of paper tearing, the sharp tang of alcohol. His skin, hypersensitive even by his standards, tingles all the way down to his toes when she swabs at the area near the wound.

The alcohol evaporates with a biting chill. "Tell me," he pushes through his bared teeth. "What you're doing."

"Well before I do anything else, I'm going to give you a local."

Her pulse spikes, settles, when he twitches dramatically under her hands. "No drugs," he slurs, trying to push himself up before remembering again why he has to stay. He can't tell which one of them is holding him down, but it doesn't seem to take much work.

"This is going to hurt," she argues. "A lot. Without any kind of imaging, I'm going in blind. And with the amount of inflammation, it's not going to be easy. I could do more harm than good. We really should be doing this in a hospital."

"Do it here or don't do it," he grunts. "Now. I'll be fine."

Strange makes a skeptical noise. "Oh yeah? Does this hu—"

Reflexes flare independently of his brain, his arm darting out to intercept the hand that reaches for his shoulder. He's clumsy, moving through molasses; instead of his wrist, Matt's hand closes around Strange's fingers. The doctor gives a choked gasp, swears. Something not skin or latex – cloth? – immediately peels away Matt's shaky grip.

The unadvised exertion leaves him utterly drained, and he collapses back into the sheets breathing heavily. The throbbing in his shoulder blocks out nearly everything, the fever distorting anything that manages to sneak through. "Stephen?" the woman says above him. Her voice warbles along with the rest of the room.

"Don't worry about it," Strange growls from over by the empty dresser. His voice is tight, his heartrate elevated. "Get that thing out of him."

There's a new dimension to the pain now, a pinching sensation that's growing more intense with every breath. It sings a solitary high-pitched note as his muscles begin to cramp around it, and the louder it gets the more space it takes up in his head. He sucks in air through his nose, his right hand curling into a fist in the sheets.

The fingers on his left hand are thick and nearly numb; probably cold, if he could feel them. There's a brief rush of terror at the though of not being able to use that hand, that arm, but the fever quickly swamps it, swiftly dissolving it into a distant buzz. Stick whispers that he's already barely hanging on to consciousness as it is, that she's not even touching him yet. That he's got to stay awake. Maybe, like the mask, the anesthetic is a concession he's going to have to make whether he wants to or not.

He thinks he hears more paper tearing, the freeing of instruments from sterile packaging. "Please let me give you something," she says, like she's reading his mind.

"Just the local," he rasps. "Nothing else." They could give him whatever they wanted; he doubts he's really going to be able to do anything about it.

This frightening thought too dims almost instantly, and he floats on his raft of a mattress trying not to drown under the song from his shoulder. He makes himself look for the woman, Strange, but he's having trouble remembering why it's supposed to be important. When he finds her, she's nothing but a murmur. The prick of the needle barely registers.

She's right, though: even with the drugs, what she's doing in there hurts. A lot. She speaks to him, but he can't understand most of what she says. Incapable of splitting his floundering focus between the two of them, Matt ignores her and tries to keep track of Strange. If he has to choose, the doctor's still the one he trusts the least.

His image of the man fades in and out, shatters into a billion humming pieces when the woman hits an unanesthetized nerve in his shoulder. Matt moans into the mattress as awareness gives an ominous blink. He thinks she asks him if he wants to stop; he manages a tiny tic of his head, just in case the question wasn't imagined.

"What's your name?" he tries to ask, suddenly realizing that he doesn't know. He loses it as soon as she tells him. If she tells him. He isn't sure he spoke aloud.

Strange is everywhere and nowhere; Stick sits on the end of the bed sharpening some kind of metal blade. His dad – close enough to touch – whispers words of strength and courage in his ear. When Matt reaches for him there's nothing there. Foggy and Karen discuss him in low voices in the corner, as if this means he won't be able to hear. They talk about him like he's an addict, talk like should be ashamed.

Unable to control the noises he makes, he simply fights not to scream. His lips brush the damp sheets with a repetitive if jumbled Hail Mary, and everything tastes like apples and blood.

Time stretches and melts, and he clearly misses some of it because now there's the too familiar tug of stitches going in. Strange is back, hovering close, and Matt battles to stay focused. It's time to go. Stick – sitting up against the headboard, legs stretched comfortably out in front of him like he intends to stay a while – cheerfully points out that he still has neither a plan nor clothes.

He has no idea how long he's been here, but it's got to be light out there by now. Another complication. His attempt to determine this for sure is feeble at best; all he can hear are his own rattling breaths, Strange's heartbeat. He thinks Foggy and Karen are debating hobbies that he might be interested in.

"Let me see it," Strange whines.

"Let me finish this, and I'll go clean it off. You're in my light."

"I'll do it." Strange leans in, disappears; he's all fractured motion. His footsteps head for the bathroom, the crunching of the rug fibers disproportionately noisy compared to the rest of the sound in here. "What are you?" Matt hears him murmur. Running water.

The snip of scissors signals that his impromptu surgery is finally done, and he breathes a relieved sigh into the sheets. Now the hard part, Stick reminds him with way too much glee. Even if he can still use his rooftop route to get home, he's going to have to figure out how to do it mostly one-handed.

In the bathroom Strange coughs, a soft dry sound. The thud when he hits the floor is far louder.

The woman's moving that way immediately; Matt feels like he's trying to relearn how to use his arms. Strange seems to be unconscious, but he understands that at the moment he might not be the best judge. Not when he can also hear Karen speculating about whether or not they make crossword puzzles in Braille. Stick's wondering what it was that they gave him.

He stretches a leg out to find the edge of the mattress, awkwardly slides that direction on his stomach. When his foot reaches the floor, he pushes himself up onto unstable arms. His blood thrums in his ears, blurring the sounds coming from the bathroom; the woman's speaking, but he can't hear Strange responding. Fresh sweat breaks out across his skin.

Something twinges in his shoulder; the arm folds beneath his weight. Matt tumbles off the bed and onto the floor.

Consciousness flickers as he tries to remember how to breathe. Out of the senselessness Foggy manifests, crouching in front of him solid and comforting, and Matt works to slow his erratic gulps of air to match his friend's measured rhythm. It feels excruciatingly gradual, but he begins to relax; it's going to be okay. Foggy will help him get out of this place. They can dispute their differences later, once they're safe and he can think again. He'll sit through however many lectures are required as penance.

Foggy has to help him.

"There's a lesson here," his friend says sadly. "I really hope you can learn it."

Foggy's not going to help him.

The realization is paralyzing; he gags on the panic that slams into him a second later. "Fog, no…"

Foggy's standing. Foggy's leaving.

Matt lunges for where his leg should be, doesn't even catch Foggy's shoe. He can't hear any footsteps. His friend's completely vanished.

Stick leans over the edge of the bed above him to suggest that maybe it's because he was never here to begin with.

Inundated by a crushing exhausted despair, he drops his head on his outstretched arm. The rug's uncomfortably scratchy against his bare skin; plainly the least of problems as he struggles to figure out his next step. Get up, get something to wear. He definitely doesn't want to leave the costume here, but if he can find some street clothes he can take a cab. He doesn't have his wallet. He tries to remember if there's any cash in his apartment.

The woman appears in the space between breaths; he's lost more time, let his guard down too far. Matt scrambles backward a few inches until he hits the wood bedframe, resisting a ridiculous urge to hide underneath the thing. With some effort, he sits up against it. Thinks for a moment he can feel Stick's breath rustling his hair.

She's put a little distance between them, seems understandably wary. "Where's Strange?" he asks her. The demand dissipates when his voice cracks in the middle of the question.

"Sleeping. I think. He woke up long enough to make me promise not to call an ambulance. You two are like soulmates."

The pinching sensation is gone, thank God, but his shoulder feels destroyed. Totally useless. With all the pain, he can't begin to tell what the damage is. Can't focus on anything else. "What happened?"

"I was hoping you knew."

She moves a step closer, and he's distracted by the rattle of pills in plastic. "Why would I know?"

"Well that thing did come out of your shoulder. Speaking of which…" He tenses as she bends over him; she touches his shoulder with tentative fingers. "It looks like you've already managed to bust a couple of your stitches. Can I help you get back up onto the bed?"

"I've got it," he spits, compelled to immediately prove that he can. It feels an overambitious assertion, but eventually he accomplishes it without her. He teeters perched on the edge of the mattress.

"I have some meds for you to take." There's an airy pop as she removes the plastic cap. "Do you have any drug allergies?"

"Don't want them." He has no idea what she's trying to give him. No clue who she is.

"You need these. Aspirin, antibiotics. How's your pain?"

"I'm fine. The only thing I need s'my clothes."

"Okay, let me deal with this first, and then I'll go find something." The slow, careful way she talks to him feels patronizing. He wonders darkly if she speaks to all her patients this way, or just the disabled ones. Stick – not generally one to look for the best in people, but always happy to be contrary – points out that it could be simply that he's imagining it. Looking for a fight.

"At least drink this water. Here."

Her fingertips brush the back of his hand; it lifts obediently to take the glass. He shouldn't – they could've easily drugged it, if it's even water – but he's incredibly thirsty. He sniffs at it, takes a sip. It's delicious.

"So you help people? Like Stephen, like the Avengers?"

There's something else in her voice now. Interest? Approval? Respect? He doesn't know her. But whatever it is feels a big shift from the flung threats and forced promises when dealing with his so-called friends these days. "Try to."

They act like this is a choice, something he does. Not part of who he is. He remembers the feeling of Foggy leaving; his stomach twists. The empty glass rests upright on his knee, his fingers clenched around it.

"That's amazing."

Matt shakes his bowed head.

Her hands are steady as she replaces the torn stitches, sticks a fresh bandage over the area. Goosebumps flutter along his arms as she presses the tape down. "What happened to your foot?" she asks casually, gathering up the trash.

He'd forgotten about it, what with everything else. Now that she's brought it back to his attention, there's a pinprick stabbing sensation where his toes meet the rest of his foot, keeping time with his pulse. Definitely minor when compared to the misery of his shoulder. "Bruised."

"I can see that." His foot twitches. "From the look of that bruise, I think you might have a fracture. Third or fourth metatarsal. Did it happen tonight?"

She's in front of him; there's a questioning touch on his ankle. It's all he can do not to pull away. The latex gloves are gone, her bare fingers cold against his skin. "It's fine. I need to go."

"You need an x-ray. Antibiotics, aspirin."

Foolishly he tries to flex his foot; he bites down on the gasp that escapes as pain shoots up through his leg. "Give me a prescription. I'll fill it later."

The woman sighs, stands. She takes the water glass from his hand. "You should stay for a while. Rest. I know Stephen can be… difficult, and I have no idea what the history is between you two. But he's a good man. You'll be safe here."

Safe. He wants to believe this. Wants more than anything to be horizontal and blissfully unaware for a while. Maybe it's enough that she seems sincere; Stick reminds him that he hasn't yet heard it from Strange. It's the sharp crack of a ruler across his knuckles. Foggy's echo speaks of lessons to be learned. "What time is it?" he asks, instead of voicing any of these thoughts.

"Just after eight."

The room floats around his head, a slow-motion tidal ballet. He's shivering again, still sweating. Strange is presumably in his own room; if Matt finds him, maybe he can also find something of the doctor's to wear.

The woman grabs his arm when he wavers. "Why don't you lie down?" she suggests.

There's no humor in his huff of a laugh. Absurd even to be considering it; he knows he has to go. He did what he came here for, and now he needs to leave while he still can. From a nearby room comes the sounds of ungainly somnolent motion, a faint moan. "Strange. He's awake," Matt tells her.

He senses her surprise, hangs his head and waits wearily to be asked to explain. He's grateful when she doesn't comment. "I'll be right back," is what she says. "I'll see about your clothes."

He tries to center himself, to achieve even a basic meditation, but he can't find the focus. His dad sits at the foot of the bed behind him, humming in his own uniquely tuneless way. Matt doesn't turn around, wandering in the familiar sound.

"… back into bed," the woman's saying. "Right now."

"Christ, would you back off? How many times do I have to say it? I'm fine."

"You're shaking."

"Keep your voice down. That guy's probably got ears like a bat."

The humming shifts into what might be a different song, but he can't name this one either. Matt absently wiggles the fingers on his left hand. They're still only barely responsive.

"Because there isn't time," Strange hisses in the other room. "I have to find out what this thing is, who these people are. It's important."

"More important than –" Strange is in the hall, heading this way. "Stephen!"

He makes himself raise his head as Strange reaches the doorway. The doctor enters the small room. stops a few feet away near the dresser. "Tell me," the other man demands without preamble. "Everything you know."

Matt's really sick of this guy always sweeping in like he's got some kind of authority. "I didn't see anything," he snarls.

"Cute."

A vicious shudder catches him off-guard; he pointlessly compensates by glaring in Strange's direction. "What happened?"

"Exactly what I'm trying to figure out. So maybe you could be a little more helpful."

There's a graininess to Strange's voice, an unnatural sluggishness to his pulse. Matt's about to repeat his question when he hears the woman's footsteps approaching. He turns toward the door as she walks through.

"I found some things of Stephen's for you to borrow," she says, crossing to where he sits on the bed. Strange grumbles something Matt's brain doesn't translate. "Might not be the best fit, but it should work for now."

When he doesn't reach for them, she sets the items on the mattress beside him. "Where are my clothes?"

Something flies at him from the right; his arm's coming up to grab it before he registers that it's the costume, that Strange must've thrown it. He wonders if the damn thing's been in the room the whole time.

"That is… that's incredible," Strange says, under the woman's belated protest. "We are definitely going to talk about that, too."

He doesn't want to talk, just wants to get dressed and go. He needs to know who shot him just as much as Strange does, but right now even the thought of trying struggle back into the costume looms incredibly daunting. If he can only get home and manage a few hours of sleep, he can start over with a clearer head.

The outfit is a reassuring weight in his lap; he stills his fingers when he notices he's toying compulsively with one of the straps. "Give it to me," he tells Strange, trying to wrest back some sort of control. "I'll take it to someone."

He has no idea if Potter can do anything with the projectile. But maybe the man can give him a clue as to where to begin.

"No," Strange says definitively. "I'm not letting that thing out of my sight."

Matt pushes off the bed, fighting to ignore the crackles of pain spreading over the top of his foot when he stands. He drops the costume, wanting full use of his one good hand if he needs it. The mattress against the back of his legs is the only solidity in the shimmery room. Strange takes a step toward him.

"Guys…" the woman says, moving in from the side. They're both too close. Matt automatically calculates what it would take to get past them and out the door.

The room dips to one side and he sways; he takes a stumbled step before he can steady himself. His foot complains loudly. "Don't be stupid," Strange scoffs. "Sit down."

"No. I'm leaving."

"So you keep saying." Matt wonders if the woman can hear the soft recurring hitch to Strange's breathing. "If you do, you're on your own for getting home. I can't…" The doctor clears his throat. "No portal," he finishes shortly.

Portal. He remembers that word from the last time he was here. So maybe his recollection of a door in the sky isn't so far off after all.

Magic…

"Why not?" Matt asks, mostly because he senses the admission makes Strange uncomfortable.

"Who shot you?" Strange counters.

"Look," the woman says, taking another step toward them. "Since both of you seem so stubbornly set on not going back to bed where you belong, why don't I make some breakfast. We can sit down and try to work together on this like adults."

Strange makes a vague gesture, a fiery indecipherable motion of his hand. "Ask DeeDee. He's the one who's got somewhere to be," he mumbles churlishly.

"I want to see it," Matt says. He holds out his hand in silent demand; it's trembling, and he drops his arm again quickly.

"Put some clothes on," Strange tells him. "I'll go ge…"

The sentence disappears into an exhale; the doctor's heartrate drops precipitously as his outline melts in on itself. There's a flat bang of wood against plaster, the dresser crashing against the wall. Matt takes an instinctive step toward him, but the other doctor's already there.

"S'nothing," Strange slurs, the muffled angle implying he's got his head down. "Dizzy."

"Soulmates," the woman mutters. It feels tossed in Matt's direction.

A wash of weakness trickles from the top of his head to his toes; he sinks down onto the tangled sheets. After some shuffled movement, the mass in front of him separates into two hazy forms.

"Listen," Strange says hoarsely, "I think we can both agree that this is something that needs to be dealt with sooner rather than later. I won't let you take it, but I'd… welcome your input." It sounds as if he has trouble getting the words out, but whether that's whatever's wrong with him or their actual content Matt isn't sure. "This would probably be easier with your help. Especially since I can't even touch the thing."

He tenses when Strange straightens, but there's hardly enough energy left for even this base reflex. He might not have a choice anymore. The urge to flee has dimmed to a persistent nagging whisper; while anxiety tickles along the realization that he may be trapped here, it's barely more than a flicker. Maybe, if he can force himself to eat something, it'll keep him going long enough to get home.

"It's already been a long fucking day," the doctor continues, "and looking at you I'm guessing you feel as crappy as I do. This can be the thing we bond over. Get dressed. I'll be downstairs."

Strange turns and sweeps back out of the room. That coat or cape or whatever flapping theatrically behind him.

Matt blinks, still facing the path of Strange's exit. It feels like something's been decided, but he's not entirely certain he'd been in on it. He licks his lips. Tries to figure out what he's going to do next.

It's all blank. Even Stick has abandoned him to his fate.

"So," the woman says, the turn of her head wafting a hint of apple his way. "Do you like French toast?"

End Notes: I feel I should apologize for the lack of FoggyLove; Defenders gave me a few new issues to work out. But despite my (mostly minor) objections regarding that series – and OMG I am still giggling over Matt's supposed itsy-bitsy first aid kit – there were a couple of bromantic moments that I adored. I really hope to return to writing more Matt&Foggy soon. I miss those boys.

The title comes from a song by Rex Allen. I don't know it, just found it in a Google search. (Oh, Internet. Whatever did we do without you?)