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 is only making his bad night worse; Foggy takes time out of being pissed off to come to the rescue. Scene-fill for the night between "Speak of the Devil" and "Nelson vs. Murdock".

Author's Notes: The title is taken from Ingrid Michaelson's song "One Night Town". It may change in the future (provided there is a future for this fic).

This may turn into a rewrite of "Nelson vs. Murdock", because I found some of the developments in the episode…forced. For now, though, it's a stand-alone piece, one I hope you all enjoy! Cheers!

Hold On Like You Gotta Let Me Go

"Um…can you give me a hand here?"

"I already offered to call the hospital," Foggy replies, "and honestly, I can't figure out why I'm not still doing that."

Claire nearly catches one of Matt's fists with her shoulder before forcing it onto the couch. She's having enough trouble wrestling with one friend, let alone the other. "Look, I'm sorry that you're feeling betrayed right now, but we don't have time for this. He is going to bleed to death unless you help me."

As if on cue, Matt goes straight back to thrashing, and even as slack as he is, he's still putting up a pretty good fight. Enough that Claire can't suture the deep wound to his abdomen and some of his other injuries are threatening to reopen.

"Matt, calm down," she tries to wrangle his hands, but Matt's got a sixth sense for that kind of thing. He outmanoeuvres her. His eyes aren't even open at this point – he's not conscious – and he can still dodge things that he can't possibly know are there. Claire redirects her attention to his face amidst his fighting hands. "Matt, it's Claire. You are in really bad shape, and I know you're in pain, but you have to hold still."

He growls and bucks out of her grasp, tucking himself against the back of the couch. And then the anger's gone, replaced by something much more frightening. It takes Foggy a long-ass time to place the sound, given how foreign it is. Matt's crying. No, not crying. Matt's sobbing. Big, angry, heaving sobs that pull at every suture Claire's already managed to place. Sobs that fill the entire apartment. Sobs that shatter Foggy Nelson's heart into a billion tiny pieces.

Matt doesn't cry. Hell's Kitchen kids don't cry, not unless they're looking for pain. No matter how betrayed he's feeling, Foggy knows there's not a sob like that welling up inside his chest.

He watches as Claire seizes the advantage. She dives onto Matt's side and gets another stitch in before the sadness is gone. Matt goes right back to angry. He almost clocks her in the head with his elbow, but she's got some mad ninja reflexes of her own. She slumps back on the floor and throws her bloody, gloved hands in the air.

She's gearing up for a good yell – a deserved yell – when Foggy's feet finally move under him. He gets it. Sometimes it takes a while, but Foggy Nelson always manages to get it. He sees Matt's flailing hands and understands what needs to be done. "Matt!" he says over the ragged moans emerging from his friend's mouth. "Matt, it's Foggy. See?" the irony of the word is not lost on him. "It's Foggy," he yanks Matt's fist to his cheek and shoves his friend's fingers against his damp cheek.

Matt jerks back like he's been electrocuted and, fuck, he's strong. Like body builder strong. Secret, vigilante ninja strong. Foggy isn't sure he's strong enough to hold Matt steady, but it turns out Foggy's anger and betrayal and sadness and fear are stronger than even Matty Murdock. Foggy gets his friend's fist up against his cheek, jabs his thumb a little too harshly against Matt's wrist to get the fingers to uncurl, and runs the open hand over his face. He subdues the other hand in a similar manner, muttering all the time, "See, Matty? It's Foggy. It's Foggy! You know my fat mug better than anyone else's. Come on."

Matt makes that half-crying, quarter-screaming, quarter-rage sound again. Foggy rubs the hands even harder against his face. He traces his dimpled cheeks and his limp hair and his small set eyes. "Come on, Matty. You know me. And I'm here. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you."

How he knows that he has Matty's attention is a testament to how well he still knows Matty (even though he doesn't know Matty. He doesn't know Matty at all, apparently). Foggy just knows that Matt's listening. Matt's growling subsides into panicked little huffs of breath. His hands aren't curling themselves into fists. His fingers have straightened like they do when he reads, because he's reading Foggy. He's reading Foggy's features, and they're registering in the deep, dark place where his wounds have landed him.

Foggy dares to close the distance between them. He hangs over the edge of the couch, keeping his face as level with Matt's as possible. He wraps his hands around Matt's to hold them in place. "Matty," the word sends shivers down his friend's arms, "Matty, I know you're in pain. You're really hurt. But you are going to die if you don't get help. And I…I am not going to let that happen. So hold still. Just hold still. I'm here. I'm here, and you're safe, and you're going to be okay. Just…trust me. Trust me."

Matt's face twists in pain. He's crying again, and he's trying so hard to hold onto Foggy's face that they're both hurting now. Foggy adjusts Matt's hands into a position that leaves him only marginally abused, then signals to Claire to get back to suturing. She's already on it, and her needle moves swiftly now that Matt's body is cooperating.

If she could see his face though…God damn it. Foggy has a front row seat to a kind of misery that exceeds Matt's capacity for expression. Not that the stitches can feel great, but Matt's not aware right now. Foggy figured he would be unconscious for all of this, not somehow, impossibly (and, now that Foggy thinks about it, quintessentially Murdock kind of way) more conscious. At least of his physical sensations.

"Hey," Foggy rubs his thumb on the top of Murdock's hand. Unbelievably, the gesture registers; Matt's brow relaxes. Foggy gets a little braver and rubs his hand a little way down his friend's mangled arm. "Hey, you're okay. You're okay…"

Foggy's so focused that he barely notices when Claire finishes. Matt's face has gone placid. His arms are limp. The only thing holding them up are Foggy's hands, slick with sweat and shaking with worry, because his best friend was dying, is still dying. Worse, for a few minutes there, he was willing to let that happen all in the name of his own sick self-pity.

Matt lied to him. Foggy doesn't forget that. But for a few more minutes, he lets himself relish the feeling of his best friend's pulse – weak, distant – throb under his fingertips. Foggy keeps Matt's hands on his face so that Matt will have something to hold onto in the dark and follow back towards the light.

Then they'll figure out what all this means. But right here, right now, this is enough. It has to be enough. Because no matter how pissed off he is, and Foggy is mighty pissed off right now, Matt Murdock – secret, masked, blind(?), ninja vigilante of Hell's Kitchen - needs his best friend.

At least he wasn't lying about that.

Happy reading!