Stick: [to Matt] Big world, not all of it flowers and sunshine. And the only way guys like you and me can survive is to grab it by the throat and never let go.

.***.

It took Foggy several days to convince Matt to go to the hospital.

"Come on, Fog," Matt said the next morning, looking bruised and chagrined and damp after a shower. "How about I buy you breakfast instead?"

"And that sounds great," Foggy assured his friend, "Except that 1. You have no money. I'm broke, and you're destitute, so if anyone's buying the pancakes it would be me. Also, 2. I'll buy you pancakes after the ER because 3. You were raped last night and I am so not equipped with dealing with that."

Matt flushed. He didn't wear his glasses in the room, had gotten out of the habit, and so Foggy was one of the few people in the world, the only person on campus, who knew that Matt's whole face crumpled when he was upset. He had the worst poker face Foggy had ever seen, and it would be endearing if it wasn't so damn sad. "Can you just," Matt said, his voice bitten and bitter, "Can you just stop saying raped? I'm not some Freshman girl."

"Sexist, man, you're a Freshman boy. And I don't want to make you into a victim, or anything—god knows I'm no knight in shining armor," Foggy gestured to himself, all of himself, "but let's call a spade a spade. Come on, it'll be a fun trip to the ER."

"Oxymoron."

"Well, okay, but if you're a good boy I'll buy you pancakes after."

Foggy chatted the whole way down to the hospital, his voice getting higher and more nervous as they approached. "And the line's probably going to be really long because it's, you know, the ER, but we've got nowhere else to be."

"Yeah," Matt muttered, "good thing we're not law students or anything."

"Nowhere more important. And I'll be right next to you the whole time, unless you don't want me to, in which case I'll be barking at all the doctors outside. In close proximity, because that's non-negotiable."

Matt rolled his eyes. His heart was going double-time and he kept getting nervous all over when he remembered that he was going to the hospital, but wasn't it just a little bit nice to have Foggy with him, being so damn protective?

Not that Matt didn't know his friend loved him, it was just so nice and new to have someone love him without strings attached, without expectation or reservation. The night before, when he'd felt helpless and alone and handicapped for the first time since before Stick, when he was pinned and assaulted, he'd thought that no one was going to save him, that he would just have to endure, that Foggy wouldn't care when and if he found out—or worse, that Foggy would find out, and would care and would blame him, Matt. That Foggy would find out and turn away.

And instead, Foggy had barged in like his very own avenging angel, his personal superhero. Foggy fought them off and then knelt over him and make sure, make quite sure he was alright. And he'd seen his friend crying, over him.

Matt knew he wasn't worth it, but he wanted to much to believe that he was.

Anyway, he was going to the hospital because Foggy wanted it so much. Having friends was alarming.

Matt filled out some paperwork, and Foggy commandeered some of the more comfortable chairs, the ones in front of the tv, and snapped at people until they were alone and he could flip to Saturday morning cartoons in peace.

"These better be damn good pancakes," Matt muttered, putting down the clipboard.

Foggy reached over and ruffled his hair, the gesture so familiar that Matt was glad he'd put his glasses back on. It must have been all the stuff that happened last night that was bringing this emotion out.

They waited together. Eventually Foggy got up to get coffee, and came back with a cup for Matt. When they were finally called back, and Matt got hooked up to a blood pressure machine, Foggy kept up a running commentary.

"Yeah, he's blind. Accident when he was a kid. This man—what's your name?—Deonde wants to put a blood pressure cuff on your left arm, Matty. Well, you can see it down there on the clipboard, assault. That's kind of a personal question, can I answer when we're in a more private place? No sir, not paranoid, just looking out for Matt here. Matt? Hey Matty, the cuff's coming off and we're going down this way, let me just grab your hand, it's not far."

Foggy somehow forgot to let go of his hand while they waited for the nurse. "D'you want to tell the doc what happened or should I?"

"You can, if you want to."

"It's whatever you want, man. You look like you're gonna pass out on me. Don't like hospitals?"

"Not really."

"That's okay. Hey, here's the doc. Doc, this is my friend Matty. He asked me to stick around if it's all the same to you."

"Sure," the doctor was a woman, plump and matronly and confident. "But just so you know, Mr," consulting the chart, "Murdoch, you will have to disrobe for some of the tests. For victims of assault, I know that can be uncomfortable."

Matt found his voice, which had been hiding someplace near his toes. "That's why I want Foggy to stay. I mean, it's not like I can see who's in the room anyway," Matt laughed a little, because if he didn't laugh he would sob.

Foggy's hand was back in his hair, rubbing lightly. The doctor had a clipboard of questions, and Foggy mostly zoned out.

"Are you sexually active?"

"Yeah. Fairly."

A couple questions later, Foggy was practically snoozing. Until he heard:

"Do you usually engage in anal sex?"

"Hey," Foggy snapped.

"Not usually," Matt answered, trying to disengage from the situation, numb himself to this. He used to be able to do that, with Stick, just turn his brain off, just lie back and think of England. "Um, when I was younger."

He could feel Foggy looking at his oddly, and that was all Matt could think about as the doc went through the rest of her questions, as she asked him to lay out on the table, as she put on gloves and poked and probed, as she asked him about how many, and if he wanted to prosecute, and could he turn just a little to his left?

After that, which was the worst, which left Matt shaking and Foggy patting him, petting him, nearly cooing at him in his mother-hen way, after that it was easy. Just a blood sample, and a print-out (given to Foggy) of what his options were after an assault, and some aspirin, a tetanus shot because of the scrapes on his face. He was turned loose on the world with a reminder to come back in three weeks for the results of his blood test. "But I wouldn't worry," the doc said on their way out, "it's just procedure. We did an in-house test for gonorrhea, chlamydia, the usual suspects. This just needs to be sent to a lab for HIV."

Matt gripped Foggy's arm, hard.

"But," Foggy's voice had held the edge of steel since they'd entered the hospital and people started moving Matt around, "he shouldn't worry?"

"The odds are in his favor." The doctor handed Foggy another stack of papers. "Also, Mr. Murdoch, I know that right now school seems more important than anything, but you need to take care of your health. Low iron, malnourishment, and yet from the sound of it you work out constantly. Make sure you take in as many calories as you put out. You can't afford to lose any more weight."

Luckily, he was on the school's insurance, and the bill wasn't extraordinary. As promised, Foggy took him out for pancakes and neither of them ate anything.

Finally, Matt couldn't take it anymore. "Just ask the question."

"Nah," Foggy said, "I'm going to tell you a story. It's called: Foggy and the date he took to Junior Prom. My date's name was Andrew, and he was in Mock Trial with me, wicked funny, very cute, gay as the 4th of July. And then there's seventeen-year-old Foggy, who was kind of chubby and kind of straight and kind of serious. But then he and Andrew started hanging out, and they'd go to football games together and watch movies and go swimming and eventually Foggy got up the courage to kiss Andrew, who kissed him right back, and they went to the Junior Prom together. My mom took the pictures in our living room. My dad drove us in his Jeep, and made vomiting noises when we kissed in the back seat." Foggy sipped the coffee. "That's a story about how I don't care if you're gay, Matty."

"Fog," Matt said, and his voice sounded wet. Then he took a sip of coffee and had a forkful of pancakes and tried again. "Fog," his voice was normal now. "I didn't—"

"Yeah," Foggy shrugged, "I'm shrugging, Matt. I didn't tell you because of, well,"

"The Catholic thing," Matt's voice was tinged red and angry.

"No. I didn't tell you because you're the only friend I've got." Foggy pushed all of his pancakes onto Matt's plate.

Matt turned his face down, like he was looking at the new pile, and started forking them into his mouth. "Well," he said, between mouthfuls, "Right back at you, Fog. Really. Right back at you."

.***.

"So," Foggy said later that night, back at their dorm. Mozart was on and they were studying, which consisted mostly of Foggy reading out loud and Matt getting most of the answers. "Not that I'm prying. Mostly it's avoiding studying. But, um, do you have a story?"

"Of my relationships with guys?"

"Yeah," Foggy was quick to say, "You don't have to tell me. I'm just—I thought you only dated girls."

Matt's whole body stilled. Foggy didn't even think he was breathing. "Can I," Matt lipped his lips. "Can I tell you later? Would that be okay?"

"That's fine. You don't have to—I don't care if you never tell me. I just thought I'd ask." Embarrassed, Foggy looked back down at the textbook. "Wanna learn about Mal Inprohibitum?"

"Wanna get out Harry Potter?" They were working their way through the books, Foggy reading a chapter out loud every night. Matt, of course, hadn't read anything at the Home following the accident, and Stick didn't have anything as frivolous as fantasy. Foggy wasn't much for fiction, and the books had come out when he considered himself just too old for the phenomenon.

But he'd found a copy of the first book at the library, had found two and three at a book sale. And now they were on Goblet of Fire, which Matt had brought home, sheepish, tossing it on Foggy's bed like he didn't care whether or not they read it, like their nightly ritual didn't make him feel like glowing from the inside out.

Foggy didn't hesitate, just put away the textbook and, with some rustling and groaning as he moved around, fished Harry Potter out the bedside drawer. "Okay," he said, "where were we?"

"After the World Cup."

"Right, Krum got the Snitch."

"And that ambassador dude, the Bulgarian Minister," Matt grinned, imitated the voices Foggy did when he read out loud. "'You can speak English!'—Poor Ludo Bagman—'And you've been letting me mime everything all day?'"

"'Well,'" Foggy finished, in his best worst Bulgarian accent, "'It was very funny.'"

He found the page after that, waited until Matt settled, back against the wall, legs hanging off over the edge of the bed, eyes closed, bruise stark and purple on the side of his face. "Chapter Nine," Foggy read. "The Dark Mark."

.***.

Foggy met that girl on campus, the one from the party.

"How's your friend?" she said, not getting very close to Foggy, scuffing her shoe in the dirt. Her hair was tied back with a ribbon. She wore a yellow dress. She didn't look like she could beat up anyone.

"Fine," Foggy said, not really wanting to talk.

"Yeah right," the girl said, "take care of him. Those guys are assholes."

.***.

It was night, and Foggy had just put Harry Potter aside. (Chapter Seventeen, The Four Champions) He'd turned off the light. It was two weeks since the party, and finals were coming up fast. He hoped for sleep. He hoped that Matt wouldn't have nightmares again.

"Hey, Fog."

"Yeah?"

"Still want to know about, um, my thing? My story?"

It took Foggy a little while to realize that Matt had said. "Sure. I mean, yeah. Want the light?" He sat up and reached for the switch before Matt's throaty laughter stopped him. "Right, 'course, I'll just. Yeah." He sat there in the dark, looking at the dark form that was Matt.

Matt never really looked at Fog, but right now he was definitely, deliberately looking away. "Well. Okay. So, you know that my Dad died?"

"Yeah, I do."

"And you know how I was sent to the home?"

"Yeah."

"And you know how I was adopted? Cuz I was, got taken out of the system by this guy named—don't laugh—his name was Stick, and he saved me, or whatever, when I was just this angsty blind kid no one had any business liking. He showed me how to cope with my disability—how to embrace it. He taught me how to," Matt snorted, "defend myself. How to use a gun, do close-combat stuff like tai kwon do, jujitsu, karate, some MMA. And boxing, of course, but my dad made me promise not to box so I wasn't great at it."

Foggy let out a low whistle. "Did he pack you off to learn from a monk in Asia? Put you down in a cave full of bats so you could face your fears?"

"Batman is a great hero."

"Batman's a coward and a murderer and vigilante, but we'll go into politics later." Foggy raised an eyebrow at Matt. "Didn't know you were on the side of the supers, man. You like the Avengers, too?"

"Why not? Iron Man saved New York."

"After destroying half the city," Foggy's voice had a snap to it now, "I had friends who died in that battle."

"I did too, Fog; everyone did. But it wasn't Iron Man's fault. Also, Captain America is kind of a babe."

Foggy blanched, happy that Matt couldn't see. Of course that would be Matt's type, all-American and star-spangled and perfect down to the eight-pack abs. "I hear he's taken," Foggy said, as causally as he could.

Matt snorted. "That won't last. The Winter Soldier's doesn't seem to play well with others."

"He was a Howling Commando."

"Was being the operative word."

"Everything's so black and white in your little world, isn't it?" Foggy shook his head. Most people who were in law had a very stark sense of right and wrong; Foggy was among the few who could even glimpse the shades of grey.

Matt smirked at him, a half-smile that he hadn't showed since before The Incident At The Party. "Nah, Fog, it's all just black."

"You were telling a story," Foggy reminded, throwing a pillow at his friend.

That sobered Matt up, the smile retreating back into the corner of his mouth where it lived. "Right. Um, so there was Stick."

"Teaching you how to be a ninja."

"Handicapped people are pretty defenseless in New York," Matt pointed out. "But, okay, I see your point. It went a little past making sure I didn't get mugged. He prepared me for every scenario. What would happen if I was pushed in water? If someone attacked me while I had a broken hand? What if someone tried to mess with my head, could I be a good little solider?"

"That's sick," Foggy said, mouth twisting in disgust. "That's—you were just a kid! It sounds like he was recruiting you for some—some war!"

"Exactly," Matt said, his voice calm now. He had no indignation left. "That's exactly what he was recruiting me for. A war that he was waging in his own mind. What if I was captured? Tortured? Would I give up the organization? Would I give up him? He had to prepare me for every eventuality."

Foggy still couldn't see what this had to do with his own prom story and having a boyfriend. "Yeah, okay. So?" Matt just stared at his comforter, picking at the surface with one nail. "Wait," Foggy said, the pieces sliding into place like a sick puzzle. He felt sick, felt like he was going to throw up all over Harry Potter. "How old were you?"

Matt shrugged, "Old enough to know it was wrong. But Stick was my only protection, the only one willing to take me. He was the closest thing I had to a father."

"So you just," Foggy left like he could huff and puff and take the whole place down. "You just let him rape you?"

Matt flinched.

Foggy looked down at himself. He'd gotten up, somehow, had drawn himself up to his full height and advanced on the bed. His hand was raised, somehow, ready to strike.

He sat back down.

Matt was babbling something, "I was…well, you know, Fog, I was a kid. Stick paid the bills and put food on the table and seemed to—it sounds so stupid now—seemed to give a shit about me. I knew it was wrong, but it seemed like a price to pay."

"A price to pay?" Foggy echoed. He was no longer shouting. He felt hollow, hollowed out, empty. "For what? Some bread and blanket? School? Matty…"

"Don't call me that," Matt said, "I'm not a child."

When Matt snapped that, flinched, all the fight left Foggy. He wanted to find Stick and set hi on fire. He wanted to sleep. Eventually, the second desire won out and Foggy laid down. "Goodnight, Matthew."

"Fog…"

But Foggy was already pretending to be asleep.

.***.

Matt was having a nightmare. Whimpering, writing, "No! Please, no!"

Foggy clutched the pillow to his head and willed himself to go back to sleep.

.***.

The next morning, Matt was out of the dorm before Foggy woke up. Not so unusual, since there was church on Sunday. He was back, a shape in the bed, asleep or pretending to be by the time Foggy got back that night. No Harry Potter, then.

.***.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Foggy and Matt had classes together and usually sat next to each other but now Matt sat in the back of the room and Foggy sat in the front.

They were both young men. Foggy was too proud to apologize and Matt was too proud to forgive.

.***.

On Saturday, Matt woke up to see that Foggy was already gone. Good. Maybe he'd forgotten about the hospital, and Matt would just go and get the results on his own and deal with them alone, like he always had. He dug around in his closet until he found a shirt that was labeled BLUE and a pair of jeans that he thought would go with it.

He was getting his cane, his wallet, when Foggy came in the door, holding coffee and donuts. "I'll drive you," Foggy said. It wasn't I'm sorry but at that point, Matt didn't need an apology. "Come on, take a coffee. No, not that one, that one, otherwise I get stuck with your stupid black coffee."

"'Course," Matt said, hiding his smile with the coffee cup as he took a big swallow. "Thanks, Foggy."

That's when Foggy put down the bag and the cup and enveloped Matt in a hug. "It's okay," he repeated, a clucking refrain. "It's okay."

And, no matter what the results of the test turned out to be, Matt thought that he might just be right.