A/N: This one takes place late in season one, just FYI. Pre-Daredevil suit.

Chunks of plaster and drywall crumble down the from ceiling, raining on Matt's unmoving body. Somewhere above him, the supports in the roof creak, shifting, breaking apart piece by tiny piece. He can hear wood splintering, smell the lingering smoke in the air, feel vibrations from the many, rapid footsteps searching for him.

The explosion was powerful, but thankfully contained. Small, but deadly. A homemade grenade the size of a grape. Not enough to cause major damage to the surrounding fishing district, but certainly enough to send the Devil of Hell's Kitchen flying back onto his ass. Then fall through the floor. And then another floor...landing hard on his back with nothing to break his fall except for the unforgiving conrete basement.

A slab of drywall lays on top of him. Heavy, full of wires and broken light fixtures. Its pins him to the ground, throwing sparks and keeping him trapped while his enemies get closer and closer. Still, he doesn't have the strength to push it off. He can barely draw breath with how hard he landed. Every ounce of wind was knocked out of him and now, all he can do is groan and wheeze and struggle to breathe.

"Find him!" someone shouts eratically. "And put a bullet in the bastard's head!"

"Aaa...ffhhnnn...!" Lungs burning, Matt twists his upper body, hoping to at least squirm out from under the slab, if he's not strong enough to push it off. His struggles shift the debis laying around him, piles and piles of shattered glass, dust, and wood he can barely discern through his senses. It makes a hell of a lot of noise.

"What was that?!"

"It came from the basement! Get down there!"

Shit. "Aaaa...c'mon..." Matt claws at the ground, glass slicing his palms, nails jabbing at his face and neck. His shoulders worm free, the slab falling an inch, crushing his stomach and legs under its monstrous weight. Hurts like a bitch but at least he can breathe. Kind of, through the dust and sparks and smoke. Coughing, the Devil tries to twist. With his arms free, he drags himself through the junk all around him just as footsteps find the staircase. He stops, head twitching to the side. Seven heartbeats steadily growing closer. Armed, he can smell lead and gunpowder. A few of them are bleeding, probably from the explosion. None of them are bleeding as badly as he is, though. And none of them are trapped.

With one, final, straining effort, Matt kicks and shoves at the thing weighing him down. The slab shifts, slowly. Teeters, then falls to the side with a burst of dust.

"Fff...haa...aaaah..." Fisks's goons are almost here. Clutching his side, where his snapped ribs grind together, Matt staggers to his feet, doing his best to ignore the fact that he stil can't breathe. That his lungs feel crushed, like they don't have enough room to expand because his ribs are broken and they're in the way.

Head spinning, he stumbles for the staircase, doubled over, grasping his side with one hand, baton in the other.

They're five steps above him.

Swallowing, he readies himself for the fight. He doesn't need to 'beat' them, he just has to get away. He got what he wanted, anyhow: one more clue as to Fisk's whereabouts. Good enough.

The fight is quick and clean. Even in his broken state, Matt has the element of surprise on his side. He knocks out the first two men, throws a third down the remaining steps, kicks the fourth where a man doesn not want to be kicked, and butts the last two men's heads together so hard they black out.

But there are more coming and he only has minutes to get out before they find him. Not to mention he discovered something during his brief scuffle with the stairwell-goons that his initial adrenaline had been masking. His ribs aren't the only thing that's broken. So is his left wrist. It's swollen and throbbing and absolutely useless.

Jogging up the steps, fingers trailing the wall to keep him oriented, Matt finds himself back on the floor he started on when he found this place, and makes a beeline for the exit. He can hear police sirens in the distance, rapidly closing in.

Matt throws the door open, relishing in fresh air, free from smoke and dust. It clears his mind, freeing his senses. In the gentle breeze, he can hear the squeak of metal, taste rust in the air, feels wind through holes in the metal... A fire escape. Six paces to his right, three feet off the ground, ladder folded up. He hustles for it. Grabs the ladder, pulls is down. It lands with an ear splitting crash. The incoming goons will have heard it too.

Practically scrambling up the fire escape, Matt heads for the roof of the warehouse. Up here, possibilities of escape are endless. Already he can feel the thunder of silent pursuers chasing him. But they're too late. Thank God.

Dropping down into an alleyway on the other side of the building, the Devil disappears into the shadows, his black clothes melting into the darkness of Hell's Kitchen.

Foggy has had a really shitty night.

First, he couldn't get a taxi to save his life so he had to huff it all the way home from the office. Which is exhausting, by the way. Half way there, though, the strap of his rinky-dink briefcase finally snapped. It wasn't bad enough that it landed in a puddle, but the clasps broke and all of his papers (client rundowns, bills, notes) all scattered to the wind. He lost about a third of them to the gutter, under the tires of passing vehicles, and one-remarkably-to a very hairy homeless guy. The others got stuffed back in in no particular order and most were wet and gross. Like him. Because is started raining too. As if the universe hasn't flipped him the bird enough for one night.

Now he's standing in the middle of his apartment, wet, cold, dirty, sweaty, and exhautsed, flipping the light switch on and off over and over because dammit there's no way in freaking hell his electricity is also out.

Except, yes.

Yes it is.

He doesn't bother calling the landlord. Just drops his broken briefcase full of wet papers on the floor, kicks off his shoes, yanks his tie off and falls face first on the bed.

He's just dozing off when his phone starts buzzing.

"Hnnnnnnnn...what now?!" Snatching his phone out of his pocket, he glares at the screen, his scowl softening a little at the candid photo of Matt drinking a beer at Josie's with his friend's name plastered under the "calling" icon. With a sigh, he swipes right and holds the device to his ear. "Hey, buddy."

"Hi, Foggy."

Foggy blinks at the voice, sitting up in his bed. "Claire?" Oh Christ this can't be good.

"Yeah, it's me. Look, I'm over at Matt's place and could use a little help if you're available."

Foggy jumps up, scrambling for his shoes. "What kind of help? Is he okay?"

"I'm fine, Foggy. She's overracting." Matt's voice in the distance. He sounds tired.

"I am not overracting," Claire assures him. "He's not dying or anything but I could still use another pair of not-blind hands to help me out. No offense, Matt."

"None taken."

Foggy laughs, mostly out of relief, but the sound is strangled. "What did he do this time?" He hears movement, shuffling, the rustle of clothes. And then Matt hisses in pain. The slight smile that had just found his face falls away again.

"He's got some pretty serious lacerations. A bump on the head, some major brusing, two broken ribs, and a broken wrist."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. Anyway, all I'd need you to do is hold a flashlight where I need it and apply saline solution. Maybe help out with stitches if you're still interested in learning."

"Flashlight? Is your electric out too?"

"Yep, whole neighborhood's dark."

"Is it?" Matt sounds almost genuine.

"I'll be right over, Claire."

"Thanks, I really appreciate the help."

"See you." He hangs up, sighing, and shoves his phone back into his pocket. He foregoes his suit jacket and just grabs a regular raincoat instead, heading for the door. Seeing as how watching his best friend squirm in pain and blood on the carpet is at least in his top five least favorite things to do on a Friday night, looks like this shitty night is about to get even shittier.

Matt hears Foggy coming long before he reaches the building. With the ever-present hum of electricity, televisions, radios, computers, and everything else gone dead in the blackout, the neighborhood is suddenly deafeningly quiet, so Foggy's jogging footsteps are surprisingly noticable. Partly in thanks to Matt doing his absolute best to think about anything but the needle plunging in and out of his right ankle, where a chunk of glass sliced him open dangerously near an artery. He shivers at the feeling of thread pulling through his skin and then goes back to focusing on Foggy. He's inside now, thumping up the steps. He smells like wet cotton and sweat and rainwater. Did he walk the whole way here?

A moment later, he pounds on the door. Matt can hear water dripping from his friend's clothes, and him panting. Claire jumps at the booming sound, then relaxes when Matt tells her it's only Foggy.

Out on pure habit, he tries to peel himself off the couch but Claire pushes him back down, with what he assumes to be a very grouchy look. "Tears those stitches and you're fixing them yourself." She pads over to the door and pulls it open, greeting Foggy without so much as a hello. "He's in the living room. Flashlight's in my bag."

They come around the corner and Foggy pauses, looking him over as best he can in the meager light coming in through the window. Claire breezes past him, kneeling back down where she was.

"Thought you said you couldn't stitch him because it was too dark."

"Didn't have a choice with a few of the injuries, they were bleeding too badly. The stitches are sloppy though and trying to do this in the dark is killing my eyes. Trust me, you're gonna be a big help..." She drops a piece of bloody glass into a dish beside it.

Foggy fumbles blindly through the bag, struggling to find the flashlight.

"To your left," Matt says. "In the side pocket."

"Show off..." Foggy muttes, getting a chuckle from Matt.

"Just trying to help."

"Yeah that does seem to be the crux of all your problems..." That comment shuts the conversations down for a while. Foggy stands beside Matt, shining a beam of light over his various injuries while Claire pulls the needle in and out.

Blood drips onto her scrubs, onto the hardwood floors, coppery smell filling the air. Black and blue bruises glow in the light, Matt's chest moving carefully with each breath, his broken wrist laying elevated on the arm of the couch. Crooked and bruised, fingers motionless, even while the other hand grips into a fist with each tug of the thread. Matt's face is littered with scrapes, blood dripping from his hairline, nose dark red between his eyes.

Foggy swallows, shaking his head. "What the hell happened to you, Matt? Look like you got caught into a fist fight with a tiger."

Matt chuckles again, wincing. "Uh, no. There were no large felines involved."

"Then what was it?"

Claire lifts her head, obviously curious as well.

"Explosion."

"What? Where? I didn't hear about any explosion."

"You wouldn't have," Matt shifts, rubbing his ribs. "I was at the docks, had a lead to Fisk's whereabouts. One of his guys, pretty high up, was in an old warehouse there. I got in, got the information I needed and was about to get out but..." He shakes his head. "A whole truck load of assholes showed up, just outta no where. I heard the vehicle, sure, but...I got careless. Thought I was in the clear. They were too far away, you know?"

"So how'd they get you?" Foggy asks.

"Grenade."

"Jesus, Matt!" Claire gasps. "A grenade?!"

"Tiny. Homemade. No bigger than...say, a walnut. It was barely enough to blow out the windows but it sent my stupid ass flying."

"Christ, Matt..." Foggy hadn't realized he'd lowered the flashlight until Claire sighs and tells him she can't see what she's doing.

"It was just a careless mistake," Matt assures them. "If I'd been paying attention, I would have heard it."

"Wouldn't have happened at all if you'd stop this crazy shit..." Foggy grumbles, half regretting it as soon as it leaves his mouth. He's far from happy about Matt's "extracurricular acitivies" but between almost losing him as a friend and and almost losing him in general, he's content to reluctantly play along. He knows Matt will never stop and fighting it just makes things tense.

Thankfully, Matt ignores him and things go quiet again for a while. But even awkward silence is better than an argument.

Claire finishes stitching up the last of Matt's more serious injuries and moves onto his wrist. Her fingers are gentle, just barely skimming the appendage. After a few seconds, she sighs and shakes her head. "It's broken, but we already knew that. Can't tell how bad it is without an X-Ray... Don't suppose you'd be willing to pop over to the ER for a scan...?"

Matt's mouth pulls into a crooked smirk. "No thanks. I trust you, Claire. Just do what you can."

"Won't be much..." she mutters.

Still aiming to cover up the outburst causing tension between them, Foggy speaks up. "It's just a broken wrist, Matt. Lots of people get those. It would be pretty easy to make up a story just long enough to get it fixed..."

But Matt refuses. "Even if I got cleaned up before going, they'd still ask questions. Did I hit my head? Can they preform a quick examination just to be sure I'm not injured anywhere else? It's too complicated, Foggy."

Needless to say, Foggy relents and Claire does what she can for the broken bone. Namely realigning it in an extremely excrutating looking manner which Matt takes like a champ, although he's left breathless and clutching his ribs once it's done. Afterward, she practically shoves a couple pain pills down his throat and wraps his wrist in a tight, black bandage meant to keep the bone from shifting. With that, there isn't much more she can do so she and Matt say their goodbyes. Matt thanks her profusely and she shrugs him off with her classic nonchalance.

"Keep an eye on him, Foggy. Let me know if he shows signs of a concussion."

"Will do. Thanks for dropping by."

"Uh-huh." The door clicks shut behind her and suddenly Matt and Foggy are alone. Foggy lingers in the entryway, hands in his pockets. He can hear Matt shifting on the couch, trying to find a comfortable position. He won't be able to find one in his condition.

Part of Foggy yearns to leave. To go home and get some sleep. There's nothing he can do for Matt, anyway. Except get him water here and there and sit in uncomfortable silence while he sleeps...

But the other part knows he has to stay. Matt may be the world's biggest dickhead but he's still his best friend. And, even though he might insist otherwise, he does need help.

That water's not gonna get itself...

Right on cue, Matt speaks up. "Hey, Foggy, you've gotta be exhausted. There's no need for you to stick around, I'm alright. Go home, get some sleep."

"Nah," Foggy turns the corner, trying his best to sound nonchalant. Like this doesn't bother him at all. "I think I'll stick around for a while. Hey, you got anything good in the fridge?"

Matt pauses. "Uh...I don't know. There's some leftover takeout, I think."

"Dibs."

Finally settling onto his back on the couch, his wrist laying over his waist to keep it straight, Matt says, "It's all yours, buddy."

Foggy sticks the takeout in the microwave, popping the lid off a beer. "You want some?" He hits the button on the mircowave then curses when he remembers the electricity is off. Matt snickers at him from across the dark room.

"No thanks."

"Beer?"

"Not right now."

"Water? Anything?"

"I'm fine, Foggy. Thanks anyway."

Foggy shrugs, sipping his beer. "Fine, starve then." He pulls the cold Thai food out of the microwave and grabs a fork, dropping into the arm chair across from the couch. It's not very good cold and it kind of tastes like refrigerator but he's suddenly starving and doesn't much care. "You really need to get a TV, man."

Matt chuckles. He sounds tired all of a sudden but is trying to stay awake. Partly for Foggy's sake and partly because Claire told him to stay awake for a few hours to be sure he doesn't have a head injury. "Don't have much use for one. Besides, it wouldn't work right now anyway."

"Damn, yeah..."

"I've got books."

"It's pitch black in here, dude. Besides, all your books are in braille."

"Thought you took a class."

"On YouTube. For like, three minutes. Braille is way harder than you make it look."

"You just have to practice." Matt apparently decides laying down makes the thought of sleep too enticing. He tries to sit up, grabbing at the back of the couch, a groan escaping his throat. He struggles for a moment before collapsing back down, huffing both in frustration and exhaustion.

"You want help?"

Rubbing his side, which still throbs despite the pain killers, Matt shakes his head, then realizes that-for once-Foggy's the one who can't see. Smirking, he can't help but take advantage of the moment. "I shook my head."

Foggy snorts. "Yeah, laugh it up while you can. Meanwhile, I'm gonna use your cane to find my way to the john."

"By all means. It's by the front door." He grins tiredly at the ceiling, listening to Foggy blindly shuffling toward the cane, then tapping his way to the bathroom. He laughs, hearing him bump into the wall, then tunes him out once he's in the bathroom itself. While Foggy isn't here to mother-hen him, Matt tries once more to sit up. Grunting, shaking slightly, he pulls himself up, clutching his ribs. His head spins violently, a side effect of the blood loss and maybe the pain killers as well.

By the time Foggy steps out of the bathroom, Matt is laying back down again as if he never got up. He might fall asleep this way but at least he isn't so dizzy... Foregoing the cane, Foggy pads into the kitchen, running his fingers along the wall to keep oriented. Probably learned that from Matt. He grabs a glass, fills it, and brings it to the living room, setting it down on the coffee table in front of his friend.

"You should drink," he says.

Matt obeys just to make him happy. He also accepts the sliced orange Foggy offers him a moment later under the pretense that he wanted one...though Foggy didn't eat a single bite of it. Crafty bastard. Beyond that, they chat quietly for a while as the electricity flickers and fights to come back on. Matt can hear the bulbs pinging and the occasional growl of the generators in the basement. Eventually, they come on and don't go off again and Foggy cheers.

Matt finds his phone on the edge of the coffee table, clicking around until the automated voice tells him the time. It's extremely late. Or, early now.

"Hey, Foggy, I'm serious. Go home, get some sleep. I'll be okay."

His friend pauses. "You sure?"

"I think I'm gonna hit the hay, yeah. I'll call you tomorrow."

"Screw that, I'll come by after work."

Matt can't help but smile a little at that. Things have been okay between him and Foggy for a few weeks now. Okay being the operative word. Today, even as shitty as it was, is the closest they've gotten to normal in quite a while... "That works for me."

"Alright, see you tomorrow." Foggy sounds immensely pleased, happier than Matt's heard him in weeks. He grabs his raincoat, though it's stopped pouring out, and heads for the door. They say their goodnights and Matt stays awake just until Foggy has hailed a cab and is safely of his way home. After that, he lays his phone back on the table and stretches out on the couch, letting himself drift off. Every fiber of his body aches and he can still feel the crushing weight of debris pressing into his lungs, but Matt falls asleep with a slight smile on his face.

Tomorrow is gonna suck. He's going to hurt all over, almost certainly too badly to go to work. And he doesn't have much in the ways of pain medicine. Just aspirin. And meditation. But hey.

At least he won't be alone.