Syncope (Rainy Day Version)

N. Clevenger (May 2017)

Notes: So I finally forced myself to finish Season 2 – hating nearly every moment and almost breaking up with this fandom in the process – and am now doing my very best to erase the entire thing from my personal headcanon. This is one of three (10k+ word) stories I have lingering on my cloud drive that I'd despaired of ever finishing, chronologically the fourth fic in the poorly-named "Syncope" series. (Named originally for the prompt that inspired them all rather than for, as it turns out, the actual focus of the stories. If you were wondering.) It's set sometime after the end of S1, and is really nothing more than the usual meandering whump for whump's sake and an excuse for me to spend time with the boys I've grown so protective of. Absolutely no plot or deep truths here.

Marvel/Netflix canon. I make no money, because – quite clearly – they don't belong to me.

It's been raining for four straight days, the city drowning. A nice treat at first, a break in the brutal humidity that had everyone walking around with faces turned up and smiling. But people are getting sick of it, he can tell. The streets are a sea of umbrellas; everybody's dripping, grumbling.

The subway was miserable – too much damp fabric in too close quarters, their combined body heat mixing it into an unpleasant miasma with the germs from those three people Foggy was pretty sure were dying – and he's in a much better mood now at least to be off of it. He folds up his umbrella as he opens the door to the courthouse. Straightens his tie and runs a hand through his hair, giving himself the usual internal pep talk.

You're a great lawyer, and you can totally do this. Go be awesome.

It's mostly habit. But he figures it can't hurt.

Foggy crosses the marbled floor to the metal detectors, smiling when he sees one of his favorite security guards on duty. He drops his bag and umbrella on the rolling belt to be scanned, fishes his keys and his wallet out of his pocket. "Hello, Jack. How are you this fine morning?"

"Morning, Mr Nelson. I have to say, you seem a lot more cheerful than most people coming through those doors."

He gives the older man a mock frown. "Foggy, Jack. It's Foggy."

Jack grins. "Sure, Mr Nelson."

Foggy groans, walks through the rectangle of the metal detector. "Hey, how's your daughter's basketball team doing?" he asks, picking up his things from the tray on the other side.

"They're going to the playoffs," Jack beams. "Thanks for asking."

Foggy grabs his bag, waves to another guard down the line when they make eye contact. "Have you seen my partner in crime fighting yet this morning?"

Jack's smile disappears, bringing the lines on his face into deeper focus. "I have. He came through about fifteen minutes ago."

"And? The look on your face definitely says 'and.'"

"It's nothing. Only –" The older man purses his lips, decides to press on. "It's none of my business, but… is he okay?"

Foggy freezes, his brain instantly spiraling through possibilities. He'd last seen Matt yesterday, when they'd left the office; jury selection was set for early today, and they'd agreed it would be easier to meet here. Had something happened to him on the way home? This incessant weather's making things dangerous for everybody. Or last night on patrol? Foggy can't remember if he actually saw the news. Jack's watching his face with the look of a man accustomed to honing in on the tiniest of clues, and Foggy tries to force his tone unconcerned.

"As far as I know. Why, what happened?"

He almost gets it. Maybe a little rushed at the end.

Jack shakes his head. "He just… didn't seem like himself. Like I said, none of my business. I shouldn't have said anything."

He needs to find Matt. What floor are they on today? "Hey, I appreciate the warning." The chuckle he wedges in there only sounds a tiny bit fake. "I will definitely check it out. You have a great day, okay?" He's already moving before finishing the sentence.

Three. They're on three, because they were on two last week and he remembers when they got the room assignment he'd been afraid he'd get them confused and had thought he'd probably better write it down. He hadn't. Foggy gets into the elevator with a few other people. A woman trying to wrangle her two small kids hits the button for the third floor.

He exits the elevator behind them, stepping out onto the floor just as a crack of lightening flashes through the gloom outside the tall decorative windows. It's followed closely by a long rumble of thunder, and the young girl squeals and hides her face against her mother's hip. The boy's eyes are wide, glued to the windows.

Foggy spots Matt sitting on a bench further down the hall; he heads that way, weaving around the family and between a couple of oncoming people to get there. He's been preparing himself for the worst on the way up here, but Matt looks fine as he approaches. Unwrinkled suit and hair combed, sitting up straight. Not exactly clean-shaven, but he seems to be going for that scruffy thing these days. The tip of the cane rests on the floor between his shoes, both hands curled around it.

Except when Foggy reaches him, he can see that the knuckles on that top hand are abraded and raw. And maybe they're curled a little too tightly. "Karen's not here yet?" he asks, dropping onto the bench beside his friend. He leans his umbrella against the stone beside him.

"Ladies' room."

He looks pinched, sallow. But so do a lot of people in this artificial light, after enduring half a week of this rain. There's a small cut under his eyebrow that's mostly hidden by his glasses. "Has anybody told you how long before we can go in?"

"They'll be ready for us soon."

Another burst of light brightens the corridor, more tumbling thunder. Matt entire body flinches; he sucks in a quick breath, his lips smashed together in a thin pale line.

"You okay?" It's a dumb question. He definitely doesn't look okay.

"Yeah." The answer sounds automatic. Insincere, sitting there like he is with his eyes closed and every muscle tensed.

"Totally believable," Foggy assures him.

Matt blows out a slow breath, relaxes a little. He rubs at the bridge of his nose. "I'm fine. You know I hate this weather."

He remembers how withdrawn Matt used to get during major thunderstorms, sometimes even uncharacteristically short-tempered. Remembers the time he'd teased him about being afraid of them, a day when the mood was wearing particularly thin and Matt had snapped at him about something stupid. Matt had quietly made the connection Foggy had missed, the one between booming noises and his sensitive hearing. Then he'd staggered into their bathroom and thrown up from the migraine.

And that was before Foggy knew what he knows now. "So go home. I can do this on my own."

"No."

A shallow puddle's forming on the floor around his umbrella. "You look like you were in a bar fight."

Matt stiffens, lowers his arm and opens his eyes behind the glasses. "How bad?"

Foggy shrugs. "Mostly your knuckles. There's a little cut by your eye. What happened?"

He slides his hands down the cane to a position nearer his knees, as if this will hide the injuries. "Couple of guys robbing a liquor store." His voice is low, but it doesn't matter; the wind whips the rain against the windows, and there's no one close enough to overhear.

"Did you win?" Foggy can't help but ask. "Because –"

"Foggy. I'm fine."

He suddenly swallows, takes a deliberate breath. His chin comes up, and Foggy glances down the hall to see Karen coming toward them. "What'd you tell her?"

"She didn't ask." Matt's mouth shapes something that's almost a smile.

She arrives holding two bottles of water; the handle of her compact umbrella peeks out of her purse. Her eyes go first to Matt before swinging his way. "Hey, Foggy." She tucks her hair behind an ear. The bottom of her coat's wet, darker than the rest. "So the drink machine randomly gave me two bottles of water," she says. It sounds convincing, but Foggy still doubts that it's true. Not with the way she's watching Matt. "Either of you guys want one?"

He shakes his head, though it's fairly obvious which one of them she means. Matt declines politely. Foggy wonders if Karen can see the tight lines at the corners of his eyes from her angle.

A brusque woman sweeps by to inform them that the courtroom is empty and waiting for them. Foggy's admiring her as she walks away – the view's better from this direction, and it lets him ignore the pointed looks Karen's started giving him – when another bolt of lightening zags through the cloudy sky. He gets to his feet to distract Karen before the thunder hits.

"We might as well go in," he says over the noise from outside. "Get set up." He adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder, picks up his umbrella.

Matt stands too, his motions strangely gradual and suspiciously cautious. He holds the cane in his right hand, his elbow pressed close to his ribs. Karen's trying to have an entire nonverbal conversation now; Foggy keeps pretending like he doesn't notice. When Matt doesn't shift his cane to his other hand, Foggy moves over to his left side, and the familiar weight of Matt's fingers wraps around his arm.

They're the first ones into the courtroom, the prosecuting attorney coming in soon after. A few other soggy people wander through the doors – some settling themselves near the bench, some sitting scattered throughout the small gallery – all of them silent, unhappy looking. In a hurry to remove wet scarves, hats, coats. Foggy sits wedged in the middle at their table, Karen to his right; he gives her a smile as the potential jurors file in. Matt faces front, his damaged hands hidden in his lap. He's still wearing his overcoat, specks of moisture glittering across the shoulders.

Between the presumably killer headache and whatever's been making Matt fidget since about ten minutes after the judge walked in, it's clear early on that Foggy's going to have to do this without his partner's unique insights. No big deal – you can totally do this – since all of the choices are pretty straightforward. None of the rejections on either side come as much of a surprise. But it's tedious, not his favorite part of the process. Especially with all the distracting squirming that Matt's doing beside him.

Foggy's trying not to look over there. "Quit it," he finally whispers, his eyes still firmly on the group in front of them.

"Sorry." It's the first thing Matt's said since they sat down. But he stops moving.

For all of twenty minutes. Too bad they've got at least an hour until a break is called for lunch.

Foggy's midway through a question when there's a soft hiss of pain beside him; he trips over his words, resolutely refusing to glance that way. He looks down at his notes instead, searching for his place. Takes a breath. Starts again. The proceedings continue on around them, and Matt quits fidgeting – the one time Foggy looks over there he's sitting rigidly straight, hands fisted and jaw clenched – but it still feels like forever until they're released from the room.

They stay where they are as the space empties. There aren't any windows in here, and Foggy wonders if it's still raining. If Matt could tell him. He turns to his friend; Matt's sightless gaze is directed toward the table top.

"Hungry?" he asks, though he's certain he knows the answer.

Matt lifts his head; Karen stands, comes around the table to wait in front of them. "Sure. Whatever you guys want."

It's a lie and Foggy knows it, but he doesn't see any point on calling Matt out on it in front of Karen. Just like there probably isn't any point in calling attention to the quickly smoothed wince he catches as Matt gets to his feet. Foggy sighs, thinking about the hours they still have to slog through today. Maybe he can try again to talk Matt into going home. He gathers up his things.

The lights flicker as they're leaving the courtroom, interrupting Karen's monologue of nearby lunch options. Matt's the only one of them who keeps moving without a hitch in his step, though when Karen's voice falters his head tips that way.

"Lights cut out for a second," Foggy explains.

The fury of the storm doesn't seem to have lessened any; he can hear the rain before they actually get through the door. They stop by the wall, near the bench they were on earlier, but none of them sit. There's another hiccup in the power, drawing a few gasps and random murmurs from the people standing about in the corridor.

"Happened again," he tells Matt. "Maybe we'll get sent home from school early." It's not unappealing.

"In case we don't," Karen says, "what do you want to do about food?" She gives him another loud look, her eyes darting to Matt and back again just in case he doesn't get the message.

"Right. Chinese?" He really doesn't want to go out in the rain. "Or we could just grab something from that coffee cart downstairs. Don't they have food?"

"We might as well eat from the vending machines."

He doubts Matt's going to eat anything anyway. "If you've got the change."

Karen clearly doesn't think this is funny. Matt's apparently got nothing to add.

There's a shout from down the hall. Those kids from before. The little boy's trailing the girl in circles around the mother's legs; she's on the phone, having an animated conversation. Occasionally she throws out a perfunctory admonishment, but it does nothing to deter her children. She looks upset. The lights crackle again.

"Okay, that's getting a little annoying," Foggy observes, looking up at the nearest wall sconce. He glares at the light for too long; when he turns back to Karen, there's a black echo floating at the edge of his vision.

"Which is why we should get out of here for a while," she says. "Go some place where we can sit down. Eat some warm food."

"That sounds excellent. But there's still the issue of location. Where do you propose to get this warm food?"

Karen runs her hand through her hair. "There's that new soup and salad place down the street."

Matt's not contributing at all, his unseeing eyes directed toward the floor. "Mmm, filling," Foggy says.

"Or we could stand here and argue about it for an hour."

It's peevish, and he holds up his hands in prompt surrender. "Soup and salad. Yummy. I'm there. Matt?"

Foggy has to say his name twice before he can grab his attention. "Sorry, what?" Matt asks distantly as he raises his head.

"You should go home," Foggy says, frustrated. "He's got a headache," he tells Karen, when she looks like she's about to pounce on her opportunity to ask.

"He's standing right here and can speak for himself." Matt's practiced easy-going mask can't quite conceal the irritation in his tone. "I'm fine," he says to both of them. "It's not that bad."

Karen seems to relax a bit with this, comforted maybe by finally having been given some kind of explanation. Foggy tries to morph his snort of disbelief into a cough. Matt ducks his head, scowls.

It's an expression erased almost instantly. He goes still; listening to something, Foggy thinks. Now that he's more aware of the scope of his friend's senses, he's learning to look for more subtle clues. He sees Matt's shoulders slump fractionally. Disappointment? Relief? A moment later, a short man enters from a door at the very end of the corridor.

"If I could have your attention. All appointments for this afternoon have been cancelled. I repeat: all dockets have been cleared for the afternoon. Please call in the morning to find out when you've been rescheduled. The entrance to the stairwell is behind this door; we ask that you exit the building this way if you are capable of doing so."

The man disappears back through the door, and a couple of people immediately follow him out. Most of the hallway mills about bemused, unsure of what to do with their unexpected chunk of free time.

"So… lunch anyway?" Karen asks. She looks at her watch. "Or maybe I should go across town and try to get those papers signed. I thought I wasn't going to make it over there today, but I have time now."

"That's a good idea," Matt says. "You should probably get that done."

Foggy notices that he's quick to speak up when it means he might get out of eating. He doesn't comment; maybe if Karen leaves he can finally get Matt to go home. "Doesn't matter to me. Are you taking a cab?"

"If I can find one." She glances toward the dark windows. Begins to do up her coat. Her fingers are thin against the oversized buttons. "I'll see you guys in the morning, I guess. Hope you feel better, Matt."

"Thank you." Foggy doesn't think he's ever seen Matt's polite smile look so forced. "Be careful out there."

Foggy holds up his hand in a farewell gesture and she walks away, heading for the stairs. He turns back to Matt. "I'm guessing you don't want to go to lunch."

Matt sighs, a sound so exhausted that it makes Foggy tired. "I was going to go back to the office. There's a few things I should get started on."

"Seriously? Why? You've just been handed a bonus afternoon. Enjoy it." Matt raises an incredulous eyebrow; it falls into a wince. Foggy rephrases. "Or, you know, go take a nap or something. Don't go back to the office."

"You don't have to come with me. Go do something fun."

"I fully intend to." He wouldn't have thought it possible, but it sounds like it's raining even harder out there now. "Warm and dry, at home. Share a cab with me. The work will still be there tomorrow."

"You know, you're really a terrible influence."

"You love me." He offers Matt his arm. "Either way, let's get out of here. Elevator or stairs?"

"Stairs. I'm not sure I love you enough to be stuck in an elevator with you."

"Stairs it is." It might be just his imagination, but it seems like the lights are getting dimmer in here. They make their way down the wide hallway, vaguely following a few people also moving in that direction. They pass the mother and her kids; she's still on the phone, looking frazzled. Her kids are clearly restless. Bored.

"If you insist on working," he tells Matt, "come over and I'll fill you in on what you missed today. Because I know you weren't paying any attention."

"Of course I was paying attention."

Uh-huh. "Great, then we can compare notes. Over pizza," he adds, to see what reaction this gets. Matt actually gives a tiny shudder. "That bad, huh?"

"What?" A brief frown as he figures out what Foggy's talking about. "Oh. No, I'm fine. I just don't want pizza."

"Right. Again, totally believable."

Matt opens his mouth to say something – no doubt another ridiculous denial of what Foggy can see with his own eyes – but it's lost in the clap of thunder that booms directly over the roof above their heads. It sounds like the world's imploding. Foggy jumps, swears; Matt's cane clatters mutely to the floor. He stumbles a few steps away like he's trying to escape, the heel of his left hand pressing into his forehead. His right arm remains tight against his side.

After a long moment he drops his hand, takes a measured breath. Foggy moves to pick up the cane for him, but a flick of Matt's fingers tells him to leave it. There's a pained noise that's quickly cut off as he bends; it's a graceless motion, odd enough to snag Foggy's notice. He frowns.

The lights go out as Matt's reaching for the thing, stay off for three seconds, thirty. Confused agitation rumbles about the floor. A child's shriek, running feet. The flash of lightening that suddenly illuminates the space catches people in their various states of near-panic, flight; the little boy's taking advantage of the darkness to torment his sister, and he chases her about the hall. Again the floor is swamped with blackness, mumbled chaos. Rolling thunder. Now the overhead lights return. Just in time to give Foggy a front row view of a small child about to crash into his best friend.

It registers way too late; Matt's off-balance, and when she bowls into him they both go down in a tangle. He hits the floor with a strangled sound. The lights go out again.

More of a flicker this time, and as they come back on he can hear Matt asking the girl if she's okay. She's already standing; he's trying to. Mom's headed this way, cell phone in hand and a horrified expression on her face, but the only thing Foggy's concerned about is his friend.

Matt's breathing fast and shallow, still on one knee. He makes another attempt to stand. Doesn't quite manage it. He reaches for Foggy with his left hand, his other arm still braced against his side. Foggy stretches a hand down to him, and Matt's fingers latch onto his forearm.

"Are you okay?" Foggy asks, pulling him to his feet. He's frighteningly pale, as white as that stupid envelope Foggy'd sliced his thumb on this morning. The papercut tingles when he remembers it.

"Not really," Matt answers, no louder than an exhale.

Foggy blinks, stunned by the honesty. Matt hasn't let go of his arm, clawed fingers digging into tendons and muscle. There's going to be a hell of a bruise under his elbow. It hurts, and Foggy's glad he doesn't have to worry about keeping the wince off of his face. "What can I do?"

Before he can answer, the girl's mother arrives in flurry. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Are you alright?" Her eyes widen as she takes in the glasses, the thin cane that's ended up again on the carpet. "Oh my god. I… I'm –"

"An accident," Matt mollifies, in a strained impression of his actual voice. He's hunched slightly to his right, still breathing irregularly.

She scoops the cane off the floor, grabs her daughter's arm and drags the girl out from behind her legs where she's hiding. "Lindsey, apologize." The little girl's lips move, but Foggy can't hear anything. "Are you sure you're alright? Here's your, um…" She holds out the cane, first to Matt than to Foggy. Unsure of what to do with it.

Foggy takes it from her, trying to dredge up a smile. What he really wants to do is rail at her for not paying more attention to her kids. It might be pointless, maybe even unfair. But he can see sweat along Matt's hairline, and that not really echoes in his head.

Matt releases his grip to take the cane from him, and Foggy revels in the relief of the pressure on his arm. He flexes his elbow joint, noting that the knuckles curved around the white stick are as bloodless as Matt's face. The woman in front of them continues to stammer out apologies; the girl darts back out of sight. Matt's virtually humming with tension beside him.

"It's fine," Matt grunts abruptly, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Excuse me." He walks away quickly, his gait stiff and off-balance.

Leaving Foggy and this stranger staring at each other in surprise. Her mouth hangs open, the unspoken rest of her sentence still itching to come out; Foggy's willing to bet that he's more shocked than she is. He thinks of several things he could say, but in the end he just shrugs at her. Takes off after Matt without a word.

Matt looks like he's headed for the stairs, but before he gets there he ducks inside one of the doors that line the hall. Foggy's not far behind. It's a conference room; he sees this on the plaque on the wall as he's twisting the handle on the door. It opens to reveal Matt standing about half way down the long table, leaning heavily on one of the chairs.

Matt's got his back to him; Foggy can't see his face. "Matt?" He steps into the room, closing the door behind himself. "What's going on?"

"S'okay… s'okay, Fog." It's thin, breathless. "Jus' need a mm—"

The supporting hand slips, and he crumples to his knees.

He hits the floor with a low groan. Sways for a moment on his knees before toppling over onto his left side. It takes Foggy a second to process what's happening, and he doesn't make it over there before Matt's head bounces off the worn carpet.

"Shit! Again? I hate this!" he tells the empty room as he drops to the floor in front of his friend. The vacant chairs offer no sympathy, aligned like silent soldiers. All except the one Matt dragged slightly askew. "Matt?" Foggy pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. "Fuck this."

He's only dialed the nine when Matt stirs. "Talk to me, Matt. Please. I'm two ones away from calling an ambulance here."

Matt lethargically blinks open his eyes behind his crooked glasses. "Fog?" He starts to push himself up onto an elbow, but collapses back to the floor with a gasp. "God…" Now he looks like he's trying desperately not to move at all.

Foggy's thumb hovers the flat screen. "Tell me what's going on. Tell me right now what's happening and why it doesn't require an emergency medical response, or I swear I'm dialing these last two numbers."

This gets his attention. "Fog, it's okay." Matt rolls carefully onto his back, his entire face screwed up into a wince. He loosens his tie, undoes a couple of the buttons at his collar. His breathing's still rapid, shallow.

"Yeah, that's what you said right before you passed out. Try harder."

Matt scowls. He takes off his glasses and lets them fall to the floor, runs his left hand over his face. "Can we maybe lower the volume a little?"

"Sorry," Foggy says more quietly. He locks his phone and slips it back into his pocket. "But there's more going on here than just a headache. What is it, man? Your arm? Your ribs?"

"Ribs," Matt confirms. He licks his lips, sightless eyes dancing around as he takes stock of their surroundings. He lifts his head off the carpet. "Where are we?"

"You don't remember? Jesus." His fingers twitch, ready to reach for his phone again.

"I remember the little girl. Needing… um, needing to get somewhere safe." Matt looks uncomfortable with this admission. He wraps a hand around his glasses, begins trying to sit up.

The clenched muscles of his jaw cut lines through the stubble. From where Foggy's sitting, it looks like it sucks. "We're in an empty conference room. Still at the courthouse." The overhead lights quiver. "Still with the same power issues. Are you sure you should be getting up?"

Matt braces himself against the floor with the fist holding his glasses as he struggles to get to his knees. His breath comes in little huffs of air. "Want to get off the ground."

He appears determined to do it with or without Foggy's help, so Foggy maneuvers into a position where he's got better leverage. Matt moans through his teeth as he's pulled to his feet, loses what little color he was getting back into his face. Foggy slides one of the squat chairs out from the table, lowering him into it.

He grabs one for himself. "So what happened to your ribs? Other than the five year old girl?"

Matt's slumped in the chair, fighting to even out his breathing while curled protectively around his right side. "Last night. I was too focused on the guy with the gun. Missed his friend until he hit me."

"Until he hit you?"

He shrugs his left shoulder. "Felt like a baseball bat."

"I don't know if I'm more disturbed by that story, or by the fact that you apparently already knew what it felt like to be hit with a baseball bat. You need a new night job." It's not usually easy to sneak up on Matt; Foggy's tried. But the thunderstorms have been raging intermittently since yesterday afternoon. Foggy wonders if he's had a headache for as long. "You shouldn't even go out in this weather."

"The criminals aren't taking the night off." Matt shifts, clearly unable to find a comfortable position. "I should have been paying more attention."

It's annoying how blasé he's being about the whole thing. Foggy wants to shake him. "How bad?"

The storm beats at the windows in his silence. "One of them might've been cracked," he finally admits.

"Before or after the little girl? Because I'm really hoping that your use of the past tense there was inadvertent."

Matt's lips press together in a narrow frown. "I'm okay, Fog. The girl just took me by surprise." His eyes are resting somewhere in line with Foggy's left ear; now they jump up, away. "Someone's coming," he warns, slipping on his glasses and pushing himself up in the chair.

Foggy looks past Matt to the door just as it opens. A familiar face peeks through the gap. "Jack."

The door opens wider, and the man steps into the room. "Mr Nelson. Mr Murdock." The security guard's glance shifts between them. Trying not to linger, Foggy thinks, on that grimace that Matt's attempting to pass off as a smile as he gets to his feet. "We're clearing out the building," he says. "They're afraid the power's going to go any minute."

"Then I guess it's time to get out of here." Foggy stands also, shoves his chair back in place under the table. Matt's still really pale, tightly coiled beside him. His fingertips sit lightly on the top of the table, out of context a deceptively casual connection.

"You know how to get to the stairs?" Jack's eyes flick from Matt to Foggy, and it looks like he's questioning whether or not a blind man can actually manage the stairs. "The elevators really aren't safe," he adds apologetically. "But we've got people in the stairwell to help everybody get out…"

"It's not a problem," Matt assures him. "We'll be fine, thank you."

"Well okay. I have to go check the rest of this floor. I suspect I'll see you two gentlemen soon."

"Go do what you need to do. Don't worry about us," Foggy says. "See you in a few days."

Matt's shoulders droop as Jack exits the room. The overhead lights flutter. "Are you really good to do the stairs?" Foggy asks him.

The shoulders tense up again. "I'm fine."

He's lopsided, is what he is. That right shoulder lower than the left. "If you say so."

Matt's cane is on the floor by their feet, Foggy's umbrella near the door where he'd dropped it. The cane's halfway under the table, and Foggy bends to retrieve it so he doesn't have to watch Matt try. He hands it to his friend before going to grab his umbrella. Matt follows him to the door.

The floor's nearly empty, everyone presumably having been cleared out by Jack and the other security guard that Foggy can see down by the elevators. He's grateful that they don't have to deal with that woman and her kids again; he's sure Matt feels the same. He'd make a comment, but Matt doesn't look interested in conversation. His teeth are crushed together so tightly Foggy's afraid some of them might crack.

The stairwell is concrete, industrial and windowless, and though the lights are on up here a glance over the railing shows them flickering dully on the level below. It creates an eerie strobe effect, especially with no one else in sight. "You're lucky you can't see this," he tells Matt. "It looks like we're on the set of a horror movie."

"Ghosts or zombies?" It sounds dredged up, forced out.

But he's trying, and it lifts Foggy's mood a little. "I'm not sure yet. Do you have a preference?"

"Do you?"

They start down the stairs, Foggy in front. He's not sure that the hand Matt's resting on his shoulder is entirely for appearance sake. "Well traditionally zombies are slower. And I don't have any salt."

"Salt?"

"For the ghosts. How are you going to protect me if you don't know the basics?"

"I'll figure it out," Matt grunts as they reach the tight turn of the first landing.

They're almost to the second floor when the lights give up completely. Foggy sucks in a breath as his foot lands on an invisible step; surprised noises ricochet up the stairwell from people caught farther down. He freezes, expecting the lights to return. They don't. He's blind.

"Lights?" Matt guesses.

"Gone. I can't see anything." It's more unnerving than he would've thought.

"I'll switch places with you." The weight of his hand disappears; Foggy hears the rustle of his clothes, feels him move around to stand on the stair below. "Put your hand on my shoulder," Matt tells him.

Foggy reaches for him, but he misjudges and clips Matt's ear with his hand on the way down. "Oops." He finds Matt's shoulder, the wool of his coat still damp. The muscles under his hand move, and he wonders if Matt had to readjust his glasses.

"Harder than it looks?"

"Yes," Foggy answers honestly. He's got a hand on Matt and a hand on the railing, but the utter absence of visual input leaves him feeling like he's standing in empty space. He tries to picture the stairwell. He saw it only a minute ago. "Didn't Jack say something about people helping out in here? Like maybe people with flashlights?"

"Just follow my lead. You'll be able to feel when I step down." The tone is all calm reassurance – layered a bit too thickly, wrapping around them in the dark – and he knows that Matt's picked up on his unease. "You do this every day, Fog. Relax. We'll go slow."

"Sure," Foggy says. "No problem."

"Ready?"

Unidentifiable noises bounce around the stairwell at random, and Foggy wonders how far away they are. If they've got any light with them. But he's already got the best superhero in town right here; no reason to wait around to be rescued. "Yeah, let's go. I'm, uh… I'm right behind you."

Matt's shoulder dips underneath his hand, and he reflexively grabs a fistful of the wet wool. It seems undeniably like he's falling forward as his shoe stretches for the step that should be there; he doesn't feel like he's got a good grip on the railing with the umbrella clenched also in that hand. The rayon swishes against the metal rail as it slides along, a loud sound in all this blackness. He finds the stair with his toes, tentatively shifts his weight down onto that foot. There's the sense that the supposed stability will vanish under him any second.

"Okay?" Matt asks, when he's finally got both feet on the same step.

At this pace it's going to take them all day to get out of here. "Oh yeah. This is tons of fun. We should make it a regular thing." They manage another creeping downward step.

"The blind leading the blind?"

It's said lightly, but Foggy recognizes the depth behind it; this is where Matt lives. Sometimes he honestly forgets that Matt's blind. Or sort of blind. Or whatever. "Sorry, man." His foot skids over the edge of the next stair instead of landing on flat wood, and the umbrella handle bites into his palm when his fingers spasm around the rail. "This is just a teeny bit terrifying."

"It takes a little practice," Matt says, in a don't worry about it sort of voice.

They fall into something close to a rhythm, though it's halting and difficult and still fairly scary. He hates this unbalance, this helplessness, this complication of what should be a simple task. He doesn't have the concentration to spare to keep count of the stairs. All he can do is trust that Matt will get them out.

Which he totally does. He reminds himself of this over and over.

He's exhausted already, sweating inside his heavy coat when they reach the wide platform of the second floor landing. Tension crawls up his neck, across his shoulders. "Want to stop for a minute?" Matt asks him from the dark.

He does, and it annoys him because he knows they can't have gone more than ten steps. But it feels so much safer to move over this expanse of level concrete. "Nope. I'm ready if you are."

He trusts Matt. He trusts Matt.

"Security isn't much further down," Matt says, as they leave the landing to battle the next flight of stairs. "They're working their way up here."

"Who needs them? I've got my knight in shining armor right here." Foggy casts his eyes about for any hints of light, but all he gets is more blackness. His eyes might as well be closed.

"You should definitely set higher standards."

He can hear people talking, but he can't make out what they're saying. The higher-pitched notes ping off the walls around him. "Like who? Captain America is so cliché. And my guy can see in the dark."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I really can't."

"Still. I'm willing to bet the advantage goes to you over Cap in this situation."

"Lucky me."

Lucky Foggy. Feeling slightly less panicked now, he's realizing that Matt's probably the best person in the world he could have been caught in here with. Other than maybe someone who can actually see in the dark. With flashlight eyes.

But as he grows calmer – as he becomes more accustomed to this repetitive motion, less certain that he's about to fall – he's also noticing how rigid Matt seems, even through all the fabric separating Foggy's hand from his shoulder. And he doesn't really need that connection to track Matt's movements. If he listens, he can just follow the jabbing punch of an exhale that comes when Matt puts his right foot down. It's quiet, but it's there every time.

Nobody can see Foggy's frown. He wonders if the break Matt suggested wasn't entirely for his benefit alone; he doesn't ask. They're already halfway down, and he's willing to bet that that earlier moment of honesty was an isolated occurrence. So he fills air with nonsense instead, trying to keep Matt involved. Ignoring the way his responses seem to get shorter, quieter, with every downward step.

Foggy flinches when a beam of light suddenly cuts through the blackness of his peripheral vision. It's crossed by another; they leapfrog over each other, jumping in time to the climbing pace of the men that carry them. "Cavalry's here," he tells Matt. As if he doesn't already know.

"Stay where you are," a male voice that he doesn't recognize calls from lower down the stairwell. In the random zigzagging streaks, Foggy can see that he and Matt have almost made it to the landing between the second and first floors. "We'll be to you in a minute."

The guards are approaching the landing from below; a light arcs over Matt's face and hits Foggy directly in the eyes when they turn the corner. He has to wait for the flare to clear from his vision before he can find their outlines in the dark. "Hi."

"You gentlemen okay?"

"Yep," Foggy assures him, when Matt doesn't. "We're just on our way out."

"Well we're here to help with that," the silhouette says.

He pushes some stray hair behind an ear, knowing that he should probably tell the guy they're fine, send them off to help someone who really needs it. But the light's comforting. And he's not sure how he'd explain it anyway. The flashlights play across their chests, and the hard edge of Matt's jaw is all Foggy can see of his face in the glow. It might be a trick of the shaky illumination, but it looks like he's still grinding his teeth.

"Great," is Foggy's only response. The sooner they get out of here the better. "Lead the way."

He takes his original place in front of Matt, moving much more quickly now that he can tell where to put his feet; Matt's hand returns to his shoulder, and they start off down the stairs. Foggy keeps his eyes on his shoes, feeling far more confidant being able to actually see them. But, with Matt behind him like this, those pained breaths are a lot more audible.

Nowhere to go but down. They just need to do this last flight of stairs. Foggy knows that's exactly how long he has to come up with an argument that'll convince Matt that their next stop should be at a hospital. He's got a few bullet points when they hit the first floor.

Matt stumbles as he comes off the last step; just a little, but Foggy adds it to his list. "Okay from here?" the security man asks. The flashlight flicks over Foggy's face, swings away to highlight the stairwell door. He still can't define any of the guy's features, only that he's taller than his partner.

"I think we've got it, yeah. Appreciate the assistance." Matt grits out a thank you beside him. The guards wish them a good afternoon, turn around to head back up the stairs.

Foggy pushes open the door and they step out into the shadowed lobby; immediately there's a new bobbing flashlight headed their way. It's a little easier to see out here, everything swaddled in the grey filtering in through the wide glass front doors, and he recognizes the face behind the light. "Jenna. How's it going? Interesting day, huh?"

She returns his greeting with a smile. "That's one word for it. You guys get caught on the stairs when the lights went?"

"We did." They follow her across the lobby toward the exit; they don't really need the escort, but he's sure there's some regulation that requires it. He doesn't see anyone other than more security, and he wonders if he and Matt are the last ones out. "Not really something I want to try again."

"Well I hope the rest of the day is better."

Matt's grip on his arm is getting uncomfortably tight again, squeezing a matching bruise above his elbow to pair with the one below. "Thanks," Foggy says. "Yours too." She holds the door open for them, and they step out into the chill. It's still raining, the wind flinging water around with a furied randomness that's impossible to escape.

"Hang on," Foggy says, stopping to fasten up his coat while still under the relative protection of the portico. Matt stops too, immediately sagging against the thick stone column beside him.

Heavily, like he'd really rather not be standing at all. "You okay?" Foggy asks, eyeing him skeptically.

"Yeah. I just –" He seems to be having trouble leveling out his breathing, and Foggy moves a little more into his space in case he collapses again. But Matt's lips twitch in and out of a strained smile. "Like… like you said. That wasn't very much fun."

He can't tell if that's sweat or rain dotting Matt's skin. If he's still disturbingly pale, or if it's just this odd light. "No argument here." There are plenty of cars on the street, parallel strings of red and white lights inching wet through the gloom of the storm. Lots of cabs, but every one of them full. The closest hospital's only a few blocks away, but it still seems a long way to walk. Maybe they should get on the subway, go across town. It'll take longer, but there'll be less actual walking on either end.

And whichever they pick, they've still got another set of stairs. About twenty stone steps stretching a steep slope from the courthouse doors to the sidewalk, and Foggy has his doubts when he glances back to his friend. "You look seriously awful. Do you want to sit down for a minute or something?"

Matt ignores this entirely. "See any cabs?"

Foggy's eyes flick toward the street, but the situation hasn't changed. "None without people in them." Matt winces as he shifts his weight, his left hand disappearing into his unbuttoned coat to cradle his right side. "Truth time, Murdock. How badly are you hurt?"

"We've already had this conversation, Foggy. It's nothing that won't heal."

"But see, I'm a lawyer too. Trained in the art of sensing evasion. And that, my friend, sounds like an evasion."

"Sorry, but you're going to have to practice your skills on somebody else." Matt pushes himself up straight, his hand still hidden in his coat. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

He starts for the steps, so Foggy opens his umbrella and follows. Matt's moving slowly, using his cane to feel for the stairs; he says nothing about being shadowed. Foggy matches his pace, trying to hold the flimsy rayon shelter over both of them. It's a battle even to keep the umbrella steady, in its proper shape. He's drenched down his left side by the time they reach the bottom, strands of his hair glued flat to his cheek.

Matt pauses, hunched in his thick coat. "So where are we going?" Foggy asks him, when he doesn't move. "Across town to see Claire?"

His head comes up, his glasses speckled with raindrops. "What?"

"I'm asking if you have a preference in hospitals." There's no point in this half-assed protection; Foggy gives up and holds the umbrella completely over Matt as they stand there. "And maybe how far you think you can walk."

"There's nothing wrong with my legs, Fog. And nothing a hospital is going to be able to do for a broken rib."

A rivulet of rain trails down the center of Foggy's face to drip steadily from the end of his nose. "Hang on, broken? I thought it was 'cracked.' I distinctly remember you saying cracked." As if that's already not a big enough deal.

His life's gotten weird.

Matt gives him a one-shoulder shrug. "It was. Last night."

Foggy cringes thinking about all those stairs. No wonder Matt looks so shaky. "You realize you're not really helping your case? Broken means you should definitely go see somebody."

He exhales through a scowl. "Will you be happy if I tell you I'm going home?"

"Depends. Is it the truth?" That scowl's not going away. Foggy looks past him toward the street, trying to wish an empty cab into existence. It's not working, and he's tired of standing around in the rain. "Nevermind. Just come with me to see Claire."

"The hospitals are going to be a mess with all this rain," Matt points out.

It sounds like an excuse. "I'll wait with you."

Matt sighs, deflating. "Fog, no. There's nothing they can do. This isn't the first time I've been through this. I'm fine."

"They can make sure you're not bleeding internally or something."

"I'm not," he says flatly. With certainty.

Before Foggy can challenge this, there's another deafening crack of thunder; Matt staggers, and Foggy grabs his arm. He's expecting Matt to immediately pull away, insist again that he's fine. It's disturbing when instead he leans into Foggy's support with a soft moan.

"You gentlemen need a ride somewhere?"

Foggy turns to see Jack behind the wheel of the car that's pulled up to the curb beside them. It feels like divine intervention. "Yes," he says without thinking.

"No, thank you," Matt grinds out at the same time, straightening. He shrugs out of Foggy's grasp, but there's a deliberate width to his stance that belies his purported stability.

Jack glances between them, unsure. "Yes, thank you," Foggy insists. "We would love a ride." Beside him, Matt looks unhappy. "Just get in the car, man," Foggy whispers, pushing wet hair out of his eyes.

"I'm not going to the hospital," Matt growls at the same muted volume.

Jack doesn't seem impatient, but it's not fair to keep him waiting here. Foggy doesn't want to give up the chance at a ride, really wants to be somewhere dry sooner rather than later. But he's not just leaving his friend out here like this. Matt stands stiff as a statue, knees and jaw locked.

When a random car horn suddenly blares from the street, he flinches violently. Mumbles something and jerks around as if to walk away, but he's facing the wrong direction. He almost trips over the first of the stairs; his cane finds it a second before the toe of his shoe, and he stops himself abruptly, swaying. Foggy grabs hold of him again, just as a huge gust flips the umbrella inside out with a splintered pop.

"Okay, no hospital," he bargains, trying to find the right angle to bend the umbrella back into shape using only the force of the wind. Matt's head droops forward, seemingly indifferent to the drops pelting his bare neck. He's breathing in worryingly short bursts of air through his nose. "Just… Let's get out of the rain, okay?" The umbrella finally folds back, crumpled and misshapen.

Matt considers this, nods. Lets Foggy turn him around and lead him the few steps to the car's back door. It feels rude to treat Jack like he's simply their cab driver, so Foggy slides into the front seat. He shoves the broken umbrella between his feet, dripping everywhere. He's wetter than he'd thought.

He closes the door, sealing them away from the rain. It's a relief to be out of it, and Foggy unintentionally melts into the curves of the seat. "Thanks, Jack. This is really great of you." Water trickles a path from his hair to his soaked collar. "I'm, uh, sorry about your car…"

"Don't worry about this old thing," Jack says. "Where are you going?"

Foggy gives him the intersection a block from his apartment, and the car pulls out into the creeping traffic. He keeps up his end of the polite small talk, but he's antsy about the heavy silence coming from the backseat. He can't see Matt without turning around, the side mirror glazed with droplet streaks and the glare of the headlights behind them. He thinks he can hear him breathing, though. The rain insulates and narrows the enclosed space.

The car ahead of them brakes unexpectedly, and Foggy lurches forward into his seatbelt as Jack stops just as suddenly. There's a choked-off groan from the backseat as Matt's caught by his own seatbelt. Jack's eyes flick to the rearview mirror, back to the road. Foggy twists to glance over his shoulder as they begin to move again; all he gets is a glimpse of Matt's steely jawline, of an arm wrapped low and tight around his ribs.

They crawl along at a dyskinetic stop-and-go pace, a snarl beyond just mere chaos from the storm. It feels like it's taking hours to move inches, and Foggy's debating if it might not be faster to get out and walk after all. Jack seems unphased, humming softly to himself. Foggy wonders if the radio's broken.

He can't see around the car in front of them to be able to tell what's slowing them down, can barely see out of his window for all the rain. There's not much to pay attention to other than Matt's breathing, audible under the discordant melody of Jack's humming and a half-dozen car horns. He'd swear it sounds harsher, rougher than before.

Jack taps the brakes again. Matt's radiating tension, wearing a grimace that nearly bares his teeth.

"Looks like an accident," Jack says; Foggy's still looking back at Matt, and he sees this sink in. The lift of his chin, the tilting of his head as he listens. Foggy still can't see anything ahead, but he's afraid Matt's about to jump out of the car and go try to help when Jack adds, "Doesn't seem like anybody's hurt though." A few seconds later, Matt seems to confirm this on his own. He doesn't exactly relax, but he's not reaching for the door handle either.

"Don't know how they're gonna get a tow truck in here," Jack observes as they advance a couple more feet. "Looks like maybe they're setting up a detour toward Burmouth."

They're only five blocks from his place, and the detour's going to point them in the opposite direction; Foggy calculates how far they'll likely have to go before they can turn around. Jack stomps hard on the brakes, his apology lost under the cacophony of horns rising around them. His eyes jump back to the mirror. "You, uh… you okay back there, Mr Murdock?"

Foggy can't help but twist that way again; Matt drops the hand that's pressed to his forehead, croaks out a not at all reassuring yes. He doesn't look okay. He looks taut, sick.

Another five minutes with minimal progress, and Foggy's not sure if it's Matt's restlessness he's feeling or his own. "You know what, Jack," he starts, "thanks for the ride. But maybe we should just get out here." A bit farther down the line of cars, one of the drivers shouts something angry and incomprehensible. "We've already taken you out of your way…"

"Don't be silly. It's nasty out there. I don't mind."

"Seriously, you've already gotten us a lot closer than we were, and we appreciate –"

The single whoopwhoop of a police siren comes directly from their left, a late-comer trying to cut through the stuttering traffic. Foggy hears rather than sees Matt's startled jump, feels the knee that hits the back of his seat. There's the sound of fingernails scrabbling over plastic, the metallic click of a seatbelt being released. Foggy turns just as Matt throws open the back door; there's enough room inside his astonishment to be grateful that they're stopped, that they're in the far right lane.

Matt's terse goodbye barely fits through the slamming door. "Gonna walk. Thanks." He disappears between two parked cars toward the sidewalk. Immediately he's swallowed up by the rain.

The deja vous thickens in Foggy's throat as his mind rewinds to the memory of the conference room; in his haste he's having trouble getting his own seatbelt undone. "I, um… thanks," he manages, as he finally gets the thing off and his door open. Outside the protection of the car, the rain batters at him. The guy behind them yells several obscenities as Foggy's exit interferes with another meager forward shimmy of the traffic.

Foggy ignores him, gets to the safety of the sidewalk. He can't see Matt in either direction, so he ducks under the awning of an out-of-business pizza place and digs his phone out of his pocket. He hits Matt's name in his recent call list, absently reading the defunct lunch specials still advertised on the flyers that hang in the dusty windows.

When the ringing clicks over to voicemail, he has to remind himself not to panic. Matt can't have gotten far. He might not even have his phone with him today. Foggy dials again, walking down the street away from the crowded sounds of the accident. There's a lot of noise out here, distorted and muffled by the drumming of the rain, but he's listening intently for something particular.

He's on the third attempted call as he passes the shadowed alley and hears that faint computerized repetition of his name. As soon as he catches it, it's drowned out by the ugly sound of ragged dry heaving. Foggy ends the call, backtracks. He finds his friend on the other side of a dumpster, stooped and shaking, holding himself up with the arm not clamped around his torso.

"Hey," he offers as useless greeting, not really knowing what else to say. Matt doesn't turn around; he spits, groaning as he drops his forehead onto the arm braced against the wall. Foggy rests a hand on his shoulder. "Can I do anything?" he asks, watching the water drip from his sleeve onto Matt's coat.

A muffled no before Matt's pushing himself away from the wall again; he gags, retches in painful futility. Foggy winces. He'd cracked a rib once, during one of the Thanksgiving NelsonBowl games. He'd thought he was going to die simply lying around trying to breathe. He can't imagine how much this must hurt.

"God…" Matt moans between jagged gasps of air. It almost sounds like a plea, a prayer, as it floats off in the rain. With an awkwardly jerky motion, he flips himself around so that the wall's at his back; he looks like a wet cat, miserable and sopping. Foggy realizes that he left his broken umbrella in the front seat of Jack's car.

He waits, not knowing what else to do. Picking up Matt's cane from the ground, he tucks it under his arm so he can shove his cold hands in his coat pockets. He looks around the empty alley. On what little he can see of the street, the traffic's still barely moving.

"Matt?" he finally prompts.

At the sound of his name, Matt stirs. "Yeah." It's drowsy, automatic. He clears his throat, tries again. "Yeah, m'okay… s'go." He gets two unsteady steps away from the wall before stumbling back into it.

"Whoa, hey!" Foggy drops the cane to grab him by the shoulders, holding him up against the brick wall. Trying to pretend that he's not alarmed by how much Matt sags into his support. "Talk to me, man," he demands. Matt flinches away from him. Chastised, Foggy lowers his voice; his words are no less emphatic. "Tell me what I can do."

Matt draws a few careful shallow breaths, more or less straightening up against the wall. He seems to be standing pretty much on his own again, but Foggy's hesitant to let go of him. When he does, his hands hover between them with an anxious anticipation. "S'nothing…" Matt slurs, the sounds trailing off to nowhere. He rubs at his eyes, his forehead, before dropping the hand with a frustrated sigh and starting over. "S'too loud out here, Fog. Headache s'making me dizzy. M'okay."

Foggy's not so sure about the truth of that last bit, but the first part seems reasonable. "Okay, no problem," he says, as brightly as he can manage while still being conscious of his volume. "I can get us somewhere less loud. And less wet. We're near my apartment. All you have to do, my friend, is follow my lead." He scoops up the cane again. "Sound like a plan?"

Matt nods, a mistake obvious and immediate; Foggy catches the arm that he throws out for balance when he sways. He swallows hard, licks his lips. "Yeah," he coughs out. "Good plan. Where's –?" A twitch of fingers in the empty air.

Foggy presses the cane into his hand. Matt transfers it into his right, wraps his left around Foggy's arm. Their first few steps are wobbly and worrisome, and Foggy's seriously beginning to wonder if this is actually the best idea. But they're both drenched and he doesn't want to spend any more time waiting for a cab, and his only other idea involves an ambulance ride. Matt's already made his thoughts on that one pretty clear. "Just lean on me," he says, having nothing else to offer. "I'll get us there."

"Know you will," Matt mumbles.

The street feels noisy and crowded with cars when they reach it, and Matt reels for a moment before finding his equilibrium. It's a slow slog down the puddled sidewalk; they're both shivering, limp hair plastered to their skin. Foggy's teeth are chattering. He expects Matt's would be too, if his jaw wasn't clenched like that.

There's no conversation, and this gives Foggy way too much time to focus on other things. Like the sniffly sensation that his nose is running. The water dripping off of his face. His socks squelching in his shoes and his slacks clinging wetly to his knees. The way the rain assaults them not just from the sky, but also bouncing at them from seemingly every surface.

The impression that Matt's getting more hunched with each block. The pained grunts every time they cross a street and have to step down from or up onto the corner. The part where he has to keep pulling Matt out of other people's way, because neither they nor he are paying enough attention. Plus Foggy thinks he might be limping a little.

Every curb overlooks a lake created from an impromptu garbage-built dam, and it's a challenge maneuver around them. The one they're standing in front of now appears unavoidable, far too wide to skirt around while still making use of the intersection. Foggy frowns down at it as they wait for the light, searching for the narrowest, shallowest bit. "Bad news, buddy: looks like we're going for a swim. Sadly, I don't see any way around this crazy puddle."

"Fantastic," Matt says flatly, his chin drooping toward his chest.

Abruptly he straightens, tilting his head as he listens to something Foggy can't hear. A second later the light changes and Matt takes off across the crosswalk, splashing obliviously through the puddle and abandoning Foggy on the curb. Moving faster than Foggy would've expected him to be able to, and he has to hurry to catch up. The water soaks him up to his ankles when he steps down.

Matt's nearly across the street when Foggy reaches him; they wade through another puddle to get to the sidewalk. Matt turns in the opposite direction from the apartment and starts walking. "Wrong way," Foggy says, a hand on his arm. Matt shrugs him off, continues walking. Foggy has to work to match his surprisingly brisk pace. "Matt? Are you going to tell me what's happening?"

"Someone's in trouble."

He makes a sharp turn into an alley and Foggy follows, not missing the way Matt almost-not-quite clips the corner of the wall with his shoulder. "You're kidding me, right? You can barely stand up. Let the cops handle this one."

"Cops won't get here in time," Matt growls, not slowing down. The cane taps a path through soggy bits of unidentifiable trash, inaudible over the constant patter of rain.

"But…" Foggy flounders. "There's got to be another option."

"Like what?"

"Like anything other than you going to fight bad guys. This is a terrible idea."

Matt stops unexpectedly, rocking on his heels, and Foggy thinks for a foolish moment that he might be reconsidering. He should've known better. With his head tipped incrementally to the right, Matt's stone still except for the jerk of his shoulders that comes with each quick superficial breath. "Stay here," he tells Foggy. "Call the cops. I'll be back in a minute."

"Wait, what? No way –"

But Matt's already gone, heading out of the alley and darting across the street through a gap in the traffic. By the time Foggy's lagging brain recognizes this, he's missed his window to follow. He waits for a break in the cars, watching Matt turn into another alley a block farther up.

Though not gridlocked like the next street over, the traffic here is fairly steady. It's probably something close to a miracle that Matt hadn't gotten himself hit. Foggy's not willing to try it; giving up on the jaywalking, he jogs to the intersection with the light. His bag bounces uncomfortably against his hip and his clothes feel too tight. He decides that the only thing he hates more than jogging is jogging in the rain in wet dress shoes.

He doubles back down the other side of the street, but when he finally gets where he's going everything's already over. There's an unmoving body on the ground about halfway down the alley, Matt leaning a shoulder against the wall calmly talking to a girl in a leather jacket. She's tiny and blond, but that's about all Foggy can tell with her back to him. As he gets closer, he catches a subtle motion of Matt's fingers that might be a message for him to stay where he is; his shoe comes down in a puddle when he stops, and the girl whirls around at the noise. She looks terrified. Young.

"It's okay, it's okay," Matt's saying, as if he can see that she's about to bolt. "This is my friend Foggy. You can trust him."

Foggy gives her a smile and a little wave. She looks undecided.

"Fog," Matt exhales, his stilted breathing betraying his nonchalant stance. "There's a diner… next block up. Someplace safe where… where she can wait for her friends. Can you go with her?"

"I can. Or – better idea – we could all go together."

"Right behind you," Matt huffs out. A pained look flits across his face; it's immediately squashed, but he slumps a little against the wall, both arms wrapping around his torso. His cane lies on the ground beside the lump of bad guy, cracked and bowed in the middle. "Foggy'll make sure you're safe," he tells the girl. "I promise. Go with him."

Foggy doesn't want to leave him, isn't sure that Matt's going to be standing when he returns. But it's an outcome more likely the longer they argue about it, he realizes; better just to go. "Fine. But, for the record? I don't like this plan at all."

"Got it," Matt pushes through his teeth.

The girl looks at Foggy, her expression wary; she starts walking quickly toward the end of the alley without him. He follows, trying to give her space. When they get to the street he glances back, but Matt hasn't yet moved.

She keeps as much sidewalk between them as possible, her path hugging the storefronts just as her arms hug her body. He itches to press her for details – of the fight, of how Matt took that guy down and whether the thug had fought back in the process – but she clearly doesn't want to talk. She chews on her lower lip, looking like she's trying not to cry.

They easily find the diner, filled with a lunchtime crowd. Foggy's anxious to get back, but he hesitates; it seems a little heartless just to leave her here. Like he should at least say something comforting, sympathetic. But he has no idea what that would be. Or what even happened. He reaches out a hand, stops short of actually touching her arm. "Um… are you going to be okay?"

"Tell your friend thanks," is all she says, pulling open the door and ducking inside.

Foggy blinks. Quick to rationalize that to follow her in might fall perilously close to stalking, he decides that he's been released. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets and turns around, hoping to see Matt coming toward him down the sidewalk.

He's not really surprised when he doesn't. He hurries back to the alley.

He turns the corner, his stomach churning with the expectation of finding his friend sprawled out unconscious on the ground. But Matt's upright, shuffling toward the street; the hand not glued to his ribs creeps along the wall, facilitating his slow progress. His head comes up as Foggy approaches, his lips twisting into something that's probably supposed to be a smile.

"Thank you." He still sounds distressingly breathless. Water streams down his face from the ends of his hair.

"You're welcome. Can we finally get out of the rain now?"

"Yeah."

Matt takes a step away from the wall and his knee buckles; Foggy's close enough to catch him as he pitches forward. His forehead drops heavily onto Foggy's shoulder. He's trembling, panting through his teeth.

"So you know this is the part where I bring up the hospital again, right?" A shifting of Matt's head that might be disagreement. "I'm serious, man. What if you, like, punctured a lung or something?"

The muffled noise he makes sounds like a cross between a laugh and a groan. "F'I did, you'd know." It's a tone that sounds suspiciously close to experienced, and it sends a shiver through Foggy that has nothing to do with Matt's frenetic twitching or the weather. Before he can comment, though, Matt's pushing himself up to stand wavering on his own. "M'okay. S'go."

"You keep saying that, and it's not getting any more convincing. What about –" Foggy looks past Matt, does a double take when there's no body lying in the alley. "Hey, what happened to the bad guy?"

"Behind the dumpster," Matt grinds out, curling in on himself. "Did you call –?"

"No," Foggy answers, trying to ignore the image of Matt dragging that guy down the alley. He fumbles in his coat for his phone, unwilling to let go of his hold on his friend's arm. "Who –?"

Matt gives a tiny shake of his head, swaying in Foggy's grip. "Should be… should be out for a while. Payphone. Daredevil'll call Brett."

Foggy winces at the mention of Matt's alter ego, reflexively glancing up and down the alley like someone might be listening in. "Are payphones still even a thing? And what if he wakes up before then?"

"Tied up." The corner of his mouth quirks into a goofy grin.

Foggy can't figure out why, until he notices for the first time that Matt's tie is missing. He blows out an exasperated breath. "Are you actually making jokes right now?"

"Depends. S'it funny?"

"Nothing about this is funny," Foggy assures him.

"My mistake," he mumbles, listing backward. Foggy's hand spasms around his arm in surprise, but he keeps Matt from falling over. "S'get out of here," Matt slurs.

They exit the alley, a clumsy rhythm to their staggered steps, and he remembers the bruise blossoming above his elbow when Matt's fingers match its pattern. "So this is what you do on the days we don't leave the office together?" Foggy asks him, only half joking. "Rescue random people on your way home?"

Matt's voice is so low it's almost drowned out by the rain, his bowed head directing his words toward the pavement. "What was I s'posed to do? Ignore it?" Apparently he's done with any attempted levity. And he's definitely limping now.

"No, of course not. But –" Foggy doesn't know where he's going with this, has no actual alternatives to offer. "I just wish it didn't always have to be you," he finishes lamely.

Matt sucks in a sharp breath as Foggy abruptly tugs him out of the way of a kid barreling down the nearly empty sidewalk on a skateboard. He stumbles before regaining his footing, but keeps moving forward. "Nobody else," he says tightly. In profile, he looks a little rattled. Foggy wonders if it's because he hadn't heard that kid coming.

Suddenly he's surprisingly angry. Maybe because Matt was already hurt before this latest act of heroism. Due to what sounds like a previous episode of heroism. Maybe because he seems to think he's obligated. Dispensable. "You know what? Save the speech. I've already gotten it, remember?"

Matt flinches. "Fog, c'mon… really don't want to do this right now."

And just like that, the anger's gone. "Yeah, me neither," Foggy admits with a sigh. "Come on. We're almost there."

It's a lie – they've gone several blocks in the wrong direction with this little side adventure – and he expects Matt to call him out on it. He doesn't. The trek back is wretched; long, cold and wet, and Matt's gone completely nonresponsive other than his terse refusals every time Foggy suggests that they stop. His head hangs lower with every block, his gait plodding and without its usual agility. When a homeless man shuffles up to them at a corner to ask them for change, he gets the distinct impression that Matt's initial surprised and barely-suppressed reaction is to take a swing at the guy.

They pass the payphone before it registers, Foggy being too consumed with trying to scrape whatever unnamed slime he'd walked through off of the bottom of his shoe. He turns them around and they retrace their steps, but he eyes the graffitied phone warily before touching it. He can only hope that the rain's washed away any disgusting gunk that might be clinging to it. Can only hope that it actually still works. He can't remember the last time he used one of these things.

He picks it up, gets the operator to connect him to the police station. Asks the person who answers at the front desk to put him through to Sargent Mahoney. Hands the phone off to Matt where he's sagging braced up by the wall, and listens to his friend sketch out the basics in clipped sentences and a graveled unfamiliar voice. It's a brief conversation, fairly one-sided, and Matt hands the receiver back to him without a goodbye. Foggy returns it to its cradle and wipes his fingers on his pants, wishing things could just be like they used to be. Before this Daredevil person. Before Matt thought that he had to be the one to save everybody.

But there's really no before; it's an impulse that's woven into Matt's personality. The reason he's a defense attorney in Hell's Kitchen in a struggling practice with Foggy, instead of a lawyer in some fancy affluent firm. And, if he wasn't who he is, would there have been anyone around to rescue that girl today?

Foggy doesn't want to think about it. He's tired, wants to go home.

The rain begins to let up just as they reach the front steps of his apartment building. Foggy punches in the code to let them in, the silence in the foyer as the door closes behind them a notable contrast to the constant sound outside. Matt wavers, his eyes closed behind his spotted glasses, and Foggy has to grab him as his legs start to fold.

"Uh-uh, man, not yet. Not unless you want me to try and carry you up there. Which I totally will do, even though it'll start all kinds of rumors between my neighbors. They're very concerned about my love life. Way too concerned, actually."

"M'good," Matt mumbles, straightening to take a lock-kneed step vaguely in the direction of the elevator. Foggy moves with him, not letting go of his arm.

"Yeah, you're just the King of Convincing today," he says, guiding Matt around the potted plant he's about to walk into. "Come on, Murdock. Stay with me for just a few more minutes, and then you won't have to move anymore. Promise."

"M'good," he repeats, his eyes still closed.

Matt's slumped against him as they ride the elevator to Foggy's floor, but just before it bumps to a stop he twitches, lifts his head. The doors open, and Foggy sees his elderly neighbor. She's about twenty feet down the hallway, fighting with a wobbly trolley cart overloaded with grocery bags. It looks like a disaster waiting to happen.

"Oh geez. Sorry, man," Foggy whispers to Matt as they move out of the elevator, "but I'm afraid if I don't help her, we're going to be navigating an obstacle course of canned goods."

Matt nods, mutters something indecipherable. Foggy's focus darts between his friend and the cart, both of which are tilting dangerously.

It doesn't take them long to catch up with her. "Hi, Mrs Deluccio. Can I give you a hand?"

The clear plastic bonnet covering her hair is spattered with rain. She looks startled, but quickly smiles as she recognizes him. "Franklin. Hello. Yes, I suppose I could use some help. One of these wheels hasn't been working right. Silly thing."

Foggy lifts four of the bags from off of the top of the pile, and the less burdened cart immediately begins to roll more easily. He carries them as he walks alongside her; Matt trails behind them, the soft tapping of his bent cane on the carpet providing little competition for the squeak coming from the troublesome wheel. "I could look at it if you want," Foggy tells her. "See if maybe I can do something about it."

"Such a good boy," she says, her hand coming off the handle of the cart to pat at his sleeve. "Oh dear, you're soaked through! You need to get out of those wet clothes. Give me those bags back and go change."

He grins widely. "A strapping young man like me? I'll be okay until we get these to your apartment."

"Foul weather," she grumbles. "Wouldn't have been out in it myself, but it was the only time my daughter could take me. I can't wait for it to be over."

Her apartment's two down from his; Foggy can see both doors from here, still tauntingly far away. He feels like he's having to drag his feet to match her slow speed. "If you need something, Mrs Deluccio, you can always let me know. I'm happy to go get it for you."

"Such a good boy," she repeats. "Though I must say, it's a little rude of you to make me ask for an introduction to your friend."

He opens his mouth, but Matt beats him to it. "Matt Murdock, ma'am."

It's a bit gritty, but close enough to his normal cadence that Foggy glances over his shoulder to see what's changed. Nothing, as far as he can tell. Matt still looks like he's feeling pretty horrible.

"And are you a lawyer like Franklin?"

"I am. We work together."

"Oh, you're the partner. I've heard about you. You two were at school together, weren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am, we were."

She doesn't look back during the conversation, her eyes on the path ahead. "Forgive an old woman her prying. At my age, there isn't much left but stories."

"I wish my memory was half as good as yours," Foggy tells her. She smiles, pats his wrist again.

She refuses any more assistance when they get to her door. "Daniel can help me from here," she insists, sliding her key into the lock. The door opens to reveal her husband in an armchair in front of the television. He doesn't look to be in a hurry to get up.

"Hi Mr Deluccio," Foggy calls loudly, unsure if the man has his hearing aids in. He cringes when Matt winces beside him, but he receives an answering wave from the living room.

"I'm making that lasagna you like tonight, Franklin. It's been too long since you've had dinner with us."

His stomach makes an embarrassingly eager noise at the word lasagna, but Foggy's got a much better view of Matt now. He's finding the clammy pallor of his friend's face to be really distracting. "I absolutely agree. But I, um, I'm not sure I can tonight, Mrs Deluccio. We're preparing for a case…"

"Mr Murdock is welcome to join us too, of course. There's always plenty." She reaches for Matt's hand where it's wrapped around the cane. Frowns when she touches it, curling her fingers around his. "My goodness, you're freezing! And shaking like a leaf!"

Matt flushes briefly, a glaring surge of color beneath his pale skin. He squirms uncomfortably. "Are you sure I can't bring these bags to the kitchen for you?" Foggy jumps in, trying to offer some kind of buffer for her attention.

"No, you put those back down on top here and go get dry before you catch a cold. Both of you. If you can't make it over for dinner tonight, there will be leftovers waiting for you tomorrow." She squeezes Matt's fingers before making a shooing motion at them with her hands. "Go!"

Foggy carefully balances the bags on the lumpy mound in the cart, still feeling guilty for not helping her all the way inside. But he can tell from here that Matt's shaking, and Foggy's not sure that it's only the permanent squint to his eyes that's making him look so nauseous. "Okay, you win. If we don't come by tonight, I will definitely be by tomorrow. I can try to fix that wheel."

"Such a good boy. Mr Murdock, I do hope that we see you again soon."

"It was nice to meet you," Matt manages. He doesn't speak again as they walk the rest of the way down the hall.

Foggy doesn't try to force him into it. He's fantasizing instead about how awesome it's going to feel to get a hot shower, dry sweats. When he opens his front door Matt heads directly for the living room, dropping the cracked cane onto the low coffee table without dismantling it and easing himself carefully down onto the couch. Foggy follows, turning on the overheard light to supplement the dim illumination seeping in through the blinds. Matt's head falls back against the cushions; he pulls off his glasses to sling an arm up over his face. He looks even less inclined to move than Mr Deluccio.

Foggy's bag is as drenched as everything else, and he leaves it on the kitchen counter to be dealt with later. "You want the first shower?" he asks as he walks toward the bedroom. "I'm going to see what I've got for you to wear."

An ambiguous flip of Matt's hand is the only answer Foggy receives. The couch cushions greedily suck up the water from his hair, creating a dark halo.

"Yeah, I didn't get that." He doesn't wait around for clarification, continues on into his room. It's something of a mess. Foggy takes off his tie with numbed fingers and tosses it onto his bed; it's quickly joined by his coat and suit jacket. After he's kicked off his wet shoes and peeled off his saturated socks, he starts clearing the floor of random items of clothing that never quite made it to the dirty clothes hamper.

He should do some laundry soon.

But not today. Once the path to the bathroom has been cleared of tripping hazards, Foggy begins rooting through his dresser. The contents are fairly sparse – he really needs to do his laundry – and he doesn't see anything that looks like it belongs to Matt. He'd been hoping there was something forgotten shoved in the back of a drawer; when there's not, he grabs his smallest pair of sweatpants and the first t-shirt he finds.

He returns to the living room barefoot, the sodden hems of his pant legs brushing heavy and thick against his ankles. Matt hasn't moved, his entire body now surrounded by the blurry outline that leaks from his coat. "You know, you really should leave some of your clothes here," Foggy tells him. "Everything I've got's going to be huge on you."

"… 'sking me to move in?" Matt mumbles from behind his arm.

"You just want to use me for Mrs Deluccio's lasagna, so no. But I will offer you my bed for a couple of hours, if you want to take a nap."

"M'okay out here." His white shirt clings translucent to his collar bone. There's an irregular shadow crawling across the carpet around his shoes.

"Whatever you are, my friend, it's pretty far from okay. Go take a shower." Nothing. "Go take a shower so that I can take a shower."

"Go ahead."

"That's not –" Foggy shakes his head. "At least get up and change."

"Really don't want to move."

"Incredibly obvious. But you're shivering, and I've got dry clothes right here. Plus you're getting my couch all wet. And that's my favorite spot, too."

It's this that finally rouses him; Matt drops his arm and lifts his head, fingers brushing over the cushion beside his leg. "Sorry…" He starts to push himself up. Sways and falls back onto the couch with a groan, folded around the arms that desperately hug his ribs.

"Or maybe you should just not move for a minute," Foggy says.

"No, m'getting up."

"I kinda wish you wouldn't."

"Make up your mind, Fog," Matt sighs.

He tosses the clothes onto the table next to the cane. "How? I have no idea what the right thing is to do here. All I do know is that you're scary pale, and I really don't want to have to pick you up off the floor. Again. Believe me, once in a day is more than enough."

"Too loud," Matt complains to his knees.

"Sorry." Foggy sits on the arm of the couch. This end's soaked anyway. "Would food help?"

Matt raises his head enough to send an incredulous look in Foggy's direction. A fat drop of water falls from his hair onto a cheekbone.

"Okay, no food," Foggy amends.

"Gonna take a shower," Matt insists. He struggles up from the cushions, standing awkwardly stooped. He doesn't look any less shaky. "Still have that first-aid kit?"

"You're the only one who uses it," Foggy mutters as his friend limps past him. Matt has no comment. "Cabinet on the right under the sink. Should be a clean towel in the one on the other side." The last laundry he'd done had been sheets and towels. There's got to be at least one left.

"Great. Thanks." The words float back over Matt's shoulder as he moves toward the bedroom; his progress is slow, but his familiarity with Foggy's apartment keeps him pointed in the right direction.

"Great," Foggy echoes to the empty living room. He hears the bathroom door shut.

He gets up and returns to his bedroom, stripping down to his undershirt and boxers and listening to Matt bump around behind the closed door. The sounds are abruptly overshadowed by an impatient growl from his stomach. The shower comes on with a hiss as Foggy wanders out to the kitchen.

The leather of his bag's two shades darker than normal, but thankfully nothing inside seems to have been touched. He pulls out his laptop anyway just to be sure, sets it on the counter when it passes his inspection. He turns to the refrigerator next; there's some pizza left. Fishing a piece out of the box, he eats it cold while leaning against the sink and staring into space. The icy linoleum nips at the soles of his bare feet.

He's finishing the last bite when Matt comes out of the bedroom, wearing nothing but the towel wrapped around his waist. Foggy almost chokes as he gets a look at the black and purple bruising running down Matt's entire right side. "Jesus! That looks really bad. Are you sure it was only one rib?"

Matt gives him another of those aggravating one-shouldered shrugs. "Might've been a couple. Couldn't find anything to wrap them with." He takes a few more lethargic and uneven steps into the living room, rubbing at his eyes. "You said something about clothes?"

"Oh yeah." Foggy moves to grab the items from where he'd left them, walks over to hand them to Matt. "Here. Do you want a sweatshirt?"

Matt takes the clothes and turns back toward the bedroom, his motions sluggish. "Relax, Fog. M'fine."

Foggy doesn't bother to argue.

When he hears the bathroom door open again he heads that way, passing Matt in his comically oversized outfit. PacMan grins cockily from the folds of the t-shirt, faded and chipped from years in the wash. "There's pizza in the fridge," Foggy tells him.

Matt makes a face. He crosses the room to sprawl out on the dry end of the couch.

The hot water feels amazing, and Foggy tries to concentrate on this rather than dwell on the colors decorating his friend's torso. He's grateful there are people like Matt in the world, respects him in a way for being one of them. But he's just one person. A very breakable, human person. The face of the girl from the alley keeps coming back to him, but it's trumped every time by an image of Matt face down in the rain, that asshole standing above him. You can't save everyone, within the law or beyond it. Matt needs to learn this before something serious happens.

Something else. There've been too many close calls already.

Foggy's toweling his hair dry as he walks into the living room. "Look, I know I don't really get a vote, but I think you should consider taking a break from this stuff. Like a vacation."

It tumbles out unplanned, and he expects an immediate reaction. When one doesn't come, he peers out from under the towel to see why. Matt's asleep. Eyes closed and mouth hanging slightly open, he doesn't twitch as Foggy nears the couch. Even in sleep pain haunts his expression, but a lot of the tense lines that've been etched into his face all day are finally gone.

Foggy backtracks to the bedroom. "Because this is stupid," he continues aloud, his monologue emboldened by the temporary lack of disagreement from the other room. "You know I question the sanity of this whole superhero thing anyway, but going out in this shape is stupid." He throws the clump of wet clothes into the bathtub, discovers a roll of bandaging that Matt had missed in the cabinet under the sink. "You're just as important as those people out there, man. You can't keep going like this." He trades the towel for the blanket on his bed; Matt's in the same spot when he walks back into the living room. "And if you get killed? Who's going to take care of them then?"

Matt shifts when Foggy drapes the blanket over him, blinks his eyes half open. "... say somethin', Fog?" he slurs drowsily.

Foggy watches him burrow a bit more deeply into the blanket's warmth, his eyelashes already fluttering, and wonders if Matt got any sleep at all last night. He's not going to wake him up to have this fight. Instead he grabs the remote, settling onto the couch between Matt and the soaked cushion. "We can talk about it later. You sure you don't want to sleep in the bed?"

"Don' wanna move," he groans, his eyes closing completely.

"And I am certainly not going to try and make you. I learned that lesson. But I found something to wrap up your ribs, if you want."

"Later."

"Okay." Foggy turns on the TV, muting the volume, and surfs around for something that will still be interesting without sound. The poker tournament on ESPN 3 seems like his best choice.

"Don' have to do that," Matt mumbles. "Y'can turn it up."

"Nah. It's poker. Better with the sound off. They show the cards on the screen, so you don't need it anyway."

"Thrilling," is what it sounds like Matt says. "Time s'it?"

"Early." His watch is in the other room. His phone somewhere undetermined. He should probably find it. "We've been here less than an hour. Go back to sleep."

Foggy relaxes into the couch cushions, listening to Matt's choppy breathing and watching the hand play out on the screen. He's rooting for the Goth-looking girl on the end, silently cheering when she's dealt the exact card that she needs. The rain's started up again, throwing itself at the windows.

"Hey, Fog?"

He jumps, sure that Matt had fallen asleep. He hasn't moved, his eyes still closed. "Yeah?"

"Thanks. For having my back… good friend."

"Always," Foggy promises. He can't imagine a world in which this wouldn't be true.

end.

End Notes: I'm not happy with this one, and I can't nail down why. It's been almost abandoned so many times since it was started, but there are things here and there that I like about it that I couldn't bear to lose. (Plus the whole Over 10k Word thing – it seems such a shame for so many words already written to never get read by anybody. So I kept plugging away at it, hoping to find the magic key that would click it all into place, and it just kept getting longer… and it's come to the point where I need to either let it go or give up on it completely.) Now that you've presumably finished it, I'm interested to hear your opinion. Did the whole thing feel off while you were reading? Were you able to tell why? Or is it just me, overcritical and bored with my own writing, tired of struggling to find new ways to describe virtually the same scenes?

The bad taste in my mouth warns that I should just be done with this fandom, that I shouldn't even post this fic because my instincts are saying that it's not up to snuff. (But experience has taught me that my opinion of my own work is often wildly skewed, so for that reason and those above you're going to see it anyway.) I've consoled myself by adding this honest disclaimer – at the end, so it won't color your opinion as you read – and am very curious to hear what you think.

Most importantly: are you still entertained?