Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Even before the accident, as a kid, Matt used to stay up later than a kid his age should, waiting for his dad to come back from late night boxing matches. He was technically supposed to have a bed time, but Jack wasn’t really around to enforce it, and sometimes, bed time goals conflicted with Jack’s rule that Matt complete all his homework before bed every night.

After Matt was blinded, that lack of routine continued, and his powers also left him completely overstimulated, aware of every sound for blocks around. He could hear sirens, people snoring blocks away, cars, horns, subways, TVs and radios, and general chatter in an endless cacophony. His cotton sheets felt like sandpaper against his skin, and his pajamas weren’t much better.

Matt put on a brave face most of the time, but on a few occasions, he broke down when Jack ordered him to bed. Jack came up with a few fixes. Their neighbor plied Jack with lavender, and told him to run Matt a hot bath and put the stuff in the tub. Even in the heat of the summer, Jack bundled Matt into socks and long-sleeved pajamas that Matt found just soft enough. He put a radio in Matt’s room and turned the dial so far to the right there were no stations, then turned the volume all the way up, giving Matt white noise to focus on and drown out some of the sounds. It was just effective enough to work most nights.

After Jack was gone, so were the routines Jack had found that soothed Matt just enough for sleep. And Matt’s senses were getting stronger. He’d lay awake for hours, wanting nothing more than to sleep, and completely unable to do so. Sometimes the whole night would pass without sleep. Sometimes he’d fall into slumber out of sheer exhaustion after hours of frustrated tears. Still, after only a few hours, he’d wake up again, or worse—he’d be woken up for class by one of the sisters.

By the time Stick showed up, Matt was so overwhelmed with sensory overload and sleep deprivation that the orphanage had considered having him committed. It was easier after Stick trained him to make sense of all the noise. Matt started sleeping more like a regular person. He also started fighting the nuns when they tried to drag him out of bed in the morning—turning ill-tempered and combative… though part of that was also probably just puberty. Matt was punished many times for refusing to get out of bed, but his battles weren’t without reward. Matt’s pretty sure it was Maggie who finally told the other nuns to let him be—at least if it was a Saturday or a school break. She identified Matt’s lack of light perception as the cause of his fitful sleep and tantrums over being pulled out of bed. She wasn’t completely wrong—though it wasn’t until years later that Matt formally read up on “circadian desynchrony”.

Sometimes, Matt just can’t sleep—isn’t tired. He knows that it’s night only by tapping his talking alarm or finding his tactile watch or getting his phone to tell him the time. His brain won’t shut off—convinced it’s morning and Matt should be up. Other times, Matt goes to sleep and doesn’t ever want to wake back up, and spends the whole day in a daze.

In college, sometimes Foggy would wake up in the morning and find Matt still sitting at his desk studying, having completely lost track of time. Other times, Foggy hurled pillows at Matt and nagged and nudged and cajoled, trying to get Matt to wake up for class. Matt sometimes slept so deeply he wouldn’t even remember Foggy trying to wake him up. Once, Matt ignored Foggy several times until Foggy yanked the covers off his bed and shouted. Matt grabbed his tactile watch from his nightstand, eyes burning with exhaustion, and then asked Foggy crankily—nearly in tears—why he was waking Matt up at 4AM, only for Foggy to tell him it was four in the afternoon and he’d missed all his classes.

At first, Foggy thought it was depression. To be fair, Matt was no stranger to that either. Depression was a comorbidity with the rest of it—with the lack of light perception, with the sleep disturbances, with being a stressed, disabled, orphaned college student terrified of ending up alone and jobless.

Foggy—the mother hen that he is—did all kinds of research and dragged Matt into new, experimental routines. He started opening the curtains on Matt’s side of the dorm room every morning even though it shouldn’t make a difference, muttering something about Matt’s skin absorbing the rays. Probably bullshit. A hippie girl he dated turned Foggy onto incense, and when Matt acted like the smell of lavender was suffocating him (because it was—Foggy thought he was just being dramatic but the smell was legitimately so cloying to Matt’s senses that he stopped breathing to avoid it) Foggy prowled for other solutions, and eventually turned Matt onto melatonin taken at regular intervals.

In his 30s, Matt probably would have decent sleep routines… except that he started staying out until 2-3AM several nights a week, beating criminals to a bloody pulp. Sometimes, the fighting exhausted him into easy sleep. Other times, his adrenaline stayed up all night, until he felt the warmth of the sun against his skin, and remembered that Foggy would be furious if he didn’t show up at work.

Then Matt put Daredevil aside for a while.

Then he didn’t.

Then a building fell on top of him, and he spent several months convalescing in the basement of a church, went partially deaf, lost his sense of smell and taste, and after recovering, wanted nothing to do with sleep for some time.

Which… might at least partly have explained the hallucinations.

When Matt got shot in the head by Frank Castle and lost his hearing for hours, he didn’t dare question it when his hearing came back on its own. He didn’t want to think about the terror of that turning into a recurring issue. The same is true with the hallucinations. They’re gone now that Fisk is back behind bars, so Matt just tells himself not to think about them. Tells himself the hallucinations won’t come back.

He wakes to the sound of hammering on his apartment door. “Matt? Matt!”

Foggy.

Matt crawls out of bed, eyes gummy and head fuzzy with exhaustion. His limbs don’t want to move, but he shuffles toward the door with his eyes closed—opens it.

“Foggy?”

“Matt,” Foggy sounds surprised. He pauses for a long moment. “Did… did you just wake up?”

Matt is starting to get the sense he’s done something wrong—missed something. He considers lying, but then he remembers they’re all trying not to lie to each other—him and Foggy and Karen… (mostly him) and he doesn’t know if saying yes is the wrong answer anyway. And his eyes are still closed, which is kind of a dead giveaway. “Yes?” He croaks.

Foggy laughs, and Matt relaxes slightly at the sound, because Foggy isn’t mad. “You have any idea what time it is?”

“No?” Matt considers putting his attention on the sounds outside—Hell’s Kitchen sounds different at different times of day and sometimes that’s enough to get a ballpark—but he’s sure Foggy will tell him what time it is anyway.

Matt wishes he could go back to bed. He’s guessing it’s a socially-unacceptable hour for that.

“Three in the afternoon,” Foggy supplies.

Yeah. Socially-unacceptable hour. And not suitable for getting back into a new routine. It’s important to try and stay up—try to fall asleep tonight at a normal hour and set his alarm so he hopefully wakes up at a normal time tomorrow.

Matt turns and wanders back into his apartment, trailing the back of his hand along the wall, an implicit invitation for Foggy to come in.

A mental picture of Matt’s surroundings doesn’t want to form right now for whatever reason, and he’s tired, and he knows this apartment by heart, so it doesn’t matter.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” Foggy accuses as he closes the door and shrugs off his coat.

“My burner?” Matt asks blearily. He hasn’t had his iPhone since before Midland Circle. He got the burner to talk to Nadeem, and later, he gave the number to Foggy and Karen.

“Yeah.”

If he can’t go back to bed, the couch is a decent consolation prize. Matt sits down.

“I used up all the minutes talking to you and Karen about work.”

“Oh.”

Three weeks ago, Foggy wrote “Nelson, Murdock, and Page” on a new napkin inside Nelson’s Meats. After Karen and Foggy sorted their affairs and put in their two weeks notice, they’re all ready to start up the business on the second floor, which was just being used for storage. They’re all supposed to convene at Nelson’s Meats tomorrow at 9AM for their first day.

“Did you go out last night?”

“No.” Matt hopes Foggy doesn’t mind talking to the back of his head, because Matt’s too tired to bother facing Foggy when he talks. He wonders where his throw blanket went. He doesn’t think it’s in reaching distance. He settles for running his thumb along the soft threads of his hoodie.

He didn’t go out last night as Daredevil. He did wander the streets in regular clothes most of the day and night, carrying a meager collection of possessions in a sack, telling himself to go back to his apartment, while another part of him just wanted to go back to Fogwell’s and sleep on the floor just one more night.

Matt’s apartment is full of familiar scents and familiar textures and familiar sounds and familiar objects faithfully left in carefully chosen places. The first time he came back here—to grab a suit from his closet before he went to Rikers—this place had called to him. Even the sound of Fran puttering around in her apartment across the hall was comforting and familiar.

But Matt went back to the basement of the church instead. Then after he found out Maggie was his mother, he went to Fogwell’s Gym.

Foggy walks into the kitchen—opens one of Matt’s cabinets. Opens the fridge. “I… guess you haven’t gotten around to grocery shopping?”

Foggy thinks Matt moved back into his apartment three weeks ago. He doesn’t know Matt only stumbled back in last night (or was it early morning?), showered properly for the first time in months, put on soft pajamas and socks, dropped onto his silk sheets, and slept deeply until Foggy pounded on his door.

It feels nice to move back in.

It feels weird.

There’s a huge pile of mail on the desk here addressed to Matthew Murdock, probably warning him in increasingly irate tones about bills he hasn’t paid in months.

A part of Matt longs for the hard floor in Fogwell’s Gym.

Matt quashes the feeling—rubs his fingers over the soft threads of his hoodie.

“There a reason you came over, Fogs?”

“I tried to call you. Realized I might as well check in on you in person.”

“I dunno where my phone is,” Matt says. “The real one, I mean.” Which is a damn shame. It was a perfectly good iPhone. There’s some apps on there that are helpful sometimes. Helpful for stuff like shopping. Matt’s still paying that phone off, too. Except he hasn’t paid his phone bill in months. Karen and Foggy took care of his rent and utilities, but he doesn’t think there’s any way they could have kept his phone paid, even if it had been financially sensible to do it. Matt pays his phone bill online, and they wouldn’t have had access to his account. Same for his credit card. Matt’s credit’s probably taken a huge hit. And he probably doesn’t have internet anymore, which means he can’t check any accounts online from home.

There’s a bunch of mail piled up on Matt’s desk. It probably warns him about the state of a lot of bills and accounts, but it’s probably not in braille, and while Matt’s extremely delicate sense of touch allows him to read some things in ink, it’s exhausting and annoying, and there’s a lot of mail. At least 100 different envelopes that he’d have to carefully discern the contents of, one after another. 100 different envelopes full of bad news about all the things he needs to fix to get his life on track, mostly printed in ink he has no business even being able to attempt to read.

“I’m guessing you didn’t bring your phone to Midland Circle,” Foggy hums thoughtfully. “Probably not crushed under rubble, at least?”

There’s no way Matt’s ever going to remember what he did with his phone. It was all too long ago, and anyway, Matt’s memories around Midland Circle are hazy at best. He remembers the big things—Jessica and Luke and Danny and Stick and Elektra. He remembers Foggy bringing him the Daredevil suit when he was detained at the precinct as a person of interest in a homicide. He didn’t have his stuff. The police took his clothes. Which… now that he thinks of it, Matt has no idea what happened with that. He was a person of interest, then the cops thought Luke and Jessica kidnapped him, and then he disappeared, and then months later, Nadeem had the FBI on Matt’s tail but didn’t seem to know about the Midland Circle stuff. Foggy and/or Hogarth and/or Misty Knight probably made it all go away, but Matt doesn’t know for sure. He’ll have to ask Foggy. He probably should ask Foggy.

Maybe because he’s thinking about trouble with the law, Matt suddenly realizes that he never did his taxes. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about that. Maybe there’s mail telling him about that too.

He wonders if his refreshable braille display and his laptop are somewhere in the apartment. They should be. He’ll need to charge them since they haven’t been charged in months. Then he can check what bills need to be paid and what late fees he owes and how much savings he has left to pay off all of it.

Foggy makes his way back into the living room and sits in one of the chairs across from Matt. “If you haven’t been grocery shopping, what have you been eating here for the last three weeks? I thought you told Karen and me you were all set?”

“I’m good,” Matt mumbles, leaning against the back of his couch.

He’s good. It’s all good.

The floor of Fogwell’s Gym wasn’t comfortable… but at least when he was sleeping there, he got to pretend maybe he wouldn’t come back after all (he knew he would) so none of the mail or the bills or anything else mattered.

“If you say so.”

Foggy doesn’t know Matt waited to move back into his place until last night.

Foggy doesn’t know that after Matt agreed to start Nelson, Murdock, and Page, smiling and laughing with Foggy and Karen and saying he was moving back into his place and taking his life back after all… Matt kept sleeping inside Fogwell’s on the floor or just not sleeping at all; staying out all night in the mask or wandering the streets because he couldn’t sleep.

It would probably scare Foggy if he knew, and it would mean Matt’s been lying, and Foggy won’t be able to handle Matt lying again. Matt not moving back in until now would also mean he thought about not coming back to his life after all, after promising he would and making plans to restart the firm.

Karen would be even more upset than Foggy if she found out. Karen bent over backwards for Matt, carrying two rents in New York City because she didn’t want Matt to lose his home. Telling her he waited three weeks to move back into the apartment she made sure he didn’t get evicted from because he still wasn’t sure he wanted to be a person again… it would be like spitting in her face… again. He’s hurt her enough already.

And… and Matt wants to come home. He wants to take his life back. He wasn’t lying—it’s just hard, and Matt needs to get it together. If he’d moved in three weeks ago, he could have asked for help. Foggy asked if Matt needed any help moving back in, and Matt said he was all good, because he didn’t want to admit he hadn’t moved back in yet. He told them he was all good. He told them he didn’t need anything.

So he can’t ask for help now.

And it’s fine. Matt doesn’t need help moving back in. He can do it. He just needs to fix the situation with his bills, and get groceries, and make sure he isn’t wanted by law enforcement, and do his taxes, and tell various companies he has accounts with that he is very very sorry for not paying his bills for three months and can they please forgive him and let him pay them fees with whatever meager savings he has to live on, and very little idea of when his next paycheck will materialize.

It’s just all going to be a little difficult. It’s a hurdle he needs to jump over, and the hurdle is going to be a higher jump for him—the piles of mail sitting on his desk printed in ink are one illustration of that. There will be other hurdles. Matt's trying not to think about them.

Maybe Matt would have gone grocery shopping if he’d woken up at a normal time today. Or maybe he wouldn’t have. He owes Karen a lot of money in rent. He’s behind on bills. It would be good to know the cumulative financial damage before he decides what to buy.

And grocery shopping is hard. Shopping in general is hard. Heightened senses do a lot for Matt, but they don’t make it easier to know what prices vegetables and meats are or what brand of dried pasta he’s buying. Maybe if he was an avid cook, he’d have learned to do more of it on his own purely by smell, but he still wouldn’t know the prices. The prices are important right now.

Matt usually uses a delivery service for groceries, but it’s expensive, and he needs to get on the internet to use it, and he’s pretty sure his internet is disconnected.

Foggy used to go shopping with Matt sometimes, but after Foggy found out about Daredevil, he stopped offering to go shopping with Matt, and Matt wasn’t sure what Foggy would say if Matt asked. He doesn’t know if Foggy stopped offering because he thought Matt’s heightened senses meant grocery shopping with someone else wasn’t actually beneficial, or if it was because Foggy didn’t want to bend over backwards to help someone who betrayed him the way Matt did. Matt’s actually not sure which answer would be worse, so he doesn’t want to know.

And anyway, Matt doesn’t need help. He needs to be able to do it himself. He can do it himself, and it’s important that he can. Matt spent enough time over the last several months being dependent on others after a building fell on top of him. Besides… Foggy and Karen came back and they encouraged Matt to come back with them, but Matt can’t guarantee it’ll last because nothing ever does. So Matt needs to be able to figure it out. It’s important that he can do it himself.

Matt was homeless for weeks and he was fine. He walked around pretending he could see, and most of the time, it was fine—until it wasn’t fine and Matt wanted his cane and his sunglasses back.

He can shop by himself just fine. He owes Karen and Foggy money already and they’re both still mad at him, but they both forgave him anyway, and Matt doesn’t want to ask for anything else. He can smell Karen’s perfume on some of his mail, so she’s already seen a lot of it and tried to help. She’s done enough. They’ve both done enough.

Matt can do it on his own.

“Matt?” Foggy says. “Are you okay?”

It’s only then that Matt realizes he’s crying.

Shit. Matt’s usually kind of an ugly crier, but right now, his face is slack—emotionless. He just wants to go back to bed.

He rubs his eyes with the sleeves of his hoodie. “M’fine.”

Foggy leans back in his chair, and says—he says, “Good,” and there’s an edge to his voice, and his jaw is set, and his heartbeat is steady, pounding in Matt’s ears.

Matt tenses.

“Good, because I can’t handle you going off the deep end again,” Foggy says—angry. “Karen and I have covered for you enough as it is.”

Foggy’s yelled at Matt and been mad at Matt plenty of times, and he’s seethed at Matt after being left to clean up Matt’s messes before, but he’s never been mad at Matt for crying.

Foggy has a point, though. Foggy and Karen have covered for Matt at work, in his personal life, with the police and the FBI, even his rent. They’ve done enough, and he doesn’t want to be a burden. He never wants to be a burden.

Matt remembers Maggie carting him into the basement of the church, grabbing his hand and guiding it to the button that buzzed—telling him sarcastically to call if he needs anything because they have nothing better to do than tend to his needs.

More tears squeeze out of Matt’s eyes. “I’m just tired. That’s all,” He says softly. “There’s a lot of things I need to do. But they’re small things. I can do them. Everything… everything’s fine. M’fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Foggy sighs. “Clearly, you’re having issues. You haven’t grocery shopped, you haven’t dealt with your mail… Maybe it doesn’t occur to you that I can see you’re a mess, but I can.”

“I’ll get it together,” Matt assures him, blinking slowly.

Foggy leans forward—says very sternly, “Good, because you can’t keep counting on Karen and me to take care of shit for you. You’re back, and you need to take charge of your life, Matt. Karen’s done enough—carrying your rent, checking your mail for you… I’ve done enough. I helped her split your rent and utilities from last month. You also stole my wallet in case you forgot about that, and there was plenty of cash in it for you to burn if you’re worried about grocery money. I don’t care about getting the money back. Use the money. Whatever. Just get your shit together, Matt.”

“I will,” Matt nods, dazed. “I will, Foggy. M’sorry. I’m just… I’m just tired.”

Foggy sighs and sits very still for a moment, scrutinizing, then gets up. “Go back to bed, Matt,” His voice is calmer now—a little more sympathetic. “You seem exhausted. Just make sure to set your alarm tomorrow so you aren’t late for work. We need you to be dependable for once, or none of this is going to work.”

Matt nods again. “I will. I’ll… I’ll be better tomorrow.” His eyes won’t stop leaking. His sleeves are damp with tears.

He’s not even aware Foggy’s walked out on him until the door slams. Matt flinches.

He rubs his hands along the sleeves of his hoodie, but the texture is wet and slimy now. He shrugs the hoodie off, then trembles a little in the chill. It’s December, and while he knows his heater is on, he can’t adjust the temperature. Sometime between Midland Circle and now, the apartment complex overhauled the whole HVAC system throughout the apartment building. They changed out all the thermostats during the process. The old thermostat with switches and sliders was replaced with a touch screen. If there’s any accessibility settings, Matt has no way of getting them turned on without help from someone sighted. Worst case, he’s going to have to memorize where to tap on the screen to get it to do what he wants from now on.

It’s fine, though. He’d prefer the heat to be on a little higher, but as long as it’s on, he’ll be okay… especially if he goes back to his warm bed.

Matt stumbles back to his bedroom and crawls under the covers—barely remembers to set his alarm clock. He rubs his fingers over his silk sheets until he finally falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Matt’s hand darts reflexively out of the covers to silence his blaring alarm. It chimes, “7:00AM”.

Matt snakes his hand back under the warmth of the covers. He’s still tired, even though he has to have slept for almost 20 hours.

His stomach churns with hunger. He remembers he doesn’t have any groceries. He could get some breakfast on the way to work… Or he could sleep for 30 more minutes.

Matt resets his alarm and borrows further down into his sheets. His focus wanders to the desk out in the main room, piled with mail. His stomach churns. He doesn’t fall back asleep before his alarm goes off again.

Matt spills out of bed and into his closet to put on clothes. Gooseflesh lights up across his skin in the chilly air when he tugs off his hoodie, but it’s fine once he’s dressed in his suit. He’s warm enough. He brushes his teeth; combs his hair and hopes for the best, as always.

He remembers to find his refreshable braille display and his laptop. He puts them both on charge, assuming both are completely dead. When he gets home after work, he can check his accounts online, check some of the mail he’s gotten, and start putting his life back together.

Matt searches for his phone a little, but it isn’t in any of the places he would put it, which means someone moved it or it’s not in the apartment. He gives up, grabs his keys, sunglasses, wallet, and cane, and makes his way to Nelson’s Meats.

He’s hungry. It was easier to ignore while he was asleep. It’s a lot less easy to ignore while walking. His stomach roars in protest against its emptiness to the point it makes him paradoxically nauseous. The walk takes an unusual amount of effort, beading sweat on his skin. He hasn’t been eating very much the past few weeks. Every time he’s slept, he’s woken up with a nervous stomach. As he walks, smells along the street from dumpsters in alleyways or lifting around the seams of manhole covers or through storm drains also bothers him more than usual.

The smell situation doesn’t necessarily get better when he arrives at Nelson’s Meats. Maybe to people without super senses, it’s not so bad, but the smell of cured meats in the shop isn’t exactly one of Matt’s favorite things. He can smell blood and the stink of pigs and cows and turkeys and chickens everywhere, and he knows the smell’s going to deposit on his clothes and he’ll smell it when he gets home too. It makes him relieved that he didn’t eat before he arrived, because in combination with his nerves, that would be a disaster.

Thankfully, Theo is in the back, so Matt spares himself plastering on a smile for a morning greeting and descends up the stairs to the second floor, where the smells are far less cloying. Karen is already sitting behind her laptop, seated at a spare dining table.

Matt takes a breath and opens the door.

“Hey, Matt,” Her heart flutters in her chest—nerves or… concern? “I haven’t seen much of you in person in a couple of weeks. You doing okay?”

“Yeah. I’m great,” Matt replies, depositing his cane against the frame of the door.

“I tried to text you over the weekend…”

“Ah, my uh, my burner ran out of minutes. Sorry.”

“Oh.” Karen doesn’t breathe for an unusual amount of time.

Matt sits across from her at the table.

“…You sure you’re okay? It’s just… you’re really pale, Matt.”

“Just tired. I slept the whole weekend and it still wasn’t enough.” He clears his throat. “What about you? How’ve you been?”

Thankfully, Karen is willing to drop the subject. She shifts in her chair. “I’ve been doing trainings for a private investigator certification all weekend. I’m still technically working for the Bulletin on a freelance basis, so I also have a few articles I’m working on—just until we actually get the business off the ground and income starts coming in.” She pauses for a moment. “By the way, how are you doing with that? Do you have enough savings to be okay until we start pulling in some cases?”

“Uh… yeah, I’m fine.” He’s pretty sure he’s fine. He hasn’t looked yet, but he thinks he can squeeze by. He didn’t have a lot of savings left before Midland Circle, but he had just won a civil suit, and while he’d kept his own fee modest given the nature of the case and its importance to him—a boy paralyzed by a company’s negligence—he thinks he should be able to get by.

He thinks. He doesn’t know the state of his bills; the state of anything.

He owes Karen thousands of dollars. He wouldn’t have told her things weren’t okay even if he knew that to be true… and he doesn’t know, so he doesn’t feel as bad about the lie. He’s probably fine.

“Good,” Karen’s voice goes up in pitch. He thinks she smiles.

She doesn’t say anything about the money Matt owes her. Matt wonders if she’s thinking about it. Her heartbeat is steady though. Her breathing is normal.

He’s glad Karen has something to fall back on if Matt lets her and Foggy down again. Ellison loves her—would probably take her back on as a full time employee in a heartbeat, even after their fight over Daredevil’s identity, which is good—something Matt didn’t manage to break for someone else for once.

“By the way, I think… we need to spend a little up front to make this place look a little more official,” Karen says, laughing a little. “I know we don’t plan to stay here long term, but…”

“Is it that bad?” Matt cringes. He knows the layout and what kind of furniture they’re working with (nothing but the table they’re both seated at) and it’s not much. Obviously, they have to fix that. But besides the lack of proper office furniture, it might be worse than Matt thinks.

“Well… the wallpaper is what I would describe as uh… grandma chic? But I think we can improve a lot just by pulling in some real desks and stenciling a sign on the door to the second floor. I’m not sure what to do about the smell though.”

Stomping up the steps. Foggy’s coming up.

“So it’s bad for you too, huh?” Matt raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Karen leans forward, whispering conspiratorially like she’s afraid Theo might hear them from all the way up here. “I’m guessing it smells a lot worse in here to you than it does to me, but it’s… not great. I don’t think it was like this when we had the party here? Maybe it’ll go away.”

“Hello, hello, my lovely business partners!” Foggy says loudly as he strides in. “To celebrate our first day, I brought libations,” Foggy sets down a drink carrier with three cups of coffee and a warm paper sack that lifts the scent of sugary glaze and fried dough into the air. It mingles with the smell of raw meat. Matt swallows down a wave of nausea.

“Aren’t libations only beverages? Or is food included too?” He tries.

“I dunno. Just eat, Murdock,” Foggy grouses.

Matt grabs one of the coffees but ignores the donuts. He wonders if Foggy’s flippant tone is the usual banter, or whether he’s still mad at Matt over his breakdown yesterday.

“Oh! By the way, Matt—I brought you your phone.” Foggy places Matt’s iPhone on the table in front of him. “Charged it for you.”

Matt tenses up. “Y-you’re the one who had it?”

“Yeah. Back when you got detained? The cops had your stuff in a bag. I picked it up for you when you went out with Luke and Jessica. When you uh, didn’t come back, I just stashed it all back at your place, except your phone. I thought someone might call and it could be important. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it before. I kept forgetting, and you had that burner with you. I tried to call you yesterday and your burner was disconnected… and it occurred to me that your real phone was still in a drawer in my house.” Foggy winces. “You uh… didn’t buy a new one or something thinking it was lost, did you? Because that would suck and I would feel really bad.”

“Uh… no—hadn’t gotten around to it. Was just using the burner.” Doesn’t Foggy know this? They talked about it yesterday… didn’t they?

Matt’s so tired, he wonders if his memory of the conversation is overlapping with a dream he had or something.

Foggy lets out a breath of relief—claps a hand on Matt’s shoulder that makes him jump. “Good! I’m… assuming you haven’t paid your phone bill in a while, so... I guess you can’t take calls still unless you’re on wifi, but anyway, it’s charged and I made sure to turn your accessibility settings back on the way you like them so you’re all good to go, buddy.”

“…Thanks.” Matt wonders why Foggy didn’t mention yesterday that he was the one who had Matt’s phone. Did he forget? Matt’s almost certain now that they talked about it.

“Where’s your laptop?” Foggy asks, looking around.

Matt opens and closes his mouth. Then his stomach drops. He feels like an idiot.

He put his laptop and his refreshable braille display on charge back at home. For some reason, he didn’t think about needing them at work, which is stupid. He always brings them to work. He needs them. He doesn’t even have earbuds with him today, so he can’t even work from his phone using VoiceOver without disturbing Foggy and Karen. He didn’t think about the braille printer either. He took it back to his apartment when they dissolved Nelson and Murdock. Now he probably needs to cart it over here. It isn’t even five minutes into their first day. Foggy demanded he be more dependable just yesterday and Matt’s already fucked it up.

“…I hope that look isn’t because your place got broken into while you were away. I know your refreshable braille display in particular cost a pretty penny.” Foggy doesn’t sound mad at all. But he’s also giving Matt the benefit of a doubt—assuming it was something out of his control.

“M-my stuff’s on charge back at my apartment,” Matt admits. “I-I knew it all needed to be charged, and I wasn’t thinking. Just… being stupid. I’m sorry.”

“You got too used to working from home, Murdock,” Foggy teases and claps Matt on the shoulder again. “Ah, that’s okay, buddy.”

Foggy’s heartbeat is completely steady. Not lying. He sounds warm. Matt’s even more puzzled… and kind of uncomfortable with Foggy’s 180. He tenses under Foggy’s hands.

“Matt, are you okay?” Foggy sits down in the chair next to him. “Not gonna lie—you look like shit.”

Foggy’s only told Matt that candidly a million times when he was under the weather or injured. Matt doesn’t know why it stings this time. He kind of relies on Foggy and Karen to tell him if he doesn’t look presentable for some reason he isn’t seeing—bruises that are more colorful than he realizes, a rumpled suit or a stain, a weird lump in his hair that he failed to catch. Foggy’s always been blunt about it, and Matt’s never minded. He hates being treated like he’s made of glass. It’s one of the first things he ever said to Foggy in the dorm when they first met, right after clarifying that his eyeballs did not get knocked out of their sockets during the accident that blinded him.

“Matt?” Foggy waves a hand in front of his face. “Is this a Daredevil thing? Are you hurt?”

“Hm? No. I’m just uh… tired,” Matt sits up straighter in his chair. “Sorry again about the… the stuff.”

Matt’s eyes are bleary with exhaustion. He makes an effort to appear more alert—to be more alert. He takes a big swig of coffee.

“I think today’s probably gonna be more of a brainstorming day anyway,” Foggy shrugs. “It’s not like we have any cases yet… and the office space itself…. uh….”

“Yeah, I was just talking to Matt about that before you came in,” Karen pipes up. “Also… maybe a little advertising wouldn’t hurt? But… after we clean up the place a little and you know—drag in some furniture?”

“What do you think we need first?” Foggy asks, eyes panning around the room.

“Real desks,” Karen says immediately, huffing a laugh.

Foggy nods. “Pretty sure my dad’s desk that he doesn’t use at all is covered in cobwebs in the back of the shop downstairs, but maybe we could go out to that thrift store down the block and see if there’s two more that are nice enough? Cart it all back here? Could be fun!”

Foggy sounds upbeat—happy to be here, and his heartbeat agrees. He’s giddy with excitement—like leaving his six figure job for the top floor of a deli meat shop was all he ever could have wanted. Matt’s not sure how to reconcile that with the man who came to Matt’s apartment yesterday. Maybe it’s just that… Foggy really wants this to work. Maybe he’s not betting on them failing like Matt was starting to think. Maybe he’s just scared Matt will ruin something Foggy really wants. Restarting the firm and adding Karen as a partner was Foggy’s idea, after all.

“Matt, maybe while we’re all out, we could swing by your place and grab the braille printer? Then if you want your laptop and stuff too, we can grab it while we’re there.”

“Uh, sure.”

“That reminds me… what ever happened to our laser printer?” Karen asks.

“Oooh it’s at my place,” Foggy winces. “Too far away for it to be worth it to grab it today. But I’ll bring it with me tomorrow. I just… might have to call you or Matt down to the taxi to help me get it inside. It’s kind of awkwardly shaped.”

Their expectations of what they can get done on the morning of the first day turn out to be too generous. Sweeping the place up a bit and washing the windows and framing with wet rags goes fine, but when they retrieve the desk, they realize it’s heavy as hell. It takes all three of them and an assist from Theo to get the thing into the upstairs room.

There’s a turn in the staircase where they have to position the desk at a diagonal. Matt and Foggy stand at the bottom of the stairs with Theo and Karen at the top, so Matt and Foggy take most of the desk’s weight for a prolonged period.

Matt’s spine starts to hurt—the spot that was injured by the incident at Midland Circle. It hasn’t bothered him for a few weeks. He eases up a little in worry.

“Matt…” Foggy strains instantly in a high pitch, hands nearly buckling under the desk. “A little more help, buddy?”

“Yeah.” Matt instantly swoops in taking a step up, remembering to lift with his legs, not his back. He takes more of the weight than he was before. His head swims and for a second, he’s worried he’s going to pass out. The exhaustion or the hunger or a combination of the two.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine.

He’s in the best shape of anyone helping cart the desk up the stairs. He needs to work through it. Theo and Karen successfully guide the desk through the doorway, and Foggy and Matt quickly push it up the steps.

Along with his back, some of the lacerations from Matt’s fights with Dex twinge strangely, which is… odd. The lines of puncture wounds Dex left him with should be nothing more than raised scars after almost a month of healing.

“Okay…” Foggy pants once they finally get the desk inside. “Lunch now… then thrifting?”

Foggy recommends a burrito stand a couple of blocks away for lunch. Karen agrees immediately, and Matt figures it won’t be too expensive given it’s a street food kind of place, and nothing sounds good to eat, so he says nothing.

As they file out of the building, Foggy pauses by the door waiting for Matt to come out. His step hitches strangely over a couple of steps as they all start down the street. He’s hovering close to Matt’s side, and it takes Matt a minute to realize why.

There’s always a standing invitation for Matt to latch onto either of his friends as a sighted guide, and he almost always does when they go out. Sometimes, Matt reaches for Karen if she’s closer, but it’s almost always Foggy who Matt grabs onto. They’ve walked that way since the day they met, almost any time they went out together, for years and years.

“Matt?” Foggy glances at him, arm poking out close to Matt’s side.

“Um… I’m good,” Matt says, holding onto his cane more tightly.

“Oh. Uh. Okay,” Foggy sounds a little confused, but he doesn’t comment further. He falls into step up ahead with Karen so Matt has a wider berth taking up the rear.

Karen and Foggy chat cheerfully as they walk. Matt’s back and hip twinge, making him want to favor his left leg. He forces himself to walk normally.

The burrito truck is in a parking lot with a few other food trucks, encircling a small helping of picnic tables. When they get in line, Matt hears someone mention it’s cash only.

Matt hates paying with cash.

He hates it.

Foggy reaches the front of the line and says, “Three specials, please.”

“Uh… Foggy?” Karen interjects.

“The Monday special is the burrito to get here, I promise—and I’m treating you both,” Foggy replies.

“Foggy!” Karen scoffs in protest, her fingers already plucking at bills in her wallet.

“I want to treat everyone,” Foggy insists. “It’s our first day, the new firm was my idea, and not to brag, but my name comes first on the sign we’ll eventually stencil on the door, so that means… I buy the burritos.”

“I don’t think the names work like that, Foggy,” Karen says with mirth, though she slides her cash back into her wallet. “Or else we’ll have to revisit the order of those names, won’t we, Matt?”

Matt’s distracted by an argument halfway down the block.

“Matt?”

Matt blinks back to his friends in front of him. “Sorry. Uh… right.”

Matt actually manages to eat his burrito—maybe a little too quickly. He realizes that he’s ravenous after swallowing his first bite, and quickly polishes the rest of the thing off while Karen and Foggy talk about… something. A story from law school, Matt parses. Not a Foggy and Matt story—something about one of Foggy’s professors. Karen laughs.

Matt isn’t following the story. He’s probably heard it before, and there’s a lot of noise outside. It’s harder to order everything when he’s this tired. The world is just a roar of voices and city sounds for miles. He’s sitting down, so he doesn’t have to worry about it. He takes a break from trying to process everything for a while, paying just enough attention to remain aware of picnic tables in the square they’re in.

Karen and Foggy seem happy—almost giddy with excitement—even though all of them are consigning themselves to a life of financial uncertainty. Hell—even before Matt became so undependable as a partner that he singlehandedly destroyed their firm, they were being paid in pies and bananas by some of their clients. Finances will be tight again, unless they make some changes to their business strategy.

Matt mentally logs that away as a conversation for later. He’s often been the one increasing their pro bono (or close to it) workload—it’s hard to turn someone away when you know for a fact they’re being honest with you and they’re being screwed. At the same time, Karen and Foggy have definitely pushed for cases too with clients they really couldn’t afford to service.

Matt remembers Karen telling them they were broke. He remembers smiling and saying they’d figure it out—that he didn’t know how yet, but they’d manage. Matt wonders at his own confidence back then—arrogance really (or faith?)

Maybe Matt’s the only one who’s worried about financial instability. Foggy and Karen both have some kind of safety net (despite Matt’s interference). Karen can always go back to the paper. Covering Matt’s rent for months has put her in a tenuous financial position, but he’ll pay her back… eventually. Foggy could probably go back to his old firm. If not, he has savings from working a six figure job and a solid professional reputation… and he lives with Marci who also earns a six figure salary, and he has a family who would support him through anything.

Matt has… Matt just has the two of them—his friends who invited him back into their lives after he repeatedly lied to them and let them down. He has a job at a new firm with no clients, located in the top of a meat shop that even Karen says smells. If this goes south… Matt is a lawyer with a completely unexplained gap in his employment history, whose background check will reveal a dramatic drop in credit score that he can’t explain, and possibly flag that he’d been wanted by the police and the FBI for all he knows, and that he owes the IRS on business and income taxes he never filed. Last year, he botched the Castle case, made enemies with the former DA, and on top of that, no matter what the law says, a mountain of rulings in civil court are there to tell him that hiring discrimination is both very real and very hard to prove, and even if you win, you still don’t have a job.

He has to be perfect so there’s nothing anyone can point to besides the disability that they’re not allowed to discriminate against him for. Foggy had so much trouble understanding that in law school—why Matt would study for hours and hours and hours. And Matt isn’t perfect. Graduating summa cum laude and landing an internship at L&Z gave him a lot of confidence, and he believed in the law to carry him the rest of the way… but if the last several years have shown Matt anything, it’s how often the law fails—as if Matt wasn’t already well acquainted with how often disability law can fail you from over 20 years of life experience being totally blind.

There’s always solo practice, but in Matt’s experience, clients are even more discriminatory than firms. Matt already encountered that in the months before Midland Circle when he practiced solo—clients who tactfully or untactfully asked if Matt had some kind of assistant or a partner—if he was actually capable of doing the job—if they were going to need to assist in their own case by helping him with things. Sometimes they didn’t even understand that Matt could read or use the internet.

Matt’s always had to work around things for work and before that in school—find loopholes, push for files in accessible formats from professors and businesses and opposing council, and spend more time on top of that reassuring people that he’s capable—even judges sometimes—using sharply-whittled charm and articulate assurances and a perpetual air of confidence very near to hubris. His super senses help with a lot of things… but they don’t actually do jack shit for him when it comes to digital resources—websites that aren’t working, poorly ADA remediated pdfs, or photos, or CCTV footage.

It’ll take a while to get reestablished. Matt won’t be able to afford rent so easily even with a billboard-induced discount and savings drained by penalties and late fees and payments to Karen for his rent. He can’t move out because it would be like throwing away all the money she spent just to make sure Matt had a familiar home to come back to, and so he needs to stay and he needs to make it work… and he wants to make it work… but maybe if he absolutely can’t, he can convince the woman who didn’t want him when he was a baby and never planned to tell him that she was his mother to let him sleep in the basement of the church again—the church where Father Lantom was murdered because of him, by a man wearing Daredevil’s suit.

Suddenly, all Matt can smell is the scent of raw meat and dead animals and blood on his clothes from the meat shop. He rises from his seat and stumbles to the nearest trash can, puking his lunch up into the trash.

“Woah, Matt!” Foggy and Karen rush over.

Karen puts her hand on Matt’s shoulder. Foggy rests his palm on Matt’s back like he actually cares—like he isn’t so fed up with Matt’s issues that he told Matt just yesterday not to bother him or Karen with his problems and to get his shit together.

The world narrows down to their hands on him and the roiling in his gut and the stench and taste of bile.

Matt remembers Maggie and the other nuns touching him when he didn’t even know they were there. Waking up to someone changing bandages or the sheets or his clothes while he was blind and deaf and his limbs were too heavy to move—in and out of consciousness. Asking who was touching him—not even hearing the sound of his own voice—no chance of hearing an answer.

Weeks later when he was finally lucid, he remembers Maggie’s hard-edged voice. “I need to change your gauze—preferably without you flailing around like an idiot.”

A napkin is nudged against the back of Matt’s hand suddenly. He grabs it clumsily to wipe his face.

Matt remembers Maggie carting him into the basement of the church, grabbing his hand and guiding it to the button that buzzed—telling him sarcastically to call if he needs anything because they have nothing better to do than tend to his needs.

Foggy’s there cracking open a bottle of water a second later. He hands it to Matt, murmuring at him to use it to wash his mouth out.

“You’re not coming down with something, are you?” Karen asks. She puts a hand against the back of Matt’s neck and then his forehead, feeling for fever.

Matt cringes under Karen’s hands until she takes them off—closes his eyes. “Think I just… ate too fast.” He spits foul-tasting water into the trash and wipes his mouth again. “Sorry.”

There’s a pause, and then Foggy says, “You sure that’s all it is? You seem pretty out of it today.”

Matt remembers Foggy telling him he needs to be dependable. He nods. “I’m sure.”

“Matt, you don’t feel like you have a fever, but maybe you’re about to come down with something. Maybe you should go home,” Karen says softly.

Matt shakes his head. “M’fine, Karen.”

Foggy’s heart beats strangely. His breathing changes like it always does when he wants to say something. He doesn’t say anything.

Matt doesn’t feel well at all on the walk to the thrift store.

After vomiting, his stomach gnaws at him twice as hard. His exhaustion intensifies given the lack of energy, and the coffee he drank this morning has worn off.

Sounds around him feel unusually sharp. The taste of bile in his mouth mingles with every unpleasant scent from every dumpster they pass.

Matt swallows down acidic saliva and steps forward in a longer stride, curling his hand around Karen’s elbow. She stiffens slightly in surprise for a second before relaxing again, but she doesn’t say anything—just changes her gait a bit so they fall smoothly into step together.

Foggy’s heartbeat changes behind them. Matt doesn’t know what to make of it.

It smells terrible in the thrift store. Probably not to Karen and Foggy, but Matt can smell every pit stain and other unmentionable scent drifting off every item of clothing on 50 different racks as they make their way back to the furniture section.

Matt clips a hat rack.

“Oh, shit,” Karen whispers in a hiss, stabilizing the stand before it falls over. “Matt, are you are okay?” She quickly shuffles over so they’re out of the line of fire.

“Wow. Smooth move, Page,” Foggy chuckles.

“Wow. Did you really just make fun of me for bumping into something?” Matt says at a louder than normal volume, voice monotone. Someone five feet away from them looking at coats turns and scowls at Foggy—exactly the result Matt intended to achieve. Foggy makes a panicked sound and slinks closer to the furniture.

Karen stifles a laugh, but then leans in. “I’m sorry, Matt. I wasn’t paying attention.” She cringes—adds more quietly. “And… maybe I kind of assumed… you were?”

“Not so much,” Matt admits. “It’s fine.”

“Matt… are you really okay? Do you need to go home?”

“I’m just tired, Karen,” Matt says, trying to keep irritation out of his voice. “I just bumped into something. Sometimes people do that.”

Karen’s face stays turned toward him.

Matt doesn’t quite manage a smile, but he tries for a lighter tone. “Not that I can verify, but I suspect that you’re eyeing me with suspicion. It’s sort of ironic that the ‘bumping into things’ excuse doesn’t work on you even when I do it right in front of you, don’t you think?”

“Matt, you’re pale and you’ve been really quiet and you threw up like 20 minutes ago. Any of us could bump into a hat rack, but along with the rest?”

“Have you considered that I trusted you—my sighted friend—to guide me, and you let me down?” Matt deadpans.

“Fine, Murdock,” The challenge over his blindness flusters her despite Matt’s sarcastic tone. “But I’m worried about you.”

Matt draws his mouth into a thin line, ignoring the urge to repeat that he’s just tired… and that he is actually blind in case she forgot that, and she really did guide him straight into a hat rack.

“Can you see me?”

“No. Not see, exactly. It’s different. Um. I think it’s better.”

I think it’s better I think it’s better I think it’s better.

Mountains of mail printed in ink back at his apartment.

“You are blind, right? You weren’t just… faking it the whole time.”

“Congratulations. You finally caught me.”

“It’s not a fair question?”

A thermostat he can’t operate in his own home in December.

“Are you even really blind?”

At least the mail he most probably got from the IRS telling him he’s being fined should be in braille...

“So you can see.”

“That’s not-are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

Matt jumps at the sound of a hand slapping down on a metal filing cabinet.

“Check this out,” Foggy says. “What do you think? Should we get it for the office?”

“Foggy, no,” Karen giggles, then leans toward Matt and says, “It’s pink and covered in sparkles.”

Normally, Matt would probably join in joking around, or at least smile. He just says, “Hm.”

Foggy and Karen debate about a few pieces of furniture. There’s two swiveling office chairs and one desk that Foggy and Karen feel is acceptable. They debate a bit about colors and the state of the finish on the desk. Matt holds onto Karen’s elbow and drifts.

“What do you think, Murdock? Any commentary?” Foggy asks.

“Like what?” His voice comes out impatient—irritated.

Decorating isn’t exactly Matt’s strength. He’s told his apartment is nice enough, if a little sparse… but sparse is more sensible. Matt cares about materials—their resonance and texture. He cares about whether he can get blood out of his couch. He cares about how fabrics feel and to what extent they absorb scents. He prefers simple pieces of furniture with smooth lines because he can appreciate them better. That’s part of why he goes for mid century pieces. Most of their aesthetic value is in their larger shape instead of finely carved details or color patterns.

“I dunno. Does it all smell okay? Did a rat die in any of the drawers? Is there a false bottom full of cash we can split as a first paycheck?”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Foggy.”

“Alright, then.” Foggy hesitates for a moment. “How you feelin’? You think the two of us could carry this to the office?” Foggy raps his hands on the wooden desk.

It doesn’t sound as dense as the desk they carried up the stairs of the butcher shop, and it isn’t nearly as large. They can probably do it. It’s what—two blocks? Not that far. Matt’s hip and back still twinge. “Uh… yeah—let’s do it.”

They can do it, it turns out—but not very well.

Halfway back to Nelson’s Meats, Foggy announces, “Okay—this is very heavy and I would like to take a break,” He drops his end of the desk, and Matt follows suit half a beat after him. Foggy hunches over his knees, panting. He’s sweating despite the chilly air. “Ohhhh my god. We should… we should have hired someone to do this. I’m so out of shape.”

Matt’s sweating too, just as out of breath as Foggy despite his higher level of fitness. He’s just so short on energy. He needs to eat, but his focus lands on his hip and spine. They’re lighting up with agony from the awkward position he has to hold to properly grip the desk. Matt’s injuries from Midland Circle haven’t hurt this bad for while. He thought they were more or less recovered, and the idea of backsliding scares him a little. He contemplates feeling along his spine to see if he can determine whether it’s muscle strain or something much worse making his lower back ache, but he can’t bring himself to touch. He doesn’t want to know.

Matt needs to be dependable, and he doesn’t have a lot of opinions on making the office presentable, but he’s in good shape and this is something he can do—that they need his help to do.

“Matt, you okay, buddy?” Foggy says breathily, still hunched over his knees. He sounds miserable—like he’d like to give up.

“Yeah. What about you?”

Foggy runs a hand through his hair. Says thinly, “I’ll live.”

The sound of the clattering wheels of the office chairs halts where Karen’s shoving them along the sidewalk. She turns back to them. “Want me to go on ahead? Come back and help you two with that?”

“You’re wearing heels,” Foggy points out.

“I could take them off.”

“On this dirty sidewalk? In Hell’s Kitchen? Ms. Page, do you want to get plantar warts and foot fungus?”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Foggy.”

“I bet Matt could tell you exactly how filthy this concrete is. He can probably taste the germs or something. Matt, tell Karen she’s going to get plantar warts if she takes her shoes off.”

“I cannot taste germs, Foggy.”

“Come on, back me up here!”

“I’m going on ahead,” The plastic wheels of the office chairs clatter on as Karen starts walking again.

“Wait!” Foggy says.

Karen pauses.

“Matt, take off your suit jacket,” Foggy says, while peeling off his own.

Matt does as told. His injuries twinge again with the movement, and he fights back a wince, but he hands his jacket over. He cringes at the feeling of his dress shirt sticking to his back with sweat in the chilly air. Foggy jogs over to Karen and folds their jackets on the seats of the chairs. No sense in wearing them if they’re just going to sweat in them in the cold.

Foggy hesitates when he comes back, watching Matt. “Matt, are you sure you’re okay?”

Matt clears his throat and hunches over to get a grip on the desk. “I’m fine, Foggy,” He says, tone sharp. “Let’s go.”

It takes them 45 minutes to get the second desk into the office, and by the time they do, Matt’s hip and back are on fire and he’s favoring his left leg. He’s light headed because he hasn’t eaten anything in over 24 hours that he didn’t throw up, and the smells of the meat shop are twice as nauseating as before. His mouth still tastes like vomit.

Foggy’s not doing too well either, though he’s doing much better than Matt is at this point. He doesn’t say anything about Matt’s wheezing breath. He staggers downstairs and fills two glasses of water, then bring them back up while Matt sits at the table, trying to get his breath back. Foggy slides a glass over in front of Matt when he comes back.

“Thanks,” Matt says softly, still panting. He takes a sip of water. It spreads the aftertaste of bile around his mouth. Matt forces himself to swallow.

“I do not want to do that again,” Foggy mumbles. “The turn in the stairs is a nightmare… Can we get the braille printer tomorrow instead of today?”

Matt nods. It means Matt can’t grab his stuff either, but just like Foggy, Matt has no desire to move for a while or carry anything else—even if a printer is small potatoes compared to the desks and chairs they carted into the office today.

Foggy hums in relief. His breath changes like he wants to say something.

Matt doesn’t call him out on it. Foggy hates it when he does that. Matt hasn’t bothered pointing out that Foggy probably makes a face that conveys the same information—one Matt would probably pick up on if he could see.

Matt just waits.

“I noticed you were limping before you sat down. Did you go out last night?”

Matt’s kind of confused by the question. Foggy saw how Matt was yesterday afternoon. “No, I stayed home and slept.”

“Oh, good,” Foggy says, but there’s a wary lilt. “I bet you needed the rest.”

Foggy pauses. “But then what’s the deal with the limp? You didn’t hurt yourself pushing those desks up the stairs, did you?”

“Uh…”

“You did, didn’t you?” Foggy laughs and pats Matt on the shoulder. “We’re getting old, Murdock. It’s tragic how early in life the human body starts to deteriorate. Did I tell you that I can’t crouch on the ground for more than 10 seconds or my knee locks out? We should have stretched before we did all that lifting.”

Matt tenses under his touch.

Karen comes back from the bathroom. “Advertising?”

Foggy and Karen decide they should design flyers that they can put up around Hell’s Kitchen. Matt feels less inclined to give input on this than he does second hand furniture. He listens for a while anyway as they hunch over Karen’s laptop and debate back and forth about fonts and color schemes and stock images. Matt is kind of following that, but then they start arguing about where to find some kind of special selection tool in a tool bar, and how to set the opacity of the background, and image file types, and Matt tunes them out completely.

Matt’s never been with Foggy and Karen and felt excluded from workflow for long periods. There’s always either been some form of alternative access, or other tasks Matt could do while Foggy and Karen were temporarily occupied by something that Matt quite unapologetically wasn’t going to bother fooling with, like piles of crime scene photos or websites that devs absolutely failed to make work properly with screenreaders. Right now? Matt has no idea what the hell else he can do besides sit here, increasingly feeling as if Karen and Foggy’s failure to take notice of it signals his lack of value to the partnership.

When Matt’s secret identity first came out, Foggy clearly struggled to separate Matt’s mental picture of his surroundings—his World On Fire—from actually being able to see, but he at least got (in the end) that Matt wouldn’t be using a screenreader and a refreshable braille display or opting to print long documents with a braille printer if he didn’t actually need to.

Matt’s super senses allow him to tell when people are lying, which is useful for dealing with plaintiffs, defendants, witnesses, and opposing council. His powers don’t really help him with anything else when it comes to the workplace. He kind of figures that’s obvious enough to Foggy and Karen, but now they’re working together for the first time in a situation where Matt’s abilities are known to all three of them, and Matt’s sitting here contributing nothing to a highly visual process because he is very very blind, and he’s not sure Karen and Foggy even remember that right now.

Matt’s the idiot who forgot to charge and bring his shit though, and Matt’s always been proactive at work—seamlessly dividing up tasks with Karen and Foggy in a way that plays to their various strengths. Strengths, because that’s always how Matt’s felt about it in his own head. Never apologizing to anyone for what he lacks. Playing to his strengths. Recognizing he’s got plenty of them. He's not sure why his mindset's changed. He’s just… not sure how he fits right now, he supposes.

Matt thinks about the mail stacked up on his desk in his apartment, mostly not in braille, most probably warning him about fines and various payments he hasn’t made in months.

Matt thinks about the kitchen he should have filled with groceries several weeks ago.

Matt thinks about the pain in his spine and hip.

Matt thinks about how tired he is.

Matt thinks about his empty stomach.

Matt thinks about the floor of Fogwell’s Gym.

Matthew Murdock had been in love, and the woman he loved had died. Matthew Murdock had friends who worried about him until they were so fed up with his lies that they cut him out of their lives. Matthew Murdock once had a dad but then his dad was gone, and a long long time ago before he could remember it, he’d had a mom but she didn’t want him. So Matthew Murdock got rid of himself because himself was the problem—didn’t fit anywhere.

“I’m not sure Daredevil’s the problem.”

Matthew Murdock died, and the Devil wandered around town pretending he wasn’t blind—not bothering to hide his face under anything but a hat because it didn’t matter.

That went fine until it really really didn’t.

Someone was asking the Devil to hand him a BNC and he didn’t know what the hell that was. He was hyperaware of the fact that people might notice his eyes don’t focus. He directed his face toward a pamphlet to try and keep a man he was passing on the stairs from noticing his eyes. He followed his nose to a sandwich shop then couldn’t order because he couldn’t read the menu behind the counter and he couldn’t explain why. He had to use cash for payments and he couldn’t tell the bills apart. The ink bleeds too finely into the notes. He was walking down the street and people hurried past him with their hearts beating fast, muttering about him tweaking out because they looked at his eyes and assumed he was high. He went to the prison and stuffed a bunch of money in the taxi driver’s hands hoping it wasn’t a bunch of ones. He needed all of the guards to believe he could see except the man he was there to ask questions, who he needed to present himself to as blind. Pain in his jaw from a punch he couldn’t allow himself to block because he’s supposed to be blind he’s supposed to be blind but also he’s not to everyone else he’s not. So the nurse at the prison wanted to shine a pen light into the Devil’s eyes to check for a concussion and the Devil couldn’t let him do that because then he’d know. He was distracted because he was worried about that so a needle ended up in his hand and the nurse was pushing something through it straight into the Devil’s bloodstream, and the Devil didn’t know what it was because he couldn’t read the vial so he didn’t know if he was going to die and Fisk was on the phone calling the Devil by the name Matthew Murdock and telling him he was going to die and Fisk was watching him through a camera and there were alarms going off everywhere and the Devil’s ear still wasn’t quite picking up sounds right and his limbs could barely move—people grabbing him and they were going to beat him to death but the Devil got away and he knew the camera was there and hoped Fisk was still watching when he spit blood at it and the guards attacked him and someone grabbed him and there was a knife at the Devil’s throat and the Devil needed to prove he was trustworthy but he couldn’t even look them in the eye and he got out the sirens screeching in his ears and into a cab and it was taking him somewhere at high speed and he didn’t know where he was or where the car was going but he knew it was hurtling toward something bad and then his whole body jerked as the taxi rammed into the railing of the peer and-

“Matt?”

It’s only when Foggy’s hand is on his shoulder that Matt realizes that he hasn’t been breathing. He sucks in a wheezing breath and then he can’t stop—he’s hyperventilating—hasn’t happened since he was a kid. Foggy’s going to be pissed if Matt cries. Matt’s already fucking it up just by panicking like this. It’s not the behavior of a dependable person who shows up to work on time and shares workloads evenly.

There’s a hand on his back rubbing soothing circles and Karen’s telling him to listen to her breathe and try to follow the same rhythm.

She’s holding his hand.

Matt remembers Maggie grabbing his hand and putting it on the button in the basement, sarcastically telling him to call if he needed anything because they had nothing better to do than tend to his needs.

Matt pulls his sweaty hand out of Karen’s grip but he does as she says, and he eventually starts to breathe normally again. He takes another long pull of water from the glass Foggy gave him earlier when they carted the desk up the stairs.

Foggy and Karen’s heartbeats start to slow.

“Matt,” Karen says firmly. “You’re going home.”

Matt’s never been known to do anything he doesn’t want to do without a fight, but Karen’s never been one to tolerate bullshit—and that’s what she tells Matt he’s spewing when he protests going home early. “You are very clearly not okay. You threw up, you’re limping, you just had a fucking panic attack, and now you’re bleeding through the back of your fucking shirt, Matt! Did you know that?”

“He’s bleeding?” Foggy says, voice thick with worry. He circles around Matt at the same time that Matt shakes his head.

Matt didn’t notice. He’s usually good at noticing when he’s bleeding—when other people are bleeding too. He can smell and taste the blood in the air. But he’s currently sitting above a shop that processes meats. The air already smells and tastes like blood to him.

Foggy’s hands pluck at the back of Matt’s dress shirt, and Matt struggles not to cringe away from him. Sweat’s been sticking Matt’s dress shirt to his skin on and off all day after all the furniture moving, so he never recognized the wetness of blood.

He doesn’t understand though. He doesn’t know why he’d be bleeding. He shoves Foggy’s hands away and paws around for the source of the blood. He frowns when the pads of his fingers recognize the thicker viscosity. It’s one of the wounds from his fight with Pointdexter… a month ago. It shouldn’t still be bleeding.

“You’re bleeding under your arm, too,” Foggy says warily.

Matt tries to identify where—eventually feels the strange pull of skin at the inside of his elbow. He doesn’t understand.

Foggy’s breathing changes like it always does when he’s about to say something.

Matt doesn’t call him out, because Foggy hates it when Matt does that, even though Matt thinks it’s perfectly fair—that if he could see Foggy’s face, it would tell him the same thing.

“You told me you didn’t go out last night.” Foggy sounds mad.

“I didn’t,” Matt replies, still panting slightly.

Foggy’s heartbeat speeds up and he inhales more sharply, his body tensing up.

“You went out last night,” Foggy says more insistently, “And now you’re limping and bleeding.”

“I didn’t go out,” Matt repeats, shaking his head.

Foggy huffs a humorless laugh—starts to say something—stops. His anger burns in Matt’s nose.

Matt assesses fights differently than Foggy does. It makes fighting with Foggy maddening. Foggy looks at facial expressions and searches for eye contact. Matt focuses on voices and heartbeats, and he gets so focused on taking that information in sometimes during a fight that he’s prone to forget to face Foggy’s direction when they’re talking, and Foggy has always interpreted that as avoidance when it’s not, and that isn’t fair, but when people think you’re lying to them, they want you to look them in the eye and swear you’re telling them the truth, and Matt can’t do that. He can tell when people are lying to him but they can’t tell when he’s lying to them.

“Help me out then, because I’m not you. I can’t tell if you’re lying to me or not.”

“Foggy,” Karen says it in a warning voice, shaking her head so slightly that Matt almost misses it.

“Matt… I’m not going to stop you from doing what it is you do,” Foggy says, circling around Matt to look him in the eye (it never feels fair that Matt can’t look back). “We’ve had enough fights about it for me to know I can’t, but I have earned the right to be told the truth. I expect you to be honest with me if you’re hurt! Karen and I asked you over and over again today if you were okay!”

Matt doesn’t even understand why Foggy’s making a big deal out of this—dragging Matt’s issues into the light, when he’s the one who told Matt just yesterday that he didn’t want to know about any issues Matt was having. Foggy has a right to tell Matt to handle his own shit if he wants, but he doesn’t get to have it both ways—tell Matt to lock it down one minute then demand vulnerability the next.

Matt is just tired.

“Fog-” Matt starts, exasperated and irritated, but Foggy interrupts him, working up to full on shouting.

“We carried not one—but two—250-plus pound desks up a set of stairs today! Instead of telling me you were hurt, you said you were good, and then aggravated whatever injuries you clearly have, and when you started limping, you let me believe it wasn’t from going out last night!”

Foggy’s close to saying something fair (but it’s not it’s not because Foggy doesn’t care), but he also isn’t listening, and trying to parse the misunderstanding makes Matt hesitate, so maybe he sounds even more like a liar when he repeats yet again, “I didn’t go out last night.”

“Then I guess if we unbutton your shirt to patch up the open wound on your back that’s definitely not from going out last night, we won’t also see your torso riddled in bruises that explain your fucking limp, right Matt?” Foggy yells, towering over him.

Matt takes a deep breath in and out. It makes him furious when Foggy steamrolls him and refuses to listen to anything he says. Matt almost never yells. It’s unpleasant to listen to when your ears are as sensitive as Matt’s, but people listen more when you yell. They take your words and your anger with more sincerity.

Foggy must decide to make good on his threat, because he’s suddenly reaching for Matt’s shirt.

Matt remembers strangers touching him—changing his bandages and his clothes while he was in and out of consciousness, asking who’s there—who’s touching him—not remembering what or if they answered.

Matt shoves Foggy’s hands away viciously. Their hands scrabble at each other—they probably look like a couple of kids fighting each other.

Foggy mutters, “Yeah that’s what I fucking thought,” and Matt’s rage skyrockets. He wants to hit him.

“Foggy, back off!” Karen snaps. “Jesus! He just had a fucking panic attack! You’re not fucking helping!”

Foggy does back off, stepping back several feet and putting his hands on his hips, facing away from Matt like he’ll cool off if he just stops looking at him.

Matt clenches his fists and seethes.

There’s silence for a moment. Karen looks at her watch. “It’s 3PM. We carried heavy desks up a flight of stairs… Everyone is tired. Matt clearly doesn’t feel well. I think we’ve done enough today. I think we should all go home.” Her voice strains a little, and Matt suddenly remembers back when Foggy first found out about Daredevil—how Karen was left in the middle of their mess—how she told Matt that she was starting to regret coming to work for them.

Maybe Foggy hears it in her voice too and remembers, because he hangs his head. After a minute, he speaks. “I’m an asshole,” He says, voice unsteady. He turns around to face both of them. “That was… I’m an idiot. I’m sorry, Matt.”

Matt says nothing. Hunkered down in his chair with his arms folded across his chest and a scowl on his face, he probably looks like a combative, scolded child.

“I’m sorry to you too, Karen.”

“It’s okay, Foggy,” Karen says quietly.

Foggy sighs, placing his hands on the back of a chair and leaning over it. “Restarting the firm was my idea, and you two crazy people indulged me.”

Crazy, because starting a firm with Matt is crazy.

“I need to lead the charge in making this work—and that includes resolving conflicts in a peaceful manner.”

Karen’s mouth opens briefly to say something, but she thinks better of it—stops.

“And I am not prepared to do that at this very moment.” Foggy grabs his coat—picks up his laptop and starts putting stuff in his bag.

It’s only then that Matt’s eyes burn. It makes him mad that they do. He’s glad he’s wearing his sunglasses.

Foggy pauses when he’s got his bag on his shoulder. “Matt? Call Claire and see if she’ll look you over. You owe her a phone call anyway. Please?”

Matt wants to snap that he could have given Claire a deserved phone call already, if Foggy hadn’t conveniently forgotten that he had Matt’s cell phone while talking to Matt about how he had lost it just yesterday.

Matt doesn’t feel inclined to do anything Foggy wants him to do at the moment, but he actually does want to know why he’s bleeding, and he’s a little scared about his spine and his hip, and nobody with a medical degree looked at him after Midland Circle, and he likes Claire. It would be nice to see her—provided she wants to see him. So Matt nods stiffly. He can’t bring himself to speak. He’s afraid of what would come out.

“Thanks,” Foggy says, and walks out on them.

“I didn’t go out last night,” Matt says one last time, now that Foggy is gone.

Karen takes a deep breath. “I believe you, Matt.”

Matt is surprised to find her heartbeat is steady. She’s telling him the truth.

She pauses, then says, “There’s uh… a bit of dried blood… under your nails.”

She doesn’t say anything else.

Chapter Text

As soon as they’re out on the street, Matt wearing his suit jacket again so that no one notices the blood on his white dress shirt, Karen walks to the edge of the road and starts hailing a cab. Her heart pounds anxiously, her breath too quick ever since Matt losing his shit and Foggy and Matt fighting and the blood under Matt's nails.

Matt doesn't have anything else to say—anything else to give. He just leaves her, unfolding his cane and starting down the street, favoring one leg.

No, "This is all my fault, Karen," this time.

No, "I'm sorry you were caught in the middle of it."

He hurts more than he did right after they got the second desk upstairs. His back has had time to swell, creating a sharper throb. The pain fuels his bitterness at Foggy for his hot and cold behavior—icing Matt out for crying and then for worrying him. Sometimes Foggy is just too much—too sure he knows what's what—too on Matt's case—too cloying. 

"All these years, I actually felt sorry for you."

"I didn't ask for that. I never-I never asked for that."

Matt's not fit for company—seething too hard to say anything to reassure Karen about the firm, about the partnership, about himself. 

“Matt, wait.”

Matt takes a deep, calming breath out through his nose—pauses and turns back in Karen’s direction.

“Stay here. I’m getting you a cab,” She says offhand as she waves down the street.

Matt clenches his jaw.

Karen’s trying to be helpful. She knows he doesn’t feel well and she’s trying to make things easier for him. Maybe she also figures he’s not so great at hailing taxis. (He picks them out accurately about 80 percent of the time). She did him the courtesy of believing him when Foggy called him a liar. Matt owes her a lot of money.

Matt should be nice. He should politely decline.

Matt is not getting in a cab.

“No,” He says flatly, before starting to limp away again.

Karen’s heart speeds up briefly in surprise. She turns toward his retreating back and makes an flabbergasted, exasperated sound. He can’t control his gait. He’s sure he makes quite the picture, limping away from her refusing a taxi ride. “Matt,” She says, like he’s being a child, and just saying his name should be enough to get him to see that.

Matt keeps walking.

“Matt!” He can hear her teeth grind against each other. A cab pulls up beside Karen on the road. “Matt, a cab’s already here, and you’re limping and bleeding!”

No shit. Matt knows that. He knows he’s tired, and hurt, and the whole walk back he’ll be in pain, and he’ll be even more exhausted by the end of it.

Matt’s willing to accept that.

“Just get in the damn cab!” Karen shouts at his back angrily, fists clenched at her sides.

"Can we not do this right now?"

"Is that why you insist on pushing everyone away?"

"I don't insist on-"

"Pushing me and Foggy away?"

"I'm not-"

Matt exhales carefully through his nose again. Turns around. “I said ‘no’, Karen. Back off. You’re being overbearing.”

“Well you’re being a goddamn stubborn idiot!” Karen rages back. Her breath hitches half a beat later at her own outburst.

Matt doesn’t actually want to fight with her. She doesn’t actually want to fight with him.

Karen’s worried—close to tears. Her heart thunders away rapidly. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” She asks—demands.

Matt woke up groggy, the sound of the cab’s engine roaring louder than it should—the cab traveling at speeds that couldn’t be safe, and Matt didn’t know where he was. Matt’s whole body jerked, his neck whipping when the front of the cab bashed into a wooden beam, throwing Matt’s body forward into the seat in front of him. Then the cab was in free fall. Matt only knew because he came off the seat, the top of his head hitting the ceiling, and then the cab crashed into freezing water. Matt’s brain was thick with fog from the drugs and his limbs moved clumsily and icy water started pooling into the cab, and Matt shook with adrenaline as he realized he was going to die.

“I’m not getting in a cab, Karen."

“I’ll cover the fare if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Matt’s response comes out colder than he means. “The last thing I want is for a person I owe thousands of dollars in rent to cover my cab fare.”

Matt’s glad Karen saved his apartment for him. He’s grateful.

It’s the perfect apartment for Matt. It’s large for the price. It’s got roof access for moonlighting as Daredevil. It’s familiar to him. It’s the first permanent home Matt’s known since he was ten. Karen saved it for him, because she thought it was important. She saved it because she thought he wanted to come home.

The apartment is a chain around Matt’s neck.

The cab driver waiting on Karen says something to her, and she sighs and mutters an apology. He speeds off.

Karen’s deep breath fogs in the cold air. “What if I walk you home?” She asks shakily.

“I’m fine on my own.“

She scoffs—turns her face away from him, shuddering in the wind, “We both know that’s not true.”

Matt works his jaw, says nothing.

Karen huffs a sharp laugh at his continued silence. “Can you even make it home by yourself?” The words come out clipped—resentful… condescending. “Because you weren’t doing so great in the thrift store.”

Matt’s hands clench tight around his cane.

“Do you know where you are sir? Are you lost? Is there someone I can call for you?”

A stranger grabbing his arm without permission. “Hey man, there’s a lot of cars. You should walk with someone.”

“You poor thing. Why are you out on the street all by yourself, dear?”

It just doesn’t occur to her. Matt knows that. She’d take the same derisive tone with Foggy if he was out of sorts and refusing help—appearing senselessly stubborn for stubbornness’ sake. She doesn’t understand that it’s different. At one point she might have, but not anymore.

“Can you see me?”

“No. Not see, exactly. It’s different. Um. I think it’s better.”

It just doesn’t occur to her that she isn’t allowed to say things like that to him—that no one gets to question Matt’s capacity to get home by himself—not her, not Foggy, not anybody.

“At least tell me you’re going to call Claire… or Maggie,” Karen swallows back frustration.

Matt’s tense all over, still stuck on the line before.

“Matt.”

“I don’t have phone service,” Matt snaps, at the exact moment the obstacle occurs to him.

“Then I’m calling, Matt!” She snaps back, like Matt’s using his phone as an excuse instead of indicating an actual issue with her and Foggy’s grand plan—like he’s just being stupid and combative.

Matt takes a deep breath while Karen fishes her phone out her pocket and starts scrolling through her contacts. “Not Maggie.”

“I’m calling Claire first, but if she doesn’t ans-”

“No, Karen.” Matt takes a limping step toward her, tone warning.

Karen makes a frustrated sound, anger mounting. “Matt, you’re pushing everyone away again! You’re not okay, and you’re walling yourself off just like befo-”

“You do not get to call my estranged mother!” Matt interrupts, stomping up to Karen until they’re face to face. “You don’t get to do that, Karen! You can’t just play house with me and mom because you wish your dad wanted to see you!”

Karen flinches—sharp inhale. Matt regrets the words instantly. It isn’t fair for him to say something like that. She confided in him, and now he’s crossed a line same as she did, but he can’t-

Foggy trying to take away his Daredevil suit so Matt can’t go out. Yanking and wrenching at it, trying to rip it straight out of his hands. Foggy yanking Matt’s phone out of his reach when Matt was too injured to fight back, answering the phone so he can tell Karen about Daredevil without Matt’s permission, reducing Matt to begging. Foggy telling Karen that Matt has a drinking problem as a cover without consulting with Matt first. Father Lantom keeping Maggie’s secret for decades, watching Matt grow up alone. Stick sending Elektra to try and drag Matt away from college. Elektra taking him into Roscoe Sweeny’s home without his knowledge—telling him to beat the man to death and resenting him so much when he wouldn’t that she left. Elektra killing the boy to protect Matt—slitting his throat—his warm blood spilling onto Matt’s face and neck, the boys heartbeat light and fast—terrified. Stick letting Karen into his apartment so she’ll find Elektra in Matt’s bed and jump to conclusions—so she’ll leave and Matt will be alone and friendless just how Stick likes it. Elektra intimidating the key witness in the Castle case because she unilaterally decided it would help Matt somehow and being wrong wrong wrong. Strangers talking to him like a child like he can’t do anything for himself. Maggie putting the crucifix around Matt’s neck, demanding he wear it for her when he told her he didn’t want to, pressuring him to go to Mass when he wasn’t ready. Father Lantom continuously asking if he wants to take confession or talk about God. Fisk’s lawyer, Donovan, smugly holding his arm out for Matt to take as Matt walks out of the room where Fisk beat him bloody, thinking Matt has no choice but to hold onto him, smugly talking about how accommodating Fisk was to his ‘particular disability’. The nuns poking and prodding at him while Matt begged them to stop touching him. Maggie deciding he was better off without her for the rest of his life. Jack never telling Matt the truth about his own mom. Jack choosing to die to make Matt proud instead of staying to protect him and take care of him. Every adult he was supposed to be able to trust when he was a kid lying to him and leaving. Everyone always choosing for him always choosing instead of letting Matt decide.

“Y-you don’t just get to decide you know better than me what’s best for me!” Matt shouts, breath coming fast, on the verge of panic again, but he’s just so angry. His hands are shaking, his heart is pounding- “Y-you can’t judge me for ‘walling myself off’ from my mom who lied to me and never wanted me! You don’t get to do that! It’s my business how I handle my relationship with her, not yours! You can’t just decide that I’m taking a cab! You can’t just decide that I can’t be trusted to walk home on my own through my own fucking neighborhood after you guided me into a fucking hat rack! You can’t just pay rent I never asked you to pay and then get mad after finding out it wasn’t what I wanted and then hold it over my head that I owe you thousands of dollars for something I didn’t ask for you to do!”

Matt’s breath comes harshly. He doesn’t even know why he said the last part. He’s glad Karen saved his apartment for him. He’s grateful. It was nice of her. It was kind. She made sure he got to keep the first permanent home he’s known since he was ten. He wants to pay her back. He’s not mad.

Why did he say that?

The floor of Fogwell’s Gym was hard and miserable but it was free as long as no one caught him staying there, and there were no bills to pay there no fridge to fill with groceries no obligations to repay a debt no one to answer to no thermostat Matt can’t operate. No Matthew Murdock there to ruin his life again.

“Wha-I-I-” Karen stutters, overwhelmed trying to figure out what to address first. “I’m sor-” She chokes, her voice is strained with threatening tears. “I-I’m not trying to hold the rent over your head, Matt.”

Matt’s breath stutters, regret tearing his anger away. “I’m sorry,” He swallows. He starts backing away. “Don’t call Maggie,” He turns around, starts limping briskly back in the direction of his apartment, not even remembering to use his cane.

“Matt…” Karen’s voice chokes. She covers her mouth with her hand, stifling anything else she might have said on bitter tears.

She doesn’t follow him.

Matt wheezes the whole way back to his apartment, on the verge of another panic attack. The cold air freezes in his lungs and people stare at him as he walks by, but no one says anything, thank God. His back and hip scream in pain, rebelling more and more as he walks. He can’t stop hearing the hitch in Karen’s breath when he mentioned her dad; when he talked about the rent money; when he yelled at her until she cried.

Nelson, Murdock, and Page worked a single day together at their new firm and Matt already tore everything apart again. They didn’t even make it to 5:00PM.

He heads for his bedroom as soon as he gets in the door of his place (because yes Karen, he can get home on his own just fine). He passes the stupid goddamn thermostat, the charging laptop, the huge pile of mail on his desk. A strange sound builds up in his throat, but he bites it back.

Matt yanks off his dress clothes and throws them on the ground in his bedroom, then he thinks better of it, picks them up and slams them into his hamper. Even as rich as his constructed picture of the world is, he can never shake the thought that everything needs to be neat and in its place in his home—the safe place where everything is set to his exact specifications and the scents and sounds and textures are familiar—the place Karen made sure he had to come back to… and Matt just screamed at her for it. He yelled at her for saving his home.

Matt tries to breathe slowly and steadily—runs his fingers through his hair, wicking up beads of sweat along his forehead. He grimaces at the film of dried sweat coating his skin and the stench of the meat shop deposited in his hair.

He heads for the shower. The soap he lathers into his skin lights up stinging lacerations not just on his back and arm where Foggy and Karen had seen through his dress shirt, but on his legs, hips, and arms—the skin thinned and hot with rash—pebbling lines of raised scabs from minor bleeding. Matt runs his fingers over the welts over and over and doesn’t know why he’s only now feeling all of it. He doesn’t know where any of it came from.

He shudders, and when he gets out of the shower, he shudders more. The temperature is dropping. Matt heard someone on the street say something about forecasted winter mix later this week. Just what Matt needs. Snow. He fucking hates snow, for reasons he can’t bring himself to think about right now. If one more thing in his life becomes overly complicated this week, he’s going to crawl into bed and never crawl back out.

He wants to hit something, and the idea of putting on the suit tonight is tempting, but his back and hip are hot with renewed swelling and his hands shaking from lack of caloric intake tell him that’s a terrible idea… and then he remembers he still doesn’t have any groceries.

Matt’s eyes burn, but he bites back his spiraling thoughts. He takes a deep breath in and out again. He glides his hands over folded clothes in his wardrobe, selecting his softest and warmest options. His sensitive skin is soothed by the soft textures as he slides on silk boxer briefs, sweat pants and a hoodie lined in downy warmth, and soft, thick socks. He crawls into his bed, pulls his duvet over himself, curling up on his side and lying still until he’s stopped shivering and he’s settled back into his skin.

He starts to relax, then he realizes he can still smell the meat shop on his clothes in the hamper. He fights not to gag, burying his nose against his sleeve to breathe in his detergent and the natural scent of the cloth fibers. His clothes smell stale—the way they do when it’s been too long since they were lived in.

He should go try to read some of his mail, or turn on his laptop and try to get online—see if his wifi is still functioning, then if it is, get his phone service turned back on and figure out what bills need to be paid. If the wifi isn’t functioning, he should go out to the coffee shop down the street and get on their free wifi. Then he can get the wifi turned back on. Then he can get his phone service turned back on. Then he can do everything else. While he’s out, he could go down the street to a bodega and grab a couple of grocery essentials—just enough to get by until he has the energy and mobility for a more substantial outing.

Matt doesn’t get up. He lays still as a stone and breathes, gut churning on nothing but stomach acid, heart beating too fast, trembling with nerves and hunger.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, but eventually, he hears Claire coming up the stairs.

Karen still called her, even after everything Matt said.

Matt’s eyes burn. He tells himself he should go ahead and get up, but it takes the sound of Claire’s knock for him to convince himself to move.

He limps by the desk again with the large pile of mail—clenches his jaw.

He opens an empty desk drawer and stuffs most of the mail inside angrily.

Claire does something he doesn’t expect when Matt opens the door. She surges forward after half a breath and hugs him. Matt stiffens in surprise for a minute, and the movement jostles his back a bit, but after a second, he brings his arms around her too.

Claire thought he was dead after Midland Circle. Everyone did. When Matt showed up in that bar to talk to Foggy, Foggy told Karen that Matt was alive, and then he told Claire just so she’d know. Matt hasn’t actually talked to her at all since before he “died”.

When Claire pulls back from the hug, she says in a strained voice, “You couldn’t call me yourself? Tell me you were alive and let me hear your voice?”

Matt’s throat closes up. Her concern and hurt surprises him a little, and reminds him of his fight with Karen. He hopes Claire won’t start a fight with him too. He’s too drained to fight anymore. “Kinda stopped paying the phone bill for a while when a building fell on top of me.”

Claire’s heart beats a little faster. “So you didn’t get out before the explosion.”

“No. I was laid up for months, recovering.”

“At a hospital.” It’s half a question, half a statement. Surely Matt went to a proper hospital when a building fell on top of him. Surely.

“No. At the orphanage where I grew up. They took care of me. It was weeks before I woke up, and months before I could walk on my own or-or function like before.”

“Fuck, Matt,” Claire says under her breath.

Something about the way she says it breaks Matt’s already shaky composure. His eyes fill with tears. He hasn’t actually told Karen or Foggy how hurt he was. Maybe it was implied, but he doesn’t know. He hasn’t wanted to talk about it. If he had talked about it, maybe Foggy would have understood more why Matt was hurting with the desks.

Claire is just… it feels easier to tell her things. She’s the only friend Matt has who’s always known about Daredevil and accepted Matt as Daredevil. There aren’t fights about Matt’s safety, or about the ethics of being a vigilante. Claire’s criticized his safety precautions. Claire’s pushed him to get armor. She’s challenged his motives, and she’s encouraged him not to ice people out. She’s never lectured him for being Daredevil, or yelled at him for putting himself in danger by going out to defend the city. Foggy told Matt he regretted bringing Matt the suit, because Matt went to Midland Circle and he was buried underneath it. Claire knows he had to be there. She was there too. She knew what was at stake. Maybe that’s why the words come so much easier than they would with anyone else—why when the fear bubbles up, this time he accepts it—admits it.

“Will you make sure I’m okay?” Matt’s throat strains a little around the words. “M-my spine… it hurts. And my hip. And…” He hesitates, remembering Karen telling there was blood under his nails. “There’s cuts all over me and I don’t know why.”

Claire nods emphatically and closes the door. “Let’s go sit on your couch. I can look at the cuts there.”

She puts a hand on Matt’s upper back as he limps to the couch, body aching and cold.

“Take off your hoodie?” Claire asks quietly as she sets her medical bag on his coffee table.

The couch dips under Claire’s weight next to him. She puts on medical gloves while Matt tugs his hoodie down his shoulders. It’s freezing and he still hasn’t looked for his throw. He drags his hoodie over his lap and tries not to shiver. “I think the one at the top of my back is the worst one,” He says, folding a leg up on the couch and turning his back to her. “It’s a knife wound from weeks ago… I think. I don’t know why it’s reopened.”

Claire’s hands are gentle when they touch. “Infected, for one. For another…” She brushes lightly around the edges of the wound. “It looks like it’s scabbed over and reopened multiple times.”

Her hands move down to another scratch on his side, and then to the back of his arm. A hitch in her breath. “These are scratch marks from fingernails, Matt. You’re covered in them.”

Claire takes his hand where it worries at the hoodie in his lap. She examines his nails. She doesn’t say anything when she lets go—just pulls a bottle of saline spray out of her bag and some cotton balls.

“Karen said there was blood under my nails,” Matt admits. “I don’t remember.”

“I’m guessing you scratched yourself up in your sleep,” she says, and her voice is inordinately gentle. It occurs to Matt that Karen probably told her about the panic attack and throwing up. Then it occurs to him that she definitely did. It would be foolish to think she didn’t.

Claire dabs at the wound on his back carefully, then sprays it down for good measure, wiping up the excess liquid that rolls down his back.

“I’m also guessing you’re about 20 pounds lighter than when I last saw you,” She sighs, hand brushing against his ribs. “That from your recovery, or is something else going on?”

“I lost a lot of weight while I was laid up,” Matt agrees. It isn’t a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.

He woke up at St. Agnes with significant fat and muscle loss, and then depression and a lack of ability to taste anything stole his appetite. Maggie badgered him until he ate enough to get by. It stopped being a problem when Matt’s sense of smell and taste and his hearing started coming back. His mood got better and food tasted good again and he started training again. Maggie always made sure he had enough to eat, and he gained back a lot of weight.

Then he found out Maggie was his mom, and he went to Fogwell’s, and it just got… difficult. Going back to his apartment and getting one of his cards… it would be a disaster to use anything in his name with the FBI looking for him. He had to use cash to buy food—sometimes cash he stole—a little from the kidnappers he took down. The ink on U.S. paper notes isn’t raised enough for Matt to tell the bills apart. He needs help identifying bills, then he has to fold them per denomination. There was no one he knew who he could ask for help after he left the church. His smart phone has an app that helps identify bills, but he didn’t have it back until today. Menus were also a problem. They are in general—it’s a chore to ask them to be read to him, and people are sometimes impatient even when Matt has his cane and his glasses with him and uses his most charming smile to ask for help. Matt was out without his cane a lot though, pretending to be a sighted person. He had to bullshit his way through the ordering process or just order what the person in front of him did. He had to throw cash on the table and hope it wasn’t way too much or not enough. People got irritated—snapped at him—asked if he was high sometimes because “your eyes look crazy.”

A panic attack, bloody nails from scratching himself up and not remembering doing it, his thinness and being told he’s unusually pale… the hallucinations of Fisk and Jack that he hasn’t told anybody about… Matt is crazy, anyway. It all presents a vivid picture—a picture that Foggy also warned Matt not to let materialize. A picture that made Karen reasonably worried, and all Matt could do was shout at her.

“I’ve never fooled with wounds in my sleep before.” It just feels important to say. The one defense he has left against the mess he is.

“Yeah—you do enough of that when you’re awake,” Claire says sarcastically, though her voice is still soft and there’s the ghost of a smile in it.

Matt doesn’t say anything to that, because it’s true. He pushes himself too hard—at least according to other people in his life. Hell—that’s what Foggy was yelling at him about today. And when he’s awake, he’s poked at wounds many times to assess them. He tries to be careful, but Claire’s slapped his hands away from fresh dressings more than once, telling him to stop touching his wounds and trust a damned professional.

Scratching is different though. It’s not a blind man trying to picture the extent of the damage on his own body, or moving too much and accidentally reopening closing wounds. Scratching is making damage on his own body with his own hands. It feels important that he hasn’t ever done that before. It feels important that it happened without him knowing it did. He doesn’t know if it makes him more scared or less.

“There's something seriously wrong with you,” Foggy had told him all those weeks ago in the bar.

Matt had only replied, “Yeah. I know.”

“You went through a lot recently, Matt,” Claire says, trailing her hand around to his arm and cleaning the scratch there. “Could be nightmares or night terrors. Could just be you’re more restless than usual.”

Is that why he’s so exhausted still, after 20 hours of sleep?

“Do you have sleep issues?” Claire asks. “What with the enhanced senses… or just from lack of light perception?”

“Sometimes.”

“How’s your sleep been lately?”

“Yesterday, I slept all day. Before yesterday… wasn’t sleeping much,” Matt shrinks slightly under cold saline on a scratch across his side. “When I first woke up at the Orphanage… I could barely stay conscious for more than a few minutes at a time. Then after I was lucid… I could still barely walk, so I was restless all of the time and never felt like sleeping.” He hesitates, then adds, “Quietest sleep I’ve had in decades, though.”

“Quietest?” Claire rifles through sterile bandages in her bag.

Matt hesitates. He doesn’t like remembering, but he needs to tell Claire about all of it anyway, because he wants her to tell him he’s going to be okay. “Couldn’t hear hardly anything for months. Couldn’t smell or taste anything but ash either.”

Claire doesn’t breathe for a second. “Jesus, Matt. That must have been…” She shakes her head. “Terrifying.” She places the bandage on the largest scratch—the one at the top of his back. Her hands linger a little longer than necessary, pressing the bandage into place.

Matt worries his fingers over the soft fabric inside his hoodie.

“I’m going to bandage the scratch on your arm now. I think the rest of the scratch marks are already healed enough. Unless there’s some you want me to take care of somewhere I can’t see right now.”

There are more on Matt’s legs, but he doesn’t think they’re a problem. Just long, raw feeling marks with a little scab dotting where he barely bled. They shouldn’t reopen. If they do… Matt can take care of them himself. He didn’t really need help cleaning or bandaging most of it anyway—he’s done plenty of minor wound care on himself—on his dad too when he was a kid. The wound on his back he did need help with because of the awkward angle… and he wanted her to look at the scratches because he didn’t understand.

He still doesn’t know how he feels about scratching himself up in his sleep. He doesn’t remember that ever happening before. Maybe as a kid? He’d have night terrors at the orphanage as a child. Maggie used to come sometimes and hold his hand. Then one day he cried for her, and she ignored him, and he knew she did.

Matt folds his leg back down and sits properly on the couch, facing a little in Claire’s direction when she’s done.

Her breath does something strange when she sees the look on his face, but she doesn’t say anything about it. “Tell me about damage from the building. Breaks, sprains…”

“I probably hit everything. But my hip and my spine… that’s what still hurts.”

“You never went to a doctor. Never had an x-ray… an MRI… a CT…”

“X-ray fingers, remember?” Matt tries for a smile. “I’d be able to hear or feel it if there was a fracture.” His voice lilts at the end in a way he doesn’t intend—like a question.

“After I was attacked, I seem to remember you having to touch my back to tell for sure how my bones were doing…. which means you can miss smaller things. And you told me yourself that swelling interferes with how accurately you can tell what’s going on. Just a casual glance at your back… there’s swelling around your lumbar spine. Besides… you can’t really assess most of your back on your own. And then there’s internal bleeding, bone bruises…”

Matt bites his lip—fiddles with the hoodie more. “I’d know by now, wouldn’t I?”

Claire shrugs. “Probably, but how about I palpate the areas that hurt at least? Your spine and your hip? Two sets of hands are better than one.”

Matt suddenly shivers a little, hair rising up along his bare back. He wants to put his hoodie back on, but Claire probably needs it off if she’s going to palpate.

“You cold? Because if so, you’re not the only one.”

“Uh… could be warmer,” Matt admits. “Thermostat’s by the door if you wanna turn the heat up.”

Claire peels her gloves off and walks around to the entryway, fooling with the thermostat for a while. “Matt… how the hell do you operate this thing?”

“You can’t figure it out?” He calls out to her.

The heat comes on, starting up a crackling hum.

“No, I mean you,” She emphasizes. “It’s a touch screen… Has it always been like this?”

“No. I came back and it had been changed. I think they did all the units in the building a couple of weeks ago.”

“And they didn’t think about the fact that one of their renters is blind when they picked out the new thermostats, apparently,” Claire says wryly.

Matt can’t help a small smile when she curses in Spanish under her breath. She knows he can hear her anyway. “Maybe they’re bitter that I get a discount over a billboard that doesn’t affect my enjoyment of the apartment at all.”

Claire pokes around at the screen for a while. “There are… no accessibility settings on this thing. Disappointing…” She sighs, “But not surprising, unfortunately.”

Matt closes his eyes, suddenly wanting to go back to bed. “You get used to it,” He says softly. It’s true that Matt is used to technology sometimes not being accessible to him, even when it’s supposed to be, and a certain level of serenity is required or else he’d be throwing his laptop off his desk at work on a weekly basis. But a thermostat in his own house not being accessible is something that Matt normally wouldn’t tolerate for any amount of time. Old Matt would have called the landlord the moment he found that thing installed. New Matt’s known in the back of the mind that it’s a problem for a while now and has done nothing.

Claire strides back into his living room, stands over him. “It’s December, Matt. Tell me you’re going to put that law degree to good use and make your landlord change this out before Hell’s Kitchen freezes over.”

Matt nods. “I will.” Tomorrow. He’ll do it tomorrow. After he gets his phone service turned back on again he can call the apartment management company.

He can do that.

“Well… for now… do you have… tape or stickers or anything? I could put some over the up and down arrows for you at least so you can find them.”

A lump forms in Matt’s throat. He hadn’t thought of that, but it would be nice. Just… a little something that could put him a little more in control of all the little pieces in his life that seem to have simultaneously broken apart. He gets up and limps into the kitchen, sliding open a drawer and fishing out some masking tape. He hands it to Claire, and she strides back to the entryway, murmuring at him to follow her.

“You know,” She says while carefully placing small pieces of tape on the display, “With that limp and the swelling… You should really get yourself checked out properly. I can only assess so much through an at-home visit.”

Matt tries his best to give her a confident smile. He’s pretty sure it looks more like a grimace. “Blind man riddled with scar tissue and healed fractures… seems like a case that might qualify for mandatory reporting.”

“Lucky for you, I’m setting up a special clinic.” Claire finishes placing the tape—steps back. “Tell me if you can find that.”

Matt runs his fingers over the screen until he finds the ridges of two small pieces of tape. Up arrow on top, down arrow below it… seems simple enough.

“You might have to tap on the screen once to light it up before it’ll register the input,” She warns him.

“Thanks,” Matt nods. “Uh… special clinic?”

“Danny’s financing. Front-facing portion will serve locals in need, but the back end… Well. You’re not the only vigilante in New York who could use occasional medical care that doesn’t come with questions.”

“That’s…” He swallows.

“…Good news for the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen who had a 30 story building fall on top of him but is more worried about followup from DCFS about his potential abuse than internal bleeding or a spinal injury?” Claire finishes for him. “Speaking of… you ready for me to palpate that back and hip?”

“Yeah,” Matt nods, trailing back out into the living room. “It hadn’t been hurting much for a few weeks now… but today, Foggy, Karen, and I carried these heavy wooden desks up some stairs, and… it all hurts.”

“Probably not your smartest move.”

“Yeah, Foggy already gave me the third degree… though he’s convinced I went out last night and that’s why I was hurting.” Matt tamps down on his bitterness. Claire does enough for him without him involving her in his personal drama with Foggy. “How do we do this?”

“Standing right here at first, arms at your sides,” Claire walks up behind him, assessing his posture. “Foggy doesn’t know about your injuries?”

“Mm. Not the specifics. Just that I was gone for a long time.”

“Maybe you should explain all of it to him in more detail. Where’s the pain centered?”

Matt twists to place his hand where it hurts on his lower back, then down and to the right at the backside of his hip. “Here and here.”

“You okay if I touch?”

“Yeah.”

“Stand up straight as you can,” She instructs. Matt’s sure that Claire knows the exact name of every muscle and bone she’s poking around, but the best way Matt could describe it is she starts around his love handles, palpating inward toward the spine. “Tell me when it hurts.”

“There,” Matt winces when her fingers apply pressure right on the sides of his spine. Her fingers move to the dimples in his lower back next and press in.

“I’m… pretty sure your pelvis is a little tilted.”

“How bad is that?”

“It’s pretty common, honestly. Happens to people who do jobs that force them to stand a lot favoring one leg over the other, for example. Or to hip surgery patients who end up with one leg that’s slightly shorter than the other. The lower back compensates, muscles get tight… might even explain the hip pain. Of course… I’m not a specialist. It’d be best for you to see a physio… but I can show you some stretches.” She feels around a little more. “Muscles are tighter on the right side of the lumbar spine, but… you probably knew that.”

“Yeah.”

“Matt,” Claire pauses, taking her hands off him, folding them across her chest. “Do you want me to tell Foggy? Do you want me to talk to him for you? Or Karen? Because I can do that if you want.”

“If I want? You don’t already have some kind of… group chat?”

“I know these meetings where I show up at your place and stitch up grievous wounds aren’t exactly in my job description as a medical professional… but I still try not to override your privacy, Matt,” Claire reminds him, and Matt realizes that’s… quite true. Back when Foggy found him after his fight with Nobu, he tried to ask Claire all kinds of questions about Matt’s vigilante activities. Claire didn’t tell him a damn thing. “It’s up to you. It’s just an offer. Sometimes it’s hard to tell people things, even if you know it’s useful for them to know. I’m just… I’m noticing you’re not having such a great time, here. You’re pale, you look absolutely exhausted, and I don’t know if you know, but there’s been a look on your face a couple times since I got here like you… It just-it worries me, Matt.”

“Karen and I have covered enough for you as it is.”

“All these years, I actually felt sorry for you.”

Matt swallows. “M’fine, Claire.”

Claire lets out a long breath. “Alright, Saint Matthew. If you say so. You just let me know if you change your mind.” She gestures to his room. “I need you prone to do anymore palpating on the spine, and any at all on the hip. Probably easier on your bed than the couch.”

It’s a question as much as a statement—Matt could say no, but she said he needs real scans, and he can’t have them—at least not yet. This is all he has for now. “When’s your clinic open?”

“Couple of months.”

Matt heads toward the bedroom, favoring one leg.

Claire breaths out a small laugh. “You’ll be my first call when the machines are in. Promise.”

“On my stomach?”

“We can start with that. When was the last time you even went to see a doctor, since it’s been a no-go since you started beating criminals to a bloody pulp every night?”

“Uh… college maybe?” Matt gets into position, lets his left arm hang over the side of the bed, slides the other under his duvet, turns his face away from her.

“Hm. I’m starting to think you just don’t like going to the doctor.”

He doesn’t. “Does anyone?”

“Fair enough. I’m gonna start at the top of your lumbar spine this time. Okay?”

“’Kay.”

She starts feeling for the bottom of his ribs, then works her way to his spine and starts doing a series of presses down it with the heel of her hand, one segment at a time.

Matt curls his bedsheets in his right hand. The prone palpating has more pressure. It doesn’t hurt yet, but it will. The pressure also feels familiar somehow, though he can’t recall Claire ever doing this to him.

“You’re what, 30? I’m betting you’ve been sick at some point in the last decade. Never went to the doctor? And what about shots? A tetanus shot seems important given your extracurricular activities.”

“I’ve had a tetanus shot. I just went to Walgreens.”

“So you can be proactive about your health. Good. GPs also like to do bloodwork starting when you turn 30… screen for cancer… that sort of thing. Might be especially important for a guy who had God knows what chemicals splashed on his eyes as a kid.”

Matt’s empty stomach rolls. He kind of wishes she’d stop talking about everything that could be wrong with him… especially considering he’s pretty sure he doesn’t even have health insurance right now. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you’re opening that clinic.”

He’ll go if it’s Claire who’ll be assessing him. He trusts her. He’s not sure she even realizes how much. He’s not even sure it occurred to him how much, until he realized he’s never felt the urge to put on his sunglasses in front of her—not even once—and she’s pressed him into plenty of uncomfortable conversations.

Claire hums in agreement, then her hand plucks briefly at the bedsheets resting in front of his face. “More evidence for my hypothesis.”

It takes Matt a minute to figure out what she’s talking about. “Blood?”

“Looks fresh. Can’t you taste it on the air or something?”

“I’m working in the top of a cured meat shop right now. And I’ve bled on these sheets a lot.”

“Damn shame,” She goes back to palpating. “They’re nice sheets.”

“It washes out,” Matt shrugs. “I think.”

“Buy some in a color dark enough to hide the blood and you’ll never have to wonder.”

Matt grins. “Yeah I think I’ll walk into a department store and say, ‘Excuse me, sir, could you help me find silk sheets in a color dark enough to hide frequent blood staining?’”

“Tell them you get nose bleeds at night. I grew up next door to a girl my age with pink satin bedsheets covered in nosebleed stains.”

“Ugh,” Matt huffs a laugh.

“Yeah… I thought the same thing.” There’s a smile in her voice.

For a moment, the world feels less awful.

Claire’s hands pause on his back. “Okay, I know I’m getting close to where you said it hurts. Just tell me to let up if you need me to, okay?”

Matt nods, and the very next press of her heel lights up sharp pain in his lower back. Matt bites his lip hard.

Matt remembers hands holding him down—a lot of hands, keeping him pinned to a bed on scratchy sheets, and being so weak he couldn’t fight them off. He remembers trying to ask who they were and what they were doing and asking them to stop and barely being able to hear himself. Warbled voices and hands pinning him down and pressing on his back just like Claire’s been doing, but harder or at least more painful—flaring red hot jolts of agony up and down his entire body from that one point of pressure, screaming and only knowing he did because of muffled sound and the vibrations of his own throat while they pressed and pressed and pressed on his spine. He couldn’t do anything to make them stop and his face was hot with tears, and he kept repeating, “I can’t see, I can’t see,” trying to make them understand.

“You okay?”

“You feel anything?” He retorts, voice thin. He’s breathing heavily, and his eyes are wet with tears.

Maggie. Maggie told him his spine and his hip were damaged. The nuns must have done this to him when he wasn’t lucid, doing their best to asses him without imaging.

“Hm,” Claire taps lightly at that spot on his spine a few times, then on a spot higher up. “You hear a difference?”

Matt frowns. “Maybe?” He doesn’t want Claire touching him anymore. He wants her to stop touching him. At the same time, he wants her to keep going. He needs to know the damage.

“Can you reach this? Put those x-ray fingers to use and check for a healing hairline fracture.”

Matt takes a deep breath and feels along the vertebrae as directed, and… “Yeah,” He swallows. “There’s… something not quite right I think.” It’s difficult to tell under the inflammation from moving the desks.

“Go to the next vertebra down?”

Matt drags his fingers down. His hand trembles, and he wonders if it’s nerves or if it’s from not eating all day. It makes it harder to concentrate. Eventually though, he feels something here too: a clicking or grinding. “Mhm.” He doesn’t know why he never felt it before. Or maybe it had healed enough that there wasn’t much to feel, and then with the desks today, he messed it all up… just like Foggy said… almost like Foggy said.

Matt didn’t go out, but he shouldn’t have lifted the desks. At least after the first one, he should have known better than to help carry a second one down the street. He should have told Foggy, but he didn’t. He wanted to be dependable, and now he’s made himself less dependable.

“Okay. I’m not going to palpate there. I’ll call you when the clinic’s set up and we’ll do scans… along with everything else you probably need for a normal 30-year-old’s check up. In the mean time… I’ll find you a back brace. You need to stretch and rest. No more lifting wooden desks.”

“What about uh, fighting?”

“I think you know the answer to that. Stretch. Wear the brace I’ll get for you, and fight the air for a while, would you? At least until those vertebrae feel more stable. You need to be very careful with stuff like lifting until your spine is completely healed. Be careful walking as it gets colder too. The last thing you need to do is slip and fall on ice. You don’t want to end up needing surgery.”

Matt slumps his hand back on the bed and worries at his sheets. He definitely doesn’t want to end up needing surgery. He doesn’t even want to think about it. They’d drug him, and they’d cut him open, and they’d touch him wherever they wanted and he wouldn’t be able to move, and he’d have to recover on scratchy sheets, possibly confined to a bed, which would mean a catheter or a bedpan. They’d watch him more carefully when they started letting him walk because blind patients have higher fall risks, and they’d apologize profusely over not having some glossy pamphlet they normally hand out to patients in a version he can read himself, and they’d either treat him like a chore or talk to him in condescending tones, and they’d send a social worker to ask him delicate questions about his home life because of his skin covered in raised scars and his x-rays lighting up with healed fractures. They might even think Foggy or Karen was to blame—might keep Matt from having anyone familiar nearby, and that was so important the last time Matt was hospitalized when he was nine and his eyes were burning and everything was so loud and his head felt fuzzy and he couldn’t see. He needed his dad. Wanted Dad to hold him like a baby and not the latchkey kid he already was by then and would be again.

If Matt ended up needing surgery for his back… after he got discharged, he’d still probably not be able to move a lot—not after a spine surgery. No Daredevil for months. Again. Just listening to the sirens and the screams and not being able to do what he’s supposed to do. Wanting to die because of it.

He’d need help with things again too.

“Angry, sarcastic, and stubborn. Maybe you don’t have any friends.”

He’s a bad patient, he knows that—snapping at Father Lantom when he was nothing but kind and patient with Matt. Combative and ungrateful with Father Lantom and Maggie while he drained their resources like a leech—eating their food, wearing clothes they provided, sleeping in a space they prepared for him.

“Now that you’re out of the woods…”

“You want me to go.”

“It’s not a convalescent home.”

“I understand.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

He already knows he couldn’t ask Foggy to help him out.

“Karen and I have covered enough for you as it is.”

He yelled at Karen and probably ruined their relationship again, and she’s done enough. He pushed her to the limit financially carrying two rents, and then he spit in her face for it—twice. Claire has her own life with Luke and a business she’s trying to start, and lives all the way up in Harlem. The thought of asking Maggie makes him so anxious he won’t be able to breathe if he thinks about it too long.

Matt’s eyes sting and his throat hurts.

“Matt? Are you okay?” Claire’s not touching him anymore—hands hovering over him instead.

Matt turns his face into the sheets and the silk wicks up the moisture in his eyes. “Yeah,” He says in a way that isn’t at all convincing. He wants Claire to check him—she’s all he has—and he’s tired of losing his shit every few hours. He wants it to be true that he’s okay. He can’t go through all of it again. He needs something to go right even if it’s something small. He needs to know he’s going to be okay.

There’s silence for a long time. She clearly doesn’t believe him, and Matt remembers Foggy yelling at him today—accusing him of going out when Matt didn’t, and he stifles a strange sound that wants to crawl out of his throat even though it’s a different situation because he didn’t lie to Foggy but he is lying to Claire.

His hand clutches the silky smoothness of his sheets and he thinks maybe he could just go to bed right now and not wake up until he’s all better and his back doesn’t hurt and he doesn’t feel like crying. He could just go to bed and never do his taxes and never get his phone service turned back on and never look at his mail and never call to advocate for himself over the thermostat he can’t operate and never get groceries and never look at his bank account or his credit card bills or his credit report and never worry about letting Foggy and Karen down or reconnecting with his estranged mom while worrying if she actually wanted that and if he could actually really forgive her if she did. He could just lay here on this bed and sleep until Matt Murdock goes away and he doesn’t have to worry about him or his life anymore.

“Let’s stop,” Claire says carefully.

“No,” Matt says—voice strangled. “I want-I want you to check everything out. Please?” Matt can’t need surgery. He can’t.

Claire sighs, heart beating a little faster with worry. “I’m done with your back, but if you want me to check around your hip, you need to pull your sweatpants down a little so I can palpate properly.”

“’Kay,” Matt says, and his hands go to his waistband, but they stop there. He just lays there with his face buried in his sheets, paralyzed. It’s not like he actually has to pull his underwear down. She didn’t say he did. He’s been down to his boxer briefs in front of her before. It shouldn’t matter.

Barely waking up to hands yanking his pants and underwear down roughly and cleaning urine off of him—shrinking away and shoving and trying to fight and warbled scolding and hands pressing his back into scratchy, wet sheets. Was it Maggie? Was it some stranger? No way to communicate because he couldn’t see—he couldn’t see. He didn’t even know if he was forming proper sentences when he told them to stop, and they didn’t listen. They didn’t listen.

His left hand is picked up, and Matt jerks, rolling onto his right side with the motion, but he doesn’t rip his hand completely out of Claire’s grip before he remembers it’s her. He’s breathing funny—maybe not quite hyperventilating again but close. She crouches at eye level with him, holding his hand in both of hers. Her grip is loose so he could pull away if he wanted, but he doesn’t. She starts rubbing circles into the back of his hand with her thumbs. There’s a gentle pressure to it. It gives him something to focus on and it kind of feels nice. It occurs to Matt that she’s staring him right in the face and his eyes are probably red and his lip is wobbling like it always does when he’s trying not to cry, but he suddenly can’t work up the energy to care. He slumps instead, and when tears come, he just blinks and lets them fall.

He remembers Maggie and sometimes Father Lantom coming into the basement on days Matt refused to get up or eat or talk. Father Lantom would sit beside him, quietly reading when he realized Matt wasn’t going to respond to anything he said. Maggie would poke and fuss, snarking at him in the hopes that it would provoke him into responding—sighing long and deep when he refused to rise to her bait.

Claire kneads at his hand, and then up his wrist a little. It helps remind Matt where he is.

“You back with me?” She says softly after a couple of minutes.

Matt sniffles—finally pulls his hand out of her grip so he can wipe his eyes with the back of his hand. He sits up a little, leaning against his headboard and nods.

Claire hesitates for a moment, then sits on the edge of his bed, facing him. “Karen told me you threw up at lunch and had a panic attack in the afternoon.”

Matt doesn’t know what to say to that. He shrugs, grabs his duvet and pulls it up to his chest.

“Do you know what caused it?”

Matt shakes his head. He doesn’t remember. Karen and Foggy were working on something he couldn’t help with, and he was thinking about that, and then he started thinking about a lot of other things. Thinking about everything. Thinking too much. Feeling out of control—trapped and helpless. Walking around without his cane. The cab.

“What about just now?”

Matt’s throat hurts. His eyes well up with renewed tears. His hands clench in his sheets.

He doesn’t talk, and after a long pause, Claire gets up, striding out into the living room. She goes straight to her bag, and Matt’s brain immediately concludes that she’s going to grab her stuff and leave. A sob comes out of his throat no matter how hard he tries to bite it off, because this is what he does—he makes people leave because he’s a fucking mess, just like Foggy said. But then Claire’s shoes are striding back into his bedroom with purpose. She sits on the edge of his bed again and suddenly his hoodie is on his lap.

Matt pulls it on gratefully, settling into its comforting warmth and trying to get himself back under control again.

Claire rummages through her bag. She pulls out a bottle of pills that shake against their plastic container and sets them on his bedside table, then pulls out something larger that she has to unroll. It crinkles like and smells like plastic, and has a long cord. She plugs it in beside his bed. “Lean forward a little for a second,” She says quietly.

Matt obeys her, and Claire straightens his pillows a little, then shoves what Matt finally realizes is a heating pad behind him, quietly telling him to sit back again. She fusses with the placement of the heating pad until she’s satisfied that it’s covering his lower back properly, then turns it on.

Matt’s lower back quickly starts to warm, soothing the ache in his spine. He lets out a long breath.

Claire sits and watches him for a moment, then walks out of the bedroom again. She leaves her bag on the floor by his bed, so Matt doesn’t do anything embarrassing this time like start crying again. She goes to the kitchen, grabs a glass, and goes to his fridge.

She pauses there for a moment, looking into a fridge Matt knows is empty of all but condiments. She closes the fridge again and goes to the sink, filling the glass with water. She returns to his bedside and sets the glass down on the table, opens the bottle of pills and shakes out three, then holds them out in front of Matt. “Three ibuprofen.”

Matt takes them out of her hand. She hands him the glass of water so he can swallow them down, and he does. His hand shakes, making the glass wobble.

Claire drops her hand down on the top of his talking clock.

“6:17PM,” It chimes.

“What kind of pizza do you like?”

Claire forces him to drink several glasses of water before the food ever arrives, muttering about the state of his hands telling her he’s dehydrated. The water helps.

When the pizza arrives, they sit on his bed with plates on their laps, the pizza box between them by their legs. Matt’s bundled under the covers, Claire sits on top of them.

Matt’s stomach still isn’t doing great, but he needs to eat, so he eats—slower than he did at lunch.

“Your color is coming back,” Claire observes, while Matt’s finishing up his first slice. She leans over to grab another piece of pizza from the box and drops it on his plate in a silent demand.

Matt picks it up dutifully and continues to eat. He does feel better now—his pain is managed and his stomach is starting to fill. Claire made his thermostat slightly accessible. He’s warm. Just a few small sources of relief in the grand scheme, but they make it a lot easier to manage his emotional state.

Claire doesn’t ask him any questions while he eats, and Matt’s grateful for that. He doesn’t even have the energy to face her direction while talking to her right now—much less fill the silence with chatter.

Claire updates him on her life like it’s just a casual hang out. She’s nearly done with the credentials for nurse practitioner. She’s working at a GP’s office right now so she has more energy to focus on that and planning the clinic. She talks a little about what Luke’s been up to. She tells Matt that Luke says “Hi”. She talks about doing a little self defense training with Coleen, and tells a couple of stories about patients and doctors and nurses. She only pauses her stories to hand Matt new slices of pizza, an unvoiced demand that he eat until she’s satisfied he’s consumed enough calories. She doesn’t push anymore on him after he’s finished four slices.

The food does help, and Claire’s stories are a decent distraction from Matt’s spiraling thoughts. He’s feeling a little more himself by the time Claire puts the leftover pizza in the fridge and the cups and plates in his dishwasher.

He should be doing that. It’s his apartment. But Matt sinks into the pillows and the heating pad and tracks her movements through the kitchen while worrying at the fabric of his hoodie instead. His wants to go to bed now.

“Noticed you don’t have any groceries in the fridge. Not even the usual beer,” Claire says when she comes back, sitting on the edge of his bed again right beside him.

Matt shrugs. “Just moved back on the weekend. Haven’t been shopping yet.”

“That something you could use a hand with?”

Matt’s already mentally adding the cost of this pizza to the mountain of financial debts he owes everyone in his life.

“I’m fine.”

Claire very politely doesn’t make that response about anything other than groceries. She does reach for his hand again, taking it in both of hers.

“Do you feel like talking anymore? Telling me anything?” She says quietly.

Matt shakes his head. He’s finally gotten his composure back, and he’s exhausted. There aren’t words to say, even if Matt did feel like talking and letting himself cry again. He wouldn’t know what to say—where to begin.

“What about Foggy or Karen? Do you feel like talking to one of them? Or do you want me to?”

Matt shakes his head. “I’m tired,” He says slowly, face slack. His eyes droop, lending credence to the claim.

“I’m not gonna push,” Claire says. “Not tonight, anyway. But I do want you to check in with me tomorrow, Matt. If you don’t call me, I’m going to call you, and if you don’t answer, I’m coming here or sending one of your friends to check on you. Do you understand?”

Matt nods, ignoring that neither Karen nor Foggy would come to check on him right now after he fought with both of them. Ignoring that his phone has no service so he can’t actually call Claire. He can fix that. He can take care of that tomorrow, and then if he wants, he can call her.

“You need anything before I go?”

Matt shakes his head slightly. “Thank you, Claire,” He says faintly.

She lets go of his hand and gathers up her bag. Stands over him, hesitating. She steps toward him, brushing her hand over his hair, and kisses him on the forehead.

Matt can’t help a small, probably dopey-looking smile.

“Call me tomorrow… or I’ll call you. Just to check in. I’ll have that back brace for you in a couple of days.” She stops again in the doorway. “I’m just a phone call away, Matt. Remember that. I’ll always be here… when you really need me.”

The world falls away before he’s even tracked Claire out the door.

Chapter Text

Matt wakes up limbs jerking, fingers clawed into his clothes, with the memory of hands all over him, pinning him down.

He’s drenched in sweat, his clothes sticking to his skin. Heat is blowing onto him from the vent beside his bed, and combined with the heating pad, he’s burning up. He zips off his hoodie and crawls out of bed, socked feet shuffling all the way to the thermostat. He recalls Claire’s instruction to tap the screen to make it wake up first. He does, then drags his fingers along the bottom of the screen until he finds the piece of tape for the down arrow. He hits it a few times and waits nervously.

After a minute, the air stops blowing and Matt lets out a breath of relief.

He peels off his sweat slick pants with a grimace and crawls back into bed, tapping his alarm to check the time. “11:38PM,” it chimes.

His back and hip are throbbing again already, so Matt grabs the bottle of ibuprofen Claire left and takes more, chasing it with water from the glass Claire left on his bedside table for him. The lack of longevity of the pain killers don’t speak well to the state of Matt’s back. Then again, pain killers haven’t worked very well on Matt since he was nine. Heightened senses means heightened sense of pain, too.

He eases back down on the heating pad for more relief—finds the switch on the power cord and adjusts the temperature downward so he doesn’t burn his now bare skin. He lays still and breathes.

He lies there for hours, helplessly awake even as his eyes burn with exhaustion. His heart flutters faster than its resting rate. His stomach rolls.

He needs to fix his phone. He needs to see if his internet is still working. He needs to pay Karen back. He needs to apologize to her. He needs to get groceries. He needs to read his mail and catch up on his bills and check his bank account. He needs to call about the thermostat. He didn’t file his taxes. He needs Claire to open up her clinic so he can go there and make sure his spine and hip are okay and he doesn’t need surgery and he doesn’t have cancer. He needs to not have an emotional breakdown at work. He needs to mend things with Foggy. He needs to pay the next month’s rent and utilities soon. He needs to reconnect with his mom. He needs to make sure he isn’t wanted by law enforcement anymore. He needs to see if he still has health insurance just in case. He needs to rebuild his credit. He needs to rebuild his professional reputation. He needs to help build up the firm and get them some clients so they can all afford to live. He needs to wash the smell of Nelson’s Meats out of his clothes. He needs to make sure he doesn’t fall or lift anything because it might destroy his spine and then-

Part of him wishes he could go out to deal with the nerves and the restlessness, but he’s moving so slow, and he’s scared about his spine. Even that fear is a new development, because when he was in the basement of the church, after his World On Fire started coming back, Matt was happy to push himself—working the makeshift punching bag, falling to the floor writhing with pain when he went for a kick and his back and hip couldn’t handle the impact. He didn’t care. He just kept going… because if he couldn’t be Daredevil—if he couldn’t get back to his previous level of control and independence—he was going to die.

Kneeling in the street after losing a fight to two petty criminals who wouldn’t have stood a chance against him before Midland Circle. Telling them to bash his brains in with the crowbar—begging them to do it.

He was going to get himself killed, or waste away in that damp basement on scratchy sheets, Maggie’s impatience and irritation and worry and mothering suffocating him further down because her care—while a need (and sometimes a desire) was also an excruciating blow to his pride, and a constant reminder of a world and a purpose slipping further and further from his grasp.

“Angry, sarcastic, and stubborn. Maybe you don’t have any friends.”

Maybe the religious guidance would be to humble himself… but Matt can’t do that. He just can’t. He knows pride is a sin, but he can’t help it. He’ll say a few hail Mary’s. He’s not going to confess to the new, unfamiliar priest at Clinton Church. He can’t really even bring himself to feel guilty anyway. He’s got a right to this kind of easily-bruised pride if anyone does. He’s got a right to not be able to stand needing help with too many things at once.

Matt was a fiercely independent kid. He had to be. He was a latchkey kid, born to a single dad who struggled to make ends meet. He recognized from a young age that he was missing a parent—that she just didn’t exist. He watched other kids his age be kissed and hugged and picked up by their mothers and then he watched them whine and rebel at being fussed over, and he told himself—he said, good—he didn’t want or need mothering. Jack mothered him just enough. When Jack was out (which was a lot, because he trained like mad to be good enough to keep food on their table) Matt held his head high and took pride in all the things he did to take care of himself—to take care of Dad too. He cooked meals when many of his peers could barely work a toaster. He sewed up the cuts on his dad’s face. He grocery shopped for them, using every last cent to its maximum efficiency. He managed their money. Jack would drop his winnings straight into Matt’s hands when he got home and Matt would start counting and calculating rent and utilities and budgeting groceries, Jack beaming with pride under a swollen face at how bright his boy was.

Going blind took away several things Matt took pride in being able to do for them. He couldn’t help with finances because he couldn’t read the prices in the grocery store and he couldn’t count the winnings Jack brought home. He couldn’t sew up Jack’s face anymore when his eyebrow split. He couldn’t grocery shop for them anymore. Matt also needed more then before. There were medical bills and doctor visits and there was orientation and mobility and braille lessons and a trauma recovery program. (Matt would ask about the money and Jack would tell him it was fine, and Jack’s heart would beat fast fast fast because he was lying). There were night terrors and there was sensory overload and insomnia. There was re-learning a whole new way to do everything without being able to see, and discovering so many small things that now seemed strangely impossible to do on his own—things as simple as checking the time.

Jack also fussed over him more—anxious about Matt all of the time in part due to the blindness and in part due to the accident itself and the terror of almost losing his child. Matt relished Jack’s attention the first month or two when he was scared and anxious himself—holding tight to Jack’s hand any time they had to walk and becoming more clingy and needy for the comfort of touch in the absence of sight (Matt’s still like that… he still-) but Jack’s fussing eventually became cloying, and Matt fought through orientation and mobility training (he could hear everything and it made it so hard to understand what was close and what was far away and what mattered and what didn’t), and then he fought Jack—screamed and cried—until Jack finally started to understand, and started carefully counting out his winnings when he got home—asking Matt what he thought about the budget. Started organizing the kitchen meticulously so that Matt could cook again. Brought home to Matt his first tactile watch. Matt settled—went back to being a latchkey kid… just one who did things a little differently than before.

Then Jack died, and the anchor to which Matt had moored himself was gone, and he had nobody. The nuns were uncertain of what he was capable of at first as far as doing things on his own, and his worsening issues with sensory overload and sleep and night terrors didn’t help him prove he was capable. He wanted his dad, who he fought so hard to make understand. Independence slipped further and further away along with his grasp on the world, until the nuns were whispering about having him committed. They thought he was schizophrenic—that he was hearing voices.

Matt thinks about hallucinating Fisk, hallucinating Jack.

“There's something seriously wrong with you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Matt rolls onto his side, trying to ease his stomach, letting his back pay the price for a while.

Stick came along, and Matt’s darkening world full of screaming agony flamed with ordered chaos, overwhelming sensory input sharpened into a 360 degree visual of objects in space. Matt resented Stick for leaving, and as an adult, he sees how broken Stick was and the negative influence he had on Matt in a variety of ways when he was young and impressionable and vulnerable. Matt will always love him anyway for giving Matt back his independence and his sanity. He didn’t just make Matt feel as capable as everyone else. He made him feel more capable. He took pride in how special both of them were, and he passed that pride onto Matt—the pride of being better and needing no one.

“Can you see me?”

“No. Not see, exactly. It’s different. Um. I think it’s better.”

Then Stick left, and it occurred to Matt that his mom didn’t want him, and Stick didn’t want him, and his dad was dead, and the orphanage was obligated to care for him until he was 18 but no older, and then he’d be all alone. Independence wasn’t just an emotional need—it was a practical need, because Matt can’t depend on anyone. He can’t count on anyone to stay, or to love him, or to help him if he needs it. So needing too much help with too many things at once… it’s something Matt can’t stand. Maybe that means he’s full of sinful pride… but he thinks he’s got a right to it. There isn’t any other way for him to be.

“Is that why you insist on doing everything alone?”

The thing is… Matt doesn’t actually think he’s bad at asking for help in general—not with “normal” things. He’s used to it. It’s something they teach you in trauma recovery after you go blind. How to live an independent life, but also how to ask for assistance without apologizing or feeling guilty. When it comes to a lot of things, Matt’s perfectly willing to unapologetically—sometimes even aggressively—impose. Matt icing people out and refusing help has always been more about the devil inside—the rage he feels—being a destructive force that ruins others lives—his own ego.

“Those Murdock boys, they’ve got the devil in them.”

Being blind doesn’t make Matt feel like a burden. It doesn’t embarrass or humiliate him. He isn’t ashamed of it.

“Yeah well sight is overrated.”

It just makes protecting his own independence that much more important to him. It’s just another thing that makes his life harder sometimes. It just makes other people overbearing sometimes. It just makes people’s concern chafe at him sometimes. It just makes people feel sorry for him sometimes. It just isolates him more sometimes. It just makes people uncomfortable around him sometimes. It just makes him self-conscious about people looking him in the eye sometimes. It just complicates his life sometimes. It just means the list of things he needs can pile higher.

It just made what happened to him after Midland Circle that much more terrifying.

Matt taps his alarm again. “3:26AM.”

His back hurts again. He remembers you aren’t supposed to take more than a certain number of NSAIDs over 24 hours.

He closes his eyes and tries to slip into meditation.

Hands holding him down using all their body weight, pressing him face first into the bed while he screamed, begging them to stop, muscles weak. Sobs and begging ripping out of his throat with no sound but distant ringing and warbling—palpating along his spine—every segment all the way down, lighting pain up and down his entire spinal column with every press, skin rapidly shifting in temperature from burning hot to freezing cold out of nausea before he finally vomited bile onto the sheets and passed out again.

Matt rips his sheets off with a wheeze of panic and staggers out of bed.

The bandage Claire applied to the wound on his upper back is half yanked off. A line of new scratch marks throb along his arms and his ribcage. He’s trembling all over.

If he can’t sleep, maybe he can do something to ease his troubled mind. He goes into the living room and finally powers on his laptop and his refreshable braille display. His head feels fuzzy and his fingers feel numb with exhaustion, so it takes him twice as long as it should to turn everything on and log in. He tries to get on the internet and get to the website for his phone company. No connection.

Matt takes a deep breath. It’s okay. When it’s morning, he’ll go to work. They have wifi set up there. He can get everything sorted. Just not quite yet.

He doesn’t know why he bothered putting the mail in the drawer of his desk. Matt still knows it’s there. He can smell the paper and the ink. Did he put it up to keep Claire from seeing it? Was he afraid she would comment on it? Or was he afraid she wouldn’t? Or was he afraid she’d offer to help, and he’d say yes, and then she’d tell him what all of it said, and he’d know what kind of debts he owes—wouldn’t be able to ignore it all anymore—would feel more overwhelmed.

His back hurts. His eyes blink open and closed, heavy with sleep.

Waking up naked, shivering in the cold with a wet rag dragging over his skin, his lower half covered in a sheet but his chest exposed, someone’s hand lifting up his arm, dragging the rough cloth along his skin. It felt worse than sandpaper—like road rash. He wanted to tug away but couldn’t—his arm heavy and unwieldy. He wanted to ask where he was and who was touching him, but heard nothing from his own throat but a low hum. Shoved over until he rolled, dizzy and still spinning down down down long after the hands stopped shoving him over. Scraping across his back with the wet cloth. Scraping scraping scraping across his back until he was sure his skin had to be flayed open, and he couldn’t do anything to make them stop scraping over the flayed skin, limbs too heavy. Couldn’t talk. Trembling in the cold, tears leaking.

Matt wakes up shivering. He limps quickly back into his bedroom and slowly lowers himself down on the heating pad again. He must have turned the heat too far down on the thermostat. He’s too tired and in too much pain to get back up.

His alarm goes off. He taps it. “7:00AM.”

Matt sits up stiffly, unsure if he actually slept. Gooseflesh lights up all over when he slides out of the covers.

He sits in the warmth of the window for a minute, arms curled to his chest, trying to process the onslaught of sounds around him. It’s harder when he’s tired. He has a splitting headache. His World On Fire flares with sharp edges and more uncertainty.

He blocks out as much of New York’s roaring noise as he can and feels his way to his closet, tugging on clothes with clumsy fingers. His normally acceptable-feeling dress shirt (he wouldn’t have bought it otherwise) scratches against his skin. It hurts to wear so bad he wants to rip it off and crawl back into bed. It takes three tries to get his tie right. He keeps losing track of what he was doing in the middle of the movements, forgetting how to tie it properly—a double Windsor he’s tied almost every day of his life for years. Exhaustion paws at him, dragging his eyelids down down down. His back hurts.

He shuffles slowly into the kitchen. Opens the fridge. There’s one slice of pizza left from when Claire was over. Matt can still smell the meat shop on his clothes in the hamper in the bedroom. His stomach rolls over with nausea. He closes the fridge again.

He thinks about just laying down on the floor of his kitchen and going back to sleep. Sleeping on the floor was fine at Fogwell’s. When he slept there, he was always so tired from wandering all day and night that it didn’t matter that the floor was hard. Maybe if he goes to sleep on the floor, he can trick himself into thinking he’s at Fogwell’s and there’s nothing he needs to do. No one he can hurt or disappoint. No looming bills or paperwork.

Three rough knocks on his door. Matt jumps. No idea how long he’s been standing in his kitchen losing time.

Foggy.

The World On Fire ebbs and spins, making Matt want to vomit for just a second before he takes a meditative breath, ordering all the sensory input back into something meaningful, blocking out all the roaring noise outside again.

Matt wants to go back to bed.

Foggy knocks again. Every thwack on the door pounds against Matt’s temples—stabs behind his eyes like a lobotomy needle. Deep breath.

Matt grabs his sunglasses off the countertop, putting them on as he limps slowly to the door, back still stiff and inflamed, hoping he gets there before Foggy knocks again and splits his skull open.

“Hey, I’m here for the braille printer,” Foggy says the moment Matt opens the door. His voice is chipper, but the speed with which he rushes the words out suggests he’s hoping they won’t talk about yesterday. Foggy’s heart is beating a little too fast too. Or is that Matt’s heart? The World On Fire sways.

Matt’s heart goes thump thump thump, his breathing hisses in and out of his nose, his lungs. He hears his own blood circulating. It’s so loud in his own body he wonders suddenly how he ever hears anything else. He’s tired.

There’s an air of awkwardness and it takes Matt a minute to understand why. It occurs to him that he’s just standing in the door, not saying anything. He steps back, letting Foggy inside.

Foggy strides with purpose to the sideboard that holds the braille printer. He leans over the cabinet looking for the plug, then pulls the cabinet away from the wall so he can unplug it. The sound of the legs dragging across Matt’s floor vibrates through Matt’s teeth and scrapes across his brain. Deep breath again.

Foggy pulls the awkward weight of the braille embosser into his hands. “You ready to go? I thought we could go to the office together.”

Matt tries to remember if he’s finished getting ready. He’s not sure. He scans the apartment and remembers his laptop and refreshable braille display. He collects his messenger bag from the hat rack by the door and limps back out to the desk to collect his things.

He moves slow, in pain and uncertain—gliding his hands along surfaces for reassurance more than usual. Foggy tracks him. Foggy’s heart thump thump thumps. He’s concerned. Or angry. Who fucking knows these days when it comes to Foggy. Maybe with Foggy, they’re just the same damn thing. Matt pulls his messenger bag over his shoulder and ignores the twinge in his back. His shirt drags across his skin like sandpaper. He could probably take more ibuprofen.

Matt limps toward the door and Foggy follows. Matt remembers his cane at the last second. He’s going to need it today as more than a social cue.

They’re halfway down the stairs, Matt riding the stair rail heaver than usual, when Matt realizes he didn’t brush his teeth or comb his hair. He guesses Foggy would have said something if his hair looked crazy, but maybe not. He’s suddenly hyperaware of the bad smell of his own breath. The pounding of his and Foggy’s shoes down the stairs beats into Matt’s skull over and over and over. Deep breath.

They make it down to the street and Foggy brushes past him, goes to the door of a car. A cab.

A cab is waiting.

Matt’s World On Fire spins.

Foggy awkwardly holds the braille printer while opening the door. When he shoves it into the back seat, he turns to Matt and says, “Let’s go,” waving toward the cab.

Matt sways in place. Doesn’t move.

Foggy hesitates for a moment, then shoves his hands in his coat pockets and approaches Matt. “Buddy, what’s wrong?”

“Not getting in a cab,” Matt says quickly. If he talks too slow, he thinks vomit might follow the words out of his throat.

“Why not?”

“Don’t want to.”

Foggy hesitates. “Because you’re still mad at me?”

Matt doesn’t say anything.

Foggy sighs. “I know I was an asshole yesterday…”

The city is loud. Endless streams of sounds Matt can’t focus on. Foggy’s voice sounds far away, melting into the cacophony. Matt forgets where he is—tries to focus on something—picks a heated conversation between a couple two blocks away before he realizes he’s eavesdropping. Shakes his head slightly. Feels his brain slosh around inside his skull with the movement.

“…But I am sorry, Matt. It isn’t… I shouldn’t have confronted you like that. Not when you were already upset, especially. I just… I worry. And lying to me about Daredevil stuff doesn’t help me not do that.”

“I didn’t lie. I didn’t go out.” Matt doesn’t want to have this argument again. He doesn’t know why he bothers responding.

“Okay,” Foggy placates.

Lie.

Tears build up in Matt’s eyes.

“Foggy doesn’t know about your injuries?”

“Mm. Not the specifics. Just that I was gone for a long time.”

“Maybe you should explain all of it to him in more detail. Where’s the pain centered?”

“Matt, I know I’m not your favorite person right now, but I want to cart the printer in the cab. The laser printer from my apartment’s in there too, and I can’t carry both, and I really don’t think you should be lifting things. Let’s just go.”

“You take the cab. I’ll walk.”

“I’ve seen 90 year olds with sciatica walk quicker than you are right now.”

Matt’s life is an endless cycle of the same arguments with two overbearing friends.

“Let’s go.” Foggy grabs Matt’s arm.

Matt jumps and yanks out his grip, his back lighting up with pain when he does. “No.”

Foggy breathes heavily through his nose. “Karen told me you wouldn’t get in a cab with her yesterday either. What’s the deal?”

Matt woke up groggy, the sound of the cab’s engine roaring louder than it should—the cab traveling at speeds that couldn’t be safe, and Matt didn’t know where he was. Matt’s whole body jerked, his neck whipping when the front of the cab bashed into a wooden beam, throwing Matt’s body forward into the seat in front of him. Then the cab was in free fall. Matt only knew because he came off the seat, the top of his head hitting the ceiling, and then the cab crashed into freezing water. Matt’s brain was thick with fog from the drugs and his limbs moved clumsily and icy water started pooling into the cab, and Matt shook with adrenaline as he realized he was going to die.

“Matt?”

“Not getting in a cab,” Matt croaks. He doesn’t have the energy for this.

“Do you want me to tell Foggy? Do you want me to talk to him for you? Or Karen? Because I can do that if you want. Sometimes it’s hard to tell people things, even if you know it’s useful for them to know.”

He starts walking. The sidewalk tilts and sways. Matt taps with his cane, adding dimension, but the sound rattles unpleasantly in his ears, strangely high-pitched.

Foggy steps into his path, and Matt’s moving so groggily he bumps right into him. Foggy seems surprised, but doesn’t comment on it. He just steps back until there’s a reasonable amount of space between them for talking. “Is there something going on, or is this just your usual move of pushing us away because you’re scared?”

Matt hears Foggy’s teeth grind together. He hears a coffee grinder in a coffee shop three blocks down the street. Radio chatter. Engines and car horns. Someone singing in the shower. A couple having sex. Someone on the phone. Car engine zooming. Someone chewing pancakes in an apartment 20 feet above them. His shirt collar feels like its chafing his skin raw.

“Matt.”

He thinks he might puke. He wonders if it’ll be pizza or just bile. He hopes it’s just bile. He needs the calories from the pizza. “I don’t want to fight,” Matt says thinly.

“Then don’t,” Foggy pushes. “Get in the cab.”

Matt smashed at the button that should roll the window down, but it was already malfunctioning or else locked from the front seat. His hands wrenched at the door but it wouldn’t open either—whether due to a child safety lock or pressure. The cab quickly filled with cold water up to Matt’s ankles. Matt shook off his disorientation and tugged his feet onto the seat out of the water, started kicking at the cab window with both feet, using the opposite door for leverage. It didn’t break the first time. Or the second time. Or the third time. Matt was still groggy from the drugs—at risk of passing out and then he’d drown. The glass finally cracked, then the pressure of the water made it burst open before Matt could land another kick, and water rushed into the cab and Matt gasped at the icy chill, shocked wide awake but frozen—paralyzed.

“It’s okay to need help, Matt. That’s what friends are for.”

Matt blinks. He feels like he missed something. He tries to pick up the flow of the conversation anyway. “Is it?”

Matt couldn’t get out of the cab until it was full of water. He didn’t know how deep down he was—if he had the lung capacity to reach the surface. The cab was sinking further down into the river as it filled. Matt pushed out of the window, reorienting his World On Fire in the echo of the water. Trying to find which way was up. He knew how to swim but he didn’t know which way was up. He was lost. He was going to drown, cold and alone.

“Yeah, buddy,” Foggy says, like he’s surprised that Matt would question that.

“That’s not what you said before.”

“…What?”

Matt forced himself to focus and go still in the water even though all he wanted to do was swim to warm his rapidly cooling body. If he sat still too long the shock would take over and he wouldn’t be able to move. He forced himself to be still, like Stick taught him. The air in his lungs made his body shift slightly in the direction of the surface. Matt exploded into motion, scrambling upward. He burst out of the water wheezing for breath and shaking from the freezing water.

“You said you and Karen had covered for me enough as it is.”

Foggy pauses, confused. “Back during the Castle case?”

His heart doesn’t beat deceitful, and that’s almost worse, because it means he already forgot. “No.”

Car exhaust in Matt’s nose from the cab. The sound of someone noisily chewing eggs. A dog panting down the street behind them. Matt can smell its saliva. He tries not to gag. Foggy ate a sausage egg and cheese biscuit for breakfast. Matt can taste it. Someone pissed in the alley 20 feet away and the garbage there is rancid—rotting meat. Flies buzzing. Matt’s breath smells like death because he didn’t brush his teeth.

He wants to go back to bed.

“Matt, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’d like to sit down and hash it out. I promise we can work it out… whatever it is. Okay? Just… not on the street in the cold. You look like you’re about to fall over. I’m really worried about you, and I don’t think you should be alone right now.”

Karen muttering bitterly, “Can you even make it home by yourself?”

“Will you please get in the cab?”

Matt crawled up the bank of the Hudson, shivering and wet, and tried to figure out where he was. He knew Hell’s Kitchen like the back of his hand, but the rest of New York was harder to map—especially less traveled areas like the river bank. He didn’t know where he was. Where he could go to get warm. He needed to find his apartment. If he was too far he might die of hypothermia before he got there. Gunshots ricocheted off the rocks right by Matt’s head. The man who’d been driving the taxi was standing above him on the pier with a gun. Matt dove for cover under the deck, out of the line of fire, but right under the shooters feet, head still fuzzy from the sedatives.

The subway rumbles under his feet. The vibrations rattle up Matt’s skeleton all the way to his head. The driver presses the break and the train squeals over the rails. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard.

Matt’s hands go to his ears, cringing away from the noise.

“Matt?” Foggy says anxiously—like he cares. His hand reaches out for Matt’s shoulder.

Matt flinches and shoves his hand away violently.

He leapt over the railing onto the pier and kicked the shooter with both feet as he vaulted over. The gun went off right next to his bad ear, and it started ringing. Matt stumbled, head tilting in confusion, the World On Fire fizzling out, limbs woozy, unconsciousness pawing at him again. The gun turned in his direction, slight pressure on the trigger. Matt let the devil out.

“Just fuck off, Foggy! Leave me alone about the fucking cab! I can get to work on my own! I’m fine!” Matt shouts, his own voice makes his ears ring—makes his brain scream. Already splitting headache roaring into sharp focus.

”You’re not fine! Stop fucking saying you’re fine! You haven’t been fine for a long time, Matt!”

Matt covers his ears again at the sound. Foggy’s too fucking loud. Matt’s too fucking loud. Everything’s too loud.

Foggy’s voice thick with emotion—breath coming in upset pants. Foggy’s breath or Matt’s? Foggy’s heart or Matt’s pounding away? Both?

Matt wishes he could go back to sleep. Maybe he could just go to bed right now and not wake up until he’s all better and his back doesn’t hurt and he doesn’t feel like crying. He could just go to bed and never do his taxes and never get his phone service turned back on and never look at his mail and never call to advocate for himself over the thermostat he can’t operate and never get groceries and never look at his bank account or his credit card bills or his credit report and never worry about letting Foggy and Karen down or reconnecting with his estranged mom while worrying if she actually wanted that and if he could actually really forgive her if she did. He could just lay on his bed and sleep until Matt Murdock goes away and he doesn’t have to worry about him or his life anymore.

“You’re the one who told me not to bother you with my shit and get it together!” Matt says in a frantic, disbelieving pitch that vibrates his whole skull. “That’s what I’m trying to do! What the fuck do you want from me?!”

“Is there a problem here?” The cab driver gets out and walks around his car.

Foggy raises his hands placatingly, heart beating faster. “Sorry, my friend is sick and I just want him to take a cab. That’s all.”

“It seems like he doesn’t wanna get in,” The cabbie says, adrenaline up, muscles tight, standing up very tall, chest puffed. “It seems like he doesn’t wanna go with you, and I don’t drive people who don’t wanna be driven. Especially not blind people being yelled at on the street by their so-called friends. I’m not hearing the whole discussion, but I’m hearing the tone and I’m reading the body language. He doesn’t want anything to do with you. He doesn’t wanna be touched by you. He doesn’t wanna talk to you. He doesn’t wanna get in the fuckin’ cab, he’s not gettin’ in my fuckin’ cab. I’ll call the cops before I let you drag him into this cab, you understand?”

“That’s not-” Foggy starts. His voice gives out.

Matt should probably help him. He should probably help deescalate the situation.

Foggy lets out a long breath, shoulders slumping, throat working. “You know what? Um… just… just stay home, Matt… okay?” The anger is gone. The words are calm—placating—gentle. “You’re in pain, you seem really tired and confused… You need… rest. I’ll… we’ll talk about whatever… everything that’s bothering you. I promise. We’ll sort this out, okay? I-I’ll drop off the printers, then I’ll come right back. We’ll talk everything out, okay?”

Foggy’s hand reaches out to pat Matt’s arm but stops short, hesitant, then falls back to his side.

Matt’s lip wobbles dangerously.

Foggy inhales sharply. His breathing changes like it always does when he wants to say something.

The cabbie looks between Matt and Foggy, still tense with aggression, but he gets back into the car when Foggy abandons Matt for the cab. He mutters under his breath, “Fuckin’ prick…” Not quite loud enough for Foggy to hear but loud enough for Matt.

Foggy gets into the cab, puts his hand on the door to close it, but pauses. His heart beats too fast. His head stays turned in Matt’s direction. His muscles tense a few times, like he wants to climb right back out of the cab then thinks better of it—once, twice, three times. “Matty?” Foggy’s voice is very soft—shaky—strained.

Matt doesn’t turn in his direction. Doesn’t want to. Afraid of what his face will say.

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

The world is too loud for Matt to tell if he lies.

Matt stands on the sidewalk long after the taxi has driven off, mind sluggish, distracted by every sound in a 10-block radius. He focuses on none of it and all of it in turns, forgetting where he is.

“Karen and I have covered enough for you as it is.”

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

“Karen and I have covered enough for you as it is.”

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

“Karen and I have covered enough for you as it is.”

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Matt staggers backward, sits on one of the steps leading into his apartment building, putting his head in his hands.

“There’s something seriously wrong with you.”

“Yeah. I know.”

He wants to go back to bed. He… he should go back up to his apartment and go back to bed.

“We’ll sort this out, okay? I-I’ll drop off the printers, then I’ll come right back. We’ll talk everything out, okay?”

Foggy doesn’t make any sense. Foggy tells Matt on Sunday not to bother him with his problems, then yells at him Monday and today for not admitting his problems. Matt can’t make sense of it. He’s having so much trouble making sense of it.

All he knows for sure is he’s tired. Tired of having to explain things. Tired of people touching him. Tired of people being mad at him. Tired of pity and condescension. Tired of people being overbearing and making assumptions and telling him they know what’s best for him. Tired of being scared. Tired of being hurt. Tired of hurting everybody else—destroying everything. Tired of being confused. Tired of needing things.

Matt wants to go to sleep.

Foggy’s coming back though. Foggy might come back.

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

“Karen and I have covered enough for you as it is.”

Matt doesn’t want to see him. He’s already overwhelmed and exhausted—sensory overload eating away at him like it hasn’t in years—decades, maybe… and Foggy is so confusing. All Matt knows is that Foggy gets worried, then he gets mad. When Foggy gets mad, he doesn’t listen. He just decides he knows what’s what and he can’t be convinced otherwise. He worries about Matt all of the time. It’s too much sometimes (sometimes Matt likes it). It’s… it can be cloying.

The day they met, Matt had said, “Most people dance around me like I’m made of glass. I hate that.” and Foggy had said, “Yeah—you’re just a guy, right?”

Years later, Foggy had said, “All these years, I actually felt sorry for you” and Matt had said, “I didn’t ask for that. I never-I never asked for that.”

Foggy feels sorry for Matt. He always has. Foggy doesn’t want to work things out because he loves Matt. He wants to work things out because he has a codependency problem, and Matt feeds it.

“Despite the fact that you’ve been a complete asshole to him, he’d follow you over a cliff.”

At the same time… Foggy knows Matt is bad for him.

“Karen and I have covered enough for you as it is.”

“Those Murdock boys… they’ve got the devil in them.”

It makes sense. It… it makes sense. It makes sense of Foggy’s fed up anger when he showed up at Matt’s place on Sunday, transforming to anxious anger the very next day when Matt was bleeding. It makes sense of the things Matt’s been ignoring for three years now, ever since Foggy found Matt bleeding out in his apartment and found out about Daredevil.

Matt wants to go to bed.

Foggy might come back though, and Matt’s phone service isn’t working. His internet isn’t working. He needs to check so many things. If he goes upstairs, he won’t sleep anyway because he was too worried about all of it to sleep last night. He needs to relieve some of the stuff on his plate.

If he can get a few simple tasks done, the rest of it will feel easier. He won’t feel so overwhelmed. If he can fix his phone and internet situation, everything else will fall into place more easily. He can toss all the ink mail without even looking at it—pay everything online—insurance and credit card bills and internet and phone and the payment plan for his refreshable braille display and… and it’s near the end of the month—just two days—and his rent needs to be paid and his utilities.

He can dodge Foggy, and get his life back on track.

Matt climbs to his feet, limps slowly down the sidewalk toward a coffee shop he knows. The tap of his cane on the sidewalk is sharp and unpleasant in his ears. He gets lost in the sound—nauseous with it.

“Woah!” Someone yanks Matt backward by the arm. He’s standing on a tactile paver. He almost walked into the street in front of moving cars.

“You okay, buddy?” The person who grabbed him.

“Yeah,” Matt manages, hoping that’s the end of the conversation. Hoping the man doesn’t touch him anymore.

He should probably say thank you.

He hears music from 17 different radios. He forgets where he was even going. He remembers it’s the coffee shop. Then he realizes he doesn’t know where he is—if he walked too far. He stretches out his senses to figure it out, head throbbing with the effort, and realizes he’s a block over.

He gets into the coffee shop. The high-pitched squeal of milk being frothed is nearly unbearable. He can smell rancid coffee beans that were pulled through the grinder months ago and never fully brushed out of the burs.

He has to order something to get the wifi password.

“What can I get for you, sir?”

He should probably eat something, but he doesn’t have the energy to ask the barista to read the menu out to him and listen to the answer.

“Just a cup of black coffee, please.”

“$2.50.”

The coffee grinder goes off and Matt does everything in his power not to press his hands over his ears again. He pulls his wallet out clumsily, hands trembling with exhaustion and nerves, and pulls out his credit card. If the FBI or the police come for him… fuck it. They can take him away.

He swipes it.

“Oh. Uh… that’s your ID,” The barista says awkwardly.

Matt’s trying to pay for coffee with his ID. Great. He wonders if someone fucked with his wallet. Karen or Foggy while they thought he was dead. Pulled out the cards maybe. Put them back in different spots without thinking about their placement being important. Matt should recognize their weight and texture anyway—should do better. Matt’s just incapable today. It took him three tries to tie a full Windsor this morning. He’s not even sure the cards are in the wrong pockets. Maybe he forgot the right pocket, like he forgot how to tie his tie.

Matt puts his ID back. Pulls a card from another pocket in his wallet. Checks that there’s raised numbers on it.

He wishes, not for the first time, that he’d prioritized getting a card from a company that issues braille ones. He isn’t sure if his credit and debit card are in the right slots.

“Rough morning, huh?” The barista jokes, trying to break the tension.

Matt must be taking a long time. He must look like shit, too.

Matt swipes the card. A low tone comes from the register.

“Uh… card was declined.”

Matt only carries two cards. A credit card and a debit card. He grabs the other card and swipes it. It goes through.

The barista gives him a thumbs up, then remembers Matt is blind. Awkwardly clears his throat and says, “We’ll have that right out. Would you like your receipt?”

“Just the wifi password, please.”

“It’s on your receipt.”

Matt stands there for a second, waiting for the barista to realize Matt doesn’t have a receipt and it wouldn’t help him if he did.

This is why the cane isn’t “just an act”. This is why Matt didn’t actually like going without it so many times the last few months.

It’s part of why it stings when every single person who ever finds out about Daredevil questions Matt’s blindness—Foggy, Karen, his own mother. Two of them—the two who should know better than anyone—accused him of faking for years, as if anyone would voluntarily subject themselves to this bullshit.

“Oh! Fuck me. Sorry. It’s uh…” The barista looks around on the counter. “’I love coffee’, all lower case, no spaces.”

Matt finds a table and sets up his laptop.

The woman sitting a couple of tables away from him chews too loudly. The subway train rumbles under his feet. Everyone is talking. High-pitched squeal of milk being frothed. Or is it the subway train coming to a stop? Coffee grinder. He can smell the exhaust from every car waiting at the stoplight outside.

“Coffee on your left, sugar and creamer on the saucer.” Matt jumps. He’s lost time. The barista’s already three tables away setting down a coffee cake by the time he even realizes what was being said to him.

The smell of the coffee is overpowering. It’s a bad idea to drink it. Matt’s exhausted and caffeine would help. His heart rate ratchets up from one sip like some kind of pavlovian response. The bite of it turns his stomach. He can taste the rancid old beans from the coffee grinder. He tugs on his earphones. The tinny voice from his laptop hurts his ears. He takes them off and pulls out his refreshable braille display. The bumps under the pads of his fingers scrape across his skin like tiny needles.

Matt goes to the website for his cell phone provider and tries to log in. At first, when nothing makes sense, Matt thinks he’s just losing concentration. Then he realizes it’s JAWS. It can’t make heads or tails out of whatever’s happening with the front page of the website. It worked the last time Matt went on it with no issues. He doesn’t know what’s changed. There’s no way for him to know—just that nothing he’s trailing his fingers over makes any sense.

Matt pulls out his phone, puts his earphones in again so VoiceOver scrambling through menu options won’t disturb the other patrons. He searches for the customer service number online. He wifi calls and gets an automated menu. He listens to all the menu options. Presses four for billing.

“We’re sorry. Customer service representatives are not available at this time. Estimated wait time is 20 minutes. To wait for a representative, please stay on the line. To view your bill online, or correspond with us via a customer service chat, please hang up and go to www dot-”

He puts his head in his hands and listens to elevator music in his earphones for 20 minutes, then 30. The chair he’s sitting in is wooden, and the longer he sits, the harder it digs into his tailbone, sending shockwaves up his hairline fractured spine. He hears the vertebrae creak like an old ship. Or is it his chair?

Moving helps ease up on his spine a little, but no matter how he sits, his skin hurts. His shirt isn’t soft enough. It feels like it’s rubbing his skin raw.

Matt takes a deep breath.

Coffee grinder goes off. Milk foamer screeches. Rancid coffee beans. He can taste every coffee being sipped.

“-for calling. How can I help you?”

Matt jumps back to attention—sits up. “Hi, uh, my phone service was turned off, probably due to non-payment, and I’m trying to figure out how I can pay my outstanding balance and any fees and get my phone service reinstated.”

“Okay, sir. I’ll need your name, phone number, and the last four digits of your social security number.”

Matt rattles it all off, trying to do so quietly.

“Thank you. So if you log in to your account online or go to one of our retail locations…”

Matt doesn’t understand why customer service reps always do this—demand account details only to proceed to try and help you in a way that doesn’t even require them to need that information. He waits for her to finish her spiel purely out of forced politeness.

“I’m blind, and your website isn’t functioning properly with my screenreader, so I can’t log in to view my account,” Matt says carefully. He normally smiles on the phone—tries to sound charming and polite. He can’t manage anything but careful today—careful not to sound angry.

There’s silence for a moment. “I’m so sorry about that, sir. Let me transfer you.”

The elevator music comes back on. Matt breathes very carefully.

Two women in the coffee shop are discussing a coworker they don’t like so loudly that Matt’s pretty sure everyone inside can hear them, not just him.

There’s a baby crying in an apartment across the street.

Someone outside in a car honks their horn at another driver and they shout at each other.

Local radio host says “Winter mix expected tonight upgraded to-” before the channel changes to Bon Jovi.

An elderly couple gripes at each other. “It’s not my goddamn fault you have a bad hip, Beatrice.”

Elevator music on his phone.

Matt slides his fingers underneath his sunglasses and presses down on his eyes. At one point in his life, he would have just asked Foggy to deal with this. He would have saved himself this kind of misery without thinking twice about it.

“All these years I actually felt sorry for you.”

“That blind dude over there looks like he’s having a rough morning,” someone whispers in the other corner of the cafe.

“Do you think he like… needs help with something?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to assume that. They’ll like… tell you if they want you to help them.”

“He kinda looks like he’s gonna cry.”

Matt forces himself to sit up straight.

“Oh shit! Can he hear us?”

“Thank you for calling. Estimated wait time is 20 minutes. To wait for a representative, please stay on the line. To correspond with us via a customer service chat, please hang up and go to www dot-”

“I’ll have a large cappuccino, please.”

“So I told her she can take her goddamn award winning apple pie and shove it up her ass.”

“Bart, why don’t you just move into the damn nursing home then if you wanna fuck someone so bad? I hear they go at it like rabbits and give each other herpes. You’ll fit right in.”

“Pound it up your ass, Beatrice.”

“You first.”

“Would you be worried about him if he wasn’t hot? Be honest.”

“Shhhh!”

“Hot? He looks like death warmed over.”

Matt checks his watch.

The M*A*S*H theme song is playing somewhere.

Squealing on the rails down in the subway.

Matt listens to almost an entire episode of M*A*S*H in an upstairs apartment two blocks away.

“You’ve reached technical support. Sorry for the wait. This is Justin. How can I help you?”

Matt opens and closes his mouth. “Um. Hi, Justin. I actually wasn’t looking to speak with technical support. I’m trying to pay my outstanding balance and get my phone service back on. I think I was transferred here because I told the last representative that I’m blind and the front page of your website isn’t working with my screenreader.”

Another long pause. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll put in a support ticket to have the website fixed. Let me transfer you.”

Elevator music comes back on again.

Matt has thrown laptops before… and phones. More than once. In his defense, technical issues are at least 10 times more infuriating on average when you’re blind. He reminds himself that losing his shit in the middle of a coffee shop and potentially breaking a piece of technology he needs for work (and to handle the mounting pile of personal tasks he needs to complete) will make absolutely everything in his life worse.

Matt’s head is throbbing. His eyes burn. He wants to go home and go to bed. He considers hanging up, but he’s gotten this far. Foggy probably came back to Matt’s apartment by now.

“All these years I actually felt sorry for you.”

“I didn’t ask for that. I never—I never asked for that.”

“Karen and I have covered enough for you as it is.”

Big breath.

He finally gets another service rep on the line. Has to rattle off his basic account info again.

“You’re in New York City, right? We have several retail locations there where someone could help you personally?”

They definitely don’t have a retail location in Hell’s Kitchen. He’d have to get out of the neighborhood, north or south Manhattan. He’s so tired that he almost walked into moving traffic on the way here. As much as Karen seemed to think yesterday that Matt can’t accurately assess for himself whether he’s capable of doing something or not, he can. It’s just not Karen’s right to decide. “I don’t… know where that would be.”

“I can give you the address of our nearest retail location if you tell me your current location?”

He’d have to take the subway. Or a cab. Whatever it is, he doesn’t know the location. Without his phone’s GPS being operable, it would be difficult to find the right street and the right storefront in a more unfamiliar neighborhood. The idea of walking that far on almost zero sleep and an empty stomach seems impossible and dangerous. “I don’t think I’d be able to get there.”

There’s a long pause. “Please hold.”

The elevator music starts back up.

This is what Matt was afraid of. This is the exact kind of thing Matt was afraid of when he put everything off. Hurdles he has to jump over coming back to life. Hurdles that are just a little higher for him than someone else.

“You are blind, right? You weren’t just… faking it the whole time.”

“Congratulations. You finally caught me.”

“It’s not a fair question?”

Squealing subway tracks.

Matt’s head feels like static.

New York City is a endless roar in his ears.

He loses time.

“Alright, sir, if you’d like, we can try to handle payment over the phone and get your service reinstated.”

Matt sits up. “Uh… yes. That-that would work. That would be great.” Relief begins to wash over him.

She asks him for a few account details that he rattles off, tells him about a fee he needs to pay, along with his outstanding balance from three months of nonpayment.

Matt agrees to it all, pulling his card out of his wallet. Then he realizes three things. First, he’s in public, which doesn’t exactly make it ideal to rattle off his credit card number. Second, he has no idea which card was declined earlier when he paid for his coffee, so he doesn’t know which number to rattle off. Third, because of the exhaustion-induced sensory issues he’s having today, running his shaking, clumsy fingers along the raised numbers on his card isn’t accomplishing jack shit. Normally, Matt can feel them out if he needs to, but today, no matter how many times he runs his thumb over them, it just feels like nonsense.

“Sir? Are you still there?”

“Um… I, uh…”

Someone to his right chews too loudly. Rancid coffee beans in a corner of the floor. Sewer smell from the bathroom. His shirt chafes his neck.

“I… don’t have my card number memorized I’m just realizing,” Matt finally tells the rep.

There’s a pause. “Is… is there someone there with you who can help you, sir?”

“So you can see.”

“That’s not-are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

“No. There’s not.”

There’s a long, long pause.

“I’m-”

Matt hangs up.

He takes off his glasses and shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes. He clenches his jaw and it’s like a direct line straight to his headache, sending throbbing pain through his whole head.

“Are you even really blind?”

The coffee grinder goes off. The milk foamer hisses. The train under his feet squeals to a stop. Matt struggles to order all the chaos, his head pounding. He feels weak with exhaustion, and he’s hungry again. There’s one slice of pizza in the fridge at home. His back aches in this stiff-backed wooden chair.

He wants to leave. He wants to get up and walk out of here, and go home and crawl into bed and never wake up.

Instead, he musters the composure to see if he can at least get the wifi back on at his apartment. He has a lot better luck dragging his hands over braille than he did the plastic card. It’s just that today, the braille feels like it chafes his fingers raw. JAWS churns through the website like it should, thank God, and Matt’s able to log in. He immediately gets a notification that his service has been turned off due to non-payment, and he needs to pay his outstanding balance and a fee to get his service reinstated.

Matt takes a breath. His credit card info is saved in the system. He clicks to authorize a payment.

It doesn’t go through. It’s the card that was declined earlier, clearly.

Matt decides if he sits here any longer, he’s going to throw something. Scream. Possibly cry. Maybe get arrested or sent off in an ambulance against his will. He gathers his stuff and pivots to the other pressing thing he needs: groceries.

He steps out of the coffee shop and for a second, forgets where the hell his usual bodega is. He knows every inch of Hell’s Kitchen, but his memory is failing him in his exhausted state. He finally remembers the direction and heads off. He remembers almost walking into the street in front of moving traffic earlier and tells himself to be more careful this time.

The tap of his cane on the sidewalk still sounds excruciatingly sharp. Train wheels squeal under his feet. Rancid garbage in the trashcans in the alleyway he’s walking by. Music from 30 radios and 12 TVs. Snippets of conversation. His back creaks like an old ship. Muscles tight. Favoring one leg. His hip throbs.

He pops into the bodega that’s close to his apartment and that’s familiar to him. He knows the layout and clerks have always been polite. He’s pretty sure the person working the counter is new though—young, absorbed by his cellphone when Matt enters the store. Matt’s just getting a few simple things—whatever he can carry in one paper sack… which also means it can’t be too expensive. He grabs a basket.

Shirt chafes against his skin. Back throbs. Car exhaust outside and body odors and filth on the street and trash smells mingling with the smells inside the bodega. Matt forces himself to focus. Eggs. He’s good at picking the cartons out on a good day. He doesn’t have to open them to know that all the eggs are intact if he concentrates.

Concentration is a problem today. Parsing smells apart in the grocery store is problem on a good day, worse when he’s like this. He navigates to the correct section of the store based on his existing knowledge of the layout. Paws around where he’s pretty sure the eggs are.

He grabs a carton of eggs, sniffs out butter, cheese, turkey deli meat, and a loaf of bread. Feels around for the packages. He’s pretty sure he grabs the right stuff.

Subway train rumbling under his feet. Someone walking down the street outside chewing gum. Flies buzzing and rancid garbage in the alley behind the bodega.

It’s taking Matt a while to do this. He’d normally ask for help. He’ll eat anything as long as it’s food. He limps to the counter. Drops his basket on the counter.

The clerk looks up from his phone for the first time. Heart speeds up slightly, probably taking in the cane, the sunglasses. Sometimes Matt makes people nervous. The clerk starts scanning items.

“Your total is $24.49.”

Matt’s pretty sure it’s his credit card that isn't working, but he doesn’t remember if he put it back in the right spot in his wallet. He chooses one card and swipes it. There’s a beep from the machine. “Uh… your card was declined,” The clerk says.

Right. Matt takes a very careful breath.

He puts his credit card away (in the spot it’s supposed to go this time) and swipes his debit card instead.

“Uh… declined,” The clerk says awkwardly.

“What?” Matt goes cold, imagining his checking account totally drained by a single cup of fucking coffee. He can’t imagine his balance being that low. He had to have had at least $1,000 in his checking account before Midland Circle. His heartbeat ratchets up and he can’t deal with this—he’s can’t fucking deal with this.

“This one was declined too. Sorry,” The kid repeats. This time though, Matt catches when his heartbeat speeds.

Lie.

At least… at least Matt thinks? Or is the kid just nervous because Matt’s blind? It happens sometimes. Maybe Matt isn’t parsing it all correctly. Maybe he’s wrong. He… he doesn’t know.

It occurs to him that the machine didn’t beep the second time. It beeped the first time, when Matt’s credit card was declined. A low note. The second time, it didn’t beep. Did it?

Matt swipes the same card again. No beep.

“Declined again. Sorry, man.”

Lie.

“You got cash?”

It’s an infuriating thing to do—lie to a blind person about cash. It hasn’t happened to Matt very many times. Most people aren’t cruel enough to even think to do that to him.

Matt has two carefully folded 20s poking out of his wallet. If he hands them over… he’s getting back $2.51 in change. He doesn’t want to pay $40 for $25 worth of groceries. He can’t really afford to, and he shouldn’t have to.

Matt takes a breath. “The machine didn’t beep.”

“What?”

“Before, the machine beeped when my card was declined. Why didn’t it beep the second time?”

The kid’s heart speeds up with nerves. He struggles for a moment, but his voice is hostile when he finally says, “The beep was a different machine—had nothing to do with your card. You got cash or not?”

Maybe Matt should go to another bodega or a proper grocery store. Maybe he should go back to the coffee shop and figure out what’s going on with his credit card. He doesn’t have the energy anymore. He’s exhausted. His back hurts. It feels like the universe is fucking conspiring against him with every step. He doesn’t have the heart to find out how else everything in his life can go wrong today.

The wind’s picked up since this morning. It goes right through him, chills him to the bone.

Foggy might be waiting at his apartment.

Maybe Matt should go to Fogwell’s instead.

Matt’s feet carry him back to his apartment.

He doesn’t run into Foggy. It’s later in the afternoon. Foggy would have come by much earlier, found Matt gone or at least refusing to answer the door. Matt’s successfully avoided him.

He’s not sure if he’s actually relieved by that anymore.

He yanks off his dress clothes and crawls into bed. He lays there for hours, mind spiraling, sounds outside a lot more overwhelming than usual. Even his silk sheets feel rough. His heart beats too fast. He’s hungry. His hands tremble. It’s cold. He should turn the heat up. He’d have to get up and he doesn’t want to.

He was supposed to call Claire today, but he can’t, because none of the things he thought he could do today got done. He can’t do them. He’s not used to not having work arounds—not being able to find loopholes to get things done that need doing.

Matt’s lived alone since he graduated law school and started his internship at L&Z and he’s never had a major problem. If something annoying he didn’t prefer to deal with needed doing, he’d casually ask Foggy for help sometimes and it wouldn’t be a big deal. Matt never felt like he just couldn’t get things like this done if he had to. He just knew that it might take longer—be harder. Tons of blind people live alone without having heightened senses like Matt does. He doesn’t know why it all has to be so hard right now.

“All these years I actually felt sorry for you.”

“I didn’t ask for that. I never-I never asked for that.”

Matt needs help right now. He needs someone to help him. He can’t get his life back together without at least a little boost. He needs to ask someone. Foggy. Karen. Claire. Maggie.

Matt remembers Maggie carting him into the basement of the church, grabbing his hand and guiding it to the button that buzzed—telling him sarcastically to call if he needs anything because they have nothing better to do than tend to his needs.

“Karen and I have covered enough for you as it is.”

“All this time, I actually felt sorry for you.”

“Angry, sarcastic, and stubborn. Maybe you don’t have any friends.”

“Can you even make it home by yourself?”

Foggy asked three weeks ago if Matt needed any help moving back in, and Matt said he was all set, because he hadn’t even moved back in yet and he didn’t want Foggy and Karen to know. If he asks for help now, they’ll find out that he lied. He told them he wanted his life back, but he hadn’t been sure yet, and they’ll be angry if they find out. They’re already mad. Matt was supposed to wait for Foggy today and he didn’t. Foggy’s probably angry that Matt dodged him… or maybe he’s relieved.

“Karen and I have covered enough for you as it is.”

He’ll be spitting in Karen’s face again. Foggy is done with his lies and secrets.

Even if Foggy can’t speak for Karen… Matt snapped at her the last time he saw her.

The idea of asking Maggie for help makes Matt feel nauseous. He told her he wanted to build a relationship, and she seemed to want the same. But all Matt can think of right now when he thinks of her is the damp of the basement, the excruciating palpations on his back, his own bitterness at needing so much help. All he can think about is how she gave him up, and never planned to tell him. She was never going to tell him that she was his mom. She would have taken the secret to the grave. When he was only a baby, his presence nearly sucked the life out of her.

“Those Murdock boys… they’ve got the devil in them.”

He could ask Claire for help. She already helped him… he could ask her to help him more. He was supposed to call her today.

“I’m just a phone call away, Matt. Remember that. I’ll always be here… when you really need me.”

She lives all the way up in Harlem, and Matt’s phone has no service. There’s no way he can get there.

Matt needs help, and he can’t even swallow his pride and ask for it from the person he feels most okay asking, because his phone has no service, and he doesn’t have any internet at his apartment. He’s alone and he’s tired. He’s so fucking tired.

A sob wrenches its way out of his throat, and he just lets it happen—cries until everything around him is an endless roar.

Matt wakes up shivering violently. He hits his talking alarm. “3:44AM”

The heat of his breath turns to mist in the air.

There’s something wrong there’s something wrong there’s something wrong.

He needs to get out of bed and go to the thermostat. A sob rips out of his throat. His back screams when he sits up. His muscles are stiff with cold.

He limps to the front door, dazed and teeth chattering, eyes leaking tears that chap on his face. He didn’t even know his apartment could get this cold inside. He fumbles for the piece of tape marking the up arrow on the stupid touchscreen thermostat. He taps it tons of times in a row, shaking with chill and fear.

He waits, curling in on himself to retain heat.

The heat doesn’t come on.

No no no no nonononononono

Matt taps at the arrow again and again and again, more and more frantic, but nothing happens. A strange sound comes out of his throat.

Did the thermostat break? Did he press somewhere he shouldn’t have? Is he locked in some kind of sub menu?

Matt’s heart pounds. His breath comes too fast.

He has no hope of figuring it out. None.

“Are you even really blind?”

He can hear the wind howling outside. He remembers the murmurs about forecasted winter mix. 

Matt hates snow. He hates snow.

Matt slides down the wall, curling up under the thermostat, and weeps wretchedly.

“There's something seriously wrong with you.”

“Yeah. I know.”

He dodged Foggy on purpose. He can’t call Claire for help. He can’t call anybody.

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

He’s scared. He doesn’t want to die.

He doesn’t want to die.

Why didn’t he stay and wait for Foggy? He should have just talked to him—explained everything, and asked Foggy to help him. It would have been better than this. Foggy’s anger and disappointment would have been easier to bear than this.

He’s going to die.

He’s too cold, and he’s going to freeze to death if he doesn’t move. Matt drags himself upright, limbs stiff with chill, and limps into his bedroom. He’s in nothing but his goddamn underwear and he’s going to freeze to death in this fucking apartment unless he finds enough layers to put on.

Teeth chattering, eyes streaming tears, he goes to his wardrobe and finds a thermal top and bottom layer. He pulls on socks and another hoodie and sweat pants. He crawls into bed and pulls his duvet over himself, and he fumbles for the switch on the heating pad and turns it on high. He bundles under the covers and breathes in and out. He shivers until he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

Matt wakes up shivering on and off all night. The heating pad seems to have a safety shut off feature. It turns off every 30 minutes or so. Maybe it wouldn’t if Matt didn’t keep it on the max setting, but he’s so cold.

Matt’s alarm goes off. His hand automatically comes out of the covers to turn it off. “7:00AM”.

He’s already shivering when he wakes up, and when he sits up and the covers slide off him, he shivers even harder.

He feels drunk. Confused. Exhausted. His body feels heavy—sluggish.

The world outside is unusually quiet, and it takes a minute for Matt to figure out why.

It snowed last night. It’s still snowing.

Matt flops back down on his bed even though it jars his back. His eyes well up with tears. He considers not getting up. Just staying here until it all goes away.

He’s too cold though… and hungry. He can’t stop shivering. It feels like it’s sapping the life out of him. Moving will warm him up. At the office, the heat will be working… and Matt can ask Karen and Foggy for help, and deal with the fallout.

“Karen and I have covered enough for you as it is.”

“All these years, I actually felt sorry for you.”

“Can you even make it home by yourself?”

Matt staggers out of bed, shuffles slowly to his closet and braces himself as he takes off his sweat pants and hoodie, leaving on his thermal layers. He pauses there for a while, standing in his closet, arms folded tightly over his chest, mist curling around his mouth with every breath, eyelids heavy with sleep. He eventually remembers that he’s supposed to be getting dressed.

He drags the back of his hand across the hanging clothes in his closet sluggishly until he finds a suit and a dress shirt. It takes twice as long as usual to find everything by texture and read the braille labels to verify. His skin is cold and numb, reducing sensation. He tugs everything on slowly, limbs stiff and uncoordinated.

He’s supposed to do something else in here.

Isn’t he? It’s cold.

Shoes. Right. His shoes.

Matt limps slowly out into the kitchen. He didn’t eat anything yesterday. One slice of pizza in the fridge. He feels faint with hunger. Every muscle in his body aches. He knows he should eat, but then he’ll have nothing. No groceries yesterday, because someone wanted to take advantage of him and Matt’s dignity and pride and wallet couldn’t take it.

Matt’s still shivering.

He needs to leave so he can go to the office, where the heater is working. He can be warm. He can ask for help. He needs help.

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Foggy. Foggy will help.

Matt limps slowly to the door, arms wrapped around his chest against the cold. He thinks he’s forgetting something.

His cane. He needs his cane. Resting against the molding of the door. Right next to him. Matt curls his fingers around it. His cane. Keeps him safe. Explains.

“Are you even really blind?”

He stands in front of the door for a long time. He’s tired. He wants to go back to bed. He’ll keep shivering though. It’s bad to shiver too long… isn’t it? Nothing will get better. Foggy will be mad because he and Karen have covered enough for Matt as it is. It would be the third day Matt’s missed at least part of the work day because he couldn’t get his shit together—because he isn’t dependable. That’s… that’s why it’s so important that he leaves… right? He needs to get to work on time.

Matt’s teeth chatter. His fingers are numb.

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Thermostat. Matt can’t use the thermostat. Matt needs help with the thermostat… because he can’t see. Foggy and Karen can see.

Matt steps down the stairs. Step after step. Feels strangely unsteady. His back still hurts. It was stupid to help with the desks—to not tell Foggy that he couldn’t help lift them. Matt should apologize. Explain. Needs something that explains his back for him like his cane explains his eyes. That would be nice.

Matt reaches the bottom stair, puts his hands out in front of him for the door and pushes outside. A vast expanse of nothing greets him.

The wind howls right through him, stronger than he’d realized before he got outside—much stronger. Snow and sleet brush by him in the air at high speed. The dampening of sound from the snow on the ground and in the air messes with Matt’s perception. He can’t picture the world even a foot in front of his face. The cold goes right through him, steals the breath right out of his lungs.

Matt’s shivering picks up violently. He can’t control it—his body chooses for him.

Back in college, whenever fresh snow fell, Foggy used to ask Matt if he wanted a guide. Even after they graduated from law school and moved into their own places, on days that fresh snow fell or there was a hard freeze, Foggy used to call Matt and offer to walk with him to their office. After the Daredevil reveal, Foggy stopped worrying about Matt slipping on ice, or getting lost in a snow bank, or walking through yellow snow, or whatever else he used to joke around about when casually offering Matt an escort in winter weather.

“All this time I actually felt sorry for you.”

Matt shoves his cane into the snow to try and tell how deep it goes. It’s so cold it feels like he’s freezing from the inside out. His clothes do nothing to protect him against the wind. His limbs shake. His teeth chatter.

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

It’s only six blocks to Nelson’s Meats. He can do this. It’ll be warm there. In his apartment, it’s still too cold. Matt needs to get warm. Needs help.

Matt’s shoes sink into the snow several inches as he staggers down the street. His cane is all but useless, pressing into the icy powder, the uneven layers making it difficult to discern street from sidewalk. Matt also realizes quickly that he forgot to put on gloves. His right hand—guiding his cane—stings from the cold. He shoves his left hand in his coat pocket for warmth and misses.

His hand catches his suit pocket a second later.

Suit pocket… where is his coat?

Thick snow under his feet means the roads haven’t been cleared. He hasn’t heard any cars and he doesn’t think he’s passed anyone on the street.

No one is out. Did he mishear his clock this morning? Did he dream his alarm going off and crawl out of bed in the middle of the night? Is that why he feels so tired and confused? He feels for his watch for his own peace of mind, but realizes he’s not wearing it.

Is he dreaming?

It’s cold.

His coat. Where is his coat? He meant to grab his heavy winter coat and a scarf in the closet. That’s why he’s so cold that it hurts. He left his coat, his scarf, his gloves, his messenger bag with his laptop and refreshable braille display and headphones.

“Karen and I have covered enough for you as it is.”

He needs his refreshable braille display and his laptop for work, or he’s going to have a repeat of Monday.

Foggy will be mad.

Matt needs to be able to get on the internet to fix everything.

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

A violent shiver goes through him, sucks so much strength out of him his legs nearly give out. Seems like it would be warm, laying on the ground. Curling up. Like… Fogwell’s Gym.

Coat. His coat.

Why is he outside?

He should go back home and get his coat and his gloves and his bag. Then… then he can get to Foggy. Get to work. Help.

The wind howls and the World On Fire is nothing but flakes of rapidly falling snow and sleet dancing around Matt a foot from his face.

Where is he?

He came outside. Just a minute ago. He can’t be far from his apartment building, but he doesn’t know what street he’s on. He doesn’t know if he’s still on the sidewalk.

He’s lost.

He doesn’t remember how far he’s walked—how many steps or blocks. He’s standing in the snow in his own neighborhood and he’s lost and cold, and he’s clearly not thinking straight—hasn’t been for over a day.

He feels around his face. He didn’t even put on his sunglasses. He never forgets them.

He was cold in his apartment, but it’s worse here.

Why did he come outside? What was he thinking?

Matt couldn’t get out of the cab until it was full of water. He didn’t know how deep down he was—if he had the lung capacity to reach the surface. The cab was sinking further down into the river as it filled. Matt pushed out of the window, reorienting his World On Fire in the echo of the water. Trying to find which way was up. He knew how to swim but he didn’t know which way was up. He was lost. He was going to drown, cold and alone.

Matt was cold all last night—kept waking up shivering. He came outside in a disoriented haze. He’s cold and he’s still shivering even now. Shivering even harder.

A single word sluggishly floats up through Matt’s consciousness.

Hypothermia.

Is he experiencing hypothermia?

“Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.” Matt’s phone vibrates and rings.

Matt reaches for it with clumsy fingers, hands trembling with chill and nerves. His exposed skin burns—on his hands and his face. His phone shouldn’t be able to take calls since he never reinstated his service. Is he close to the coffee shop? Picking up its wifi signal?

“F-Foggy?” Matt’s voice sounds young and scared in his own ears. His teeth chatter uncontrollably.

“You’re late for work,” Foggy says irritably. “Where are you?”

Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t make sense. Something’s wrong.

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

No fire in Matt’s inner world. Nothing but the scattered embers of snow and sleet rapidly battering against his freezing face, depositing on his clothes, cold going right through him. He’s standing in the snow and he doesn’t know where he is. He wants to be inside somewhere, where it’s warm.

“I-I-” Matt’s scared. He’s scared. He needs help and he’s scared. “I-I need h-h-h-help, F-Foggy…” Matt starts breathing rapidly. “I-I n-need h-help.” He can barely form words.

“Where are you?” Foggy repeats. He sounds urgent. Matt can’t tell if he’s mad or worried. He can’t hear heartbeats over the phone.

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

“I-I don’t know. F-Foggy I’m c-cold,” Matt’s voice strains. His lip wobbles and tears spill over. His phone shakes in his hand. “I’m cold, F-Foggy. I went out and I’m l-lost and I c-c-can’t see. I can’t see, Foggy. Please f-find me. I’m lost. I’m gonna die. F-Foggy, I’m gonna die…!” Matt’s voice gives out and his breath starts coming in wheezes. The cold air fills his insides through his lungs. His entire airway burns with the chill—feels like it’s closing up, the cold circulates through his bloodstream, icing him from the inside. “I need help…! Please help me, Foggy!”

A long sigh comes over the phone. When Foggy speaks, he sounds angry. “What did I tell you before, Matt?”

Foggy’s mad. He’s mad.

Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t make sense.

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

“Karen and I have cleaned up enough of your messes,” Foggy lectures over the line. “If you’re going to to be an idiot, you’re going to have to deal with the consequences yourself.”

No. No no no no no.

Matt shakes his head even though Foggy can’t see it, and a sob tears out of his throat. “I can’t, Foggy… I can’t, I can’t, I can’t! P-please, I c-can’t see, Foggy. I can’t see!” Matt begs. He begs. “P-please help me, Foggy…! Please come and find me!” Tears squeeze out of his eyes and rapidly cool against his cheeks, creating stinging stripes of icy pain. He’s shaking so hard, standing here in the cold. He got so cold so fast.

Matt remembers hands holding him down—a lot of hands, keeping him pinned to a bed on scratchy sheets, and being so weak he couldn’t fight them off. He remembers trying to ask who they were and what they were doing and asking them to stop and barely being able to hear himself. Warbled voices and hands pinning him down and pressing on his spine—flaring red hot jolts of agony up and down his entire body from that one point of pressure, screaming and only knowing he did because of muffled sound and the vibrations of his own throat while they pressed and pressed and pressed on his spine. He couldn’t do anything to make them stop and his face was hot with tears, and he kept repeating, “I can’t see, I can’t see,” trying to make them understand.

“You’re not even really blind,” Foggy sneers.

“I am,” Matt sobs, hopelessly standing in pure, cold, darkness—shivering and lost. He breathes rapidly. Too fast. He’s going to pass out. He’s so cold he’s so cold he’s so cold. His skin burns. His fingers hurt. “You know t-that, F-Fog-Fog. You know that. I-I know it’s difficult for y-you to understand, but I’m-I’m still blind, Foggy. S-sometimes I… sometimes I can’t-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Matt,” Foggy interrupts, tone cruel. “Get your shit together.”

Matt chokes on his own cries. The cold air feels like it swells his throat. Matt’s going to suffocate.

A voice that sounds like Stick’s. Friends will weaken you. You let yourself grow dependent on them, and you’ll be lost when they leave… and they will leave. Is that what you want?

Matt tries to remember his training.

“I’m done helping you, Matt. I’m done,” Foggy seethes. “Pitying you used to keep me here… but your begging and crying means nothing to me now. It’s just pathetic and exhausting, watching you fuck up and tear your life apart over and over and drag everyone down with you. I’m done with you.”

Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t make sense.

“Y-you said… we’d figure it out…” Matt sucks in a wheezing breath, sobs it out. “That y-you l-loved me…”

“I lied,” Foggy hisses. “I’ve only ever felt sorry for you.”

Matt nearly sinks too his knees.

Focus, Matty! Get up! Stick again.

Matt forces his wobbling legs to straighten—strains his ears, trying to figure out where he is—reorient himself.

There’s always a loop hole, kid.

Matt sucks in one sharp, wheezing breath, then another—spills out more tears.

If Foggy was able to get a call through, Matt’s close to the coffee shop. Maybe someone is there, or he can break in and get warm. Maybe he can catch the scent of the coffee beans if he concentrates and follows his nose.

Matt can’t smell anything but icy wind. Crying’s closed up his nose with snot.

Pathetic. Lock it up!

He can barely walk—whole body shaking violently, muscles weak and stiff and numb—almost no strength left. He hasn’t been eating enough.

Come on. Focus, Matty!

Matt stretches his hands out, feels out in front of himself in the darkness, trying to find a wall. He needs to find a window or a door. Get inside. It doesn’t matter where. He’s so cold.

“You don’t need a cane. You can hear heartbeats. You understand every gesture I used to describe for you aloud,” Foggy spits over the phone. “You can leap off rooftops. You can defend yourself better than anybody. You experience the world in a much more rich and complex way than I ever will, and it made me furious when I found out. You remember that, Matt?”

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.

Matt breathes heavily—hyperventilating—shivering and weakening. He hits a wall with his hands. He only knows because of the jar of a solid object against his skeleton. No sensation from his hands but numb and cold.

“All these years I actually felt sorry for you… and when I found out I shouldn’t—that you didn’t need me… I hated you for it, because I never actually liked you for you. I stayed all those years because I pitied you, and I learned I had wasted my time—exhausted my energy on you for no reason. Our relationship has never been anything more to me than enjoying being needed by poor blind orphan Matt with no friends and no family.”

Matt blubbers—drops his phone into his suit pocket.

Oh, Matty, Stick sighs sadly. I tried to tell you this would happen, kid.

Matt feels along the wall with both hands while he shuffles along it. He doesn’t even know if his fingers will recognize a change in material—if he’ll be able to tell brick from glass. Where is the door to the coffee shop? Or one of its windows? It has to be close. Is it across the street? How far could the wifi signal possibly stretch?

“As soon as I learned you didn’t need me like I thought, a rift opened up in our relationship, because feeling sorry for you was all our relationship ever was to me. The more capable I learned you were, the less I cared about keeping you in my life.”

Something isn’t right. Something isn’t right. “Then why did… why d-did you…” Matt shudders. “R-restarting the firm… was your idea…”

Foggy laughs—it sounds ugly—cruel—wrong. “You going to tell me the last year has shown you’re actually capable of taking care of yourself? There’s something seriously wrong with you, Matt. You’re a fucking mess. I learned new ways to pity you.”

Matt staggers—recoils from the words, nearly falls, but uses the wall for balance. His feet crunch into a large pile of snow. His pants are getting wet. That’s bad… bad to be cold and wet and shivering… His limbs feel stiff. Where is his cane? He needs it. Matt crouches low, paws through the snow.

“We used to joke that with a name like ‘Foggy Nelson’, I needed a ‘Matthew Murdock’ next to my name on the door to lend legitimacy… but we both know the real story: No one wants to hire someone blind. It’s more than that, though. No one wants to hire someone who disappeared for months with no explanation, was wanted by the police and the FBI, has a credit score in the toilet. You botched the Castle case, and everyone saw it. Everyone knew. Our partnership split in two, and I was offered a job at Hogarth, Chao, and Benowitz on the spot specifically because of how well I shouldered my partner flaking on me over and over. I started making more money than I ever would or did working with you. At Nelson and Murdock, we subsisted off payments in strawberry rhubarb pie and bananas and your nutty religious faith that God would take care of us if we were doing good work for the people of Hell’s Kitchen. But that wasn’t what was keeping us afloat. It was me. You were useless. You barely even showed up to work by the end. What happened to you after our firm fell apart, Matt? Solo practice, just as destitute as before or worse, draining your savings, working out of your apartment alone, mainly doing pro bono work because you’re a goddamn bleeding heart, trying to make things work that just fucking don’t.”

Matt shakes, can’t find his cane or anything he can touch that will tell him where he is. His hands feel like they’re bathed in flames.

“You can’t do this job without partners. You just can’t. People discriminate against you, distrust you… and they’re right to. There are too many things you can’t do. You can’t even view half the files we get in discovery. In the working world… you’re really just a regular blind guy. You couldn’t even help Karen and I with basic tasks on Monday. It freaked you out so bad how useless you were that you had a panic attack. You’re helpless even to get your own fucking phone service turned back on. You can’t work your own goddamn thermostat and you’re freezing to death because of it. You really are poor little blind orphan Matt in so many ways, aren’t you? If I didn’t give you a job… who would have? And how would Karen ever get back all the money you owe her? I pitched Nelson, Murdock, and Page because you need Karen and I or you’ll waste away and die. Just look at you right at this very moment. You pushed us both away because needing help hurt too bad and you were scared, and what’s happening now? You’re about to die, cold and alone."

Something is wrong, Matt thinks. Something isn’t right about Foggy. It’s so cold and he’s so exhausted and scared it’s hard to think of what it is, but Matt knows something isn’t right. Foggy… Foggy wouldn’t say these things to him.

Foggy wouldn’t say these things to anyone. He would never be so cruel.

Foggy and Karen on the walk to the burrito stand, both giddy with so much excitement about starting the new firm that Matt was perplexed—couldn’t touch their joy—understand why they’d give up good jobs to start Nelson, Murdock, and Page—why they’d be so happy about it.

Doesn’t make sense. Doesn’t make sense.

“So I’ve been taking care of you,” Foggy rages on. “I bought your breakfast and lunch… I even ordered for you. Did you even notice how casually I tried to make your life easier? I’m good at it—pretending. Fooled you into thinking I didn’t pity you for years and years—that I genuinely just liked you and wanted to be your friend. Fooled you into thinking restarting the firm made me happy.”

Matt stumbles, tips back toward the wall. He can barely walk. Any second, he’ll fall.

Get up, Matty!

Stick’s voice seems fainter and fainter.

“You can’t keep your life together, Matt. You’re a burden. You can’t even blame being blind—not really. That’s hardly the worst of your issues. It’s just… you. You’re just pitiful. You just can’t keep it together, and it terrifies you, doesn’t it? So badly that you’ll let mail pile up for weeks because you’re scared to even look at it. You avoided your apartment until you couldn’t anymore because it reminds you of all the things you can’t do—how broken you are—everything you can lose or destroy yet again.”

Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong.

Foggy wouldn’t say these things. Foggy wouldn’t. Not to anyone—no matter how much he hated them.

“You want to think you can do everything if you just keep and keep and keep getting back up—like your dad, but you can’t. Your mind can’t take it—you never stood a chance against depression. It’s built into your DNA. Add on being disabled and alone… The damn simple fact of things is that no matter what special abilities you have… no matter what you can do… the world still isn’t set up to hold you. It hurtles away faster than that cab that dropped you into the Hudson. You have to cling onto it tight as you can while it does nothing to keep you from flying off its surface. No family. No sight. You can leap over rooftops, but something as simple as turning your phone service back on feels impossible because a goddamn website isn’t working. It would be a cake walk if you could see, or even if you just had a goddamn family you could depend on… but you don’t. Now your body is breaking down too, right along with your fucked up head.”

Matt’s lungs burn. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

“You can’t take care of yourself, Matt, and knowing that is tearing you apart, isn’t it? You spent months barely able to walk or hear or even taste and it was terrifying how powerless you felt—how dependent. Every second your World On Fire refused to flame, you felt more and more despair, didn’t you? When you still couldn’t even walk, when you were still wallowing with hurt pride from the neediness and the lack of privacy and autonomy—your own mother told you you’d become too much of a burden—that there was no place for you at the orphanage where she lives and works—where you grew up—because she never wanted you.”

How does Foggy know about Maggie? Matt hasn’t told Foggy about her. Did Karen tell him? Matt just needs to find a window—any window—he can break it. It’s an emergency. He’s just trying to get warm and doing what he has to do. He steps forward, feet sinking.

“Karen and I restarted the firm with you because we feel sorry for you. Father Lantom put you up in a musty basement because he felt just bad enough, and Maggie felt guilty enough to give her little devil child a button to press if he needed anything. Lantom put you up, and now he’s dead because of it. Just like Jack and Elektra and Stick. You destroy everyone you touch if they don’t have the good sense to leave before you can. Even when you were a baby, you nearly sucked the life out of your own mother with your needy wails for help. You aren’t any less needy now, Matt. No wonder she didn’t want you to know you were her son.”

Why is it so cold?

Why isn’t anyone out?

Matt stumbles.

“I’d be better off cutting the things out of my life weighing me down. Isn’t that right, Matt? Isn’t that what you told me the night we dissolved Nelson and Murdock? That you were just a burden? I was relieved when you didn’t change your mind. Do you remember? Because I don’t want to be your friend, Matt. I’ve never really been your friend… have I? All these years, I just felt sorry for you. Now I know your secret, and all I end up doing is covering for you and getting nothing in return. Getting hurt, getting put in danger, grieving and worrying, letting you drain me emotionally and financially. I know our relationship isn’t healthy, and that’s why I tried to put boundaries in place Sunday—tell you to handle your own shit. But you’re just so pathetic, Matt… I can’t help but pity you.”

Matt’s foot hits solid ground, suddenly—a break from the powdery snow, and Matt clings to that spot, stepping further into it, but his relief is short lived. His foot slips. Thick ice. His feet sweep right out from under him and he lands in the ice right on his tailbone. The impact jolts all the way up his spine, and Matt swears he feels something give.

He remembers Claire telling him not to fall.

“Foggy! Foggy!” Matt cries frantically. He remembers Foggy isn’t going to help him.

“Help,” Matt says breathlessly, then louder, “Help!” Hoping someone hears him, because Foggy isn’t listening—doesn’t care. Matt’s voice is muffled by the wind.

A sob wrenches out of Matt’s throat. “’M sorry, Foggy! Foggy, please help me. J-just one last time… please! F-Foggy, I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die, Foggy!” The tears burn in the chill of the wind. His fingers throb.

“Good.”

Matt’s whole body stills.

“You wanted to die after you injured your spine, didn’t you? After your fall, will you be able to walk, do you think? Who’s going to take care of you if your back never gets better? Maggie? Karen? Me? Do you want me to put you up in my house? Are you going to be able to make it to the bathroom on your own, or will I have to roll you out of your own piss and sick like the nuns did? Will I have to get you a button, so you can call me for help if you fall? Like your own mom did, while telling you that you weren’t her problem? That she had better things to do than tend to your needs? That she wasn’t running a convalescent home? Stop being a burden to everyone around you, Matt. Stop ruining our fucking lives.”

Matt hasn’t told anyone the details of the months spent at St. Agnes and Clinton Church. How does Foggy know? How does Foggy know about any of this? Any of the things he’s been saying?

Matt jerkily tugs his phone out of his jacket pocket. It’s so cold. Matt’s body is shutting down. His phone… it would shut off if it was this cold… wouldn’t it? It would stop working… stop working like Matt is.

There’s no way he’s anywhere near the coffee shop. It’s several blocks away from his apartment. Matt can’t have gotten far. He got lost the moment he stepped outside. There’s no way his phone is pinging a wifi signal. He has no service.

Fisk.

Jack.

He hallucinated them both while spinning out of control, deeply depressed and angry and self-hating—wanting to destroy himself.

“I love you. Whatever’s wrong… we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

“It would be better if you just died.” Foggy’s voice crackles hatefully over the damp speakers in Matt’s phone.

“You’re not real,” Matt mutters, sitting in the snow, dumbfounded. He isn’t shaking anymore. His body is still. The cold no longer seems to touch him. Everything feels far away except the howl of the wind. He sits and listens for a while, dazed. The Foggy talking through the phone has gone silent. Then—breaking through the icy wind-

“Matt? Oh my God, Matt!” A frantic voice—not tinny over the phone, but carried over the wind. Footsteps crunch through snow at a rapid pace, and then there are hands on Matt’s shoulders.

Foggy.

Is he real?

Foggy kneels down in front of Matt in the snow. His heartbeat, his breathing, his warmth… it’s the only thing out here that feels real—a beacon of flame in the cold and dark.

“Matt, what happened? Oh my God, Matt, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Foggy’s voice is frantic—wet and blubbering. “What the hell are you doing outside? It’s the middle of a blizzard, Matt!”

Matt just sits in the snow, motionless. His face is so numb he can’t speak at first. “Talking… on the phone…” He manages—barely above a whisper.

“What?” Foggy pants for breath, grabs Matt’s phone out of his hand and puts it up to his ear. “Hello?” He pulls it away from his face and taps on the screen. There’s silence for a moment.

Foggy’s mittened hand reaches out—lands on Matt’s cheek. “Matt… you’re crying….” He says softly—so softly.

Is this Foggy real?

“Your lips are blue.” Foggy’s hands pawing over his face, his arms, his jacket. “You’re not wearing a coat. You’re… you’re not shivering.” Foggy’s heart starts beating very fast. “Matt, you should be shivering. You should be shivering all over. It’s cold as balls out here. Y-your lips are blue. Jesus Christ. Fuck. Shit. Shit. Shit! You need to get up right now! Right now, Matt!” Foggy grabs Matt under the armpits and starts hauling him up, straining under his weight but determined. He’s stronger than Matt thought.

Matt whimpers at the jostle in his back, limp limbed, but it doesn’t seem to matter to Foggy as he hauls Matt’s arm over his shoulder.

“Okay… okay!” Foggy says. “We have to get you warm right now! Move as fast as you can, okay? Come on, buddy. We gotta get to your building!”

Matt tries, but his legs are so numb with cold (he prays it’s only cold) that they feel like jelly, scraping along the snow-covered ground, ankles bending at odd angles. Time shifts strangely around Matt, and suddenly the door to his apartment building opens, and Foggy is lowering him onto the lowest stair on the staircase. Matt’s body slumps into the wall, arms curled to his chest, completely still. Foggy rushes to close the door, panting in relief when he successfully does. He leans over his knees, muttering, “Okay… okay…” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. He taps at the screen, then says, “Shit, shit, shit!”

He shoves it back in his pocket and rushes over to Matt, tugging off his coat and scarf as he goes. He sits beside Matt on the stairs and throws his coat over Matt’s back.

Matt vibrates while Foggy guides Matt’s limp hands through the sleeves of his coat, warm with Foggy’s body heat. He puts his scarf around Matt’s neck. His hands clamp around Matt’s back and chest and start rubbing up and down, trying to generate heat.

“Wait-” He suddenly says to himself. “Fuck! I’m not supposed to do that.”

His hands hover, uncertain. Matt wishes he’d put his hands back. Foggy is warm.

“Okay… okay, Matt…” Foggy reasons aloud breathlessly, voice shaking with adrenaline. “Both of our phones are so cold that they aren’t working, and honestly I don’t know how long it would take an ambulance to get here. The one thing I’m very goddamn sure of is that you’re hypothermic, and you have an apartment upstairs with warm, dry clothes in it… and a coat in a cold stairway isn’t going to fucking help you enough.”

Foggy’s voice warbles in Matt’s ears. The world seems to spin. Matt’s eyes droop.

“Stay awake, Matt.” Foggy cups his hands around Matt’s face gently. For the first time, his hand doesn’t just look like flames in Matt’s mind—it feels like flames too against Matt’s icy skin. “Matty, open your eyes, okay?”

Matt tries. He doesn’t know if his eyes actually open or not. It’s hard for him to tell sometimes since they don’t work—not even a little—no light perception. His face is numb. His eyes are gummy with tears and exhaustion.

It’s warmer in here, inside and out of the wind. The world has dimension again. Foggy sits beside him, body aflame. Matt can feel the warmth coming off him—of his jacket around Matt’s body—his scarf.

Foggy moves one of his hands to the back of Matt’s neck. It feels like a furnace.

A violent shiver suddenly goes through Matt, and then suddenly he’s wide awake, and shaking so violently he feels like he’s going to shake out of his own skin.

“Good!” Foggy says breathlessly. “Good, Matt! I think… Shit!”

It doesn’t feel good. Matt’s never felt this cold in his entire life. His teeth chatter uncontrollably—so hard he’s a little worried about his tongue. His heart pounds cold blood through his body. The shivering is sapping the life right out of him. He’s so cold he can’t hold himself up—slumping over into Foggy, whose arms of flame wrap around him tight, keeping him upright.

“Okay, buddy… okay…” Foggy whispers, holding him close. He’s warm. He’s so warm. Matt can feel Foggy burn around him. Wants to borrow closer. Can’t move.

“We need to get you upstairs, Matt. Your clothes are wet. We have to get you dry. Can you walk?” Foggy doesn’t wait for an answer—starts hauling him up.

Matt’s back twinges and a moan spills out of his throat. His legs don’t support him. There’s no strength in them at all. Foggy staggers to catch his dead wait.

“You can’t walk…” Foggy observes. “You shouldn’t walk. Fuck! I’m not… you aren’t supposed to move people with fucking hypothermia, right? You can’t walk up the stairs…”

Matt tries. He tries as hard as he can to get his legs to support some of his weight.

Murdocks always get back up.

Matt stands for one second, Foggy’s arms around him, supporting him, but then collapses right back toward the floor again. Foggy makes a noise of alarm and grabs him tight before he can slip through his arms.

Warm. Foggy is so warm.

Real?

Foggy takes several big breaths, arms curled tight around Matt’s limp body. Foggy’s muscles start coiling up. “Fuck it,” He says under his breath and then Matt’s world tilts and spins. Foggy hauls Matt onto his back with a shocking amount of strength, securing Matt’s legs around his waist and leaning forward so Matt flops over his back, and then he starts pounding up the steps, like if he takes them fast enough, he can outrun his own exhaustion. His jaw is clenched, muscles straining. He pants for breath, and Matt can’t do a damn thing to help him. Even his ability to stay leaned against Foggy’s back—to cling onto his sweater weakly so Foggy doesn’t topple backwards—is tenuous.

Foggy stomps and stomps and stomps up the steps, flight after flight, losing speed as he hits one landing after another. By the fourth flight, he’s leaning heavily into the stair rail for support and staggering, but he doesn’t stop moving. He straightens his back, clenches his jaw, and stomps up the steps one by one. His breaths come faster and faster until he’s wheezing, sweating, warm warm warm against Matt’s chest. Foggy staggers to a halt at the fourth floor landing, one hand reaching out for the next stair rail. He leans over heavily and wheezes for breath. “Matt? How you… doing, buddy?” Foggy pants. “You… still… with me?”

Matt’s tries to make an affirmative grunt, but it comes out more of a moan, his teeth clattering together uncontrollably. He clings harder to the flames.

“That bad, huh?” Foggy says thinly, chest rising and falling rapidly. “At least you aren’t as heavy as those fucking desks.” He takes two big, controlled breaths. “Almost there, buddy. Just two more flights.”

He hauls Matt closer and then starts pounding up the steps again, teeth gritted, muscles straining under the effort, but moving far faster than Matt would have thought. He reaches the top floor and groans in relief, then hisses a curse in front of Matt’s door. “Fucking… keys…” He wheezes. Foggy tries the knob out of desperation anyway, and it’s unlocked. “Ohhhh thank God!”

Foggy launches them through the door and kicks it closed behind him.

“Jesus! It’s fucking freezing in here!” Foggy pants as he staggers inside, swaying between the hallway walls. He slumps them into the wall by the thermostat, then taps at the screen frantically.

The heater hisses, then roars to life.

Not broken.

Foggy lets out a breath of relief, nearly losing hold on Matt’s legs in the process, then goes tense suddenly. His fingers reach up again carefully, trail over the tape on the screen. His breath hitches strangely.

He hauls Matt a little closer. “Let’s get you to the couch…”

As soon as Foggy sits Matt on the couch, he rushes into Matt’s bedroom and grabs the duvet off the bed. He throws it over the arm of the couch and kneels down in front of Matt and starts tugging off his coat, his jacket, his scarf, his shoes—everything.

A whine of protest spills out of Matt’s throat. It’s cold.

“I know, buddy I know…” Foggy says, still breathless. “I’m sorry, but we have to get you dry.”

He paws over Matt’s top thermal layer, checking for damp, then his hands go to the fly of Matt’s pants and Matt suddenly explodes into motion, shoving Foggy’s hands away frantically.

“Woah woah woah!” Foggy puts his hands up as Matt curls away from him on the couch, trembling all over with chill and adrenaline.. “Okay, buddy… I’m sorry. I should have… Matt, your pants are wet. You need to take them off so you can get dry. Do you understand?”

Matt shakes. “I can do it myself,” He slurs, and that’s… it’s very possible he can’t do it himself. His limbs are stiff and uncoordinated. His fingers are on fire. He doesn’t even know how he had the energy to shove Foggy away. Where was that energy when Foggy needed help getting him up the stairs?

“Okay,” Foggy says placatingly. “You do that… or try. I can help you if you need me. Take everything off that’s wet, okay? I mean everything—that includes your underwear.” Foggy glances at the duvet on the arm of the couch, then grabs it and tugs it over Matt up to his neck. “While you do that, I’m going to go get you some warm, dry clothes to put on. Okay?”

Foggy doesn’t wait for an answer, stumbling upward and rushing back into Matt’s room.

Matt’s numb, clumsy fingers take several tries on the clasp of his slacks—his arms stiff—but he manages, tugging down his pants, thermals, and underwear in one go. The effort completely exhausts him. He’s never been so cold or so tired, and he can’t stop shivering.

The apartment is warming up quickly, the heater roaring at high speed. It’s like the warmth can’t quite reach Matt though. He’s frozen inside. The heater only warms his skin. Matt listens to his own heart thump thump thump. It sounds strange—tired.

Foggy comes back with boxer briefs, socks, more thermal layers, and a hoodie and sweat pants. Matt got as far as shucking all his layers down to his ankles. Foggy uncovers his calves and drags the clothes off him, and then guides several clothing items onto Matt’s feet and hauls them halfway up his legs before stilling. “Do you want to do the rest?” He asks carefully.

Matt trembles into motion, tugging the clothes up clumsily and stiffly. Foggy shifts upward to help Matt lift himself up. Matt can still barely feel his arms or his fingers, but he finally tugs the layers over his hips.

Foggy immediately rushes to guide Matt’s arms through his hoodie, zipping it all the way up and even tugging the hood over Matt’s head. His hands settle around Matt’s painful fingers, examining them closely, then he rucks up the blanket over Matt’s ankles again and tugs a thick pair of socks onto Matt’s feet.

Matt curls his arms around himself, listing into the arm of the couch while Foggy strips quickly out of his snow pants and boots. When he’s down to just his sweater and thermals, he stands hesitantly in front of Matt’s shivering form.

“Matt?” He says hesitantly. “I know maybe… maybe you’re having some negative feelings about being touched lately… but I think it would be a really really really good idea for you to like… cuddle me for warmth, basically. I-I know you’ve been mad at me, and I might be the last person you want… you want to feel close to right now… But… but what do you think, buddy?”

Matt’s throat hurts. His eyes well up with tears. He doesn’t know why it’s this that does it. Maybe because Matt’s shivering to death and Foggy still asked. Maybe it’s that after everything he hallucinated on the phone in the snow, the idea of holding onto the real Foggy sounds like a relief. Maybe it’s the thought that Foggy’s hesitancy to touch him yesterday by the cab wasn’t disgust, but concern that Matt wouldn’t want that—that Matt was mad at him. Matt sniffles loudly, and nods.

Foggy scrambles under the covers beside Matt, and he’s warm, warm, warm. Matt is so cold that Foggy’s body heat almost burns. Matt wishes he could jump right into the flames.

Foggy scoots back against the arm of the couch and wraps his arms around Matt, hauls him sideways until Matt is laying limply half on top of him, half pinned between Foggy and the back of the couch, Matt plastered against Foggy’s chest with his right ear right over his best friend’s heart. Matt’s too goddamn cold to feel self-conscious. All he feels is relief at having a source of warmth and that warmth being Foggy, who apparently doesn’t hate him after all.

Matt weeps, shaking, clinging to Foggy’s sweater as tight as he can, fingers poking through the yarn, listening to Foggy’s heart beat strong and steady, taking comfort from it and desperately trying to get his own sluggish heart to match the same strong beat and rhythm, because he doesn’t want to die.

Matt doesn’t want to die.

No matter what the voices all said… Matt wants to stay here. He wants to stay with Foggy and everyone else where it’s warm—be Matthew Murdock in Matthew Murdock’s apartment—not Fogwell’s Gym or the church basement. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore. He doesn’t want to die.

It’s lucky his eyes don’t work, because he wouldn’t be able to see out of them at all with all the tears he’s crying. His body wracks with shivering and sobs and he can’t stop.

Foggy makes shushing sounds, fusses with the comforter, tucking it over Matt’s head and around their feet and legs, insulating Matt from head to toe. Then he wraps his arms around Matt under the covers, holding on as tight as he can. His arms burn across Matt’s back and sides, even with layers of clothes between them.

Matt still feels icy cold inside, but his exterior is warming. Sensation starts to return to his skin. His spine is beginning to hurt. He’s twisted a little strangely, but if he moves, he’ll lose some of the warmth he desperately needs. So Matt trembles and warms and weeps into Foggy’s sweater until it’s damp with tears and snot. He thinks Foggy talks to him a little, but Matt can’t process the words, only their soothing lilt.

Over time, Matt’s chest starts to thaw, his heart starts to speed, the uncontrollable shivering sucking the life out of him starts to slow. His energy is absolutely drained. He doesn’t think he could move an inch if he tried.

Foggy tugs his phone out of his pocket, tapping at the screen briefly, then puts it away, tucks his arm back under the covers. His warm hand slides to the side of Matt’s face, feeling around it, around the back of his head, his neck.

It’s confusing. Foggy isn’t blind.

It occurs to Matt that he’s cocooned completely under the covers, and Foggy’s head isn’t under them, so Foggy can’t see him.

“Let me see your fingers,” Foggy says after a moment, already digging for them. Matt’s hands are curled between his chest and Foggy’s stomach. Foggy grabs onto them—tugs them upward. Foggy keeps Matt’s hands under the blanket, but he covers Matt’s hands with his own to warm them.

It hurts, burning searing pain through his his fingers, but Matt knows it’s for his own good, and doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t want nerve damage in his fingers from frostbite. He needs his fingers—more than most people do. More tears squeeze out of Matt’s eyes. He clenches his jaw against the pain. His heart beats faster.

God, why did he go outside?

Foggy’s warmth is taking the strain off his body to do the warming for him. He still feels so cold on the inside though—desperately hopes the flames Foggy lets off will eventually reach his core.

Foggy tucks one of Matt’s hands under his armpit so he has a hand free, tugs the blanket away a little so he can peer under it at Matt. “Your lips are getting their color back… thank God….”

Matt’s face, on the other hand, is a mess of tears and snot—some of it new, some of it dried and cracked on his chapped face. Foggy fishes a packet of tissues out of his pocket. He dabs at Matt’s face carefully, and Matt lets him, far too addled to balk at Foggy’s mothering.

Foggy fishes out his phone again. “Okay. Phone’s working again. Time for an ambulance.”

Matt’s flaming, painful fingers turn to claws. “Foggy, no, no, no, please no…!” He begs, fresh tears leaking out of his eyes in a torrent, a whine crawling up his throat.

“Matt, you got so cold that you stopped shivering! I’m pretty sure that’s like… really really bad!” Foggy says frantically, voice muffled by the covers separating their heads.

“Foggy please don’t please don’t please please please please-” Matt begs, clutching onto Foggy’s sweater as tight as he can, knowing he isn’t strong enough to fight—knowing there’s nothing he can do if Foggy doesn’t listen.

No one listens.

Foggy lets out a distressed sound. “Matt,” He sounds emotional—throat tight. He tugs the covers back from Matt’s face again so he can see him, places a warm palm on the side of Matt’s face. “Buddy, why are you so scared?” He asks softly.

Matt’s mind spins, searching for words, lips trembling. “I don’t want anyone to touch me,” He says finally, and it’s like the words release some kind of dam, because then the words start spilling out of him uncontrollably. “Please don’t let anyone touch me, Foggy… I don’t… I don’t want anyone to touch me…! Midland Circle fell on top of me and it hurt—it hurt my spine and my hip that’s why carrying the desks hurt me, Foggy. I didn’t go out the night before I swear I didn’t. I scratched myself up in my sleep that’s why I was bleeding I didn’t go out I just shouldn’t have lifted the desks—I didn’t know it would hurt me again so bad, Foggy, I swear…!” Matt’s crying so hard and his tears are finally warm now, but it stings against his chilled skin already rough with irritation.

A strange sound comes from Foggy’s throat—a sharp breath—and he wraps Matt up in his arms again, holds him tight as more words spill out of Matt’s mouth.

“The-the nuns took care of me at St. Agnes and I didn’t wake up for weeks, Fog, b-but I can remember them holding me down and h-hurting me even though I know they didn’t mean to and I couldn’t do anything and it still scares me…! I couldn’t hear anything and they didn’t listen and I couldn’t tell if I was talking or not and I couldn’t move or smell or taste or hear. I couldn’t see Foggy, and they touched me and hurt me and wouldn’t listen when I asked them to stop…! I don’t w-want anyone to touch me, Foggy, please don’t let anyone touch me…! I-I don’t know if I even have h-health insurance anymore and th-they’ll hold me down and I won’t be able to see and they won’t listen… and they might not let anyone be with me if they see my scars… and I don’t want to be alone with strangers touching me when I can’t see please please please-” He’s babbling and sobbing now, he knows, but he can’t stop “Don’t let anyone hold me down or hurt me, Foggy, don’t make me go, please don’t please don’t...!”

Foggy clings onto Matt as tight as he can. “Jesus, Matt,” He whispers, and his throat is tight like he’s going to cry right along with him. “I’m so sorry, Matty,” His voice wavers. “Okay, buddy… okay… I don’t… I don’t think some of those things would happen—besides the touching—but I’ll make you a deal, alright? I’ll call Claire, and if she says you don’t need a hospital and that I can treat you here… we’ll stay here, okay?”

Matt whimpers—he can’t help the noise that crawls out of his throat no matter how embarrassing it is. He doesn’t want to go to the hospital—not even if he’ll die.

“…And if you end up needing to go to the hospital… Matty, I won’t let anyone hurt you, okay?” Foggy’s crying now—Matt can’t smell the tears over his own but he can hear it in the wetness of Foggy’s voice and in his breathing. “I promise.” Foggy’s heart beats steady right under Matt’s ear, truth, truth, truth.

Matt clenches his jaw, shaking and clinging to Foggy’s sweater so hard he’s probably tugging all the yarn apart while Foggy dials Claire’s number.

“Claire? I found him,” Is the first thing Foggy says, voice still strained, sniffling.

“Is he okay?” Claire asks urgently. “How is he?”

“He was outside in the blizzard. He-he’s got hypothermia, Claire. I need help knowing what to do. I got him back into his apartment bundled up against me on the couch in dry clothes. I have him insulated under his comforter.”

“Is he conscious? Is he shivering?”

“Yes to both. He wasn’t shivering when I first found him though. Like a minute after I got him inside his building, he started shivering super hard.”

“How’s his breathing? Is he still shivering that violently?”

“He’s shivering on and off… less violently than before. His breathing seems fine.”

“He doesn’t need to shiver for too long. It could exhaust him completely. His body fat is low. Do you know if at any point he fell unconscious?”

“I… I can’t be sure, but I don’t think so. He’s awake right now and has been since I found him as far as I know,” Foggy sniffs, drags one clinging hand away from Matt so he can wipe his own face—calm down and give Claire the information she needs clearly. “I had to carry him up the stairs, so I couldn’t look at him for a while, but I think he stayed awake.”

“Is he lucid right now? Is he talking?”

“Yeah.”

“Put me on speaker.”

Foggy does.

“Matt?” Claire says.

Matt swallows. Clings to Foggy’s sweater. “Claire,” Is all he manages, trembling around his own freezing core and the fear of what Claire will say—the sentence she’ll dole out.

“I need you to be honest with me, Matt. Did you fall unconscious?”

“I… I don’t know. I don’t think so…”

“Tell me how your heart sounds.”

Matt focuses. Parsing his own heartbeat from Foggy’s is a little difficult with Foggy’s heart right under his ear, and because Matt is so tired, but he manages. “Steady,” He says faintly. “Fast…”

“Is that bad?” Foggy asks in alarm.

“It’s good that its steady,” Claire replies. “How fast, Matt? Fast for you, or fast for someone like Foggy? Fast like when you exercise?”

“Fast… like exercise…”

“Foggy, you’re warming him up with your body heat you said?”

“Uh… yeah. I’ve got him in dry clothes on the couch, laying on his stomach like… on top of me. I’ve got his whole body buried under a comforter from head to toe. Heater’s on high blast. Should I do something else? Put him in a hot shower or something?”

“No,” Claire says quickly. “You can’t warm him up too quickly. Body heat is good, but I’m concerned about afterdrop. There should be a heating pad in his bedroom. Put it against his chest on the medium setting and keep it there. Not the high setting, Foggy. You can’t warm him too quickly, and do not prioritize trying to warm his extremities over his core. Not until his core temp is above 95 degrees. Give him something warm to drink like herbal tea or hot chocolate if he has it. Put a shitload of sugar in it. He needs fuel. Keep him lying down—don’t try to move him or sit him upright. There’s a thermometer in his medicine basket you can use to keep track of his temperature and report it back to me.”

“So… no hospital?” Foggy asks.

Claire hesitates. “Tell me about disorientation. Has he been confused? Saying things that don’t make sense?”

“He was definitely confused and wasn’t responding much when I found him. He still seems a little confused and he’s slurring his words a little.”

“Was he hallucinating?”

Foggy opens and closes his mouth. “Can… can Matt hallucinate?”

“Auditory hallucinations, Foggy.”

“Okay, well… I don’t know. When I first found him and asked him why he was outside, he said he was on the phone? I thought he might have tried to call 911, but his phone had shut off from the cold. Now that I know how resistant he is to going to the hospital—like tears and begging resistant—I’m not so sure he was calling for help.”

“Matt, were you hallucinating? Hearing things?” Claire asks.

Matt doesn’t want to tell her. “Yes…” He admits, but then—because he does not want to go to the hospital, he adds, “B-but that’s… it’s… it’s happened before.”

Foggy tenses up underneath him.

“When did it happen before?” Claire asks carefully.

“When… when I was trying to take down F-Fisk. It happened a few times. I… I heard Fisk talking to me… and… and my dad, once.”

Foggy’s heart beats faster under Matt’s ear.

Matt digs his face into Foggy’s sweater, knowing he’ll be confronted about this later.

“How are his extremities? Fingers, toes… any signs of frostbite? Tell me about any discoloration. His face too—nose, ears…”

“His toes looked okay when I saw them earlier—same for his nose and ears. But his fingers were purple. Now they’re really cold and red.”

“Matt, how do your fingers feel?”

“Hurt,” Matt croaks. “Burn.”

“Do they feel like pins and needles?”

“No.”

“How does the skin on his fingers feel to you, Foggy? Does his skin feel strange—waxy or hard?”

Foggy clasps at Matt’s fingers again. “A little hard? And super cold.”

Claire sighs. “As long as they aren’t white or black… we’re doing pretty damn good. I know warming his fingers is probably tempting, but hold off. It’s going to be extremely painful, and the stress from that doesn’t mix well with everything else his body is handling right now. Warming his extremities before his temperature reaches 96 degrees could also flood cold blood back to his core.”

“Oh shit,” Foggy says nervously. “Uh… I was trying to warm his fingers up earlier by pressing my hands around them and putting them under my armpits.”

“That’s not a bad thing to do later—just not yet. I’ll let you know when to start treatment and what I want you to do, but judging by the timeline, it’ll be a while. Just keep his hands under the blanket. Get that heating pad on his chest. Don’t try to warm any part of him with anything too hot. Keep checking his temperature and his pulse. I want you to send me a text every 10 minutes listing his heart rate, his temperature, and an update on how he’s breathing. You know how to check a pulse, Foggy?”

“Yes.”

“Good. He’s not going to be up to monitoring it himself. As soon as this weather and the roads clear up, I’ll be there to assess him and bring some additional supplies, but you need to monitor him closely until then. I’ll call you in 30 minutes for a more in-depth update, and might give more instructions about his fingers then. Call me immediately if any changes in symptoms occur.”

Foggy hesitates. “So… no hospital?”

Claire takes a minute to respond. “He’s answering questions, he’s lucid… he’s recovering from mild hypothermia that started as moderate hypothermia. His temperature probably reached just below 90 degrees when you found him if he started shivering again so fast. That’s… not good and ideally he’d be at a hospital—especially because he has low body fat, and that concerns me. But… people treat frost nip and mild hypothermia at home pretty often even if they shouldn’t… and whether you were to call an ambulance or not, Matt needs emergency first aid from you either way. Given all the circumstances involved, including the weather and that calling an ambulance might cause a panic attack…? Just… monitor him closely for now and treat him exactly as I say. We’ll monitor his vitals and we can pivot if we need to. Heating pad. And feed him that warm sugar water as soon as possible.”

Relief washes over Matt in waves. It slumps the last bit of fight out of him.

Foggy pats Matt’s back, nods, breathes out. “Okay.”

“Send me texts about his vitals. First set ASAP, then again every 10 minutes—heart rate, breathing, temperature. Got it?”

“Got it. Thanks, Claire.” Foggy hangs up, and immediately starts prying himself out from under Matt.

A protesting whine emerges from Matt’s throat without his permission, and he clings onto Foggy’s sweater.

“I’m sorry, Matt,” Foggy says, patting Matt’s head over the blanket. I’m just going to run and get your thermometer and heating pad and start your kettle so you can have something warm to drink. I’ll be right back.”

Foggy disappears, and Matt clenches every muscle in his body, trying not to shiver again. True to his word, Foggy is back quickly, plugging in the heating pad and stuffing it under Matt, pinned between his chest and the seat of the couch. Matt clings to it like a lifeline, relishing its warmth as it powers up. His apartment also continues to warm as the heater roars at high speed.

Fogy rushes to the kitchen, filling Matt’s kettle with water and putting it on to boil, then digs through Matt’s medicine basket until he finds his thermometer. Then he’s back, crawling under the covers and dragging Matt straight back into the same position as before, but with the heating pad pinned between them, positioned over Matt’s chest and stomach.

Matt drags his fingers right back through the yarn of Foggy’s sweater again, hopes the feeling in them doesn’t get damaged in some permanent way. He needs them—more than most people. He needs his fingers to be able to read, and Claire said he’s not allowed to start warming them yet. More tears squeeze out of Matt’s eyes.

Foggy fiddles with Matt’s thermometer for a minute, then pulls back the blanket so he can see Matt’s face. His breath hitches when he sees Matt crying again. “Turn your head to side a little more, Matty,” Foggy says softly. He curls his hand around the back of Matt’s skull. “Ear thermometer coming in hot, okay?”

Matt cringes slightly under the feel of the thermometer in his ear. He hates having anything in his ear, but an ear thermometer was the cheapest accessible thermometer he could find when he searched for one. Matt sniffles, and then Foggy’s tissues are back, dabbing at his face again. “Don’t want your skin to get anymore irritated,” Foggy murmurs softly.

The thermometer beeps and says aloud, “93.1 degrees”.

“Jesus Christ,” Foggy hisses. He tosses the thermometer aside and types out a quick text. “Okay, I gotta check your pulse now, buddy.” He paws around Matt’s face, slides a palm gently under his jaw and places two fingers on Matt’s neck, right under his chin. He holds his fingers there for a while, and Matt lets him, trying not to let out a sob or a sniffle that might interrupt the process, trying to breathe normally.

Foggy’s other hand stays in Matt’s hair, a thumb smoothing slowly over his scalp.

Matt tries to count his own heartbeat at first too, but he quickly loses track—Claire was right about that. He closes his eyes and lets Foggy take care of it—focuses on breathing steadily—listening to Foggy’s heart instead of his own.

Eventually, Foggy withdraws his hand and types out another text. He stays on his phone for a while, one hand types. The other wraps around Matt’s back, feeling the rise and fall of his chest. Matt almost falls asleep, but then the kettle hisses.

“I have to get up again. I’m sorry, Matt,” Foggy whispers.

Matt successfully stifles any noises of complaint this time. Having the heating pad to keep him warm in Foggy’s absence helps.

Foggy slips carefully out from under Matt, making sure he settles gently on his stomach on the couch and the heating pad stays where it’s supposed to be. In the kitchen, he grabs a large thermos Matt keeps in an upper shelf, then paws through Matt’s tea collection. Luckily, Matt does have tea and sugar. Nobody threw either out while he was gone—no point given their shelf life. Foggy dumps several large scoops of sugar into the thermos, pours water, then drops a few tea bags.

He comes back and places the mug on Matt’s coffee table, then slides back under the blanket with Matt again. “I don’t want to sit you up too much, but just a little bit so you can drink, okay?” Foggy says softly, scooting back against the arm of the couch, a little more upright than before.

Matt tries to help—to sit up so he can guide the thermos to his own mouth, but his limbs are clumsy and weak. Foggy grips his arms. “Don’t exert yourself,” He whispers softly. “Let me do it, okay?”

Matt’s arms barely have any life in them left, so he doesn’t protest when Foggy hauls him up into his space, tugs on him until he’s just a little more upright than he was before, arranged a little more on his side than his stomach. Foggy carefully re-situates the heating pad, and when the tea is diffused and cooled enough, Foggy guides the thermos to Matt’s lips where Matt’s head rests—more on Foggy’s shoulder now.

The liquid is so thick with dissolved sugar that it might as well be simple syrup, and Matt gags for a moment at the taste, but the tea is warm, and Matt’s brain must know he needs the sugar and the water, because he starts drinking it down fast.

“Go slower, okay?” Foggy whispers, awkwardly trying to control the tilt of the cup.

The warmth helps—hits the coldest parts inside him on the inside where the heater and the heating pad haven’t quite reached. Matt drains half the thermos down before turning his head away slightly, needing a break.

Foggy indulges him, setting the thermos aside and wrapping his arms around Matt, tugging the comforter back over his head again so he’s covered in it from head to toe once more.

Matt’s eyes droop. “You weren’t on the phone… outside…” He croaks into Foggy’s sweater.

“No, Matty. Nobody was on the phone. Your phone was so cold it had shut down. You thought you were talking to me?”

“Mhm” Matt murmurs.

Foggy sighs deeply. “That really worries me, Matt. Why were you out there in a blizzard?”

“I didn’t… it didn’t even occur to me that there was a blizzard,” Matt says, voice thick. Maybe he shouldn’t use them, but his painful fingers fiddle with the yarn of Foggy’s sweater nervously anyway. “I just woke up, and-and I was confused. I thought I needed to be at work… and it was so cold in my apartment… I couldn’t… I couldn’t stay there.”

“Fuck, Matt…” Foggy breathes. “You were probably hypothermic before you ever left the building. The desired temp on your thermostat was set all the way to like 99 degrees, but it was on AC instead of heat. It was like 18 degrees in here when we came in.”

“I-I must have tapped on the wrong place on the screen when I got too hot the other night,” Matt says forlornly.

“That thermostat’s not accessible like… at all.”

“Claire put tape on it for me,” Matt’s eyes blink closed, over and over, stay shut longer each time. “She made me promise I would call the apartment manager and have them change it, but I haven’t…”

“You couldn’t call,” Foggy mutters, more to himself seemingly than Matt. “Your phone service isn’t on.”

“Yeah,” Matt croaks, though that’s not the only reason he didn’t take care of it.

There’s silence for a moment, Matt’s eyes drooping closed.

Foggy’s chest squeezes. His breath does something strange, “Matty… I am so fucking sorry,” Foggy’s breath hitches, and he tugs Matt in tighter, and he’s crying. “I-I knew something was wrong. I knew. I… y-you looked so upset yesterday… by the cab… and I just… I-I didn’t want to leave you. Every instinct was telling me to get right back out of that fucking cab—not to leave you alone, and I wish I had listened,” Foggy snuffles, petting his hand through Matt’s hair.

Matt tenses, tongue caught at the emotion in Foggy’s voice—the revelation that he blames himself for all of this, as if it’s his fault that Matt is a mess, went crazy (again), and trashed his whole life and almost died within a matter of days.

“I was worried about the stupid fucking printers. I can’t believe I chose the stupid printers over my fucking friend who looked like he was about to cry in the street,” Foggy sobs. “I searched for you all day yesterday, Matt. I came back to your apartment as soon as I dropped the printers off and you were gone, and I didn’t know what to do… I didn’t know where you went and I got so scared that you… that you...”

“It’s not your fault, Foggy,” Matt’s eyes close, exhaustion weighing him down heavy, but Foggy is crying. It makes Matt’s own throat tight, responding to Foggy’s emotion—tears of sympathy welling up because Foggy is hurting, tears of shame because he scared Foggy by disappearing, tears of relief because Foggy wasn’t mad at Matt—he was just scared.

“I called Karen and told her to stay at the office in case you showed up. I-I tried to think about where you would go—went to the church, to Josie’s, to St. Agnes, to Fogwell’s… I almost called Brett I got so worried. Then Claire called me, and she… she said you were supposed to call her that day, and that… and that she thought you were having a nervous breakdown and… and Karen told me the blood on you came from your own fingernails and she didn’t think you went out, and I kept calling and calling your phone, hoping I wouldn’t get that out of service tone if I just called one more time… knowing it was my fault that that’s what I kept getting, because I’m the fucking idiot who didn’t make it a priority to get you back your fucking phone until Monday… and I know things… sometimes things like that take longer for you to get sorted out and I should have thought to offer to do it for you and I just wasn’t thinking. I was too busy thinking about the firm and being excited and then getting mad at you because you got hurt, and I was wrong—I made stupid assumptions and it pushed you away from me when you needed me most, and I’m so so sorry, Matty.”

“It’s not your fault,” Matt repeats, sniffling, chest pinching at the pain in Foggy’s voice—the shock that Foggy blames himself for so many things that are Matt’s fault and not his. “It’s not your fault… I was… I didn’t ask for any help…”

Foggy wraps his arms around Matt even tighter. “That’s the thing though, Matty…” He whispers. “…What kind of friend am I if after everything we’ve been through… you still don’t think you can ask me for help with things like phones and thermostats and fucking… nervous breakdowns? I… I got so angry at Nelson’s Meats instead of recognizing that you were hurting and asking what was wrong and how I could help. I just… panicked. I was mad, but I… I wasn’t even really mad—I was worried about you and I lashed out. That’s something I need… I need to work on, and I’ve been trying, but even before that… from the moment our first work day started… it was like… you didn’t want to be near me. You flinched when I patted you on the shoulder, you didn’t want me to guide you, you didn’t laugh at any of my jokes which is the real travesty,” Foggy tries, sniffling, wiping his face on his own shoulder. “I just… what kind of friend have I been if I make you withdraw like that? If I make you afraid to tell me you need help?”

Matt shrinks from the question, worrying at Foggy’s sweater. It isn’t said as accusation from Foggy’s end, but Matt puts it on himself as one, because… “You… you probably didn’t do anything, Foggy,” Matt whispers, voice trembling. “Not really.”

“What do you mean?” Foggy pulls the covers back so he can see Matt’s face.

Matt ducks his head down, resting his ear right over Foggy’s heart again, fiddles with the threads of Foggy’s sweater—keeps his eyes closed. “Did… did you come over to my apartment on Sunday?” He asks, very quietly.

“No, why?” Foggy’s heart beats truth right into Matt’s ear.

“I-I dreamed… or-or… I don’t know…” Matt mumbles. “You came over and you pounded on my door…?”

Foggy shakes his head. “Marci’s parents were in town over the weekend. I was busy with them all day on Sunday.”

Matt lets out a long breath. “I hallucinated,” He strains, another long breath—simultaneous fear and relief. “I hallucinated that we had a fight. I was… I was overwhelmed and tired, crying on my couch, and you saw, and y-you got mad at me. Y-you said you needed me to get my shit together and be dependable or-or the firm wouldn’t work. You told me that you and Karen had covered for me enough as it is and not to ask for help with anything.” The memory makes Matt’s eyes sting, even though now he knows it wasn’t real. His throat closes up.

Foggy’s breath hitches. “Matty… I know we had some fights during the Castle case that were pretty intense… and I know I get mad sometimes… but I promise… I would never see you crying and hurting like that and say that to you. I would never speak to you that way. You’re my best friend. I love you, and I’m not bailing on you ever.”

His heart beats truth truth truth right against Matt’s ear.

Matt squeezes his eyes shut—lets out a sob, clings onto Foggy’s sweater, eyes heavy with tears and exhaustion.

Foggy keeps one arm wrapped around Matt tight, curls the other around his head and presses his face into Matt’s scalp, breathes there, clings back, crying.

Stick would probably call both of them a couple of pussies, but his voice isn’t there right now. No voices are there that don’t belong—just Foggy warm and solid and real.

“That’s… is that what you were talking about yesterday outside of your apartment? When we argued by the taxi?” Foggy says after a while—breathes into Matt’s hair.

“Yes,” Matt sniffles. “I thought it was real until today.”

It’s scary. When Matt hallucinated Fisk and his dad, he knew he was hallucinating. But with Foggy… Matt didn’t catch it. He thought Foggy was really there. When he thinks back now, he remembers that he was groggy, and his brain wasn’t mapping his surroundings. He thought it was just because he was exhausted and wasn’t concentrating. Maybe he was dreaming rather than hallucinating? He’s been sleeping so badly. Maybe he never got up to answer a knock at the door at all. Maybe he’s been in such a haze that he couldn’t discern dream from reality.

Foggy’s quiet for a while. His breathing changes like he wants to say something.

“What?” Matt whispers. His eyes feel so heavy.

“When dream-me came over on Sunday… what were you crying about?” Foggy whispers back.

Everything, Matt wants to say, but he’s too tired.

Foggy says something else, but it’s just a distant rumble, lost to Matt as he falls asleep slumped into Foggy’s chest.

Chapter Text

Matt wakes up to Foggy talking to someone on the phone, but he’s too tired to stay awake and figure out who it is or what’s being said.

He slips back into a deep sleep.

Matt flinches away from something in his ear.

“Hey, buddy, just me,” Foggy whispers.

Doesn’t want to be touched—eyes stinging when he’s too weak to move and push whatever it is away.

Electronic voice. “95.2 degrees”.

His ear thermometer.

“Sorry,” Foggy whispers. He tucks the covers closer around Matt, adjusts the heating pad against his chest.

Matt wakes up again laying on his back on the couch—no more Foggy? A palm curled around the back of his skull, tilting his head up. “Three ibuprofen, Matt,” Foggy whispers, pressing the pills against his lips.

The pills are followed by more warm, sugary tea.

Matt falls back asleep.

“Matt, I have to take care of your fingers now,” Foggy says, sounding far away. “Claire said it’s going to hurt, but hopefully not for too long, okay?”

His fingers… Matt wants his fingers treated. Doesn’t matter if it hurts. He grunts something vaguely affirmative.

Hands grabs the backs of his gently, guide them to a large mixing bowl, and plunge them in warm water.

The pain is immediate and excruciating, his fingers raging. Matt whimpers, shocked awake, tears biting at his eyes. Foggy, crouching beside him by the couch, keeps his jerking hands in the bowl—keeps Matt from tipping the bowl over. “It’ll be over soon. I promise.”

A rush of cold goes through Matt, and briefly, he’s back outside, Foggy’s voice spewing venom, then the warmth and smells of the apartment come back.

Foggy is warm and real, heart beating strong.

“F-Fog…?”

“Yeah, Matt?”

“Y-you’re real?”

“Yeah, Matt. I’m real.”

Matt jumps slightly when a tissue presses against his face, wicking up tears he didn’t know were falling—relaxes when he realizes it’s Foggy. “Y-you found me. Outside. W-when I got lost.”

“I did.”

“O-on the phone… y-you said you wouldn’t help me. You said you wanted me to die. But… but you came?” Matt’s eyes burn, but his fingers burn more. There’s something he’s forgetting—not adding. He doesn’t remember what it is.

“That wasn’t real, Matty,” Foggy replies after a moment, and he sounds very sad. His heart beats too fast.

Scared. Why is Foggy sad and scared?

“What you heard on the phone when you were outside wasn’t real.” Foggy’s voice is wet. “I would never say that. I don’t ever want you to die. I have nightmares about you dying… all the time.” Foggy holds the backs of Matt’s hands firmly—grounding. “Y-you promise me you’re gonna… you’re gonna live for a long, long time, Matt. Until we’re both old and wrinkly and we’re… we’re griping at each other in the same nursing home. I’ll help you sort your pills and you’ll… you’ll cart me around in a wheel chair because let’s face it—my body’s breaking down first from lack of investment in exercise. Matty, promise me. Please?”

Matt remembers walking down the street with his hand curled around Foggy’s arm on the way to work, joking around about how Foggy had gone out dancing the night before, Foggy complaining that Matt never goes out with him anymore—telling him to come out dancing.

Their banter had been interrupted by blood on the back of Matt’s skull.

“I don’t wanna lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“Promise me.”

“W-what, you want me to cross my heart?”

“Do not make fun of me.”

Matt, grinning broadly, had crossed his heart. “I swear.”

“I swear…” Matt repeats, blinking slowly, then slipping away with the pain in his hands.

“Hi, this is Franklin Nelson, calling on behalf of one of your tenants, Matthew Murdock. He lives in 6A.”

Matt stirs, laying on his stomach on the couch. He immediately realizes that he no longer feels cold. If anything, he feels a little too warm, bundled up in sweats and a blanket, the heating pad still on, pinned between his chest and the seat of the couch. He feels like he’s slept for a long time, though he can’t know for sure. The fuzziness in his head has retreated some. He could still sleep more, though. His eyes slide shut.

“As I presume you know since there aren’t very many tenants in this building, Matt is blind. The thermostat that was recently installed in his apartment is not accessible. He’d like to put in a work order to have it changed out for an accessible thermostat as soon as possible, please.”

Foggy’s voice comes from across the room behind Matt’s desk. Papers rustle. Matt’s desk drawer is open. The mail previously stuffed inside has been dropped back on the table top.

Foggy found Matt’s mail.

He flips through some of the envelopes absently, phone pinned against his ear by his shoulder, listening to the person on the other end of the line talk.

Matt’s pretty sure he recognizes that voice. It’s the apartment manager for his building.

Matt intentionally tunes out the other side of the call.

His fingers no longer feel numb, but the skin on them feels raw and sensitive. His face and hands feel chapped, and his eyes feel irritated and dry and swollen.

His back hurts.

Matt rolls onto his side to relieve the pressure, bringing the heating pad with him, curling it against his chest and belly, unwilling to let go of it even though he feels a little too warm now. It’s shocking how much energy the simple movement takes out of him. Every muscle in his body feels like jelly. He pants for breath from the exertion.

“The building may be grandfathered in since it was built before 1991, but the thermostat is new.” Foggy gets up and starts pacing back and forth behind Matt’s desk.

Matt’s cheek encounters a texture he doesn’t expect. He slowly shifts the back of his hand toward it, careful of his fingers. It’s the soft throw that usually lays across his couch that he hasn’t been able to find since he moved back in. It’s wrapped around him now, the silk duvet still on top of him too.

Foggy found his favorite throw.

“…Regardless, is hiding behind the law what you want to do here? Wouldn’t you rather just be a decent human being to a tenant who’s lived here for five years and needs to be able to control the temperature of his own apartment?”

More talking over the other end of the line. Matt blocks it out as best he can. He doesn’t want to listen.

He doesn’t want to listen.

Matt’s fingers hurt too bad to smooth over the fabric of the throw for comfort. He rubs his cheek across it instead, tries to focus on that—on how it feels—soothes his chapped skin—more rough and irritated where most of the tears fell.

“Eviction notices that you didn’t bother to provide to him in a format that he’s able to read, in case you forgot that part. Regardless, his rent and late fees have all been paid.”

Don’t listen don’t listen don’t listen

Matt focuses on breathing. His spine hurts. He curls his toes, just to prove to himself that he can. Lets out a breath of relief. His legs don’t feel numb anymore—just heavy with exhaustion like all the rest of him, and sore from hours and hours of shivering. The cold was responsible for the reduced sensation then.

“No. I’m calling on Mr. Murdock’s behalf as an attorney. He’s perfectly capable of living alone and he does—like millions of other disabled people.”

It doesn’t matter if Matt tries not to listen to what the manager is saying on the phone. He can make a perfectly well educated guess based on Foggy’s responses. It’s far from the first time someone assumed Foggy was his carer. He doesn’t usually feel this fragile about it. His face heats. He buries it in the warmth of the throw—lets it wick up bitter, humiliated tears he can’t keep from dropping out of him. His throat aches. He’s tired of crying. The skin below his eyes already feels chafed raw from a combination of cold wind and hot tears without adding new ones.

“What ‘legal threats’ have I made exactly? Maybe you can fill me in. All I’ve done so far is politely ask for you to be a decent human being and put in a work order for a new thermostat.”

Foggy still sounds extremely self-assured and cool-headed, but the words themselves are backpedaling. There’s standards in the law about the height that thermostats have to be so that people in wheel chairs can reach the controls. There’s nothing about thermostat standards that protects Matt, and they both know it. A lot of thermostats aren’t accessible to the blind. Even the old thermostat in the apartment wasn’t fully accessible to Matt. It was just more accessible. It had switches and sliders. He never knew exactly what temperature he was setting it on, but he could easily turn the temperature up and down with the slider, and switch between AC, heat, and off by remembering the positions on the switch.

“Well then why don’t we find out? I’m sure the courts would be happy to give an opinion on whether an apartment management company should be held liable for a blind tenant developing hypothermia and nearly freezing to death in his apartment during a blizzard because you decided to install a new thermostat that he can’t operate.”

Furious, tinny voice over the phone.

Foggy’s blood is up. He doesn’t even let the other voice finish. His cool-headed tone is gone—replaced with overt aggression. “One might also begin to wonder whether the installation of this particular model of thermostat was chosen specifically to leverage Mr. Murdock’s disability against him, in the hopes that he would accept his eviction and move out because his apartment became inhospitable. Then you could jack up the rent under a new lease—perhaps a lease to someone who isn’t disabled, since it seems like maybe that’s an issue for you.”

Matt’s stomach drops. When he thought of what he’d say on this call if he got pushback, this hadn’t even occurred to him as an angle, and now he can’t… he can’t help wondering if Foggy is right.

Foggy is darkly amused by whatever he hears next on the other end of the line. “Given that Mr. Murdock is a fellow partner at our law firm, that he’s handled a range of tenancy cases, and that he won a disabled client 11 million dollars in damages in a negligence case just four months ago, I think he’ll find despite his recent ‘financial troubles’, that he’s able to afford quality legal services just fine. What about on your end? What’s a fully accessible replacement thermostat cost, I wonder? More or less than the thousands you’ll piss away failing to prove you aren’t legally obligated to be a decent human being to a blind tenant?”

The world is still for a moment. Then more murmuring Matt again tries not to listen to—catching only its dejected lilt.

“Thank you,” Foggy says, voice suddenly chipper. He hangs up the phone.

Foggy’s smug demeanor says he won.

He won.

Matt releases a breath—a breath he now realizes he’s been holding in since he first found that thing installed weeks ago. A second deep breath in and out—gasp of relief—like he’s never really taken a full breath this whole time.

“Matt?” Foggy’s heart beat changes when he notices Matt’s stirred. His feet stride over wood floors. He comes right up to the couch and crouches down by Matt’s head. “Hey, buddy. You awake?” He asks softly, fingers pinching over the edge of the duvet.

Matt tugs the duvet off his face. “F-Foggy…” His voice strains. He pauses—to get himself under control. “Thank you…”

“Of course,” Foggy shrugs, patting Matt’s back over the layers of blankets.

“I-I couldn’t do it…” Matt’s voice chokes out.

“Yeah,” Foggy nods. “Your phone’s not working.”

“No,” Matt shakes his head. “Even if it was… I just… I couldn’t…”

Foggy breathes carefully—quietly. “You could,” He disagrees lightly, fussing with the blankets, tucking them around Matt’s neck carefully. “But you shouldn’t have to. Your apartment manager’s a dick, by the way.”

Matt huffs out a watery laugh. “I know.”

“You listen to what he said?”

“No,” Matt’s eyes burn. “I-I didn’t want to… I just listened to you.”

“Good. You heard the good parts only then. Like when I heavily implied how thoroughly you’d mop the floor with him in a courtroom. He clearly doesn’t read the news and doesn’t realize that Matt Murdock is a very accomplished attorney.”

The words tug away Matt’s upsetting thoughts, leave him tongue tied, tears retreating. Heat rises in his cheeks—bashfulness instead of shame. Foggy sounds so confident in him—so different from the Foggy that Matt imagined in the snow.

On the phone, rather than emphasize his own accomplishments to apply pressure, Foggy confronted his manager with Matt’s.

Matt’s been worrying about not being good enough. He’s been fixating on the Castle case, and concerned that he’s just riding on Foggy’s reputation from working for Hogarth, and struggling with anxieties about hiring discrimination if the firm doesn’t pan out… But practicing solo, Matt won a civil suit for a paralyzed boy and his family just days before Midland Circle happened. It… it was a big deal. Reporters were all over the story, and it made the news not just locally, but nationally. Matt had ripped the company’s expert witness to pieces on cross, and while Matt’s personal history obviously wasn’t mentioned during the trial, the fact that Matt is visibly disabled clearly had a strong impact on the jury during his opening and closing. It was part of the reason the family chose him, along with their son clearly gravitating toward Matt—seeing him as an example proving that his life wasn’t over and appreciating the respect with which Matt treated him.

“Did I uh… ever tell you…” Matt finds himself starting—not entirely sure why he wants to tell Foggy this now. “The apartment was advertised at a discount, but uh… when I showed up to tour, he tried to get me to sign for full price? He thought I wouldn’t notice the billboard—lied to my face when I mentioned the details of the listing.”

“What a fucking dick…” Foggy mutters, fiddling with Matt’s covers—making sure they’re arranged over him evenly. “I knew about your billboard discount. I don’t think you told me that he tried to keep you from getting it. You’d think he’d have learned then that he can’t screw you over.”

Matt smiles softly… but then his smile disappears. “F-Fog…?”

“Yeah?” Foggy stills.

Matt knows what Foggy’s been trying to do—present a calm, confident demeanor in the hopes that it’ll rub off on his teary friend—make this whole experience feel less traumatic. In the end though, it is just a front Foggy’s putting on. Matt recognizes it in Foggy’s tense posture—the very slight strain to his voice—the way he stares—breathless—apprehensive at whatever new expression he sees on Matt’s face.

“Do you… do you think…” Matt’s lip wobbles dangerously, but he has to know. “Do you think what you said on the phone’s true? About the… about the thermostat. That… that they did it on purpose? Because… because they wanted me out?” Matt chokes on the thought, tears spilling over again.

“Hey…” Foggy shakes his head, leans into Matt’s space and rubs his back carefully, heart fluttering in empathy.

Matt squeezes his eyes shut—lets out a few silent sobs.

Throat caught by emotion, Foggy wordlessly tugs a tissue out of a box that’s made its way onto the coffee table since Matt fell asleep—dabs at Matt’s tears with it, careful to press the tissue lightly against his face instead of rubbing it across his already irritated skin.

Matt’s hands stay where they are, curled against his chest, barely grazing the soft throw, arms too weak and fingers too painful to be able to move—to do it himself.

“I don’t know, Matt,” Foggy manages quietly after a few moments of hesitation, breath slightly pinched. “I’d really like to think... I think it’s unlikely that someone would even think to deliberately do something so cruel. I think it was probably just thoughtlessness… which I’m sure hurts too… but I don’t think it was on purpose. I wasn’t… I was just trying to scare your apartment manager by suggesting he did it to hurt you—present an argument that I could theoretically make in court if he pushed back.”

Matt nods, sniffling. He knows that. He knows what Foggy was doing.

“I’m really sorry if… if me saying that upset you more than…” Foggy pauses—thinks about his words, breath stilted. “…If the thoughts it brought up and how it made you feel wasn’t worth how much it scared him.”

Matt shakes his head. “I would’ve done the same thing,” He sniffles. “If I wasn’t… if I wasn’t feeling so bad lately... I-I might’ve… But I couldn’t… I just feel… sensitive… lately… about… everything…”

“That’s okay,” Foggy says, achingly gentle. He places a hand in Matt’s hair, strokes his fingers through it. Matt closes his eyes—tries to get himself back under control. “It’s okay to feel sensitive, Matty.”

It’s such a different sentiment from what Matt dreamed or hallucinated Foggy saying when he cried. Why didn’t Matt catch on? He immediately knew when he hallucinated Fisk and Jack that they weren’t real. Why didn’t he know this time?

“I’m glad you didn’t listen to what he said,” Foggy whispers. He hesitates then adds, “I hope you know that I’m happy to handle assholes like that for you. You don’t have to deal with people like that, okay? I’m here. I’ve got your back.”

Foggy dabs at Matt’s tears again, and Matt manages not to make anymore, taking deep breaths.

Foggy clears his throat—modulates his tone. “Hell—I-I know you’re a ninja and I’m the couch potato… but I’ll beat people up for you I swear. Listen to my heart. You know I’m not lying. I may not be a warrior, but I used to watch WWE during those couch potato sessions. I’ve got a decent suplex. And obviously I mastered the full and half Nelson, given my namesake. Brett can vouch for my skills. We used to beat each other up on the playground in 2nd grade.”

Matt smiles—wobbly though it is. “Thank you, Foggy,” He stops, to get himself back under control again, then adds, “I can’t vouch for your wrestling moves as I haven’t witnessed them, and even if I had, the opposing council would try to have my testimony thrown out since I can’t exactly claim to be an eye witness… but I can say your legal threats are first rate.”

“So are yours. You’d do the same for me. In fact, you have,” Foggy shrugs. “Remember when that professor with a stick up his ass accused me of plagiarism?”

There’s a knock on the door. Matt has been so focused on Foggy and everything else, he wasn’t monitoring for anyone coming up the stairs.

Karen is at the door.

It occurs to Matt now that the howling wind outside has stopped—that he can hear cars and bustle outside. The blizzard is over. The roads have been cleared. It’s evening now, he suspects.

Foggy brushes his fingers through Matt’s hair one more time, mussing it up, before getting up and going to the door.

Karen’s arms are laden with grocery bags.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Of course. You couldn’t keep me away any longer if you tried. How is he?”

“Physically… his temperature’s back to normal.” Foggy says something else, but he mouths it, so Matt can’t hear, and shakes his head.

Karen’s heart beats faster with worry at whatever Foggy says.

Matt buries his face back in the throw, heat rising in his cheeks.

Foggy grabs some of the bags Karen came in with. “Thanks for getting these.”

“Of course.”

Groceries. Karen brought Matt groceries. Foggy noticed Matt didn’t get groceries, and he asked Karen if she would get groceries for Matt, and she did.

Karen, who Matt owes thousands of dollars in rent… spent even more money on Matt. Karen, whose heart Matt broke. Karen, who Matt screamed at when they last spoke.

Tears spill over again. Matt doesn’t want to get the blanket too wet. It won’t feel as nice anymore. He drags his face back out of it, resigned.

“He just woke up,” Foggy tells her quietly from the kitchen, already starting to put things away.

Karen drops the other bags on the kitchen table.

Matt’s body is so drained of energy that there’s no way he can wipe the tears away before Karen circles the couch, and letting his raw fingers wipe at salty tears is a tenuous prospect anyway, so he just doesn’t try—doesn’t move at all. His face is probably blotchy from all the crying he’s done today anyway. It doesn’t really make a difference if tears are actively trailing down his face or not.

There’s a sharp intake of breath when Karen sees his face, but she tries to cover her shock when she speaks. “Hey, Matt,” She says—hesitant.

“Hi Karen.” He’d normally move—face her to play the conversationalist. He can’t right now. His whole body feels so heavy.

The couch dips under Matt’s hips when Karen sits down on its edge. Her hand lands softly on his shoulder. Her breath hitches. “I… I knew you weren’t okay. I never should have left you alone…”

“Couldn’t stop me. ’m sorry for what I said. About… about everything. I don’t even know why I said some of the things I did. I was… I was way out of line…”

Karen ducks her head—shakes it. “So was I. I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard about… about the cab or-or about Maggie.”

“I shouldn’t have been rude,” Matt counters. “I-I shouldn’t have… mentioned your dad,” His throat strains. “Wasn’t fair to say that.”

“Then I guess we’re even?”

There’s a pause. Karen’s trying so hard to extend an olive branch, but the big looming thing Matt needs to explain—about the rent—is still there. Matt doesn’t know how to talk about it. Doesn’t know how to deal with her brushing aside the things he said just like that.

Karen takes a breath. “Um… when you went missing yesterday, I uh, I did some digging… trying to figure out why you wouldn’t get in a cab. I think I… I think I know now.”

A chill goes through Matt. He hugs the heating pad closer to his chest. “Can we not talk about it?” He asks plaintively, voice cracking. “Please?”

Karen inhales sharply—nods. “You don’t have to think about it right now.” Her hand reaches—pauses briefly, hesitant—but then trails to the side of his face. She wipes at the tear tracks under his cheek with her thumb.

Matt can’t help it—his head follows her touch. His eyes flutter closed. He doesn’t deserve for her to be so gentle with him after everything.

Foggy has started chopping vegetables in the kitchen. Carrots, celery, onion, garlic… The start of the Nelson’s famous chicken soup, Matt suspects.

“You brought groceries,” Matt clears his throat. “What… what do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about that, Matt.”

Matt can’t accept that. He can’t. He owes Karen so much, and he hasn’t even told her how grateful he is. Shame burns inside him—wrenches at his chest. “I already owe you money…!” Fresh tears squeeze out of his eyes.

“No, Matt… no…” Karen shakes her head, breathless, leans further down into his space so their foreheads almost touch, puts her other hand on his arm.

He remembers her doing that in the church too, when they talked about killing Fisk. She got close, right in his space, but she held onto him too, knowing that eye contact was only her method of establishing sincerity and closeness—that for Matt, it’s different. He can feel her heartbeat through her grip on his arm, the warmth of her.

“I’m… I’m so grateful that you saved my apartment, Karen,” Matt chokes out. “I’m not mad that you did. I’m… thank you. Th-this is the first home I’ve really had since I was ten. I can’t believe I yelled at you for… for protecting that for me. I was just… ashamed and-and scared. I don’t… I don’t want to be a burden and it… It was… I spit in your face for it and you have every right to be mad at me and I want to pay you back. I want to. I just got overwhelmed with everything and I couldn’t… You showed me more kindness than I could ever deserve from you… and I couldn’t even… I just...” He isn’t making much sense he knows—breathless, heart pounding too fast.

“Hey, hey…” Karen grips his arm a little more firmly—pulling him back here—to the present. “It’s not about deserving. And I’m not mad at you either—about the rent money. Not anymore. You know that, right?”

Matt focuses on her heartbeat. It beats truth.

“I was angry when I first saw you again, because I took care of your rent thinking you were alive somewhere and you wanted to come home. I wanted you to have a home to come back to. I got angry because you let me believe you were dead, and you didn’t plan on coming back. You… you actually coming back, then stressing yourself out or starving yourself or digging yourself into a big financial hole because you’re worried about paying me back is the last thing I want. It-it’s the opposite of what I was trying to achieve when I kept your apartment for you.”

Karen’s pauses for a moment, breath hitching. Her heart flutters with nerves, but she goes on.

“You know that I… that I don’t really have family I can count on… and I know for you, things are-they’re really similar. When you’re trying to get on your feet… gain some kind of financial stability… it’s really hard to do it without people who love you there to support you.” Karen’s voice strains with threatening tears. “I-It was hard for me, you know? Coming to New York… with almost no money to my name and no job or anything… just trying to… escape somewhere—disappear into a city of millions.”

Karen sniffs, wipes her face with the back of her hand, and Matt knows she’s talking about her dad and her brother, and his heart hurts. He pushes a tender hand out of the covers—curls it around the back of hers gingerly even though it stings—hopes maybe the contact means something—that it helps her the way she’s trying to help him—that it helps make things right.

Karen takes a breath. “You’re coming back from being homeless, Matt. I mean… that’s really what it is, and that’s hard for anybody. I know how hard it is. But on top of that… you also haven’t been feeling well physically or-or mentally either. And… and Foggy told me about-about the thermostat, and I’m guessing that’s not the only thing that’s been… an additional obstacle. Just…” She clings to his arm. “You and Foggy are my family… and I’m yours. I am happy to spend money that keeps you safe in your home as long as you plan on staying in it. If I never get that rent money back… it’s fine. I don’t regret spending it. Not as long as you’re here and you’re in my life and you’re warm and safe and you have food to eat. Do you understand?”

Matt can’t talk. He just nods, more tears dropping down his cheeks.

Karen’s telling him the truth, but she doesn’t know. She doesn’t know the full extent of how Matt’s deceived her and Foggy, and it eats at him—tears him apart inside. “Karen… I need… I need to tell you something…” His hand shakes on hers, his heart pounds anxiously.

“What?” Karen sniffs, leaning back, patting his hand gently—steadying.

“I-I waited… to… to move back in,” Matt admits. “I didn’t come back to my apartment until Saturday night…” Matt hyperfocuses on her as he says the words—her heartbeat, her breathing, the temperature of her skin…

It all stays the same.

She grabs a tissue from the box—dabs at Matt’s tears with it, then wipes her own on her sleeve. “I know, Matt…”

Matt goes still.

“When Foggy and I realized your internet wasn’t back on and all your mail was piled into a drawer unopened and you had nothing in your fridge but condiments… it wasn’t hard to figure out you probably lied when you said weeks ago that you’d moved back in and you were all set.”

Matt tries to figure out if Karen is resigned—disappointed—angry. He can’t get a read on her—Foggy either, who’s clearly been listening. Foggy just keeps chopping vegetables; Karen just keeps holding onto Matt; it’s making his anxiety skyrocket. “I-I don’t want you and Foggy to think…” Matt chokes, fingers clenching in his blanket, breath picking up.

Karen grips his arm a little more firmly—steadying, inhales to say something, but Matt’s still talking.

“I-I did want to come back… I really did. I swear. I was just… scared,” Matt strains, wanting her to understand—more tears spilling down his cheeks, “I was… I was just… scared to face everything—overwhelmed…”

“Karen and I know you wanted to come back, buddy,” Foggy pipes up suddenly from the kitchen. “Don’t worry.”

Matt’s voice is stolen by surprise.

“If you didn’t want to come back, you never would have tried to go to work three days in a row sick out of your gourd—the last time in the middle of a blizzard. You wouldn’t have agreed to carry those desks on Monday and fucked your back sideways. You wouldn’t have stuck around after you threw up. You were really cranky at the thrift store. You didn’t think any of our antics were funny. You didn’t even grin at your own antics, but you stuck around anyway, even after Ms. Page here knocked you into a hat rack because she is a terrible sighted guide.”

“Foggy,” Karen scoffs, heat rising to her cheeks.

“Seriously. If you hadn’t actually wanted to work with us, you would have bailed on our asses at the thrift store—especially after I asked you if you wanted to cart another insanely heavy desk across two foot-fungus-riddled city blocks and up a killer set of stairs into a smelly meat shop you for some reason agreed to work in despite having the world’s most sophisticated nose. Only an insane person who wants something really really badly would carry two ridiculously heavy desks up those awful stairs. I know because I was one of them—and unlike you, I didn’t have a building fall on top of me. I have a fully functional spinal column and everything.”

Karen huffs a laugh—pats Matt’s arm.

“Claire told you?” Matt says dazedly. “About my spine?”

“I mean you kinda told me this morning,” Foggy shrugs—a strange forced cheerful lilt—badly covering a sudden surge of emotion. “But yeah she ratted your ass out about the hairline fractures when she called me last night. She told me that was the deal she made with you—that she’d call me if you dodged her calls. Of course, now she knows you didn’t dodge her on purpose. If you wanna sue her for violating HIPAA… well. I don’t think it’d go too well given the off-the-books nature of your meetings, but maybe we could set some interesting precedent.”

Matt knows Foggy is trying to joke, but there’s… an interesting edge to his voice. Matt’s brow furrows. “Foggy… are you… mad… at Claire?”

“Maybe.” Foggy scrapes a medley of vegetables off a cutting board into the bottom of Matt’s dutch oven. “Not for violating your privacy though. More like the opposite. I don’t believe in HIPAA for vigilante best friends I guess. Probably makes me the wrong lawyer for your civil suit. Ah well.”

“Don’t be mad at Claire, Fogs,” Matt mumbles.

“I’m trying not to be,” Foggy sighs, stirring his vegetables around in the pot.

“It’s my fault,” Matt protests. “Sh-she wanted me to let her tell you.”

“Well, Matt, I can’t be mad at you. It’s impossible to be mad at you right now… or maybe ever again.” Foggy’s voice wobbles slightly, but he locks it in. “You have tear tracks semi-permanently imprinted into your face and you’ve been curled up asleep on your couch like a sick baby koala for like 8 hours, and every time you talk to me your doleful watery eyes pierce… not into my soul exactly, but into the middle distance over my shoulder at the very least. And you’ve been hallucinating me being mean to you. I couldn’t be mad at you if my life depended on it. The wounded handsome duck thing has never been a more powerful charismatic force. I’m still recovering from the desks, and yet I took one look at you and then carried you up six flights of stairs with energy I shouldn’t possess inside me, like one of those moms who can suddenly lift a car because their baby got trapped underneath it.”

Karen bursts into a fit of watery giggles. “Jesus Christ, Foggy. You should see the look on Matt’s face right now.”

Matt has no idea what his face is doing. Something conveying embarrassment and bewilderedness is probably a good guess, based on how he’s feeling.

“Don’t tell me to look at him, Karen. Don’t even describe him. It might rip my heart in two. I wish I was the blind one.”

Karen’s laughter stills abruptly and she turns her attention on Matt, alarmed.

Matt being sensitive lately means the jab was risky—might not have landed how Foggy wanted… but the risk he took pays off. It’s just… so familiar—exactly the kind of flippant thing Foggy used to say, and a tentative smile spreads across Matt’s lips.

Karen relaxes. “Um… Matt, what do you think about sitting up and eating something, huh? Claire said you need more fluids and a lot of carbs.”

Sitting up sounds exhausting, and it might hurt his spine more, but Matt does want to eat. Karen loosens her grip as he slips his hand out of hers—slowly maneuvering his hands under his chest, trying to push himself up. The effort makes his arms tremble. The pressure on his fingers hurts the skin. He feels light headed. There’s no way he can sit up on his own.

“Let me help,” Karen says softly, already moving to steady him. She ends up wrapping her arms around his chest, leans back to help haul him upright.

They get him sitting up… sort of. More accurately, Matt ends up slumped against the back and arm of his couch, barely able to support his own weight. The simple effort of moving leaves him dizzy and panting for breath. Karen’s stares at him for a moment, heart beating fast with worry.

“Yeah, you really need food...” She heads for the kitchen, trailing a hand along his shoulder as she goes.

Foggy pours chicken stock into the bottom of Matt’s dutch oven as Karen starts his kettle going.

Matt still doesn’t want to let go of the heating pad, even though Foggy said his temperature is normal now. He drags it back over his chest, along with the throw, still breathing heavily from the simple effort of moving a few inches.

Karen goes back to the grocery bags on the table. She opens two plastic containers of bakery cookies. “Chocolate chip or sugar cookie?”

“Chocolate chip, please.”

Karen leans over the arm of the couch to hand him one. It’s large—almost as big as his hand. It hurts most places on his fingers to hold it so he has to handle it carefully, but it smells nice. “I also got protein bars, crackers, juice… I wasn’t sure what kind of snacks you’d feel up to eating.” Karen circles back around with a box of saltine crackers and a cookie of her own, and sits beside him on the couch. She tugs up his blanket so she can get underneath it too. She sits right next to him, her leg warm against his, heart fluttering.

Matt’s face heats. He nibbles on his cookie slowly.

It’s the best cookie he’s ever had—probably in large part because he’s starving, but regardless, just the taste of it makes his eyes threaten tears again.

“You… you didn’t actually forgo getting groceries because you were worried about paying me… right, Matt?” Karen asks apprehensively.

“Not really,” Matt mumbles. “That was just a small part of it.”

Karen looks at him for a long time, waiting for him to elaborate. “What was the big part?” She prompts eventually.

Matt hesitates. Something about admitting it hurts, and he’s at risk of crying yet again. “I don’t like grocery shopping…” His voice croaks forlornly.

Karen must give a confused look, because as Foggy joins them in the living room, he says, “Blind thing,” by way of explanation.

“Uh… oh…” Karen says, a note of bewildered surprise in her voice. “Right.”

Right. Matt dodges projectiles and backflips off buildings. It didn’t occur to Karen that something as simple as grocery shopping might still pose barriers that—while not impossible to hurdle over—don’t make things like laundry or grocery shopping or really much of anything retail-oriented particularly enjoyable—at least not in Matt’s opinion.

Foggy sits in one of the chairs across from the couch. “I thought you started using a delivery service though? That’s kinda why I stopped asking if you wanted to combine grocery trips.” He sounds vaguely guilty.

“Expensive. Need internet.”

Foggy leans back in his chair, like something is just occurring to him. He lets out a long sigh. “Your internet’s not connected back. Your phone has no service still.”

Matt nods, not trusting himself to speak. He fiddles with the fibers on his blanket; bites into his cookie.

“Isn’t there a bodega you like okay for quick things like… a block from here?”

Matt’s tenuous hold on his emotions gives way abruptly on a sob.

Foggy freezes, at a loss. “Uhh….”

The kettle starts hissing. Karen hesitates between the desire to comfort Matt and get the boiling water off the stove.

“I’ll get it,” Foggy rushes to the kitchen, heart beating frantically, makes some motion at Karen that Matt can’t discern.

Karen’s arms wrap around Matt’s shoulders. She tugs him sideways until he slumps against her, head buried in her shoulder and hair, dropping hot tears there.

She rubs is back, and that and being hugged in general feels nice and Matt appreciates it, but he also really wants to finish his cookie, which is now crushed between his and Karen’s stomachs. After a minute, he works up the energy to tug away, drooping back against the corner of the couch, biting into his cookie again stubbornly. He’s sure he looks like he’s totally lost it, angrily crying into a cookie, and he supposes that’s fair, because he has lost it. He’s batshit insane. He literally hallucinates—something Foggy didn’t even think someone as blind as Matt could do, apparently. Matt is just special like that.

“Okay… so… so the bodega is no good anymore…” Karen says warily, patting his leg.

“The bodega is not good…!” Matt weeps around his cookie. “I’m never going there ever again…!”

Foggy steps back into the living room, carefully balancing three mugs of hot chocolate. He sets two down on the coffee table—one for Karen and one for Matt, and sits back in his own chair, heart still beating anxiously in response to Matt’s distress. “Do I need to call and make legal threats? Or put someone in a full Nelson?”

“Just a stupid kid… pulled the classic ‘scam the blind man’ move,” Matt says tearfully and resentfully. “He lied to me to try and make me pay in cash. H-he was gonna give me back the wrong change…!”

“Oh, Matt…” Karen’s shoulders slump.

Matt chafes her pitying tone, but then she breathes out—her jaw tightens—simmering, quiet outrage, he realizes. It makes him feel strangely better.

Foggy puts his head in his hand. “And uh… the phone service and the internet… do I even wanna know?”

“I was on a wifi call on my phone in a coffee shop for three hours yesterday because I couldn’t get the phone company’s website to work with JAWS,” Matt sniffles, teeth grinding together. “When I finally got the right person on the line, they wanted me to pay over the phone and my card’s not a braille one and I was so tired I couldn’t make out the numbers…!” Matt’s frustration is spilling out now—indignant at how the world has been conspiring against him for days. “By the way, w-which one of you moved the cards around in my wallet?”

Foggy cringes. “It might have been me. Sorry.”

Matt jabs a finger in his direction. “Th-then I’m glad I lost your fucking wallet at the bottom of the Hudson!”

Foggy stutters for a moment, then shakes his head slightly as if to clear it. “The Hudson?”

“Don’t ask,” Karen and Matt reply simultaneously, one of them much more teary than the other.

Matt regrets lashing out at Foggy almost immediately. Foggy made him hot chocolate, and is in the process of making him soup, and bullied his apartment manager, and searched for him in the snow, and carried him up six flights of stairs, and warmed Matt with his body heat. He’s a better friend than Matt’s ever deserved. He didn’t even stop offering to combine grocery trips because he hates Matt or because he thought Matt lied about appreciating help with it. He just thought Matt liked his grocery delivery service, and he’s not wrong.

“’M sorry, Fog,” Matt says mournfully. “It doesn’t matter. My credit card isn’t working anyway. That’s why I can’t get the internet back on…”

Foggy doesn’t say anything. Instead, he gets up and crosses to the couch, gathering Matt into a long hug.

It quickly becomes apparent that handling anything heavier than a cookie is beyond Matt right now. When Karen passes him his hot chocolate mug, it feels like a lead weight. His arms tremble with the effort of holding it, sloshing liquid around, and it’s painful to grip the mug with his fingers the way they are. Now seated on the other side of him, Foggy reaches out and steadies the cup for Matt before he spills any on his lap.

“Do you… do you want me to hold the cup so you can drink?” Foggy asks carefully.

“No,” Matt says thinly. He doesn’t want to do that. He knows Foggy helped him drink a few times while he was warming up, but he doesn’t want to do that now that he’s back to normal temperature and lucid. He wants to be able to do it by himself. “I’ll just… try later... ‘m sorry.”

Foggy’s heart flutters anxiously. “I should’ve realized it’d be difficult for you to handle. You should really drink something though, Matt, and you need to eat more. Karen got Gatorade? I know you’re not a fan of the taste, but you could use some electrolytes.”

Matt’s eyes well up with tears yet again. He knows Foggy’s right that he should drink something, but he doesn’t want anyone to hold the cup for him. He wants to be able to drink by himself and eat by himself. It’s important to him.

“Uh, Matt, what if I get you a straw?” Karen perks up. “You can maybe hold a cup against your chest and drink out of it that way? Would… would that feel better?”

Matt thinks maybe… maybe that would be better. He nods. “I think I have some straws… in… in the drawer where I keep cutlery.”

Karen gets up to find one, leaving Matt and Foggy together on the couch.

Matt’s increasingly having trouble ignoring the state of his fingers. When he’s wounded, he usually uses his fingers to assess the wounds, but when his fingers are the wounded thing, he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how they look—how they are—how bad it is. He also can’t use them to check his spine.

“F-Foggy… is… is Claire coming?” Matt asks, recalling that she’d promised to come when she talked to him and Foggy on the phone.

“She is, but it’ll take her a while to get here because of the weather, and she has to make a stop for some supplies first.”

“Did… did she say anything about my fingers?”

Foggy nods. “She asked me to send her some pictures after I got your fingers warmed up. Apparently it’s hard to tell what the real damage is until they’re rewarmed, and she wants to look at them for herself obviously, but she doesn’t think you have anything worse than superficial frostbite in a few spots, which she said should mean no permanent damage.”

Matt takes a long breath out at that, but a part of him is still anxious. Maybe for someone normal, they wouldn’t notice a difference after recovering from superficial frostbite… but what if Matt can tell a difference? What if the sensation in his fingers is never quite the same again?

He feels like he’s going to cry again.

“Hey…” Foggy wraps his arm over his shoulders. “You’ll be back to running your feelers all over everything in no time, buddy.”

Matt tries to believe him.

Over the next two hours, Foggy and Karen ply Matt with Gatorade, water, another cookie, a protein bar, a large bowl of soup amended with rice for additional calories, and the last slice of pizza from the fridge.

They remain concerned about Matt’s energy level. He can’t really sit up on his own, more lulling into Karen or Foggy or into the back of the couch. He couldn’t walk if his life depended on it… and he’s worried that’s going to become a problem, because he needs to use the bathroom.

Matt has been crying on and off since he woke up, so they don’t even question why he starts up again from the thought of eventually having to ask for help getting to his bathroom. They just pull him into more hugs or try to apply a comforting touch somewhere that won’t hurt.

Foggy talks to Claire on the phone in hushed whispers. Matt could hear if he tried, but he’s too tired to focus on it, and ill inclined to do so—bodily exhausted, slowly eating crackers that Karen keeps handing to him and drinking from a glass of juice.

Foggy checks Matt’s pulse instead of just asking Matt to listen to it, and Matt’s grateful, because he’s too tired to do it. Foggy mutters the numbers to himself and texts them to Claire.

When Claire finally arrives, she’s breathless and flushed. She doesn’t really even greet Foggy, just says, “Where is he?” Already moving past him into the living room as he gestures there.

Matt’s slumped partly into the back of the couch and partly into Karen’s shoulder. “Hi Claire,” He croaks.

Claire throws her large medical bag down on the coffee table and crouches down at eye level with him. “How you doing, Matt?”

“Tired,” Matt blinks, sluggish.

“He has like… no energy still,” Foggy says, crossing the room and hovering over them nervously. “We’ve gotten a good bit of food into him. I don’t know how long it takes to like… digest? But he can barely move.”

“Is this normal after hypothermia?” Karen asks uneasily.

“Not really. Not after eight hours of sleep,” Claire says solemnly. She tugs Matt’s hand down into his lap carefully and turns it over, examining at the back of it. “Matt, I’m about to pinch you right here,” She presses her thumb over the skin that connects his thumb to the rest of his hand. “I’m gonna pinch pretty hard. You ready?”

Matt nods. She wasn’t lying about the force she was going to use, and Matt’s brain bizarrely reacts with an emotional intolerance, eyes stinging, a wince he can’t bite off emerging from his throat. Matt usually handles pain well, but right now, any additional uncomfortable stimuli is seemingly beyond his ability to bear. His feelings are also strangely hurt, even though he understands what Claire is doing.

Foggy does not understand, apparently. His heart pounds faster at Matt’s obvious discomfort. “What’s that for?” He asks, a slight indignance to his voice.

Claire stops pinching Matt, but keeps her eyes fixed on his hand. “It’s an assessment for dehydration.” To Matt’s ear, Claire sounds on edge. It’s probably too subtle for Karen and Foggy to catch. She breathes out carefully through her nose.

She gently places Matt’s hand back in his lap, mindful of his fingers, and starts digging through her medical bag.

Matt brushes the back of his hand over his throw.

Claire hands Karen something papery. “Karen, can you to get the hoodie off Matt’s left arm and clean the inside of his elbow with that?”

Karen nods, jumping to do as told. Matt tries to help—shifting forward a bit and starting to tug down the zipper of his hoodie. He pants from his simple efforts while Karen tugs his hoodie down his arm. She rolls up the sleeve of his thermal top to his upper arm, then tears open the package Claire handed her, releasing the sharp smell of alcohol wipes.

“What are we doing?” Foggy bounces with restrained energy.

“Starting an IV.” Claire drags a plastic bag full of tubing out of her bag. “Foggy, would you go get Matt’s coat rack and put it behind the couch over his left shoulder? We can hang the IV bag from there.”

“Yeah.” Foggy rushes back toward the entrance to the apartment.

Matt cringes slightly at the cold wet of the alcohol wipe as Karen runs it over the inside of his arm.

Claire starts tugging a fluid-filled sack out of her medical bag. She hands it to Foggy as he comes back into the living room, and places Matt’s hat rack behind the couch. “Hang that.”

Foggy does, while Claire exposes a needle from her bag of tubing and curls her hand around Matt’s elbow. “Pinch incoming, Matt,” She announces, right before plunging the needle into his vein. One of Matt’s threatening tears drops.

Karen puts a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him, while Claire quickly tapes the line in place. Claire reaches up and hooks in the IV bag, adjusts something on the tubing, then lets out a sigh, sinking back into her crouch.

“Saline?” Matt can smell the salt from the line.

“Gotta replace the fluids lost from all those tears somehow,” Claire jokes softly. She reaches out a hand—places it against his cheek, thumb grazing over the irritated flesh there, wiping the tear on his cheek away.

Matt’s eyes slip closed.

Claire must make some kind of subtle gesture at Foggy and Karen, because suddenly Foggy abruptly stops looming over Matt from the back of the couch. His muscles bunch in preparation to turn in several different directions, before he suddenly swings toward the desk, resolute, making some kind of motion at Karen and mouthing something to her. Karen pats Matt’s shoulder as she gets up. She wanders toward Foggy, who grabs a bunch of Matt’s mail, and wordlessly hands over half of it to her.

Matt takes a shaky, deep breath.

“You dizzy?” Claire asks, bringing Matt’s focus back to the couch, hand still resting against his cheek. “Any nausea?”

“Not nauseous,” Matt’s eyes open slightly. “A little dizzy.”

Claire nods, regarding him carefully for a while. “I want to put a little pressure on your arms and legs—squeeze around them a little. Okay?”

Matt furrows his brow, confused. “Okay.”

Claire’s hands travel down his arms. She squeezes his biceps. “Does it hurt when I do that? Feel sore?”

His eyes burning, Matt nods.

“Gonna do the same on your legs, okay?” Claire says quietly.

“Kay,” Matt agrees, even though he doesn’t want her to—isn’t sure he understands what she’s doing. He’s too tired to ask, and he trusts her.

She squeezes his thighs, and it- “Hurts,” Matt tells her—tone good as begging her to stop. “Sore.”

Claire nods, loosening her grip immediately.

Matt doesn’t know why he’s being such a baby. It’s embarrassing. Objectively, it doesn’t hurt that bad. It’s just muscle soreness.

“Alright… you feel sore and very weak… I need to know two other things, Matt. One is how much you’ve had to eat and drink the last several days. The other is whether you need to pee.”

Matt’s face heats further. He doesn’t know what his expression looks like, but it must not look good, because Claire gently takes his wrist in her hand—far enough up that there’s no cold-burned skin to hurt.

“Let me explain,” She says quietly. “I asked Foggy a few times, and he said you haven’t urinated. It could be because you’ve been dehydrated, but hypothermia usually makes people pee. I’m concerned that you could have something called rhabdomyolysis. Do you know what that is?”

Matt furrows his brow. It sounds vaguely familiar. “Mm. Muscle breakdown?”

Claire nods. “Rapid skeletal muscle dissolution is part of it. That process can cause damaging levels of strain to the kidneys. Rhabdo can result from hypothermia, and also from strenuous exercise. You had moderate hypothermia, and Foggy said he suspected you developed at least mild hypothermia overnight in your apartment, which means you spent a very very long time shivering. That’s strenuous exercise.” Claire points at the IV bag. “I’m already starting to deliver treatment—you’re extremely dehydrated anyway so you could use the fluids—but the color of your urine could also potentially tell me whether or not you have rhabdo. Hypothermia makes you pee; rhabdo makes you… not, but so does dehydration. So you could have rhabdo, but on the other hand, you could just be very dehydrated, and exhausted and sore from shivering all night, with limited fat stores to burn and I suspect… very little to eat the last several days besides the pizza I bought for us. So I need to know: What did you eat the last several days besides that pizza?”

“Only coffee…” Matt croaks.

“Matt…” Claire’s heart pounds faster suddenly with anxiousness, but Matt interrupts her with leaking tears.

“I tried,” He protests. He can’t handle a lecture. He can’t. He’s been anxious and nauseated, his stomach has been in knots, and when he tried to grocery shop…

Claire breathes out slow, nods, keeps holding onto his wrist to steady him. “Okay. It’s okay, Matt. I’m sorry for upsetting you. I’m not mad. I’m just worried. That could explain your soreness and weakness, which could mean you don’t have rhabdo, and that is a very good thing to not have. What I’m concerned about… is you potentially having rhabdomyolysis on top of being dehydrated and low on energy stores from not eating enough for days. If that’s the case… I cannot treat you at home, Matt. You have to go to the hospital if you have rhabdomyolysis. Do you understand?”

Matt lets out a sob. “I don’t want to go…”

“I know you don’t, but given your condition, it could be life threatening, Matt. I don’t have enough IV bags or the right equipment to monitor your treatment the way I’d need to. You could die, and even if you didn’t? You could irreparably damage your kidneys, and face a very very long recovery trying to rebuild your strength.”

Matt shakes his head. He can’t go through all of that again. He can’t. His breath picks up.

Karen and Foggy are watching anxiously from the desk, possibly not able to hear, but Matt won’t risk it—won’t risk saying he would rather die than go through it all again. Claire wouldn’t want to hear that either.

Matt doesn’t even want to hear himself say that—not really. It’s just… it’s just St. Agnes and Clinton Church… all the memories, messing with his head. Pinned down, helpless, unable to do anything for himself… he doesn’t want to be touched—not by anyone he doesn’t know, but it’s starting to feel inevitable. He feels trapped. He can’t do all of it again. He can’t.

Claire grips his wrist a little more firmly. “Hey…” She ducks her head, trying to get a better look at him. “Take deep breaths, okay?” She rucks up his shirt sleeve a little—runs her thumb over the bare flesh of his wrist.

Matt tries, but it’s hard. He feels dizzier. He’s crying again. His throat hurts so badly from crying.

“To be honest…? I think you’d probably be feeling worse than you already do if you had rhabdo, and that’s sort of… encouraging to me in a weird way,” Claire tells him. “But I am very worried, and I need to know: Do you even feel the urge to pee?”

“Yes.” He really needs to go.

“Good.” Claire shifts closer—talks quieter—mindful of nearby ears. “I can find something for you to use as a bedpan and make whoever you want step out… or we can try and get you to the bathroom. Tell me what you want to do and who you want to help you.”

Naturally, Matt chooses trying to get to the bathroom. Claire asks him a couple of questions about his back, and produces the back brace she promised. She helps him put it on, then motions to Foggy over at the desk, because Foggy is who Matt wants to help him.

Foggy immediately rushes over to them. “What’s up?”

“Matt needs to use the toilet. I need you to help him get there.”

“I… I really don’t know if he can walk…” Foggy hesitates. “What if-”

“No,” Matt protests, not even waiting for Foggy to finish. He knows he’ll suggest finding something to use as a bed pan, and Matt can’t. He just can’t. “Please no, Foggy…”

Foggy’s skepticism is rather warranted though. Matt probably can’t walk, even with one arm over Foggy’s shoulder and the other over Claire’s. He can’t even sit up by himself without support. The bathroom might as well be 20 miles instead of 20 feet.

Foggy’s heart pounds anxiously. He glances around—pauses back on the desk. “Your desk chair. It has rolling wheels. I could cart you to the bathroom in it. What do you think, Matt?”

It’s his best option, if he wants to preserve a shred of dignity. Matt nods.

He resigns himself to being helped into his desk chair. He tries very hard not to think about being carted into the basement of Clinton Church by Maggie and Father Lantom while Foggy rolls him along the floor.

Matt remembers anyway. He remembers snapping at Father Lantom when he asked if Matt wanted him to stay a while… all while Matt relied on his kindness—giving Matt a place to live and recover—feeding and clothing him.

Matt can’t live like that again. He can’t.

Only Foggy goes into the bathroom with him. Matt’s pretty sure Foggy doesn’t look when Matt shakily shoves his pants down, but humiliation flushes Matt’s face all the same at the entire situation. It’s even worse with Claire standing on the other side of the door, quietly reminding them not to flush the toilet because she needs to see the color of Matt’s urine. Matt wishes a hole would open up in the floor of the bathroom and swallow him.

Foggy turns his face away so Matt knows for sure that he’s not looking at him when Matt lowers himself down—just holding tightly onto Matt’s arms.

“Is this a bad time to mention when you had to hold my hair for me in college while I puked into the toilet for three hours?” Foggy asks.

Matt’s mouth twists. He understands what Foggy’s trying to do—remind Matt that he’d do the same for Foggy if he needed help—that he’s helped him in compromising positions in the past. He’s trying to make the whole thing feel like it isn’t a big deal, and Matt appreciates him trying. He appreciates his forced lightness—his attempts, ever since Matt woke up, to make all of this feel a little less scary and upsetting and embarassing. At the same time… it just isn’t the same. Matt drunkenly laughing his ass off, holding Foggy’s long, college-era hair back for him while he puked his guts out after drinking way too much at a party… it’s a funny story they’ve retold a million times before, but it isn’t the same as this. Not when Matt went through this very thing just a few months ago and is still chafing at it. Not when Foggy just… won’t ever have the same feelings about needing help with things that Matt does—the feelings Matt has because of a temperament Foggy doesn’t share; because of what he’s been through recently; because he’s an orphan; because he’s disabled and Foggy isn’t. It just… it matters. It just… matters.

At the same time, all of it is easier with Foggy instead of strangers. At least… in one way, it’s easier. In another way, it isn’t.

When Matt’s done, because it’s closer anyway, Foggy helps him to his bed. Claire props up several pillows behind him so he can sit up slightly. Foggy brings the duvet and the throw from the couch and drops them over him again, and Matt quickly finds the throw and runs it over bare skin—the arm with the IV line.

Again, Claire must give Foggy some kind of look, because he holds his hands up in surrender and retreats back to the main room and Matt’s desk. Karen brings a few pieces of Matt’s mail over to him and starts saying something, but Matt doesn’t catch the words before Claire takes back his attention.

“Good news. Your urine’s not brown or red.” She hooks his IV bag back up by the side of the bed.

“Does that mean I don’t have… that thing?” Matt asks, still breathless.

“It’s a good sign,” Claire says noncommittally. “There’s also some color coming back to your face. Can you tell? Are you feeling a little better?”

Matt takes stock. It’s hard to tell, exhausted as he is from trying to get to the damned bathroom… but… maybe. Maybe. Matt clings to the thought that maybe he feels a little better like a lifeline.

“I still want you to eat more. Something very calorie dense—pasta, maybe. Do you like lasagna?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, because I do too, and I like the place near your apartment. Hey Foggy,” Claire calls out into the living room. “We need to get some more food into him. Italian place down the street—would you or Karen go get a giant helping of lasagna?”

“I will,” Karen volunteers, crossing from the desk to the kitchen. She unceremoniously dumps over half of Matt’s mail into the kitchen trash.

Matt’s so relieved that that much of the mail that’s been sitting on his desk is apparently irrelevant that he could cry again. He probably will.

Claire sits on the edge of Matt’s bed. “I’d like to check your vitals—listen to your heart and lungs for a while and check your blood pressure. I’m gonna take a closer look at your fingers first though, okay?”

“Okay.” Thank God. He’s been waiting for her to bring them up—bouncing between trepidation and eagerness to her to look at them—give a final assessment.

Claire examines each of his fingers carefully, touch exceedingly gentle, but purposeful.

“Plenty of skin irritation, a little bit of peeling and blistering… chilblains on a couple of fingers… but… you’ve lucked out again, Matt,” She tells him, tracing over a few patches of irritated skin.

Matt grazes the tips of his fingers against each other carefully. The pads of his fingers feel tender. It isn’t that the sensation is reduced, as much as it’s just painful, and he can feel pockets of fluid under his skin on a few fingers—including the ones he uses most for braille.

“H-how long for it to clear up?”

“For someone who uses their fingers as much as you…? It’s going to be really annoying for about a week, then less annoying the next week.”

Matt tries very hard not to cry again.

“You’re really lucky, Matt,” Claire reminds him gently but pointedly, placing a hand on his wrist. “This could have been much worse. If Foggy hadn’t found you when he did… you’d have ended up in a hospital needing active internal rewarming through your airway or recirculating blood, and you might have permanent tissue damage on your fingers from frostbite. I know it’s frustrating right now, but I promise—this is a really good outcome. Your fingers are going to heal back up good as new. You’ll be back to reading braille at high speed in no time.”

There’s a lump in Matt’s throat. Claire’s right that he should be relieved—grateful—but it’s hard to feel that way when all the things he needs to do still loom, and Matt relies on sensation in his fingers to do so much of his job. When he was bedridden at St. Agnes, his sense of touch was just about the only thing he had left, and now he’s finding out how easily that could be taken from him too. It makes him scared.

“I don’t want… I just… I have a lot of things I need to do,” Matt says wetly.

Claire shakes her head. “You don’t, Matt. You don’t need to do anything. Your body’s under a lot of strain and you’re completely exhausted. The hallucinations you’ve been having? They could very well be from lack of sufficient sleep over a very very prolonged period. Matt, you’ve run yourself completely into the ground. I know you’re stubborn and you push yourself hard, but I think you really need to stop and listen to your body asking for rest. You’ve pushed too far, and considering everything? I don’t think you’re going to feel up to doing much besides sleeping for about a week. You shivered all night, with no food in your stomach and very little body fat to burn. The only thing you need to do is eat, drink, and rest.”

“I can’t…” Matt’s voice breaks on a sob. He has a firm to help get off the ground, and bills to pay, and-

“You can. I’m going to come check on you every day until you’re feeling better. Foggy already called Marci and told her he’s staying over here with you. He’s not leaving you here with your thoughts, injured and sick and stuck with that goddamn thermostat. Foggy and Karen are already working on the bills and the utilities and all the other crap. They’re going to take care of everything until you’re feeling yourself again and all your life stuff is under control.”

Tears spill over. Matt clenches his jaw, a strange sound crawls up his throat that he has to quash.

Claire hesitates for a moment. “I know you have a tendency to push people away for a number of reasons… but is accepting help from your best friends so bad? Isn’t that what friends do for each other? Help each other out? Take care of each other?”

It isn’t... That’s not what it is. It isn’t that Matt is chafing at being taken care of—not exactly. Not right now. He’s grateful and relieved. Matt reached a breaking point curled up under the thermostat the other night. He gave up on not asking for help right then and there, regardless of the consequences… and the consequences of telling the truth turned out to be understanding pats on the back and reassurances that Foggy and Karen don’t hate him. He’s so tired and having Foggy and Karen here to help him is a relief. It’s what he knows he needs. It’s just that…

“I don’t… It’s… They’ve already done a lot… and I wasn’t even grateful… and I just… I don’t… I can’t take…” He has to take several wet breaths before he can continue. “They’ve helped me enough. I’m the one who should be… should be contributing something but I don’t. I just lie and use and I’ve hurt both of them so many times and I… I don’t… I don’t even know why they wanted me back in their lives but they just keep holding on… even though I only make their lives worse.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Claire says immediately, and Matt hears her heartbeat, so he knows she believes it, but how can she know?

“I’m a liability, Claire,” Matt insists. “I’m a bad friend, and I’m a bad business partner. I’m the one who benefits from restarting the firm—the only one. They both had good jobs and they left them to start a firm with me in the top of a cured meat shop and I think maybe that makes them insane… Because I destroyed our firm the last time we had one. I’m not… I’m not dependable. I couldn’t… I didn’t even move back into my apartment until Saturday, after telling them three weeks ago I was moving back into my place and I wanted to restart the firm. And I’m literally crazy. I-I slept on the floor of a gym instead of going back to my apartment. I hallucinate, and I didn’t even tell anybody, though Foggy did say like a month ago that there’s something really wrong with me and I agreed with him. So I just… Fog-Foggy went out in a blizzard all the way to my apartment because he was worried about me, and Karen bought me groceries and took care of my rent and forgave me for spitting in her face for it… and I just… I don’t deserve that. I’ve done nothing to deserve… how kind they’ve been to me… and I don’t understand why they help me... it doesn’t make sense… and taking even more from them… I just… I haven’t-I haven’t done anything to deserve it.”

Claire is silent for a moment. When she speaks, her words are careful but confident. “Have you considered maybe you don’t have to deserve it? Have you considered just accepting that you’re loved?”

Matt goes still.

Claire shuffles closer into his space, smoothing her thumb over his wrist. “Matt, you’re loved so much by Karen Page that she paid two rents in New York City for months, in the hopes that you would come back, when everyone else thought you were dead. You are loved so much by Foggy Nelson that he searched for you all day yesterday, then walked 15 blocks through a blizzard to look for you again this morning, and I’m presuming—carried you up six flights of stairs, and he warmed you with his body heat, and checked your vitals every 10 minutes for about 10 hours. I don’t think the nicest and most dependable person in the world could earn that sort of affection from their friends. It isn’t about deserving it. It’s just about having it—accepting that there are people in your life who love you that much and there’s nothing you can do about it and that that is good. It’s a good thing to be loved like that.”

Matt’s heart beats hard against his chest, and his breath comes fast, because the words scare him, and he realizes maybe that’s part of what Claire’s pointing out—that being cared about so deeply shouldn’t scare Matt—that he needs to live in it without fear.

“And I don’t buy your line about contributing nothing,” Claire continues, voice firm. “I know you’re good at your job. I’ve read about you in the news multiple times. Not Daredevil—you. And while you and I may not have worked out as an item… I can only imagine Foggy and Karen like the same things about you that I do. You’ve got the fiercest sense of justice I’ve ever seen, and you’re—most of the time—infuriatingly confident and funny and clever, and you’re insanely brave, and you feel things very deeply and care about people—even strangers—with an intensity that I don’t think most people feel. Have you considered that maybe Foggy and Karen left perfectly good jobs to start a new firm in the top of a meat shop with you, not as some kind of favor to you or because they’re insane, but because they like making a difference in Hell’s Kitchen just like you do, and they see that the three of you are very good at making a difference when you work together, and you all inspire each other to be better and better people?”

That’s. Karen and Foggy are already so good though—better than Matt. They don’t need Matt’s help with it. Foggy used to joke around about getting paid better, but his gentle sense of decency and his warmth is without equal. Karen’s passion for truth and justice sets her and Matt in near constant synchronicity (except when it doesn’t), and her boldness and stubbornness infuriates him even as he recognizes he has no right to feel that way because they’re the same. They’re both going to give Foggy a heart attack one day. But maybe… maybe that means Matt fits. He fits into Nelson, Murdock, and Page right along with them.

Restarting the firm wasn’t Matt’s pitch. Foggy silently scribbled their names down on a napkin and showed it to Karen, leaving Matt in the dark, so the first thing Matt heard was the emotion crawling up Karen’s throat when she looked at the napkin and her and Foggy’s giddy excitement. Foggy didn’t have to write all three of their names on that napkin, but he did.

Maybe Matt just can’t appreciate how right their names look together.

“Boom!” Foggy shouts from Matt’s desk, gaze buried in his phone. He pumps his fist into the air. “Got your phone service back on, Murdock!”

Matt lets out a long breath.

Claire huffs in amusement, rolling Matt’s sleeve back down and placing his hand carefully back on his lap.

“Thank you, Foggy…” Matt calls out shakily, hoping his voice carries enough for Foggy to hear.

“No problem, buddy.”

Karen opens the door, a takeout bag smelling of pasta and cheese and beef hanging off her arm. She’s talking on the phone with someone—murmurs a thank you and hangs up. “Internet should come back on soon.”

A lump forms in Matt’s throat. Just a few weeks ago—hell—just last night—he felt so alone and cold and stressed and scared. Now the stress he’s been feeling for weeks is slowly melting off his shoulders, and his home is warm and full of friends who jumped to help him when he needed them. There’s a different kind of terror that comes with that, and Matt knows he’s still not okay… but for now, he accepts the fact that he is loved.

For the first time in a long time, Matt thinks of the Bible and doesn’t think of the story of Job. He thinks instead of the Prodigal Son, who rejected his father’s love and left his family home, went out into the world, tossing aside the family he had been given, and squandered his inheritance. There was a famine and he began to starve. He searched for work and was so poorly paid that the pigs he fed ate better. He remembered that his father treated his workers fairly. He went back to his father in desperation. His father ran to him before he could even speak, and embraced him. The young man said to his father, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” He asked to become one of his father’s hired men. Instead, his father had the finest robe brought to be placed on his shoulders, and placed a ring on his finger, and held a feast in celebration, saying, “My son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found”.