He can't remember how he got back, and it's probably because he didn't. Most days it feels like Foggy died back there, and waking up in his overpriced apartment with just the normal amount of muffled pain and mounting dread is kind of a nice surprise, every time.

He can't do a lot of anything at first. Or he's not supposed to do a lot of anything, which doesn't mean he doesn't, because by God the Nelsons are titans of industry and if he can't do something worth getting paid for he might as well lay down and die, because he's certainly not getting paid. He can't read up on family law because after about six minutes of trying to focus on a printed page he gets a splitting headache. Maybe Nelson & Murdock will branch out into family law, the nice kind that's all about old people getting gay married and kids getting adopted and not the kind that's about restraining orders and people getting murdered.

He works from home for the next couple weeks, for a generous definition of "work" — with Brett's number already punched into his phone for him to clumsily swipe at and summon for chitchat about the outside world once Mahoney's off the clock. Sometimes Claire will come over, or Karen, but it's hard to entertain when most things that are entertaining are off-limits to him. His vision comes back, more or less, without any weird glitches —, though it's hard to appreciate what a good sign that is outside of the context of Claire's advice. He's not even supposed to read things, but he does anyway like a dumbass because he's a lawyer thank you very much and if he can't even do that he's worse than useless. But the words swim when he tries to focus on the lines of type, and dictating into a tape recorder feels so 70s.

Brett is pretty nice about looking after Foggy Nelson, Professional Invalid; there's nobody around here who doesn't know that guys who fuck around in other people's business get way worse than a bump on the head on a regular basis. They're both lucky Brett isn't visiting him in the morgue. Brett's not gentle with him or smarmy, he mostly wants to talk about his insane work week and what he's binging on Netflix at 3 AM when he can't sleep and it's a weird kind of treat, a voyeuristic fantasy trip into a reality where all that's keeping you up at 3 AM is office politics and dirty cops. It's not about being taken care of, Brett would probably drop dead before admitting he out-and-out cared about him — not being alone is the medicine Foggy needs right now, and not being around people who treat him like a shattered victim is part of that. Karen mostly comes with food, and she insists on paying, which is awesome and also sad. She does a lot of reading aloud, and also a lot of drinking. Even Foggy's landlady is sympathetic, which is not usually the case when there's comings and goings at all hours and strange shifty women asking after F. Nelson, Esq. They talk over harmless cases, most importantly not criminal cases, and he has the unpleasant sensation that Karen is handling him with kid gloves as much for her own sake as his. She's scared too, tired and trying not to act tired, and no amount of temporary triumph will wash that away.

The pair of them must be single-handedly keeping Seamless and Postmates going in Hell's Kitchen, but Karen's still easy on the eyes, at least, and it's so much better than being alone, a good reason to remember to keep washing his hair instead of collapsing into a complete heap of self-pity. He hasn't changed out of sweatpants in two weeks, he hasn't called his mom or answered his sisters' texts, and the headaches are there to stay. The stomachaches don't go away either. It would be a hell of a lot easier to get back on his feet if he didn't feel so sick.

*

Matt never comes to see him for the first two weeks, not once. He's there — the cryptic phone calls, the two-sentence work emails advising Foggy to take it easy, the nice little alerts to goings-on in the neighborhood so there's no surprises — but it's all the weird little things that pass for protection when Matt's not being Matt any more that really start to creep up on Foggy. Hunky lawyer Matt Murdock goes on walks; the guy with the horns and the tight pants goes patrolling, and Foggy's terrible apartment is just one stop along his route.

Now, if he'd quit showing up at the edge of Foggy's couch when Foggy just got done napping away his feelings, then it'd be perfect.

"Foggy?"

Foggy swings his legs over the side of the couch, grinning nervously and stifling the deep twinge of pain. The dark shape takes a couple moments to register as human, but he's holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Matt, you creep!"

"Don't get up."

"Take off your gloves, stay a while. It's 4 AM, what the hell is your deal? Are you hurt?"

Matt drops into a broken-down leather armchair and all Foggy can think is oh no, oh no, oh fuck no — somewhere under all that black cotton and leather Matt is bleeding, Matt's got some secret injury that's killing him. Why else would he be here?

Matt's bathed in a fine mist of sweat — Foggy can smell it before he sees it, eyes focusing reluctantly on his friend's face. He's dressed like a prowler — no mask, thank God, and no armor, but a dark long-sleeved henley and black pants tucked into serious shit-kicking boots. He looks like he's going to drag somebody into a white panel van. The sight of him gets Foggy's adrenaline jumping — not because he's afraid of Matt, he could never really be afraid of Matt even when Matt's been out roaming the alleys of Hell's Kitchen karate chopping zombie ninjas, but because Matt doesn't look like that unless some seriously bad shit has been going down. Foggy can feel it, the surge of chemicals like a cold wash.

"Matt?"

"Foggy. I know what happened."

For a split second, Foggy thinks, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? And then he remembers. How is it that he can still forget?

That's just perfect, it really is.

"I know you did. That you do, I mean. How?"

Did he smell it on him? Did Claire tell him? Or did he just guess? That's the only thing that makes any sense — why Matt's been avoiding him, why he let Claire tackle it. No wonder Matt can't stand to be around him; Foggy can't stand himself either.
He may not be as tough as Matt is, and he may not be as strong as Matt is, but he's not — this isn't something that just happens to him. It's just not. Lucky that Fisk only wanted to fuck him and leave him behind

That part Matt doesn't answer. Maybe he just guessed, or maybe Fisk told him, or maybe he sees it in his face now. "He should have been locked up."

Matt's gone taut; all the veins and stuff are standing out in his neck. Foggy flinches back.

"What, was I supposed to make a citizen's arrest?"

"I wasn't blaming you. He shouldn't even have been — Jesus, Foggy, he shouldn't even have known where you were. He needs to know he can't do this."

"He's not going down any harder for a one-and-done sex crime than for everything else. This is what happens when you stand up for something. I'm cool with that, really. This is how it goes."

Foggy is raising his voice without even meaning to, and the way Matt winces makes him feel a pang of nausea.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Are you kidding? It's so freaking gross, that's what it is — I didn't want to tell you because it's gross, and it's degrading, and I thought if I didn't actually say anything you wouldn't have to think about it. I don't even want to think about it."

"I'm not going to see you any differently, I just would have done something different if I knew—"

"Like what? You did everything right. Claire did everything right. What could you possibly have done?"

Everything short of going to a hospital. But you know what, he's really okay not going to a hospital ever again. That would have been so much worse than the jerry-rigged version, just so much worse. Matt's fingers just barely brush the back of Foggy's hand. He hasn't touched him like that since all this shit started happening, gentle touch instead of probing and pressing. He doesn't need to touch Foggy to feel what's going on with him anymore, that's the one balance they haven't struck — yeah, the one, the balance between Matt the blind guy who really is seriously blind and Matt the guy with superpowers.

He has bruises on the backs of his fingers. Matt's voice is low and solid, eminently reasonable. "I would have killed him."

There are bruises on the backs of his fingers, like the shapes of somebody else's teeth.

"What the fuck, Matt?" Foggy grabs his hand and Matt pulls back, hard — his knuckles are split, little stars of freshly scabbed skin. "What have you been doing tonight?"

Matt's voice is dangerously soft, creepy-soft. "And what if it hadn't been you, Foggy? What if it had been someone else? What if next time it's someone else?"

Matt's arm is braced against the wall, probably getting dirt on the plaster. He's going to lose his deposit. Foggy shoulders into it, holding him at a distance like Matt couldn't snap his arm into a fresh 90-degree angle if he wanted to, like he couldn't bend back his wrist until it flopped like a ragdoll. Matt's not just well-built, he's strong. He does stuff with that strength that poor schmucks like Foggy can't imagine, until it's already happening. All Foggy sees any more is all the different ways to get hurt, all the different ways his body might betray him.

"Would I barrel on in and try and press charges if they didn't want to? No! Why are you acting like I haven't thought about that?"

"I didn't mean pressing charges. Do you want him to get away with it? Because that's what's going to happen if nobody does anything about this."

"Is that what I'm doing, Matt? When I want to go and live my life like it didn't happen, am I letting him get away with it? He's in jail, Matt, he's already racked up a shitload of Class A felonies, I'm not going to let you go do a murder on my behalf."

"Mitigating circumstances," Matt says. "You really believe they're keeping Fisk locked up for good? After all the shit that's happened? They'll be lucky if they can keep him in there six months."

The sound of Fisk's name — that name — cuts like a razor. "Yeah, I really, really believe that! Because if I don't believe that I'll lose my effing mind! God, I'm gonna throw up—" The dizziness is all around him like a squeezing hand. Foggy presses the bridge of his nose, trying to press down the feeling of nausea as he swallows bitterness. "If I thought for a second he might come back and find me I'd fucking kill myself, which is why I don't think about that! So let me live a little, okay?"

Foggy smudges his face with the back of one hand, trying not to lose it, and now Matt's crying — oh, great, Matt's crying, and Foggy's going to start any time now, his breath is hitching up hard in his throat.

"Foggy, you're my best friend."

"Yeah, I know, Matt, I love you too, that's not carte blanche to go and get your ass kicked. I didn't die. Other people died. I'll go up to bat for them, but not me."

Foggy's gripping Matt's sleeve for balance, trying not to be sick on the couch. Here he is, telling Matt he doesn't need or want his help, and here he is hanging on Matt like if he lets him go he'll drown. Or Matt will drown —

"I can't let it go by. It was a crime, and you know it was a crime—"

"I thought you didn't kill people, Matt. Is this really proportionately worse than finding out your best friend's a vigilante who beats people half to death every damn night? Is it worse than getting shot?"

Matt gives an annoyed exhale and it sounds suspiciously like a snort. "It's not the same."

"I know it's not the same, I just— I really need you to just be my partner right now and not my pal the Avenger."

"I'm not like those guys," Matt says, stiffening. Oy vey, his poor wounded dignity. "And I'm not your pal. We operate a small business together, what happens to you is literally my business."

Foggy shoves his hair out of his face and tries to stick out his jaw at least as much as Matt is gritting his."What would you do if I were your client?"

He just keeps thinking about Matt and that little girl, Matt thinking he can just punch his way through sex criminals and it'll all be okay — and it was even worse than that because Matt liked it, it wasn't just righteous anger pumping through him when he told that story but satisfaction at the violence of it, some hard-on for direct action. That's not what lawyers do. That's not what the law is. And where the hell was Matt when that little girl wanted to get emancipated at fifteen, or when her mom wanted to get a divorce, or when they wanted an order of protection from Family Court?

Matt's voice is cracking now. There's a split in his lip. "I would ask you what you wanted to achieve."

"You would apprise me of my options."

"I would follow your lead."

"Right. So let me make the decision instead of careening off to make it for me. I really appreciate it, Matt, but you guys already did a lot."

"Let me know what you need."

"I want a six-pack and a grilled cheese sandwich. I want you to take off your shoes and stay a while. I wanna watch a movie or something."

"Well, I can't really help you there." The corners of Matt's eyes crease pitifully when he smiles; there's a little bit of blood on his teeth, and it's hard for Foggy to resist the urge to rub at it with his thumb.

"Yeah, fuck it. There's nothing good on anyway. Just hang out with me for a while. Just stay with me."

He squeezes Matt's hand and watches the little scrapes on his knuckles twist — but Matt is smiling a little and his hands are warm.