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After Claire left, having answered none of Foggy's questions, he sank into the ratty armchair by the sofa. It was one that Matt had picked out himself, which explained why it was both hideous and criminally comfortable. Foggy let himself lean back and exhaustion finally began to replace the adrenaline that had shot through him after having peeled back the mask. Matt's mask.
Foggy almost laughed because it was almost funny. His best friend - the blind guy who went through life with one finger constantly trailing after Foggy's sleeve so he didn't step off the sidewalk or smack into a tree or trip taking out the garbage - was the devil of Hell's Kitchen. It didn't make sense.
It more than didn't make sense and not even just because of the blind thing, but because of the Matt and Foggy thing. The thing of them being best fucking friends. Wasn't this the kind of shit you let your best friend in on? God damn it, wasn't Foggy supposed to be a sidekick or something?
On the sofa, Matt shifted and groaned. His hands began to scrabble at the gauze covering the deepest wound, blunt nails digging and picking. Foggy was off the chair and crouching beside the sofa in less time than it took to blink and he caught hold of Matt's hand.
"You awake?" He asked, then peered at Matt's face to see his eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids. Dreaming. Claire had said he'd probably be out all night. Foggy looked down at Matt's hand in his and traced the bruises on his knuckles, trying to imagine the same guy who fumbled with door handles throwing a punch. Enough punches to stain his hands with blood.
It was too difficult. Foggy knew these hands too well, had felt them on his face, in his hair, wrapped securely, trustingly around his arm. And now, instead of feeling angry, he felt lost. As if Matt Murdock had released his hold and the only person left stumbling in the dark was him. Foggy. Who’d’ve thought?
Matt moved again, fingers sliding from Foggy’s grip, and some of the stitches on his abdomen pulled taut. His mouth opened in a wordless gasp of what could only be pain and Foggy couldn’t do anything but hover, heart pounding, terrified of touching in case he made it worse. But then Matt reared upright and his eyes flew open at the same as a wrenching cry left him, and Foggy moved on instinct - the palms of his hands connected with Matt’s shoulders and he was pushing him back down.
“C’mon buddy. The pretty nurse said you have to sleep.”
Matt’s breathing was harsh. His eyes flicked over Foggy and then away again. And then back.
“Foggy,” he said, wincing around the word. He groped for Foggy’s wrist and caught hold of his sleeve, rubbing the material between two fingers. It reminded Foggy of a time back in college...they had both been drunk, with Matt halfway to being passed out on his bed before he reached out, snagging the hem of Foggy’s shirt. He’d dragged him onto the bed beside him and then fallen asleep with the flat of his palm resting on Foggy’s stomach and his face pressed against his forearm. Foggy had lain there, unable to sleep for hours, scared of moving in case it made Matt roll away from him. The weight of his hand had sent a thrill through him and then a comfort, warm and steady. When he did fall asleep, it was one of the best sleeps of his life.
Matt was pulling on him again now, pressing himself into the back of the sofa with a low grunt and dragging Foggy closer with a strength that a man three-quarters dead definitely shouldn’t have. It made the ache of betrayal that had dulled over the past half hour flare again, but Foggy still didn’t shake Matt’s hold on him.
“Hang on,” he said instead, “alright, I know what you want, just…”
He sat on the edge of the sofa - no matter how small Matt tried to make himself, there was never going to be enough room for the two of them to sprawl along it. Plus, Foggy was scared of brushing against any of the stitches. He hesitated, before laying his hand over a spot on Matt’s chest that was, relatively, devoid of injury. Matt sighed and Foggy wondered if he imagined the way his body curved slightly, as if hunching around the point of contact.
“I got you,” Foggy said, helpless. His thumb was moving of its own accord, rubbing in circles. He wasn’t even sure Matt could hear him - his eyes had closed and Foggy could feel his heartbeat, falling back into the heavy rhythm of sleep.
At the back of his mind he hoped, vaguely, that Matt wouldn’t remember this in the morning.