Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet — or it should have been.

Matt stepped carefully through the living room, socked feet brushing over cool hardwood, each movement intentional. His head still pounded from the night before. The fight had gone wrong — too many hits to the head, maybe — or maybe it was just the city pressing in on him again.

He rubbed his temples and tried to breathe through it, tuning his focus inward. Filter. Isolate. Find the center. It wasn’t working.

His throat was dry. He turned toward the kitchen.

The moment his hand wrapped around the faucet and twisted the handle, everything changed.

SSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The water roared out like a jet engine. What should have been a gentle stream slammed into his senses with the force of a thunderclap. His breath caught — spine rigid — as the sound crashed into him, reverberating through his skull like a bell rung too close to his ear.

He stumbled back, hand flying away from the tap like it had burned him.

SSHHHHHHHHHH

He clutched the edge of the counter, chest heaving. The water — it was just water — but to him it sounded like an avalanche. It was like the volume of the entire city had been cranked up to eleven, then piped directly into his skull.

His heart was pounding too loud. The fridge buzzed like a chainsaw. Somewhere outside, a siren howled — and it stabbed behind his eyes like a hot needle.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help. Sight was never his shield. Sound was.

Now it was the enemy.

The sound didn’t stop — not at first.

But it shifted.

The rushing, roaring faucet noise began to fracture, as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to a pane of glass in his mind. It splintered into sharp, uneven shards of sound. Then came the ringing. High-pitched, constant, like a tuning fork struck just beneath his skin.

His hands trembled, gripping the edge of the sink.

Everything felt… off.

Too quiet now — like he was underwater. His own breathing was distant. The thrum of the refrigerator faded into nothing. Even the siren outside dimmed to a warbled echo, as if it were miles away, filtered through fog and cotton.

He blinked slowly, once, twice — trying to force his eyes to focus, even though there was nothing for them to see. His balance swayed as he stood there, spine too stiff, legs locked to keep himself upright.

His head tilted slightly, instinctively, listening. But the world was muffled and ringing.

He exhaled through his nose. The sound — or lack of it — made him feel like he wasn’t even in his body.

Come on, Matt. Come on.

He opened his mouth, swallowed, trying to pop his ears. Nothing changed. His ears still screamed with that tone, too sharp, too high.

His eyes rolled back for a beat, eyelids fluttering, like his whole system was trying to reboot itself.

And then — as though someone flipped a switch — the faucet’s noise faded into background hum.

Not gone. Just dulled. Like his brain had finally slammed a door between him and the noise.

Relief came, but it was thin. Unsteady. His skin still prickled. His pulse thudded in his neck, too loud and too fast. But he could think again.

His hand, shaking slightly, reached out and shut off the tap.

A soft breath slipped from his lips. He stood there for another moment, gripping the counter like it was the only thing anchoring him to the floor.

Then, almost robotically, he turned.

His body moved on autopilot — muscle memory over conscious thought. A few slow steps carried him across the kitchen, past the creaky floorboard he knew to avoid. He reached the drawer by the stove, opened it, and ran his fingers over the familiar shapes inside.

Bottle. Plastic. Cap ridges.

The bottle felt solid in his hand. Grounding, almost. Just one small, familiar thing in the midst of chaos, he moved toward the counter, where a half-full glass sat from earlier.

He set the bottle down.

CLACK.

It was deafening.

The sound of plastic on wood exploded in his skull like a gunshot, ricocheting inside his head. His entire body recoiled, every muscle tensing at once. He turned his face away instinctively, breath catching like he’d been slapped.

Too loud.
Too loud.
Too loud.

The noise echoed, warped — like it had been dragged out with metal claws. The sharpness of it lit up the back of his eyes, and he staggered sideways, hand reaching blindly to steady himself.

His hip bumped the counter.

Glass scraped.

The sound of the water glass tipping over hit him like slow motion — not the sound itself, not yet, but the knowledge of what was about to happen. He heard the edge catch, felt the subtle shift of weight in the air.

“No—”

He lunged out a hand, trying to catch it, but his fingers scraped empty air.

The glass fell.

And just before it hit the ground—

Silence.

Everything stopped.

No impact. No shatter. No splash.

The world cut out like someone had ripped the speakers from his skull. One second there was noise — too much of it — and then there was nothing.

Not quiet.

Nothing.

Matt froze.

His arm was still half-extended, breath still held in his throat. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The only sensation was the chill seeping into the soles of his feet. Water. Spreading slowly across the floor, soaking into his socks, curling around his toes.

He hadn’t heard it spill.

He hadn’t heard the glass hit.

He couldn’t hear anything.

His breath left him in a single, shaky exhale.

And the silence stayed.

Blood, the taste of blood trickling from his nose. 

Matt's mouth opened again. He didn’t know why. Instinct, maybe. Or the sheer panic clawing up his throat.

“Hey!” he shouted. Or thought he did. He couldn’t hear the word — couldn’t even feel the echo of it in his chest.

His body tensed.

“Hey!” he tried again, louder this time, head turning sharply toward the door. “Foggy? Foggy—!”

Nothing.

No response.

No sound.

His voice might as well have been smoke in the wind — disappearing the moment it left his lips.

“I can’t— I can’t see, I can’t hear, I can’t—” his words tumbled over each other, ragged and breathless, tone rising without him realizing. “Foggy, please—!”

His hands reached out, grasping at the empty space around him, like he could feel someone coming, like maybe the sheer force of desperation could pull help from the air.

But the room was still. Cold. Silent.

He leaned forward, breath shuddering, head in his hands — then yanked them away just as quickly, as if the silence had crawled onto his skin.

And then, in the deafening nothingness, a terrifying thought slid into place:

What if this is it?

What if he never hears again?

What if no one comes?

What if no one finds him, and he’s just alone now — trapped like this, deaf and blind and broken, with nothing but the soundless scream in his mind for company?

The silence pressed in tighter.

His fingers curled into fists.

He tried to breathe, but it hitched halfway up his throat. His chest burned.

“Foggy,” he whispered again, not knowing if the word had formed at all.

And it hit him, finally — the weight of it — that he could scream until his voice bled, and it wouldn’t matter.

No one could hear him now.

Not even himself.

He tried to think.

Tried to focus.

Okay. Okay. You can’t hear. So what? You’ve been through worse. You just need to—

Get up.

He braced a hand against the wall, tried to will strength into his legs. But they didn’t move. His body stayed frozen, curled against the plaster like it might disappear into it if he pressed hard enough.

No. That wasn’t going to work.

Then what?

He could wait. Maybe it would pass. It had to, right? Maybe it was just like after the explosions — his senses had shut down before. Come back before. He just needed time.

But as the seconds crawled by — as the stillness grew louder somehow — that thin thread of hope frayed.

He couldn’t just sit here.

There had to be something.

Then he remembered.

His phone.

His heart kicked in his chest like it was trying to break free.

Matt shoved a hand into his pocket, fingers fumbling awkwardly until they closed around the cold, familiar rectangle of his phone. He yanked it out, unlocked it with practiced swipes of his thumb.

The screen reader chirped to life.

He couldn’t hear it.

The soft, robotic voice that had always guided him — always read his messages, his apps, his world — was gone. His ears caught nothing but the terrifying absence where sound should be.

His thumb froze mid-motion on the screen. He tapped again. Swiped. Waited.

Nothing.

He didn’t know what button he’d pressed. Didn’t know if the screen reader was reading anything at all. It might as well have been a slab of dead glass in his hand.

He was holding the world — a lifeline — and it was useless.

His fingers trembled. The phone slipped from his grasp and landed beside him with a soft thud he couldn’t hear.

His head dropped forward.

Breath shallow. Hands limp in his lap.

He had nothing.

Not his hearing.
Not his phone.
Not even a way to scream.

His fingers twitched beside the phone, still lying on the floor like a dead thing. But he didn’t have to see it. Didn’t have to touch the screen.

He could talk to it.

He swallowed hard, tongue thick in his mouth. His throat ached. He’d been yelling. Or trying to. He didn’t know anymore.

Still—he leaned closer to the phone, chest tight, and forced the words out through a raw, cracking whisper:

“Hey, Siri…”

Nothing.

No confirmation chime. No polite robotic voice asking what he needed. He had no idea if it heard him. If she heard him.

But it was all he had, hope that the verbal commands worked.

“Call Foggy,” he croaked. His voice wobbled in the dark space around him, lost and unanswered.

He waited.

No ringing. No feedback.

The silence screamed louder than ever.

He clenched his jaw. Pressed closer to the phone.

“Hey Siri, call Foggy,” he said again, firmer. Then again. And again.

“Call Foggy. Hey Siri. Call Foggy.”

Each repetition grew more desperate. More broken.

He didn’t even know if she was doing anything. If the phone was locked. If the mic was broken. If Foggy would answer. If the phone was even on.

“Call Foggy. Call Foggy. Call Foggy…”

Then—

From far away, impossibly distant — a voice.

“Hey matt what’s up?”

The voice came again, muffled through the phone speaker.

“Matt? Are you there?”

Matt’s lips parted.

“Hey Siri… call Foggy…”

His voice cracked as he said it. Again. Again.

The line was still open.

Foggy’s voice sounded worried now, confused.

“Dude, I’m here. You called me, remember? What’s going on?”

Matt just kept repeating it, pleading his phone caught his words. 

“Hey Siri… call Foggy… call Foggy…”

Because if he stopped saying it, if he let go of those words — he didn’t know what else there’d be.

Matt’s fingers gripped the phone harder now, pressing it to his ear like it was a bridge to the world.

“Hey Siri... call Foggy,” he rasped again, louder this time, pushing the words through a throat that felt raw and cracked. His voice felt like it was coming from somewhere far away — like he was still trapped in the space of nothingness.

The phone hummed in his hand. His heart pounded too fast, but he couldn’t hear it, couldn’t feel it, not in the way he used to. He couldn’t even tell if Foggy had picked up.

“Hey Siri… call Foggy,” Matt repeated, voice trembling. He kept saying it, over and over, because it was the only thing that felt real anymore. The only thing keeping him tethered. “Call Foggy. Call Foggy.”

A beat passed.

“MATT?!”

“Foggy please pick up” he whispered, barely audible. His breath hitched, but his mouth moved anyway. He couldn’t stop. “Hey Siri… call Foggy.”

Foggy’s voice came again, shaking now. “Matt, man... what’s going on? Are you okay? You’re scaring me...”

Matt’s throat tightened. His chest felt hollow. He could feel his heart hammering in his ribcage, but it was muted, distant. His breath caught in his throat, and all he could do was repeat it — the only thing that gave him some sense of connection, however fleeting.

“Hey Siri... call Foggy... call Foggy...”

“Matt— Matt!” Foggy’s voice cracked, loud and raw now, pulling through the line. “You’re scaring me, what’s wrong? What’s happening?!”

Matt couldn’t hear him.

But Foggy heard him — he could hear the raggedness in his voice, the way it cracked. And then, Foggy caught something else — the soft sniffle that broke through the quiet, just a tiny sound, but unmistakable.

“Matt…” Foggy’s voice softened, but it was still full of urgency. “I’m coming over. I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Just hang on. Hang in there, I’m coming. Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Matt felt the weight of the words, but all he could do was repeat the same command, over and over, because it was all he knew to say.

“Hey Siri… call Foggy. Call Foggy… call Foggy…”

The phone was still pressed to Matt’s ear, but nothing had changed. He couldn’t hear Foggy — couldn’t hear his own voice. He was just waiting, suspended in the endless void of his senses.

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice was back on the line, but it sounded far away, distorted, as if it was muffled through a thick wall of glass. “Matt, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll be there soon, okay? Can you hear me?”

Matt’s breath hitched, but he had no response. He couldn’t hear anything. Not Foggy’s voice, not the words that had been spoken. Just the empty hum of his own pulse inside his skull.

The silence pressed down harder, like a weight he couldn’t shake.

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice came again, more frantic now. “Can you hear me? You’re scaring me, man. I—”

But all Matt could do was repeat it, as if it were a lifeline to the world hoping Siri could hear him.

“Hey Siri... call Foggy.” His voice cracked as he said it again, a pleading sound that barely made it past his lips.

“Matt, I’m coming, okay? I’m coming to you.” Foggy’s voice grew tight with concern. “Shit... okay, listen. I tracked your phone. I’m seven minutes away, alright? Just hang on, please. Stay with me.”

But Matt didn’t know what Foggy meant by “seven minutes.” He couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t feel any of it.

He was lost in his own body.

Searing frustration welled up inside him, and without thinking, he threw the phone. His hand whipped out and sent it flying across the room.

It landed with a hard thud.

The phone lay still, abandoned.

And then, through the stillness, a voice broke through — a whisper of sound across the line, barely there but unmistakable.

“Matt? Matt?”

The phone lay lifeless at the other end of the room, and all Matt could do was stare at the emptiness, his chest tight with the weight of all the things he couldn’t say.

The silence around him pressed tighter, thick and suffocating, and it felt like the walls were closing in. His body was trembling, but there was nothing to hold onto, no sound to anchor him, no reassurance that he wasn’t entirely alone.

“Help…” he whispered, voice ragged and broken. His lips barely moved, but the word still hung in the air like a silent scream. “Please... Foggy...”

Nothing.

No voice answered. No footsteps approached. Just the haunting, all-consuming emptiness. The only sound in the room was the pounding of his own heart — and even that felt distant, muffled by the crushing silence.

“Foggy,” he rasped again, louder this time. “Please... please...”

His hand moved to his face, rubbing his eyes hard, trying to focus, trying to force his senses to come back. He needed to feel something — anything.

“C’mon... c’mon...” he muttered under his breath, fingers slipping to his ears, snapping them desperately as if the sound of his fingers would break through the silence, shake him out of the nothingness.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Nothing.

His heart raced faster, and the panic twisted deeper in his gut.

“Help… Foggy... please…” His voice was pleading now, but the words seemed hollow in his own ears — just air, just motion, and the world was too far out of reach.

And all the while, across the line, Foggy was hearing it all.

He heard the broken, fragmented whispers. He heard the frustrated snaps, the panicked breaths, the desperation that built with every passing second.

He heard Matt struggling against the silence — and it shattered him.

Foggy’s voice crackled through the phone, but it sounded so far away.

“Matt?” he called, frantic, confused. “Matt, what the hell is going on? I’m here, man. I’m coming. Just… just stay with me, alright?”

But the silence on Matt’s end told Foggy everything. The phone was still connected. He could hear everything, feel the tension in every breath Matt took.

And then, he heard the sound of Matt’s fingers snapping, almost desperately, like he was trying to will the world back into existence. It was too much. Too real.

“Matt... please. Don’t do this. Talk to me. What’s happening? I’m coming, okay? I swear. Just... just stay with me.”

Matt didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

And all Foggy could do was stay on the line, his voice growing more panicked with each passing moment, his heart breaking for his friend on the other side.

Matt sat back on his heels, shaking. His breath came in stuttered gasps as he pressed his palms into his eyes like pressure might bring the world back into focus. But nothing changed. No shift. No hint of a heartbeat in the air. The silence was absolute.

His voice cracked as he whispered again, barely audible even to himself:

“Foggy... please…”

“Foggy…”
“Help…”

His voice broke. He tried to force it stronger, louder, but it came out hoarse and trembling. He didn’t even know if the call was still connected. Didn’t know if the phone was working. If Foggy had answered. If he was still out there.

He was alone. Utterly, painfully alone.

But on the other end of the line, Foggy was still there.

Still listening.

Still hearing every single thing.

“Matt… hey, Matt,” Foggy's voice came through the speaker, straining against the distance. “I’m still here, okay? You’re not alone. I’m on my way. I’m almost there.”

His voice was desperate now — more to convince Matt than to inform him.

He had to believe Matt was hearing something. Anything.

The void was swallowing everything, and still he muttered:

“Foggy… Foggy, please…”

The silence was driving splinters into his skull. He dragged his fingertips over his ears again, snapping.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

Nothing.

“Hey Siri... call Foggy,” he begged, not knowing the call was already still going. 

Foggy spoke low, steady, even though his chest was tight:

“Matt. You already did, buddy. You called me. I’m here. I’m right here. You’re doing good, okay? Just keep breathing. I’m almost there.”

Matt didn’t react. Not that Foggy could tell.

Foggy heard the rustling, the movement, the breathing.

He closed his eyes, gripping the steering wheel with one hand, the phone with the other, knuckles white.

“Don’t hang up, Matt,” he whispered. “Don’t hang up. I’m with you. Just a few more minutes.”

And Matt, curled against the wall, whispered one last time:

“Foggy…”

Matt’s back was pressed against the wall, his legs folded awkwardly beneath him, but he barely noticed the ache. His mind was unraveling thread by thread, swallowed by the silence, by the awful nothingness that blanketed everything. No voices, no street sounds, not even the whisper of his own breath.

Just stillness.
Just void.

Then — crack.

His hand slammed into the brick behind him.

Not hard enough to break anything. Just enough to make a sound — or what should have been a sound.

Crack.

Again. His palm smacked the wall.
Again.

He couldn’t hear it. Couldn’t feel the way the noise reverberated through the space. Couldn’t sense the vibrations he used to rely on like second nature.

His mouth twisted, breath hitching in his throat, and the next hit was harder.

Crack.

He needed something — a sensation, a ripple in the dark, some feedback to prove he was still in his body. Still real.

But it all felt flat. Dead. Detached.

His other hand tightened around the phone, trembling, still pressed to his cheek.

And Foggy’s voice broke through the speaker, a steady thread of hope.

“Matt? I’m close, okay? I see your building,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm, but the fear bled through anyway. “I’m just a minute out. One minute, I swear.”

But from Matt’s end, there was no reply. Just the soft, choked sound of a sniffle.

Foggy froze at the sound.

“Matt?” he said more gently, his chest tightening. “Hey... I hear you. I hear you, buddy. Just hold on. I’m almost there.”

Matt’s hand curled into a fist against the brick now, pressing into it as if trying to feel the building itself breathe.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Just quiet, broken little breaths. A trembling inhale. A wet exhale.

And Foggy, sprinting now toward the building entrance, didn’t let the silence stop him.

“Hang on, Matt. I'm here.”

Chapter Text

BANG.

The apartment door slammed open with the full weight of Foggy Nelson’s panic behind it, and suddenly — for the first time in what felt like forever — Matt felt something.

The floor vibrated beneath him.

A rush of air shifted across the room.

He flinched hard, head snapping toward the source instinctively. His eyes, unfocused and wild, darted in that direction, though they saw nothing. His body tensed like a cornered animal, his spine rigid, every muscle coiled.

Something was here.

Someone.

The sudden change in the room — pressure, movement, vibration — was so abrupt, so unfamiliar in this terrifying new silence, that it hit him like a jolt of electricity. He pressed back against the wall, hand out as if to shield himself, his chest rising in shallow gasps.

His head tilted slightly, trying to listen — trying — but there was still nothing. Just the pounding of his own pulse, the ghost of sound he couldn't quite reach.

But he could feel it now. The footsteps.

Thump.
Thump.

They were light, hesitant — but real. Coming closer.

A presence moved across the apartment, cautious and searching.

Matt’s lips parted, but no sound came out. He angled his face toward the hallway, blinking rapidly, trying to orient himself, body trembling from the whiplash of stillness to motion.

“Matt?”

The voice was soft, tentative — not that Matt could hear it.

Foggy was standing in the middle of the room now, scanning the shadows. His eyes landed on the hunched figure in the corner — Matt, crumpled against the wall, knees pulled in, eyes wide and unfocused, head twitching slightly toward Foggy like he was sensing him rather than seeing him.

“Matt... it’s me,” Foggy said, gently raising his hands as if approaching a wounded animal. “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

But Matt couldn’t hear the words. He just felt the nearness. The air shifting. The footsteps growing slower, heavier.

The presence was real. It was here. Someone was with him.

And for the first time since the world had gone silent, Matt let his head drop forward — like he might just collapse under the weight of his relief and fear.

Foggy’s breath caught in his throat as he stepped fully into the apartment and finally saw Matt.

He was slumped against the wall like he’d folded in on himself, his shoulders hunched, his head slightly down but still tilted as if tracking Foggy’s movements by feel alone. His chest rose and fell in short, panicked breaths. And his face—

Jesus.

His nose was bleeding — a thin line of red trailing toward his upper lip. His left hand was scraped raw, the knuckles split open, a smear of blood on the wall beside him where he’d clearly struck it over and over. And his eyes—

Foggy froze.

Matt’s eyes were darting, unfocused, like they weren’t registering what was in front of him. But more than that, there was a look behind them — a desperation that made Foggy’s stomach twist.

He knew that look.
Fear.
Not the kind from a bad day — this was panic. Terror.

“Matt,” Foggy said softly, taking a slow step forward, hands raised in peace. “Hey. It’s me. It’s Foggy. You’re okay. I’m here.”

Matt didn’t respond. Didn’t even twitch at the sound.

That’s when it hit him.

Foggy blinked, the realization creeping in like a cold draft through a crack in the window.

“Matt…?” he tried again, louder.

Nothing.

His voice wasn’t getting through.

He crouched down slowly, eyes never leaving Matt’s face — and Matt followed the motion, flinching slightly, reacting to the movement, not the sound. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no words came out. Or if they did, he couldn’t hear himself say them.

Foggy’s throat tightened.

“Oh, shit…” he whispered. “You can’t hear me.”

Matt’s hand twitched, gripping the fabric of his pants like he was grounding himself through touch now, the only anchor left.

And Foggy, heart pounding, leaned in — not too close, but close enough for Matt to feel the warmth of someone being there.

He didn’t know what had happened yet. Didn’t understand the how or the why.

But he saw enough to know this:
Matt wasn’t okay.
And he couldn’t hear a damn thing.

So Foggy did the only thing he could.

He reached out, gently, slowly — and laid a hand over Matt’s bloody one.

Matt felt it — the touch — warm, deliberate, wrapping gently over his bloodied hand.

And his entire body seized.

His breath caught in his throat. His head jerked toward the contact, eyes wide and unseeing. He hadn’t heard them. Hadn’t sensed them clearly enough.

Whoever it was — they were too close. They’d touched him, and he hadn’t known who they were, hadn’t anticipated it.

Terror surged through him.

He yanked his hand away violently, scrambling back with his palms and heels on the floor, feet slipping in the puddle of water he’d spilled earlier. His shoulder slammed into the side table — hard — knocking it over with a muted thud he couldn’t hear. The glass he’d knocked down earlier dug into his elbow, but he barely felt the sting.

His breathing was ragged now, mouth open, gasping for any cue — any sound — but there was nothing.

Just the presence. Moving. Following him.

He spun toward it, instinctive and panicked, one arm out like a shield, the other scrambling against the ground for leverage. His legs buckled beneath him. His body crashed to the floor again.

Hard.

And he just lay there for a second, curled slightly, shaking.

His chest heaved as he whipped his head from side to side, trying to place them, trying to feel anything — a vibration, a shift in the air — that could tell him who was in the room. But he couldn’t tell.

He couldn’t tell.

“Please—” he croaked, voice cracking. “Don’t—don’t hurt me—who’s there—? Who’s there?!”

His hands flew up defensively over his face.

And Foggy’s heart shattered.

He’d backed up instinctively when Matt had recoiled, raising his hands in surrender, but now — now he didn’t know whether to reach out again or stay put. Watching Matt crawl backward like a hunted thing, slamming into furniture, curling in on himself — it was the worst thing he’d ever seen.

“Matt…” he whispered, though he knew the words were useless. His voice wouldn’t reach him here. Not like this.

He knelt where he was and tried not to move too fast, voice low and soft even if Matt couldn’t hear it.

“I’m not gonna touch you again. I swear. It’s just me. It’s just me.”

But Matt didn’t hear. He was in a different world entirely — one of dark and silence and strangers in the void.

For a moment, Foggy did nothing.

He stayed kneeling a few feet away, hands loose and open in his lap, barely breathing. Matt was still curled on the floor, trembling, arms braced over his face like the world itself might come crashing down on him.

So Foggy gave him a beat of silence.
No movement. No words. Just presence.

And then—
Through the terror and static and nothingness—
Something cut through.

A scent.

Familiar.

It reached Matt slowly, threading its way through the fog in his mind. Warm fabric softener. Cheap diner coffee. The faintest trace of old cologne that had probably been rubbed off hours ago.

His breath caught in his throat. His fingers twitched where they hovered near his eyes.

That smell—

He knew it.

His hands lowered slowly, cautiously, revealing bloodshot eyes still brimming with fear but flickering now—confused. Searching.

His lips parted.

“…Foggy?”

It came out small. Barely a whisper, hoarse and uncertain.

And Foggy’s heart cracked wide open.

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing hard. “Yeah, Matt. It’s me. I’m right here.”

Matt turned his head a little, still blinking like he couldn’t believe it. Like he was trying to make sense of what he couldn’t see or hear, but felt in his bones.

“Foggy…” he said again, and this time it was more like a sob. “Foggy, please—”

“I’m here,” Foggy said again, gently. But this time, he did something more.

He lifted one foot.

And stomped.

Not loud. Just firm. Once.

The vibration rippled through the floor like a heartbeat.

Matt froze—eyes wide, breath caught.

He felt it.

His shoulders, tight as steel cables a second ago, began to ease. His muscles uncoiled slightly. His arms dropped to the floor.

“…It’s you,” he said. Voice trembling. “It’s really you.”

Foggy nodded, even if Matt couldn’t see it. His voice was steady now, deliberate.

Thump… thump… thump…

Foggy’s steps were slow, deliberate, and heavy enough to send small ripples through the floor.

Matt tracked each one.

His head followed the faint vibrations like a compass needle, the tremors grounding him as Foggy approached. No longer startled, Matt let himself feel it — each step closer meant safety. Meant someone real was here.

When the final vibration settled beside him, Matt didn’t flinch. He just turned his head slightly, a broken sort of relief softening the tension in his jaw.

Foggy eased down onto the floor next to him, careful not to crowd him, sitting cross-legged, his knee just barely brushing Matt’s.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

Matt sat in silence for a long beat, his throat working as he tried to find words. His mouth opened once—twice—nothing came out.

Then finally, in a strained whisper:

“I can’t hear anything.”

Foggy’s eyes flicked to him, but he said nothing—just waited, letting Matt lead.

“I—I woke up this morning, and everything was so loud,” Matt said, his voice shaking. “The faucet. The air. My own breath. It was like—like the world was screaming. And then…”

He swallowed hard, voice splintering.

“Then it just—stopped.”

He raised a hand, running it through his sweat-matted hair, smearing blood from his busted knuckles across his temple without realizing.

“I thought maybe it was temporary. Just an overload, maybe. I can’t hear anything. Not even my heartbeat.”

His head dropped forward, voice crumbling to a whisper.

“But I couldn’t tell if anyone was coming. I didn’t know if I was alone. It was just… me. In the dark.”

Foggy couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even move.

He just sat there, eyes locked on his best friend — this man who was always so composed, so guarded, invincible even when broken — and now…

Now he was nothing but raw edges.

Matt was covered in blood. His nose was still smeared with dried red. His hands were shaking. His shirt clung to him with sweat. And his face—God—his face was so open it hurt to look at. All the fear, all the desperation, all the helplessnesslaid bare.

Foggy had never seen him like this.

And all he could do was be there.

So he reached out — slowly — and rested a hand lightly on Matt’s shoulder.

No words.

Just this.

I’m here.

The silence between them had settled into something gentler, something safer. But when Foggy shifted, pushing himself up to stand, Matt flinched.

His hand snapped out, blindly catching Foggy’s pant leg.

His voice cracked, raw and pleading.

“Foggy? …Please don’t leave. Please.”

Foggy’s chest twisted, and he dropped back down immediately, his hand covering Matt’s.

“I’m not,” he said softly, even though he knew Matt couldn’t hear it. “I’m just grabbing something. I’m right here.”

He gently squeezed Matt’s hand once before slipping away — moving slowly, his footsteps firm so Matt could feel each one.

Matt sat frozen, muscles taut again, straining to feel the vibrations through the floor.

Thump… thump…
Then nothing.

His breath quickened. He wrapped his arms around himself.

But only a few seconds later, the vibrations returned — faster now, and then Foggy was kneeling beside him again.

He didn’t speak.

He just pressed something into Matt’s hands — paper, slightly crumpled, and a pen. The texture was grounding. Familiar.

Matt’s brows pulled together as he ran his fingers over it slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of the note, then the pen.

And Foggy, watching carefully, wrote a few words on the pad, then guided it gently into Matt’s grip.

Matt tilted it toward himself, and with shaking fingers, felt the indentations of the fresh ink beneath his touch. It wasn’t perfect — it wasn’t Braille — but he traced the shape of the grooves with his sensitive fingers, carefully, methodically.

And then, after a beat, he whispered it aloud.

“…I’m here. Not going anywhere.”

Matt exhaled.

It was shaky, but it was the first real breath he’d taken in hours.

He clutched the paper like a lifeline.

Matt was holding the note like it anchored him to the earth. His hands were still trembling, but less so now — until his lips parted again, and a new kind of fear slipped out.

“Foggy…” he whispered. “I can’t see.”

His voice cracked sharply. He leaned forward slightly, as if saying it hurt more than he expected.

“I can’t—see, Foggy—” The words tumbled out now, faster, more frantic. “Not just blind—I mean—I can’t feel anything either. No sounds, no outlines, no heartbeat. I usually feel the city, the people—you—but now it’s just—nothing. Just black.”

His voice broke entirely. “It’s like I’ve been erased.”

Foggy’s heart pounded in his chest. But he forced himself to keep steady.

He scribbled quickly on the notepad, then reached out, gently nudging it into Matt’s hands again.

Matt ran his fingers over the letters.

You’re still here. I see you. I’ve got you.

That pulled a shuddered breath from Matt’s chest. He clutched the note tightly, but the panic wasn’t gone.

His lips trembled.

“What if it doesn’t come back?” he asked, barely audible. “What if I’m stuck like this?”

Foggy shook his head, but he knew Matt couldn’t see it. So he scribbled something else.

Hospital?

He held the note where Matt could reach it, brushing it into his fingers.

Matt paused, felt the word with his fingertips—and recoiled.

“No,” he said quickly, voice rising in fear. “No, Foggy—I can’t—I can’t do that—”

Foggy wrote again, slower this time.

Matt. It’s okay. We’ll figure this out.

Matt was shaking his head, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes again.

“I can’t be in a hospital, Foggy. I can’t be that helpless, that exposed—I wouldn’t even know what was happening. I—I wouldn’t even know if someone was in the room.”

He was spiraling, and Foggy could see it happening second by second.

So he gently reached out, hand resting against Matt’s knee.

Firm. Present. Here.

And he waited.

Matt's knuckles were white around the notepad, his breathing sharp and ragged.

“I’m scared, Foggy,” he whispered.

It barely came out — like the words didn’t want to leave his throat, like saying them made them real.

Foggy’s heart twisted. His lips parted, the instinct to say I know or It’s okay already on his tongue — but the words felt useless. They’d just disappear into the void.

Matt wouldn’t hear them.

So instead, Foggy moved slowly. Gently.

He reached forward and took Matt’s trembling hand in his own.

Matt startled slightly at the contact but didn’t pull away — not from Foggy.

Foggy guided his hand upward, carefully, and pressed Matt’s palm flat against the center of his own chest.

Right over his heart.

They stayed like that.

Foggy didn’t say a word. He just let Matt feel it — the strong, steady rhythm, beating beneath his ribs.

I’m here.
You’re not alone.
I’m real.

Matt’s breath hitched… then slowly, finally, began to steady.

His fingers curled slightly into Foggy’s shirt, resting over the pulse.

His shoulders slumped.

He exhaled for what felt like the first time in forever.

His face still held the weight of fear, but now there was something else in it too — something smaller, quieter.

Relief.

Foggy didn’t move. He just stayed there, letting his heartbeat speak the words Matt couldn’t hear.

Matt whispered, barely audible, “Thank you.”

Foggy kept Matt’s hand against his chest a moment longer, giving him all the time he needed to just feel that he wasn’t alone.

But as his eyes drifted down to Matt’s fingers, his stomach twisted.

Blood. Bruising. Skin split across the knuckles, dried and fresh alike smeared across his palm. His hand was trembling, not just from fear now, but likely pain too.

Foggy gently lowered Matt’s hand, reaching for the notepad again. He scribbled a few quick words, then took Matt’s hand again and carefully pressed the note into it.

Matt’s fingertips traced the letters slowly.

I’m gonna clean your hand. It’s bleeding.

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Okay,” Matt whispered.

Foggy offered a soft squeeze to his wrist before getting up. He moved deliberately, letting each footstep thud gently against the floor so Matt could track him. Cabinets. Running water. The familiar squeak of the first-aid kit being opened.

Matt sat still, curled in on himself, arms tucked close, breath held — until Foggy returned and knelt beside him again.

He reached for Matt’s injured hand slowly, letting him feel the presence, not rushing.

Matt let him take it.

Foggy dipped a cloth into warm water, wrung it out, and began dabbing gently at the cuts, careful not to press too hard.

Every touch was careful. Grounded. Present.

Matt flinched once, but then relaxed again, the corners of his mouth twitching down as if trying to hold back more tears.

“I’m right here,” Foggy whispered anyway, even if Matt couldn’t hear.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter.

Matt felt it.

He cleaned the scrapes carefully, dabbing around the worst of the gashes, using antiseptic sparingly so it wouldn’t sting too badly. Matt’s jaw clenched once, but he didn’t pull away. He trusted him.

Once the wounds were clean, Foggy unwrapped a roll of gauze and started wrapping Matt’s hand — secure, not too tight, but enough to hold the injury together.

“You beat the crap outta something,” he muttered under his breath. “Or everything.”

When he was done, he gently patted the back of Matt’s hand.

Then he reached for the notepad again.

Done. You’re patched up.
Foggy had just finished wrapping Matt’s hand, tying the bandage with the kind of gentleness that only came from years of friendship. The bleeding had mostly stopped, but Matt’s fingers still twitched every so often — as if reliving the panic in muscle memory.

Foggy reached for the notepad again.

Can you tell me what happened?

He placed it into Matt’s hands carefully, guiding his fingers to the new message.

Matt inhaled shakily, lips parting as he formed the words before even speaking.

“It got loud,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Everything got really loud. The faucet, the air — even the motrin hitting the counter — it sounded like an explosion.”

He shook his head slowly, like even the memory of it hurt.

“My ears were ringing. I couldn’t focus. I dropped a glass, and then—” He paused, swallowing hard. “My nose started bleeding. And then… just—nothing.”

He exhaled, jaw clenching like he was trying to hold the rest in.

“I was alone,” he whispered. “I couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t feel anything. I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know if anyone was coming. I just…”

His voice broke again.

“I was scared, Foggy.”

Foggy didn’t reach for the notepad this time.

He just leaned in, placing a steady hand on Matt’s back, rubbing slowly between his shoulders — grounding, calming, letting Matt know he was real, and here.

Matt didn’t flinch away.

He just bowed his head, letting the weight of it all come out in slow, shallow breaths.

And Foggy stayed beside him, his own heart aching with every word Matt had just forced himself to say.

Foggy didn’t need to write anything down this time.

Instead, he rested his hand more firmly against Matt’s back, slow and steady. Then, after a moment, he moved his hand to Matt’s chest — just as Matt had done earlier — and tapped once. Then again. Just to say I’m here.

Matt’s breath hitched, then evened out.

Foggy gently guided Matt’s hand to the notepad once more, already scribbled with something new.

I’m not leaving. I promise. I’m staying right here.

Matt’s fingers traced the message slowly.

Then he exhaled, shaky but full. He nodded once, and his shoulders — so tense, so hunched in on themselves — finally eased.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice rough and tired but sincere. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t answer.”

Foggy didn’t need to say you would’ve figured it out. He knew that right now, Matt didn’t need to be reminded of his resilience.

He needed to be reminded he wasn’t alone.

So Foggy just sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, letting Matt lean against him if he needed. The silence between them was heavy but not empty — filled with everything unspoken, everything understood.

The city was quiet for once. Or maybe it was just this apartment, this moment, carved out from all the noise.

Two friends. One floor. One long, awful night.

And they stayed like that.

Together.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet.

The kind of quiet that only comes after a storm — the tension in the air gone, but the heaviness still lingering in the corners.

Matt and Foggy had stayed on the floor, pressed shoulder to shoulder, the faint city lights stretching across the hardwood. At some point in the early morning hours, exhaustion pulled them both under. Matt's head had tilted, finally resting against Foggy’s shoulder, his breathing slow and even.

And then—

Honk.

A car in the distance.

Matt’s brow twitched.

Wail.

A siren, faint and far off — muffled, but there.

His eyes opened suddenly, and he jerked upright with a sharp inhale, heart thudding.

Foggy stirred beside him instantly.

“Matt?” he said, voice still groggy but alert. “Hey—hey, you okay?”

Matt’s head turned sharply toward the sound. His body tensed. He blinked rapidly.

His mouth opened—then closed.

“I…” His voice caught in his throat. He slowly raised a hand to his ear, as if testing reality. “I can… hear something.”

Foggy straightened fully, eyes wide, hopeful. “You can?”

Matt gave a small, shaky nod, turning his head in the direction of Foggy’s voice with precision.

“I heard you,” he said quietly. “And the cars. The sirens. Not everything—but enough.”

His lips parted in disbelief, the corners twitching up just slightly.

And Foggy let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “That’s… that’s something, man.”

Matt nodded again, his eyes damp but full of light for the first time since the night before.

“It’s something.”

Matt’s fingers twitched, hesitating in the still air.

Then—snap.

A sharp, quick sound echoed off the walls.

He tilted his head slightly. His brows knit.

Snap. Again. Louder this time.

The sound bounced, fractured, fragmented—but there.

Matt’s breathing caught, then quickened—not from panic this time, but anticipation.

He turned his head to the right. Snap.

A low thrum bounced back to him. The soft echo of the couch. A plant nearby. The coffee table. Their shapes weren’t clear, but the shadows of them were returning—faint impressions made of sound and space.

His world was slowly rebuilding itself.

Each snap sent out a pulse, and with every returning vibration, he saw a little more.

The edges of the room began to take shape in his mind. The ceiling high above. The window, faintly vibrating with the wind and distant traffic. Foggy—solid and warm—beside him, heart still pounding but steady.

Matt let out a breath, almost a laugh.

He snapped again, softer this time, and turned toward Foggy.

“I can hear the shape of the room again,” he said, voice hoarse. “I can see it.”

Foggy didn’t speak at first. He just watched, wide-eyed, as Matt straightened his spine, lifted his chin, and started to move his fingers like he trusted them again. Like he trusted himself again.

“Holy shit,” Foggy whispered, a small grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re coming back online.”

Matt turned his head at that, the ghost of a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. “Feels like it.”

He raised both hands to his ears—still raw, still ringing—but now, alive.

The silence was gone.

And so was the fear.

Matt moved slowly.

Deliberate.

Matt’s bare feet shifted against the floorboards, slowly, tentatively. He extended a hand out and took a cautious step forward—then another. He paused, snapped his fingers once more, then turned slightly to the left.

Fingers outstretched, they brushed fabric.

The couch.

He exhaled through his nose, fingers trailing the cushion’s edge until he found the armrest and lowered himself down. A quiet, shaky breath left his lungs as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face falling into his hands.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Foggy stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching him with something between exhaustion and disbelief etched into every line of his face.

Then—

“So…” Foggy started, his voice tight, brittle. “Are we gonna talk about it?”

Matt didn’t move.

“Because I gotta say, man, watching you bleed from the nose, not respond to your phone, find you on the floor with a shattered glass, deaf and blind, thinking the worst night of your life might be the last time I talk to you—kind of messed me up a little.”

Matt dragged his hands down his face slowly, then sat back, shoulders tense, jaw clenched.

“Foggy—”

“No. No, don’t do the ‘Foggy’ thing like I’m overreacting,” he said, pacing now, voice rising. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Matt didn’t argue. Didn’t defend himself.

Because he had scared Foggy.

And, truth be told, he’d scared himself too.

“I didn’t know what was happening,” Matt said finally, voice low. “It just… hit me out of nowhere. Like my brain short-circuited. I didn’t even think—there wasn’t time to think.”

Foggy stopped pacing.

“You could’ve called someone before it got that bad. Before it was you alone in your apartment with a bleeding nose and glass on the floor and no way to tell if help was coming.”

Matt looked down, fingers lacing together in his lap.

“I know.”

Foggy let out a long breath. “It’s just—it makes me mad, man. Seeing you like that. Hurting. And I can’t do anything but sit next to you and hold your hand and hope it’s enough.”

Matt looked up at him then, guilt and something softer in his expression.

“It was enough,” he said, quietly. “You were enough.”

And that, finally, made Foggy stop moving. The anger simmered, but it didn’t boil over again. Not now.

He dropped down into the armchair across from Matt, raking a hand through his hair.

“Okay,” he murmured. “Just… okay.”

The silence returned—but this time, it wasn’t empty.

Matt leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, fingers twisted together like he was holding something fragile.

“I’m really sorry, Foggy,” he said, voice low and raw.

Foggy didn’t say anything right away. He looked at Matt — really looked at him. Pale, bruised, dried blood along his nose and temple, his hand still bandaged clumsily. A man unraveled and trying to stitch himself back together with apologies and guilt.

Matt’s voice wavered as he continued.

“I wasn’t trying to hide what was happening. It all just… happened so fast. My hearing spiked — like everything was turned up to eleven. The water faucet sounded like a train. The Motrin bottle? Like a bomb going off. And then—” he swallowed, hard, “it just… cut out. Like someone flipped a switch. Total silence. Nothing. I couldn’t even tell if I was screaming.”

Foggy’s throat tightened, his anger dissolving into something far more helpless.

“Shit,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Dude. That sounds—insane.”

Matt gave a short, humorless laugh, like the word didn’t even come close.

“I didn’t know what to do. I felt the water hit my feet, I dropped the glass, and then… I couldn’t hear it break. Couldn’t hear anything. I couldn’t see. I couldn’t—” He stopped, pressing his hands to his face again, dragging them down with a deep breath. “I didn’t know if anyone would come.”

“But I did,” Foggy said gently.

Matt nodded, not looking up. “Yeah. You did.”

“And I’m not going anywhere,” Foggy added. “Even if you can’t hear me — I’ll figure out how to be loud in other ways.”

Matt gave a small, pained smile. “You always have been.”

Matt sat back against the couch, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Thank you… for coming over.”

Foggy looked up from where he was sitting, still across from him, arms resting on his knees.

Matt continued, a little shakily, “I—I didn’t know if you got the call. I couldn’t hear if Siri even worked, if she called you. I just kept saying your name like that would make it real.”

Foggy exhaled softly, his face tight with emotion. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it. I just heard, ‘Hey Siri, call Foggy,’ like, eight times in a row. At first, I thought you’d sat on your phone or something.”

He let out a half-hearted laugh, trying—instinctively—to break the tension.

“I was gonna make a joke about you finally using Siri for something other than setting alarms at 3 a.m., but uh…” Foggy looked down, then back at Matt.

His voice dropped. “Yeah. Doesn’t really feel like a punchline kind of night.”

Matt managed the barest smile, more grateful than amused.

“No,” he agreed quietly. “It really doesn’t.”

Foggy stood up suddenly, brushing his palms on his jeans like he was gearing up for battle. “Alright. That’s it. You, Matthew Murdock, are not allowed to scare the hell out of me and then just sit there looking like the last 12 hours didn’t happen.”

Matt blinked. “What—?”

“You’re staying right there,” Foggy warned, pointing a stern finger at him as he moved toward the kitchen. “I’m making tea. You are going to drink it. I don’t care if your taste buds are half-fried from adrenaline. It’s happening.”

Matt opened his mouth to protest, but Foggy was already rattling through cabinets like a man on a mission.

“You’re also eating something,” Foggy added. “Do not tell me you haven’t eaten. You look like you lost a fight with a brick wall and then didn’t even have the courtesy to make yourself a sandwich after.”

Matt sighed, soft and almost fond. “I didn’t really have time to think about food while I was… y’know. Deaf and blind.”

That gave Foggy a pause. Just a beat. Then he mumbled, “Okay, fair point. Still—tea and toast. That’s the minimum.”

From the couch, Matt could hear him muttering things like “unbelievable,” and “bleeding and alone, and the guy still won’t accept help,” as he clinked around in the kitchen.

“I can walk over there, you know,” Matt offered after a moment.

“Nope. Sit. You earned exactly zero responsibilities today,” Foggy said, voice echoing now from the sink. “You’re in recovery. Let me hen.”

Matt smiled faintly, resting his head on the back of the couch. “You’re a very loud hen.”

Foggy came back into view with a mug of tea and a plate with toast, crouched in front of Matt like he was offering it to a wounded animal.

“I’m your best hen,” he said seriously.

Matt reached out carefully, accepting the mug, his fingers brushing Foggy’s.

Foggy watched Matt sip the tea slowly, both hands wrapped around the mug like he needed the warmth to keep from unraveling again. He was still pale, still looked like hell, but the trembling had stopped. His breathing had evened out.

That didn’t mean Foggy was backing off.

“Alright,” he said firmly, sitting down next to Matt again. “You’re gonna get checked out.”

Matt tensed.

“I’m not saying the ER,” Foggy added quickly, holding up his hands. “I know you hate hospitals. I get it. But someone has to look at you, Matt. Your nose bled for no reason, your hand’s a mess, you passed out from sensory overload, and—oh yeah—you were literally deaf and blind for hours.”

Matt didn’t respond. He just stared down at the tea.

Foggy leaned in a little.

“I’m not asking, buddy. I’m telling you. We’ll call Claire. That nurse you always end up half-bleeding on? She won’t judge. She won’t prod. She’ll just help.”

Matt sighed. Deep and reluctant. Then gave a small nod.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Call Claire.”

Foggy blinked. “Wait—really?”

Matt gave him a sidelong look. “You made tea. You mother-henned me into toast. I’m too tired to argue with you right now.”

Foggy grinned, but it was laced with relief. “That’s right. You’re emotionally compromised. I will exploit that.”

Matt gave a tiny huff of laughter through his nose. “You’re the worst.”

“Love you too, buddy.”

——

There was a knock at the door—sharp, practiced, with a rhythm that clearly wasn’t a stranger’s.

Foggy moved quickly to answer it, opening the door to reveal Claire Temple, hair pulled back, wearing jeans and a hoodie, and carrying a battered old med bag that had definitely seen worse nights.

“Hey,” she said, stepping inside with that practiced calm that made you want to believe everything was going to be okay. “You said it was bad. You weren’t kidding.”

“He’s in the chair,” Foggy said, motioning her over. “Came out of nowhere. I’ve never seen him like this.”

Claire followed him in, eyes already scanning Matt—taking in the bruises, the blood on his knuckles, the pale color to his face, and the bone-deep exhaustion in his posture. She crouched in front of him without hesitation.

“Wow, Murdock,” she said, eyebrows raised, voice dry as ever. “You look like shit.”

Matt tilted his head slightly toward her voice, lips twitching in something that tried to be a smirk.

“Nice to see you too, Claire.”

She gave him a soft pat on the knee, her eyes gentling even if her words didn’t.

“Let’s see how bad this actually is, yeah?”

Matt nodded, and let her get to work.

Claire gently tilted Matt’s head back, her fingers deft as she checked along his scalp, parting his hair and feeling for any swelling or hidden wounds. Matt winced slightly when she touched the tender spot just behind his right temple.

“Found it,” she muttered. “Bruising. No break in the skin, but it’s swollen. What hit you here?”

Matt hesitated.

Claire raised an eyebrow. “Matthew.”

He sighed. “A bullet.”

Claire paused. “You wanna clarify that?”

“It was the Punisher,” Matt said, quietly. “A lucky shot. Hit the edge of my cowl. The impact snapped my head back hard. I didn’t think it was that bad at the time, but… I guess it rattled something loose.”

Foggy, who had been standing off to the side trying very hard not to interrupt, stepped forward now, absolutely livid.

“Are you kidding me, Matt?!”

Matt grimaced. “Foggy—”

“No, do not ‘Foggy’ me right now. A bullet? To the head?! One inch over and you’d be dead! You’re lucky your helmet absorbed as much as it did!”

Claire gave a low whistle, still working. “I’ve treated enough vigilantes to know that you don’t walk away clean from something like that. Even with armor.”

Matt didn’t argue. He just let his hands fall to his lap, looking more exhausted than before.

“I didn’t know it would get this bad. The hearing thing… I’ve had overloads before, but this was different. Louder. Sharper. Then it just… stopped.”

Foggy muttered a string of curses under his breath and ran a hand through his hair, pacing away a few steps before turning back.

Claire, meanwhile, was wrapping gauze around Matt’s hand. “Concussion symptoms, likely. And you didn’t go to the hospital because…”

Matt gave her a weak smile. “Because I’m me.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “At least you’re consistent.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt said quietly.

It came out small. Deflated. Like something sinking inside of him finally gave way. His shoulders curved in as if to hide, eyes cast low even though they saw nothing. “I should’ve… I didn’t know how to call for help. I couldn’t think. I just—” he stopped, letting the rest fall away.

Claire looked up from wrapping his hand, pausing at the edge of his apology. She followed the bruises now with more care — the knuckles, the elbow scraped raw, the side of his fist discolored.

“These,” she said, touching the spot on his hand just beneath the worst of the cuts, “you do this hitting someone?”

Matt shook his head, jaw tightening. “No. The wall.”

Claire blinked. “The wall?”

He nodded, slow. “I was trying to ground myself. I couldn't hear. Couldn't see. I just... needed to feel something.”

There was a long, heavy silence. Claire’s hands stilled. Foggy stood off to the side, arms crossed, jaw clenched tight.

“Shit,” Claire whispered. “Matt.”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” he said, voice catching. “I tried the floor, the air, I was snapping, stomping… nothing. I thought it was permanent. I thought I was stuck like that.”

Claire gently finished dressing his hand, now less clinical and more careful, her fingers softer now that she knew what drove the damage. Her face was unreadable, but there was an unmistakable sadness in her eyes.

“You should’ve called me sooner,” she murmured.

Claire sat back on her heels, exhaling slowly as she peeled off her gloves and tossed them into a small plastic bag from her kit. She wiped her hands on a cloth, then looked Matt dead-on.

“From what I can tell,” she began carefully, “you’re not in immediate danger. No dilated pupils, no uneven eye movement, and you haven’t vomited or passed out — that we know of.”

Matt gave a weak shrug. “I think I just... sat there.”

“Which is valid,” Claire said, voice gentle but firm. “You got hit hard. You had a sensory shutdown — maybe from the concussion, maybe neurological, or hell, just pure trauma. Either way, I don’t love that your nose bled spontaneously, or that you lost both sight and hearing.”

Matt nodded slowly. He looked… distant. Like he was still half in that place.

“You’re not dying,” she added, softer. “But you need to get checked out. A real check. MRI, x-ray, the works.”

“Claire…”

She cut him off. “I’m not saying you need to check into a hospital tonight. But you will go in. I can’t diagnose a brain bleed with a flashlight and intuition, Matt. You need imaging.”

He was quiet, and then:

“Okay.”

Claire blinked. “Okay?”

He sighed. “Yeah. I mean… it’s not like I can ignore it. Not anymore.”

From the couch, Foggy gave a loud, theatrical scoff. “You say that now, but I’m putting it on the record. I heard the words.”

Matt gave him a tired, dry smile.

Claire leaned forward one more time, pressing the back of her hand to Matt’s forehead, then gently tapping the underside of his chin.

“Rest. Eat something real. I’ll make a few calls in the morning, see who owes me a favor in radiology.”

Matt nodded.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Claire offered a warm smile. “You’re a pain in the ass, Murdock. But you’re my pain in the ass.”

Claire packed up her kit, gave Matt one last look, and nodded to Foggy. “Keep him here. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid,” she said with a smirk that was just barely masking her concern.

“I’ll make sure,” Foggy replied, though there was a hint of humor in his tone that didn’t quite mask the exhaustion.

Matt opened his mouth to say something, but Claire was already halfway to the door. “I’ll check in tomorrow, Murdock. Don’t make me regret that.”

Matt gave a slight smile as she exited, the door clicking softly behind her.

Foggy dropped onto the couch beside Matt, running a hand through his hair, exhausted, but no longer angry. The room had settled into an odd quiet after the storm of the last few hours.

Matt turned slightly toward him, a little hesitant, but his voice came out steady.

“Foggy, I—” He stopped himself, fingers curling into the couch cushion. He let out a long breath before continuing. “I’m sorry for all of this. For dragging you into it. I wasn’t— I wasn’t thinking.”

Foggy looked over, his eyes soft but serious. “You don’t need to apologize. I’m not going anywhere. But damn it, Matt, you scared the hell out of me. I can’t—” He stopped, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine how bad that must’ve felt for you.”

Matt just nodded. “It was terrifying. I couldn’t tell where I was. I couldn’t even tell if I was alone. And I didn’t know if anyone would hear me, or if it would just… stay that way.”

Foggy shifted closer, his voice dropping a little softer, more real. “Well, I’m glad you called. Glad you had me, you know?”

Matt’s lips quirked. “I didn’t know if Siri was actually gonna work.”

Foggy snorted. “Siri’s not your personal butler, Murdock.”

Matt chuckled weakly, the sound dry. “Yeah, well, that was my best shot.”

There was a long pause before Matt spoke again, quieter now, with more sincerity.

“Thanks for coming over. I… wasn’t sure if you even got the call.”

Foggy’s face softened. “Of course I got it. I’ll always come. No matter how bad it is. Just—” His voice cracked for a second before he cleared his throat. “Just let me know when it’s that bad, okay?”

“I will,” Matt promised, his voice a little rough. “I will.”

The two of them sat in silence for a moment longer, the weight of the day finally beginning to settle into the quiet of the apartment. Foggy leaned back into the couch, letting out a slow breath.

“Alright, well… I’m gonna crash, dude. But tomorrow, we get you checked out. And after that, I’m making you watch some stupid movie marathon to take your mind off it all.”

Matt smiled, even if it didn’t reach his eyes fully. “Deal.”

Foggy gave him one last long look, his concern still there, but also an unspoken understanding between them. “Get some sleep, Murdock. I’m not leaving until I know you’re okay.”

Matt didn’t protest, even though he wanted to. Instead, he gave a small nod, and as Foggy stood up to make himself comfortable, he felt a flicker of relief that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding onto.

Foggy’s footsteps faded into the distance, but Matt stayed there for a while, eyes closed, just listening. For once, the silence didn’t feel quite as suffocating.