Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1: Concussion 

The scent of coffee and the days-old residue from lemon Pledge filled Matt’s nostrils as he pushed open the door to Nelson, Murdock, & Page. The usual morning cacophony was absent. No frantic typing from Karen’s desk, no rhythmic tapping of Foggy’s pen against a legal pad. Instead, there was a near-silence, broken only by the low hum of the computer towers and the careful, measured breaths of his two partners.

“Morning,” Matt said, his own voice feeling too loud in the hushed space. He hung his coat and cane on the rack, the movement sending a dull, familiar throb through his skull. He’d been less than careful the night before, pushing through a fog of disorientation after a glancing blow to the head, and Nat had found him leaning a bit too heavily against a rooftop vent. She’d been following a similar lead, and helped him quickly finish the task at hand. Then promptly dragged him to the Tower despite his protests that he was fine.

Dr. Cho had scanned him, confirmed a mild concussion, and been firm about the prescription: Rest. No strenuous mental activity. A difficult mandate for a lawyer, but he would try. 

“Hey, Matt,” Foggy’s voice came from his office, subdued. “Coffee’s fresh.”

“Thanks,” Matt said, moving toward the pot. He could hear Karen at her desk, her fingers moving slowly over her keyboard. Her heartbeat was steady, but a little fast. As he poured his coffee, she paused her typing. He heard the soft press of her fingertips against her temples, rubbing in small, slow circles.

A few minutes later, the distinct, dry rattle of pills in a plastic bottle cut through the quiet. The sound was unmistakable, each tiny cylinder bouncing against its neighbors. Then came the click of a cap being unscrewed, a single pill being shaken into a palm, and the quick, hard swallow as she washed it down with a gulp of water from the glass on her desk.

Matt paused by the doorframe as he walked back to his office, fresh mug of coffee in hand. The subtle tension in Karen's posture and the careful rhythm of her fingers pressing against her temples formed a clear, unspoken story. His own head pulsed in a dull sympathy.

Karen looked up at him, rustling some papers before addressing him softly. “Hey, if you're looking for something to do, I'm behind on the Bateson discovery. The digital files are a mess and need to be organized and renamed in the system. It's tedious, but it has to get done.”

Matt had been considering starting on a complex motion for the O’Malley case, a long-term project that required weaving together multiple precedents into a tight, logical argument. The very thought made the throb behind his eyes intensify into a sharper spike. The Bateson discovery, on the other hand, was a more immediate, if tedious, clerical task. It required focus, but not deep thought. It was exactly what his aching brain needed.

“Sure, Karen. I can do that,” he said, perhaps a little too quickly.

He settled at his computer, the digital folder of disorganized files waiting for him. For the next few hours, he lost himself in the simple, repetitive task. His screen reader’s voice became a steady stream in one ear as he listened to the contents of each document, his mind cataloging the information in a surface-level way before he assigned the correct file name and logged its description in the digital ledger. The work was monotonous, but it was a relief. It demanded just enough of his attention to keep him occupied, but not so much that it aggravated the persistent ache in his skull.

Foggy brought him a fresh cup of coffee around eleven, placing it down with a soft clink. “How’s the thrilling world of docu-diving?”

“It’s a page-turner,” Matt deadpanned.

Foggy chuckled softly and patted him on the shoulder before leaving him be. 

By the time he finished the last Bateson file, the pounding in his head had settled into a manageable, dull ache. Leaning back in his chair, he took in the strange, quiet harmony of the office. The lowered voices, the lack of sudden, jarring noises, and the offering of a simple, tedious task instead of a complex one... The day had been blessedly merciful, and he was glad for it. It was a good day, all things considered.

---

2: Dislocated Ribs

The morning sun was a dull warmth on the office windows. Matt sat at his desk, the posture too perfect, a statue carved from pain. Every shift of his weight, every involuntary twitch to adjust his suit jacket, sent a fresh flare of pain through his right side.

Last night’s brawl had been a messy, street-level operation. Clint and Matt were tracking a new gang that was moving enhanced weapons, and their enforcer was a mountain of augmented muscle. Matt heard Clint fire his last arrow, then the sound of him leaning heavily against a dumpster, bleeding and trying to keep weight off a dislocated kneecap. Then came the archer’s sharp intake of breath. He was cornered, and the enforcer was charging.

Matt had crossed the distance in a heartbeat, tackling the brute sideways. He’d taken the full-force punch meant for Clint’s head directly to his own side. The armor had dispersed some of the impact, but the raw force had been immense, dislocating several ribs. But it was the only injury he'd earned, surprisingly.

He took Clint to the Tower's medbay before delivering the debrief in his stead, forcing his breathing to remain even while every full breath was a sharp, stabbing reminder under his ribs. It definitely didn't rank as a major injury, but a painfully annoying one nonetheless.

Now, in the quiet hum of the office, the cost was being exacted. Taking a deep breath to speak was a calculated risk. “The landlord in the Henderson case is sticking to his story,” Matt said, his voice tighter than usual.

“Which is a work of fiction,” Foggy replied. His tone was light, but Matt could hear the subtle tension in his friend’s jaw, the slight increase in his heart rate. Matt rose from his chair with a slow, deliberate push from his desk, avoiding the use of his core muscles. It hurt to stand, but the chairs provided their own discomfort.

Not long after 9:30am, the office door opened with the sound of Karen’s familiar footsteps, accompanied by the scent of fresh coffee, pastries, and… new fabric?

“I went by that home goods store,” she announced, her voice breezy and casual, her heartrate slightly elevated from her trek. “I finally caved and got those ridiculously comfortable seat cushions. I got one for each of our chairs.”

Matt heard the rustle of plastic, then the soft whump as she placed something on his chair. He reached out, his fingers brushing over a plush surface. It was indeed a pillow, thick and forgiving.

Foggy beamed. “You’re an angel, thank you!”

Matt managed a quiet “Thank you,” sinking into the new cushion. The relief was immediate, the softness absorbing some of the jarring pressure from sitting.

They ate dinner at the Italian place. They had been seated towards the front with a large menu board awkwardly positioned near the booth. Matt had had to twist his upper body at a sharp, painful angle to slide in. He finished his meal, mentally preparing for the jolt it would send through his ribs to get out. 

As he set his napkin down, Foggy was already sliding out across from him. "Gonna hit the head," he said. Before leaving the table, he nudged the menu board. It was on wheels, something Matt hadn't noticed. Foggy gave it an idle push to sit a couple feet closer to the door.

The move was casual, almost dismissive, like he was just clearing a minor annoyance from his path. But Matt now had a straight, unobstructed line from the booth.

Matt rose, a flicker of surprise cutting through the constant thrum of pain. He stepped out smoothly, without having to contort his body around the menu board. Foggy was already halfway to the bathroom, not looking back.

Walking down the street, the cool evening air a slight balm, Matt replayed the moment. The random pillows. The effortlessly shifted sign. It was almost like they knew. But he hadn't heard their hearts uptick all day, either in deception or the tell-tale beat they each got whenever they figured out he was injured.

He let the thought form, then dismissed it. Karen had back pain. Foggy had been annoyed by an awkwardly placed sign. A fortunate series of coincidences is all it was.

--- 

3: Hairline Shin Fractures

The scent of rain-soaked concrete and damp wool hung heavy in the office. Every step Matt took from his desk to the coffee machine sent an ache through left shin.

The previous night, one of Iron Man's battles had spilled into Hell's Kitchen, and Daredevil had shown up to assist. Hovering above the construction zone, Iron Man targeted the dense swarm of drones and unleashed a wide-area repulsor burst. The unexpected energy feedback from the drones washed through the building's skeleton, and the steel-grated mezzanine floor under Matt's feet buckled violently, the metal shrieking as it failed.

He had fallen through the sudden void, landing hard on the concrete below but managing to roll with the punishing impact. As he moved to stand, a heavy, twisted section of the grating, still hanging by a shred of metal, swung down and struck his shin with the focused, unforgiving force of a sledgehammer. He could still walk, but it was now with a slight limp, each step a reminder of the shallow hairline fractures webbing across the bone.

He was concentrating on the distribution of his weight, on keeping his gait as even as possible, when the distinct, sharp clack of a specific pair of Karen’s heels cut through his focus. It was a sound he rarely heard, a punishing staccato rhythm that spoke of impracticality.

“Oof,” Karen let out a sigh, collapsing into her chair with a creak of leather. “I swear, these shoes are a form of torture. My feet are already screaming.”

“Then why wear them?” Matt asked, leaning heavily against the counter as he poured his coffee.

“They make my legs look fantastic,” she said, her voice a mix of pride and genuine misery. “It’s a trade-off. A terrible, terrible trade-off.”

For their mid-morning court appearance, a mere four blocks away, Foggy was already hailing a cab before anyone could suggest walking.

"It's only drizzling, Foggy." But Matt's protest fell on deaf ears.

The debate over lunch ended similarly. "No need to get trench foot for a sandwich." His heartbeat held the markers of omission but not outright deception.

Matt had thought he was hiding the limp well, but maybe he had been obvious from the second he stepped into the office? Did their hearts no longer flutter when they realized he was injured? Maybe they had finally gotten desensitized to such markers of his nighttime activities.

By the end of the day, the rain was a steady, persistent drumbeat against the window. Foggy appeared in the doorway to his office, bag in hand. "You know, we could all use a drink. Josie's?"

"Sounds good," Matt said, pushing himself up and gritting his teeth against the flare of pain.

"Great! And we are definitely not walking," Foggy stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "It's really coming down out there. Cab it is."

Matt leaned a little more heavily on his cane, allowing himself a fraction of the relief he desperately needed, glad for Foggy's strangely persistent concern about the rain.

Karen had taken off her heels the second they claimed a corner at Josie's. When it was time to leave, she put them back on with a sound of clear reluctance. "Okay, that's it. The moment I'm home, these are going back into Closet Timeout."

---

4: Cuts 

The drone of the air conditioner, the scent of paper and ink, the faint trace of Karen’s perfume... The familiar sounds and smells of the office usually created a comfortable layer of background noise for Matt’s senses. Today, they were a thin veil over a more persistent sensation: a throbbing ache in his left forearm.

It was nothing major. A few shallow cuts from a close encounter with some alien-tech shrapnel during last night’s extracurricular activities with the Avengers. Twenty-one stitches in total between the cuts, neat and efficient, hidden beneath the crisp cotton of his dress shirt and suit jacket. He was honestly more concerned about the fact that he was running on less than two hours of sleep.

“Okay, the final revisions to the Preston brief are done,” Foggy announced, the click of his mouse punctuating the statement. “Just sent the digital file over to you.”

On Matt’s desk, his braille display whirred softly as the updated file began to load. “Got it,” he said, his fingers already moving over the tactile pins.

The quiet focus was broken by the delivery person from the evidence locker, dropping off two heavy archive boxes for the Watson case. The thud of the cardboard hitting the floor sent a faint vibration through the floorboards. Matt listened as the courier left, and he immediately stood, moving toward the boxes.

He’d just gotten a grip on the first box when Foggy was suddenly there. Foggy’s hands covered his, gently but firmly prying Matt’s fingers from the cardboard. "I got it. You just review the Preston brief."

“Foggy?” Matt asked, letting go out of sheer surprise.

Foggy didn’t answer. He just heaved the box into his own arms with a grunt, then turned and carried it toward the storage closet, his movements a little clumsy.

“What are you doing?” Matt called after him, completely baffled. “I was right there.”

From inside the closet, all he got was a muffled, “I’ve got it!” The strain in Foggy’s voice was unmistakable.

Matt stood frozen, listening to the shuffle and thump of the boxes being rearranged. There was no lie, but then again Foggy hadn't offered an excuse. There was the anxious beat of deception though, and a silent, stubborn, and physically inefficient act of prevention. The intention was screamingly clear, even if the reason was a complete mystery.

He subtly lifted his left arm, bringing the area of his stitches to his face. He sniffed, searching for the tell-tale iron scent of fresh blood. There was nothing but starch, his own soap, and the faint, closed-in odor of the wound. He reached between his jacket and shirt. Nothing. The bandages were dry. The shirt and jacket both were clean.

The oddity of the morning had solidified into a clear, unspoken pattern by lunchtime. The dull ache in Matt’s arm was a constant presence, but the behavior of his friends was a more pressing puzzle.

Foggy’s stomach grumbled loudly. “Lunch,” Foggy declared. “I need a steak. A big, juicy one from Rossi’s.”

There was a brief, pointed silence from Karen’s desk. Matt heard the faintest whisper of skin against skin as she made a short, sharp, sawing motion with her hand.

“You know,” Foggy said, his tone shifting seamlessly, “not Rossi’s. How about Italian? That place with the all you can eat noodles?"

Another soft sound from Karen. This time, it was the twist of a wrist, the motion of twirling a fork against an imaginary spoon, followed by a subtle shake of her head that stirred the air.

Matt listened, his head tilted. They were collaborating. Foggy was listing options, and Karen was silently, physically shooting each one down. They offered no excuses, just immediate, unified dismissals.

“You two are acting very strange,” Matt stated flatly.

“We’re just indecisive today,” Karen said dismissively. It was a technically true statement. “How about sandwiches from the deli?”

“Sandwiches,” Foggy agreed instantly. “Perfect. I can never say no to their pastrami on rye. I’ll go get them.”

“I’ll come with you,” Karen said, already standing.

Before Matt could question them further, he heard the jingle of keys and the swift click of the office door closing, leaving him in a sudden, confusing silence.

He was just so tired. The mental energy required to untangle this particular mystery felt like too much. He let out a slow breath. It was easier to just accept it and file it away to analyze later.

---

5: Bruised Kidney

The sharp, nauseating ache in his right side was a persistent anchor, pulling at his focus. It had started yesterday in the Avengers’ gym. During a casual but intense sparring session, Matt had been holding his own against Steve. Mostly by just avoiding him. Overestimating Matt's maneuverability, Steve had landed a controlled but powerful kidney punch with a boxing glove.

The impact was blunt and deep, causing Matt to stumble, the wind knocked out of him. Steve was immediately apologetic of course, but Matt waved it off, calling it a "good shot." He’d ignored the lingering throb, but his senses told him his kidney was definitely bruised. It’s not like there was much to do for it anyway. He could meditate later.

Now, in the office, the day was unfolding with a strange and specific rhythm. Karen had placed a heavy glass pitcher of water in the exact center of the conference room table, the condensation making a damp ring on the wood. Every time Matt’s glass was half-empty, he would hear the rustle of her clothes as she stood, the soft click of her heels on the floor, and the gurgle of a fresh pour.

She gave no reason for this sudden campaign for hydration.

Later, at the Precinct, they waited to see a new client. The usual chaos somehow felt more managed. Foggy, who typically walked a half-step ahead to clear a path with his chatter, today fell into place squarely on Matt’s right. When a harried officer carrying a stack of files turned abruptly toward them, Foggy didn’t just sidestep. He shifted his entire body, a solid, deliberate barrier aiming to take the brunt of the near-collision.

“Whoa, easy there, big guy,” Foggy said, his hand coming up to firmly, if politely, press against the man’s shoulder to widen the gap on Matt’s side. It was a degree of protection that went beyond his usual friendly buffering.

For dinner, Karen had suggested a new Cuban restaurant, insisting it was “less of a zoo” than their usual haunts. The restaurant was indeed quieter, the sounds of other diners spaced out and muffled. “Let’s grab that spot,” Karen said, leading them to a corner.

Before Matt could get a full sense of the layout, Foggy’s hand was on his left elbow, a gentle but firm guide. Karen pulled out a chair, and between the two of them, they seamlessly maneuvered him into the seat that was snug in the corner, its back and right side along the walls. Foggy immediately took the chair to his left, and Karen sat across, completing a human wall between him and the rest of the room.

Matt was positive there was no way they could know. They hadn't lied or said a word about it. But their actions were a series of interconnected, suspicious kindnesses. He drank the water Karen gave him, accepted the shielded seat, and said nothing, the mystery of their unspoken knowledge a far greater distraction than the deep, throbbing pain in his side.

---

+1: Dislocated Shoulder (Hastily Shoved Back In)

The grinding soreness in Matt’s right shoulder was a souvenir from the previous night's Avengers engagement. The joint had been wrenched from its socket, but he'd slammed it back in himself to see the fight through.

By the time it was over, swelling had made it an unyielding knot. Clint had finally managed to guide it back in place properly, but it had required significant force that grated through the damaged tissue and left a firestorm of protest in its wake. It was an injury that demanded a sling, rest, everything Matt had no intention of giving it as he walked to the office door.

Matt’s hand was halfway up, aiming for the handle, when the door was pulled open from the inside.

“Hey, Matt,” Foggy said, already stepping back to clear the way.

“Morning,” Matt replied, moving past him.

Matt walked into the office and stopped just inside the threshold. The space was wrong. The subtle sounds of the room, the way air moved and settled around objects, had shifted overnight.

He oriented himself toward the kitchenette. The refrigerator door, which swung out to the right and usually required a stabilizing pull from his right hand, had a new looped handle that wound back to the inside of the fridge. It was blatantly added to make it both easy to grab and to help break the seal one-handed.

He moved further in, to the filing cabinet near his office door. The heavy bottom drawer, which held the current case files and usually required a solid tug from his right hand to open, was already slightly ajar. Walking over, he found a neat stack of files on top of the cabinet. Running his fingers over the braille labels, he realized they were the exact files he'd need today. 

He stood there for a long moment, baffled. Why would someone have preemptively altered these specific, minor obstacles before he’d even arrived?

The question lingered, a quiet puzzle at the back of his mind as the day began. It was only later that other, smaller things began to slot into place, adding to his confusion. The door to the supply closet, the conference room... each time he approached, Foggy seemed to materialize to open it. When they left for a deposition, Foggy was already pulling the cab door open before Matt could even step forward.

It was all just… slightly off. A series of small and inexplicable conveniences that, on their own, meant nothing. Together, they formed a pattern.

Later, Foggy brought him a cup of coffee. Matt heard the soft sound of Foggy’s footsteps tracing a deliberate path to approach him from his left side. He felt the heat of the mug as Foggy placed it directly next to his left hand. No need to reach or twist.

It was a pattern of accommodation so specific it could only be targeting his right shoulder. He knew he was carrying his arm stiffly, knew they’d figure it out eventually. But things had been prepared before he had arrived, before he could have given himself away.

He thought back. The cracked collar bone from a warehouse collapse in Red Hook. The concussion from a lucky pipe to the back of his helmet while breaking up a mugging. Their reactions had been different then. In those instances, there had always been a moment of discovery, that tell-tale heartbeat and an intake of breath.

Was it only when he was out alone? No, because they'd been surprised when he'd bled through his shirt from a cut he got when out with Nat. Or the limp he had when he landed in a dumpster and Clint landed on top of him. 

But they weren't surprised with the concussion he’d gotten before Nat showed up. Or when his ribs were dislocated when he was with Clint. 

Was it because he went to the Tower? They also weren't surprised when he had the cuts on his forearm that they’d patched up at the tower. Or the bruised kidney from sparring with Steve there. 

But he never went to the Tower last night. Or when he had the hairline fractures on his shin. 

He waited until Karen was refilling her water glass and Foggy was sorting the mail, the day's rhythm at its most mundane.

"The cracked collar bone from the warehouse in Red Hook," Matt began, his voice cutting through the quiet. "You were surprised. I heard it."

Foggy's hands stilled on the envelopes. "What?"

“You still get surprised when you realize I’m injured. But not always. Sometimes you already know... How?” Matt asked, the single word simple and direct.

The refrigerator door clicked shut. Karen's pulse, which had been steady, now thrummed with a quick, anxious rhythm. Foggy's did the same. This was the tell, but it was the hammering of being caught, not the flip when discovering an injury.

"Matt..." Foggy started.

“It’s a pattern. You know about some injuries and not others, and it has nothing to do with how obvious they are. You knew about this,” he gestured vaguely at his shoulder, “before you saw me. You knew about the shin fractures I treated at home. But you were surprised by the cut from last week.”

He let the contradiction hang in the silent office. “The common thread isn’t me. It’s not the severity. It's not just being with one of the Avengers. It's not the Tower. So what is it? Who’s your source?”

The silence stretched. He could hear the faint, dry sound of Foggy running his tongue over his lips.

“It’s… complicated,” Foggy started.

“A confidential informant,” Karen interjected, her voice firmer.

Matt’s brow furrowed. “Who? I haven’t been working any cases that would…”

“Not that kind of informant,” Foggy interjected. He sighed, a heavy, defeated sound. “It’s, uh. It’s not a person technically...”

Matt froze. The pieces clicked into place with an almost audible snap. Tony wasn't always there for the instances, but he was for the two times it happened when Matt hadn't gone to the Tower. "JARVIS??!"

Chapter Text

“He’s very polite about it,” Karen offered. “He never gives details. Just a… a wellness alert.”

Foggy picked up the thread, his words tumbling out now that the secret was loose. “It started a few months after you told them who you were. My phone buzzes, it’s a blocked number. A very proper British voice says, ‘A preliminary scan indicates Mr. Murdock has sustained a Grade 1 concussion. He may experience sensory sensitivity and headaches.’ I nearly had a heart attack.”

“Then I got one,” Karen added. “About your ribs. We didn’t know what to do... But we didn't want it to stop because we could finally help you.”

Matt sat down heavily on the waiting area couch. A strange, hollow feeling bloomed in his chest. It wasn’t anger, at least not yet. It was a profound, disorienting shock. He honestly wasn't sure what he thought yet, but it felt like an incredible violation. 

“He thinks he’s helping,” Karen said softly. "And so did we."

And they were. They had been. The pillow. The shuffled office. The silent, seamless way they altered the world to keep his pain at bay. All without patronizing him or preventing him from doing his job, either of them. They weren’t just his friends; they were his accomplices, his support staff. And now they were informed by the most advanced surveillance system on the planet. He let out a long, slow breath. But...

"You should have told me," Matt said sharply, fully appreciating the irony of him saying that to them. 

"Yes," Foggy agreed. "It was inappropriate to keep going along with it, regardless of our motives. We’re sorry." Karen nodded and echoed Foggy’s apology.

Matt leaned his head against the wall behind him. "I will fully admit you have both been very accommodating as part of this. But I need you to know that I have been trying to be better about telling you about big stuff. This almost feels like a slap in the face."

“We know you tell us the big stuff,” Foggy said, his voice losing its anxious edge and becoming earnest. “And we appreciate that, Matt. We do. When you came back after… after what happened with Fisk, you’ve been better. You tell us when you’re laid up for a week. You tell us when you need help stitching something you can’t reach.”

“But our definition of ‘big stuff’ is a little different from yours,” Karen continued gently. “To you, a dislocated shoulder you can pop back in is just a temporary inconvenience. To us? It’s a serious injury. It’s something that would have anyone else in the ER.”

“It’s different for me,” Matt said, a familiar frustration creeping into his tone. “I have a broader sense of what is comparatively severe because it’s part of the job.”

“Okay,” Foggy said, not arguing, but steering the point. “Let’s say Karen took a spill on some ice and got a mild concussion. Would you be worried about her?”

“Of course,” Matt said without hesitation and mildly offended.

“But it’s just a mild concussion. She’d probably just have a headache and need to rest. By your logic, it’s not a big deal.”

“That’s different,” Matt insisted.

“Why?” Foggy’s voice was soft but relentless. “Because it’s her? Because you care about her? Matt, that’s the point. It’s not about your frankly concerning level of pain tolerance and exposure to a large variety of injuries. It’s about our very normal level of worry. If you’d be concerned for one of us with an injury, then you have to understand why we’re concerned for you with the exact same injury. Our perspective counts, too.”

It wasn’t about what he could endure. It was about what they had to watch him endure.

Matt was silent for a long moment, the argument he’d prepared crumbling. He finally gave a slow, conceding nod. “Your perspective counts,” he repeated quietly, the words an admission and an acceptance. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand that before.”

Foggy let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “And we’re sorry we violated your privacy and hid this from you. Just because harm wasn’t intended, doesn’t mean harm wasn’t done. We should’ve known better.”

The silence stretched, and Matt’s head dipped slightly, his fingers tracing the edge of the desk. “I shouldn’t have put you in the position to begin with. I know I make things so much harder than they need to be,” he murmured, the words directed at the floor. “For both of you. I drag you into my messes and then…” He cut himself off, the familiar, self-recriminating spiral beginning to pull him under.

“Whoa, okay, red alert. Eject, eject,” Foggy cut in, his voice deliberately light. He waved a hand between them as if he could physically slice through the building tension. “We’re having a breakthrough, not auditioning for a tragedy. Let’s not do the ‘I’m a burden’ monologue. We’ve all seen that play and the reviews are terrible.” He nudged Matt’s shoulder gently, a solid, grounding pressure. “We’re in the mess together, remember? That’s the whole point. We put it in the partnership agreement and everything!”

Silence held the room once more, though less oppressive than it had been before.

“So,” Karen said, her tone carefully neutral. “The JARVIS alerts. Can they stay?”

Foggy was quick to clarify. "And you're allowed to say no. We'll make sure they stop if you don't want them."

Matt let out a breath that was half sigh, half a faint, wry laugh. “They can stay.” But he would be having a very pointed conversation with Tony.

“Good,” Foggy said, his own relief palpable. “Now, for the love of God, let me get you a sling. Just for the rest of the day. Humor our perspective.”