Being best friends with a ninja didn't make one a ninja, but it did help to develop certain instincts.
Foggy came wide awake with the certain knowledge that there was someone in his apartment. Again. Different apartment, different city, same danger. Goddamnit.
He grabbed the bat he kept next to the bed (being best friends with a super hero engendered certain habits, too) and shuffled to his bedroom door as quietly as he was able.
Couldn't be yakuza. Or the Hand. They didn't know he was alive. No one was supposed to know he was alive, other than Matt, Kirsten and his doctor. Unless someone had threatened his doctor?
Slow down. It was probably just Matt, stopping by after patrol. Or maybe during patrol, because something had gone wrong? A vivid image of red hair dripping with a darker shade did nothing to calm his nerves. No, Matt was public as Daredevil, now. If he got hurt, he could just go to a hospital. He wouldn't come here. He was probably just dropping by for some stupid, inconsiderate reason, not even thinking about how late it- Foggy glanced at the glowing 4:00 display on his alarm- early it was.
If that's it, I'm going to hit him with the bat.
He eased into the dark hallway, heart pounding, rehearsing a speech on the importance of visiting during normal hours or at least calling ahead.
Peering into the living room, he could just make out a silhouette sprawled in the arm chair. There was a breeze coming from an open window.
An evil ninja or yakuza wouldn't be relaxing on his furniture, right? Relief made him dizzy.
"Matt?"
He fumbled for the light switch.
"Matty's not here right now. Would you like to leave a message?"
The grating chuckle electrified his spine. Light flickered on from the hallway ceiling, beaming directly on him like a target, stupid, stupid. It washed halfway into the next room, just enough to pick out a flash of white from the figure rising out of the chair. Rings of white.
Foggy nearly dropped the bat.
"You-you can't be here. It's impossible."
Another gleam of white curved in the darkness, Cheshire-like.
"Same to you. Dead man. Funny how that works."
"Matt said-"
"The Devil should know better by now. Old friends never stay buried. Do they?"
The man took a slow step into the light. There could be no mistake now.
"You're not his friend," Foggy whispered numbly.
"What gave me away?"
Foggy had to be asleep. There was no way this was happening. This was…this was every bad dream he'd had since Karen died.
Karen.
Anger pushed strength back into nerveless fingers and he raised the bat to his shoulder.
"What do you want?"
"Well," Bullseye sighed gustily. "How about a drink?"
He slung himself onto a stool at the kitchen partition.
When Foggy didn't move, the villain propped a fist under his chin.
"Chop chop, fatty. Where are your manners? I came a long way for this visit."
Don't antagonize the madman.
Feeling unreal, Foggy glided into the kitchen, keeping his back to the wall and the bat ready. He opened the fridge from the side, not looking away from Bullseye for an instant. The man had the gall to wink at him.
Foggy couldn't drink these days. Too many drug interactions. But he usually kept a beer or two on hand for Matt or Kirsten. As he leaned over to grab one, his attention caught on the weight swinging against his chest.
Right. He was wearing a panic button around his neck. It had been the compromise struck between Foggy needing the independence of his own apartment and Matt's paranoia about sudden physical collapses or…other threats. Foggy had thought it humiliating, but God, was he glad he'd given in now. He'd only started wearing it recently and the terror earlier had wiped it clean from his mind.
Hoping the revelation hadn't shown on his face, he ducked lower behind the fridge door and squeezed the button down firmly between trembling fingers. It gave a single flash to let him know it had activated.
He straightened and turned back toward his 'guest.' Now he just had to stall until Matt could get there. He could do this. He could do this.
Moving within striking distance of the serial killer turned out to be one of the hardest things he'd ever done. One step. Two. This was Bullseye. He killed by throwing things. A few feet wouldn't make any difference. Telling himself that didn't help, though.
Bullseye watched his struggle with pleasure, eyes licking down his body.
"Not so fat now, are you," he murmured. "Whatsamatter, chemo diet not agreeing with you?"
"Not exactly."
The corner of the villain's mouth quirked at his dry tone and Foggy began to form the beginnings of a plan. Bullseye was a chatty villain; he'd heard enough complaints to that effect. If he wanted to survive long enough for help to arrive, he had to keep him talking. He had to make him want to talk. What would Bullseye want to talk about? What would he want to hear?
What else?
"Must be true," he forced out, "Speak of the devil and he'll appear."
"Got that backwards. Your pal's the devil. I'm something much worse."
"What's worse than the devil?"
"God." Bullseye's lips spread thin over sharp teeth. He took a casual swig. "So, Red's been talkin' about me."
Foggy made himself shrug uneasily and look away like he'd just realized he shouldn't have let that nervous babble slip. It wasn't hard to look dismayed. It was a dangerous ploy to bait Bullseye.
Please let this work. Matt, hurry.
"Just the usual."
He felt cold sweat bead on the back of his neck as Bullseye's eyes sharpened on him.
"Yeah? Do tell," he said, with a little wave at the empty stool.
It was not a request. The fluorescent-bright room seemed to spin slowly as Foggy perched on the stool, with only the kitchen half-wall between him and the man who had likely come to kill him. Bullseye's face was lit, but the darkness at his back nibbled his profile and swallowed his black costume.
The villain was disarmingly relaxed, but too deliberate in his movements and too still between. Foggy was very familiar with the kind of power and violence that could erupt from someone with that kind of smooth control over his body.
He desperately tried to think of something to say, but as often happened even when faced with an audience that wasn't comprised of a bloodthirsty maniac, his mind was blank. Trying to think of what Matt the ever-eloquent would say was unhelpful, because Matt probably wouldn't say anything, he'd just beat the shit out of the man.
The same man who was still waiting patiently, idly spinning the bottle cap between his fingers.
Foggy supposed that he was used to this kind of reaction from his victims. Not a helpful line of thought.
"Not much to tell," Foggy mumbled, then cursed himself.
"Just…ah, the usual complaints. His rogues gallery is lame, with you and the Kingpin out of the picture. The other heroes laugh at him. You'd think he was a little kid, sometimes."
Foggy tried for a smile, faltering when Bullseye just continued to watch him, eyes flat and amused.
"He's stuck dealing with small fry these days. I mean, he's glad to have some space so he can…deal with my issues, and get the new firm up and running. But, I don't know, I think he's actually pretty bored."
Beneath the mask, Bullseye raised a brow.
"You trying to say he misses me?"
Everything Foggy had said was basically true, but he couldn't tell if Bullseye was buying any of it. If he realized that Foggy was stalling, God knew what would happen. Foggy couldn't sound like he was just doling out flattery. Sticking to the truth was his only chance.
"No, of course not."
The fingers toying with the bottle cap stilled.
"You're his worst enemy. He couldn't be happier that you're gone. What he misses is having a challenge."
It was the right thing to say. Bullseye's eyes slid away, tongue darting out to wet his lips.
"So I've ruined him for anyone else."
Or maybe the wrong thing.
"Maybe even that pretty new piece of ass, eh? What was her name? McDuffie? A lawyer chick, this time. Former fucking assistant DA."
The sick feeling building in Foggy's stomach turned to ice.
"He just moves through 'em, doesn't he?" Bullseye leaned forward companionably. "Gotta admire it. Doesn't matter how many I kill, or who kill themselves, or go mad, or whatever the fuck. He just gets a new model."
He chuckled.
"Bet it keeps him up at night. Thinking someone could come and take this one, like I did the others. Does he dream of me? I dream of him."
There was nothing Foggy could say to this.
"Then he gives away his identity to the Press, and puts a target on this chick's back. And what does he do? He hides you."
Foggy just sat, barely breathing, unable to look away. This close, he could see that the villain's eyes were blue. The pupils dilated even as he watched, and Foggy tried not to wonder what he was imagining.
"Whaddya know? It was like the lights came on. All this time, maybe it wasn't the women I should've been paying attention to, it was you."
Bullseye reached forward, curling his hand over Foggy's where it lay nerveless on the counter, turning it over. Calloused fingers pressed thoughtfully against the delicate skin of his wrist, sending a shocky shiver up Foggy's arm and across his shoulders. His veins looked stark blue against the pale skin, obscenely vulnerable.
"What do you think Red would do if something happened to you?"
The finger against Foggy's pulse point burned.
Unbidden, the image of Matt at Foggy's funeral rose before his mind's eye. Not the recent fake funeral, where Matt's grandstanding had been so obvious to someone who knew him that Foggy was amazed the public had bought it.
No one seemed to recall what Matt had been like at Foggy's first funeral, the one Matt had thought was real. Foggy hadn't been present, of course, but he'd made a point of watching the tape once he'd come out of protective custody.
He couldn't forget the line of Matt's body against the gray sky, framed between armed guards. Matt hadn't said anything at that service. Just stood there in chains amidst the murmurs of the curious crowd and the flash of the news crews. His expression had been appropriately subdued, body loose and cooperative, even when Foggy's mother had screamed blame into his face. Too loose. Too quiet.
Then he'd gone back to Ryker's and started beating inmates nearly to death.
He'd almost lost everything. If Frank Castle, of all people, hadn't been there…
That wouldn't happen now, though. It couldn't. Matt had a solid relationship with a woman who was an unwavering bastion of sanity. He had a new outlook on life, and to hear him tell it, a new strength. Foggy had to believe him. He had to have faith that Matt could weather Foggy's death without losing himself again. Because if not Bullseye, the chances were good that the cancer would take him.
Foggy held tight to the hope that had borne him through the past few months: that his life had been meaningful, that his legacy would be something better than the destruction of the best man he knew.
He raised his eyes.
"Matt'd be fine. He's thought me dead before, and it didn't change anything. He still kicked your ass."
The hand on his wrist tightened painfully, but he didn't falter. This bastard, Matt's tormentor, Karen's murderer, wasn't getting anything from him.
"He'll just do it again, like always. That's why you keep going after the people around him, right? Because you can't beat him. So you can do whatever you want to me. It'll just prove what a coward you are."
Foggy had about a split second to feel triumphant, defiant fury pushing out the words he'd wanted to throw in this man's face for a long time.
Then horror set in. What the hell was he thinking, goading a psychopath? Bravado was all very well for someone combat-trained and insane like Matt, who could actually back it up. Obviously, hanging around him had started to erode Foggy's common sense. He might as well just start flinging himself off buildings. Which was essentially what he'd just done.
Suppressing panic, he backpedaled as nonchalantly as he could.
"I wouldn't want to be you when he gets here, though. And that could be any minute."
Oh, God.This would be a really good time for you to swing in, Matt.
Bullseye looked at Foggy, unblinking, shadows sinking into the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth.
Then his fist was twisted in the cord around Foggy's neck, pulling him halfway over the counter.
"Oh, because of this cute little thing? Where did you buy it, Amazon?"
He yanked, cracking Foggy's head against the counter. Something warm trickled down his cheek.
"Shucks, my plans are foiled. I'd better skedaddle before your red knight shows up."
Another hard smack against the counter and Foggy's brief spark of courage was completely extinguished. He had thought he was prepared, but he wasn't. He didn't want to die.
Matt.
The cord pulled tight and there was no air. Foggy clawed ineffectually at his neck with one hand and flailed at Bullseye with the other. The man laughed, grabbing Foggy's wrist and twisting sharply. Agony seared up his arm. His throttled whimper obviously delighted the villain, and his wrist was wrenched in the opposite direction. Foggy couldn't breathe to scream.
He writhed, barely able to see past the flashing lights in his vision. Bullseye leaned over him, close enough to share breath, upside-down face leering like a gargoyle's.
"Tell me, Franklin, are you an art connoisseur? Of course you are, an educated man like you. Then you should already know that true art is all about communication. Getting the message of the artist across."
His expression turned dreamy.
"What a picture I could paint with you. Maybe something along the lines of 'honey, I'm home.' What do you think?"
Foggy's slide toward unconsciousness was halted as the cord loosened and merciful air sucked into his abused throat. Bullseye tenderly passed a hand over Foggy's forehead, brushing sweaty hair out of his eyes. It wasn't until warm liquid dripped down his ears that he realized he'd been cut.
"That's it, just take it easy. In, out."
He was too weak to do more than lie there panting, eyes shuttered.
"Relax. I'm not going to kill you today. You're going to be just fine."
Foggy opened his eyes with effort. He couldn't imagine what his face must have looked like, but Bullseye seemed to enjoy it.
"What would be the point? We still have so much to talk about. After all, we know Matty better than anyone, don't we? You must be dying to complain about him to someone who understands."
His lips twisted a little wistfully at the word "dying," then smoothed back to polite sympathy.
"I'm here for you, Franklin. Don't worry, I'm sure we'll have another little chat soon. If you don't call me, I'll call you."
He smiled brightly.
"Ta-ta for now."
...
...
...
When Foggy's eyes opened next, it was to a blurry Daredevil hovering over him.
"Foggy. Foggy. Can you hear me?"
Matt's voice was anguished. Foggy's eyes gradually focused. Matt's cowl was pulled back, exposing sweat-darkened red hair falling over a face lined with exhaustion and worry. Unfocused eyes moved restlessly beneath lashes lit gold by the overhead light.
It was a face Foggy hadn't been sure he would see again, and the relief was so intense that he was unable to speak for a moment.
"Yes. I…I'm here," Foggy croaked. He wheezed and tried again, but the hoarseness remained. "Where were you?"
He could have kicked himself when his friend winced.
"I got your signal, but I was stuck across town in a firefight. I got here as soon as I could. When I came in, you were passed out on the counter and the room smelled like blood. What happened?"
Ungloved hands were stroking over his body, testing for damage. Foggy moaned when they reached his wrist, unable to respond.
"Sorry. I'm sorry, I have to-"
Matt's touch was agonizing, but he released his wrist after just a moment, hissing in sympathy.
"It's broken. I already called 911, so I'm just going to let them set it, alright? Foggy, please try to remember. Who did this to you?"
"Bullseye."
There was a heavy silence and Foggy struggled to reopen eyes that had closed without his permission.
Matt's face was leached of color.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"Bullseye was paralyzed. He was blinded, and-"
"Well, I guess he got better, Matt. It wouldn't be the first time, right?"
Matt's lips thinned, but he didn't disagree. Grimly, he continued his exploration, prodding gently at the swelling around Foggy's neck and head.
"You may have a concussion. Keep your eyes open. You can't fall asleep until you get checked out."
"Wonderful. What about the bleeding?"
"It's already stopped. I checked that first, before you woke up. The cuts aren't serious."
Nevertheless, Matt's fingers slid through the sticky mess to check again. Abruptly, his fingers twitched away from Foggy's skin.
"What is it? Matt? What's wrong?"
"What could possibly be wrong?" Matt snapped. Then he inhaled slowly.
"I'm sorry. This is my fault, not yours. He did this to get back at me."
"Matt." Foggy's sharp tone broke through the beginning of what could be endless self-recriminations. "He did what?"
"He carved something on your forehead."
"What, like a design?" Foggy was aghast. "Not a…a bullseye?"
"No." Matt snorted. "I doubt his ego would allow for that. I'm not sure what it is. I don't want to examine it thoroughly and hurt you more than necessary when a paramedic could just take a look and tell us."
"Matt, I need to know what it is!" Foggy's voice was shrill in his own ears, but he managed to avoid any humiliating cracking. His friend dealt with injuries more serious than this on a regular basis. What was a little run-in with a psychotic murderer or two? So what if the bastard had carved a dick on his forehead or something? Actually, that might not be far off the mark, considering who they were dealing with. And wouldn't that be a fun scar to explain?
Foggy's good hand clutched at his friend's arm. Matt sighed.
"Alright. Just a moment."
Foggy was left to stare at the ceiling. It occurred to him that he was on the carpet now, not the counter, probably staining it irreparably and forfeiting his safety deposit. A stupid thing to be worrying about right now, obviously. But it wasn't like they had a lot of money to throw around, what with all his medical expenses. And come to think of it, ambulances and emergency care could cost a hell of a lot.
I should send Bullseye a bill, he thought a little hysterically.
Footsteps returned a moment later, and Matt knelt at his side.
"Here."
Foggy blinked dazedly at the distorted image before realizing that he was looking at the wrong side of a hand-mirror. He covered Matt's hand with his own, turning the mirror over.
"There's too much blood."
"I thought there might be." A warm washcloth pressed carefully over the wounds. Then it was gone and Foggy stared at the marks on his own forehead. They were…numbers. He could make out a four…and a one…and a five…
"Well, shit," he said.
"What?"
"Bullseye left me his phone number."