The Uber had cost a fortune. New York could be weird like that. One minute, you’re going all the way uptown on a twelve dollar ride, the next it’s fifty bucks to Metro-General. Ideally, Foggy would be spending this money on something more befitting of a Thursday evening. Drinks with Marci. Sushi from that fancy Japanese place in SoHo. An Uber ride to somewhere he’d actually want to go. On an ideal night, Foggy wouldn’t have had to cancel his plans with Karen for vague reasons that almost certainly triggered the siren in her brain that screamed SOMEONES BEING SUSPICIOUS MUST FIND OUT REASON.
Foggy really hated that part of Karen. Though, not as much as he hated the part of Matt that needed Foggy to drop everything and run to Metro-General.
They weren’t even talking, was the thing. Nothing beyond pleasant Hello’s and How Are You’s at court. It was awkward. Stilted, to be precise. Like they were reading from a How-To script. The customer service voice that Foggy forged as a teenager behind the counter of his parents' store swallowed his words whenever he talked to Matt. The result was a horribly polite greeting that sounded like it came straight from the check-out line. Luckily, Matt was Catholic enough not to say anything.
Maybe it was just that Matt never said anything. Hadn’t said anything about their entire friendship or partnership or falling out. Well, that wasn’t true. There were plenty of lies and the city needs me in that suit and you can start over without the stuff that gets in your way and he spent the next month in a hospital eating through a straw, and I never slept better.
And I don’t want to stop.
How foolish Foggy had been to think that that sentiment might’ve extended to Nelson and Murdock too.
It was that thought that had Foggy half convinced to tell the driver nevermind, drop him off here and he’ll take the subway home. No need to come rushing to Matt’s side when their relationship had meant everything to Foggy but clearly was never a priority for Matt.
But Matt was in the hospital. What kind of person would Foggy be if he didn’t go?
(Matt, a venomous voice in his brain whispered. You’d be exactly like Matt.)
Dropped off in front of the building, Foggy stared at the entrance, willing his feet to move. Doctors, nurses, orderlies, and families streamed past him. The sliding doors opened and closed rhythmically, and from where Foggy stood he had a clear view inside. Would-be patients sat scattered in plastic chairs around the just-barely-seen edge of the nurses' station. All Foggy had to do was put one foot in front of the other, walk up there, and ask where Matt was. It wasn’t hard. People did it every day. So why wasn’t he moving?
“Stop being ridiculous,” Foggy muttered to himself as someone accidentally shoulder-checked him. “Just go in there.”
It was another five minutes before he did.
“Hello?” Foggy asked, leaning slightly on the desk. “Excuse me?” The nurse in front of him hummed. Foggy took that as a sign that she was listening. “I’m looking for a friend of mine. I got a call that he was a patient here?”
“Name?”
“Matthew Murdock. M-U-R-D-O-C-K.”
“Date of birth?”
“10-21-82.”
Typing. Behind him, a baby was wailing. Over the PA, announcements were made in a code Foggy couldn’t hope to understand. He dragged his sweaty fingers on the desk then wiped away the track marks, smudging his fingerprints.
Finally, “He’s on the sixth floor.”
“Great, thank you so much.”
The sixth floor was a little quieter. Fewer patients roamed the halls crying out in agony. More murmuring from hospital staff as they bounced from room to room. It was in this silence that Foggy’s eyes were drawn to the directory hanging on the wall.
Six: Psychiatric Ward.
Foggy repeated the same interaction as before with the new nursing station, only to be directed to sit down and wait for the doctor. The words felt rote like his body was on autopilot while his thoughts ran circles around themselves.
Messing around on his phone only provided so much of a distraction. Candy Crush was hardly enough to pull Foggy’s mind away from the fact that this was the psych unit. Any future where this was just a simple sprain that required an escort home was dashed. Matt wouldn’t be walking out of here, roughed up but ultimately okay.
Matt was. Hm. Matt was – and there was no polite way to put this – always, sort of, troubled. He was careful to hide it those first few years in law school. Tucking himself away and dodging questions of well-being. Only the barest explanations about how he didn’t need to talk. He could take care of himself. He would bounce back, Don’t Worry Foggy, It’ll Be Fine Foggy, Just Need Some Time.
That was the Matt Murdock Motto. Just need some time and everything would be right as rain. Of course, when it rains it pours and Matt was never particularly good at sheltering himself from the storm. Weathering it, sure. But not avoiding it.
The dread churning in Foggy’s stomach told him that this was yet another Murdock storm. Shit and filth and pent-up pain that Matt let explode when there was nobody to help drain the water.
What if it was Daredevil related? Matt said that he became Daredevil to cope with all the horrible shit he heard in the city. What if the cops decided that only an insane person would be a vigilante? What if —
Oh.
Matt became Daredevil to cope. Matt said he was done being Daredevil.
Who was still around to hurt in order to cope with all the rage blistering under Matt’s skin? Obviously, Matt didn’t care about his own safety or he wouldn’t have done any of this in the first place.
Foggy thought he was going to be sick.
He needed Karen here. Karen would know what to do. She would take charge and tell the doctors what’s what. If Karen were here, they would already have known why Matt was here. Fuck, he should’ve called Karen. Or Claire. Anybody who knew what a monumental martyr Matt could be.
Please, don’t let Foggy be alone in this.
Please, don’t let Matt be hurting himself.
“Mr. Nelson?” No, no, no, no. “I’m Dr. Klein. I’m the lead on Matthew’s care.”
Foggy unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I’m–” he coughed. “Sorry, hi. Please, call me Foggy. Is Matt alright?”
The smile was tight across her face. “He’s doing better. Are you aware of the circumstances of his intake?” Foggy shook his head. “From what we can understand, he was found yesterday. He was confused and unresponsive to others but reacting to possible psychosis. There was serious concern that he could be a danger to himself. It took us a while to track you down.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Foggy couldn’t breathe.
“Matt didn’t ask you to call me?”
“No. It’s been… difficult getting him to communicate.”
That wasn’t exactly surprising. Getting Matt to open up required at least a Master's degree in navigating avoidance.
Actually, come to think of it, this doctor might’ve really had one.
“Can I see him?”
The doctor checked her watch, nodding as she looked back up at Foggy. “Yes, visiting hours are still ongoing. I should warn you, though, Matthew likely isn’t behaving in a way that you’ll recognize. It can be quite a shock to see our loved ones like that. It would probably be best that we talked before you went in to see him, discuss the details of his care.”
Foggy swallowed. The real shock had been finding Matt bleeding out on the floor dressed as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. What state could shock him beyond that?
“No. No, I want to see him now.”
“Mr. Nelson–”
Foggy had looked up hospital policy on the ride over. “Visiting hours end at seven o’clock, right? I did not come all the way down here not to see him. We can talk when we’re done.”
Dr. Klein rechecked her watch and signed. “Fine, but I really think–”
“Yeah, we’ll talk afterward. Okay? Now, where’s Matt?”
Maybe talking first was a good idea.
“Matt, buddy? It’s me. It’s Foggy. Buddy?”
Matt was curled in the far corner of his cot. Side flat against the mattress, he pressed his head into the wall while clutching at his legs for dear life. His mouth moved rapidly, mumbling so low that Foggy couldn’t make out the words. It picked up the pace as Foggy spoke, lips shiny and wet, itching closer to the plaster that Matt’s forehead was pushed into with renewed force. Between squeezed eyelids, Foggy thought he saw the glistening of tears.
“Matthew, it’s Dr. Klein. Your friend Foggy’s here and would like to talk to you. Would you like to talk with him? Matthew?”
Matt let out something between an agonized groan and a gasp. One of the hands around his legs jumped to his head, clawing at his ear and yanking at his hair. Matt’s heavy breathing sucked all the air out of the room.
The Matt-shaped hole that had existed in Foggy’s chest since the dissolution of Nelson and Murdock ripped itself wider.
“Oh, Matty,” Foggy sighed, sitting on the bed. He curled his fingers in Matt’s, gently prying his hands out of greasy strands. Heavy breathing graduated to full-on sobbing at the contact. Matt shook so hard Foggy was worried he’d hurt himself accidentally slamming his head into the wall. Of course, Matt didn’t care, seemingly leaning into the slap of his skin against the paint. Foggy stuck his hand in between. “No, no, stop that. What the hell is wrong with him?”
Rather than being startled by Foggy’s harsh question, Dr. Klein looked resigned. “That’s what we were hoping you might shed some light on. I apologize, normally we would do this in a more private setting. Does Matthew have any previous mental health conditions you might know about?”
“Depression. PTSD, maybe. Nothing that would cause something like…” Foggy trailed off. It wasn’t like he could come clean and say well, it looks like maybe his super senses are acting up! Then they’d both end up sectioned.
A lightbulb went off in Foggy’s brain.
“Wait, did you say before that he was found? Found where?”
His first thought was on a rooftop in the Devil suit. But if that were the case, they’d be having this conversation in a police precedent with Brett giving him a disappointed glare in an interrogation room. Where else could Matt have wandered off to? Especially in this condition; there was no way Matt would’ve allowed himself to be brought here otherwise.
Dr. Klein reluctantly answered. “That’s part of the reason that I’d wished to speak with you before the visit.”
“What happened?” The words climbed up Foggy’s throat, bringing nausea and dread with them. “Where was he found?”
“Let’s go to my office. The officer in charge of the case should be back by now–”
“Case? What case?” Foggy was going to be sick.
Dr. Klein took a – slightly exaggerated – deep breath. “Matthew’s case. He was brought in under some… interesting circumstances. I really do think it’s best to wait for the Detective to explain. If you’d come with me to my office, everything will be explained.”
He was gasping. Air was coming in too quickly to be useful and whooshing out in a way that made Foggy lightheaded. What the hell had Matt gotten himself into this time? What could possibly leave him like this? Why did the sight of Matt, sweaty and sobbing, make Foggy’s heart feel like it was being shredded? “Al-Alright. Lead the way.”
They wound up in a family meeting room. To the right of Foggy sat the case officer, who introduced himself as Detective Hernandez. Dr. Klein sat on the left. There was a decent amount of space between all of them.
Foggy still felt smothered.
“Yesterday afternoon, the NYPD were conducting a routine operation when they found Mr. Murdock locked in a sensory deprivation tank.” What. “It appeared that he had been there quite some time, but due to his… condition, it’s hard to say for sure.”
There was no clear place to start. “What. Where did you even… How…” Eventually, he settled on, “What were you looking for?”
Hernandez’s face stayed blank. “Unfortunately, I’m unable to share that with you at this time, as it reveals sensitive details of an ongoing investigation.”
“Sensitive details?” Foggy exclaimed. “You found my best friend locked in a sensory deprivation tank and you won’t even tell me the details? That’s bullshit! Sensory deprivation tank. Where the hell do you even find one of those?”
“Mr. Nelson, I understand this is upsetting–”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
Matt was. Matt was smart and funny and charismatic and witty and everything you could want in a person. Matt was listening to a song that exactly matched your mood and the soft tickle of rain on your face when it’s humid out. He was laughing so hard your sides hurt when walking in lazy zig-zags on the way back from Josies. He was turning around and looking at someone, thinking, they understand me completely without saying a single word. Matt was the best person that Foggy could ever ask to walk into his life, cane tapping the rhythm that Foggy’s heart would beat for the next ten years. Matt was everything, and he was suffering, had been suffering, for so long that a part of Foggy stayed suffering with him even after leaving the room.
“Mr. Nelson,” Detective Hernandez asked apologetically. “Is there anyone you can think of that would want to do this to Mr. Murdock?”
And how was Foggy supposed to answer that? Sure, Detective, you don’t happen to have a list of everyone Daredevil’s ever taken down, do you? Why Daredevil, you ask? Oh, don’t worry about that.
Yeah, right. Foggy was so fucked.
“Maybe someone from one of our old cases? We were a small-time law firm, though, so I can’t imagine anyone doing anything like this.” Other than Fisk. Damn it.
“Nelson and Murdock, right? And the firm was dissolved in April of last year, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Have you and Mr. Murdock kept in contact since then? Is there anything that could’ve happened between that time?”
Way to hit Foggy where it hurts. “I’m not sure,” Foggy said truthfully. “Matt and I… Closing the firm was tough. We didn’t exactly do it on good terms. I saw him occasionally but we didn’t really talk. If something was going on, I doubt he would tell me about it.”
Foggy wasn’t proud of any of it. Matt had been his best friend – his person – for a decade. Letting that disintegrate was one of the hardest things Foggy had ever done. The idea of opening himself back up to that sort of heartbreak again had been devastating. Hardly worth the pain of the thought. Knowing what he did now, though, of what Matt had been going through, Foggy felt like a jerk. Here he’d been moaning about reconnecting over bruised feelings while Matt had been tortured. Cut off from everything illuminated his world. Forced into silence, alone.
Foggy should’ve been there. He should’ve been there.
“Can I ask a question?” Hernandez nodded, waving his hand as if to say shoot. “Was Matt ever reported missing?”
Hernandez shifted uncomfortably. “There was, uh, a report made by his landlord. Missing rent. Not a formal missing person’s and nothing we could investigate, but…”
Nobody knew. All this time, Matt was gone, picked up off the street like litter, and nobody knew. Maybe if Foggy had been a better friend – checked in a little bit more, carved space in the lonely world that Matt hid in when he was scared – he would’ve realized. He would’ve seen that something was up and been able to do something. Instead, Matt was held in silence. Nobody searching. Only a priority when he was stumbled upon.
Foggy wanted to hit himself. What a fucking disgrace.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Detective?” He asked, voice hoarse.
“No, thank you.” Hernandez stood up. “If I have any more questions, I’ll get in touch.”
Foggy tried for a smile. Landed on a grimace. “Of course. Is it possible that I could see Matt again? Just one more time?”
Dr. Klein seemed startled to be addressed again, recovered quickly, and checked her watch. “Yes, yes, there’s still half an hour left in visiting hours. Please, follow me. Detective,” she dipped her head in goodbye.
Foggy refused to waste time with their pleasantries. He pushed towards the door and wound his way back to Matt’s room.
Perhaps it was his imagination, but Foggy swore that the space outside the door felt colder than the rest of the hallway. The phantom menace – all Foggy’s failures, Matt’s trauma, the disaster that was their partnership – haunting the room. The air was thicker, choked with all the things Foggy needed to say but couldn’t think of. What words made this better? What mumblings could Foggy offer to stop Matt from trying to put his head through the wall in anguish? There had been no right words for their countless fights. No right thing to say that could change Matt’s behavior. What was going to make this any different?
Attitude, for one. Foggy had always been the optimist to Matt’s pessimist. The sunshine to Matt’s rain. Somewhere, along the trials and tribulations and trauma, Foggy had forgotten that.
Wiping his hands on his slacks, Foggy twisted the door handle. On the bed, Matt lay prone in the same position, twisted up in sheets with his mouth moving a mile a minute. Words were inaudible but his face did enough to convey their tortured origin.
Somewhere in the dusty abyss of Foggy’s chest, he found a smile. “Hey, buddy. I’m back.”