The Guilty Party
Part 7
He was still pondering the next morning when he limped over to Foggy’s apartment. The bullet graze on his thigh ached sharply at each movement, and he wasn’t even sure he’d be welcome, but he had to make sure Foggy was all right. He’d tried calling twice already, but either Foggy was still asleep, or he wasn’t answering his phone. Matt hoped it was the former, hoped that Foggy wasn’t ignoring him, and knocked loudly on the door. Twice. Three times.
When Foggy still didn’t answer, Matt tried the knob, and was both pleased and dismayed that the door opened. Pleased because he could get in, dismayed because it meant Foggy wasn’t as safe as he could be. Entering, he called out, “Foggy? Foggy, it’s me, Matt.”
Rewarded by the faint sound of a snore from the bedroom, Matt made his way to Foggy’s kitchen. He had followed Clint’s advice and bought steaks last night, picking them up from a restaurant one price class higher than where they usually ate. They’d have to be heated up in the microwave, but he was sure Foggy wouldn’t mind. He’d even bought a baked potato and an extra container of sour cream; something else Foggy was fond of.
In bed, Foggy rolled over. Hearing the change in his heartbeat and his breathing, Matt quickly arranged the food on a plate and stuck it in the microwave, then limped over to the bedroom. “Foggy? You awake?”
“No, I’m talking in my sleep,” Foggy replied, but Matt heard him sit up anyway.
“How do you feel?”
“What the fuck, Matt? Where are we?”
Of all the possible answers, Matt hadn’t expected that one. “We’re in your apartment, Foggy.”
“My – what? I don’t have an apartment.” There was a pause, and then Foggy started to laugh. “Okay, Matt, you got me. This is revenge for moving all the furniture out of our dorm room, right?”
“No,” Matt said, starting to feel uneasy.
“This is really good, Matt, but seriously, whose apartment is this? Who helped you set this up?”
“This isn’t a joke, Foggy. This really is your apartment.” Behind Matt, the microwave dinged. “Are – are you hungry? “
“Guess I am,” Foggy said. He stood up and glanced around. “How’d you do it, Matt? How’d you get me here without me remembering? I don’t even feel hungover. Hey, have you seen my clothes anywhere?”
“Try the closet,” Matt suggested.
“You can stop now, Matt.” Foggy leaned over to pick up something near Matt’s feet, and his tone changed. “I hope these aren’t the clothes I came here in. How’d they get so ragged, and what is this, paint? Must have been one hell of a paintball game.”
“It’s -- um.” Matt hesitated to point out what it really was. He could still smell the dried blood on Foggy’s back, and wondered that Foggy hadn’t seemed to notice it himself. To change the subject, he moved towards Foggy’s chest of drawers and found a pair of boxers. “Get dressed, then come eat something.”
“These are exactly my size,” Foggy said as he pulled them on. “Who do we know who’s exactly my size, and are you sure he won’t mind me borrowing his underwear? I mean, a shirt is one thing, but somebody else’s boxers? Could be kinda gross, man.”
“They’re clean. And here’s a shirt,” Matt said, teasing one out by feel and tossing it to his friend.
“Hey, that’s my shirt. How’d it get – oh, you brought it over and hid it here, didn’t you? All part of the plan, very convincing. You brought some of my boxers over, too, didn’t you, you just got them mixed up with his. Get out of the way, Matt, let me look for them.”
Matt sighed inwardly. “Foggy, never mind. You’re dressed, and your steak is going to get cold again in a minute. Come and eat.”
“Steak? Steak for breakfast? Whatever happened to cereal and orange juice? Or bagels? Does this guy have any bagels?” Foggy followed him from the bedroom to the kitchen.
“I just thought you might like some meat,” Matt said. He opened the microwave and took out the plate. “Here.”
Foggy took it from him and sat down. “You know, I really do feel like steak this morning. Weird, huh? And when did you get those new glasses? Did you know the lenses look red in the right light?”
Matt pushed the little container of sour cream closer to his friend and took a seat on the other side of the table. After Foggy had taken a few bites, he said, “Matt, stop looking at me like that. Stop listening to me like that.”
“Foggy,” Matt said. “What do you remember about last night?”
Foggy chewed and swallowed, then said, “I dunno – not much. Okay, nothing at all. Seriously. What? Did I get hit with some kind of date-rape drug? Is that how you did this, Matt?”
“Foggy, do you really think I could do that to you?” Matt was surprised at how much the accusation hurt.
“I dunno, Matt, but this is kinda starting to freak me out.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Matt replied. “Foggy, um, bear with me here, okay? What’s the date?”
Foggy thought for a moment, and Matt heard his breathing and heartbeat both speed up. At last, he slowly confessed, “I … um … I don’t know. What is to-day?”
Matt told him, and Foggy sat very quietly. When the silence became too much, Matt said, “You can check your phone, your laptop, see if I’m telling you the truth.”
“Yeah … where is my laptop?”
“Is it in your bag?” Matt guessed. “You usually dump your bag on your couch when you get in.”
Foggy stood up, found the laptop and brought it back to the table, taking a few more bites while it booted up. Matt could tell when the date on the screen became visible, because Foggy froze. In a very small voice, he said, “Matt … please tell me this is some kind of time travel thing?”
Matt didn’t know how to respond to such a desperate plea except to say, “I’m sorry, Foggy. I’m – I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? Did you hit me in the head, give me amnesia, make me forget the last three and a half years?” Foggy rubbed the back of his head as though searching for something. “It doesn’t even hurt.”
“I didn’t hit you,” Matt said. “But I do think you have amnesia.”
“So this really is my apartment? I really live here?”
“You’ve got your diploma on the wall,” Matt remembered, pointing vaguely in the right direction.
Foggy got up to look at it and murmured aloud, “I graduated cum laude from Columbia Law School.”
Matt waited.
“And?” Foggy finally asked. “What happened after that?”
“We had an internship at Landman and Zack,” Matt told him, wondering how much more to say.
“We did? Did they offer us a job?”
“Yes, but we decided not to take it. We have our own practice now, Nelson and Murdock.”
“Huh.” Foggy came back and sat down.
“You want to see it? We can go over, see if it jogs your memory.”
“Yeah,” Foggy said, brightening a little. “Yeah, I’d like to see that. Do we have a sign and everything?”
“Yeah,” Matt told him. “We’ve even made enough money to pay the bills this month.”
“Matt, that is not very reassuring.” But Foggy smiled a little as he went back to his breakfast.
While Foggy was showering, Matt bundled up his torn and bloodied clothes, then wrapped them in a plastic bag and pushed it to the bottom of Foggy’s empty trash can. After that, he decided it was no longer too early on a Friday morning to call Clint, and the archer answered almost on the first ring.
“Matt, everything all right?” he asked.
“No,” Matt admitted. “Foggy – I think he’s got amnesia. He woke up thinking we were still at law school. He didn’t even recognize his own apartment. It’s like he’s completely forgotten the last three years at least. Is that – could it be caused by Thor’s healing stones?”
“It sounds more like PTSD,” Clint said.
“PTSD?” Matt repeated, not because he’d never heard of it – he had – but because he hadn’t once considered the idea that morning.
“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Clint clarified, and Matt groaned in understanding. “Because they tortured him.”
“They call it dissociative amnesia and, yeah, it can happen after something like torture. Or a traumatic accident, combat experience, things like that.”
“But why forget the last three years? Why not just last night?”
“I don’t know, bro. People’s brains are weird.”
“What should I do? Should I go along with it, or try to make him remember?”
“Go along with it for now,” Clint said. “I think. Sorry, Matt, I don’t have any personal experience with this. I only know a few things that I’ve heard. Keep him calm, be supportive, don’t try to force anything.”
“Okay,” Matt said.
“I can talk to Br – to some people I know, see what they say,” Clint offered. “Can I call you back?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks, Clint.”
“Talk to you later,” Clint said.
Next, Matt dialed Karen; officially, their secretary, unofficially, their best friend.
“Matt,” she said cheerfully. “I’m just on my way to the office, will I see you there, or are you taking the day off again?”
“I – ” he started. “Um. This is going to sound really weird, but Foggy woke up this morning with a kind of amnesia.”
“Are you kidding me?” she squeaked. “Is he all right? Was it a head injury? Does he even know who he is? Does he remember anything?”
“He remembers who he is, he remembers me, he’s just forgotten the last three years or so.” Matt hesitated, then added, “I don’t know what’s going on, why this happened to him. It doesn’t seem to be a head injury; he said nothing hurts. But, um, I’m going to bring him over, let him see the office, see if it helps?”
“Oh,” said Karen. “Oh, yeah, sure. It’s just that … you’ve got an appointment at ten.”
“We’ll handle it,” Matt said, alreading thinking of how Foggy could sit in. If it were a new client, they could pretend Foggy was an intern, if not, he could just be uncharacteristically quiet and take notes. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten everything, after all. And he could still learn.
Matt didn’t want to think about how much catching up Foggy would have to do if his memories didn’t come back immediately. He certainly didn’t want to think about Foggy’s memories not coming back at all.
Go to Part 8
When Foggy still didn’t answer, Matt tried the knob, and was both pleased and dismayed that the door opened. Pleased because he could get in, dismayed because it meant Foggy wasn’t as safe as he could be. Entering, he called out, “Foggy? Foggy, it’s me, Matt.”
Rewarded by the faint sound of a snore from the bedroom, Matt made his way to Foggy’s kitchen. He had followed Clint’s advice and bought steaks last night, picking them up from a restaurant one price class higher than where they usually ate. They’d have to be heated up in the microwave, but he was sure Foggy wouldn’t mind. He’d even bought a baked potato and an extra container of sour cream; something else Foggy was fond of.
In bed, Foggy rolled over. Hearing the change in his heartbeat and his breathing, Matt quickly arranged the food on a plate and stuck it in the microwave, then limped over to the bedroom. “Foggy? You awake?”
“No, I’m talking in my sleep,” Foggy replied, but Matt heard him sit up anyway.
“How do you feel?”
“What the fuck, Matt? Where are we?”
Of all the possible answers, Matt hadn’t expected that one. “We’re in your apartment, Foggy.”
“My – what? I don’t have an apartment.” There was a pause, and then Foggy started to laugh. “Okay, Matt, you got me. This is revenge for moving all the furniture out of our dorm room, right?”
“No,” Matt said, starting to feel uneasy.
“This is really good, Matt, but seriously, whose apartment is this? Who helped you set this up?”
“This isn’t a joke, Foggy. This really is your apartment.” Behind Matt, the microwave dinged. “Are – are you hungry? “
“Guess I am,” Foggy said. He stood up and glanced around. “How’d you do it, Matt? How’d you get me here without me remembering? I don’t even feel hungover. Hey, have you seen my clothes anywhere?”
“Try the closet,” Matt suggested.
“You can stop now, Matt.” Foggy leaned over to pick up something near Matt’s feet, and his tone changed. “I hope these aren’t the clothes I came here in. How’d they get so ragged, and what is this, paint? Must have been one hell of a paintball game.”
“It’s -- um.” Matt hesitated to point out what it really was. He could still smell the dried blood on Foggy’s back, and wondered that Foggy hadn’t seemed to notice it himself. To change the subject, he moved towards Foggy’s chest of drawers and found a pair of boxers. “Get dressed, then come eat something.”
“These are exactly my size,” Foggy said as he pulled them on. “Who do we know who’s exactly my size, and are you sure he won’t mind me borrowing his underwear? I mean, a shirt is one thing, but somebody else’s boxers? Could be kinda gross, man.”
“They’re clean. And here’s a shirt,” Matt said, teasing one out by feel and tossing it to his friend.
“Hey, that’s my shirt. How’d it get – oh, you brought it over and hid it here, didn’t you? All part of the plan, very convincing. You brought some of my boxers over, too, didn’t you, you just got them mixed up with his. Get out of the way, Matt, let me look for them.”
Matt sighed inwardly. “Foggy, never mind. You’re dressed, and your steak is going to get cold again in a minute. Come and eat.”
“Steak? Steak for breakfast? Whatever happened to cereal and orange juice? Or bagels? Does this guy have any bagels?” Foggy followed him from the bedroom to the kitchen.
“I just thought you might like some meat,” Matt said. He opened the microwave and took out the plate. “Here.”
Foggy took it from him and sat down. “You know, I really do feel like steak this morning. Weird, huh? And when did you get those new glasses? Did you know the lenses look red in the right light?”
Matt pushed the little container of sour cream closer to his friend and took a seat on the other side of the table. After Foggy had taken a few bites, he said, “Matt, stop looking at me like that. Stop listening to me like that.”
“Foggy,” Matt said. “What do you remember about last night?”
Foggy chewed and swallowed, then said, “I dunno – not much. Okay, nothing at all. Seriously. What? Did I get hit with some kind of date-rape drug? Is that how you did this, Matt?”
“Foggy, do you really think I could do that to you?” Matt was surprised at how much the accusation hurt.
“I dunno, Matt, but this is kinda starting to freak me out.”
“Yeah, me, too,” Matt replied. “Foggy, um, bear with me here, okay? What’s the date?”
Foggy thought for a moment, and Matt heard his breathing and heartbeat both speed up. At last, he slowly confessed, “I … um … I don’t know. What is to-day?”
Matt told him, and Foggy sat very quietly. When the silence became too much, Matt said, “You can check your phone, your laptop, see if I’m telling you the truth.”
“Yeah … where is my laptop?”
“Is it in your bag?” Matt guessed. “You usually dump your bag on your couch when you get in.”
Foggy stood up, found the laptop and brought it back to the table, taking a few more bites while it booted up. Matt could tell when the date on the screen became visible, because Foggy froze. In a very small voice, he said, “Matt … please tell me this is some kind of time travel thing?”
Matt didn’t know how to respond to such a desperate plea except to say, “I’m sorry, Foggy. I’m – I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry? Did you hit me in the head, give me amnesia, make me forget the last three and a half years?” Foggy rubbed the back of his head as though searching for something. “It doesn’t even hurt.”
“I didn’t hit you,” Matt said. “But I do think you have amnesia.”
“So this really is my apartment? I really live here?”
“You’ve got your diploma on the wall,” Matt remembered, pointing vaguely in the right direction.
Foggy got up to look at it and murmured aloud, “I graduated cum laude from Columbia Law School.”
Matt waited.
“And?” Foggy finally asked. “What happened after that?”
“We had an internship at Landman and Zack,” Matt told him, wondering how much more to say.
“We did? Did they offer us a job?”
“Yes, but we decided not to take it. We have our own practice now, Nelson and Murdock.”
“Huh.” Foggy came back and sat down.
“You want to see it? We can go over, see if it jogs your memory.”
“Yeah,” Foggy said, brightening a little. “Yeah, I’d like to see that. Do we have a sign and everything?”
“Yeah,” Matt told him. “We’ve even made enough money to pay the bills this month.”
“Matt, that is not very reassuring.” But Foggy smiled a little as he went back to his breakfast.
While Foggy was showering, Matt bundled up his torn and bloodied clothes, then wrapped them in a plastic bag and pushed it to the bottom of Foggy’s empty trash can. After that, he decided it was no longer too early on a Friday morning to call Clint, and the archer answered almost on the first ring.
“Matt, everything all right?” he asked.
“No,” Matt admitted. “Foggy – I think he’s got amnesia. He woke up thinking we were still at law school. He didn’t even recognize his own apartment. It’s like he’s completely forgotten the last three years at least. Is that – could it be caused by Thor’s healing stones?”
“It sounds more like PTSD,” Clint said.
“PTSD?” Matt repeated, not because he’d never heard of it – he had – but because he hadn’t once considered the idea that morning.
“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Clint clarified, and Matt groaned in understanding. “Because they tortured him.”
“They call it dissociative amnesia and, yeah, it can happen after something like torture. Or a traumatic accident, combat experience, things like that.”
“But why forget the last three years? Why not just last night?”
“I don’t know, bro. People’s brains are weird.”
“What should I do? Should I go along with it, or try to make him remember?”
“Go along with it for now,” Clint said. “I think. Sorry, Matt, I don’t have any personal experience with this. I only know a few things that I’ve heard. Keep him calm, be supportive, don’t try to force anything.”
“Okay,” Matt said.
“I can talk to Br – to some people I know, see what they say,” Clint offered. “Can I call you back?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks, Clint.”
“Talk to you later,” Clint said.
Next, Matt dialed Karen; officially, their secretary, unofficially, their best friend.
“Matt,” she said cheerfully. “I’m just on my way to the office, will I see you there, or are you taking the day off again?”
“I – ” he started. “Um. This is going to sound really weird, but Foggy woke up this morning with a kind of amnesia.”
“Are you kidding me?” she squeaked. “Is he all right? Was it a head injury? Does he even know who he is? Does he remember anything?”
“He remembers who he is, he remembers me, he’s just forgotten the last three years or so.” Matt hesitated, then added, “I don’t know what’s going on, why this happened to him. It doesn’t seem to be a head injury; he said nothing hurts. But, um, I’m going to bring him over, let him see the office, see if it helps?”
“Oh,” said Karen. “Oh, yeah, sure. It’s just that … you’ve got an appointment at ten.”
“We’ll handle it,” Matt said, alreading thinking of how Foggy could sit in. If it were a new client, they could pretend Foggy was an intern, if not, he could just be uncharacteristically quiet and take notes. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten everything, after all. And he could still learn.
Matt didn’t want to think about how much catching up Foggy would have to do if his memories didn’t come back immediately. He certainly didn’t want to think about Foggy’s memories not coming back at all.
Go to Part 8