He could still feel the plastic against his face. Could still feel how the air had gotten thin and hot and humid with his breath, how when he breathed, when he'd fought against the sticky film, he'd felt for sure he would never feel fresh air again.

He could still feel the drug in his system too, whatever it had been. A light, bitter taste in his mouth. How even now, hours after, when most of the purposeful movement was back in his limbs he felt like he was just on the verge of slipping back into unconsciousness. It was only a lingering ounce of adrenalin that kept him wearily on his guard.

He was aware that he was lying on a splintered piece of particleboard, yet again in a dumpster, in an alley, the smells of rotting indian food and damp newspaper mixing badly in the humid air. With the nature of the heat and the quiet foreign chatter and footsteps he vaguely knew it was evening. He could hear a fryer going through the wall, could smell the boiling fat, the heat off the four cooks' bodies in the kitchen.

Last he'd known of the world, it had been the cool, quiet, morning part of night. At least eighteen hours ago. At least.

The intervening time was a weird blur- half-understood shouts, seconds of terrifying euphoria between pain and plastic. His scalp still stung- he could feel places where it was crusted with dried blood. And then what recent memory he had was of falling, of coming down hard on something that dug painfully into his shoulderblade. The corner of the particleboard maybe. His back ached with it.

The adrenalin was waning, threatening to let exhaustion and the last vestiges of the drug take him out again. If he didn't get moving he would probably be here until the poor busboy took out the trash for the night. Waking up in the emergency room. Not something he wanted.

He dragged his hand against the board, feeling it lag weakly. Odd. It didn't hurt, didn't feel weak, just didn't quite do what his brain told it to. He paused, confused for a second before he was able to force it under himself. He took one long, deep breath and put everything he had into leveraging himself onto his side. More difficult than he cared to admit.

From here it was slightly easier. He had more leverage in this position, could use both arms to a greater extent. He gingerly made it to all fours, sweat breaking out on his forehead from the effort. Arms shaking. It felt like he'd just spent the last eight hours at Fogworth's. He let himself lean against the inside of the dumpster, his body hitting the sheetmetal with a dull thud. No energy left to climb out, but he'd already put so much into the pathetic attempt that he refused to collapse again.

Foggy Nelson had come to the decision that he really didn't like club life. Maybe it was a side effect of being best friends with someone who couldn't appreciate the harsh lighting and endless streams of faces, but tonight the pulsing music and sweat and alcohol just seemed unappealing. Plus the girl he'd gone with had gotten carried away in the crowd. She was probably at some other club by now, taking in the Hell's Kitchen nightlife with someone else.

To be honest, he was okay with that. He was welcoming the quiet summer night. Maybe Karen was feeling a trip to Josie's…

He decided to cut through the alley back to his apartment first. People seemed to think bad things happened in alleys, and usually he'd agree, but this one, for some reason, was kind of working for him tonight.

thunk!

Foggy stopped. There was a dumpster out behind the indian place and the noise had definitely come from inside it. "…Hello? Somebody there?" He asked cautiously, noncommittally. He swallowed, looking around rather nervously. Maybe this is why people hated alleys so much.

uuuugh…

A groan. Definitely from inside the dumpster. Someone, then, rather than something. Foggy took a deep breath, stooping to pick up a shard of wood. He held it in front of him the way he figured Jason Bourne might. "uhh, someone there?" he asked. "Cause I gotta warn you…" He looked at the makeshift shank he was holding. His shadow on the brick looked vaguely threatening.

"Foggy, help…" It was definitely a familiar voice now. He let the shank fall to the ground.

"…Matt?" He cautiously approached.

"Who else… dumpster… this time of night" The voice sounded utterly exhausted, the words followed by a round of pained breathing.

"What happened? Why are you…?" He let the words trail off as he peered over the rim of the dumpster, seeing little more than a black lump in the muted, artificial orange light of the alley. "Is this where you've been all day? Did you call in sick from the dumpster?" Matt seemed to manage a weak glare. "Right, yeah, sorry. But jeez, Matt, what happened?" A sort of silence hung in the air.

"Help… me out. I'll talk." Matt said. A dry-blood-smeared hand reached shakily up to the rim of the dumpster. It looked almost surreal, like Foggy was in the middle of some sort of zombie apocalypse movie.

"Hey, hey, take it easy, okay?" He wasn't sure that was what you were supposed to say in this situation, but the words came out easily and he got a grip on Matt's wrist. His skin was almost cool with sweat and the remnants of the blood. "I got you, Matt. Can you give me your other hand?" There were another few seconds of silence as it seemed all of Matt's remaining energy was going into that command. With what looked like intense effort, his other hand came up. It missed the rim of the dumpster by about two inches, but Foggy was able to catch his other wrist before it fell back into the darkness.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" Foggy asked, knowing it was a moot point. Of course Matt was hurt, but Matt seemed to take his meaning. Shaking his head to indicate he would be functionally intact even if Foggy pulled him from the dumpster. "Okay"

Matt was a lot heavier than he looked, especially the nearly dead-weight version Foggy was working with. He got Matt's hands over the edge of the container, the grabbed handfuls of Matt's shirt. "Uhh, can you stand up? Like if I help?" Another pause, another halfhearted nod. "Okay, uh, one, two-" He pulled with everything he had, and Matt seemed to give his all as well, shaking almost violently as he stood just enough for Foggy to bear hug him.

"There, okay, cool." Foggy said, realizing from the street this must have looked real interesting. Two men seemingly hugging over the edge of a dumpster. One almost pulled clear by the height of the container and the other man's weight. Almost poetic. The interpretive dance of their increasingly weird lives. But it was New York, he thought, they could deal.

He walked back a few steps and supported Matt the best he could as he fell to the concrete. They both sat, then, for a few minutes. Matt's back supported by Foggy's, both of them breathing heavily. Foggy cracked a smile. "You need to get another hobby, dude." There was a snort, almost a laugh, in response, but it quickly died to silence again. "My apartment's only like a half a block from here, think you can make it?" He paused. "They, uh, finally fixed the elevator and everything."

"Yeah" Matt said, the word itself seeming to take effort. Foggy wasn't sure he believed it, but having no idea what was wrong with his friend, he needed to get somewhere he could safely call Claire and find out what the hell had happened.

They made their way the half block to Foggy's apartment. It was a little too early to sell the stumbling drunk friend story, he thought, but this part of town no one seemed to care, just like a second ago no one seemed to think twice about him pulling this guy out of the trash a few minutes ago. By the time they got to the apartment, Foggy was taking almost all of his friend's weight. He laid Matt down on the couch, then pulled over a chair. He caught his breath, watching Matt do the same.

"Okay, what the hell happened to you?" Foggy asked a few minutes later, when they had both settled in. He waited a second, but got no response. A jolt of terror struck him, just for a second. But Matt's chest was rising and falling evenly, no blood seemed to still be flowing. For now Matt could sleep.