[It's real. Matt tries to reassure him of this, at least, absently rubbing his thumb along Foggy's cheekbone. More slides in, little by little, enough that he could make a patchwork quilt of the things he remembers. His hand drops, skimming lightly over a suit sleeve down to Foggy's hand. This is a lot more human contact than he's had in months, and it's far gentler than the bruising grip he's known till now.

He could stay here forever.

Would he deserve to? He doesn't think so.]

Not a lot. I just—[he stops for a moment, wondering what next to say. I killed a man in Cambodia, does not seem like a great thing to tell someone. Neither does I woke up in a pool of blood surrounded by people without heartbeats. He sighs.]

I remember—someone was holding me, when I—when I died. Up until now, I couldn't remember much else. [Then he'd set foot inside the apartment and he'd known, instinctively, in his very bones, that he was safe. That he's still safe even now. How long that'll last, he's not sure of yet.] But you—I knew you.

[A soft huff of breath.]

It's not. [Pathetic, he means.] I'm here now. [And he wants, so very badly, to stay.]