daredevilkink | Prompt Post #2

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Prompt Post #2

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OK SO i originally wasn't going to write a promot since i'm writing my own fic bc i also have depression and i relate heavily to matt and i wanted more complex fic than "matt is suicidal" or "matt tries to commit suicide" so here i am writing this fic so i can do matt better justice. but, of course, misery loves company so i figured i should??? invite others (especially other anons who have struggled with depression) to write fic.

so basically this is what it is: matt ends up in a really low period. like, he doesn't get out of bed, isn't motivated to respond to karen or foggy, won't even read his case files. he just lies in bed drifting in and out of sleep for days, until foggy basically shows up with every food matt loves in hand and tons of movies and does what any nelson would do: tries to get matt to a point where he can at least get the energy to stand up and move around. it could be shipping or not, i just need fic about matt's depression and foggy as his support network.

need this

Ohhh, I'd love this. I'd really enjoy a fic about depression that's just about the shitty everyday aspects of it and doesn't involve any suicidal ideation and involves someone HELPING.

(...Also I REALLY don't want to start a fight and I'm not mad but I was slightly hurt by the implication that the non-complex fic about Matt being suicidal or trying to commit suicide was written by people who haven't struggled with depression. I've struggled with depression, unipolar and bipolar, for most of the life I can remember and I wrote a fill for the angsty interrupted suicide prompt. I understand if you don't like those kind of fics, I didn't even like it all that much, but...I don't want people to assume that I'm a person who's never experienced depression who wrote that, and I honestly wrote it for catharsis too because suicidal feelings have come up for me and I relate to Matt a lot. I don't know if I'm making sense or what you really meant so I might be way off the mark or being totally oversensitive, which is a genuine possibility. I'm genuinely sorry for this.)

oh no it's ok! i just saw prompts before that were like "matt shows x sign of depression (usually suicidalness) but he isn't Really Depressed" which kind of....made me feel annoyed? i guess? because of course there are suicidally depressed people but it feels like a smack to the face when that's ALL i see in fic, it seems like it reduces depression to a trope....anyway i didn't mean to imply that suicidal depression was Invalid since i've gone through like short periods of it myself i just wanted fic that wasn't like. angsty for the sake of being angsty? if you get what i'm saying?

(forgive me anon i just woke up and none of this may make sense later)

ONE MORE THING i'm totally down w/ ppl writing that as a means of catharsis i've just seen it handled super awkwardly and as an opportunity to angst rather than treating it as an actual thing actual people go through ok i'm done now *runs away*

Ayrt. Oh no, okay. :) I got it! Thanks for explaining. Generally when I write about depression I don't even write about suicidal depression, so I get you.

Ayrt.

By the way, I dug around and I found some fic that includes Matt with depression without prominent suicidal tendencies. (By the way, the fic for the prompt that's the non-angsty interrupted suicide, despite the prompt itself saying it's not really depression, has an excellent depiction of depression, but that actually is suicidal depression.)

Just in case you haven't read these:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/3944515/chapters/8841451 (bipolar Foggy, unipolar depression Matt, friendship, in progress but updates regularly and is a lovely fill for one of my prompts)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/3834148 (Matt with depression, Foggy being a good friend)

There are a couple of other fics about Matt with depression sans heavy discussion/depiction of suicidal tendencies under the 'Depression' tag on AO3, but those are the ones I found right away that include friendship.

I'd love to read this (and maybe also write it...maybe...)

ironically, the thing that keeps me from writing this... is my depression.

op here: this feel is so relatable.....i have the beginning of it done but i'm just like "haha well"

yupppp same

so um. i sort of shamelessly exploited my own experiences with this shit in order to write this, and it turned out to be way more difficult than i expected, but also yeah, weirdly cathartic in that way i heard it sometimes is when people write stuff like this. ?? hope it’s okay.

It was like there was a weight on his chest, pressing him down into the mattress. The tips of his fingers and the ends of his toes were tingling in that way they did when he was hyperaware, right before everything went numb. It was all so heavy. Reaching for his alarm seemed to take the same kind of effort that crawling out of a deep pit would. Matt almost gave up and let it keep ringing, because it was loud to the point of painful and at least pain felt like something other than bottomless exhaustion. Dull, clinging apathy.

It was an accident when his fingers swept across the screen of his phone and the noise stopped. A tiny part of him was relieved, another disappointed, but the majority…nothing. He was caving in on himself, curling so close, until his arms found their way around his knees. Compressed. That was better. Having everything, all the parts of himself, within reach — that was a bit better.

It hadn’t been this bad in a while. Someone else would be able to tell him that — tell Matt that this was a low point, even for him. But it wasn’t something he could realise on his own. Whenever it started, it always seemed as if it had never left to begin with. Like his whole life had always been this. No bright moments; just dragging himself through the mud on his belly.

That was hard. Moving was hard.

Matt curled up tighter, his chin pressed between his knees and his eyes wide open. He couldn’t be bothered to close them. It was all blank, anyway.

The next time his phone started to ring, it was because someone was calling.

Karen. Karen. Karen. Karen.

Matt’s fingers twitched and his stomach turned. He only needed to reach over one more time, and the phone would be in his hand, Karen’s voice would be in his ear.

You like Karen’s voice, something in his mind reasoned.

“Fuck off,” Matt told it. Swearing was always easier than saying anything else. Short, sharp syllables, aimed at himself, providing some minute sense of satisfaction. “Fuck off.”

The phone stopped ringing.

Matt twisted his neck and pressed his face into his pillow, mouth slightly open so he could taste the material and feel it, rough against his tongue. It wasn’t comfortable, but once he was there he couldn’t bring himself to move. The weight was under his skin now, dragging him deeper. His chest felt too full and too empty at the same time. Breathing was the same as gasping.

“Fuck,” he said, without moving his lips, and it came out more like huhhck. His pillow was starting to get damp, and it was disgusting, but Matt couldn’t make the effort to decide whether he deserved any different, which meant he was staying exactly where he was.

Eventually, his eyes fell closed of their own accord, and the lights inside his head — the ones that had been dimming that morning, anyway — went out.

The phone rang a few more times, and Matt swayed in and out of sleep as Foggy’s name was blurted into the room and then cut off again. His dreams were too realistic; whenever he woke up, he found himself wondering if he’d actually been asleep. Then, he was off again, sinking and slipping and, occasionally, finding the motivation to twist the bedcovers between limp fingers.

He knew he should get up. He had work and he couldn’t expect Foggy to manage by himself — that wasn’t fair. It was selfish. Matt was selfish. That was all this was, when it came down to it. Matt, moping, being dramatic. What, the guy who parkoured across New York rooftops couldn’t even get out of bed? It was a fucking joke.

Guilt gnawed at his insides even while he was half asleep. He should be able to do this. He could do this. He was just being pathetic. He wasn’t sick, no matter what he told himself on the good days — he knew what being sick felt like. The concussions, the fractured ribs, the migraines. This was just laziness. Self-pity.

Matt dug his nails into his palms hard enough to feel the skin give. A few seconds longer, a little more pressure, and it would split, and there would be the smell of blood on the air.

He tried to apologise, into his pillow, but all that came out was a yawning sob. He didn’t even know who he was saying sorry to. Maybe Foggy or Karen, for not answering the phone, for not bothering to go to work. Probably everyone, except himself.

I’m such a fucking idiot, he thought.

He couldn’t make himself any smaller. He tried anyway.

When the knocking on his front door started, he felt his body rouse for a moment, before slumping again. He knew it was Foggy; he could smell his shampoo and the so-called ‘odourless’ antiperspirant that he liked. If he focused, he would be able to hear the familiar sound of his heartbeat. But Matt didn’t feel like focusing. He didn’t feel much like anything.

“Matt?” Foggy had stopped pounding on the door, and his voice carried. “Come on, buddy, I know you’re in there. Let me in?” The upward tilt of a question, rather than a demand. Matt unstuck his tongue from the roof of his mouth, but couldn’t get any further. He didn’t know whether he wanted Foggy to come in or not; he didn’t care. “Okay,” a soft pat of Foggy resting his hand against the door, just for a second. Placating. “I’m going to use the roof access, alright? Just hang in there, and if you want me to leave in a bit, I’ll go.”

Matt heard him climb the stairs and felt the rush of air as the door on the roof opened, but after that his concentration slipped and before he knew it the mattress was dipping under Foggy’s weight. There were the sounds of bags being set down on the floor and Matt inhaled, noticing for the first time the scent of fresh fruit, and the instability of the temperature: Foggy’s body heat and the sweet chill of ice cream. Foggy had brought ice cream.

“You okay in there?” he asked. Matt had his back to him, and he didn’t answer. Foggy sighed, his hand falling lightly on his hip. “You been feeling like this for a while, huh? It’s alright, you don’t have to try and talk. Give me a sign if you want me to get out of here, though.”

Matt wetted his lips, and even that was a fucking drag. “Don’t care,” he said, small and frustrated. He wanted to care, but he just didn’t.

“I know,” Foggy said. “I’ll stay, then. You’ve been under for a couple days, buddy. At first I thought maybe it was your, y’know, thing—” Matt blinked, slowly. He thought about the Daredevil suit in his closet, and something cold and hard formed in his stomach. A couple of days. He rubbed his forehead against his pillow until it chafed, as if he could get rid of the thoughts that way. “But then I remembered you picking at that sandwich on Tuesday — and I know you like those sandwiches. But, I mean, anyway, I figured. I figured it was this.”

The hand moved from his hip to land on the back of his head instead, fingers gentle in his hair. “Hey, Matt. You’re alright, don’t…c’mon, it’ll get sore.” Now that he had started the motion, it took monumental effort to stop, but he managed, resting his face against the pillow. “There we go. Hmm. You hungry? I got some stuff. What do you feel like?”

Matt’s throat felt full and his eyes were itchy. “Don’t care.”

“Cool, that’s cool,” Foggy said, and this time Matt was listening for the tell-tale jump of his heart, the sound of him lying, and when it didn’t come he felt some of the tenseness in his shoulders lessen. “The ice cream’s kinda gotta go soonish, or I’ll have to go put it in the freezer…I brought spoons and everything.”

Foggy’s hand left his hair and there was a rustling noise of the plastic bags being opened before Matt’s fingers were being gently manipulated around a cold cardboard tub, with the lid already removed.

“Get a whiff of that,” Foggy said. “Smell good?”

A spoon pressed into his other hand, slim and cool.

Vanilla ice cream with white chocolate chunks.

“You’ll have to sit up to eat it, Matt.” More touching — hands everywhere, tugging at his shoulders, catching on his t-shirt. “Come on, I’ve propped up some pillows for ya.”

Matt didn’t want to move. He felt himself hunching inwards, leaving Foggy scrabbling for purchase, his limbs stiffening right back up and the tub of ice cream teetering in his grip.

“Woah,” Foggy’s fingers closed over his to stop the stuff from spilling all over the bedcovers. “Okay, okay, I hear you. I’m sorry about that. Maybe later, yeah? I’ll…I’ll go put this food away, give me a sec.”

“Wait,” Matt bit out as Foggy got to his feet, and it came out more panicked than he’d intended. Deep breaths, he told himself. Concentrate, don’t slur, don’t sound stupid. Keep it simple. “It does. Smell good.”

“Huh? Oh, the ice cream? Yeah man, I know. But it’ll melt if I don’t…hang on,” the rustling was back as Foggy dug around in the bags again. “What about these?”

He was holding something in front of his face, under his nose. Plastic packaging, and underneath…

Peaches.

Matt took them and spent thirty seconds trying to find the kind of coordination it took to tear packaging. His fingers kept slipping and he could feel Foggy watching him, and he knew he’d be burning up from embarrassment if anything inside him truly gave a shit.

“Fuck’s sake,” he said, and heard his voice break, frustration bubbling over. Swearing was so easy. “Fucking shit.”

“I got it,” Foggy was saying. “I got it, Matt, don’t worry about it.” Foggy’s hands, the crinkle of ripping plastic, and then something fuzzy and soft was cupped between his palms. “There you go. They are still your favourite, aren’t they?”

Matt couldn’t reply except to run his thumbs over the skin.

“Well, feel free to tuck in, if you want. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Matt settled for just holding it, and Foggy didn’t seem surprised when he reentered the room to find Matt still in the same position that he’d left him. He’d grabbed Matt’s laptop from the other room and Matt could hear the fan whirring.

“You wanna make some room for your ol’ pal, then?” Foggy said, even as he got settled beside him, his arm brushing against Matt’s back. “I got movies! A lot of movies. Karen even lent me a couple. She refused to admit that Magic Mike can’t be enjoyed to quite the same extent by a blind person, so we could find out if she’s right about that. Whaddyathink? Wanna hear me describe Channing Tatum’s bod in scintillating detail?”

Matt heard the buzz of the disk-drawer opening, then the click of the DVD being inserted.

“If it doesn’t work out, I’ve got a few other renowned classics. Umm…Emperor’s New Groove…Taking of Pelham — the original, obviously. Couple of musicals, because I know you love them, Matt, and one day I will catch you singing along to some show tune, and it will be glorious.”

Matt felt his mouth twitch, and he pulled his arms up to his chest, fingers still wrapped securely around the peach. Think you’re mistaking me for yourself there, Fog, was what he thought. What he managed to get out was, “That’s you.”

Foggy laughed, anyway.

“Yeah, it might be possible that I’m getting us mixed up.”

“Might be?” Matt repeated.

“Alright, you,” Foggy poked Matt’s calf with his toe. “Pipe down.”

Matt huffed a laugh, then pressed the peach to his mouth. It smelt really fucking good, and Matt’s stomach was only just starting to realise how long it had been since he’d last eaten.

Foggy’s hand was back in his hair, even though it had to be greasy after two days without showering, fingertips dry and warm against his scalp. “Sit up when you’re ready, okay?” he said. “Although I reckon Daredevil can probably manage eating a peach lying down.”

Matt snorted. He couldn’t even find the will to break the fucking skin, let alone actually eat, but it was nice to know that Foggy had a little faith.

“In a minute,” he said.

“No rush,” Foggy said.

Matt dozed through most of the movie, but every time he came to Foggy was talking, sometimes laughing, sometimes lamenting Matt Bomer’s lack of screen time. At one point, the peach rolled away across the mattress and Foggy leant over him to grab it back and put it on the bedside table.

“Touch down!” he’d crowed as it landed, giving Matt’s waist a squeeze with his free hand.

Matt had fumbled for a second before catching hold of Foggy’s wrist, squeezing him back. “Nice one,” had tripped off his tongue.

It was when the credits were rolling that Foggy said, “Buddy? It’s been a bit more than a minute, now.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed, quietly.

“How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay,” Matt could hear Foggy’s hair brushing against his neck when he nodded. “How about I list a few things, and you think about it for a sec, and tell me whether you feel them or not. And if you don’t know or don’t care, you can say that, too,” he added, clearly able to tell when Matt went tense at the suggestion. “Sound alright?”

“Sounds alright.”

“Good, okay. Okay. Hungry?”

Matt hesitated, tripped up on the first go. He was hungry, but being hungry meant sitting up, and Matt…Matt didn’t want to do that. He clenched his fists and twisted further away from Foggy, abruptly furious with himself. It was a fucking yes or no question, for God’s sake, it shouldn’t be hard.

“Matt, hey, it’s fine. Don’t worry about anything else but what I asked, okay? Just concentrate on that, and tell me if you’re hungry. I know it sucks, buddy. We’re not going to do anything you don’t want to, though, yeah? Let’s just take this one thing at a time.” Foggy paused. “Hungry?”

Matt drew in a breath. Hungry. “Yeah.”

A pat between his shoulder blades. A wordless well done. “Tired?”

“No. I mean. Yes, but. You know.” Matt was bone tired, but he knew he didn’t need another ounce of sleep.

“Exhausted?” Foggy tried.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” the hand on his back started to rub in circles and Matt felt himself beginning to shake.

“Dirty?”

“Huh?”

“Uh…you need the bathroom? Shower.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Bored?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lonely?”

“I…no. I don’t know.”

“Sad?”

“I don’t know.”

“Heavy?”

Matt was still shaking. He’d described it like that to Foggy before — the heaviness, the compression in his chest. “Yes. A lot. I…” he blinked and wasn’t surprised to find that his eyes were wet. “I hate this.”

“I know, Matt. And…and I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but it won’t last forever. You always pull through, huh? Every single time.”

“Foggy,” Matt said, and it wasn’t the first time in the last couple of days that he’d cried, but none of the others had wrenched through him quite like this. “Fuck. I can’t — I can’t even —” He was twisting the bedcovers roughly in his hands and he could feel the stitches pulling, the fibres coming apart.

“Shhh, c’mon.” This time, when Foggy started to pull him over, Matt found it harder to resist. He felt himself shifting, rolling onto his other side, until his face was pressed against Foggy’s hip. “Up, Matt. You’ve got this.” The words didn’t stick, washing right over Matt’s head, but he was still letting Foggy manhandle him, because holding back was so much harder. “That’s it,” Foggy said, and then, “ah, Matt. I’m sorry. It’s okay, I’m sorry,” while Matt clung to him from his new position, propped up on a mountain of pillows, choking out sobs into the front of Foggy’s shirt. “You’re good,” Foggy told him, pressing the words against the crown of his head. “You’re good, I’ve got you, it’s okay. We’re good.”

Half an hour later, Foggy put on The Emperor’s New Groove and went to fetch the ice cream, while Matt waited. He felt drained, now, but not empty. Tired, but not helpless.

He felt better, even if he wasn’t better, and that was enough for the moment.

“Get some of this down you,” Foggy said when he got back, and Matt found himself with the ice cream and spoon in his hands again.

“Thanks,” Matt said, hoping Foggy knew what he meant — that it wasn’t just for food and the movies, but for the fact that in a couple of hours he’d probably be able to swing his legs out of bed.

“Hey. It’s what I’m here for.” Message received. “How is it?”

Matt dug in his spoon, and then shoved it into his mouth — all, miraculously, without swearing. He counted three pieces of chocolate on his tongue. “Not too bad,” he said.

Oh god this, this is far too familiar, particularly after the last few days

a!a

*big hugs* m'sorry :c i hope things start looking up soon <3

I really enjoyed this. This is very accurate it hurts but I'm glad Foggy was there and thank you for writing this :)

Oh wow. This really hits home for me. It's so true to life and really well written. Thank you for sharing this

at ao3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4683809

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Prompt Post #2

gen, matt's depression

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[FILL] colour me in (1/2)

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