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daredevilkink2015-05-16 07:55 pm
ddk_mod) wrote in daredevilkink2015-05-16 07:55 pm
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Prompt Post #2
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Matt & Foggy, face touching
(Anonymous) 2015-05-26 08:08 pm (UTC)(link)In flashbacks, we see Jack Murdock putting Matt's hands on his face. What I particularly notice is the time this happens after Matt wakes up in the hospital, he's upset, and then hands-on-face and he calms down.
What if that's still a thing?
I was thinking pre-series Matt and Foggy, still roommates at law school, and Matt wakes up in the middle of the night all freaked out - and Foggy calms him down the only way he's figured out how, by letting Matt feel his face and reassuring him that he's still here, he's still here, nobody's gone anywhere.
Or, y'know. Whatever floats your goat. I just need some freaked-out Matt and comforting Foggy. Whether it's romantic or platonic or somewhere in-between, I really don't mind.
Re: Matt & Foggy, face touching
(Anonymous) 2015-05-26 08:10 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Matt & Foggy, face touching
(Anonymous) 2015-05-26 09:11 pm (UTC)(link)Minifill/fragment Re: Matt & Foggy, face touching
(Anonymous) 2021-01-07 11:26 pm (UTC)(link)Four days later, ECMO had been performed and discontinued without further serious complications. Matt’s oxygen levels were up, and stable (if not exactly normal), and they were slowly weaning his sedation in anticipation of waking him up and getting him off the ventilators. In light of his reaction the first time he awoke, they were going very slow, and they didn’t intend for him to wake up until the next morning, but Matt was never one for adhering to other people’s expectations.
Foggy was startled out of his unquiet sleep by Matt’s utterly inhuman howl and leapt up to find him groping at his shattered shoulder., hands somehow free of the restraints. He snatched up Matt’s hand and raised it to his face. “Come on, Matty. It’s Foggy. You gotta calm down. Matt… Matt.” He was one of the only people to have ever seen much of what Matt actually felt, to have ever seen the man behind the shield of charming calm, but he had never seen those sightless eyes wide with terror. “You gotta calm down, Matt. C’mon, Matt. Matt, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”
Several of the hospital staff rushed in, and he begged them to wait, knowing they would just drug him again. “Just give me a minute with him! Please!” He pulled the trembling hand down to his chest. Of course. He didn’t know Foggy’s face. They only did that once, years ago. It was weird. Too intimate. But he’d know Foggy’s heart. A little burst of hysterical laughter escaped at his recognition of that little irony. He stomped it back down. Nobody had time for that right now. “Matt, Matt, Matt, c’mon. You know me, Matt.”
He saw the fear morph into desperate relief just before Matt’s hand tangled in his shirtfront and dragged him down. He caught himself on the bedrail just before he would’ve pitched onto his broken friend. One of the nurses (Jorje?) rushed forward and grabbed Matt’s arm.
“Leave him alone! He knows me. He’ll be okay. Just give him a minute.”
Jorje watched a second and decided it wasn’t another attack. He let go and stepped back.
Several long minutes later, Lisette, the tiny, fierce nurse from earlier set a hand on Foggy’s shoulder. “Mr. Nelson, we need to extubate him, take him off the ventilator. Do you think he’ll stay calm for you while we do that?”
It was a little hard to talk, bent over the bedrail with his head smushed against the ridged plastic tubing and his best friend’s shattered face. Matt was always getting him into the weirdest situations. “Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I think he’ll be okay now.” Matt was always okay. He had to be.
Foggy closed both hands on his partner’s fist, one patting comfortingly, the other pulling the cloth from his fingers. It was a relief when he let him. As he sat up, his heart broke at the pitiful, inarticulate noise from Matt and the grip on his hand was suddenly painful. When Jorje started removing the ankle restraints, Foggy gratefully unbuckled the chest strap with his free hand, carefully ignoring the way-too-freaky scene of the breathing tube being pulled out of his best friend’s throat.
Matt choked violently on the receding tube, hunching forward and letting out a ragged cry while simultaneous making Foggy wonder if he would break his hand as he jerked it toward his injured shoulder.
*
The first thing Matt was really aware of was the silence, an oppressive, smothering, absolute lack of sound. Equally alarming, all he could smell was blood and bone. After a moment of confusion, he turned his (huge, misshapen) head and blinked his one eye at his childhood apartment sprawling around him, poorly lit by the flickering static of the television. The radiator must be on the fritz again; it was cold. He pushed the gradually dawning agony aside and lay still. It didn’t feel like a dream, but there wasn’t really another option, was there? He didn’t usually have visual dreams, not anymore. However, he didn’t think he’d ever had a dream without sound.
When he finally tried to reach for his aching head, he found that his hands were restrained. (Relatively) soft, wide straps tethered each of his wrists near his hips. They had a little slack, but he didn’t test it further, hoping he hadn’t alerted his captors. At least he figured out another option. Drugs. They had drugged him. He was hallucinating. An instant of focus found his ankles similarly bound, and another strap stretched across his chest. Pain was everywhere.
There was some horrible something that he couldn’t quite work out going on with his left thigh, some kind of nails or spikes driven into his flesh. He lifted his head a fraction of an inch and looked down his 9-year-old’s body stretched out on his Ninja Turtles sheets (why was his bed in the living room?), at a bear-trap clenched around his naked leg. The trap’s teeth didn’t match the sharpest points of pain. He wondered if that meant the pain was real.
He had plastic in his mouth and throat, air literally forced into his lungs every five seconds. He felt the harsh rasp of cheap cotton (smock, sheets) on his hypersensitive skin, the chill air, various tubes and lines invading his body… it was a testament to the severity of his concussion or the strength of the drugs that he never thought “hospital” to explain his aberrant circumstances.
He was still a long time, struggling to get more sensory input as if will alone could make it happen. Eventually he accepted the failure and gathered his strength to take action. It took an interminable five minutes or so to get his right hand free. He lay motionless a moment, waiting for some sort of fallout. When nothing happened, he very carefully reached across his body to free his left hand. It wasn’t until he reached both hands toward the chest strap that he learned a new definition of pain. He also learned that you can’t really scream on a ventilator. His “sight” fractured into a meaningless chaos of melting walls and ambling bodies with malformed faces, and no matter how tight he closed his eyes, they wouldn’t go away.
Within a few seconds, someone grabbed his right hand and lifted it to their face. He immediately saw his father there, holding his hand, pressing it to his swollen cheek. He fought to put the hallucination away. This wasn’t his dad. Panting against the forced breaths, he tried to feel without groping, struggling to recognize the features through his panic: high, round (wet) cheeks; full jowls; small eyes with tear-matted lashes; short, upturned nose; long, deep (snotty) philtrum; full lips.
When he gave a tiny, helpless shake of his head and felt the room tilt perilously at the movement, his hand was pulled down and pressed to a soft, masculine chest. He felt the heart beneath his palm, rapid but strong, felt the vibrations of speech that he couldn’t hear. Tears leaked from his eyes, sliding into his sideburns as he thought he recognized the staccato buzz of his own name being repeated over and over, occasionally broken up by the longer rumble of other, unknowable words.
He closed his fingers on the loose necktie and a handful of shirt and dragged the man down to him, ignoring the pain in his nose and cheek and pressing his face to the top of his best friend’s head as much as the tubing allowed, futilely struggling against the ventilator and his broken, swollen sinuses to try to breathe through his nose, to try to breathe in Foggy Nelson. He flinched when he felt other hands on him, grasping at his arm, insistent, trying to pull him away from his lifeline. Refusing to be moved, he could feel the conversation going on around him like static, completely indecipherable.
Finally, Foggy’s hand closed on his own, carefully prying it open, which he reluctantly allowed. A sob died in Matt’s chest as his partner slowly sat up, but the broad, blunt fingers still gripped his hand, so he waited. The remaining restraints were taken off and finally the horrible tube was dragged out of his throat, making him gag and sputter, which sent fresh agony through his left shoulder and side. His cry felt like a ragged croak and his grip tightened on his partner’s hand as he fought the instinct to reach for the pain. As the flare died down, a mask was fitted over his nose and mouth, providing a constant (irritating) stream of oxygen.
He swallowed convulsively a few times, then tried to talk without success and released Foggy’s hand to reach for his own face, wanting to understand what was going on, struggling to focus. Foggy caught his wrist and laid Matt’s palm against his cheek as he shook his head. After another failed attempt to speak, Foggy pulled the oxygen mask down around his neck and pressed one silencing finger to his lips. He slipped away, but a minute later, there was a straw at Matt’s lips and he drank the tepid water greedily only to have it pulled back far too soon, eliciting a miserable, gravelly whine.
After another few minutes, the bustle around him was beginning to be too much. He finally forced words past his cracked lips. “If any of this can – can wait…” He almost couldn’t continue, feeling his ruined voice hum through his body without a sound. He was shocked that a sore throat could be such a distinctive sensation in the brilliant mosaic of pain. “I want you people to go.” His face crumpled for an instant, before recomposing. “I’m sorry. I – I know how rude that is, but please… I just need… I n-need…” Foggy pressed a finger to his lips again and he quieted. The straw returned and was pulled away after a sip. He cast a wet glare in his friend’s direction. The straw came back. He took a sip. “I get it,” he gasped. “Sl-slow.”
Within a few minutes, the air had mostly stilled. The constantly shifting eddies of heat, the vibration of footsteps and voices, all gone.
“I c-can’t hear, Foggy. Or smell.” A hint of movement, then Foggy’s free hand was on his face, gently wiping away his tears and pulling the oxygen mask back into place. He closed his eye.
“Squeeze one for yes, two for no?” Squeeze.
“Is it permanent?” He held his breath waiting for the reply. There was an uncomfortable pause before two squeezes in rapid succession.
“You don’t know.” It wasn’t a question, and it wasn’t answered.
“We’re alone?” Squeeze; yes.
“Do they know about me? Is that why I was restrained?” Squeeze, squeeze; no.
That made sense. He would be in actual handcuffs if they knew. “I fought?” Yes.
His good eye opened in alarm, gaze shifting anxiously. “Jesus. Did – did I hurt anyone?” No. Thank God.
Everything else he wanted to ask needed real answers. He closed his eye again and just tried to focus on breathing. It felt like he couldn’t get enough air.
“Can you call Karen? Ask her to bring my laptop and Braille display?” Another delay. Too long. Far too long. Squeeze, squeeze. No.
Oh, God. “Karen?!” He sat upright and it was a mistake. Whether it was the incandescent pain igniting in his shoulder and side, the concussion, the abject horror that something had happened to Karen, or (most likely) some combination of the three, he was suddenly vomiting. That he could smell. And it felt even more like fire spreading through his face than usual. It was one of the worst experiences of his life. Then the storm of people returned, Foggy’s hand was gone and he was groping for it, as a stab of cold slid through his IV line, sending him back into oblivion.
Re: Minifill/fragment Re: Matt & Foggy, face touching
(Anonymous) 2021-01-07 11:29 pm (UTC)(link)