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Prompt Post #3
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Matt/Foggy; Foggy cares for Matt while they're kidnapped
(Anonymous) 2015-06-14 10:03 am (UTC)(link)But basically, I want Matt absolutely taken apart. Broken bones, beat to hell and back, half starved, a complete wreck. But they're not done with him yet, so they let Foggy see him. Foggy, who's more or less in one piece, and has to try and clean Matt up a little and give him food and water, and whatever little else he can, in the allotted window before they take him away again.
Bonus: This happens more than once, and Matt's worse every time.
Bonus +100: They get out somehow in the end.
Re: Matt/Foggy; Foggy cares for Matt while they're kidnapped
(Anonymous) 2015-06-14 11:22 am (UTC)(link)And if I weren't writing something already, I might even try to write this.
Re: Matt/Foggy; Foggy cares for Matt while they're kidnapped
(Anonymous) 2015-06-14 11:30 am (UTC)(link)Re: Matt/Foggy; Foggy cares for Matt while they're kidnapped
(Anonymous) 2015-06-14 01:01 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Matt/Foggy; Foggy cares for Matt while they're kidnapped
(Anonymous) 2015-06-14 07:38 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Matt/Foggy; Foggy cares for Matt while they're kidnapped
(Anonymous) 2015-06-16 09:37 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Matt/Foggy; Foggy cares for Matt while they're kidnapped
(Anonymous) 2015-06-17 07:20 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: And a Hard Place 1/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-18 04:37 am (UTC)(link)His head feels like someone tried to split it in two, and his throat is bone dry, and his mouth tastes like something crawled into the tequila last night and died. Possibly it also started to rot at some point, and Foggy didn't notice – because, Jesus, the taste is all over his tongue, coating it like a scum of oil on water.
"I need an intervention," he croaks miserably, and gropes half-heartedly in pitch darkness for the bedside table. He has a vague idea that there might be a cup of water on it, thoughtfully left by Matt or Karen or someone with a bit of foresight, but his fingers come up empty.
No water. No table. Come to think of it, no bed.
His questing fingers find what feels like tile, and he has a second to think: did I pass out in the bathroom? Followed instantly by: good place to be, bathroom, because the nausea that sweeps over him is sudden and crippling.
Foggy lunges toward where he thinks the toilet ought to be – finds nothing but more tile – suffers a wave of disorientation so strong it nears vertigo.
Then he's puking onto the floor, on all fours, head hanging between braced arms.
He's almost done when some spatters onto his wrist, warm and chunky, and that sets him off on a whole new wave, heaving until he's sure his whole stomach's spread out on the ground beneath him/
When Foggy's finished, he spits, then wipes at his lips with the back of his hand. He needs to rinse his mouth out. He needs to brush his teeth and find some paper towels to clean up the mess.
But before any of that, he needs to turn on the damn light. Even with the curtains closed, his bathroom's not usually this dark. The streetlight across the way must be burned out again.
Standing's a pretty impressive feat, Foggy thinks. There have been sailors in honest-to-go lightning storms that've had firmer ground beneath them – but he rallies like some grizzled old dude with a hook hand and a parrot. He finds his sea legs, and he stands there panting until the room stops swaying.
"Teetolling," Foggy whispers, fervently. "That's the way to go."
But first up, before he embarks on his new life of virtue: the light.
Foggy puts his hand out for wall and finds… nothing. More air. And that's the moment when he feels the first real prickle of fear.
Because his bathroom is tiny – two steps across, if you're generous and take small steps. There shouldn't be anywhere he can't reach the wall from, but he's stumbling forward, blind – one step, and then another, and then another, and there is nothing where there's supposed to be a towel rack.
"Oh," he says, quietly. "Oh, shit."
And then, before his brain-to-mouth filter can kick in, before he can parse can-nots and should-nots, before he dives feet-first into worst-case scenarios and organized crime and his idiot best friend who makes the worst life choices Foggy has ever seen anyone make, Foggy says, "Matt?"
But it's not Matt's voice that answers.
It's a man's voice, deep and gravelly, somewhere behind Foggy in the dark.
"Mr. Murdock," that voice tells him, "is currently indisposed."
Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 1/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-18 06:21 am (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 1/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-18 08:52 am (UTC)(link)This is gonna be amazing in the most horrible ways, I am so here for it.
Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 1/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-18 05:02 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: And a Hard Place 2/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-19 02:19 pm (UTC)(link)===
It's the kind of feeling Foggy imagines you'd get if someone shoved you off the docks with your feet in cement. It's an icy feeling, breathless. The thought that he's going to die pounds through his head like his kid sister with a toy drum on Christmas morning.
"Who's there?" Foggy demands, and he means for it to come out as a threat, but his voice is strangled and scratchy from puking. "Don't come any closer."
"No one is here, Mr. Nelson," the voice informs him, neutral. "You're being monitored remotely."
Foggy feels unease scramble up his spine like a spider. He imagines video equipment there in the dark, then instantly wonders how much any video equipment could possibly pick up right now, given that he couldn't see the floor when it'd been a foot in front of him.
For a second, Foggy flounders, fear hobbling his feet. Then he starts forward again, arms out in front, common sense cringing in anticipation. If he keeps this up, some rational part of his mind whispers, Matt's not going to hold the record for terrible life choices very long.
"Yeah?" Foggy asks. "From where?"
He doesn't expect an answer. Really he doesn't. Life's not full of cartoon villains, who divulge their plans to anyone who wants to know.
But the voice replies anyway: "Elsewhere in the building."
It's like a bad horror movie. Snippets of half a dozen of them dance through his mind: crazy hillbillies, and chainsaws, and meat hooks. Foggy stops walking. Tries to stop thinking.
"So you," he stammers. "So you – what? Distract my partner so you can kidnap a level one defense attorney?" Foggy's heart is loud in his chest. He wonders if this is how Matt feels, all the time. "You could've made an appointment at the office. We've got coffee and everything."
And the voice actually laughs. The chuckle's low, and it makes all the hair on Foggy's arms stand up on end, like it's trying to jump free of a sinking ship.
"Oh, no," the voice says. "It's not your legal skills we're interested in."
Foggy catches a sound, then. It's in the background, muffled as though from bad audio.
"Ah," says the man. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Nelson." Then there's a hiss of static, brief and distinct, and silence.
The dark is absolute.
Foggy' ears go into overdrive, straining for a scrap of – well, anything, really. He'll take anything at this point.
But mostly, what he wants is to prove himself wrong. He wants something to drown out that last sound, there at the end, the one that's still ringing in his brain. There are warning bells attached to that sound, and some kind of siren shriek of wordless alarm. DANGER, that sound declares, and CAUTION, and ROAD ENDS AHEAD, and a thousand other advisory fragments in construction site yellow.
Foggy knows those particular thoughts well.
They're the kind of thoughts he gets at night, sitting up in his apartment, watching grainy news footage of Hell's Kitchen's newest up-and-coming awful thing – hoping and not hoping to catch a glimpse of some blind asshole lawyer playing dress-up.
They're his something's-wrong-with-Matt thoughts, and if he thinks too hard about why he needs to have a whole classification for those, Foggy's going to hate his life. So he doesn't.
But those thoughts? Those thoughts are ringing off the hook right now.
Because the sound over the audio connection, barely heard, was a sound Foggy knows. The memory of it ties into reckless nights at Columbia, into shots at Josie's, into Matt Murdock sprawled on Foggy's couch, bleary-eyed and hung over.
It's the sound of Foggy's name, slurred and tentative, in a voice he knows as well as his own.
Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 2/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-19 02:54 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 2/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-19 03:17 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 2/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-19 10:17 pm (UTC)(link)SON OF A BITCH
Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 2/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-19 10:18 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: And a Hard Place 3/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-20 06:51 pm (UTC)(link)===
By dawn, Foggy knows three very important things.
The first is that he's in someone's kitchen. It's about three times the size of the kitchen in his own cramped apartment, and there are empty cabinets and drawers for miles. Foggy's mom would've liked a kitchen like this. She complains about storage every time he comes home to visit.
Foggy explores in the dark, because the light switch does nothing when he finally finds it. The whole time, he wishes Matt was here, or that he had even a fifth of Matt's super senses, or that he felt less damn useless without his eyes.
The second thing is that there's no way out. The wall farthest from the cabinets is lined with windows, but someone's boarded them up from the inside. The wood's not old or decrepit or splintery; it's solid and new, like someone planned for this. Foggy pries at the boards, tries to get his fingers in under them – but even when he leans back, puts his whole weight into it, he can't get them free.
The door's a no go, too.
It's not just locked; the handle's missing completely. Where it ought to be, there's a hole that he can stick his hand into, until it hits – something. He doesn't know. Whatever's being used to bar it shut on the other side, maybe.
The third thing is that his mental picture of the audio system – some elaborate set-up with wires and high-tech equipment – couldn't possibly be further from the truth.
It turns out to be a baby monitor on a folding metal chair.
Foggy finds it when he bangs his shin on the chair and the monitor falls, crash and skid, loud on the tile. He picks it up to discover hard lines of plastic, the tiny rows of holes for the speakers, what feels like a soft rubber antenna at the top.
He turns the thing over in his hands, thinking this through.
They say you're supposed to talk to kidnappers, right? That you want them to think of you as a person, not just a job. Reasonable, likable – some guy you wouldn't mind going out for a drink with, if only you hadn't drugged him and carted him off to God knows where.
So Foggy says, "Hey, look," speaking into the monitor like it's a walkie-talkie. "Why don't you come in here and we can talk about this." He pauses a moment, then adds: "What do you want, even?"
The voice that comes back is the same man as before: low and gravelly, a bit breathy now. "Mr. Nelson," the man tells him. "If you don't put my equipment down— aah!"
It's a shout of surprise, Foggy thinks – but also pain. Definitely pain. The monitor picks up impact and then static when, presumably, the other half of the connection crashes to the floor.
Then nothing.
Get him, Matt, Foggy thinks – suddenly, violently hopeful. Wipe the goddamn floor with him.
He strains his ears, trying to catch a hint of – anything. If the guy was telling the truth about being in the same building, he might be able to pick something up, if they get loud enough about it.
And there it is, faint but audible. Another impact, and then another, like someone hanging up pictures on the other end of the house. Whud, whud, like a hammer on drywall. Then what sounds like it might be breaking glass.
Then… nothing.
Foggy listens, and he clutches at the baby monitor so tight he's sure the plastic seams are going to leave creases in his palms. "Come on," he whispers, "Come on."
He's not sure how long he stands there, in the dark, heart slamming in his chest, hope sticking in his throat like an over-inflated balloon.
But eventually, the baby monitor crackles back to life.
"As I was saying, Mr. Nelson," says the man's voice, winded. "Kindly put down my equipment."
Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 3/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-20 08:35 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 3/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-20 09:31 pm (UTC)(link)FILL: And a Hard Place 4/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-21 12:44 am (UTC)(link)===
"What the hell was that?" Foggy asks, even though he's got a pretty good idea exactly what that was.
"An unfortunate circumstance," the man's voice tells him pleasantly, "prompted by someone who doesn't know how to do as he's told."
Foggy puts the monitor down, textbook cautious. He feels like that should've been a class at Columbia – how not to piss off nutjobs. He feels like Matt could've really used a class like that.
"There," Foggy says. "All right? No circumstance." He licks at his lips – feels like he might throw up again. "Now what – what was that?"
But no reply comes.
For a long time, there's silence: no voice, no sounds of struggle, no nothing. The baby monitor sits where Foggy left it, and it doesn't crackle back to life.
He thinks about picking it up again. He thinks about fishing for information. In the end, he does another circuit of the room, feeling his way by touch, in the vague hope that he missed something obvious the first time, like an emergency exit with a neon sign pointing the way back to sanity and freedom.
No such luck.
Dawn comes eventually, slow and grey, and with it Foggy gets his first look at the place.
Admittedly, the light's filtering in between the boards on the windows, so it's not a very good look, but it's a start.
The kitchen's longer than it is wide – tile floor, low ceiling. The whole left wall's lined with cabinets, and there's an empty space in one corner where there probably used to be a refrigerator. The water works and the stove doesn't; the overhead fan trails cobwebs like carnival cotton candy. The only furniture in the room is the folding chair.
In the far corner, there's a video camera on the ceiling. It's bulky and old, probably a cheap home security system. When he knows what to look for, Foggy can see a little red light flashing on and off, at intervals, and he thinks suddenly, gratefully, that this isn't as bad as it seems. That this could be a whole lot worse.
They aren't talking Fisk, here. Whoever this is, they couldn't afford to put money into the set-up.
Small favors, thinks Foggy, fervently.
Foggy's puke is a puddle on the floor, dark and lumpy, and his mouth still tastes like something rotted in last night's drink. Charming flavor for a drug.
He turns the kitchen tap on and sticks his mouth under it – gargles and spits, then drinks. He's thirstier than he knew – gulps and gulps until the water is a cold, gurgling weight in his stomach. When he's finished, he feels – not better. Half a country's worth of road trip away from better.
But less rattled than he was before, at least.
He checks the cabinets, then the drawers – comes up with two dozen cans of soup, a hand-crank can-opener, and a single spoon, all laid out in one cabinet, in careful rows, as though they've been left on purpose.
He has a sudden vision of himself, charging into battle like some ancient ninja warrior, can tops as throwing stars. He has a second, probably more plausible, of Matt doing the same.
It's like something out a kid's cartoon, over-the-top ridiculous, and he can almost picture Matt's voice, mild and exasperated: "That's not really how it works, Foggy."
Foggy closes his eyes for a second, and he takes a shaky breath. He doesn't think about why he hasn't heard a single sound from the rest of the house for what must be – hours, now.
He doesn't think at all about the possibility that Matt might be dead already, not a hundred feet away.
Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 4/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-21 01:19 am (UTC)(link)(I'm kidding, I'm loving this so far. it's super frightening, not knowing)
FILL: And a Hard Place 5/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-21 05:40 pm (UTC)(link)It's been almost a day already – a whole day, and this is his first crack at the assholes who brought him here. So Foggy goes for the folding chair, means to clock the bastard upside the head when he steps into the room, but the voice interrupts. "My colleagues," it assures him, "are watching the video feed in the other room, Mr. Nelson."
Foggy's breath rushes out in a little huff, along with the hope that maybe the guy was working alone. Maybe it was just some solo lunatic.
He glares at the camera with vigor. Then he glares with conviction. He considers a one-fingered salute, then decides against it.
Not pissing off the crazies is a good thing, he reminds himself.
So Foggy goes over to the window-wall and stands there. He puts his hands flat on his head, and he says, "Were you gonna tell me where my partner is?"
"Kneel," says the voice, and Foggy feels anxiety come and settle in his stomach like an old friend. It's right at home with the frantic why-haven't-they-said-anything-about-Matt worry that's been clawing him apart.
He's going to have an ulcer, if they make it out of this alive.
But Foggy swallows, and he kneels. "Okay," he says. "I'm down."
They must have been checking – calling to each other down the hall. The words aren't even out of his mouth before the door cracks open.
He's not sure what he's expecting. Maybe a gun and a bullet in his head. What he gets instead is a thick stack of towels, tossed onto the floor. After that comes something small, shaped like a cylinder, and a brown bottle with a white cap.
Then the door cracks open wider, and they toss in Matt.
He makes a noise when he hits the ground – a groan that's barely there, like maybe he just doesn't have the strength left for anything else. And Foggy – Foggy makes a noise, too. It's frantic and strangled, and if this were any other situation, he'd have been embarrassed by it, but he thinks he's entitled to frantic and strangled right now.
Because Matt's spread out on the ground like – like some classical painting of a martyr, pale and pretty and covered in blood. His shirt's gone, and his shoes, and the skin Foggy can see is not a healthy flesh tone.
He's up off his knees before he thinks it through – halfway across the room before he even remembers the possibility of a gun. But the door slams shut, and there's a rattle at the other side, like it's being secured, and Foggy's never cared less about anything in his life.
"Matt?" he asks, voice high-pitched with alarm.
He hovers for a second, afraid to touch. From here, up close, he can see the damage: the purple and black mottling that covers most of Matt's torso, the eye swollen shut, the way one ankle is bigger than the other, thick and red. His hands are cuffed behind his back, and the wrists are rubbed raw, open sores beneath the metal.
And Matt's chest – Matt's chest is carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Thick, straight lines running parallel all the way down it, the chasms of the wounds a visceral crimson. There's at least twenty of them, and some are still oozing.
Foggy's dizzy, suddenly, because there's no way in hell those are fight wounds.
Those are deliberate.
Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 5/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-21 06:04 pm (UTC)(link)Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 5/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-22 12:46 am (UTC)(link)Do they know he's Daredevil? Why are they doing this?! Why are the hurting Matt specifically!!! How will they get out of this??? Ahhhhh!
FILL: And a Hard Place 6/?
(Anonymous) 2015-06-23 02:28 pm (UTC)(link)And Foggy hadn't heard a thing. Hadn't had a goddamn clue.
That's the thought that spurs him into motion, and he's never been more grateful for Claire than in that moment.
Because even while his hands are shaking, Foggy's moving on autopilot. Even while his stomach's doing backflips like it's going to empty itself all over the floor again, he's going for one of the towels. Some deep-down part of him is taking the first aid lessons she'd insisted on after the most recent past-2-am emergency call, and it's turning them into action.
The towel goes from white to red with astonishing speed, colors seeping in like he's tie-dying a t-shirt. There's so much he can smell it. But the bleeding's slowed down from what it must have been before, and that's – that's something. He can work with that.
"Matt?" Foggy says, and glances, frantically, toward what else got thrown in with the towels. The cylinder's a spool of thread with a needle sticking out of it; the brown bottle's hydrogen peroxide. He picks up the spool with unsteady hands. "Stay with me, buddy."
Matt's lips move, like he's trying to say something.
It takes Foggy three tries to thread the needle. The eye at the top's going up-down-up with the motion of his own fingers. "I didn't catch that," he says, and there it is, there it goes, finally.
Matt shifts a little, so his face isn't pressed up against the floor. "S'not as bad as it looks," he slurs.
"Yeah, well." Foggy pops the cap on the peroxide, splashes some onto a fresh towel, and rubs it all over the needle and thread. "That's not exactly hard at this point." Foggy swallows. "Hey," he says. "Incoming. This is gonna hurt."
It does hurt; Foggy can tell, because Matt hisses and arches when the peroxide splashes across the wounds, a whole sea of tiny white bubbles. Foggy presses the towel down against it, dabs to dry the area.
"Almost done," he promises. "Almost done."
When he takes it away, this towel is red, too, and Matt goes limp again, panting.
But the important thing is that the wounds aren't as deep as Foggy'd been afraid of. Cleaned up, they're bad but not – not irreparable. They're not hospital-bad, he thinks, but the bad lighting makes it hard to be sure.
"Okay," says Foggy. "I'm going to – to do this now."
Matt gives a little huff of air, and Foggy's got no idea what that's supposed to be. A sigh? A protest? Just an exhale? He waits a second for something more substantial, but nothing comes.
"I'm taking that as a yes," Foggy tells him, and leans in.
Re: FILL: And a Hard Place 6/?
(Anonymous) - 2015-06-23 18:20 (UTC) - ExpandRe: FILL: And a Hard Place 6/?
(Anonymous) - 2015-07-08 16:42 (UTC) - Expand