When they check in at reception, Foggy can feel Matt’s fingers tighten on his arm as they take his cane away, but he doesn’t protest. Foggy is starting to get a bad feeling about this, but doesn’t yet say anything when they are both led into an examination room.
The nurses who come to check on them first aren’t cruel, but they also clearly don’t view the slaves as people. As soon as they enter the examination room, Matt is ordered to strip off his clothing, without even being given a smock or a little changing room like Foggy remembers from his own doctor’s visits. And he can see Matt tries not to show his unease, tries to strip as mechanically and unhesitatingly as most slaves do, but he can’t quite manage it, the hint of embarrassment and humiliation is there. Foggy swallows, turning his face away even though he knows Matt can’t see it, and wishes the nurses would, too. This is your fault, a voice in his head whispers, you let him get used to be treated decently, and now you’re throwing him right back to the wolves. This is called being cruel, Nelson, it says, and Foggy wishes he knew what the right thing to do even is.
As soon as Matt’s naked, a nurse unceremoniously grabs his arm and he flinches, stumbling onto the scales she drags him onto. Foggy wants to look away.
Matt wearing his impenetrable, red-tinted sunglasses, in sleekly-cut, dark clothing, a razor-sharp smile on his face when he’s killing someone in a debate, is such a jarring contrast to Matt now, naked, bruised, shoved under unforgiving neon light, and stumbling when nobody bothers to warn him about things on the floor, that Foggy hates himself, because he’s pretty sure Matt wouldn’t ever have wanted anyone to see him like this.
“Um,” he says, not quite either addressing Matt or the nurse, “Y’know, maybe I should just wait-“
And Matt’s head flies around, even as he is manhandled onto the scale, and he seems to shake his head urgently in Foggy’s direction. No, he mouthes.
“-or maybe I’ll stay? If that’s okay?” Foggy asks, befuddled and feeling like he’s floundering. “You can do whatever you wish, sir,” the nurse replies as she positions Matt on the scale and notes down his weight.
“Alright. I’ll…I’ll just sit down here, then.” Foggy swallows and moves over to the chair he has put Matt’s clothes on after they hadn’t offered to take them and apparently expected him to just drop them on the floor. Matt gives him the tiniest nod, before he is already taken off the scale again, and the note-taking continues.
Matt is also measured (and Foggy clenches his hands on his thighs, because they do measure him everywhere), has his temperature taken (“Maybe he shivers because he isn’t wearing anything, not because he has a fever,” Foggy scathes, as one of the nurses comments on Matt shuddering from time to time, but is largely ignored. Matt does turn his head and give him a slight, tightly-wound smile as the nurse is not paying any attention to him while taking his blood pressure, which Foggy supposes is better than nothing.) Before they proceed to call in the doctor, they do actually ask Foggy whether Matt needs to be buckled down or whether he is ‘well-behaved’ enough, and it’s all Foggy can do to not snap at them that Matt isn’t an animal, and suggesting that the doctor is the one in need to get his head examined.
“No,” he says instead, hollowly. “No, he can follow orders just fine.”
Matt is standing awkwardly next to him, still shivering slightly without any clothes, and a part of Foggy registers how he now actually seems more self-conscious about being naked than when Foggy first got him. Foggy has already realized that the previous owners of Matt regarded clothes more as a rare privilege than a given necessity, but since he hasn’t ordered Matt once to undress for him after that first night of awkward patching-up, it has been a while since he was last on display like this.
Foggy hates himself a little for first allowing Matt to feel human again and keep his dignity only to then force him to a place where he is stripped off it all over again.
“Rough punishment?” is the first thing the doctor says in lieu of greeting when he enters and sees Matt and the collection of bruises as well as the cut.
“Uh…kind of? Some of it was an accident,” Foggy stumbles through a half-lie. Matt hadn’t wanted to tell him the truth – according to him, he ‘fell and landed in glass shards’, which would have sounded like the biggest cop-out if Foggy had tried to tell that a medical professional. The doctor gives him a look that is not at all impressed.
“Perhaps you should read up on proper punishment techniques,” the doctor – a middle-aged, dark-haired, slim man with an air of indifference and too little sleep – says, as he bends close to examine the wound, Matt barely keeping from flinching as he prods at it without announcement. “That cut is infected and the bruises aren’t far from actually vital organs.”
“Oh. Right,” Foggy swallows. Next to him, Matt looks guilty and shameful, which obliterates any desire Foggy had to serve him a giant ‘I Told You So’-sundae, with a self-satisfaction cherry on top. Instead, he tries to reach out to pat him on the upper arm. “I’m sorry. I really want him to be healthy.”
Again, the doctor looks at him a little disparagingly, but then shakes his head.
“Very well,” he says instead, “in that case, get him to sit down on that table. Legs apart, hands behind his back. Does he need a gag, or a muzzle?”
“No. No, he doesn’t,” Foggy replies flatly, trying for Matt’s sake to remain calm. The little flash of relief on Matt’s face as Foggy grants him his requests of not having to be restrained almost makes Foggy’s stomach turn over.
Still, he can’t help but feel a little better when he sees how Matt looks now compared to when he saw him naked for the last time. The old wounds, at least, have faded to faint scars, and his slightly-too-thin frame has filled out with what is definitely muscle. The work-out sessions at the gym and the college meal plan seem to be having an effect. Matt has put on some hair on and between his legs, too – Foggy remembers with a twitch how Matt had once off-handedly mentioned how his previous owners had kept him shaved, and how ingrown hairs everywhere were currently a bitch (and words rhyming with ‘bitch’). Foggy had forced a sympathetic clap on Matt’s shoulder, because everything else would have meant another internal freak-out.
Seeing Matt now, sitting miserably and exposed on the table, startling whenever the doctor handles him, unannounced, to survey his glands, to check for melanoma, ingrown nails and open sores anywhere, makes him open his mouth to look at his throat, gums and teeth, draws blood to check for infections and grabs his hair to test its thickness before pressing a not-warmed up stethoscope against his chest, Foggy wants to take both Matt’s previous owners, as well as careless doctors, and throw them all out the window.
Instead, all he can do is look away and hold Matt’s hand as they inform him that a mandatory check for STDs is up next and Matt tries to stop himself from cringing away as they insert the cotton swab inside his urethral canal, head tilted toward the ceiling and eyes suspiciously glistening. They assure Foggy, whose emotions have to be showing on his face, that the procedure is painless, though Foggy is pretty sure Matt’s reaction has little to do with physical pain and more to do with, once again, people touching him against his will and him not being able to do a single thing about it. Foggy has to control himself not to throw up, but Matt has asked him to stay, keeps squeezing his hand through the procedure, so he stays.
When the nurse handling Matt goes “Aw, what a good boy you have here. Usually they panic so much we have to tie them down, but yours is exceptionally obedient. You’ve trained him well,’ patting Matt’s hip as she pulls the cotton tip out of Matt again, Foggy has to stop himself from murdering everyone within twenty yards.
Instead he just whispers ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ over and over again in between procedures and Matt only once turns and gives him a strange look in between the helpless and the grateful. At least they do stitch, dress and disinfect his wounds, at which Matt worryingly flinches as little as the night Foggy got him.
“Alright. Your slave seems healthy, though I will have to prescribe a course of antibiotics for the infection,” the doctor briefly glances at his notepad, not really looking at either of them. “Has he been used for sex, in the last two years?”
“Ergh,” Foggy replies eloquently, then “Yes,” at Matt’s tiniest, near imperceptible nod. Matt was so right, this was a terrible idea and Foggy will never insist on doing this again. “But I don’t, uh, need him…cleaned, or anything. Anywhere,” he fumbles to add, almost feeling sick himself.
“Yeah, yeah,” The doctor nods absently. “In either case, he’s due two vaccination refreshers, too – might as well get that over with as we finish up. You can already go down to reception to pick up your paperwork. Just make sure to look up proper punishment techniques before you apply corrective measures the next time.” Now he does glance up at Foggy, and his entire tone seems to be a variation of ‘So you don’t take up my valuable time because you fucked up your pet again’.
“Uh,” Foggy says, trying not to sound too hopeful. “So we’re done?”
“Mostly,” the doctor says, already pulling out a syringe and filling it with what is presumably the vaccine he talked about. “Get him to stand up and bend over the table, and you can leave.”
“Um,” Foggy swallows as he shuffles closer to Matt’s side while the nurse is getting out what looks like antiseptic wipes and a syringe “Do you want me to…?”
“You can leave,” Matt’s reply is murmured even more quietly than Foggy’s question was, both them feeling awkward as always when made aware of how unorthodox their relationship is. Matt is sliding off the table now, standing close to Foggy’s side, head bowed in what could be submission, but Foggy suspects is more like awful embarrassment. “I’ll…I’ll be fine. You don’t have to watch this, too. I can tell this is distressing for you.”
“I’ll do what you want me to,” Foggy says, feeling terribly unsure of whether Matt would like him gone to preserve a last shred of his dignity after all or would like him to stay to feel safer. Matt being, well, Matt, Foggy suspects the former but he can’t shake a lasting, gnawing feeling.
“We are almost done, yeah?” He asks the doctor again. “Just this left? You already checked off that he was healthy, I don’t want any other unnecessary procedures performed.”
“Hm? Yes, yes,” the doctor replies, more focused on making sure no air is left in the syringe than actually looking terribly interested in Foggy or Matt. Foggy suspects slave doctors hardly get selected for their bedside manner or ethical standards.
“It’s okay,” Matt tells him quietly. “Go. They’ll give me my clothes and cane back after and I’ll come find you.”
I’ll come find you. For some reason, Foggy can feel his throat constricting as if he were being garrotted.
“All…Alright, then.” Foggy swallows to get rid of the feeling, ineffectually. “Sorry,” he whispers, just for Matt’s ears, as he gives him a last squeeze of his biceps, Matt already leaning forward on the examination table, head bowed. He gives a fierce little nod and Foggy leaves as the doctor approaches with the wipes in one latex-gloved hand, loaded syringe in the other. It’s pretty clear where Matt is supposed to receive the shot if they want him in this position, and Foggy closes the door audibly so Matt knows he is at least spared the audience of the one person who views him as a human being.
Foggy firmly resolves to take Matt out for seriously fancy food after they get out of here, and maybe buy him a very soft cushion to sit on.
“Hello. My name is Nelson. I’m here to pick up the general letter of health and an antibiotics prescription for my slave, 10-4-1964…?” Foggy approaches the receptionist, the one person in this building who actually smiles at him, still feeling weird whenever he calls Matt by his system number rather than the name he now knows is what he actually considers his own.
“Ah, yes, of course. Just one moment while I print it out for you…” the young blonde woman gives him a smile and proceeds to click away at her computer, while Foggy tries not to let his gaze wander around too much the reception area and waiting rooms. There is a mixed clientele of free people by themselves (and a kid with their parent) and other owners with their pets, all of whom look exactly as miserable as Matt, some of them downright terrified. Foggy suspects that this is what it would look like if the waiting room at a vet’s office was populated by people instead of animals and kind of hates himself for that thought. Some of the slaves get to sit on chairs like Matt did, though, and Foggy vainly hopes that this means their owners treat them at least halfway decently. God, he can’t wait to a) free Matt and b) become a lawyer so he can work against shit like this.
“Um. Sorry. Printer problems,” the receptionist interrupts his thoughts and shoots him an apologetic expression as she starts to wrestle with the electronic equipment. “Shouldn’t take more than a minute, hopefully.”
“Sure,” Foggy says, now a bit absent-minded himself as he starts getting antsy when he realizes that some minutes have passed already. Shouldn’t Matt have come out by now? How long can two vaccinations take?”
“What? But F- Mr. Nelson said –“
Foggy’s ears strain as he thinks he might just have heard what sounded like Matt’s voice behind the door - but that doesn’t make any sense, Matt had said he wouldn’t be allowed to talk in here. Foggy frowns, not able to catch anything else, attention half divided between the whimpers from the waiting room, the quiet (but inventive) cursing from the receptionist and wondering whether his imagination just played a trick on him or not.
“No. No, please –“
“ – standard procedure. Nurse, get –“
Now that was definitely the doctor’s voice, though, and it sounded annoyed. Foggy straightens himself immediately, all of his attention focused on the closed examination room door, heart beginning to pound. Should he…?
“- making this difficult. Slaves as responsive as this one-“
- is the next thing Foggy hears, the doctor’s voice again, but then, then, there’s a cry from Matt, something terrible that sound like anger, anguish and something worse mixed in, and before the receptionist can even say anything, he’s already past the counter and comes crashing back into the practice.
“Right, get ready to note the – what-?” the doctor’s head turns, just as Foggy bursts into the room again, and freezes – mostly because Matt is currently bent nearly flat over the table, shaking, his hands clawing into the material as the doctor’s fingers have worked him wide open and proceed to push deeper inside.
“No. Please don’t make me-!” Matt cries out again, just before his body convulses against the table helplessly in an unmistakeable manner, and his flushed face is so full of helplessness and rage and shame, head turned around to not-see Foggy, that Foggy feels something strange and new and sharp come over him, and he walks right up and backhands the doctor straight across the face.
Re: FILL: [16c/?] Foggy gets Matt as a College Graduation Present
xxx
When they check in at reception, Foggy can feel Matt’s fingers tighten on his arm as they take his cane away, but he doesn’t protest. Foggy is starting to get a bad feeling about this, but doesn’t yet say anything when they are both led into an examination room.
The nurses who come to check on them first aren’t cruel, but they also clearly don’t view the slaves as people. As soon as they enter the examination room, Matt is ordered to strip off his clothing, without even being given a smock or a little changing room like Foggy remembers from his own doctor’s visits. And he can see Matt tries not to show his unease, tries to strip as mechanically and unhesitatingly as most slaves do, but he can’t quite manage it, the hint of embarrassment and humiliation is there. Foggy swallows, turning his face away even though he knows Matt can’t see it, and wishes the nurses would, too. This is your fault, a voice in his head whispers, you let him get used to be treated decently, and now you’re throwing him right back to the wolves. This is called being cruel, Nelson, it says, and Foggy wishes he knew what the right thing to do even is.
As soon as Matt’s naked, a nurse unceremoniously grabs his arm and he flinches, stumbling onto the scales she drags him onto. Foggy wants to look away.
Matt wearing his impenetrable, red-tinted sunglasses, in sleekly-cut, dark clothing, a razor-sharp smile on his face when he’s killing someone in a debate, is such a jarring contrast to Matt now, naked, bruised, shoved under unforgiving neon light, and stumbling when nobody bothers to warn him about things on the floor, that Foggy hates himself, because he’s pretty sure Matt wouldn’t ever have wanted anyone to see him like this.
“Um,” he says, not quite either addressing Matt or the nurse, “Y’know, maybe I should just wait-“
And Matt’s head flies around, even as he is manhandled onto the scale, and he seems to shake his head urgently in Foggy’s direction. No, he mouthes.
“-or maybe I’ll stay? If that’s okay?” Foggy asks, befuddled and feeling like he’s floundering. “You can do whatever you wish, sir,” the nurse replies as she positions Matt on the scale and notes down his weight.
“Alright. I’ll…I’ll just sit down here, then.” Foggy swallows and moves over to the chair he has put Matt’s clothes on after they hadn’t offered to take them and apparently expected him to just drop them on the floor. Matt gives him the tiniest nod, before he is already taken off the scale again, and the note-taking continues.
Matt is also measured (and Foggy clenches his hands on his thighs, because they do measure him everywhere), has his temperature taken (“Maybe he shivers because he isn’t wearing anything, not because he has a fever,” Foggy scathes, as one of the nurses comments on Matt shuddering from time to time, but is largely ignored. Matt does turn his head and give him a slight, tightly-wound smile as the nurse is not paying any attention to him while taking his blood pressure, which Foggy supposes is better than nothing.) Before they proceed to call in the doctor, they do actually ask Foggy whether Matt needs to be buckled down or whether he is ‘well-behaved’ enough, and it’s all Foggy can do to not snap at them that Matt isn’t an animal, and suggesting that the doctor is the one in need to get his head examined.
“No,” he says instead, hollowly. “No, he can follow orders just fine.”
Matt is standing awkwardly next to him, still shivering slightly without any clothes, and a part of Foggy registers how he now actually seems more self-conscious about being naked than when Foggy first got him. Foggy has already realized that the previous owners of Matt regarded clothes more as a rare privilege than a given necessity, but since he hasn’t ordered Matt once to undress for him after that first night of awkward patching-up, it has been a while since he was last on display like this.
Foggy hates himself a little for first allowing Matt to feel human again and keep his dignity only to then force him to a place where he is stripped off it all over again.
“Rough punishment?” is the first thing the doctor says in lieu of greeting when he enters and sees Matt and the collection of bruises as well as the cut.
“Uh…kind of? Some of it was an accident,” Foggy stumbles through a half-lie. Matt hadn’t wanted to tell him the truth – according to him, he ‘fell and landed in glass shards’, which would have sounded like the biggest cop-out if Foggy had tried to tell that a medical professional. The doctor gives him a look that is not at all impressed.
“Perhaps you should read up on proper punishment techniques,” the doctor – a middle-aged, dark-haired, slim man with an air of indifference and too little sleep – says, as he bends close to examine the wound, Matt barely keeping from flinching as he prods at it without announcement. “That cut is infected and the bruises aren’t far from actually vital organs.”
“Oh. Right,” Foggy swallows. Next to him, Matt looks guilty and shameful, which obliterates any desire Foggy had to serve him a giant ‘I Told You So’-sundae, with a self-satisfaction cherry on top. Instead, he tries to reach out to pat him on the upper arm. “I’m sorry. I really want him to be healthy.”
Again, the doctor looks at him a little disparagingly, but then shakes his head.
“Very well,” he says instead, “in that case, get him to sit down on that table. Legs apart, hands behind his back. Does he need a gag, or a muzzle?”
“No. No, he doesn’t,” Foggy replies flatly, trying for Matt’s sake to remain calm. The little flash of relief on Matt’s face as Foggy grants him his requests of not having to be restrained almost makes Foggy’s stomach turn over.
Still, he can’t help but feel a little better when he sees how Matt looks now compared to when he saw him naked for the last time. The old wounds, at least, have faded to faint scars, and his slightly-too-thin frame has filled out with what is definitely muscle. The work-out sessions at the gym and the college meal plan seem to be having an effect. Matt has put on some hair on and between his legs, too – Foggy remembers with a twitch how Matt had once off-handedly mentioned how his previous owners had kept him shaved, and how ingrown hairs everywhere were currently a bitch (and words rhyming with ‘bitch’). Foggy had forced a sympathetic clap on Matt’s shoulder, because everything else would have meant another internal freak-out.
Seeing Matt now, sitting miserably and exposed on the table, startling whenever the doctor handles him, unannounced, to survey his glands, to check for melanoma, ingrown nails and open sores anywhere, makes him open his mouth to look at his throat, gums and teeth, draws blood to check for infections and grabs his hair to test its thickness before pressing a not-warmed up stethoscope against his chest, Foggy wants to take both Matt’s previous owners, as well as careless doctors, and throw them all out the window.
Instead, all he can do is look away and hold Matt’s hand as they inform him that a mandatory check for STDs is up next and Matt tries to stop himself from cringing away as they insert the cotton swab inside his urethral canal, head tilted toward the ceiling and eyes suspiciously glistening. They assure Foggy, whose emotions have to be showing on his face, that the procedure is painless, though Foggy is pretty sure Matt’s reaction has little to do with physical pain and more to do with, once again, people touching him against his will and him not being able to do a single thing about it. Foggy has to control himself not to throw up, but Matt has asked him to stay, keeps squeezing his hand through the procedure, so he stays.
When the nurse handling Matt goes “Aw, what a good boy you have here. Usually they panic so much we have to tie them down, but yours is exceptionally obedient. You’ve trained him well,’ patting Matt’s hip as she pulls the cotton tip out of Matt again, Foggy has to stop himself from murdering everyone within twenty yards.
Instead he just whispers ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ over and over again in between procedures and Matt only once turns and gives him a strange look in between the helpless and the grateful. At least they do stitch, dress and disinfect his wounds, at which Matt worryingly flinches as little as the night Foggy got him.
“Alright. Your slave seems healthy, though I will have to prescribe a course of antibiotics for the infection,” the doctor briefly glances at his notepad, not really looking at either of them. “Has he been used for sex, in the last two years?”
“Ergh,” Foggy replies eloquently, then “Yes,” at Matt’s tiniest, near imperceptible nod. Matt was so right, this was a terrible idea and Foggy will never insist on doing this again. “But I don’t, uh, need him…cleaned, or anything. Anywhere,” he fumbles to add, almost feeling sick himself.
“Yeah, yeah,” The doctor nods absently. “In either case, he’s due two vaccination refreshers, too – might as well get that over with as we finish up. You can already go down to reception to pick up your paperwork. Just make sure to look up proper punishment techniques before you apply corrective measures the next time.” Now he does glance up at Foggy, and his entire tone seems to be a variation of ‘So you don’t take up my valuable time because you fucked up your pet again’.
“Uh,” Foggy says, trying not to sound too hopeful. “So we’re done?”
“Mostly,” the doctor says, already pulling out a syringe and filling it with what is presumably the vaccine he talked about. “Get him to stand up and bend over the table, and you can leave.”
“Um,” Foggy swallows as he shuffles closer to Matt’s side while the nurse is getting out what looks like antiseptic wipes and a syringe “Do you want me to…?”
“You can leave,” Matt’s reply is murmured even more quietly than Foggy’s question was, both them feeling awkward as always when made aware of how unorthodox their relationship is. Matt is sliding off the table now, standing close to Foggy’s side, head bowed in what could be submission, but Foggy suspects is more like awful embarrassment. “I’ll…I’ll be fine. You don’t have to watch this, too. I can tell this is distressing for you.”
“I’ll do what you want me to,” Foggy says, feeling terribly unsure of whether Matt would like him gone to preserve a last shred of his dignity after all or would like him to stay to feel safer. Matt being, well, Matt, Foggy suspects the former but he can’t shake a lasting, gnawing feeling.
“We are almost done, yeah?” He asks the doctor again. “Just this left? You already checked off that he was healthy, I don’t want any other unnecessary procedures performed.”
“Hm? Yes, yes,” the doctor replies, more focused on making sure no air is left in the syringe than actually looking terribly interested in Foggy or Matt. Foggy suspects slave doctors hardly get selected for their bedside manner or ethical standards.
“It’s okay,” Matt tells him quietly. “Go. They’ll give me my clothes and cane back after and I’ll come find you.”
I’ll come find you. For some reason, Foggy can feel his throat constricting as if he were being garrotted.
“All…Alright, then.” Foggy swallows to get rid of the feeling, ineffectually. “Sorry,” he whispers, just for Matt’s ears, as he gives him a last squeeze of his biceps, Matt already leaning forward on the examination table, head bowed. He gives a fierce little nod and Foggy leaves as the doctor approaches with the wipes in one latex-gloved hand, loaded syringe in the other. It’s pretty clear where Matt is supposed to receive the shot if they want him in this position, and Foggy closes the door audibly so Matt knows he is at least spared the audience of the one person who views him as a human being.
Foggy firmly resolves to take Matt out for seriously fancy food after they get out of here, and maybe buy him a very soft cushion to sit on.
“Hello. My name is Nelson. I’m here to pick up the general letter of health and an antibiotics prescription for my slave, 10-4-1964…?” Foggy approaches the receptionist, the one person in this building who actually smiles at him, still feeling weird whenever he calls Matt by his system number rather than the name he now knows is what he actually considers his own.
“Ah, yes, of course. Just one moment while I print it out for you…” the young blonde woman gives him a smile and proceeds to click away at her computer, while Foggy tries not to let his gaze wander around too much the reception area and waiting rooms. There is a mixed clientele of free people by themselves (and a kid with their parent) and other owners with their pets, all of whom look exactly as miserable as Matt, some of them downright terrified. Foggy suspects that this is what it would look like if the waiting room at a vet’s office was populated by people instead of animals and kind of hates himself for that thought. Some of the slaves get to sit on chairs like Matt did, though, and Foggy vainly hopes that this means their owners treat them at least halfway decently. God, he can’t wait to a) free Matt and b) become a lawyer so he can work against shit like this.
“Um. Sorry. Printer problems,” the receptionist interrupts his thoughts and shoots him an apologetic expression as she starts to wrestle with the electronic equipment. “Shouldn’t take more than a minute, hopefully.”
“Sure,” Foggy says, now a bit absent-minded himself as he starts getting antsy when he realizes that some minutes have passed already. Shouldn’t Matt have come out by now? How long can two vaccinations take?”
“What? But F- Mr. Nelson said –“
Foggy’s ears strain as he thinks he might just have heard what sounded like Matt’s voice behind the door - but that doesn’t make any sense, Matt had said he wouldn’t be allowed to talk in here. Foggy frowns, not able to catch anything else, attention half divided between the whimpers from the waiting room, the quiet (but inventive) cursing from the receptionist and wondering whether his imagination just played a trick on him or not.
“No. No, please –“
“ – standard procedure. Nurse, get –“
Now that was definitely the doctor’s voice, though, and it sounded annoyed. Foggy straightens himself immediately, all of his attention focused on the closed examination room door, heart beginning to pound. Should he…?
“- making this difficult. Slaves as responsive as this one-“
- is the next thing Foggy hears, the doctor’s voice again, but then, then, there’s a cry from Matt, something terrible that sound like anger, anguish and something worse mixed in, and before the receptionist can even say anything, he’s already past the counter and comes crashing back into the practice.
“Right, get ready to note the – what-?” the doctor’s head turns, just as Foggy bursts into the room again, and freezes – mostly because Matt is currently bent nearly flat over the table, shaking, his hands clawing into the material as the doctor’s fingers have worked him wide open and proceed to push deeper inside.
“No. Please don’t make me-!” Matt cries out again, just before his body convulses against the table helplessly in an unmistakeable manner, and his flushed face is so full of helplessness and rage and shame, head turned around to not-see Foggy, that Foggy feels something strange and new and sharp come over him, and he walks right up and backhands the doctor straight across the face.
xxx