Matt pauses to stop the world from spinning. “Can you move?” he asks.
“They've got one of those plastic things. You know, the bands, they get tighter and you can't--”
“They're called zip ties.”
“Oh. Well, it's stuck through something on the wall.” Foggy laughs hollowly. “Unless you somehow got a knife...”
Matt takes stock of the room and its contents. There's the chair they'd taped him to in the corner, a trickle of air through one side, through a grill probably too small for him to fit an arm inside, even if he were somehow able to get it off. It smells slightly of dust and oil. And beyond the background noise, he's sure that the only electric thing in here is the bulb above them.
“Foggy, that – light. Is there anything around it?”
“Nothing. The switch must be outside, though, because I don't see any – Matt, what are you doing?”
Matt rolls heavily onto one elbow. His muscles can barely support his weight, and his bones pop unpleasantly. But, after what feels like hours, he makes it to his knees.
“I told you, you can't do this to yourself.”
Matt skims his good hand along the floor until he finds a piece of his shirt, torn and soaked with sweat. He clutches it, fighting back the memory of that weight on his back, the revulsion and helplessness. Then he grits his teeth in preparation for the pain he knows is coming next.
“Matt!”
“This is our only – only chance,” he says, drawing as deep a breath as his cracked rib will allow. “And I can't do it alone. We need... to get you loose.”
They haven't hurt his legs, at least. He can be thankful for that. It's not much, though, as his rib screeches and hot blood swells in his broken hand. He desperately tries to keep his screams low, and he's nearly glad he's blind, because he wouldn't be able to see now anyways, through the tears in his eyes.
The bulb burns like a sun above his head. He swallows and reaches up with his good arm, hoping it's as low as it feels from down here.
“It's... it's a little in front of you.” Foggy's voice has come back a little stronger. “Be careful.”
He yelps and jerks his hand back as his fingers brush the hot glass. It's just low enough, he decides, tugging up the piece of his shirt with his teeth. It had better be.
His ribs protest again, and they're not the only thing. But his hand is insulated from the worst of the heat, and he feels the bulb jiggle. One, he counts, twisting it as far as his fingers will allow. Two. Three. He can't think about that door opening again, or of what he'll do when it does. This slow rotation, at least, is completely under his control. Four. Five.
His arm is tiring quickly, and he turns faster, feeling the light loosen. Ten, eleven –
It slips out of its socket, sliding through his clumsy, cloth-wrapped hand. The crash sounds like a chandelier hitting a hall of mirrors, but that's only to him, he thinks. There's nobody close enough to have heard it outside that thick metal door.
He drops to his knees, ignoring the sliver of glass that buries itself in his skin. He ignores the lightness in his head, ignores the cuts as he sweeps the floor. Ignores everything except the metal base of the bulb, its edges brittle with glass.
“Spread your hands out,” he tells Foggy as he crawls over, trying to avoid the rest of the broken bulb. “And stretch the, stretch the... plastic as tight as you can.”
How much longer does he have? If only he knew, and he could sink his head into Foggy's jacket and shut his eyes and feel, for a moment, safe.
Not yet. He grips the bulb in shaking fingers and fits its jagged edges into the plastic around Foggy's wrists. It's thin, like the tie they used on him. Maybe it will fray. No, not maybe. It has to.
He thought the glass would slice like a knife, but it's slippery, always threatening to leap off the tie and into Foggy's skin. Keeping it in place would be hard enough with two hands, but his right hand is worse than useless, stiff and swollen at his side. It's not strong like a knife either – he can feel pieces chipping off with every nick in the plastic.
Foggy is so still he's barely breathing. When Matt loses control and the edge of the glass touches his skin, he flinches, just for a second. That's all. Matt could hug him for it, if he were capable of doing anything but sawing at the tie. His cramping, aching hand feels like it's been clutching the bulb forever.
Re: FILL 10/? Matt & Foggy are kidnapped. (non-con/torture)
“They've got one of those plastic things. You know, the bands, they get tighter and you can't--”
“They're called zip ties.”
“Oh. Well, it's stuck through something on the wall.” Foggy laughs hollowly. “Unless you somehow got a knife...”
Matt takes stock of the room and its contents. There's the chair they'd taped him to in the corner, a trickle of air through one side, through a grill probably too small for him to fit an arm inside, even if he were somehow able to get it off. It smells slightly of dust and oil. And beyond the background noise, he's sure that the only electric thing in here is the bulb above them.
“Foggy, that – light. Is there anything around it?”
“Nothing. The switch must be outside, though, because I don't see any – Matt, what are you doing?”
Matt rolls heavily onto one elbow. His muscles can barely support his weight, and his bones pop unpleasantly. But, after what feels like hours, he makes it to his knees.
“I told you, you can't do this to yourself.”
Matt skims his good hand along the floor until he finds a piece of his shirt, torn and soaked with sweat. He clutches it, fighting back the memory of that weight on his back, the revulsion and helplessness. Then he grits his teeth in preparation for the pain he knows is coming next.
“Matt!”
“This is our only – only chance,” he says, drawing as deep a breath as his cracked rib will allow. “And I can't do it alone. We need... to get you loose.”
They haven't hurt his legs, at least. He can be thankful for that. It's not much, though, as his rib screeches and hot blood swells in his broken hand. He desperately tries to keep his screams low, and he's nearly glad he's blind, because he wouldn't be able to see now anyways, through the tears in his eyes.
The bulb burns like a sun above his head. He swallows and reaches up with his good arm, hoping it's as low as it feels from down here.
“It's... it's a little in front of you.” Foggy's voice has come back a little stronger. “Be careful.”
He yelps and jerks his hand back as his fingers brush the hot glass. It's just low enough, he decides, tugging up the piece of his shirt with his teeth. It had better be.
His ribs protest again, and they're not the only thing. But his hand is insulated from the worst of the heat, and he feels the bulb jiggle. One, he counts, twisting it as far as his fingers will allow. Two. Three. He can't think about that door opening again, or of what he'll do when it does. This slow rotation, at least, is completely under his control. Four. Five.
His arm is tiring quickly, and he turns faster, feeling the light loosen. Ten, eleven –
It slips out of its socket, sliding through his clumsy, cloth-wrapped hand. The crash sounds like a chandelier hitting a hall of mirrors, but that's only to him, he thinks. There's nobody close enough to have heard it outside that thick metal door.
He drops to his knees, ignoring the sliver of glass that buries itself in his skin. He ignores the lightness in his head, ignores the cuts as he sweeps the floor. Ignores everything except the metal base of the bulb, its edges brittle with glass.
“Spread your hands out,” he tells Foggy as he crawls over, trying to avoid the rest of the broken bulb. “And stretch the, stretch the... plastic as tight as you can.”
How much longer does he have? If only he knew, and he could sink his head into Foggy's jacket and shut his eyes and feel, for a moment, safe.
Not yet. He grips the bulb in shaking fingers and fits its jagged edges into the plastic around Foggy's wrists. It's thin, like the tie they used on him. Maybe it will fray. No, not maybe. It has to.
He thought the glass would slice like a knife, but it's slippery, always threatening to leap off the tie and into Foggy's skin. Keeping it in place would be hard enough with two hands, but his right hand is worse than useless, stiff and swollen at his side. It's not strong like a knife either – he can feel pieces chipping off with every nick in the plastic.
Foggy is so still he's barely breathing. When Matt loses control and the edge of the glass touches his skin, he flinches, just for a second. That's all. Matt could hug him for it, if he were capable of doing anything but sawing at the tie. His cramping, aching hand feels like it's been clutching the bulb forever.
But it's working.