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daredevilkink2016-04-21 06:34 pm
ddk_mod) wrote in daredevilkink2016-04-21 06:34 pm
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Daredevil Prompt Post #11
HEAD OVER TO PROMPT POST #12.
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Fill: Matt's not sleeping (Matt/Foggy) Part 3/3
(Anonymous) 2016-05-06 10:54 pm (UTC)(link)Of course, it hasn’t escaped his notice that Matt’s fancy bedding isn’t getting much use these days. Over the months that they’d share a practice, Matt had developed the tendency to stop by on weekends with a newspaper he can’t read, just to fall asleep on Foggy’s sofa. During the week, he might miss two days at the office, then arrive in the evening with carry-out Chinese and a stack of legal briefs and doze between paragraphs.
“It’s quieter here,” Matt always said simply. Which is absolutely a lie: Matt’s place is a renovated loft high above the street with double-glazed windows, walls three feet thick, and floors built at the turn of the last century to support industrial sewing machines. Whereas Foggy’s shoebox apartment sounds like it’s caught in a monsoon every time any neighbor flushes a toilet. At any given moment, Foggy can almost always hear traffic from the cross street, a reggeton dance party down the hall, and—in season—at least two competing ice cream trucks.
Well, as Grammy Nelson used to say, Matt has made his bed and he’ll have to lie in it. Foggy leaves the cardboard box on the sofa and picks up the new Hogarth, Chao, and Benewitz benefits and retirement prospectus. He never thought he’d work somewhere that had to publish the equivalent of a glossy magazine to summarize the health plan. He opens it at random: dental and vision. Vision.
Matt will be fine. He’ll learn to sleep without the background noise of Foggy’s apartment. Or he’ll run a fan, buy a white-noise machine. There are apps for that.
If Foggy had been the one to pay the electric bill at the law firm, it was just because he was there more often, not necessarily because Matt was forgetful about stuff like that. And Foggy had only ever brought Matt groceries when there was an unbeatable sale at Costco… Matt’s kitchen had more storage space; it had nothing to do with the fact that Matt disliked navigating Manhattan’s cramped grocery stores. Naturally, once Foggy had brought the stuff over there, it made sense to cook it—Matt’s kitchen was bigger, after all, and virtually un-used. After cooking, it was only fair to leave some of the leftovers in Matt’s fridge. And to call and remind Matt that the food was there for eating, not for ignoring until it turned into a mold farm.
Foggy tugs off his tie and forces his mind to consider dental co-pays. He’s weighing the benefits of the Silver and Gold health options when he hears boots on his fire escape. It’s raining in Hell’s Kitchen, a steady, drenching spring rain, and he’d left the kitchen window cracked because otherwise, the damp seeps in and clouds the old panes.
“Come in,” he shouts, just so Matt knows Foggy knows he’s there. Somehow, he’s still startled by the speed and silence with which Matt appears in the kitchen doorway.
“Hi, Foggy.”
“Hi.” Foggy tries to wait him out, he really does—but he’s never been the strong, silent type, and Matt could probably go days without talking. Foggy barely makes it a minute: “You’re, uh, pretty wet, there.”
“Yeah.” Matt strips off the mask—the new one, and Foggy can’t believe he’s nostalgic for that stupid old scrap of fabric that he wore like the Dread Pirate Roberts. The gloves follow, landing on the counter with a sodden slap. They’re new, too, a sort of red so dark they’re almost black.
Speaking of… “Bleeding, much?”
Matt pauses, like he’s not sure if Foggy is being sarcastic or not. He always used to be able to tell. Before
“Rain’s washed off most of it,” Matt’s lip is split; he licks it unconsciously. “Bruised rib,” he pauses, breathes. Listens. “Make that two. But they don’t sound broken. Rolled my ankle. Not worth going to the hospital. Claire doesn’t work there anymore, anyway. But the rain just wouldn’t let up—”
“And you just happened to be in the neighborhood?”
Matt ducks his head, “Yeah. Not much happening tonight—weather, I guess. So, I thought…you know, it’s always quieter over here. And I could, uhm. I could use the rest.”
That’s as close as Matt Murdock is ever going to get to a cry for help, so Foggy figures he’s lucky someone hears it for what it is.
Foggy has to help undo the tiny, hidden fasteners on the body armor because Matt’s can’t raise his arms more than shoulder high. Once they peel back the high-tech fabric, it’s easy to see why: on his left side, the soft space under Matt’s ribs is nearly black with blood trapped under the skin. Higher up, there are more distinct marks, red and purpling heel-strikes where the kicks landed against bone. Foggy doesn’t ask, and Matt doesn’t volunteer any information.
Foggy sends Matt into the shower with a pair of sweatpants and the oldest, softest t-shirt in his collection. He finds a pair of socks, too, remembering Matt’s weird sensory aversion to walking around in bare feet. He digs out a sticky half-bottle of baby shampoo from the last time Sheila visited with the kids. “No more tears: Specially formulated for sensitive skin,” he reads for Matt’s benefit. “And if you don’t smell like a baby’s butt, I get my money back.” He’s pleased to see a faint smile ghost over Matt’s face.
The t-shirt is too large and the sweatpants are too long. In them, Matt looks strangely young and vulnerable, especially without his glasses. His pupils are huge and dark in the well-lit room. It’s unnerving even though Foggy knows that has nothing to do with shock.
“I’ve got a bag of peas in the freezer, if you wanna put something on that ankle,” Foggy offers when Matt emerges from the bathroom. “Food Emporium was having a sale.”
“As much as I appreciate your produce-based home remedies,” Matt’s smile is a little more robust now, “I’d kind of like to just close my eyes for an hour or so.”
Matt shuffles toward the sofa, but Foggy redirects him a moment before his fingertips land on the Nelson & Murdock sign sticking out of the cardboard box.
“Bed’s this way,” Foggy says, guiding Matt’s hand to his elbow, “I’ve got junk all over the couch.”
It’s a sign of Matt’s exhaustion that he doesn’t argue about taking Foggy’s bed.
“You do know I’m not actually going to wake you up in an hour or two and send you back out in that, right?” Foggy says as Matt gingerly eases himself onto the mattress.
“Rain’s slowin’—l’blow over s’n,” Matt’s words already sound a little slurred. Foggy wonders how long it’s been since he’s slept a full night.
“Do you want me to…” Foggy realizes he’s about to offer to leave a light on, the way he does when his nieces visit. Before he can revise the sentence, Matt’s eyes snap open.
“Police,” he says, “Radio car. On the corner. It—oh. Routine.”
“Yeah,” Foggy says, “Mr. Ahmed at the bodega gives them free coffee. You can hear that?”
Matt nods, looking suddenly so weary that for a moment Foggy thinks he might cry. “If I listen.”
“Damn, Matt. No wonder you can’t sleep.”
Matt shrugs.
Foggy snaps off the bedside lamp, toes off his shoes, and stretches out as gently as he can on the far side of the bed. Try as he might, he can hear nothing but the falling rain.
“What can you hear now?”
“Mostly your heartbeat. And a…a cat? Yeah, a cat in the alley. And you, breathing.”
That makes Foggy feel weirdly self-conscious, like maybe he’s breathing wrong. Too fast or too slow. He tries not to think about it. “Yeah, Mrs. Lopez in 2B keeps feeding that cat. Makes the super crazy.”
“He’s climbing—second floor. Fire escape,” Matt says. “East side, above the bodega with the cops.”
It takes Foggy a moment to calculate that his apartment is about as far from that corner of the building as you can get and still be paying rent to the same landlord. He rolls onto his side, looks down. This isn’t working. Matt’s blank eyes stare up into the darkness, attentive to the feral cats of New York.
“What?” Matt says, feeling Foggy’s gaze.
“Here, I’m going to—pick your head up a little.” Foggy slides his arm under Matt’s neck, settling his friend’s head against his shoulder. “How’s that?”
Matt takes a hesitant breath, testing the pull on his ribs. “Okay.” And then, a moment later, “Foggy?”
“Yeah?”
“Heartbeat’s too loud. I can’t hear the cat anymore.”
“I’m sure he’s still there. Probably trying to stay out of the rain. Close your eyes; you’ll be able hear better.”
“Doesn’t actually work like that, y’know,” Matt mutters, stubborn to the end, but Foggy covers Matt’s eyes with his hand. He doesn’t move it until, under his palm, he feels the flutter of eyelashes closing.
Foggy concentrates on keeping his heartbeat slow. With Matt against his left side, it will be the loudest thing he hears. Marci always liked it when Foggy ran his fingers through her hair while they lay together in bed, but Foggy wonders if that might not set off strange echoes in Matt’s head. Just thinking about all the things Matt can sense makes Foggy newly aware of his surroundings. He can feel the button on his cuff pressing into his right wrist, smell baby shampoo. No more tears, Foggy thinks. When Matt grunts and shifts onto his side, easing off his bruised ribs, Foggy feels the minute catch of stubble against his button-down.
As Matt sinks deeper into sleep, his head grows heavier on Foggy’s chest, and Foggy becomes aware of the damp warmth of breath against his collarbone. He tries to make his own breathing match. In. Out. In. Deep and even, erasing the differences between them so that Matt no longer has to track him as an alien being. So he can let his guard down just a little bit, for just a little while. Maybe it works: gradually, Matt curls against him, relaxing into a solid weight against Foggy’s side. Slowly, so slowly, avoiding the bruised areas— Foggy slides his arm up to get feeling back into his fingers. Under the soft-washed cotton of the t-shirt, he can count Matt’s vertebrae, feeling his back expand rhythmically with each breath.
A moment later—“Nngh,” Matt mumbles, and his fingers twitch where they’re tucked against Foggy’s shirtfront. Once. Twice.
“Shhh,” Foggy whispers automatically and, miraculously, Matt settles again. Foggy wonders if he’s dreaming, wonders what the dreams of the blind are like. Maybe Matt’s dreams are sensory. Does he still feel ninjas and threats the visceral way Foggy can still feel the roll and pitch of the Hudson hours after he gets off the sailboat his cousin Martin keeps moored by the GW Bridge? Of course, Matt wasn’t always blind. Can he still see in his dreams, a kaleidoscopic reshufflings of old, half-remembered visions from before his accident? Perhaps in Matt’s dreams, the sky is still blue, Jack Murdoch is still alive, Daredevil doesn’t exist.
Re: Fill: Matt's not sleeping (Matt/Foggy) Part 3/3
(Anonymous) 2016-05-07 02:11 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Matt's not sleeping (Matt/Foggy) Part 3/3
(Anonymous) 2016-05-07 05:03 am (UTC)(link)I imagine is incredibly difficult for Matt to take away teh noice for him to sleep. There is always noice where heis and even the easiest things will be hard for him.
Re: Fill: Matt's not sleeping (Matt/Foggy) Part 3/3--AO3 link
(Anonymous) 2016-05-07 04:35 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Matt's not sleeping (Matt/Foggy) Part 3/3
(Anonymous) 2016-08-10 04:22 am (UTC)(link)