So, I promised myself that I would never watch a superhero show again, until a friend of mine strongly recommended I see "Marvel's Daredevil". It took me exactly two episodes to get hooked, and now I'm even writing fanfiction – I can't believe it :-) I'm still trying to get the characters right, so I thought I'd start with a scene filler. This is my take on what happened between "Speak of the Devil" and "Nelson vs. Murdock."
Feedback is greatly appreciated. Hope you enjoy!
Foggy stares at the injured man who lies stretched out at his feet, is unable to avert his gaze from the motionless face. He knows these features as well as he does his own, hell, probably better. Has looked an awful lot at them during the past ten years. The man looks different with the black mask still hiding most of his hair, blood standing out sharply against his now pale skin. But this is Matt. No way to deny it, although the realization makes Foggy's heart ache in a way he hadn't thought possible.
Disbelief has him stunned for long moments before it makes way for a bucketload of different emotions – confusion, distress, disbelief, worry. He can't pinpoint which one is the strongest, but he acts on the last one, the gravity of the situation demanding for immediate action. Foggy drops to his knees, placing an unsteady hand against his best friend's cheek, gently turning his face, so he can get a better look. Matt gasps involuntarily, eyebrows twitching, as pain registers to his semi-conscious mind. He doesn't open his eyes though.
"Matt," Foggy's voice quivers, "Matt, can you hear me?"
Foggy's gaze wanders over the supine body, takes in the various cuts along the torso, blood seeping through the torn fabric of the shirt. He is scared to take a closer look at the wounds, is afraid of knowing how bad it really is. Matt's clothing is soaking wet though, and the water starts to collect in a puddle around him, mixing with the red of his blood. Foggy feels his heart hammering against his chest, gently slaps his friend's cheek, addresses him again, "Matt? Come on, say something."
A sharp intake of breath and Matt's eyes flutter open, darting all over the place, and it needs another word from Foggy until they settle gazing the right direction. They are glazed with pain.
"Foggy?"
His voice is fragile, barely audible, and Foggy instinctively leans closer, relieved that he finally got some kind of response.
"Yeah, it's me. Lie still, okay? I'm gonna call an ambulance."
"No." He shakes his head, the answer vehement despite his lack of strength. "No hospital, Foggy."
"Matt..." Foggy sighs, trying to keep his calm despite the emotions churning in his chest, where worry mingles with anger and an imminent hurt that will spike as soon as he allows himself to think about this. "You're bleeding all over the floor. Let me take you to a doctor."
Matt shakes his head again, swallows with some difficulty, eyebrows drawn together. His breathing is fast, shallow, and he struggles to control it. When he speaks again, Foggy can see him tremble with the effort of it.
"No. They'll find out..." He gasps, trying to catch his breath, genuine fear displaying on his face, and it causes Foggy to lay a hand on his friend's shoulder in an attempt to keep him from moving.
It's not that Foggy doesn't understand his reasoning. He has a fairly good idea of what will happen if someone at the hospital connects the dots and realizes who Matt is, what he's been doing. Foggy's heart pumps fast with the adrenaline that the mere thought causes to flush through his system. Police. Prison. A trial that will most likely end with Matt locked away for the rest of his life. Not to consider the possible consequences for him and Karen. Karen, most of all. The thought makes him want to throw up. But he fights it down, forces himself to think about the consequences later because right now Matt's life that's at stake.
"I'm not gonna let you die, Matt. You can't ask that of me."
"Foggy...", he is gasping for air, eyes pleading, unseeing gaze directed at his friend. The way he keeps insisting, the stubbornness of it makes Foggy unbelievably angry.
"What do you want me to tell Karen, huh?" He bursts out. "That I just let you die? What do you want me to tell the police?" Foggy is trembling with rage, feels tears at the back of his throat and swallows them down.
"Damn it, Matt."
He takes up his phone again and is startled when Matt springs into action. Weak as he is, Matt still finds the strength to roll onto his side in a surprisingly fast movement and lunge out at Foggy, forcefully, effectively kicking the phone out of his hand and sending it skidding across the floor. He ends up in a heap, panting, and grimaces against the pain the action has caused him.
Foggy stares, scared to the bone. Feeling like he doesn't know this man. The Matt he knows would never strike out at his best friends like that. Not ever.
"Call Claire," Matt rasps in between the panting, eyes squeezed tightly shut against what Foggy assumes must be agony. Hell, considering the wounds that Foggy can see, it must be agony at best. The thought causes him to release a shuddering breath, anger dissipating, the emotion replaced by concern and a deep, burning hurt he doesn't want to address yet.
"Number's … in my phone." Matt tries to catch his breath, then swallows again. "She's a nurse."
Claire. Foggy has never heard of her, and it needs a moment for the information to sink in. It figures. Another thing that Matt apparently didn't want him to know. He wonders how much more there is he doesn't know. Damn you, Matt, Foggy thinks. I thought we were friends.
He glares at Matt, who is barely conscious now, curling into himself as much as his battered body will allow. Foggy's heart aches to he see him like that, trembling from blood loss, jaw set tight against the pain. He'll die if Foggy doesn't make up is mind now.
Oh, to hell with it.
Foggy shakes his head, not liking the idea at all. Then, against his best instincts, he does what Matt just told him.
It takes about fifteen minutes until there is finally a knock on the door. Fifteen minutes, in which Foggy is torn between calling Claire again to ask what's keeping her, and calling an ambulance anyway. He spends endless time pressing a towel against what seems to be the worst injury, a gaping cut in Matt's abdomen that is bleeding profusely. Has draped a blanket over his friend's legs which doesn't seem to help an awful lot with the shivering. Matt is mostly out of it, and though Foggy is grateful that his friend gets to escape the pain for a bit, he is worried that he might never wake up again. How much blood can a man lose before his body gives out? Three pints? Four?
By the time Claire finally arrives, Foggy feels sick as much from worry as from the coppery scent and the stickiness all over his hands.
Claire keeps courtesies to a minimum, moving on to business straight away while Foggy stands back to watch, fear like a cold fist around his throat. She seems good at what she is doing, focused. The realization makes some of his panic go away. Suddenly Foggy is very aware of his bloodied hands, doesn't know where to put them, feels stupid watching her and grateful at the same time that somebody more capable than him is taking care of Matt now.
"You know who did this?" Claire asks without looking up, gloved fingers against Matt's throat to find a pulse. Her hair looks tousled, as if she had been asleep half an hour ago. Foggy realizes that she probably has.
He shrugs helplessly. "No idea. Hell, I didn't even know he was doing this... vigilante thing."
Claire shoots him a glance, sizing him up. He must make a pretty weak impression, Foggy thinks. All shaky and pale and very unheroic. Plus, he thinks he's running out on adrenaline.
"How come that doesn't surprise me." The sarcasm in her voice conceals a different emotion Foggy can't quite place. "You're his friend, right? I could use some help here."
Foggy moves to kneel beside Matt again as she starts to cut the blood-soaked fabric from his torso. Once the remains of the shirt are removed and the whole extent of his injuries are revealed, Foggy can all but stare, uncomprehending. There is barely a spot that isn't cut or bruised, the angry redness stands out stark against the pallor of his skin. The savagery of it wipes every rational thought from his mind. Who would do this to another man? A blind man at that? Then another thought appears in the back of his mind, one that disturbs him even more than the sight of his wounds. Is Matt blind at all? How could he be the mask if he can't see? Foggy feels his throat constrict, tears welling up in his eyes. Fuck you, Matt. What were you thinking?
Claire methodically inspects the cuts on Matt's chest and abdomen, then gently turns him to his side to get a good look at his back. She appears all professional, but the way she kneads her lip tells Foggy that Matt's condition worries her. Hurts her even, if he isn't mistaken. He wonders what her story is.
She moves on to attend to Matt's legs, removes the pants with Foggy's help, and continues to assess his injuries. Thank God, it's mostly bruises.
She frowns when her gaze falls on Foggy's blood covered hands. "Wash up and put on some latex gloves," she tells him, not unfriendly. "This is bad enough without him getting an infection."
Foggy doesn't mind taking an order, not now anyway.
"He's going to make it, isn't he?"
Claire sighs, pushing a strand of hair back with her forearm, careful not to let it touch her hand. He can tell she is carefully wording her answer.
"He's in really bad shape," she finally says. "And I don't know how deep the wound in his side is. Let's hope for the best."
Not the answer that Foggy has wanted to hear, but it has to be good enough for now. He goes to wash his hands in the sink, thoroughly, then works on a pair of latex gloves. When he returns, he finds Claire preparing an injection.
"What's that you're giving him? Antibiotics?"
She nods. "That and some strong pain meds. Don't want him to come to in the middle of it and knock me out."
Foggy raises his eyebrows. "He's done that to you?"
Not that it would really surprise him, not after Matt knocked the mobile from his hands the way he did. But Matt hitting a woman? Once again Foggy gets the feeling that he doesn't know this man at all, that he has never known him. This violent side of Matt – Foggy can't wrap his head around it.
Claire ignores the question and Foggy watches her wipe the crook of Matt's arm, slide the needle in and press the cylinder home. Matt is completely out of it, doesn't even twitch. Foggy thinks it's probably for the best.
They set to work in silence, only interrupted now and then by Claire's soft-spoken orders. Thankfully, she does most of the work, cleaning the various wounds and closing them with small, meticulous stitches. Foggy mostly hands her the equipment she asks for and holds bandages in place. Every once in a while he looks at Matt's face, which seems impossibly paler than before, thinner. Worry knots his stomach, distracts him. What if this is not enough? If Matt dies here in his living room because his best friend didn't call an ambulance? Foggy would never forgive himself.
A soft word from Claire draws his attention back to tending to Matt's wounds, and Foggy convinces himself to let go of that thought for now.
They settle him on the couch after they've finished and Claire gently slips a pillow under his head, makes sure that he's lying comfortably while Foggy goes to the bedroom to find a clean blanket. The one he had Matt covered with is soiled beyond saving. When he returns, Foggy sees her sitting beside his sleeping friend, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. The intimacy of the gesture causes him to stop dead in his tracks and linger for a moment, feeling very much like an intruder. He remembers the affair Matt had told him about, the one that didn't work out. He realizes now it must have been her.
"I found a blanket," he says finally, and Claire forces the emotion from her face. Stands up, stretching, while he tucks Matt in.
"I've done all I can for now," she sighs, voice heavy with exhaustion. "The meds should wear off in a couple of hours. Antibiotics are on the counter. I'll leave some painkillers too for when he wakes up."
She retrieves a bottle of pills from her bag and hands them to Foggy. "This time he might actually want some."
He gives her a questioning look and she shrugs, a gesture of resignation. "Offer them at least."
Foggy checks on his friend, who lies unmoving, pale like a ghost. Somehow he looks terribly young, frail even. The sight of him shakes Foggy to his core, and again he is not sure whether to feel angry or sad. Hell, probably both are justified.
"Will he be alright?"
He repeats the question he has asked earlier, hoping for an answer that will lift the weight from his chest. Claire rakes her fingers through her hair, then nods.
"He's lost a lot of blood. But I think so, yeah."
Early morning light creeps into the dim apartment and for the first time Foggy notices how beautiful Claire is. Even with her disheveled hairdo and the shadows under her eyes, it is hard to deny that Matt's nurse friend is a very attractive woman. As are all of his girl-friends, Foggy thinks almost reflexively. Matt can always tell.
As if he could actually see.
"How long have you known Matt?" Foggy suddenly inquires, voice hoarse. He doesn't want to sound as shaken as he is, but he can't help it. "You know what he's been doing, haven't you?"
Claire shakes her head. "I don't really want to talk about this."
She kneels to gather her equipment. Avoids his glance. There is a tired expression on her face that tells him how hard this has been for her, medical professional or no. How much she cares about Matt and hates that he has gotten himself hurt like that. It softens the anger Foggy feels.
"I'm sure Matt will tell you if you ask him."
"Right." Because he has been so forthcoming with information lately. Despite her dismissal, Foggy decides not to push it. Claire has been very kind, coming at such a short notice, patching Matt up like it was the most normal thing in the world. No questions asked.
"Listen," Claire says standing up. "I gotta go now. Can you stay with him for the next 24 hours or so? Make sure that he takes it easy?"
Foggy nods. "Actually, I was planning to do that."
"Alright." Claire casts a last glance at the still form on the couch, worry written all over her face.
She hesitates and for a moment it looks like she changed her mind about leaving. But then she just picks up her bag. "Call me if he gets worse."
She is almost at the door when Foggy calls after her.
"Wait."
Foggy walks up to her, struggling for words. There is no way to express the gratitude he feels at the moment.
"Thank you," he finally offers. "For saving him."
She smiles at that, and she is beautiful when she smiles.
"I'll drop by tomorrow to check on him," she promises, lingers, pushes a strand of hair out of her face. She wants to say something else, Foggy can see that, but then she just exhales sharply. "Bye."
Foggy pushes the door shut, hears her retreating footsteps in the hallway, and then there is silence. Only the faint sound of traffic from the road, that's all there is. He's alone now. Alone with his gravely injured best friend – well, with what he assumed was his best friend.
All of a sudden, Foggy feels the exertions of the last hours deep in his bones. He leans against the wall, closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath. Now that Claire is gone, there is no reason to maintain his composure, to appear all manly about this. Foggy makes his way back to the living room, slowly, feeling very much like an old man. He stands for a moment, looking at the battered man sleeping on the couch, more dead than alive right now. Tries to read the answers he needs in the familiar features of his face and finds himself unable to do so. All he sees are the crimson marks of a fight that Foggy didn't even know Matt was fighting. Foggy shakes his head, uncomprehending. Hurting. I would have trusted you with my life, Matt. How could you keep this from me?
Drained of all energy, Foggy slumps in a cushioned armchair and for long moments just sits and stares at the man he thought he knew, aware of an empty feeling in his chest. Damn it Matt. I thought we were friends. The lump in his throat becomes too big to swallow around and all of a sudden he doesn't care anymore, lets go. Foggy watches the man on the couch disappear as his vision blurs, too weary to wipe his eyes, and then a dam breaks inside of him and spills the pain, like a storm tide, all at once, and he buries his face in his hands and cries.