Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
Chapter Summary: "There's this…pain in my abdomen," Matt points to the area just below his belly button. "It's excruciating."
"Appendix," Foggy guesses, and Matt gives a slight nod, encouraging this weird game of charades they've got going on. "Appendicitis. You have appendicitis. You need an appendectomy. Why aren't you at the hospital?"
Author's Notes: I was having a lot of trouble continuing this for some reason! Maybe it was all the whump in The Devil's Work or the worry that I was becoming repetitive or the increasing lengthiness of the installments, so I had to take another quick break from prompts (don't worry: Foggy's losing his sight soon!). I went to my h/c bingo card, saw 'surgery', and then this started percolating in my brain space. Patching Matt up on his home turf is one thing; the hospital is quite another.
Readers, it's such a pleasure to hear from you. I hope you're all doing well, and that you enjoy the set-up for this short story arc. Cheers!
…of Hospitals (Pt. 1)
Thirty-two seconds. Approximately. That's how long Foggy is out of the room before alarms start going off.
Nurses swarm, anticipating a crash. Foggy is hot on their heels, terrified of the same thing: Matt's dead, and instead of sitting by him in his last moments, Foggy went on the hunt for coffee.
He battles his way through the gaggle of hospital personnel. The discarded pulse ox and electrodes sit on the rumpled blankets, causing the monitor to scream about a flatline. Matt's IV tube swings back and forth from its pole, freshly yanked from his arm. A sharp, wintry breeze cuts through the tension of the hospital room, and the nurses rush over to check the open window.
At first, Foggy's relieved that the bed is simply empty. Then he's back to panicked because the bed is empty. Matt's gone – literally gone – a fact that's almost scarier than him being dead because he is an idiot who just had surgery and climbed out a second floor window. The nurses shake their heads and mutter oaths because he can't be seen in the parking lot. Foggy doesn't wait around for them to say more. He is on his phone marching for the stairs.
Foggy is not supposed to be wandering around Metro General looking for an absconded vigilante. For the first time in a long time, Foggy is supposed to be at home, in bed, sleeping. His alarm clock is supposed to go off at a normal time. He is supposed to go to work well-rested and alert for a long, hard day of practicing law, a job he is supposed to do.
He is supposed to do a lot of things. None of it happens.
Foggy's woken up by a soft but persistent knock at his front door, the sort of knock that should tip him off to the complete travesty his night is about to become. It's a Matt Murdock special, a small, polite tap that signals what the lad perceives to be a grand request but is actually a basic human kindness. Or at least it would be basic if it wasn't requested in the middle of the night.
Matt's not wearing his costume. Foggy rubs his eyes just to be sure, the lights from the hallway are blinding to him, but he's a little taken aback to find it's true. Matt is dressed hurriedly in gray sweats, runners, and his wool jacket. No scarf. His sunglasses and nine o'clock shadow cut hard lines across his pale, perspiring face. The cane rattles in his hands.
Fear is such an odd look on Matt. He doesn't wear it well. Foggy, on the other hand, gets along real well with fear. He drinks in Matt's fright and makes it his own, hoping that'll ease some of the tension. It doesn't.
"What's wrong?" Foggy begs. "Are you sick? Are you hurt?"
Matt's grip on his cane tightens, "I think I'm sick."
Not the answer he's expecting. Matt is never that forward. Foggy has to ask, "Why?"
"There's this…pain in my abdomen," Matt points to the area just below his belly button. "It's excruciating."
Foggy nods dumbly, seeing but not comprehending. His brain is still waking up. The area Matt's gesturing at is important. There's an organ that can get infected. Little French Ginger girl had it removed in a children's book one time. "Appendix," Foggy guesses, and Matt gives a slight nod, encouraging this weird game of charades they've got going on. "Appendicitis. You have appendicitis. You need an appendectomy. Why aren't you at the hospital?"
Matt nods vigorously. Foggy raises his hands in a cheer for having won, and then the gravity of the situation dawns on him. He lowers his arms and asks very seriously, "Why aren't you at the hospital?"
The game ends with a whimper: Matt's whimper. Then he starts to tear up. He lets out a tiny, squeaky cry , the tip of a bigger sob he's keeping locked in his throat, and presses a hand defensively against his face. He opens his mouth to explain the foolish logic that brought him here, but he can't bring himself to tell. The words he's looking for are a whole new level of embarrassing.
"Ah, geez, Matt," the sound of his name makes Matt shudder. A few tears spill out from under his glasses. he covers them up with his palm. Foggy sighs, collecting his coat and shoes. His phone is still in the bedroom; he can get it before they go. "I would have met you at the hospital."
"I really don't…" he swallows the weepy sounds he's making. "I really don't want to go."
"Let's not go then!" Foggy beams sarcastically. "I've got sharp knives and YouTube. I'll just give you an appendectomy right here on my kitchen floor serial killer style."
Matt, unbelievably, looks like he's giving Foggy's offer real consideration. Foggy clarifies, "Let's get you to the hospital."
"F-f-foggy…" his bottom lip is vibrating more than his hands.
Foggy covers his eyes with his hand, "Nope. Your ducky good looks at not going to fool me into a DIY -ectomy." He backs away into his apartment, heading for his phone. He can hear Matt sniffling in the hall. "You are going to the hospital where a competent, well-trained professional is going to remove your festering, rotting appendix."
The thought of surgery silences Matt. Foggy grabs his phone and quickly head back into the hallway to make sure he hasn't disappeared. Matt's still standing where he was though, too tired and sick to run.
At that, Foggy softens his tone, because Matt must really be sick – and/or must really know how dangerous this is – if he's staying put. "I'm going to be there with you the whole time, Matt."
Matt exhales wetly in what would otherwise be a laugh, "Do you think there's a chance they'll do the operation without anesthesia?"
"You know, buddy," Foggy locks his apartment door behind him and gets 9-1-1 punched in on his cell, "if you ask 'em real nicely, I bet they would. Doctors are sadistic bastards."
The line doesn't hit comedy gold. Instead, Matt looks even more likely to let his appendix rupture and kill him in protest. Foggy groans, "I'm kidding! They're not going to do it without anesthetic!"
"I don't know what'd be worse for me," Matt admits.
"Staying here to die: that would be worse," Foggy loops an arm with Matt's and ushers him towards the stairs.
Thirty-odd seconds. Barely enough time for Matt to wake up from all the crap they put him on, but long enough that he can successfully escape out a window. Foggy is attaching a bell to him or something: a tracking device, maybe, or a shock collar. He swipes through his contacts to find Claire's number on his phone.
"Sir, you're not allowed to use your cell phone in here!" a nurse calls after him.
Foggy ducks out of sight, so not having time for this crap. The hospital stairwell provides excellent cover but his reception fizzles slightly. Claire answers on the third ring. He caught her on a break. Maybe the universe is on his side.
"I was right about using restraints, wasn't I?" she asks.
"You were right. I was wrong," the restraints might have freaked Matt out, but at least he would still be in bed. "He climbed out the window about fifteen seconds ago. Can you help me find him?"
She offers what little she can, "I can put the call into security if that hasn't been done already."
Foggy wishes he could appreciate the help, but he knows better. Scared Matt + Hospital Security = Disaster. "Wonderful," Foggy says, "I will follow the trail of assaulted security guards to my frightened, doped-up bestie."
"There are a lot of other sick people in Hell's Kitchen tonight," she replies, "And you were the one who said no restraints."
"His nurse was the one who assured me that he was out till morning!" Foggy takes a calming breath. It's not Claire who's at fault here. It's not even Matt's nurse who's to blame. "Look, he hates hospitals," Claire scoffs at the understatement; Foggy does too, because Lord, doesn't he know it, "He was already freaking out when I brought him here, and if security finds him, they'll sedate him, and he'll freak more."
Claire sighs. Her tone is sadly resigned, "Then I suggest you find him first if he's still in the hospital. Which he might not be. The last time he escaped, he went to your place."
"I'll get Karen on it."
"I can try to keep you posted about security, but I make no promises."
"Thanks," Foggy disconnects. He starts heading down the stairs, punching at his contacts list until he finds Karen's number.
She doesn't answer until the second time he calls. Her voice is groggy with sleep, "Foggy? What is it?"
"Matt's escaped from the hospital."
He really should have provided a lead-in like, "The surgery went well, and there were no complications," but that's kind of implied by Matt escaping. Besides, Karen's more wide awake because of his blunt opener, "Oh, my gosh. Is he okay?"
Foggy provides some damage control, "He's fine," well, he was fine. When he was resting comfortably. Before he jumped out a window. Sweet Karen probably doesn't need to know all that. Foggy sticks to the basics, "But he's not in his bed, and the last time that happened, he ended up at my place for a flu-season slumber party. Would you mind staking it out?" He technically gave her the spare key for other reasons, mostly ones related to his heart and the way it still skips a beat in her presence, but he can make an exception just this once for something Matt-centric.
"I'll get a cab and take a drive around the neighbourhood," Karen's already up and moving. "He can't have gotten far."
Foggy doesn't want to give too much away, but he wants her to be as prepared as possible, "Make sure to really check the alleyways. He's on a lot of meds, and you know how he goes on about having mad ninja skills when he's messed up. He might actually try some parkour."
"Got it."
"We will reimburse you for the cab fare," they almost have the kind of money to do that now.
"Don't worry about it, Foggy."
"Thank you, thank you so much, Karen. Call me if you find him. I'm going to try and catch him before hospital security does."
"Good luck," she bids him.
He means to say more but hangs up before he can. The stairwell feels like its spinning. Foggy has to stop before he falls. He is not ready for tonight, not after the week they've been having. Between late nights at the office and later nights at Matt's apartment, Foggy is ready to curl up in the corner and sleep. Let hospital security or the NYPD find Matt, teach him a valuable lesson about the healthcare system and how, like the mounties, the hospitals always get their man. Tie him to the bed. Medicate him into a coma. Foggy doesn't care.
Immediately, he's guilty. Friends don't let friends get caught by hospital security or the NYPD, especially not friends who have irrational fears of hospitals. They keep looking until their friends are safe and sound. And then they surgically implant a GPS tracking device at the base of their friend's spinal column, so their friend can never go missing again.
"Okay," Foggy folds his arms and prepares for a good think, "Where are you, Matt?"
Foggy's mentioning to Karen that Matt talks about parkour and ninja skills is a reference to another fic I wrote called Calamity Physics, wherein Matt, high on painkillers, tells Karen about his abilities and almost spills the beans about his secret identity. By the end of that fic, she's convinced he's raving from the drugs, a fact Foggy uses here to his advantage.
Happy reading!