Midnight Medicine
(N. Clevenger, October 2022)
Notes: Okay, just one more random plotless scene – because I miss the Matt and Claire dynamic, because I've had a headache for three days – and now I really need to go do something more financially productive. (*glances at the half done Doctor Strange fic, looks away*) I'd love nothing more than to whump on Matt all day, but sadly it's never going to pay my bills. So just this last one, and that's it.
Set whenever. Between S1 and S2, I guess. Boo S2. Netflix/Marvel canon. They'll never belong to me.
The waiting room's emptied out a lot since she got here, and it's not hard to spot him when she comes through the doors. A hooded figure sitting in a chair against the wall, hands clasped and hanging between his knees, slumped forward and looking like he's staring into the void. As she gets closer she can see how his eyes dart about, tracking the people in the room. Can see the way his knee bounces up and down, as if he's having trouble sitting still.
She's a handful of feet and a row of chairs away when his head comes up, turning her way. The hood of the sweatshirt shadows his forehead, the confused tilt to his eyebrows. He looks pale. Tired. But she's never seen him when he doesn't.
"Hey," she says as she slides into the empty seat beside him, weighing the level of pain she reads in the squint of his eyes.
His leg stops its compulsive motion. "Hi, Claire. Didn't know you were working tonight."
"I saw your friend Foggy. He told me you were out here."
He nods heavily, closes his eyes. "How is he?"
"Chart says it's a clean break. He'll be fine." Matt nods again like he'd expected this, and she wonders how much he can hear of what's going on in the building. "They're setting up to put a cast on. I'm on my lunch – I can take you back there if you want."
He exhales slowly through his nose, his eyes opening. "Yeah, of course. Thanks."
She stands, frowning when he uses both armrests to push himself up. He's moving far too carefully. She wishes she could see more of him, but the hoodie and jeans effectively conceal anything he might be hiding. Nothing's standing out as obvious – beyond the nebulous signs of pain and a tangible aura of fatigue – but between her medical training and past experience, she's sure there's got to be something.
She has a sudden feeling she's not going to be getting lunch.
Across the room a little girl shrieks in protest when her brother takes away her handheld, and Claire realizes that there was some color to Matt's pale face when she sees the rest of it drain away. She grabs the arm he instinctively throws out to steady himself as he wavers, blinking repeatedly.
"Whoa, what was that? Are you hurt?"
The answer comes through gritted teeth. "No. Headache." She waits through a few deliberate breaths, shaking her head to keep Lawrence behind the admissions desk when their eyes meet over the top of the bowed hood. Matt finally unclenches his jaw, licks his lips. Manages to hitch one corner of his mouth into a disparaging smile. "It, uh… it might be a little worse than it was."
Claire counts five restless children in the lobby under the age of ten, one of them a crying baby. Then there's the guy with the hacking cough. The woman arguing loudly with the air in the corner. "How long have you been out here?" she asks, the sympathy thick in her voice.
"Couple of hours," he shrugs. Sways, and has to take a step backward to keep his balance.
"Sit back down for a minute." She doesn't expect him to comply, letting her guide him back into the chair. Her fingers slide down to the pulse at his wrist; she doesn't have to time it to know he's tachycardic. The baby howls, tightening the lines around his eyes, his mouth. She can't get a glimpse of his hairline under the big hood. "Did you hit your head?"
The heel of his hand comes up to press hard into the bridge of his nose. "No. S'just a headache, Claire. Had it all day."
"Looks bad. You want something for it?"
"Took something earlier. Didn't help." He drops his arm, but doesn't straighten out of his hunched position.
Her hand hovers over his shoulder for a minute, falls back to the armrest without touching him. "Why don't you come back and have somebody check you out. Maybe we can get you something stronger."
He shakes his head, a tic of a motion. "Have to make sure Foggy gets home."
"There are a couple of meds on the scale between nothing and drugged unconscious, you know. And we've got a little time before he's going to be able to be discharged."
His head comes up slowly, sightless eyes pinched and level with her mouth. "I'll be okay. Just need some sleep. Can you just take me to see Foggy?"
"In a minute. When I think you can stand up without passing out." Matt scowls, ducks his head to turn away from her.
She gives it five, glancing periodically at her watch between her idle survey of the waiting room and her neatly trimmed fingernails. Matt droops silently in the chair beside her. Not able to see his face, she instead catalogs the rough modulated breaths, the tension running through his wilting posture. The tiny, mostly suppressed full-body twitches every time there's a noise around them.
"So what happened? To your friend?"
"Accident," he says to the floor, and she's not sure if it's just the grainy weariness that makes his voice sound so haunted. "We were working late, research. The carpet's old. Holes in a couple of places. He says he tripped… I don't know, I was in the other room."
Lawrence finishes talking to a girl with bright pink hair, looking their way again as she takes a seat; Claire gives him a smile to show that she's still got everything under control, and his attention returns to his computer. "Kinda sounds like you think you should've been able to do something to prevent it," she tells the back of the black cotton hood.
"Mmm…" It's not a disagreement.
Claire sighs. It's getting late; she's tired too. "You can't be everywhere, Matt. Accidents happen."
He drags in an audible lungful of air and sits up, not turning toward her. "It's been more than a minute. Can we go back now?"
She wants to shake him; she wants to give him a hug. Claire opens her mouth to argue, closes it again. She's already learned she's not going to be able to convince him to do anything he doesn't want to do. "Yeah. Sure. But it's not going to be any quieter, you know."
"Yeah." It's so resigned. With a jerky movement that reminds her of that night in her apartment, he shoves himself back to his feet.
When he doesn't fall over, she leads him through the doors into the ER. She's overly conscious of the controlled chaos tonight, a muted background soundtrack on any other shift. Matt keeps his head down, that tension thrumming through him almost louder than the machines. His hands are fists when he stuffs them in the sweatshirt's front pocket.
She'd like to at least get his blood pressure. She wonders if these headaches are a regular thing. But before she can decide to ask, they've wound their way through the maze to where his friend's waiting. They stop in front of the drawn curtain that comprises the fourth wall of the small cubicle. "If you change your mind…" she starts, her voice low enough that only he'll be able to hear it in the noise.
"I'm good," he grunts, cutting her off. "Thanks." He straightens from his stooped stance, and she can see him visibly working to smooth out the strained lines of his face under the hood. He gets a lot of them. Somehow seems steadier. It's almost like she's looking at a different person.
Claire knocks lightly on the door frame beside the curtain. "Foggy? It's Claire. I've got Matt with me."
She hears a noise like most people make in this situation, awkward and unsure even though they're nearly always ready and waiting. "Um, yeah. Come in," he says.
The metal rungs rattle across the supporting bar as she slides the curtain aside. Her eyes go first to the various monitors as Matt follows her into the small space. He crosses to the bed where his friend sits, and she only notices the slight shuffle to his steps because she's expecting it still to be there.
"Hey, Fog. How're you doing?" he asks through a thin smile.
"I'm good. I'm okay." A lock of his hair falls into his eyes as he peers up at Matt. "What about you?"
Matt blinks. Breathes out a weak laugh. "Me? I'm not the one in a hospital bed."
"Maybe not, but we're still in a hospital." His eyes bounce to Claire where she's checking his chart for any updates. "I know it's not exactly your favorite place."
"Is it anybody's?" Matt's head tilts generally in her direction. "No offense."
"Don't worry about it." Foggy's breath catches as he shifts on the bed, and she sees Matt's focus instantly snap back to his friend. His deep frown is a ghost of emotion that vanishes the minute Foggy looks up. "I'm going to go find out where we're at with the cast," she says. "I'll be right back." The men give her vague nods as she leaves.
She returns with a tray of materials in her hands and a squeak of her rubber soles on the linoleum floor. "Sorry we forgot your glasses on the way out of there," she hears through the curtain.
"No big deal. We'll be out of here soon anyway. Stop worrying about me." It's a murmur. A beat, then more loudly: "You can come in, Claire."
She does, setting her tray on a counter. Matt's grabbed the rolling stool, is sitting beside the bed. He moves like he's going to get up, but she stops him. "Stay there. You'll be out of the way." He's looking paler than she'd like again.
He tips his head, listening, as she sorts through the items she's brought. "What are you doing?"
"Lucky for you, we're short-staffed. You guys get me tonight."
His eyebrows come together under the hood. "I thought you were on lunch."
"Not anymore." She carries the tray over to the bed.
"Oh. Sorry."
"For the fact that my breaks are too damn short? I mean, thanks, but fixing that's not really the kind of thing that you do."
"You never know. There might be someone we can sue," Foggy suggests helpfully. The side of Matt's mouth quirks into the most genuine smile she's seen from him tonight.
"Let's get this done first, okay? Then maybe we can look at my contract."
Foggy grins. Continues to do so as she begins to wrap his arm, despite the sweat that gradually gathers on his forehead and the quickening breaths that he's trying to control. At first there's a light conversation, most of it centering around the old office carpet and the best way to repair or replace it; Matt strings together more words than she's ever heard from him, a clear attempt at distraction that feels backed by forced cheer. Claire doesn't think Foggy notices the way he's gripping the stool's padded leather seat with one increasingly bloodless hand.
Down the corridor a heart monitor flatlines, a too familiar sound that she probably would've lost to the din had Matt not flinched so dramatically. The wheels of the stool clatter on the floor and Foggy pulls away from her to turn that way; he makes a pained noise as the drying fiberglass connected to the roll she's still holding shifts to press against his broken ulnar bone. This immediately gets Matt's attention, his head coming up with a wince that narrows his eyes. They're both breathing a bit heavier than they were.
"Whoa, hey. Everybody's okay. Right?" She coaxes Foggy back toward her with a gloved hand, looking between them.
"Ask Matt," Foggy mutters, curling a little around his arm. Claire eyes the display over his head, tracking the surge of his pulse as it starts to slow.
"M'not the one who tripped on the carpet like a blind guy," Matt mumbles, rubbing at his eyes.
"Can I finish this?" she asks. "Not that you two aren't a ton of fun to be around, but there are other people waiting."
Conversation resumes around her as she gets back to work, a stilted debate about someone named Karen and whether or not they need to call her tonight. She can't tell if one of them is dating this woman, discards the thought as none of her business. Matt's sentences are getting progressively shorter as they talk, and at some point he's started to fidget. The growing cracks in his facade are revealed to her through a series of sideways glances.
He abandons the stool before she's done, moving to lean against the only section of bare wall in the room. Foggy's eyes follow him silently before returning to the wet black fiberglass now covering a section of his arm. "So how long do I have to wear this thing anyway?" he asks her.
"Four weeks, at least. They'll be able to tell you more after they x-ray it again."
Hurried footsteps rush past the curtained doorway. "What about taking a shower?"
She answers his questions as she finishes up. "Anything else?" she asks, when they finally stop coming.
"I don't think so. Mostly I guess I just want to say thanks. For everything you've done for us… I mean, me."
"Just doing my job," Claire says, though she knows that tonight's not what he's referring to. She cuts the casting material, gently pressing the end flat so it sticks. "About thirty minutes for this to dry," she tells him. "Can I get you a cup of water or something?"
"...'scuse me," Matt grunts tersely, propelling himself off the wall in her peripheral vision. He bolts through the curtain and out of the room.
She watches the patterned fabric ripple back into place, turns to Foggy. He's staring after Matt's echo too, looking unhappy. Worn out. Her watch says it's past midnight. After a minute he blinks, his eyes falling to the fresh cast hardening on his arm. He swallows, looks up at Claire. "I should probably go after him."
"Still kinda my job," she tells him, taking the tray back to the counter and removing her gloves. "At least in here." She wonders how far Matt could've gotten, if he's somewhere outside. As long as he's not in a dumpster.
"Try the closest bathroom," Foggy says with a dragging regret, as if he's giving away a secret. "Sometimes the headaches… they make him sick."
"I'll find him," she promises, revising her plan on where to start. "You just sit here and relax."
Foggy's guess is correct, and Claire's waiting across the wide hall from the restroom when Matt finally comes out. She sees his shoulders level, his chin come up, as he steps through the door. He sniffs, swiping at his nose with his sleeve, his head tilting fractionally as he surveys the area around him. It's easy to pinpoint the moment he notices her.
She joins him, taking his arm to shift them out of the flow of any oncoming foot traffic. He's trembling minutely under her fingertips, his face ashen and a little damp. "You need to sit," she says, glancing up and down the corridor. "I'll find you a wheelchair."
Matt twitches, his eyes darting about in the shadow of the hood. His voice is gravel. "No. I'm okay."
It's less than convincing with the way he's slumped against the wall, breathing his abbreviated breaths, but there's a familiar tone that tells her he's not going to budge. "Fine. Go ahead and collapse, and then I'll put you in one anyway."
"M'okay," he exhales, eyelids slipping in something too long to be called a blink. "Feel better."
"Uh-huh." He flinches when she reaches up to slide a hand under his hood to check his pulse, his temperature, starts to twist away before he surrenders. His heart's still beating way too fast, but she doesn't think he has a fever despite the heat collecting under the cotton. "I really wish you'd let me look you over."
"Just need a minute, then I want to get back." He swallows hard, looking like he might be sick again. "Don't, um… don't tell Foggy, okay?"
"Yeah, I don't think you're exactly fooling anyone there."
There's a page over the intercom; Matt's eyes flicker toward the ceiling, his lip scraped between his teeth. Claire pulls the bottle of ibuprofen out of the pocket of her scrubs. "Here. You can take a couple more of these by now."
He waves the suggestion away, slipping the hand under the hood to cup the back of his neck. "Don't waste them," he murmurs, resting his temple against the wall.
She folds her arms over her chest and studies him, considering the wheelchair again. "Because you don't think they'll work, or because you're afraid you're just going to throw them back up?"
"Yes."
"The offer's still open for something stronger. I can get you something to settle your stomach, too."
"Claire…" His arm falls, hands burying themselves in the sweatshirt pocket. A dash of his tongue moistens his lips. "I just want to get Foggy home. Go to bed. It'll go away on its own."
"Eventually, sure."
An orderly wheels a bleeding woman past them. Matt's eyes jump that way, pause, then return to the vicinity of Claire's collarbone. "How much longer do we have to be here?"
She puts the pill bottle away. "Let's head back, and I can get the discharge papers started. Whenever you're ready."
He rubs drowsily at a cheekbone, the pink that briefly blooms there still the only color to his face. "Yeah. Fog's probably going crazy."
Pushing off the wall, his first step's a stumble; Claire shoves her way under his arm, supporting him until he steadies. He's as heavy as she remembers, all lean muscle. It only takes a moment for him to rally, slowly extricating his arm from her shoulders. It takes longer for her to let go. She keeps her eyes on him for the short walk back.
He drags his sleeve over the sheen of sweat on his forehead, readjusts the hood of the sweatshirt before they go in. Claire knocks. "Matt?" Foggy asks hopefully from inside.
She watches Matt pull himself up, blink the pained squint away. He slides open the curtain and goes in ahead of her; beyond him, Foggy appears about two seconds from climbing off of the bed. "Hey," Matt greets his friend. "Sounds like we can get out of here soon."
"You okay?" Foggy looks him over, a scrutiny sandwiching a quick peek at Claire.
"Yeah."
"You sure? I'm okay, you know, if you need to go home."
"Trying to get rid of me?" Matt moves to the foot of the bed, leaning a hip against the frame. It's probably meant to look casual.
"I'd rather get you to sit down. Don't pretend you don't want to." Foggy glances her way again, and she realizes he's inching down the mattress toward Matt. It's an awkward progression with only one hand. Claire turns fully away from the keyboard where she'd been recording his discharge vitals, wary that he's seeing something imminent that she's not. "Come on, man. She's already seen you unconscious. I doubt she wants to see it again."
Before the inevitable protest, Claire gets up and grabs the stool, wheeling it over to him. "Sit."
He scowls, but he sinks down onto it. Foggy stops crinkling the paper runner that covers the bed. She takes the blood pressure cuff from the hook on the wall, motions for her patient's uninjured arm. He settles back a little on the mattress, and she slides the nylon cuff up over his elbow.
Matt's head is bowed, and there's no sound from under the hood as she gets the reading. Foggy's watching him the entire time, which might explain why the numbers are nearly as elevated as they were when he first got here. Claire crosses back to the computer, types the information into the last missing field.
"You guys good here? I'm just going to grab your paperwork." Foggy nods, flexing his fingers over the edge of his new cast. When Matt doesn't respond, she lightly nudges his shoulder. "Matt?"
"Yeah," he rasps, not moving. "See you in a minute."
The minute melts into twenty when she gets called to assist with a code, and she pushes down the misplaced guilt as she hurries back to where she'd left them. It's quiet on the other side of the drawn curtain. Thinking one or both of them might be asleep, instead of knocking she slivers the material open just enough to slip through.
Matt's still on the stool, his head pillowed on his folded arms on the mattress. Foggy's lying on his back staring up at the ceiling, the cast resting on his stomach. The fingers of his other hand are tangled in his friend's hair.
Maybe more than friends? That's not her business either.
Foggy follows her gaze to his hand. The hood of the sweatshirt bunches at Matt's neck, moving up and down with his shoulders as he breathes. When he stirs, his soft moan is muffled by the cotton of his sleeves. Foggy unhurriedly retracts his fingers, shifting to sit up against the pillows.
Matt lifts his head, blinking sleepily. "Claire?" His voice is rough. A bit unfocused.
"Sorry it took so long. You two ready to go home?"
"Yes," Foggy answers for them, swinging his legs over the opposite side of the bed. His feet touch the ground and he staggers, grabbing the edge of the mattress.
Claire's halfway there before she realizes she's moving; Matt jumps to his feet like he might launch himself over the bed. "Foggy?"
"I'm okay, I'm okay… My foot fell asleep," he's explaining as she reaches his side. He doesn't need her, balancing easily on one leg while he tries to shake some feeling back into the limb.
Matt looks decidedly less steady. Braced on his fists on the mattress now, head hanging, his hips hit the side of the bed when he sways against it. "Matt?" Claire calls softly, switching patients. He doesn't resist as she guides him back onto the stool, pushes his head closer to his knees.
"Stood up too fast," he tells the floor hoarsely. The hair at the back of his neck sticks wetly to his skin. "Fog? Okay?"
"Yeah. Best day ever, man." Foggy's eyes meet Claire's. "Hey, here's an idea. Maybe, since we're already h–"
Matt knows where this is headed; she feels it register like a ripple through the hand she's resting on his shoulder blade. "Just want to go home, Fog." He raises his head, and his jaw jerks back and forth between them. His eyes are rounded and distant, a little pleading. "Can't we just go? We're done, right?"
"Yep. Absolutely. I'm signing the paperwork now." Foggy stretches a hand toward Claire, his eyes still on Matt. She retrieves the clipboard from the counter, hands him a pen.
He quickly scrawls his name in all the required places without reading anything, drops the clipboard and pen on the mattress and rounds the bed to where Matt sits. "Ready?" Matt nods sluggishly, a somewhat suspect confirmation. Foggy's hampered by the use of only one hand, but uses the other as best as he can to help his friend haul himself up.
Claire looks them over, judging Foggy to be tired, maybe a bit uncomfortable. Matt appears to be… Matt. Exhausted and hurting and trying to pretend he's not, the only version of him she ever sees. But relatively stable, considering the last few hours, and she decides it's safe to let them go.
"Thanks again," Foggy says, his hand curled comfortably around Matt's bicep. "Really."
Matt's leaning more into Foggy with every second they stand there, but with this cue he straightens, getting his feet under him. "Yeah. Thanks. See you later, Claire." She can barely hear him.
"Yeah… don't take this the wrong way, but I hope that's not anytime soon," Foggy says.
Claire smiles. "Get out of here. Try not to come back tonight, at least."
Foggy ducks his head to whisper something in Matt's ear; Matt nods again, sloppily pulling the hood up over his hair and stuffing his hands deep in the big sweatshirt pocket. Foggy gives her a blocky wave with the cast, and they leave through the curtain. Claire watches them move together down the corridor as the fluttering fabric settles.
end.