Victims Of The Night
Foggy was aware, vaguely and dully, of himself. Stuck in the limbo of the waking world and the emptiness of sleep, aware of the divide but somehow stranded between the two.
Sounds floated through the cotton stuffed in his ears, the usual beeps and whirls that signaled a hospital. As well as a low voice muttering in an uninterrupted soliloquy. Steering just a bit more into consciousness Foggy could begin to make out the words.
“...hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done. On earth as it is in heaven....”
Foggy couldn’t keep focus after that, not after he felt the thumb stroking his knuckles in a measured tempo that kept time with the words. Matt was rubbing his knuckles like they were, there was a word for it Foggy knew.
Drug induced peace caused his thoughts to flee, the threads that made up his mind floating by each other without connecting to form something tangible.
Rosary.
That was the word, Matt was using his knuckles as a rosary.
Was he allowed to do that? Would the pope approve? What made a rosary special?
Those were all Matt questions, and to ask them would mean waking up fully.
It would also mean Matt might let go of his hand. So Foggy decided that he could ask later, when he wasn’t so comfortable and fuzzy. When he wasn’t receiving a comforting if odd hand message.
His heartbeat must have risen, or maybe he twitched or did something that let Matt know he was somewhat awake because one of the hands clutching his drew away.
Before Foggy could truly mourn the loss, he felt calloused fingers gently trace his face before stopping at his cheek, “Foggy?”
Matt sounded so small, fragile hope shining through a tear laden throat. Foggy fought hard against the pull of sleep, struggled to open his eyes just a fraction. The light was blinding even as dimmed as it was, but he persevered and kept his eyes open.
Matt leaned forward, his torso all but draped over the hospital bed, his glasses were somewhere but his face was bare for Foggy. His face was splotchy and his eyes bloodshot, as if he had been crying, and the bags under his eyes had Foggy a bit more awake than he was a moment ago.
The bruises present were dark, and his eye was clearly still healing from being badly swollen, not to mention the unattended scrapes around the limited areas Foggy could see. If his face was that battered it meant his body must look like a macabre mosaic of bruises and cuts.
Foggy needed to burrito him, force him to eat as much comfort food as he could, and cuddle him until Matt was grinning lazily at him with a bruise free face.
Foggy tried to squeeze his hand but it was more of a muscle spasm than an action to bring about comfort. Matt brought the hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles he had prayed on with gentle reverence.
Something was wrong, something had happened and Foggy couldn’t piece together the floating threads surrounding his brain to connect what had happened that was so bad.
The threads floated further apart as he tried to grab them, a pure exhaustion that was wholly new filled his every cell. Matt could tell, he could always tell when Foggy was crashing, and a touch of lips brushed his forehead.
“It’s ok, I’ll be right here. Get some rest.”
Foggy never could resist Matt, not when the plea was spoken so softly.
The next time he woke the deep-set exhaustion wasn’t clawing at his every cell like it had before and the fight to open his eyes was infinitely easier. The sight he saw was less easy to deal with, a stricken Matt hurt his very soul.
Matt’s hair was a mess, every errant lock a sign of how many times the man raked his hand through it. He was pacing, all pretenses of being an average blind man thrown out in favor of stalking the length of the room like a caged Leopard waiting to strike.
Foggy opened his mouth, Matt’s name on his tongue, but a raspy croak is all that escaped.
Like a taut bow string being let free Matt shot to his side, fingers gently skimming his face and through his hair while the other hand held Foggy’s like a lifeline.
Foggy took a good look at the man perched beside him, taking in the ever darkening bags and beginnings of a beard. Every stress line looked more pronounced, made worse by the still healing wounds, and Foggy convinced his hand to lift, Matt letting go of the appendage without protest.
Fine motor skills had abandoned him completely so instead of the gentle caress he aimed for, he instead sloppily slapped Matt’s face. A startled chuckle slipped out of the man and he retook the hand to press a small kiss to his palm, which was sweet but not what Foggy had wanted him to take out of the action.
With great difficulty he twitched his hand and after a brief look of confusion Matt brought the palm back to his cheek. It had passed the usual stubble amount Matt allowed himself and Foggy finally managed to pat the cheek as an explanation.
Matt looked truly lost as he set Foggy’s hand back on the bed, rubbing the spot with furrowed brow until recognition sparked. He then rubbed his chin with a small quirk of his lips, “Guess I might be due for a shave.”
Foggy mentally remarked that he might also be due for a shower, a change of clothes, to sleep somewhere other than a chair designed in hell, to eat anything of substance. So Foggy made a hum of agreement and regretted it immediately, his throat felt raw and dry.
The idea that he was in the hospital for gargling glass was becoming a serious theory.
Matt’s face darkened even as he brushed hair behind Foggy’s ear, “don’t talk yet. Your throats still-." He broke off, as if the words on his lips were an insult to God.
The words connected in Foggy’s mind, and he made to move his hand to feel the area but Matt held it firmly in his own. Luckily Foggy had two hands and Matt only had one in custody.
He gathered himself against the drugs before trying to move the other and a spike of pain was what greeted him. His shoulder’s pain was muffled but even with the drugs he felt a stab of pain in his hand from the twitch.
An instinct to look at how bad it was consumed him, he needed to see but moving his head was hard. No, not just his head, his neck.
He couldn’t move his neck because of the hands that wrapped around it, that were slowly choking the life out of him. Panic spread through his body.
He was on his back, he needed to get to his feet- he couldn’t move- his limbs were too far away and he needed to get up.
Coated hands were circled around his throat, he shut his eyes and red lenses stared back at him.
Matt was talking, he was moving with his eyes wide and right there but Foggy couldn’t reach him.
The blanket trapped his legs and he was too weak to kick them off, he tried to beg for help and a harsh, wheezing cough erupted.
Fire tendered in his throat, moving downwards until it engulfed his lungs and limbs.
Matt was in his face, telling him to breathe as if Foggy wasn’t being suffocated.
As if the air wasn’t being sapped from his lungs by uncaring hands.
A hand was over his chest, it was going to push down, dig into his sternum until it snapped.
Foggy tried to turn away, flat on your back was the worst place to be in a fight, but he couldn’t move.
Abruptly the hand was gone, voices vibrated around him just barely lower than the rush of his heart that pounded in his ears. All at once a haze began to coat his senses, terror over being trapped on his back rescinding into a dull worry that floated away with every exhale.
He heard someone’s, Matt his brain helpfully supplied, breath leaving in a big exhale as if he had lost a breath holding contest. But all concern floated away with Foggy’s deep inhale.
“Are you telling me you didn’t see anything? You were the first one there Danny, I know you saw something.”
Matt was using his low and gruff voice, but his words were precise in the same way they were in court when he was going in for the kill.
Danny didn’t stand a chance, Foggy may not know why Danny was being interrogated but his heart went out to him. He had gone through enough mock trials against Matt to know how hard it became to stay composed when all of Matt was looking for an opening to strike.
Inwardly he begged Danny to just stay silent, the moment he spoke Matt would be using every lawyer technique there was to get a confession. Foggy knew it was important that Danny stay quiet, that the man had a verbal nuke in his pocket that would decimate them all even if Foggy couldn't remember what.
He peeled back his eyelids to watch Matt nearly face to face with his friend, though the scowl now firmly in place wouldn’t suggest any previous goodwill between the two. Danny was holding his own, fist clenched, and brow furrowed. Being torn apart by something but refusing to back down or show his neck.
A distinct worry that an actual fight would break out in the room appeared. Context was needed to de-escalate; Matt was pissed about Danny keeping secrets, highly hypocritical of him if Foggy was asked, and Danny was looking at Matt in a way that sent Foggy reeling.
Danny wasn’t acting like he was being questioned, he looked a moment away from swinging.
Which was so out of character for easy from the easy going Danny that Foggy knew that he was officially on high alert, alarm bells ringing through the dosage's haze.
With new clarity he noticed the two others in the room, Luke and Jones. Jessica's focus was pinpointed at the wall, arms crossed and she was tense and seething. Glaring at a spot in the wall as if she could manifest something to strangle if she focused hard enough.
Luke was looking between the two, but his gaze kept landing on Matt for a beat too long before he seemed to correct himself and look away. When the man looked back at Foggy, his face went through a myriad of expressions that Foggy had no hope of discerning in his current state.
It landed on a pained look, brow crinkled as he took in the Foggy’s appearance.
Oh.
Snippets of the event trickled in.
How Luke had knelt next to him. Tried to keep him breathing, how Foggy had grabbed onto Luke with a desperation he could still feel.
The newly recalled information must have shown on Foggy’s face because Luke looked away, jaw tight as he resolved himself.
Don’t. Foggy wanted to beg.
Don’t say anything, not while they were all on razor's edge.
Not while Matt looked a moment away from a complete mental break. Not while Foggy felt so lost and brittle, as if a small wrong jolt would shatter him.
Luke gave him another look, then stepped forward and placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder.
“I get it. You want to hurt every son of a bitch involved; you want to break them for what they did. Make them bleed a liter for every drop he lost. I get it, I’ve been there man. But we’ll handle it, track down all the sons of bitches involved.”
Luke looked back at Foggy, “but you need to be there for your man, he needs you with him. Not out on the streets tracking down any lead you think you hear.”
The tension remained before Matt practically crumpled under the gentle hand, a hand ran through messy locks, musing them further.
Matt turned his head towards Luke, “you’ll keep me informed. Tell me everything you find, why this-. Just, everything.”
Not a single word sounded like a question, but Luke still responded as if it was.
“We’ll keep you up to date.”
Matt’s shoulders dropped just a fraction more, “Thank you.”
Danny noticed Foggy’s stare, and his eyes drew down to Foggy’s neck. He had been the first one there. Had witnessed the Devil killing him, it was no wonder the man was staring at him so intently.
Matt’s head turned to him and in a few large strides was perched on Foggy’s bed, “Fogs?”
His voice was soft, feather light and in complete contrast to how it was with Danny. Matt’s hands were on the bed, splayed out as if he couldn’t figure out where to put them.
His glasses were on, hiding the dark bags under his eyes as well as some of the bruises. He had shaved fairly recently, his hair fluffy in a way that said ‘just showered’ and if Foggy’s arm wasn't weighed down he would run a hand through the soft locks.
Foggy flexed his hand open, an invitation for the hand closest to his to grab. Matt’s own hands squeezed at the scratchy blanket, his body tensing as he weighed the offer presented to him.
The internal conflict ended with Matt lacing their fingers together and his shoulders lost a fraction more tension.
His head was bowed, thumb methodically rubbing Foggy’s knuckle. Matt had to gather himself, Foggy knew this. Between the hospital, which was its own personal hell for the vigilante, and the emotional turmoil that came from an injured loved one.
Foggy squeezed Matt’s hand and the man raised his head, stress lines tattooed across his face. But he still gave Foggy a small quirk of his lips and squeezed his hand with just a hint of pressure.
Foggy looked back at the others; at Danny whose posture had settled, at Luke whose frown had taken a new edge, at Jessica who was glaring at Foggy with such hatred it was frightening even when he wasn’t the one she was going to hunt.
Luke glanced between the pair and gave a nod, “We’ll give you two some privacy . I’ll see you later Foggy, try to rest up.”
Danny gave the man a small but stressed smile before bidding his own goodbye, his eyes cutting to Matt for just a moment and he frowned before looking away, eyebrows furrowed.
Jessica didn’t move, her eyes firmly on Matt. The glare softened into a pained understanding, and she strode up to Matt, slapping a hand on his shoulder that rocked his body.
“Murdock. We’re going to find the bastard that did this, make sure they never do this to anyone else.”
It finally clicked with Foggy that someone else did this. That someone took Matt, a man ruled by the need to save others, and turned him into a demented puppet.
Rage burned through Foggy, catching in his chest and spurring his heart on. He wanted to know who it was, Foggy wasn’t much of a fighter but for once he wished he was so he could deck the bastard.
Jessica looked back at Foggy before resolutely turning on her heel and striding out the door, clenched fists buried in her leather jackets pockets.
Even after the room cleared Matt hadn’t turned his face to him, he remained rigid save the occasional brush of his thumb.
Foggy swallowed and immediately regretted it, deepthroating a cactus was bound to be less painful. But he needed to talk, to draw Matt out of his spiral and back to him.
A scratchy croak that was meant to be a name had him coughing, Matt was on his feet grabbing water before the first cough truly escaped. A straw stuck out of the cup and Foggy guided Matt’s hand until he could drink comfortably.
His hand was over Matt’s the entire time, as if a lack of physical contact would send them both into the abyss. It was difficult to drink, his throat felt raw and too small to allow liquid through. Foggy only made it three sips before he patted Matt's hand and the cup was set aside.
His throat still felt tight, any movement his neck made was met with resistance. Still, he gathered every ounce of willpower and steered it towards his vocal cords.
“Hey.”
It was a good thing Matt had his super bat ears, those with less gifted auditory abilities would never have been able to hear over the rasp.
Matt did though, his fingers twitching before taking off the glasses. His eyes were looking just left of Foggy’s ear but Foggy still felt pinned down by the intensity.
Matt's face fell just a fraction more, “I’m sorry.”
For a terrifying moment Foggy thought Matt had remembered what happened but that fear was tossed away by logic that Matt would be as far away from the man possible if he knew what he had done.
No, Foggy corrected himself, it wasn’t Matt.
Matt was just as much of a victim as Foggy was.
“I didn’t-couldn’t protect you. I must have taken a blow to the head, lost time but it doesn’t excuse the fact I wasn’t there. That you were hurt, that you almost-,” Matt looked away and swallowed, "I should have been there".
God that hit Foggy in the heart; the bleeding earnestness, the shakiness of his voice, how utterly destroyed he looked, and the guilt that consumed him from the thought that he wasn’t able to rescue him.
The guilt that would come from knowing what he was forced to do would be devastating.
If-no when, he couldn’t keep this a secret forever, Matt found out it would be hell for all of them.
For now though, Foggy would openly admit that he just wanted to forget the whole ordeal for a bit. To be spoiled by Matt until his hovering became suffocating.
They would deal with the details of what happened after the pain dimmed, but right now they both needed to go home. Go home and shower off the sterility of the hospital, eat obscene amounts of gmo laden food, and sleep in their bed with silk sheets separating them from the rest of the world.
Foggy lifted Matt's hand, so willingly manipulated when Foggy was leading, to his lips. Gaining the other mans full attention once more.
He pressed what was sure to be sandpaper chapped lips over calloused, bruised knuckles.
“Here now.”
Matt’s eyebrows furrowed, his lips twitching down before gathering himself with a nod.
“Yeah Foggy, I’m here.”
Matt caressed Foggy's cheek and leaned over the bed, it was a chaste kiss. A brief touch of lips that lasted only a few moments.
It was a kiss that was now placed firmly in the Top Ten Best Matt Murdock kisses. It may lose its place when Foggy could clearly recall the other kisses, but at this moment it was perfect.
Just like the hand still holding his cheek was, each brief move of his fingers reminding Foggy he needed a shave.
Everything would be easier in the morning, just so long as they were together.