Guilty

Aug. 1st, 2015 08:57 am
nrgburst: (justice is blind)
[personal profile] nrgburst
Title: Guilty
Fandom: Daredevil (TV)
Characters: Matt Murdock, Foggy Nelson
Rating: PG-13, mild language and medical descriptions
Spoilers: up to Ep 10
Word Count: 1283
Written For: [livejournal.com profile] dragonbat2006 for [livejournal.com profile] fandomaid
Summary: "Missing scene(s) from Nelson vs. Murdock, Matt and Foggy, angst" (Matt-centric introspection during Ep. 10.)

When Matt first wakes, it’s late morning. There are dozens of cues: the ambient temperature of the room warmed by sunlight coming through the windows, the sound of traffic off commuter peak and smell of lunch food prep in the restaurants on 9th.

But his senses are stunted—the pain flooding in makes it hard to focus, to reach his attention beyond anything but the damage done to his body. He wishes he could have stayed under—being awake means awareness of every wound and fracture; every torn ligament, bruised organ and bit of skin scraped down to exposed nerves. He hasn’t felt so helpless since he first lost his eyesight, but this time he’s blind because of the relentless internal cacophony.

Pain may be nature’s way of preventing further injury, but at times like this it’s more debilitating than useful: he’d shifted unconsciously while asleep, and that movement had jolted him mercilessly back to consciousness.

He should have gotten a better sofa when Claire stayed over.


Too late now.

The worst wound is the easiest to identify, and he remembers that hook and those split seconds he was skewered and dragged in vivid detail as he carefully peels open the bandage to expose the wound.

Disinfected and stitched. It might not actually kill him now, but he winces when he realizes his attentions have torn open some of the delicate scabbing.

And then Foggy speaks, curt and cutting.

Matt shuts his eyes as the recriminations starts coming, and he’s not sure if he’s reflexively trying to focus on his words or avoid the onslaught.

It’s too late for a lot of things.




Foggy relays how lucky he is not to have died of shock and blood loss as he breaks out the Betadine and fresh guaze.

“Just keep your hands off while I change the dressing! I’m supposed to be watching you for signs of infection. And seeing as how this obviously isn’t your first rodeo, you should’ve known better than to stick your river scum covered hands in there! It’s like you have a death wish or something.”

Matt knows better than to answer, especially when he can’t provide evidence to refute his claims.


“Claire said the abdominal puncture wound means your guts will automatically freeze, so I won’t have to feed you or help you in the toilet. Small mercies, right?” he asks sarcastically, taking an angry swig of his beer.

Matt doesn’t answer that one either. His mouth feels sandpaper dry, and he struggles to swallow. “Water?”

Foggy shakes his head. “You’re not allowed to ingest anything until your guts start working again. In a proper hospital, you know, they’d keep you hydrated with an IV. But since we’re doing this your way…” Foggy shrugs scornfully.


Matt knows in a proper hospital there’d be ice chips to ease the dry mouth..


But in a proper hospital Fisk would have already found and finished him.


And from the belligerence radiating from Foggy, mentioning that fact will likely do more harm to any appeal than good.


His thoughts keep going around in damning circles around the enormity of how long he’s kept up this charade, the number of lies he’s told over the years, just how empty all the excuses sound.


And all the while his body continues to scream for attention. Hurt. Bad. Need help.



He’s usually able to block out physical discomfort with meditation. Mind over matter. Murdocks are stubborn, and Stick had taught him techniques to recover from injury.


But he’s never been at death’s door in quite the same way.

An actual ninja. He should have suspected something more about Nobu after Stick had asked for help at the docks.

Followed by Fisk, like an armored bull after a viper. That he’d managed to scrape an escape at all feels like divine intervention.


And yet it also feels like he’s on trial now with no preliminaries or plea bargains, and he’s too unprepared to make a proper case. Foggy keeps demanding answers, and the more Matt attempts to explain, the more appalled he seems.


Despite his outrage, Foggy grimly takes his temperature and injects him with antibiotics when the timer on his phone goes off, ready to make the call to Claire if his condition takes a turn for the worse.


Matt tries to meditate whenever the cross-examination lulls—he needs to improve his physical state so that he can focus enough to put together a proper defense. But Foggy’s agitated presence makes it difficult to find serenity: he can’t ignore the constant questions any more than the resentful way he slams his bottles on the counter or the harsh sound of his breathing as he paces.


It’s blessed relief when Foggy runs out to get more beer from the corner store.


It’s enough for Matt to get in some meditation and reduce some of the screaming pain to a duller roar; ensure that his body is on the road to recovery and convince his bowel that it is no longer dangerously perforated.

When Foggy returns, Matt reports that his guts are no longer paralyzed.

Foggy nods, lips pinched as he does another temperature and bandage check before fetching him a bottle of water.

Matt's parched, but he forces himself to sip and roll the liquid around his mouth before swallowing gingerly. It’s a promising sign when his stomach doesn't knot up.



Unfortunately, damage control on the other front seems to be failing.

Foggy’s pressing need to know the whole truth flags as the day wears on, as if the more he uncovers, the worse he feels.

The resulting silence is more awkward than restful. And after Matt manages to dress himself, Foggy decides that he no longer requires careful monitoring.

“Well, as I’m sure you already know, I’m starving. So I’m heading out for some actual food.” He pauses, jerking his shoulder. “Claire said you should sleep as much as you can. Not that you follow medical advice or anything.”

Matt nods. He’d resisted so that he could answer any of Foggy’s questions immediately, a feeble sort of penance.


But his absence makes it infinitely easier to sleep.



It’s evening when Foggy returns, smelling of fish sauce and Singha beer, jerking Matt back to consciousness. But his condition has markedly improved and he doesn't gasp as awareness returns. When the timer goes off, Matt waves Foggy back and sits up to take his own temperature and change the dressings.

Still no fever, which is good, and an altogether unexpected stroke of luck.

The food hasn’t improved Foggy's mood much though- Matt can hear the way he keeps biting back another rant even as he snaps that he should rest.


So he makes one last appeal, presenting his landmark case where the man in the mask did what the system couldn’t; saved a little girl years of trauma by both deterring and punishing her predator.


But Foggy deconstructs that argument like all the others-- there’s evidence for pre-meditation that extends far beyond this one victim. Is meting out “justice” merely an excuse for violence? What if there's no end?


There’s no mistaking the horror on Foggy’s face when Matt blurts a confession.


“I don’t want to stop.” I can’t.



Foggy looks at him like he’s one of those lost cause cases. Not like Elena or Karen, a spirited fight against unfair odds. No- he’s one of those remorseless guilty bastards that judges and juries despise.

And he’s still too weak to do more than beg Foggy to stop before he walks out.


Completely fumbled the defense. The sentence was to be expected.


And his eyes might be useless, but they still make tears just fine.

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