Chapter Text
Matt thinks Foggy is way over-reacting.
A bleeding finger isn’t anything compared to the standard of injury he’s used to. This is nothing. This is a minor inconvenience.
Sure, it is a can opener wound to the base of his index finger, and yeah, it’s flowing thickly with blood that resolutely is not clotting by itself anytime soon.
But still, it’s just a cut finger.
Matt knows it’s really not that serious. It’s deep, but it’s neat and it’s clean and it hasn’t hit any tendons or arteries – it’s just a cut.
A cut that’s probably exposing a disconcerting amount of his flesh, though. He thinks Foggy having sight might be a contributing factor to his freaking out.
But all it needs is sterilising, a couple of stiches, some tight wrapping. Matt could easily do it, would barely take him half an hour to sort out if he was by himself.
But he can’t do that, because he’s not by himself. Foggy’s here, and Foggy’s over-reacting.
Matt’s insane.
There’s no other way to explain his only reaction to slicing his finger open and actively gushing blood all over their room being: ‘Ah- shit. Foggy?’
Matt seems to be more annoyed than hurt or panicked. Apart from his jaw remaining steadfastly clenched as he applies pressure using an old t-shirt, he doesn’t seem to be showing any reaction to the pain. He doesn’t seem to have any sense of urgency, even. No concern for his wider health, no concern for how much blood is now outside of his body.
Foggy will have time to stew over those aspects later.
Right now, his main concern is trying admirably not to lose control over his breathing at the sight of Matt’s blood smeared all over their floor and their walls and Foggy’s clothes and Matt’s face.
They end up having a row - Foggy trying to make Matt agree to go to the hospital, and Matt trying to convince Foggy he was completely fine, actually.
Somehow, that had been an argument.
Because Matt’s clearly insane.
Matt finally, and with an incredible amount of reluctance, agrees to a hospital visit only because Foggy is half-crying by this point. He sits with a rising sense of dread as Foggy calls for a taxi and they wrap up his hand for the journey. They’ve decided to add a towel and a binbag, in an attempt to save them any possible cleaning fees (the main principles of student first aid - you use what you can get and you try not to cause any stains you’ll have to pay for in the process).
Matt also agrees to go because as much as he's pissed about it, he doesn’t really see any other plan that would work right now – he can’t exactly show up to lectures with a hand he’s stitched himself and explain it away, no big deal, don’t worry about it guys.
So now he’s trailing behind Foggy as they weave through their dorm block hallways, his stomach churning in anxiety, on his way to hospital.
He’s trying not to freak out.
Matt’s mask of indifference only starts to break down as the taxi nears its destination.
He’d been pretty much fine throughout the entire experience so far, yelling back at Foggy with as much strength as Foggy had been yelling at him. He’d bitched and whined and done his best to tie Foggy up in loops of argument and persuasion, still with no particular adverse reaction to the grievous wound to his hand.
Now though, he sits silent and strained, head tipped back to lean against the headrest with his eyes screwed shut, arm cradled into his chest. Foggy notices the rise and fall of his chest, his breathing too quick, too shallow.
“Hey-“ Foggy starts, voice low, “you okay?”
Matt has to swallow around his rising nausea to reply.
“Don’t like hospitals” he manages to choke out. His throat feels very tight.
“No one does buddy, they’re a necessary evil” Foggy tries his best to reassure, in the most upbeat tone he can manage (there’s still too much blood on his clothes to be properly calm right now).
It’s a crumb of reasoning for the difficulty he'd had in convincing Matt to make this trip. But that hand needs stitches and Matt probably needs some kind of arterial replenishment, a cup of juice at the very least. There’s no way to avoid this.
Foggy watches Matt swallow reflexively, his breathing still too shallow.
Foggy powerfully hopes he isn’t about to throw up. That’s incurring them a hefty fine of some sort, no doubt about it.
It’s an extra hassle neither of them need tonight.
But he’s fine, though, he’ll be okay. Matt is kind of right, it is just a cut.
He’ll be fine.
Matt’s freaking out.
Foggy’s sorting out the admin, getting him checked in with the nurse at the front desk (hero that he is), but that leaves Matt sat alone amongst a writhing sea of injury and misery and illness, overwhelmed by the smell of blood and people's stress and impatience and sound.
It’s the sounds that are really pushing him towards the edge. The shocking crescendo of machine noises, the beeping and the ticking and glugs of liquid moving through tubes and the sinister, rhythmic pumping of breathing equipment. It’s the sound of tape being torn and wheels rolling and metal clinking and people, so many people.
He's nine. He’s nine and he’s so scared and he can’t see and it hurts and he can hear everything. There’s no-one here to help him and he’s alone and he can’t see and there’s needles in his arms and-
“Woah buddy, you doing okay?”
Matt flinches violently at Foggy’s hand on his shoulder. Foggy pulls back abruptly, voice quietening to something more serious, more urgent.
“Matt? What’s going on? Are you still bleeding?”
Matt can’t answer. There are tubes up his nose, knocking against the back of his throat, choking him. He can’t expand his ribs enough to breathe. His head is spinning. They've given him something, they've drugged him. Every gulp of air he tries to take tastes of blood and chemicals and fear. He drops his head to lean against the wrapped stump of his injured hand, free hand coming up to clamp over one of his ears in a desperate attempt to block out some of the noise. It doesn’t help.
Nothing ever really helps.
There’s no escape. He’s lost, trapped here by the disorientating press of noise. He can't understand his surroundings. There are things stuck to him and clipped painfully to his fingers and he can’t escape and he doesn’t know what’s going on and he can’t see.
Foggy’s voice next to him is quiet and firm. He’s speaking, but Matt can't register what he's saying, can only make out the jumbled constant of words. His presence breaks through the roaring chaos in his head though, and Matt clings to the sound like a lifeline.
“You’re okay Matt, you need to try and breathe deeply. You’re okay, just try and breathe.”
Matt jaggedly reaches out a hand sideways, gripping onto whatever part of Foggy’s hoodie he connects with. Foggy’s telling him to breathe, that’s what he’s saying. Foggy's wearing that hoodie with the fleecy lining, the one Matt sometimes borrows on cold nights. Matt tries desperately to suck air into his lungs.
“Good, that’s great, just like that” Foggy praises softly. He taps Matt on the shoulder, the familiar sign letting him know there’s movement incoming.
Foggy’s arm is round his shoulders then, solid and warm and reassuring. Matt focusses on the heartbeat pressing into him, fast and scared but strong. Steady. Foggy’s here, he’s right next to him. Foggy's not freaking out. He must be okay. Foggy says he’s okay. Matt sucks in more air, the vice-like grip on his chest easing a little.
Matt leans into the contact, Foggy bringing his other arm up to gently draw Matt against his side. He's still keeping up a steady stream of mostly inane reassurances, but Matt’s not hyperventilating anymore, he’s not unresponsive anymore, so it must be helping. Foggy tries to deepen his own breathing, to calm his own panic.
Because okay, yeah. Matt doesn’t like hospitals. He gets that now.
The arguing is making more sense.
But Matt’s hand is still fucked, and he still needs to be here. So for now, Foggy guides them to sit back with Matt still pressed firmly into his side, head dropped onto his shoulder. Foggy takes steady, exaggerated deep breaths, and waits for Matt's heart to stop hammering against his ribcage.
Matthew Murdock is called into a treatment room within the hour.
Perks of a serious traumatic injury on your file, Foggy guesses.