Birthday drabble for Tartanshell [Daredevil]
Happy birthday to tartanshell! This was originally supposed to be fluff, but current canon being what it is, it ended up more on the angst side.
There were times when Foggy uncharitably reflected that Nelson & Murdock really ought to be called "Nelson & Absentee Partner." Days when he found himself preparing three different upcoming cases on his own, filing all of the required paper work -- his and Matt's, both sets filled out by him -- with the city, interviewing a fourth client who asked multiple times where "Mr. Murdock" was, and then arguing a fifth case in court before jury, still entirely by himself.
Then there were times like tonight, when he finally straightened from where he'd been hunched over his computer and a stack of legal briefs, cross-checking precedents against all of the case histories he could pull up on LexusNexus, and emerged into the main room of the office to find Matt asleep on one of the two leather couches.
His hair was coppery bright against the worn, dark brown leather, a sharp contrast to the washed-out pallor of his face. The reddened beginnings of what was going to be a spectacular bruise were just starting to swell and darken under one eye, and the hand resting by his face had raw, scraped knuckles. As Foggy watched, a tiny bead of blood oozed from one of the scrapes.
They had court tomorrow. Matt's shiner was going to go over like a ton of bricks with the jury. Thank God they were arguing before Judge Colan, who'd been born and bred in the Bronx and whose niece had reportedly been saved from a mugger by Spiderman last year; he had chosen to ignore obvious signs of violence on Matt's person before, and no doubt would again.
"Matt?" Foggy touched Matt's shoulder gently, careful to keep his voice low and soft; Matt had been known to wake up swinging on occasion when startled, and he had really bad aim when half-asleep. "What are you doing here, huh?" It was past four a.m. -- he'd ended up working almost straight through the night again, which apparently made two of them, going by the state of Matt's knuckles.
Matt's eyes blinked open, blank and completely unfocussed. "Foggy?" His lips curved in a faint smile for a second -- the bottom lip was split, Foggy saw, though unlike the knuckles, it was no longer bleeding. Then his eyes drifted closed again. "Head hurts," he mumbled. "Wake me up before Becky and Dakota get here."
"Matt, what are you doing here? Why aren't you at home?" While he spoke, Foggy rose to go and fetch the first aid kit from the bottom drawer of his desk. Gauze and tape for Matt's hands, neosporin for the cuts and scrapes, and he was pretty sure there was ibuprofen in there somewhere, too.
"Can't go home," Matt mumbled into the couch. "Everything smells like her, like she's still there, only she's not."
Milla. No, Milla wasn't there; she was in a hospital ward, pumped full of drugs, while the best psychologists Matt and Foggy could pay for tried to untangle the mess Mr. Fear had made of her mind.
Matt sighed, and snuggled a little deeper into the couch. "It's different here. Th'office smells like you." Then he was asleep again.
When Foggy started to clean and bandage the scrapes on his fingers, he barely stirred.
There were times when Foggy got awful tired of being "Nelson & Where-the-hell-is-Murdock," and then there were times, he reflected, as he spread a blanket out over Matt's sleeping body, when he was just tired, period.
The office opened at nine tomorrow. If he went home now, he'd only have time for three hours of sleep before he had to get up and head out the door again.
The blanket was taken already, but there was a pillow in the supply closet, next to a stack of stationary.
Foggy fetched it, turned out the light, and stretched out on the other couch. He fell asleep listening to the sound of Matt's breathing.
There were times when Foggy uncharitably reflected that Nelson & Murdock really ought to be called "Nelson & Absentee Partner." Days when he found himself preparing three different upcoming cases on his own, filing all of the required paper work -- his and Matt's, both sets filled out by him -- with the city, interviewing a fourth client who asked multiple times where "Mr. Murdock" was, and then arguing a fifth case in court before jury, still entirely by himself.
Then there were times like tonight, when he finally straightened from where he'd been hunched over his computer and a stack of legal briefs, cross-checking precedents against all of the case histories he could pull up on LexusNexus, and emerged into the main room of the office to find Matt asleep on one of the two leather couches.
His hair was coppery bright against the worn, dark brown leather, a sharp contrast to the washed-out pallor of his face. The reddened beginnings of what was going to be a spectacular bruise were just starting to swell and darken under one eye, and the hand resting by his face had raw, scraped knuckles. As Foggy watched, a tiny bead of blood oozed from one of the scrapes.
They had court tomorrow. Matt's shiner was going to go over like a ton of bricks with the jury. Thank God they were arguing before Judge Colan, who'd been born and bred in the Bronx and whose niece had reportedly been saved from a mugger by Spiderman last year; he had chosen to ignore obvious signs of violence on Matt's person before, and no doubt would again.
"Matt?" Foggy touched Matt's shoulder gently, careful to keep his voice low and soft; Matt had been known to wake up swinging on occasion when startled, and he had really bad aim when half-asleep. "What are you doing here, huh?" It was past four a.m. -- he'd ended up working almost straight through the night again, which apparently made two of them, going by the state of Matt's knuckles.
Matt's eyes blinked open, blank and completely unfocussed. "Foggy?" His lips curved in a faint smile for a second -- the bottom lip was split, Foggy saw, though unlike the knuckles, it was no longer bleeding. Then his eyes drifted closed again. "Head hurts," he mumbled. "Wake me up before Becky and Dakota get here."
"Matt, what are you doing here? Why aren't you at home?" While he spoke, Foggy rose to go and fetch the first aid kit from the bottom drawer of his desk. Gauze and tape for Matt's hands, neosporin for the cuts and scrapes, and he was pretty sure there was ibuprofen in there somewhere, too.
"Can't go home," Matt mumbled into the couch. "Everything smells like her, like she's still there, only she's not."
Milla. No, Milla wasn't there; she was in a hospital ward, pumped full of drugs, while the best psychologists Matt and Foggy could pay for tried to untangle the mess Mr. Fear had made of her mind.
Matt sighed, and snuggled a little deeper into the couch. "It's different here. Th'office smells like you." Then he was asleep again.
When Foggy started to clean and bandage the scrapes on his fingers, he barely stirred.
There were times when Foggy got awful tired of being "Nelson & Where-the-hell-is-Murdock," and then there were times, he reflected, as he spread a blanket out over Matt's sleeping body, when he was just tired, period.
The office opened at nine tomorrow. If he went home now, he'd only have time for three hours of sleep before he had to get up and head out the door again.
The blanket was taken already, but there was a pillow in the supply closet, next to a stack of stationary.
Foggy fetched it, turned out the light, and stretched out on the other couch. He fell asleep listening to the sound of Matt's breathing.