Daredevil ficlet (post issue 93)
Back in college, Foggy had discovered that you could tell a lot about Matt’s general state of mind from the way he slept.
There was a particular loose-limbed sprawl, on his back with arms and legs flung out, that meant he was truly exhausted, under so deep that the little noises that usually woke him-creaking doors, a car pulling up outside, Foggy dropping a book-had no effect. A way of lying on his side with a pillow pulled over his head that meant he was in a bad mood and tired of listening to other students’ loud conversations in the hallway. A near fetal ball, all curled in on himself, that meant he was upset or hurting somehow.
Foggy had seen that one a lot over the past couple of years.
Foggy knew from hurting now, had done his own share of sleeping curled against the pain while the knife wound in his stomach healed, cut off from everyone he cared about and slowly going stir crazy in witness protection. Which beat slowly going crazy in Rykers, he knew, but which was still easily near the top of his personal list of Most Miserable Things Ever to Happen to Franklin Nelson.
These days, Matt slept curled around people like a kid with a teddy bear. His arms around Milla’s waist, his head on her shoulder, every inch of physical contact he could get. Like he was afraid that if he wasn’t touching her, she might stop being real.
That, Foggy understood. He couldn’t stop staring at Matt these days, drinking in the little details he’d been afraid he might never see again - the way Matt tilted his chin, the messy, orangey-red hair, the way he slid his fingers across a line of print, fidgeted with the handle of his cane, crouched like a gargoyle on the edge of a roof… Like if he looked away for too long, his friend would disappear.
Matt had his own ways of ‘staring’ at things. That, Foggy told himself, was why his best friend couldn’t keep his hands off him these days. Just… tactical reassurance.
And that conversation on the rooftop had been about Karen Page and only Karen.
If Foggy kept telling himself that long enough, maybe he’d believe it. Because he liked Milla, Matt loved Milla, and he wasn’t going to do anything to screw that up.
There was a particular loose-limbed sprawl, on his back with arms and legs flung out, that meant he was truly exhausted, under so deep that the little noises that usually woke him-creaking doors, a car pulling up outside, Foggy dropping a book-had no effect. A way of lying on his side with a pillow pulled over his head that meant he was in a bad mood and tired of listening to other students’ loud conversations in the hallway. A near fetal ball, all curled in on himself, that meant he was upset or hurting somehow.
Foggy had seen that one a lot over the past couple of years.
Foggy knew from hurting now, had done his own share of sleeping curled against the pain while the knife wound in his stomach healed, cut off from everyone he cared about and slowly going stir crazy in witness protection. Which beat slowly going crazy in Rykers, he knew, but which was still easily near the top of his personal list of Most Miserable Things Ever to Happen to Franklin Nelson.
These days, Matt slept curled around people like a kid with a teddy bear. His arms around Milla’s waist, his head on her shoulder, every inch of physical contact he could get. Like he was afraid that if he wasn’t touching her, she might stop being real.
That, Foggy understood. He couldn’t stop staring at Matt these days, drinking in the little details he’d been afraid he might never see again - the way Matt tilted his chin, the messy, orangey-red hair, the way he slid his fingers across a line of print, fidgeted with the handle of his cane, crouched like a gargoyle on the edge of a roof… Like if he looked away for too long, his friend would disappear.
Matt had his own ways of ‘staring’ at things. That, Foggy told himself, was why his best friend couldn’t keep his hands off him these days. Just… tactical reassurance.
And that conversation on the rooftop had been about Karen Page and only Karen.
If Foggy kept telling himself that long enough, maybe he’d believe it. Because he liked Milla, Matt loved Milla, and he wasn’t going to do anything to screw that up.