Archive of Our Own

At first, Foggy is dreaming of something as sweet as nectar. He has dipped his leg—the deformed one—into healing water that will cure him like the pool at Bethesda. But then the sweetness deepens into pain. The water turns indigo, the color of squid ink, and he wakes up moaning, clutching his thigh, muscles twitching under his hand. It's dark, he's sweating, deeply confused by how black the darkness is all around him. The sound of the box fan is like a ghostly scream. He feels like he's been folded up into a heavy, black blanket—this is Bethesda's antithesis.

When he reaches out, he does so with enough panic to make Matt jolt as Foggy grabs his shoulder. There's a fast, heavy rustle of fabric, and then—

Hands.

Hands on him—one on his face, the other sliding downward to cover his claw-like grip on his thigh.

Foggy's left leg won't bend at all. It's too tight, shaking too much. In a single move, Matt is off the bed—first there, then gone.

Foggy doesn't hear him move, gets no hint of his presence, and flinches when the bedside lamp snaps on behind him.

Getting splashed by light makes him grunt as if he's been hit in the stomach. Like Spock doing a mind-meld, Matt's fingers notch into place for Tadoma, the pad of his thumb across Foggy's lips.

"Pills."

Foggy enunciates such that his tongue touches skin on the "L"s, tasting salt.

Still facing Foggy, not having to turn to look, of course, Matt yanks open the small drawer below the lamp hard enough to make it hit the end of its tracks.

He pulls out two prescription-sized bottles that have Braille strips on them. This exact scenario has played out before, so, in addition to the labels, Foggy has put the two "T"s—Tramadol and Tizanidine—side-by-side, like soldiers, on the right-hand side of the drawer. Matt, after all, is the only person capable of prying off the lids at three in the morning when agony strikes.

It's not just Foggy's leg that's locked up. His left hand is fisted so tight that fingernails are digging into skin. The leg is the worst of it, though. His foot has turned so far to the right that it's completing an L shape.

Matt slots two pills into Foggy's mouth like he's feeding a parking meter, then he does something that Foggy would find sexy if he could fully process it. Leave it to Matt to be so graceful. Somehow, he's back in bed without traversing it, aligned with Foggy's left side, running a hand down the full length of the leg.

Keeping his eyes locked on Matt's face, Foggy tries and fails to fight back a moan. Strong fingers begin to massage his rock-hard calf, and Matt shows off his wingspan by smoothing Foggy's sweaty hair back at the same time.

"Shh," Matt breathes, eyes roaming over Foggy in a way that signifies attention, even without sight.

How many hands do you have? Foggy wants to ask.

Matt's hair-stroking hand moves down to palm his chest, rubbing to remind him to breathe. Meanwhile, the other hand continues its strong-fingered massage, inching upward.

Foggy is breathing, but too fast, sawing the air louder than the box fan. It feels like someone is driving an icepick into his hip, and he grits his teeth when Matt, who has reached his knee, cups the back of it and begins to press upward. This move is slow, but done with hydraulic strength. It has to be strong to counteract Foggy's total locked-upness. God. How can something that hurts this much be a relief? It makes no sense. But, thank God, Matt is freeing him, releasing his hip and finally moving his concrete block of a thigh. Foggy groans, long and guttural. He doesn't mean to start chanting, "Foot. Foot-foot-foot!" but the damn thing is trying to break itself off his ankle. If Matt doesn't do something to straighten it—

—A wide palm cups the sole of his foot and begins to turn it with a strength that is gentle only because it's slow.

Foggy's eyes fill with tears as he is forced into alignment. The entire left side of his body is shaking badly now. He needs to sit up—really needs to—and starts flailing.

Shit. Fuck. He feels like he's part of someone's bug collection.

Reacting, Matt presses Foggy's thigh toward his chest and reaches for his shoulder so he can help drag him upward. When Foggy's shoulders bang into the headboard, Matt makes the kind of low sound you might use on a horse.

A hand comes to his cheek, and it's obvious, now, that—face wet, all twisted up—Foggy is a total mess, even though the pain meds are working.

"Mmm."

Matt's voice is low, as dark as chocolate, and, watching him, Foggy wonders when he stood up. How did he get close enough to touch their foreheads together? Matt keeps both of his warm, strong hands on Foggy's leg for a moment longer before pressing his foot to the bed. This triggers clonis, but that's okay. Foggy's stupid, fucking leg can hop around if it wants to because that seems to be helping break up the tension even more.

It's good when Matt slides an arm behind Foggy's back and hoists him into a better sitting position, making room to sit beside him, catching the leg again and lifting it just enough to make the bouncing stop.

All Foggy can do is seek shelter against Matt's chest. When the hand that had been supporting his ribs lifts to guide his head into place, Foggy lets out a cough that could be called a sob.

"Mm," Matt says again, propping his chin on Foggy's hair. "Shh."

Foggy squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to move anything left-sided. Trying not to even think about anything left-sided. Is there a difference between demanding of himself both everything and nothing? Is there a difference between Zen and frozen?

Matt makes another soft, coaxing sound as he strokes Foggy's hair.

Outside their bedroom window, a siren wails very faintly, followed by three long, lonely honks. Foggy wonders who, out there, is having an even worse 3 A.M.

There are too many hurt people in the world. The amount of collective pain that is currently radiating up toward the stars is daunting to think about. It's no wonder that people wish they had a magical pool to heal them.

You're broken, he tells himself, but so is everybody else.

That thought is enough to convince him to choose Zen.

Matt has begun to pay attention to Foggy's left hand, prying it open like an eagle's hallux, rubbing a thumb across the fingernail dents.

Foggy's shirt is humid with sweat, and he smells like he's gone twelve rounds in a courtroom with Judge Zalinski. The fact that he's not going to be able to go back to sleep without peeing really sucks. Later, he tells himself.

Later, he'll let Matt become his left leg, practically carrying him, all those sexy muscles coming in handy once again. He'll lean on Matt with his full weight. There's no pool at Bethesda, only borrowed balance, the bright oasis of a bathroom, and a man who will keep him from falling down.