rp | all the hurt that brought me here

[aworldonfire]

It's a miracle, he thinks, that he got away from Nobu, from Fisk. It's a miracle that he made it back to his apartment, as beaten as he is. It's a miracle, but singing the praises of God doesn't follow him much past the door, not because he doesn't want to but because, while he's still alive, still fighting, he's rapidly devolving into hysterical thought thanks to the blood loss, and what he's stricken by, standing in the doorway of the rooftop access, is that he remembers what red looks like, would swear he could see it.

It's in the taste of his own blood in his mouth, after all, the wash of pain in his stomach and chest that rushes over him whenever he draws breath, the smell of metal (not his own, not copper, so much blood, oh, God), clinging to his wounds, where he was stabbed again and again and again. It all permeates as much as Clint's cover's body spray did, the red, making it hard to think, hard to see beyond his absent sight, and he takes a drunken step forward, presses his fingers to the wall that runs alongside the steps that come down into his apartment, hoping it will help, praying for a touchstone. He makes it down a handful of stairs, something like wild optimism rising in his chest, alongside the pain (he can make it, if he can just make it to the phone, make it to Claire), before it all goes to hell.

His foot catches on something, something likely broken by him, by Stick, less than a handful of days ago, and he trips. He hits the remaining steps face-first, so fast it takes him a moment to register what just happened, to grunt, no more winded that he already was (is his lung punctured? he can't tell. it hurts. father forgive him -- both of them), and try to sit up. All he manages is to slide the rest of the way down the steps to the ground and for black to join the red, a memory of tunnel vision closing in on the edges of his mind's eye, as what little he can get from his other senses slips, stutters, unconsciousness creeping up on him. He doesn't try to get up again, after that, just lays there, panting. He doesn't even hear the door opening again above him, practically miles away.

He doesn't know how many minutes pass, him laying there, but eventually and what seems to him suddenly, something occurs to him. He shifts again, not trying to get up this time but to press his shaking fingers to the comm at his ear, always worn, just in case, but rarely used outside of his team ups with Clint and Natasha. It takes him three tries to actually get there, actually find his ear, and when he manages, it takes a moment more of false starts to fight past the black and find the breath for his words. It never occurs to him to think that the Avengers, if they're listening, already know what's going on, if only to a certain degree, that the comms are always transmitting, always receiving, that help may already be on the way.

"Little -- little help here?" he chokes out. "I need help. Please."

The red and black catch up to him, after that, as relentless as he's ever been in the same colors, and he slips into something like twilight.

Comments

[avocado_atlaw]

While Matt doesn't hear the noise at the door above him, Foggy does hear the noise from inside the apartment. He stops at the door, hand on the knob, frowning at it for a moment. "Matt?" he calls, tentatively.

There's no response, no further noise from inside the apartment, and Foggy goes for his pocket, for his keys, to open the door and let himself in, as he's done so many times over the years. He stops just inside the door to listen again, repeating, "Matt?"

Foggy wanders farther in, keeping an eye out for whatever he heard - and it's only a few more moments before he sees the figure collapsed at the bottom of the stairs - and then only a moment after that before he recognizes the figure from the news. He goes still, breath catching as he watches him for a moment - only exhaling and moving closer when he doesn't seem to be moving.

"Matt?" His voice is quieter this time, and he sets his satchel down, peering into the kitchen. "Please don't be dead because of the crazy vigilante."

He goes still again at a sound from the lump at the bottom of the stairs, and he pauses - and then huffs out a sigh, frowning. Even with how the media has painted the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, he can't bring himself to just leave him laying there without at least checking if he's breathing, and he moves carefully closer.

[thehawkinhisnest]

It's some time later that Clint and Natasha get back - and, after a brief stop at the Tower to get some sleep of their own, to the apartment.

Not that Clint wasn't more in favor of going straight to Matt's, but he didn't want to actually fall asleep in the middle of keeping watch, either. They had their own explanations to make to Foggy when he woke up during the changing of the guard - and then some convincing to get him to leave the apartment for any time, even if just long enough to get coffee.

It's during that time that Clint gets hungry, having foregone eating at the Tower in favor of getting to Matt's sooner. And, since he had instructions to see if he could get Matt up long enough for a round of medication, he's not being particularly stealthy about stealing Matt's food.

It's better than actually poking Matt and getting punched for his trouble, after all.

[aworldonfire]

True to his word and some few days later, Matt finds himself outside Stark Tower. He feels -- mostly back together, at this point, and as much as Bruce has told him to keep taking it easy for a few more days, but either way and for everyone's peace of mind, he's not here to climb the elevator shaft again. No, this time, he has an appointment.

Supposedly, it's with Pepper, a follow-up on the case that he used as pretenses to get in here in the first place, but he knows better. Tony asked to see him. This is just another cover, to keep him out of the suit and get him into the Tower, still, without drawing any suspicion. It's a good idea, but he's still a little nervous. The mobs of varying countries and their bankroll, he can handle, but feeling like he's being called into the principal's office? A little less so.

Shaking his head, he lets out a breath, frustrated with himself, and trying to hold onto that (it helps, being able to be angry) and turns to head into the lobby. He checks in with the front desk, polite enough with the staff even if he's still trying to steel himself, and once she's finished with her call upstairs, heads for the elevator as requested, fingers running over the braille on the buttons to find Pepper's floor. Not that he thinks he really needs to -- he's pretty sure the elevator isn't taking him to Pepper's office. It's just the principle of the thing.

That done, he leans back against the one of the walls, cane held between him and in both hands and waits for the doors to close, to reopen, counting floors as they pass for lack of anything better to do.

[avocado_atlaw]

Considering everything that's been going on, Foggy hasn't been in his apartment all that much lately. He's just getting back there tonight, though, and he dumps his briefcase in its usual spot by one of the leather easy chairs in his living room, reaching up to tug his tie off as he heads for the bedroom, intent on shrugging out of his jacket and then heading back to the kitchen for something to drink.

He's probably going to wish he had turned the lights on here in a second.

[aworldonfire]

True to his word, when Matt gets home from Foggy's, he doesn't break doctor's orders and hit the streets. He wants to, God he wants to, but with everyone and their brother coming in and out of his apartment, the last few days -- well, he doesn't want to have to explain why he's breaking doctor's orders. Add in the fact that he needs to ask around about the Chinese before he does anything, anyway, if only to narrow the search, and he can wait. Just a few more days, just another night.

That in mind, instead, he checks his phone just to make sure Karen hasn't called, and then goes to stash his new suit in the lock box he keeps in his closet. He's in the middle of debating putting the remains of his old suit to the torch, just so no one finds it, puts the pieces together, and so he doesn't have to keep it, when he hears footsteps on the roof.

Hastily, he shoves the old suit back into the box, if only for the time being, closes it all up and turns, straightens, listens. He all but crumples in relief when it becomes clear to him that it's just Clint (though, boy, he dodged a bullet there, coming home when he did), and has to take a moment, head spinning with it, before he moves for his couch to sit down. He might be a little more paranoid, lately, but who can blame him?