Matt Murdock (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
aworldonfire) wrote2015-12-05 03:01 pm
aworldonfire) wrote2015-12-05 03:01 pm
rp | all the hurt that brought me here
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.
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.
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That's not a lie, either, and in any number of ways. He wishes he could get back into the face punching, in tandem or otherwise. He wishes Foggy wasn't so afraid, hesitant, pick one, when he starts getting geared up about work (not that that's entirely the same, even if he and Foggy aren't -- it's not like that), not that he expects or wants him to come out with him, just still. Add in the fact that he imagines Natasha isn't hard on the eyes, from what he's 'seen' of her, and yeah. Definitely more than a little honesty there.
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He's not trying to trap Matt into anything with that, either. He knows Matt was in the Tower but not the entirety of what he got up to. Which is why he's asking if he talked to Bruce.
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"Not so much." A beat. "I, uh -- probably should have, just to find out how much longer I'm on house arrest, but me and Stark kind of got involved." Another pause follows, and then when he seems to reach some kind of conclusion, he gestures in the direction of the closet he keeps his father's gear (and his) in. "Stark made me a suit. It's -- a few steps up from the black pajamas."
And Clint is welcome to go look, if he hasn't already seen it. Matt didn't actually put the lock back on the box, when he put it away, first debating what to do with his old costume and then startled by the sound of someone headed his way.
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Despite the fact that he went ahead and stood up, he will at least ask before he goes to paw through things.
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Having to actually touch any of his father's gear.
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Which is to say he approves both of the aesthetic and apparent functionality.
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"You can still be jealous. I promise I won't tell anyone." It is a nice suit.
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Mostly because he's kind of floored by how perfect it is, still.
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And yes, there is a difference between fighting them and letting them try to stab you.
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He's definitely here to meet that quota, not to keep an eye on things so Matt can keep taking it easy.
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"If you're open to suggestions, I might have something that'll help with that."
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"I've been trying to track down the source of Fisk's heroin trade," he continues, that in mind. "From what I've put together, it's somewhere on 10th, but that's a little vague, for my tastes." A beat. "If you and Natasha could narrow it down for me, it'll make it easier to shut down once Banner lifts the bed rest order."
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"I'm guessing you don't know if we should start farther north or south." He figures Matt would have mentioned that, if he had. "But yeah, we can stick our noses into some warehouses, see if anything turns up."
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Other than that, though, he shrugs. Yeah, he has no idea.
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He trails off if only because he's not sure what he wants Clint and Natasha to do, in that case. On one hand, he'd really like to be able to handle it on his own, for any number of reasons. On the other, though, he's not really sure he wants that operation to keep going if there's a chance to shut it down, even if it'll probably only be for another few nights. Either way, he makes a face, all that in mind.
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Assuming Matt doesn't just put his comm in to listen in - he wouldn't honestly be surprised either way.
He doesn't want to take it away from Matt either if they can help it, considering he knows what's it like to deal with his problems himself, but he's also pretty sure leaving it open if they track it down would be the worse option.
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