aworldonfire | rp | all the hurt that brought me here

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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.

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"Unless you're a time traveller, not so much," Clint agrees, fishing a few pieces of cereal out of the milk. "And I doubt it. I don't think he's the kind of asshole to hit you when you look like you do right now."

You look like shit, Matt. Has anyone told you that?

"I'm guessing I look as bad as I feel?" That's mostly a rhetorical question -- yeah, he got that ~~this~~ he looks bad, thanks. He touches one of the bandages again, forces his hands away again. "If it makes you feel any better, I heal fast?"

Or will once he gets the chance to get off of the couch and meditate.

"Little bit," Clint agrees, even if it was a rhetorical question - and then pulls a face. "Comforting as that is, pretty sure Bruce getting to you makes me feel better than that. Also, if you make like a good little ninja and take the meds he left, which I will get you water for."

His tone says he's not arguing about this one - even if he also fully expects to have an argument about this.

"I'll take the antibiotic he left," Matt promises, shifting to pull himself into a sit more slowly this time.

He's pretty sure the fact that he actually manages a full on sit and not the half-hearted lounge that was his best last night is a point in the Don't Need to Take Your Pain Meds category. He will argue properly if Clint pushes him on it, however. Taking them last night was one thing, but taking them now? Well, first and foremost, he's a Murdock, too stubborn and proud to need help getting up off the proverbial mat, and secondly, if last night was any indication, the meds make him groggy, and he doesn't want that, right now. Doesn't need it, even if he probably does need the sleep. He needs his head on straight, if he's going to bounce back, if he's going to keep going.

The eyeroll is - perhaps literally, considering who he's talking to - audible. "And the pain meds. Because just looking at you's making me sore, and I'm actually on a rare streak of not getting my ass kicked."

He will hide them in cheese and sneak them to you, Matt, don't test him on this.

It must be, if the face Matt makes in response is any indication. "I can live with the pain. Feeling like my thoughts are wrapped in cotton? Not so much. It'll mess too much with my perception."

Even if he doesn't plan on going vigilanting tonight, he doesn't like the idea of being left all but literally as blind as he pretends to be.

Clint gets that, he does, but. "I get that, believe me." His hearing might be a slightly less major handicap than Matt's blindness, but he knows how much it sucks when he can't wear his aids for whatever reason and has to resort to reading lips. "And I get that you heal fast - but you don't have to push yourself to get back out there. Me and Cap and Nat can keep an eye on things until you look less like you're going to keel over laying down."

He pauses a beat, and then, somehow both more seriously but also more flippantly, adds, "Also if you don't take the pills, Bruce will kill me, and I'm way more afraid of him as the team medic than as the big guy."

"Not that I blame you," Matt starts his counterpoint, "but I kind of need to be able to focus for the healing thing."

And that's the truth, even beyond not liking the idea of being truly blind while he's drugged up and never mind the fact that he wants to push himself to get back out there. He can't let Fisk have time to recover -- or, perhaps more accurately, move on to whatever he must have gained in lighting Nobu up at the end of their fight. He needs to keep going and he needs to do it himself. Not that he doesn't trust the Avengers to play by his rules, without supervision, just -- well, Stick sure as hell didn't, even after promising him he wouldn't kill anyone.

A shadow falls over his face at the thought of his former mentor, hurt and, more importantly, anger writing itself in the set of his jaw as it tightens. It spreads to his shoulders and he's aware enough of it then to let out a breath, to try and let it go. He manages, however briefly, and goes on to explain, "It's a -- a meditation trick. If I can kind of control what my body's doing, where the blood's flowing ... "

He can speed up the healing process. It's no healing factor, true, but it helps. It's how he's managed to walk away from some of the worse beatings he's taken, like the first time he and Claire met. He'd argue that maybe that's why he was still breathing after the fight with Nobu, but he's pretty sure he wasn't together enough for much beyond calling out for help. It doesn't help him much, right now, that his thoughts return to Stick, either -- or maybe it does, as for a moment following, he's tempted to give up his argument, to take the pills, just to spite him and his bullshit training. He can refuse to be whatever Stick was trying to make him and accept help, when it's offered. He can stop being stubborn for five minutes without it killing him, so it won't kill him.

Letting out a breath, his jaw works silently, tight again, the words on the tip of his tongue, and -- no. He has better things to worry about than spiting Stick, right now. Still, what he manages finally isn't another outright refusal, but, "Tell you what -- how about some middle ground? I'll take half of one."

Clint's not a mind-reader, sadly, so he sees the procession of emotions but doesn't know the reasons behind them. He also tries not to bristle prematurely - especially when Matt essentially ends up agreeing to it. "Works for me. I can see if he's got anything that won't put you out, too, if that's your case against it."

There's probably some extra strength Ibuprofen around the Tower.

"Most of it," Matt agrees with a nod. Which is to say, he'd appreciate it if Clint could get him something less likely to knock him on his ass, but until then, yes, he'll take half of what he has, as promised.

That latter bit in mind, he tilts his head in the direction he knows the kitchen to be, over his shoulder. "If you can find my cereal, I figure you can find the glasses?"

Clint stands from his perch, humming an affirmative as he makes his way back over to the kitchen. "I thought I'd start with loudly going about normal things before I started banging pots together to wake you up," he returns as he rinses out his bowl and then grabs a glass to fill it, bringing it back over to the couch. He sets it within Matt's reach and then picks up the bottle of pain meds, opens it, fishes one out, and halves it. "Here's this one."

"I wondered what all the -- " He makes a vague gesture, one likely meant to indicate Clint and his loud, obnoxious chewing. " -- was about. I'm glad it didn't come to the pots and pans, though. You'd be a little hard pressed to actually find any."

Blind people and kitchens still do not mix, as a general rule, after all -- regardless of how many things Tony has done for him, accessibility-wise, and despite his abilities. Chances are, if he has anything, it's something Foggy brought over, after conning someone else to cook for him.

Regardless, though, he reaches for the water, able to find it this time where he couldn't last night, and holds out a hand for the pill. He pushes it into the palm of his hand with his thumb, once Clint's passed it along, quietly double checking to make sure it's only half and despite the fact that he heard Clint break it, and when he's satisfied, pops it into his mouth and downs it with a mouthful of water. A small, sour face follows (God, that tastes terrible), and then, he says, "Next."

"I was under instructions to see if I could get you up at least long enough to take more drugs," he supplies as he picks up the other bottle to fish one out and hand it over. And yes, Mr. Paranoia, he did actually pick up the other bottle. "I thought it was better than getting within range of a punch if I tried to poke you awake."

Edited 2015-12-22 04:09 (UTC)

"After the nights I've been having lately?" Well, like he said (or didn't say) earlier, it probably would have been a punch. Rather than say that outright, however, he shrugs, takes the second pill, and then offers, "Probably a good idea."

No offense, Clint.

None taken. A lot of people seem to enjoy punching him on purpose, really, so an accidental one wouldn't even bother him.

Other than the whole ensuing black eye, obviously.

"I thought so." He caps the medicine bottle, setting it back on the table. "And keep being a good little superhero and taking those, okay? Because I mean it: Doctor Banner is a lot scarier than the Hulk."

"Pretty sure I'm not a superhero." Just a guy in nylon who takes way too much pleasure in beating the crap out of bad guys. "But yeah, alright, I get the picture." Even if he's not entirely sure how Bruce is scary without the Hulk.

It's the whole Disappointed Teacher thing he can get going. It's scary.

He looks doubtful to the first part of Matt's statement but nods. "Good. Because I don't actually like being a hard-ass about this stuff."

It loses something, when you can see the disappointed face. Not that Matt will ever find that out, as he's serious when he says he'll take the pills until Clint can get him something better.

Right now, regardless, he simply hum in response and sinks back into the couch. He sits there for a long moment, silent, swearing that he can feel the drugs start to take hold (and distantly grateful for that, for the distraction it provides from letting his thoughts wander to Stick again), and then lets out a breath, a note of finality to it.

"So, what now?"

How long is he grounded? Are they just going to sit here and stare at each other until he inevitably falls asleep again? Is Steve going to read him the riot act, next time he's here and Foggy's not? Normally, right now, he'd be getting in the shower, seeing about a replacement for the uniform Nobu ruined, preparing to jump back into things. Normally, he'd be alone, but now he's not and he really has no idea how any of this works. Sure, he's been working on and off with him and Natasha for a few weeks, now, but this -- feels different. This is more than just an occasional team up, this is the beginning of something, something new, and he's not sure what to do with it or if he likes it much. Getting his own ass kicked on the regular is one thing, pulling other people into his bullshit is another entirely.

"Uh..." Clint begins, and honestly he's not sure. They came to relieve Bruce and Steve and to check on Matt, considering Clint's enjoyed working with Matt enough to start to consider him a friend. But he also knows the feeling about this feeling different - and, while Clint got used to working with a partner, with Natasha, and while he's gotten used to working with the Avengers, he's not sure how to get Matt more on board with the idea that having other people around isn't a punishment - or to convince him that he doesn't have to join the boyband if he doesn't want to, no matter how pouty Steve gets about it. He's not sure where to start with any of that, though.

"I don't know," he admits, finally. "I guess I hang out until Nat and Foggy get back, first - and I can go hang out upstairs if you're not feeling company. You still want somebody else around to keep an eye on things?"

If Matt doesn't want them around, they can clear out. Steve thought - and Clint agrees - that if anyone had followed him home, that they had likely seen Steve and Bruce and thought better of trying anything else - but the fact remains that Matt still looks like hell.

Yeah, that's part of the problem -- Matt's started thinking of Clint as a friend, too. While he knows that Clint is more capable than Foggy and Karen at fighting off Fisk's guys, if and when it comes to that, however, he just -- well. If and when people ever start calling him the Man Without Fear, he's going to wonder what drugs they're on. Never mind the fact that he's never really been afraid for himself.

"No, I appreciate the company." And he does want the Avengers to continue hanging around until he's back on his feet, if only for Foggy's sake. "I was thinking more long term."

Edited 2015-12-22 18:21 (UTC)

"Oh." Right, like Clint was thinking. Good to know they're on that same page, anyway. "I still don't know. I mean, we'd already love to have you hang around more often - and not just so we can keep this shit from happening again - but nobody's gonna force you into anything, either. And even if we do help you out with something, nobody's passing around contracts to sign in blood or anything like that."

Seriously. He hates seeing Matt this beat up, but no one's gonna hold it against him if he's not feeling like a team player.

"Your loss," Matt tells him, trying for flippancy. He touches his fingers to the bandages again, gesturing rather than picking, this time. "At this point, it'd probably be pretty easy to get."

He pauses, that said, loses the smile, however thin, he managed when he said all of that, and shakes his head. He's still not sure if he can, in good conscience, tie them to his bullshit. He's not sure this won't become another case of what happened with Stick (though, he trusts the Avengers a hell of a lot more than he ever trusted him). He -- needs to talk this out with someone. Foggy, maybe. Maybe Father Lantom, when he's not on house arrest anymore.

Either way and finally, he answers, "Let me get back to you on that."

Clint breathes out a wry laugh - they at least share that gallows humor - and then finally nods to Matt's request. "Take your time. We'll be around." He pauses a beat. "And I mean that in the larger sense as well as keeping an eye on things until you're able to get up off the couch."

"I figured." He doubts the Avengers are just going to disappear any time soon. Considering all that's going on beyond him, beyond the Kitchen, that wouldn't bode well for more than just him. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," Clint returns, pausing for a moment.

"You need anything else, right now?" They've covered the medication side and he has the rest of the glass of water, and Clint doubts he's feeling like eating anything, but he can fetch and carry other things if there is anything he needs while they wait on their other halves to get back.

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