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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"I think the loss of his shirt's gonna be the last of his concerns when he wakes up," Steve returns wryly as he takes the scissors and shifts so he can reach the bottom edge of Matt's shirt, carefully but quickly slitting the cloth.

"I can get pillows," Foggy says quickly, pushing himself up and heading for the bedroom, doing his best not to run, just needing to do something useful. It's only a moment or two later before he's back with them.

Bruce offers Steve a shrug, and to Foggy, calls a thanks, before he returns to rooting through his bag for supplies. By the time he returns, he has the gloves on and is filling a syringe; he glances up to Foggy, again, as he finishes.

"Put them under his feet," Bruce tells him. A beat and then he adds, "And, for the record, this is a local anesthetic. I don't -- I need to stitch him up."

Among other things, like check to see if Matt does have a punctured lung, that as much a fear of his as it was Matt's, and so on and so forth. He feels the need to narrate what he's doing, at least as far as the needle goes, so that Foggy doesn't think he's trying to poison his friend, however. Not that the Avengers would, but Matt's not the only person here who looks like they might be in shock, though Foggy's might be a little less life-threatening.

Foggy appreciates it, honestly. He's still waiting on all of this to start making any kind of sense. He's worried about Matt and kind of wants to punch him in the face again. He wants to know when the Avengers got involved. He wants to know how the press could get it all so wrong - even while he also knows that answer, considering everything else that's been going on. But he just wants to know how he can reconcile his best friend in the world with someone he had been very much prepared to hate with every fiber of his being - because of the press.

What he does for now, though, is crouch at Matt's feet with the pillows, watching as Steve cuts away the already ruined sleeves of the shirt. He nods to Bruce's explanation. "Yeah, okay." He pauses a beat, hands at the laces of Matt's boots. "Should I... should I take off his shoes?"

It feels ridiculous to ask, but. Part of him is terrified he's watching Matt die.

Bruce pauses, himself, at that, considering it. When he seems to reach some sort of conclusion, he shakes his head. "You don't need to." A pause. "It might be better to leave them on, actually."

If only to conserve body heat. A blanket would probably be better, as stereotypical as it is, but he can't exactly cover Matt up while he's working on the stitches. Rather than say that, however, what he offers instead is, "He'll be okay."

Bruce may be terrible at reading people, most of the time, but there are some emotions he can recognize without much of an effort. Fear, pain, anger -- that sort of thing. Things he knows intimately, from years spent watching people run from him, having to run, himself, from the transformation, from the upset he wears around his heart to prevent it. It's all so depressingly easy and he knows that Foggy's afraid. He doesn't blame him. He's not sure what he do, himself, if their positions were reversed, if this was Tony.

Edited 2015-12-06 09:37 (UTC)

Foggy lets out a breath as he nods a few more times than is necessary and busies himself propping Matt's feet up on the pillows.

Steve, in the meantime, finishes with the remains of Matt's shirt, carefully peeling it back from the wounds, a furrow between his brows as he takes in the damage. He wants to discuss this with Bruce, but he also doesn't want to upset Foggy more than he obviously already is.

He's listened in a few of the times Matt's gone out with Clint or Natasha, and he knows what they discussed the first time Matt came to the Tower. He also knows why Tony had kept them mostly out of it before this, but - he's pretty sure they have to get involved at this point. He, at least, can't just sit back after something like this.

But those are all things to discuss later, when he's not all too aware of the states Matt and Foggy are in, and he forces his expression to ease. "Steve Rogers, by the way," he tells Foggy - who goes back to looking startled like he had when Steve had first come down the stairs instead of focusing in on his friend. Which is entirely the point, really.

"Uh. Yeah, I know. I'm pretty sure everyone knows who you are."

Steve pulls a face. "Yeah. Makes it hard to get a cup of coffee without having to sign somebody's comic book."

Foggy still looks terrified, but he smiles a little, crookedly, so at least there's that.

Steve returns it and then looks back to Bruce, to check in with him. He might not have Bruce's skills, but he can do some nursing if Bruce directs.

"Bruce Banner," Bruce says belatedly, distractedly, as he administers the anesthetic, now now that he's sure he won't miss what he's aiming for, with Steve and Foggy moving him around, however minutely. A long silence follows, as he disposes of the sharp, and breaks out a suture kit to start prepping it, and then wryly, he adds, "I'm the more forgettable of the two of us."

As far as the public knows, he's just the Avenger's medic, and if he's ever appeared on TV when the press has caught up with them, it's been only briefly. Tony has taken great pains to preserve his secret identity so Ross (and the rest of the world, when they realize such a tiny guy is capable of such destructive force) doesn't come beating down the door of the Tower, and he appreciates that. It keeps him from feeling like he has to look over his shoulder all of the time, on occasion when he leaves the Tower -- just most of it.

"Just hang out here and get ready to talk to him, if he comes around," he tells Steve as an aside. A beat and then louder, to Foggy, he adds, "And yeah, Matt's -- I know we already covered this, but he's kind of been working with us. He's done Tony a couple of favors."

And vice versa, with all the office equipment and gear that Tony's been sending his way, but. He's trying to make it perfectly clear (again) that Matt is one of the good guys, that they're there to help, that Foggy doesn't have to be terrified of his best friend, when he wakes up. That last one's important. He's sure there's going to be an adjustment period, regardless, given that Foggy is just finding out that maybe Matt's not as blind as he pretends to be, with the acrobatics and climbing elevator shafts in his free time, but he wants to try and spare Matt the terror portion of events. That's not a fun feeling. He knows from personal experience.

"Nice to meet you," Foggy returns into one of the pauses. At the mention of talking to Matt if he starts to come up, Foggy reaches out, resting a hand on Matt's ankle, just above the cuff of his boots.

"He never...." Foggy begins but doesn't get very far with that before he trails off, an epiphany slowly appearing behind his eyes. "Oh my God that's where all that stuff's been coming from," he breathes out.

And yes, he means the office equipment and the accessibility aids Matt's installed here.

Bruce lets out a breath of a laugh -- and then immediately looks apologetic, looks away, focusing himself on cleaning the first of Matt's wounds before he starts in on it. He's not trying to be a jerk, he just -- well, that was an obvious light bulb moment there.

"Yeah, it's -- he thought Tony was working for Fisk, when they first met. Some of Stark Industries money was going into his pocket, and I guess it was kind of the logical assumption to make." It's hard to tell who's on Fisk's payroll and who's just a victim, from what he understands, and Tony's a businessman, even if he's not the CEO, anymore. It would be easy to swing towards just another bad guy, if you don't know him, and despite his being Iron Man. "Tony wasn't thrilled, and between him and Matt, they figured out how it was getting there."

And that had lead to Tony paying him back in equipment, yes.

"He's worked with some of" - our - "my teammates, too, looking into some of Fisk's other victims."

"I know he had a meeting with Miss Potts about someone we were defending. Is that when...?"

Steve nods. "I wasn't there for it, but he had the meeting and then he had another meeting with some of the team."

Foggy huffs out another breath, shaking his head, at a loss for words again. Of all the ways he thought this day would go - or for things he thought would ever happen, this is meeting exactly none of them.

Edited 2015-12-07 04:07 (UTC)

"Sorry," Bruce offers after a long moment, once he's finished with the alcohol wipe he's been using on Matt. Another pause follows, as he considers the wound, and when he seems satisfied with whatever he finds (or doesn't), he nods mostly for his own benefit, before continuing, reaching for the kit as he goes. "I know all of this is a lot to digest."

A beat. "And I know you probably have questions, beyond, even so."

Some that they might be able to answer, once Foggy has gotten through this round of disbelief, some that Matt might be better suited for.

"No, it's...." Foggy trails off. He doesn't normally have this much trouble finishing sentences, and he reaches up with his free hand to scrub over his forehead and push his hair back out of his face. "It is. And I do. I have a lot of questions. But a lot of it can wait until he's back in one piece."

Nodding, Bruce lets it go there, gets to work on getting Matt back into one piece. For a long time following, there's silence, beyond the sound of fabric on skin as he cleans each wound, of the needle through it, as he sews, and then -- well, he's almost finished when he has to stop as Matt inhales sharply and tries to sit up.

Bruce puts a hand to his shoulder, to keep him from going far, not that he really has the strength for it, and Matt relaxes, sinks back in to the ground. His eyes, oddly even more unfocused than they usually are, dance between Steve's general direction and his, as if he can't quite place where they are or how many people are here with him. He probably can't.

"Stark?" he breathes, when he gives up. A stuttering gasp follows, the anesthetic keeping him from feeling the needle, sure, but not much else.

Steve shifts to put a hand to Matt's shoulder, to keep him still while letting Bruce get back to work. "Rogers and Banner," he corrects. "We're still in your apartment. JARVIS heard the fight and sent us over. Hawkeye says you're not allowed to die, because he's, quote, never going to find another monkey." And yes, Steve understands that reference.

He's more serious when he goes on a moment later, though. "Your partner's here, too." There's no easy way to break that news, for him to find out Foggy knows - but he can't keep it from him, either, and he sees Foggy's hand tighten around Matt's ankle reflexively.

Matt lets out a breath of a laugh -- or tries to, anyway. The sound comes out sounding more like a groan than anything else. It takes him another long moment to find his words, after that, but Steve beats him to the punch, derails him as he continues. He tenses, almost belatedly, under Steve's fingers, under Foggy's as it occurs to him that he's not wearing his cowl, that Foggy must know.

"Shit," he mutters, too tired to sound as properly panicked as he probably should. For all the inflection in his voice, you'd think Steve just told him it might rain later today.

"Shit's right, Murdock," Foggy returns. "I'd punch you in the face if somebody didn't beat me to it." He sounds a lot more concerned than he does mad, though there's still plenty of tension in his voice. "We'll talk about it when you're less dead, alright?"

He shifts, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of a talk, but he doesn't argue. This time, however, it's less about how exhausted he is and more, as badly as he expects that to go, he really can't deny him an explanation. Not when the guy's his best friend, even if it may not be mutual anymore, not when Foggy's caught him red-handed.

"Yeah," he allows, that in mind. He falls silent again, after that -- silent but not unconscious again, judging by the way what little tension he's mustered doesn't fade.

Bruce, meanwhile, glances between the three of them, worried himself, and then returns to work, just as quietly as before. It's not long and at the same time forever before he finishes, leaning back to dispose of used supplies. "Alright." A beat. "Steve, do you think you can get him to the couch?"

He feels more confident Matt won't bleed to death if they try to move him, now. It won't be fun, getting there, for Matt, he figures, but.

Foggy finally lets go of Matt's ankle at the mention of moving him, and Steve shifts again. "I'd like to tell you this is going to be easy," he warns Matt, like that's not something Matt already knows.

Foggy straightens and moves to clear the couch but for a couple of the cushions, anticipating the move. Steve waits for some acknowledgement of the warning and then gets his feet under him, sliding one arm under Matt's torso and the other under his legs before he straightens easily. It might have been easier if Matt had put his arm over Steve's shoulders, but the serum makes lifting Matt easy enough, and this puts less pull on the new stitches.

While it might be easy enough for Steve, it's still probably not going to be fun for Matt.

"But it won't be," Matt sighs. He's silent for a beat following, eyes closing tightly. He doesn't bother to open them again, when he finally drums up the motivation to mumble, "Just -- just give me a minute."

He does, in fact, take a minute, after that, forcing himself to relax, knowing that this will be easier for everyone if he doesn't tense up. He levels his breathing, too, each lungful of air slow and deliberate, in spite of how much it still hurts to breath, bracing himself for the lift that way, rather than with his posture.

All that done and finally, he nods. "Okay."

And, well. To his credit, he doesn't cry out when Steve lifts him, though he does grimace, does suck in a handful of shorter breaths, in response, the world around him all but spinning. He can remember what that's like as well as he remembered, thinks he remembered, red and black, earlier.

"Keep breathing," Steve tells Matt gently as they move, as he waits a moment for Foggy to reposition the couch cushions, one under Matt's head. Foggy hesitates for a moment, glancing questioningly at Steve as he starts to put some under Matt's feet, and Steve nods. "That's probably for the best."

Steve might not be a doctor, but he did enough first aid in the army, and he knows Matt's still too pale, that moving him, even if it's for his comfort and even if Bruce got him part of the way to stable, probably still didn't help much. He doesn't want him drifting back toward shock.

Edited 2015-12-08 02:58 (UTC)

"Trying," Matt answers hazily. If he shifts faintly after that, however, it has less to do with him making some bizarre attempt at following the Captain's orders and more him trying to decide if he's on the couch yet, if it's over. He honestly can't tell.

"You might want to find him a blanket, too," Bruce puts in, apparently of the same mind. "And uh -- where does he keep his glasses?" He's planning on making Matt take some pain killers and probably some antibiotics, the latter just in case.

Steve sets him down carefully, letting him settle before he takes his arms all the way out from under him. "Okay, you're good," he tells him, in case he actually needs to know that. Even if he doesn't have the health issues he used to, he remembers too many nights just short of delirious with fever, with Bucky or his mother's voice as a touchstone.

"To the right of the sink," Foggy tells Bruce as he heads for the bedroom again, to get the requested blanket.

"Oh," Matt says, perhaps ineffectually, but well. It's a surprise to him that he's only now made it to the couch, though he supposes it makes a certain amount of sense, too. Everything does stop hurting quite as badly, now that he's actually resting on the couch. "Thanks."

"Thanks," Bruce echoes, though his is directed at Foggy.

That said, he turns to look for the glasses, finds them without much trouble, and takes one to fill with water. He carries the now-full glass over to the couch when he's done, setting it down near one corner in the absence of a coffee table, and in hopes that no one will trip over it as he moves to grab his bag from where he left it on the floor.

He returns with that, too, helping himself to one of Matt's armchairs, and when Foggy returns, pulls two pill bottles out of it. He holds them up, one at a time, once he's finished with the blanket and so he can see what he has. "Painkiller. Antibiotic." A beat. "Every six hours and every twelve, respectively."

"You're welcome," Steve replies as he moves away, out of the way of Bruce and Foggy.

Foggy comes back with the blanket, pausing a moment as Bruce addresses him - and then nods. "Okay. Is he..." He cringes, making a face at himself. Seriously, he needs to stop not being able to finish sentences. "Nothing against you, but do we need to go to a hospital? And what if whoever did that shows up here?"

Steve clears his throat a little to get Foggy's attention. "One of the people responsible for that is dead. And the other one didn't follow him here." He had done a loop around the block on his way to the apartment to see if he saw anyone suspicious and things had been clear. "We'll keep an eye on things." He didn't mind to, and Clint had already said he'd swing by when he finished his current job.

"No. No hospital," Matt protests, all at once a little more with it, albeit not by much. He starts to sit up, stops when he realizes he can't quite manage it, and settles on shaking his head, frustrated, instead. At least that doesn't hurt. Thank God for the cowl Tony made him. "Fisk ... "

If Fisk is watching the hospitals, and if he's smart (and he is), he will be, if they take him to one, his secret identity will be blown. Fisk will come after him, after Foggy, after anyone else who comes with them, after anyone who ever associated with him at all. He can recognize that, even with how barely together he is, right now, and he doesn't want that. He's never wanted that. It's why he's kept Foggy in the dark, why he hasn't officially teamed up with the Avengers. He doesn't want anyone dead because of him.

Steve reaches back down to touch a hand to Matt's shoulder, trying to get him to lay back down, to relax again. "Bruce has patched us all up enough times; he'll be fine without a hospital," he assures Foggy.

"Fisk isn't going to find you," he tells Matt and repeats, in case he didn't hear it the first time, "We'll keep an eye on things. I'll be around, and Hawkeye's already planning to visit." And he's fairly positive Natasha would take a shift if she needed to.

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