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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"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.

"I think I'm good, right now," he answers, shaking his head. A beat, and then, "Foggy and Natasha should be back soon, anyway."

Not that he can hear them, just yet, but a coffee run really can't take that long. Even if they'd just gotten out of the door as he was waking up, it really can't be much longer before they're back. He suspects he'll have to change his mind about the company thing, when they do get back, if only so he and Foggy can talk.

Clint nods, not bothering to glance at his watch. "Yeah, they hadn't been gone that long before you woke up." Or before Clint woke him up, whichever. "Nat had somewhere new she wanted to check out."

"I'm guessing it's not a local place?" As in not a Starbucks or Dunkin Donuts. Their coffee is more or less the same across the board, regardless of what part of the country (or world, he supposes) you're in.

"Right. One of the other guys brought some muffins back the other day and said the coffee was as good as the baked goods, so." He shrugs a little - and so, Nat wanted to check it out.

"Maybe I'll have to check it out, too." Assuming the coffee is any good. He's kind of picky when it comes to coffee, and understandably so, so -- well, he'll have to see. For now, he just mirrors the shrug, albeit gingerly (the meds may have taken the edge off of his pain, but he doesn't want to take any chances) and sinks back into the couch.

A long moment of silence follows, that said, and then, turning his head towards the windows, he starts, "I think they just hit the block." A beat. "You and Romanoff mind giving me and Foggy a few minutes?"

Clint looks up, like he'll actually be able to see them despite not having the angle on it - and then nods. "Yeah, of course. We'll be upstairs." As he offered before. He doesn't want to go so far that they can't get back in a hurry if anybody needs them, but he also doesn't mind giving them privacy.

"Thanks." A beat. "And sorry to kind of throw you out, I just -- we need to talk."

Foggy would probably appreciate it if it was just them. He'd appreciate it if it was just them. The Avengers might be good character witnesses, sure, but he wants Foggy to be able to say what he wants to say, to ask what he wants to ask, without them hovering over the both of them. There are some things that just can't be said in front of strangers -- or in front of heroes.

"I get it," Clint assures him, straightening from his lean. "Nat and I have disappeared to safe houses to talk away from people a few times."

Even if Fury had read him the riot act every time, he definitely knows the need to not have authority around - even if Clint and Natasha have no authority over Matt, Clint gets that he feels like the Avengers are trying to, right now.

Matt nods, seemingly satisfied with that and in lieu of an actual answer, and shifts, straightening himself as he hears Foggy and Natasha come into the building. The silence persists until his door opens, and when it does, it's Natasha that breaks it rather than him.

"Hey, boys," she calls. A beat, then to Clint, "You get him to take the meds Banner left?"

"With a minimum of fuss, even," he returns with a grin. "Though we compromised on half the pain stuff. I'm gonna see if Bruce has anything around that won't knock him farther onto his ass."

He pauses a beat. "The shop live up to the hype?"

"You're a real trooper, Murdock," Natasha says dryly, as she moves to set the cup carrier she's holding down on Matt's counter. Plucking two from their place, she passes one to Clint and holds onto the second, taking a sip of it before she answers, "I'm sold."

A beat and, again, to Matt, she says, "There's one on the counter for you, too, when you're feeling up to it."

Matt flashes her a quick smile. "Maybe in a little bit." A beat. "Thanks."

Natasha just shrugs in response.

Clint takes a drink of his and makes an appreciative noise. "Ooh."

"I told the guy working there he definitely had some new customers," Foggy agrees as he shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over the back of one of Matt's chairs.

"Cool." He pauses a beat, to take another drink, and then arches an eyebrow at Natasha over top of his cup. "I got a text from back home to give them a call when you got back. I'm gonna..." He nods toward the stairs, meaningfully. It's a pretty terrible lie, all things considered, but he figures it's good enough for Foggy, who's still a little starstruck by the Avengers, and he's the only one that it really needs to fool.

"I'm guessing if Stark wanted you to call when I got back, he wanted me there when you did," Natasha says. She knows that Clint's lying; she's playing along. That in mind, she glances to the stairs, too, and then lets out a breath. "Guess sitting down's going to have to wait."

Starting towards the door, she calls over her shoulder, "We'll be right back. If you two need anything before then ... "

"We'll be fine, Matt promises. "Go."

Foggy watches them head up the stairs, turning to face Matt once they're gone. "You want your coffee? It is really good. And I'm hoping Starbucks doesn't kill this one like it ends up killing most of the little ones that open up."

He'll bring the cup over and save Matt having to get up, if he does want it.

"Here's hoping," Matt agrees honestly, not really a fan of Starbuck's coffee. He offers Foggy a brief smile to go along with that, as well as a nod, as he comes back to the original question. "But yeah, sure. I'll take it."

Hopefully, the caffeine will help clear some of the fog that's settled in, now that the pain medicine has kicked in in earnest. If nothing else, it'll give him something to do with his hands for longer than the remains of his water might.

Foggy picks up Matt's cup and brings it over, pausing awkwardly for a moment before he just holds it out where he might have set it on the coffee table with a quick description as to where, before. He knows what they talked about, before, with how Matt "sees", but, well. He still wants to test that a little.

Matt knows Foggy well enough to know what he's doing, and for a moment, it occurs to pretend he can't see it, to wait, to, in so many words, lie. It's old force of habit and he's not sure it won't make Foggy more comfortable. The moment passes quick enough, however, if only because he realizes that Foggy might call him on it and that it might damage their relationship further, and finally, slowly, he reaches for the cup.

"Thanks," he mumbles, vaguely ashamed, either way.

"You're welcome," Foggy returns, more clearly, and retreats to one of the armchairs with his own coffee.

"How're you feeling?" he asks after a pause, just before it can get awkward. As thrown by all this as he still is, he does still care, and worry.

"Tired, mostly," Matt tells him, taking a sip of the coffee only partially for effect. To his credit, he doesn't comment on how good it may or may not be in order to deflect. "A little sore. I only took half of the meds Banner left, so it's just enough to take the edge off, but I can still sort of ... "

He can still feel it. He'll take it, though, if it means he still has some measure of focus.

"I'll live, though," he finishes with, that in mind. A beat, and then he adds, "And for more than just the pain. Like I told Barton, earlier, I kind of -- I heal fast."

Foggy doesn't look any happier about Matt only taking half the meds now as he felt when he heard that the first time, but, well. Sore is better than hurt too badly to move.

"I knew that." And he did. He's known every "accident" Matt had, every time he walked into a door or fell down stairs or all the other excuses Matt's given him for the black eyes and so on. "That's part of how the whole thing works, right? How you've been doing it without anybody finding out?"

Okay, well. He meant to work his way around to it, but apparently he's going to get into this conversation more quickly than he intended.

"It helps," Matt agrees, head bowing into his coffee. If his eyes actually had any bearing on what he could and couldn't see, he wouldn't be looking at Foggy, right now. "Makes it seem less bad than it actually is. A punctured lung wouldn't heal that fast, so it can't be as bad as it looked, right?"

"Yeah," Foggy returns, because that does make so much sense, and he's kind of miserable about it, still hung up on the fact that, for all he thought he knew everything about Matt, he's realizing how much he doesn't know. "So how did that happen? The Stick guy, too?"

Edited 2015-12-27 05:57 (UTC)

His expression clouds over again at the mention of Stick, though he doesn't raise his eyes. Instead, he forces himself to take a deep breath, in spite of his protesting sides and chest, holds it for a moment and then blows out a breath. With it, goes some of the tension that's crept into his shoulders, the lurking anger on his face. With it, he finds he can actually answer the question.

"Sort of?" A pause. "You know how Buddhist monks meditate all the time? They learn to control their bodies, through that -- heart rate, blood flow, all of it."

Somehow, it was easier explaining this to Clint. Not that he thinks Foggy won't understand, isn't smart enough to get it (guy wouldn't have graduated cum laude if he wasn't, wouldn't have graduated summa cum laude, like him, if he'd toned down the partying a little), it's just -- this is different, somehow. If Clint hadn't followed, he wouldn't have minded, contenting himself to just shrugging it off, letting it go. Foggy, though? He wants him to understand.

"I learned to do that, too. The extra blood flow means wounds heal faster -- or that I can stop myself from bleeding out, if I need to." He pauses again, mostly so he can offer Foggy a wry smile. "In theory, anyway. Last night ... "

Last night, he's not sure he wouldn't have bled to death, if Foggy hadn't found him, if Steve and Bruce hadn't shown up.

"So this is definitely the Karate Kid," Foggy returns after a moment in which he digests all that - but at least his tone is a little lighter again?

It doesn't last, though, as he picks up on what Matt didn't say. "Was bad. Yeah, I got that. What was I supposed to do if the damn Avengers hadn't shown up? I'm a lawyer, Matt, not any kind of doctor." And he's just going to flashback to the state Matt was in last night, because he's fairly likely to have nightmares about that.

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