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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He shakes his head, letting it go there. Silence follows as he's not really sure what to say, beyond it. He thinks that suggesting that Foggy might know him better than he knows himself, sometimes, might feel like a slap in the face, all things considered, even if it would be something he meant honestly, after all.
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Because he feels like that's something Matt will do, and he might actually kill someone himself if something else happens and he has to find out after the fact.
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"If something happens ... " If he gets arrested, if he gets killed, he doesn't want Foggy to be left holding the bag.
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He wants a balance. He's less likely to worry if he knows some parts of it - even if Matt still keeps him out of most of it.
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No offense, Foggy, but he's pretty sure doing something like, say, putting you in his burner phone and hoping you don't call while he's sneaking around isn't a good idea. Nor is he entirely sure that just telling Foggy when he's going out-out will do much for his peace of mind -- a lot can happen in a few hours, after all. See also: tonight. Long story short, he's really not sure how to give Foggy the balance he wants, even if he's willing to offer it.
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He's quiet for a long moment before he sighs, reaching up to run a hand down his face as he repeats, more firmly and more frustrated, "I don't know. I just know I don't want to walk in on my best friend bleeding to death again."
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A long moment of silence follows, and then finally, he decides, "I need to go talk to Stark, at some point. While I'm there, I'll ask him if he has any ideas -- maybe have his AI get in touch with you, if it's hitting the fan, or if I'm going to be later than I originally thought, if I'm supposed to meet you and I get caught up, or -- something."
He shakes his head a little, letting the idea go there. "Until then, I'll let you know, before I go out and if anyone's coming with me." A beat. "Sound good?"
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