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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Tony grins. "Hey, you've already got a questionable night job for a blind guy, I don't know what else you might get up to." And yes, he meant that more in case he came into contact with anything electrical, but the other mental image is funnier.

He doesn't comment on Matt's goof, either, just watching, waiting for Matt's reaction. He might have confidence in what he does, but getting other people's approval is nice, too.

"Bright yellow," he returns evenly - but doesn't let the joke go for more than a couple seconds before he actually answers. "Black and red, same as your hood. Romanoff says you owe her a quarter for the color scheme, by the way."

The question's out there if Tony knows what colors Jack Murdock wore and if he took that into consideration - but he'll probably never answer it. It was easy enough to go black and red for Matt's gear, considering he works at night and considering his press given name and his more recent, shorter codename.

Matt shrugs almost innocently at the first part of Tony's commentary -- and at the second, gives him a disbelieving look. It doesn't quite translate, perhaps, because of the sunglasses, but the silence that follows, waiting, expectant, makes it clear that he's not buying it. He can tell when you're lying, Tony. He can tell when most everyone's lying.

When he finally gives an honest answer, Matt looks away, nodding. He can't help but smile, amused, as he continues. "Pretty sure someone else had it before her, so unless she's planning on paying them royalties, too ... " Natasha won't be seeing a dime from him. Or maybe she will. It depends on how much of a smart ass he feels like being, next time he sees her.

Either way, he pauses again, briefly, before, more seriously starting, "Should I try it on?"

It's going to look ridiculous, with his Oxfords, without the cowl, but they should probably check to make sure it does, in fact, fit. The question has nothing to do with him actually wanting to put it on. No. Not at all.

Tony shrugs. "I don't argue with her, I just pass on the message." He pauses a beat. "She's a little scary." He's tempted to make some crack about her stabbing him in the neck that one time, as he usually does in these situations, but it's a thousand per cent less fun when Natasha herself isn't in the room for it.

"And you should definitely try it on. I want to see if it looks as awesome on you as it did on the virtual you."

He'll just say it for you, Matt, it's okay.

"I hadn't noticed," Matt answers.

It's debatable as to whether or not that's sarcasm or the opposite of and he doesn't clarify, either way. Instead, he shifts to set his cane down, freeing up both hands to start gathering the suit into his arms. "Got somewhere I can change in here?"

Tony nods over his shoulder. "There's a closet in the corner at about your seven o'clock." It's more water closet than storage closet, considering it has a toilet and sink in it, but it's also definitely more for him to use to get grease off at the end of the day than an actual bathroom.

Matt turns in that direction, calling a thanks over his shoulder as he goes.

He returns several minutes later, taking decidedly longer than the last time he had to change here, though not because there's anything wrong with the suit. No, it's as good a fit as Tony had hoped, and while he looks a little awkward in it, it's part getting used to the feel of the weight of it on his shoulders (it's light, by armored standards, and he can still move, but it's still heavier than nylon) and part feeling half-naked, still, without the cowl, without his sunglasses. What took him so long, instead, was having to feel out the closures to the new outfit. This is a lot different than just throwing on a different shirt and pants and calling yourself good.

"So, what do you think?" he prompts as he stalks back to the center of the room. The change in his gait, like most everything else, has nothing to do with fault in the suit. It's habit.

Tony hums an acknowledgement of the thanks and turns back to his soldering iron while Matt heads off to change. It doesn't surprise him that it takes Matt some time to figure it out - and he probably should have offered a hand with that part of it. Still, he looks up when Matt emerges, scooting his chair back a few feet so he can get a better look. "How's it feel? Because that definitely doesn't look like anything you ordered off the internet."

And yes, that's pride in his tone.

"Feels good," Matt tells him, a grin creeping on to his face. It's slow to start, but when it ends, it's wide and real. He holds onto it for a moment before it softens into something not-quite-embarrassed but not far removed from, either. "Kind of makes me wish I had my mask."

And his batons. And his boots. And that it was night. And that he wasn't still technically supposed to be resting.

The point his making is that he really wants to go for a run across some rooftops and find some skulls to crack, right now. He's been getting progressively more stir crazy and putting something like this on really isn't helping his desire to get back on the streets.

Tony grins back. "I didn't put you together a new one of those, yet."

And while he's not actually psychic, he pauses a beat, tilting his head to consider Matt. He glances briefly toward the ceiling, and then, "This will probably have Romanoff, Barton, and Banner up my ass, so you have to promise me you'll stay at the beginner level, but I could fire up the holodeck."

At the least, Matt could take it through some basic paces.

"Give it a couple of weeks." It's a joke, a reference to the number of canes he's had to ditch over the last few months, when something came up and running around with it stopped being viable. Not that he plans on having to lose the mask any time soon, intentionally or otherwise, but he can't quite help but take a shot at himself.

Nor can he stop from answering immediately, when Tony suggests the holodeck. "I promise." It's not quite as good as the real thing, he thinks, if only for the lack of lasting progress, but -- God, yes, please.

Tony gets it, yes, and he chuckles. "At least your main weapons don't involve you literally putting as much distance between yourself and your ammo as possible." See: him and Clint, and frequently Steve and Natasha.

"Then I'll set something up." He glances down at Matt's shoes. "And, uh. Maybe borrow some of Barton's boots?"

Matt shrugs, as if Tony has a point he can't argue, and really, he does, and then follows his gaze down to his shoes -- or seems to, at any rate. Either way, after a moment, he looks back to Tony, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "With or without letting him know why I need them in the first place?"

And explaining why he's dressed for a night out. He doubts Clint just has a pair of boots laying around, is what he's getting at.

Tony pulls another face. "I hate when other people have points." And Tony himself, while he does have some work boots around, doesn't tend toward the style of combat boot that Clint, Steve, and Matt all do. "Well. You will actually break something in those."

"I could try it barefoot," Matt suggests after a moment's thought. It's not ideal, but it keeps him from potentially slipping and falling thanks to the fact that Oxfords weren't really meant with traction in mind, and from having to explain anything to Clint. "As long as you don't decide to put down a minefield of broken glass or something, I should be okay."

He pauses, still thinking, and then starts again, more slowly this time, if only because he doesn't know if the suggestion is even viable. "Or -- have you tried making clothes down there?" If Tony can program a pair of boots for him to wear when they gets down there, maybe that would work?

Tony's still thinking, too, and he blinks at Matt's eventual suggestion. "I've done my suit a couple times. It shouldn't be any harder to make a pair of boots." He pauses a beat. "Jay?"

"It should be no trouble," the AI agrees. "Though if Mister Murdock is intending to use the holodeck, I really must insist he follow all safety protocols."

"No one uses all the safety protocols," he complains, frowning for a moment - and then realizes what JARVIS isn't saying. "Oh, right, that. What he's trying to be delicate about is that we all have safe words to shut it down in a hurry." Another beat, and, for example, he adds, "Mine is my mother's first name backwards, Barton's is 'fletching'." Tony says that the same way Clint had when he'd set it, making it sound like as much of a euphemism as possible. "Stuff we're not likely to need to say otherwise in the middle of a fight."

"So, you need me to come up with something, just in case," he concludes.

Of course, now that Tony's asked, he's drawing a complete and total blank -- or at least not able to come up with anything that doesn't have some remote possibility of being a thing. He could use his father's name, for example, but plenty of people are named Jack. He could pick some legal term, for another, but he's thrown handfuls of legal jargon at Clint over the comms, before, in pursuit of being a smart ass. And so on and so forth.

It takes him a long time to finally suggest, "Ives." A pause follows, that said, and then he explains, "Patron saint of honest lawyers."

"Right," Tony agrees with a gesture to the same affect.

He lets out a small, amused breath through his nose. Not because he thinks it's a bad choice, but "Guy must not have much to do." You are one of the .01% of lawyers he doesn't hate, Matt. "But that'll do.

"You ready to head down?"

"He's got a couple of other things he covers," Matt replies, with a vague shrug. He really doesn't want to get into the fact that Ives is also the patron saint of orphans, too, or that one of the nuns at Saint Agnes gifted him with one of his medals, at some point during his stay there for that very reason. "But yeah. Lead the way."

Tony pushes himself to his feet, turning to lead the way back out of the lab and to the elevator - which opens as he approaches. He moves to lean on the back wall, waiting for Matt, and the elevator will start down when Matt's on board.

"So, what can we set up down there that's not going to result in you busting something open and bleeding everywhere?"

Matt follows, and once they're on the way down, settles against one of the sides of the car, the wry smile he'd worn earlier returning. "I don't know, but I'm guessing that rules out giving me a half-dozen thugs that need a beating?"

Disappointing, but he did promise to take it easy for everyone's sake.

Tony tilts his head, thinking - and maybe conferring with JARVIS a little. "If they're badly trained thugs that come at you one at a time," he counter-offers.

Seriously, he's probably going to end up insulting Matt with this, but he also really doesn't want to accidentally hurt the kid. For all he's facilitating this breach of doctor's orders, he was worried, too.

"And having Foggy end up being even more convinced that my life is some kind of kung fu movie?" Never mind the fact that he's pretty sure he won't mention what Tony's letting him do here any more than he plans on running to Clint, to fill him in, after the fact. "Yeah, no thanks."

A pause follows, then more seriously, he offers, "What about one badly trained guy that I can follow for awhile?" And beat up at the end. Has he mentioned really wanting to hit something?

Tony barks out a laugh, at that, because, well. Now that you mention it. "He's got a point."

He lets Matt think for a moment while he does, and then nods. "That'll work. I think the spies already have some tracking missions programmed in. We'll just turn one down."

"Remind me to come up with a counter-argument for you people, later." Seriously, guys. Despite the appearance of random ninjas, his life is not a movie.

He shakes his head faintly, that in mind, that said, and as Tony continues, hums, not quite pleased with getting the watered down version of anything, but at least satisfied. It's better than not being able to do anything. He has to keep that in mind.

Tony just chuckles again. "There are literally comic books about me and Cap. Give it a while."

He shoots him a sympathetic look in response to the hum. "When you're back to full strength, you can come by and really play." Not that he doesn't think Matt gets enough practice on the streets, but the holodeck is awesome, okay? Everyone wants to play on it.

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