rp | all the hurt that brought me here

[aworldonfire]

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.

Comments

[withmoreme]

They won't, if just because it's Tony's voice that interrupts, this time. "Okay, I'm pausing things now because you sound a little like you might sprain a lung," he says into Matt's ear as the simulation pauses again - and this time, it fades as Tony steps out of his corner and back into view.

[aworldonfire]

"Yeah," Matt answers wryly, breathless. A pause follows, part reluctance to say what he's thinking, part just a need for air, and then, hesitantly, he adds, "Guess Banner's right about me still needing a few more days."

[withmoreme]

"He usually is, unfortunately," Tony returns, and he really does empathize with him on that, even if he is the one calling stop, now.

He tilts his head, eyeing the suit - and then a chair appears at Tony's side, and he picks it up to set it down again closer to Matt, for him to sit if he wants. "Once you can breathe again, tell me about the suit," he teases gently.

[aworldonfire]

Matt drops into the chair with a muttered word of thanks and pulls his hands up behind his head, like someone hit in the solar plexus might to regain their wind. He sits like that for more than a good handful of seconds, listening to the sound of his own heartbeat thrumming in his ears and as he tries to put the breaks on it, and when he manages, relaxes slowly, hands dropping into his lap. He blows out one, final breath, before he falls back into a normal breathing pattern.

"If I didn't know better, I might think I was still wearing my old costume," Matt tells him, finally. "It's as light as it felt, before I put it on. And it doesn't -- it's not as restrictive as I was worried it might be." Nor as loud, not like the leather it feels like it's made out of. Not that he doubted Tony, but well, he wasn't sure what, exactly, to expect, really.

"I kinda wish I'd let the guy get his hands on the knife, though." He's wondering how well it really holds up and what it feels like, getting stabbed, wearing it. Just because it'll probably stop him from needing more stitches doesn't mean it might not hurt on impact.

[withmoreme]

Tony just grins, approving of the assessment. "That's the idea," he agrees. "It's meant to be as flexible as possible while also being as durable as possible without one trait compromising the other."

He nods. "Someone hits you, you're still gonna feel it. Cops feel gunshots even through kevlar." The shots just aren't going to kill them. Someday he'll figure out a way to disperse more of the energy from blows, but he's not there yet.

[aworldonfire]

"I figured, maybe," he agrees with a nod. It's probably better, in that case, that he didn't let the guy get his hands on the knife. The stitches he's sporting may be well on their way to dissolving entirely, now, but risking reopening them still probably isn't the best idea. "I'll keep that in mind, though."

If nothing else, he'll know to brace for it.

[withmoreme]

"It's better, not an invitation to let guys wail on you," he jokes, like he thinks that's something Matt might actually do - or has ever done. None of their armor is perfect, yet. Even he gets to deal with the occasional bullet hole.

Less seriously, he adds, "If you get any chafing issues, let me know and we'll try to adjust things." The faint smirk is audible.

[aworldonfire]

"I'm not that much of a masochist." Despite what his religious preferences may or may not lead Tony to believe. The Catholic church hasn't really gone for self-flagellation in centuries. Now, they're more into saying the Hail Mary until you're hoarse.

As for the chafing issue thing, he just shakes his head, looking dimly amused, regardless of whether or not that may turn out to be an issue. Couldn't help yourself there, could you, Tony?

[withmoreme]

Tony's not too sure about that considering what Matt puts himself through in the name of the city, but he just snorts, for now.

And then he snickers at Matt's head shaking. No. No, he couldn't help himself. And besides, it's a valid concern. Or, well. Matt's comfort is a valid concern. He just put it less seriously than he might have.

[aworldonfire]

Matt hums, the sound disapproving of the laughter even if he still looks amused himself. A moment after, the pause mostly for effect, he sobers a little, however, if only so he can answer seriously. So Tony knows he's being serious. "If something comes up with the suit, though, I'll let you know."

[withmoreme]

Tony sobers a little, too. "Alright then. I'll turn it over to your care, then. Congratulations, you're again an owner of a Stark original."

Just because he sounds more serious doesn't mean he can't brag about his own genius some more.

[aworldonfire]

It's a nice suit, worthy of bragging, and so Matt can't really find it in him to fault him. Instead, and with no small measure of sincerity, he just says, "Thanks."

Having some measure of insurance against ending up bleeding out again is very nice, indeed.