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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"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.

"He would if we went to the hospital," he grumbles. He does, however, let Steve guide him back down into the couch, though that's more because he's pretty sure they won't be taking a trip to the ER rather than anything else.

How the hell would they even explain the condition he's in, if they did?

Bruce, not a mind reader, can't answer that question. Instead, he turns to Foggy, nodding agreement with Steve. Not that he's trying to toot his own horn, it's more, "He got lucky. He lost a lot of blood, but whatever they used to cut him up didn't hit anything major. He -- he'll need to take it easy for awhile -- " He pauses, shoots a pointed glance in Matt's direction, and when he doesn't respond, glances back to Foggy. " -- but he'll live."

Steve levels a look at him that's practically audible - they're not taking you to the hospital, Matt, stop fussing before he does haul you back to the Tower's medical lab. That's seriously tempting.

"This was Fisk?" Foggy repeats, though it's mostly rhetorical. He trusts they all know what they're talking about, even if he's having a hard time getting his brain around it all, still. "Wilson Fisk."

"And a man named Nobu, from what we overheard."

"'Overheard'? How did you..." he begins to ask, trailing off as Steve tilts his head, reaching up to pull his comm out of his ear and show it to Foggy before he replaces it.

"Stark made him one, too."

"Nobu's one of Fisk's guys," Matt says tiredly, figuring that talking about this is probably better than arguing about the hospital when that ship has, thankfully, sailed. Either way, he pauses a moment, that said, and then corrects, "Was."

Another pause. "And I want the record to state that I wasn't the one that killed him. I don't ... "

Murder really isn't his speed, no matter what the news says. No matter how much he may or may not enjoy beating the worst of the Kitchen within in inch of their lives. He might be starting to wonder if he won't have to kill Fisk to save it, but -- no. No, he's going to save the questions of morality for later, and just leave it at that.

"He doesn't kill," Steve finishes for Matt, to assure Foggy. "That's one of several things the paper's been wrong about. But Nobu is presumably dead, and Fisk is still out there." He's not sure if Matt is enough with them for this conversation right now, but they've reached a natural progression toward it, so he's going to go ahead. "When you're back on your feet, we need to talk about this with the team, because I think it's time we get more involved. Quietly, maybe, but we do need to talk about it."

He won't force Matt to work full time with the Avengers, but. When Matt does have one of Tony's earpieces and part of a Stark-created suit, he shouldn't have run into that fight without someone at his back - even if Nobu did ambush Matt.

Matt has a feeling he's not going to like that conversation anymore than he's going to like the one he and Foggy need to have, but he feels it comes with the same level of inevitability. After getting his ass kicked, he loses his Handing This on His Own privileges. Fantastic.

Letting out a breath, he closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again, nods. "Remind -- remind me tomorrow?" He's not even sure he's going to remember this conversation, then, so the reminder will be good, if only for Steve's sake. If only if he really wants to do this.

Steve nods. "Of course."

There's a moment of silence - and then there's the sound of buzzing, followed by a computerized voice announcing "Karen!" repeatedly. Steve looks from Matt to Foggy, who takes a breath and then huffs it out through his nose.

"Our secretary."

The buzzing continues for a moment before it stops - and then, in what was obviously just time for her to hit the next speed dial, Foggy's phone starts ringing. "I"m gonna get this," he tells the room at large, handing off the blanket before he turns away, moving to stand in the bedroom door to take it.

Steve shakes out the blanket, nodding to Bruce - and then to the pill bottles. "You wanna get him started with those?"

Matt startles at the sound of the phone ringing, glancing sharply in its direction, all at once tense. He stares at it (or, well, in that direction) until it stops, and then as Foggy breathes out, exhales himself, and starts to relax again. He doesn't get very far, moving, in fact, in the opposite direction, when Foggy's phone starts ringing, struggling to sit.

"Foggy, don't."

Bruce, who had started to reach for the pill bottles, freezes and glances to Steve.

Foggy looks back over at them, sounding a little frustrated when he says, "Jesus, Murdock, I'm not gonna..." He had already pressed to answer it, and he forces his tone to turn more casual when he actually talks to her.

Steve can't help a wry snort at Foggy's attempts to cover what's happened, looking sheepish when Foggy turns to look at him. He doesn't blame Foggy for being thrown by all of this. It's a lot to accept in a small amount of time.

Edited 2015-12-08 22:16 (UTC)

Matt stays sitting, on edge, as he listens and despite Foggy's reassurances. While he can't make out Karen's half of the conversation, however, still not in any position for the level of focus that would require, he can hear his partner, and -- well, to say that it's a relief that he doesn't out him would be an understatement. With a breath out, he starts to sink back into the couch, only to have Bruce stop him.

He raises his eyes in Bruce's general direction, uncomprehending of the hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry," Bruce murmurs as he presses a couple of pills into Matt's hand. A moment of pause follows, Bruce hands the glass of water he'd brought over earlier to Matt and carefully. It seems like being able to focus enough to figure out where the glass is on his own is beyond him, too. He's effectively, literally blind, right now.

"I told her you got hit by a car," Foggy offers when he hangs up, in case Matt didn't hear what he said. "She's gonna hold down the fort." He looks like he wants to say more, as he takes a couple of breaths and then lets them out again - before he finally sighs and sinks down into another chair.

"Is this what you guys do?" he asks Steve, finally, a touch of heat in his tone. "People get hurt and killed and you just pick up over and over again?"

Steve offers him a sympathetic look. "Unfortunately. We try to keep the fallout to a minimum, but it's not always pretty."

"Yeah, I heard that part," Matt admits. He hands his glass back to Bruce and, that done, sinks back into the couch slowly. "And it's not -- there's a reason why I never told you what I do with my nights off, after I started taking this whole vigilante thing seriously. Getting myself hurt is one thing. Getting you or Karen hurt because of me?"

He shakes his head.

Edited 2015-12-09 01:05 (UTC)

Well, he was trying to spare Matt an interrogation by not actually asking the questions that were coming to mind, but if he's going to jump in. "How does it even work? I mean..." He stops and clenches his jaw, because he's not sure he wants to be That Guy and ask this question, but: "Are you actually even blind?"

And great, now he has Captain America giving him a disapproving look, and he wilts a little in the face of it.

It's probably better that they do this now, though that has less to do with the fact that Steve and Bruce are here to defend him and more -- well, if and when Foggy decides he's done with this bullshit, then he can leave, go home to his own bed, not be kept here all night. He wouldn't blame him, even if it'd break his heart.

"Sort of? It's complicated." He pauses, knowing that's not entirely an answer, and holds up a hand before Foggy can call him on that, trying to gather his thoughts well enough to uncomplicate it. "I can't see, but I kind of -- I hear really well. I can smell things better than most people -- like I can tell Rogers is in uniform, because I can smell the leather, the wax he uses for his shield, the metal. And I know he was painting before he came to save my ass, because I can smell that and -- turpentine?"

He turns his head in Steve's general direction, searching for confirmation. Whether or not he gets it, he continues after a moment.

"I know that you saw Karen today, because I can smell her perfume on you." And tomorrow, when he's not so out of it, he'll be able to tell that Foggy had onions for lunch three days ago and that he was filling out paperwork, at some point. Right now, though, those sorts of subtleties are a little beyond him -- and yes, in this case, onions do count as a subtle scent, for how old they are.

Either way, "It kind of all comes together, paints a picture."

Some things are beyond him, of course -- he still needs special equipment to use a laptop, a tablet, he can't read most things that have been printed without braille because modern printers don't leave impressions he can follow, and so on and so forth -- but otherwise? It's like he told Claire. A world on fire.

If Matt says that outloud, Foggy might actually punch him in the face, nevermind if someone already did it or not.

"Paint thinner," Steve agrees, impressed despite the fact that he already knows how this works.

Foggy just still looks a little shaken, though he wishes that didn't make as much sense as it did. "All that on the news. How you fight." He pauses a beat. "Your dad was a boxer. And you told me he didn't want you to fight."

Matt shrugs gingerly, the gesture meant for Steve. Close enough.

"He didn't," he agrees, once he gets over how terrible idea that shrug was, however minute. "When I was in the system, the nuns were -- " Afraid of him and the outbursts he was having, as he grew into being blind and how his body chose to compensate. " -- concerned about how I was getting along, losing my father, being blind. They got in touch with someone who thought might be able to help me. His name was Stick, and he was ... like me."

Blind. More.

"He's the one who taught me how to use this, how to fight." And yes, he realizes how much like a superhero movie that sounds, but. Look at what he's doing with his life, Foggy.

"Did he make you paint a fence?" Foggy blurts, because he can't help it. How is your life a kung-fu movie, Matt? How is Foggy apparently the plucky sidekick? Yeesh.

A beat later, he frowns again. "So you've been doing this since you were a kid?"

Matt can't help but laugh at that, in spite of himself, and as bad an idea as it is, it leads to a coughing fit. It takes him more than a few minutes to catch his breath, and when he does, he sinks a little more into the couch, defeated albeit through not fault of Foggy's, and shakes his head.

"Not like this. Not the whole vigilante thing." He refuses to call himself a superhero, thank you. "But being able to get a sense of things without having to see? Yeah."

Foggy frowns, concerned, until Matt settles again, and then sighs. "Holy shit," he says, simply, and again. He could keep going, could keep asking questions all day, but he really doesn't want to overwhelm Matt when he still looks like death warmed over.

Foggy's still reeling himself, too, still realizing that, for all he thought he knew everything about Matt, he apparently didn't know jack. Having an Avenger in the room is helping, too, knowing that Matt isn't the horrible vigilante he thought him to be for all of ten seconds - though finding out how much he's been played by the media when they've been trying to get the truth of everything going on in the Kitchen is weighing on him, too. He's basically starting to give serious thought to raiding Matt's refrigerator.

"So how long have you been doing the vigilante thing?" he asks, finally. He knows how long the media's been reporting on the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, but that doesn't mean much.

"I'm okay," he promises, belatedly. The fact that he doesn't bother trying to pull himself back into the half-sit he was managing seems to speak volumes to the contrary, though. He's tired, and while the pain meds are starting to kick in, everything still hurts. He'll sit through whatever questions Foggy has, whether or not it does end up feeling like too much, because he feels like he owes Foggy that much, but he's pretty sure he's going to sleep for a week afterwards.

Or at least until he has to get up and take another set of pills.

"It started either right before or right after we quit Landman and Zack." Right now, he can't quite recall which way on the timeline his debut as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen swings. "There was this guy, living a few blocks away. He liked to get drunk, while his wife was at work, and hurt his daughter." More than hurt, if the inflection Matt manages beyond his exhaustion is any indication. He's still pissed off about the whole thing, even if he took care of it. "I tried calling Child Services, and they did nothing -- the wife couldn't believe her husband would do something like that, the guy denied doing anything, and the daughter wouldn't talk because she was afraid her father would come at her again.

"Eventually, I kind of -- I took care of it. We came to the understanding that, if he ever touched his daughter again, he'd regret it." After, of course, Matt had beaten the shit out of him. He doesn't say that outright, even if it's easy enough to guess, however, if only because Steve's still sitting right there, and he feels oddly guilty for his temper because of it. Never mind the fact that the guy was far from innocent.

Foggy gives a disbelieving snort at Matt's assessment of himself but doesn't actually respond to it. You're definitely not okay, Matt, considering you look like you've been run through a shredder - and then pulled back through it the other way.

He doesn't comment through the story, either, other to breathe out another holy shit - though it's directed at the asshole Matt started with instead of Matt himself, this time. "Good reason."

And Steve actually hums an agreement, considering yeah, he gets that half the room is holding him up as a paragon of virtue when he would likely have done the same thing.

He'd say he's had worse, but beyond the fact that he's not a mind reader, he really hasn't. That one time he had a collapsed lung was a walk in the park compared to this, even.

"I thought so," he says instead. A moment of pause follows, and then Matt adds, "After that, I kind of realized that there was a lot wrong, right here in the Kitchen, and that I couldn't keep ignoring it, in good conscience. Not when maybe I could do something about it, do some good where the legal system kind of falls apart."

Do you know how many people get away with shit because other people won't testify for whatever reason? Bruce does and he looks away, briefly, that in mind.

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