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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"Sorry," Matt says at once. He can't see Foggy's expression, no, but he can read that darkness regardless and in a hundred different ways. "I wasn't trying to bring us back to that. It was ... "

Supposed to be a joke or a lead up to one, what with the implication that Tony had to have taken his measurements beforehand, and boy, isn't that creepy? Again, not that he honestly thinks it was for any number of reasons, but.

"No, it's... I don't want to get us hung up on this again, because we've discussed it, but you're my best friend, Matt. I worried about you before when I thought you just hit your head on doors occasionally, I'm not going to stop now." And he's trying to be light with that, to tease, to joke about his own worrywart tendencies, even if the more serious point stands.

Matt doesn't give an immediate response to that. It's not because he doesn't appreciate it, though, it's more because he's warring with the urge to move back towards the levity, to avoid them talking in circles again, to deflect. Not telling Foggy everything he's thinking has become a sad habit, as much as anything else he does when he has to pretend, and while he's trying to break that habit, wanting to keep his word, keep being upfront with his best friend, it's hard, like breaking muscle memory.

Eventually, though, he works through it, and despite himself, keeps to the serious, in spite of Foggy's joke.

"I still haven't had time to sit down and talk to Rogers, yet -- " Or, perhaps more accurately, Steve hasn't had time to sit down and talk with him. He's had more than his fair share of free time and if he hadn't just spent a good half hour running around, between getting here and the Stark's holodeck, that would be making him nervous. It probably will again, before too long. " -- but I have a feeling he's going to want to get more involved, after what happened."

They all will.

"I'm not sure I'm thrilled by the idea, but ... " He shakes his head. Not important, not what he's getting at. "Between that, the new suit, and Stark's AI keeping an eye on everything I can't? What I'm doing, it all gets a hell of a lot safer."

Not that he expects Foggy to give up worrying entirely just because he's trying to offer him some reassurances, but -- well, hopefully, they help.

Edited 2016-01-18 06:06 (UTC)

"And I'm glad for it," he returns immediately and more seriously, because he is, "even if you aren't. And I get why you're not." He gets why they're leaving Karen out of this, still, and he knows Matt wants to deal with all this on his own. "But I'm glad you're not by yourself on this."

If Foggy can't help Matt with this, he's glad someone else can.

"Yeah," Matt allows on a heavy breath out. He's not alone. Now, he just has to pray that he doesn't get everyone he cares about in even the slightest sense killed. All of this may be a relief for Foggy, but right now and as nice as the idea might be on some level (at least he won't have to wonder if he'll end up dead, how long it'll take someone, anyone to find his body when he does and assuming Fisk actually leaves a body), it's a weight for him.

With any luck, it won't ever get to the point again that he needs the level of rescue that he almost did after Nobu, but yes. He will have people more ready to intervene before it gets to that level, now.

"And... thanks. For letting me see the suit." He pauses, and more lightly, again, "And not sorry I pitched a book at your head," he teases, a little hopefully. You scared the shit out of him, Matt, but it's kind of funny in retrospect.

"Yeah," he repeats, a little less heavily.

The rest of it fades when Foggy returns to teasing, a crooked smile breaking through the last of it, along with an eye roll. A shake of his head follows, and as he finally moves to put on his sunglasses, he tells him, "Well. At least you're honest."

"It's a bad trait in a defense attorney, I know," he shoots back with with his own crooked smile.

It's not that these conversations aren't things he wants them to have, but at the same time, he just wants things to be normal again between them, wants the constant ease they had before Foggy found Matt half-dead in his apartment. He's not worried about it being gone, but, as much as it took them time to get their friendship to the level it is now, he'd rather find this new balance as quickly as they can.

"I could think of worse things."

They'll get there, get back to that, to them -- the fact that Matt's at least trying to joke, now, is a start, whatever his reasoning for it. It's just that as much as he wants to put this all off on Foggy, however gently, unaccusingly, it just a matter of him needing to find his equilibrium again, Matt really needs to find his footing again, too. This is all so new and so worrying. He needs to realize, on more than just a very small, very subconscious level, that it might all turn out.

"I can think of a lot, and the I'm going to stop, because I start thinking I do them," he returns with a full grin this time.

They will be okay. They'll be fine, and it'll all work out.

"You want, uh. I've got... the usual contents of my kitchen, if you want anything." If they want to stop loitering in Foggy's bedroom, that is.

Matt tilts his head to one side, then the other, the insinuation that he could think of a a lot, himself, and yes, Foggy does them written on his face, clear but kidding. (Well, now that you mention it ... ) He lets it go after a moment, however, though the smile that came with it remains.

"Oh, uh -- " he starts, stops long enough to grab the cane that Foggy left out for him on the bed. As he fishes it out of the pouch and snaps it together, he continues. " -- actually, you mind if I get a bottle of water?"

Or a glass of water. Either way. He didn't realize how thirsty he was, likely from all the running around he wasn't supposed to be doing, until Foggy asked.

You're hilarious, Murdock, really, and Foggy rolls his eyes with a huff, though there's still a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, yeah."

"And why are you asking me that, come on." Seriously, Matt, how often does he just take your beer? He turns to lead the way out of the bedroom and back to the kitchen, heading to the refrigerator to grab a couple bottles of water.

Matt turns to follow him, sticking close to the walls so he can trail his fingers along them as they pass, old habit, unsighted habit, kicking in now that he's out of his armor.

"It never hurts to be polite?" Matt suggests, shrugging helplessly. This from a guy who beats the shit out of people for a living, who is far from polite. And -- well, he might have asked for a beer, here, if he still didn't have to get home and he wasn't still on pain meds. Never mind the fact that they're more or less just souped up aspirin, at this point -- ridiculous overdose is not how the Devil of Hell's Kitchen wants to die.

If Matt had asked for a beer, Foggy would have asked about the pain meds. Water's more acceptable, though. He just rolls his eyes again at the mention of politeness. "Do we need to have the 'just because we're not living on top of each other anymore doesn't mean I expect you to start acting like a guest' conversation again?"

He's mostly teasing, though, but the point stands. They have keys to each other's apartment. Politeness is overrated, at least according to Foggy. Though that's maybe why Matt's always been the better of the two of them.

Again, Foggy. See also: his night job. He's not sure he really qualifies as the better of the two of them. Never mind the reasons he does it are the same reasons they left Landman and Zack, largely noble despite how they're executed.

But at any rate.

"No. No, we're good," Matt promises, pulling away from the wall as he approaches the kitchen. He finds the nearest counter top with his fingers, following that, instead, to direct him to the fridge, and when he reaches it -- well. Foggy's always arranged the contents of his refrigerator so that he can find them without much struggle. That hasn't changed in the last five minutes.

Pulling out a bottle of water, he uncaps it and takes a sip even as he moves back to the section of counter he'd been perched on, earlier. Belatedly and once he's swallowed, he offers a simple, "Thanks."

"Okay," Foggy returns and moves away to finish settling in for the evening, stooping to pick up the book he chucked at Matt and return it to its place on the table, finally shrugging out of his jacket to drape it over the back of one of his chairs as he undoes the buttons on his sleeves.

"Welcome," he returns, off-hand. "So how's it going?" He's been checking on Matt a lot while he's been healing, but he's also probably been asking how Matt is a lot, too.

"It's getting there," Matt tells him after a moment's thought. He touches the bottle to his shoulder, to where one of the wounds Nobu inflicted on him is hidden under his shirt, absently. "I might actually manage to sit still for another couple of days before I go try to talk Banner into lifting the whole take it easy thing, but ... "

But if the shit hit the fan, now, at least he wouldn't worry too much about some random mook reopening his stitches and watching him bleed to death, even despite how he fared on the holodeck. If something really came up, he could and would push through it.

Foggy makes a face at him, disapproving - not that he wouldn't prefer Matt take it easy until he's absolutely sure he's all back in one piece, but he knows that'll never happen. "I'm on his side, for what it's worth."

"I'm pretty sure everyone is." Except maybe Tony, if only to a certain degree. He, at least, understands how it feels, having people practically sit on you and tell you not to move. "But I need to get back out there."

He's losing ground on Fisk, giving him time to settle, to reorient. He can't have that. He can't let him get away. He needs to be out there, tracking the man running Fisk's heroin trade, shutting that down, pushing him back into the corner he so obviously was managing before if he'd felt the need to throw another ninja at him. He needs -- to let it go, if only for now. Foggy, he --

He shakes his head, lets out a breath, and takes another sip of his water. He takes a moment to reorient himself, and when he manages, he simply repeats, "I need to get back out there," calmer, now.

"I know," Foggy returns, and while he's sad about it, he does know that Matt needs to be out there.

Just because he understands doesn't mean he likes it.

"I know you do, and I know you're as careful as you can be, and I know Stark's suit and his AI will help, but." He won't say again to be careful, but it's implied.

"Yeah," Matt says, in answer to that unspoken order. He'll be as careful as he can be. Barring what happened with Nobu, that a very bad, very snap decision fueled by his temper, he would insist he always has been. There's only so much you can do, to take care, when people are regularly shooting at you, though.

Rather than explain that, he's silent for a long moment, and then decides to change the subject, however minutely. "You and Karen still planning on coming at him from the other angle?" The legal one.

Matt wouldn't fault him, if he decided to give it up, knowing now that it's handled and who by, but he's not holding his breath. Seems like they both have things they don't like the other being involved in.

"I think we have to," Foggy returns, seriously but not without an element of apology. "If I suddenly want to back off, Karen'll know something's up. And it'll be some more pressure on him, even if we don't actually get anywhere."

He pauses a beat and then adds, teasing, "But we'll follow the rules, don't worry."

Matt was afraid he'd say something like that, and as much as he doesn't like it, Foggy's not wrong. If they stopped now, at best Karen would start thinking that Fisk had gotten to them and make it her personal crusade to save them, and at worst, she'd keep going on her own and get herself killed. He makes a face, that in mind, but doesn't try to argue with him.

"Just -- keep an eye on her," he tells him, instead. "Let's make that -- what number are we on? Three?" He shakes his head. He can't exactly remember, but it doesn't matter.

Foggy nods. "Three. And I will. And you've got Stark and his island of toys on board" - and he meant both JARVIS and the Avengers with that, by the way - "so. We'll be okay."

"Yeah," Matt repeats. He's still not sure he believes that, still isn't sure that this won't all end in the worst possible way for everyone involved in it, involved with him, but -- he wants to believe, to have faith. For not the first time, he thinks of Father Lantom and that maybe, at some point before he goes back to 'work', stopping in to see him.

"Speaking of," he starts after a long moment, a sip of water, and that in mind, "if I don't answer my phone, tomorrow, don't -- don't freak out, alright? I'm not planning on doing anything stupid."

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