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bakerstreet2016-07-21 02:22 pm
socketeer) wrote in bakerstreet2016-07-21 02:22 pm
picture prompt
 the integrated picture prompt meme for all your GEN, AU, AND SHIPPY pic prompt needs I — Comment with your character and include possible preferences.
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matt murdock | daredevil
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It's a storm like New York hasn't seen in a long time, wind whipping huge flakes through the air and piling inches of snow on every possible surface in the city. It's not a blizzard - not yet, anyway - but it's more than enough to play hell with his senses. The only air pressure he can feel is the constant, biting wind. The sheer amount of snow muffles any vibrations he could possibly hear. Even smell (and collaterally, taste) is deadened. It's like being newly-blinded all over again, but this time he has nothing to fall back on.
(No one to fall back on, either.)
But the courts are still open, and he can't afford tardiness these days. He's scraped together a job at a legal aid clinic desperate enough to accept him part-time, three days a week. It keeps his rent paid, if not much else, and no one there bothers to question his scraped knuckles or faded bruises. But that could change. Everything always does.
Slipping out of the cab (a luxury he really can't afford), Matt unfolds his cane and huddles against the wind just long enough to sort out whether or not he's in the right place. The echoes are mostly familiar, the courthouse steps even more so. It isn't until he steps through the doors that his sense slam back to him - and he, in turn, nearly slams straight into--]
Foggy?
[It comes out a little strained, but... well. There's no mistaking that heartbeat.]
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All of that makes it so much worse when he runs into Matt at the courthouse, looking just as beat up as before. He actually feels his chest tighten a little, guilt hitting him in the chest harder than any other time since their 'break up,' now that they're face-to-face again.
For a moment he doesn't know what to say. His heart beat probably speaks for him, running a mile a minute.]
-Matt! Wow, um, it's been awhile. [Maybe not that long in truth, but it seems like it when they used to be together every day.] You doing okay?
[It's awful to imagine him going out in the cold, risking his life to fight criminals. Foggy doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to recall all the events that led to them disbanding their partnership, but it's impossible not to when Matt is standing right there again.]
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They aren't Nelson and Murdock.]
Yeah! Uh, yeah, it has.
[He rolls the weight of his cane between his palms - anything to keep from knuckling here, in the middle of the courthouse. Jesus, when did his tells get so obvious?]
I'm... doing fine.
[Another lie, but this one is so low in severity compared to everything else he's lied to Foggy about that the familiar punch of guilt doesn't sting. 'Fine' is comparative, anyway. Today, 'fine' is being on-time for his case after a freezing night and miserable morning.]
You?
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No, not even that. What brought the Devil of Hell's Kitchen down was this: his own delirious idea that all of this was fine, that he would go home and sleep it off. No need to call Clair. No need to call anyone.
Somehow, he made it to... a roof. His roof? He can't remember. But everything sounds wrong, smells wrong, feels wrong, and whatever animal instinct inside of him decides that no, here is good. He's only going to sit for a minute. Get his breath back.
When he comes around again, he's splayed out on his back, breathing shallow, wet. He's cold, but sweating. It's... still night. No warmth on his skin yet. Good. There's blood in the air, in his mouth, bright like a copper penny. Somewhere, distantly, something nags at him, something familiar but just out of reach. A rock-steady heartbeat. He can't pin it down, and after a few moments he can't recall what he was even trying to hear.
He should get up. He really doesn't want to.]
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Tonight, Frank follows the trail of blood from the scene toward the roof, weapon out just in case he's not alone. Red must've come upon the same tip Frank got but of course he was here just a little quicker, probably to make sure these shitty people weren't killed. And look what happened. The blood gets worse at the roof access door but instead of slamming through Frank is quiet, careful, pushing it open to take a peek at what's outside, and once realizing the coast is clear he keeps going.
It isn't surprising to find Matt splayed out and looking like shit. Frank steps up beside him, towering over him yet frowning with the kind of concern that's met with disappointment.]
The hell happened to you?
[Oh hey it's been a while.]
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Hi, Frank.
[He should... get up. Can't talk to Frank on the ground. Might need to stop him. Planting his hands on the rooftop beneath him, Matt makes one valiant effort to push himself up. The grit of the roof feels like needles in his palms, and his arms tremble violently until he's forced to sink back down with a gasp.]
Fight.
[Obviously. It's hard to tell how bad it is, because, well-- red hides the blood.]
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Yeah, I figured. [But he's never seen him this bad, all weak and trembling and exhausted. Every time he's been knocked out in the past he's been on his feet again, as annoying as it was.
Frank reaches out to grasp his shoulder, adding the slightest bit of pressure in an effort to warn him to stay down.] Is anything broken before you do something stupid and get even more hurt?
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Rib. Ribs.
[Plural. Matt's panting, sweating, trying his best not to curl into the pain and hurt himself further. He thinks, a little deliriously, that he can feel the broken edges of his ribs grinding against each other, bone-on-bone sawing. The sound of it only adds to the pounding his his head.]
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[Well, shit. That's going to make moving him a lot more painful and difficult but Frank sees no other choice. He can't leave him up here to suffer and knowing Matt, the idiot will try to go home on his own and pass out in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Sighing once more, Frank puts his hand on Matt's shoulder again, his voice annoyed but calm.]
I'm gonna help you and you're gonna goddamn let me unless you wanna die a slow, agonizing death on a fucking rooftop.
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[Never let it be said that even in the midst of pain-induced delirium Matt can't find a way to be a smartass. A wheezing, shivering smartass, but one nonetheless.
This time, he lets Frank's hand settle with no complaint, though the touch is heavy even through the suit. He doesn't dispute Frank's words, though, even if he's-- fairly sure he wouldn't die out here. He just needs some sleep, that's all.]
No hospitals.
[Not that the Punisher is likely to drop him off at one, but the response is nearly automatic.]
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[Now, how to actually move him without a shit-ton of pain? Frank already knows it's impossible. Red's just going to have to deal with it. Contemplating his life choices, Frank puts one arm under Matt's shoulders and grasps Matt's forearm with his other hand to help him sit up , grip strong just in case Matt decides to pass out.]
Try not to scream, alright?
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Just do it.
[His eyes close beneath the mask and he does his level best not to tense up. Here's hoping.]
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Now, how's he getting him home?
Despite the pain Frank makes him hold onto his shoulders as he puts an arm around his waist, keeping him upright. It'd be so much easier if he could just haul him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, but for now they stagger back to the door of the building and while they go down the stairs Frank practically half-carries his weight.]
My place is closer. [Don't ask how he knows where you live.]
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He does exhale hard, teeth gritted, trying to bite back a whimper and not quite succeeding. He scrambles to get his feet beneath him, one hand coming to fist tightly in the fabric of Frank's shirt. Later, much later, he'll feel bad about putting so much of his weight on Frank to carry; now, he's doing his best to not think of anything at all.]
Romantic. [He's being an ass, but at least he's not putting up a fight about it. He's not even surprised that Frank's kept tabs on him.]
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I'm a modern knight in shining armor. [It's a dry joke but if Matt's talking it means he isn't unconscious. Although it'd be better for him if he was pain-wise it could also cause a hell of a lot more complications, considering the extent of his injuries, and Frank is no doctor.
It's a rough trip back to his hovel of an apartment but the place is discreet and out of the way, the kind of place people avoid looking at let alone seeking out to rent. Frank uses the back door to the tight staircase that leads up to the old hallway of apartments, his own the last one at the end of the hall. It's not too long before he's dragging Matt inside and helping him onto the nearest soft surface: his beaten up couch. In one corner, Max wakes up from his nap and gives a curious bark or two, hurrying over to sniff at the stranger on his favorite seat.]
Fucking hell. [Frank's actually a little out of breath as he locks up behind him and then pops into his kitchen to get Matt a bag of frozen vegetables for his ribs.] You put on some weight, Red?
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He'd heard him coming: the click of nails on concrete, the wet panting, the too-rapid-for-human heartbeat of a very friendly dog. And further behind, the startled exclamation ("Lucky!") of his presumed owner, jogging to catch up. He hears all of this and lets it happen, because God knows there are expectations for a blind lawyer, and being able to tell that this dog has been subsisting on pizza for two solid weeks is not one of them.
Besides, it's a dog. Dogs do what dogs do.
Chuckling, Matt drops a hand to the dog's head, gently pushing him away from uh, vulnerable areas. A quick scratch behind the ears gets him a tail thump, and Matt carefully feels his way down to the dog's collar, curling his fingers under the band as the owner catches up.]
Yours?
[He cants his head in Clint's direction with a mild smile.]
before they know each others identities?
[ Clint jokes shrugging a little, then feeling like a doof because the guy is blind. Lucky sits down tail still wagging tongue lulled out the side of his mouth. ]
He just likes making friends. [ The archer laughs softly reaching down and ruffling Lucky's ears a little bit ] or finding people who will give him snacks, he practically runs the building he live in.
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It's different from a snowstorm; snow muffles sound, masks the smell of the city, turns everything icy to the touch. Snow makes him feel lost in a void, directionless, but rain... rain is like being lost in a symphony. Each droplet out of billions falls, strikes roofs and cars and concrete, drips from fire escapes and awnings, floods down the streets in tiny rushing rivers. Everything has its own part to play. Here: rain on the metal (steel) roof of a car. There: the constant patter of droplets on a (nylon) umbrella.
He's more careful, on these days, relies more heavily on his cane than normally. It's doubly difficult today - he'd stopped for coffee before the heavens opened up, and now is juggling three (slightly over-roasted) cups in a little cardboard carton, an umbrella of his own, and his cane.
But he makes it, eventually. He props the umbrella just inside the door, folds up his cane as he enters the office. It's just Karen, at the moment - he'd caught the smell of her shampoo once he'd entered the building, had noticed the conspicuous absence of Foggy's heartbeat a block ago - and he smiles in her direction, hoisting up the coffee.]
I come bearing gifts.
REALLY sorry for the delay. I'll understand if you don't want to continue. <3
Perking up when the door opened, her smile widened when she saw it was Matt.]
Well I just made a pot but something tells me this will be way better.
Thanks.
[Karen stepped around her desk to grab two of the coffees from him. Setting one down on the desk for whenever Foggy got here and taking a long sip of hers.]
Hey. Have you heard from Foggy? Usually he's here before you.