Matt isn’t sure how long he stands there frozen in the doorway. It can’t be more than a few moments, but it feels like an eternity before he manages to find the breath to say, “Karen.” And he doesn’t use people’s names, not if he doesn’t have to, but she called him ‘Matt’, she knows him, she knows-- “Karen. Are you alright?”
“No. I’m--I’m really not alright.” Another shaky breath, and she’s stumbling forward, into his arms. Matt gathers her up. Even in his armor he can feel her trembling, smell the residual adrenaline in the air. She’s breathing in huge, ragged gasps that are going to turn into hyperventilation at any minute, and Matt has--he knows this. He knows how to do this.
“Deep breaths,” he murmurs. His brain feels shocked and silent, but that doesn’t matter; he mastered his reflexes a long time ago, and his control over his body is nearly absolute. He takes a deep, slow breath, holds it to the count of three, then lets it out. “Breathe with me, okay? Deep breaths.”
A choked laugh. “You sound like a motivational speaker,” Karen says, but she’s breathing with him, matching the slow count of his inhales and exhales, and he can feel her shaking start to subside, her pounding heart slow.
She really isn’t alright, panic attack aside; at least two ribs are cracked and her right ankle is hot and swollen. There are abrasions on both her forearms, and two of her fingernails have been torn out, the beds raw and bloody.
But she’s alive, and the physical damage will all heal with no lasting effects. Matt wants to fall on his knees right there on the sticky concrete floor in gratitude, but instead he just keeps holding her, as gently as if she was made of spun glass, and lets her be the first one to pull away. She tucks her hair behind her shoulders automatically, then takes a sharp, disgusted breath; her hands are still bloody. She scrubs them on her shirt again, like that’s going to do any good.
“Matt,” she begins again, and he winces to hear his name. She shakes her head. “Can you--can you take the helmet off? Please?”
Her voice is still shaky, and she sounds afraid, and it’s that, maybe, that decides him. He undoes the catches and pulls the helmet off, feels the slap of damp air at his cheeks. It’s like peeling off a layer of skin, and he can feel the weight of Karen’s gaze on him. “You knew it was me.”
“I’ve known for a while,” Karen says in a low voice. “I thought you’d get around to telling me eventually.”
“How--”
“You’re not that sneaky, and I will be happy to explain how I figured it out later.” She sniffles. “For now, can we just go?”
“No, I meant--all this.” He gestures to the bodies sprawled out across the floor. “I smelled blood, I thought you were dead.
“They weren’t very careful with their guns,” Karen says. She’s not lying, but she’s still holding something back. “They didn’t tie my hands.”
“Do you know why they did this?”
“No.”
“Karen--” he sighs. Well, since they’re already being honest with each other. “I know you’re lying.”
“How the hell do you--” she stops. “Never mind. Yeah, I know why. Can we just--not talk about it right now? I’ve had a really, really shitty night.”
Her ribs, and her torn-out fingernails, and the fear that’s still thrumming through her system like a drug. She’s right. It can wait. “Okay. Let’s get you out of here, I’ll call it in. And call Foggy. He’s been panicking.”
***
Foggy meets them at the hospital. Despite his earlier phone call, it’s clear that he hasn’t slept either; he smells like coffee and fresh adrenaline, which is probably the only reason he isn’t stumbling. Matt lifts his head when the door to the ER swings open and Foggy pauses, scanning the waiting room.
“Over here,” Karen says quietly, and Foggy makes a beeline for them, dumps his backpack on the bench and actually drops to the floor in front of Karen like she’s a little kid with a skinned knee. “Karen, Jesus Christ, you scared the hell out of us. Are you okay?”
Karen laughs wetly, and Matt can smell fresh tears. Something about Foggy’s earnest concern has undone her in a way that that filthy warehouse didn’t manage. “For a certain value of okay.”
“Jesus Christ,” Foggy repeats. “Did the doctor see you? Shouldn’t you be in a bed by now?”
“Triage nurse,” Matt says, and it’s only then that Foggy appears to even register his presence. He’s in the undershirt and ratty sweats that he wears under the armor, which has been secreted behind a dumpster near the hospital, and he knows that between that and the stubble and the deep, dark circles under his eyes, he probably looks like a crazy homeless person, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Doctor should be here soon.”
“Matt? You’re--here. Of course you’re here, why wouldn’t you be, Karen must have called--”
“Yeah, or he kicked down a door dressed like a comic book character to rescue me from the bad guys,” Karen says, swiping at her face.
“You--what?” Foggy asks.
“Not that you needed rescuing,” Matt retorts. He can hear Foggy take a sharp breath, about to demand an explanation, but mercifully it’s at that exact moment that the doctor finally turns up.
FILL: leave the world outside 9/?
“No. I’m--I’m really not alright.” Another shaky breath, and she’s stumbling forward, into his arms. Matt gathers her up. Even in his armor he can feel her trembling, smell the residual adrenaline in the air. She’s breathing in huge, ragged gasps that are going to turn into hyperventilation at any minute, and Matt has--he knows this. He knows how to do this.
“Deep breaths,” he murmurs. His brain feels shocked and silent, but that doesn’t matter; he mastered his reflexes a long time ago, and his control over his body is nearly absolute. He takes a deep, slow breath, holds it to the count of three, then lets it out. “Breathe with me, okay? Deep breaths.”
A choked laugh. “You sound like a motivational speaker,” Karen says, but she’s breathing with him, matching the slow count of his inhales and exhales, and he can feel her shaking start to subside, her pounding heart slow.
She really isn’t alright, panic attack aside; at least two ribs are cracked and her right ankle is hot and swollen. There are abrasions on both her forearms, and two of her fingernails have been torn out, the beds raw and bloody.
But she’s alive, and the physical damage will all heal with no lasting effects. Matt wants to fall on his knees right there on the sticky concrete floor in gratitude, but instead he just keeps holding her, as gently as if she was made of spun glass, and lets her be the first one to pull away. She tucks her hair behind her shoulders automatically, then takes a sharp, disgusted breath; her hands are still bloody. She scrubs them on her shirt again, like that’s going to do any good.
“Matt,” she begins again, and he winces to hear his name. She shakes her head. “Can you--can you take the helmet off? Please?”
Her voice is still shaky, and she sounds afraid, and it’s that, maybe, that decides him. He undoes the catches and pulls the helmet off, feels the slap of damp air at his cheeks. It’s like peeling off a layer of skin, and he can feel the weight of Karen’s gaze on him. “You knew it was me.”
“I’ve known for a while,” Karen says in a low voice. “I thought you’d get around to telling me eventually.”
“How--”
“You’re not that sneaky, and I will be happy to explain how I figured it out later.” She sniffles. “For now, can we just go?”
“No, I meant--all this.” He gestures to the bodies sprawled out across the floor. “I smelled blood, I thought you were dead.
“They weren’t very careful with their guns,” Karen says. She’s not lying, but she’s still holding something back. “They didn’t tie my hands.”
“Do you know why they did this?”
“No.”
“Karen--” he sighs. Well, since they’re already being honest with each other. “I know you’re lying.”
“How the hell do you--” she stops. “Never mind. Yeah, I know why. Can we just--not talk about it right now? I’ve had a really, really shitty night.”
Her ribs, and her torn-out fingernails, and the fear that’s still thrumming through her system like a drug. She’s right. It can wait. “Okay. Let’s get you out of here, I’ll call it in. And call Foggy. He’s been panicking.”
***
Foggy meets them at the hospital. Despite his earlier phone call, it’s clear that he hasn’t slept either; he smells like coffee and fresh adrenaline, which is probably the only reason he isn’t stumbling. Matt lifts his head when the door to the ER swings open and Foggy pauses, scanning the waiting room.
“Over here,” Karen says quietly, and Foggy makes a beeline for them, dumps his backpack on the bench and actually drops to the floor in front of Karen like she’s a little kid with a skinned knee. “Karen, Jesus Christ, you scared the hell out of us. Are you okay?”
Karen laughs wetly, and Matt can smell fresh tears. Something about Foggy’s earnest concern has undone her in a way that that filthy warehouse didn’t manage. “For a certain value of okay.”
“Jesus Christ,” Foggy repeats. “Did the doctor see you? Shouldn’t you be in a bed by now?”
“Triage nurse,” Matt says, and it’s only then that Foggy appears to even register his presence. He’s in the undershirt and ratty sweats that he wears under the armor, which has been secreted behind a dumpster near the hospital, and he knows that between that and the stubble and the deep, dark circles under his eyes, he probably looks like a crazy homeless person, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Doctor should be here soon.”
“Matt? You’re--here. Of course you’re here, why wouldn’t you be, Karen must have called--”
“Yeah, or he kicked down a door dressed like a comic book character to rescue me from the bad guys,” Karen says, swiping at her face.
“You--what?” Foggy asks.
“Not that you needed rescuing,” Matt retorts. He can hear Foggy take a sharp breath, about to demand an explanation, but mercifully it’s at that exact moment that the doctor finally turns up.