"You should call the police," Matthew told the table. He sounded miserable, and dry: absolutely worn out.
"I'm the one who killed him," Wilson reminded him. He'd made eggs and pancakes and sausage and yogurt: there was a tiny chance that Matthew might express interest in one of them. "Not you. I'm the one who should to go jail; do you want to call the police?"
"NO," Matthew said. "It was - he had a gun. You had to do something."
"I think so," Wilson said.
"I'm a liar," Matthew mumbled; he looked like he was tearing up again. Wilson had never been in circumstances like these before. He wasn't sure if Matthew...should...get a - hug? again? or whether it would be wisest to stay away: he halved the difference, and pulled the second chair up to the table. Matthew knuckled angrily at his eyes. "I heard him from upstairs," Matthew said. "I can hear people, like that. I can hear you." He laughed, ugly and desperate, like sobs: "I'm not really blind, I'm a faker, I'm a mutant probably, you should - you should call Sister Agatha. I won't say anything."
Wilson had no idea what half of that was meant to mean, and less than half of a solid grasp on the other half of it, but - but this child was his responsibility, and had saved his life: "I'll call the school," he said, vaguely. "You'll be excused."
Matthew started laughing; Wilson put a hand on his back, meaning only to steady him while he explained that Matthew Murdock was sick, that day, and wound up with the thirteen-year-old clinging to him, sobbing like his heart was breaking.
(idk? idk? like it turns out all i want is some adult to handle matt after the stick thing. also: fucking CRYING CONSTANTLY. blame murder/puberty.)
Re: he draws a napkin battle plan 2
"I'm the one who killed him," Wilson reminded him. He'd made eggs and pancakes and sausage and yogurt: there was a tiny chance that Matthew might express interest in one of them. "Not you. I'm the one who should to go jail; do you want to call the police?"
"NO," Matthew said. "It was - he had a gun. You had to do something."
"I think so," Wilson said.
"I'm a liar," Matthew mumbled; he looked like he was tearing up again. Wilson had never been in circumstances like these before. He wasn't sure if Matthew...should...get a - hug? again? or whether it would be wisest to stay away: he halved the difference, and pulled the second chair up to the table. Matthew knuckled angrily at his eyes. "I heard him from upstairs," Matthew said. "I can hear people, like that. I can hear you." He laughed, ugly and desperate, like sobs: "I'm not really blind, I'm a faker, I'm a mutant probably, you should - you should call Sister Agatha. I won't say anything."
Wilson had no idea what half of that was meant to mean, and less than half of a solid grasp on the other half of it, but - but this child was his responsibility, and had saved his life: "I'll call the school," he said, vaguely. "You'll be excused."
Matthew started laughing; Wilson put a hand on his back, meaning only to steady him while he explained that Matthew Murdock was sick, that day, and wound up with the thirteen-year-old clinging to him, sobbing like his heart was breaking.
(idk? idk? like it turns out all i want is some adult to handle matt after the stick thing. also: fucking CRYING CONSTANTLY. blame murder/puberty.)