Matt wakes up with a sudden, sharp wave of dizziness. His throat is raw, and he can taste antiseptic; he thinks for a moment that he might be on Claire’s couch, but the texture is wrong, and he can’t--
His head is full of brackish water and brittle sound. Everything is thick and clouded, and Claire didn’t, Claire wouldn’t--it’s like thinking through molasses, a swamp pushing in until his ears are almost popping. He’s drowning in sounds, in smells, and he can’t focus, can’t filter anything: heartbeats scattered across layers and layers of space, conversation in six languages; the subsonic hum of fiberoptic cable; antiseptic and metal and blood and the lingering too-strong scent of someone’s coconut shampoo. From somewhere to his left, rhythmic beeps cut through the cold air in sudden white-hot flares.
Matt tries to ground himself, to pull inward. He’s lying on--not Claire’s couch, a bed--not his--too hard, and he can’t place the texture of the sheets--smooth, synthetic, rasping under the ridges of his fingertips. Everything hurts, but some things hurt more, and Matt follows the pain like a series of beacons: right shoulder; left side; left leg. His left hand is throbbing, something sharp and cold under his skin--an IV line--and when he tries to move his arms, there’s a sharp pull and tug of rough nylon against wrists rubbed raw; which is enough to throw him back out of himself in a sudden burst of terror. The beeping gets faster as if in answer to his panic. He has to get up, get out.
“Welcome back,” says a voice. It’s mild, even--familiar--a man in his 40s or 50s. Matt can smell nitrile and sweat and soap, and a whisper of something strange and chemical that he can’t place. “Do you know where you are?”
Matt tries to focus, remembers--the warehouse, a panicked run, and--”Avengers?” His voice is muffled against something cool and plastic--an oxygen mask, he realizes.
His radar sense is almost useless through whatever drugs he’s on, but he can feel the air shift as the man nods. “Good. Yeah. You’re in Avengers Tower. You came in yesterday. Do you remember?”
Matt finally places him--the doctor from before. Something that starts with B. Brian? Ben? No, Ben’s dead. “The kids, did you--”
“They’re here,” says a second voice, female. This one, he recognizes immediately: Black Widow. “Safe and sound.”
“Why am I--” he tugs at the restraints. His radar is static, and his other senses are dulled to mud, and he can’t get the lay of the room or even work out where they’re standing. For the first time in a long time, Matt feels really, truly blind. “You drugged me.”
“You were in bad shape,” the doctor tells him. “It was pretty touch-and-go there, for a while.” He taps a nylon cuff, and Matt flinches at the sudden sound. “We added those after you ripped out the second chest tube.”
“Oh,” says Matt; and adds, on reflex, “Sorry.”
The air shifts as the doctor shakes his head. “Not your fault. If I take them off, will you stay put?”
Panic swells, pushes taut against the edges of Matt’s chest. All he wants is to get out, get home--but he’s not sure he could run even if he wanted to. He’s not sure he could even stand. Either way, he wants the restraints off even more, so he nods, then winces at the loud rip of the velcro.
“Thanks,” he tells the doctor. Flexes his hands gingerly, and raises the one without the IV to his side to feel the edge of the tube. “How long was I--” He freezes as his fingers skim across not the armor he’s expecting, but the same synthetic stuff the sheets are made of; and he realizes what he’s been missing. “My--” His hand flies to his face, pushes aside the oxygen mask and comes up against bare skin.
Matt’s out of the bed before he can think about it--feels the IV rip out of his hand. He tries to run, and his left leg buckles when he tries to put weight on it, pitching him down onto the floor.
“Okay,” says the doctor. “Not a great start.” There are hands on Matt, pulling at him, and he fights them off, swinging at random with the arm he can still lift, edging away until he realizes he’s backed himself into a corner. His lungs and leg are on fire, and the air tastes like copper, and oh, god, they’ve seen his face, they know who he is.
They’re on him again. Finally a punch connects, and he hears Black Widow swear as her heartbeat spikes. “Fuck. Bruce, get out of--”
The doctor’s--Bruce’s--heartbeat is racing, and his voice suddenly has an inhuman edge to it; something dangerous, bestial. “I’m--okay. I’m just going to--take. A few steps. Back.”
Widow withdraws, too, and he can hear them breathing in slow unison, hear her take Bruce’s hand. “We good?” she asks, after a moment.
“Ten-four,” says Bruce, from further away. His voice is normal again, if a little more ragged than before. Across the room, Matt hears his heartbeat slow down and even out; Black Widow’s--closer--follows.
“Not your fault,” says Widow. She’s walking over now, and Matt tries to edge back further into the corner, tries to find it in himself to get back up. Murdocks always-- He can’t. It hurts to breathe, and he’s freezing, shivering, and everything’s loud. He can hear phones on sixty floors, countless heartbeats, snatches of conversations.
Black Widow sits down on the floor next to him, careful not to touch. “Daredevil.” He curls back further. “Matthew. Listen.”
The sound of his name is enough to shock him to stillness. “Matthew,” says Black Widow, again. “It’s okay. Listen to me. I know you’re scared, and disoriented, but I need you to calm down. You’re safe here.” Matt tries to listen for her heartbeat, but his own is pounding in his throat, rattling against his ribs, drowning out everything around him. His name. They know his name.
“You know who--” he starts, and cuts himself off with a coughing jag that leaves him winded.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m sorry about that. You stopped breathing. A couple times. And Bruce needed--Well. This was--the best of some bad options.”
The panic is draining away as rapidly as it came on; suddenly, Matt is exhausted, dizzy. He lets himself slide down until he’s curled up on one side on the floor, back to the wall. Black Widow reaches out, slowly--enough for him to duck away, but he doesn’t, not this time--and strokes his hair back, out of his face. “It’s okay,” she tells him, again. “You’re safe.” He can hear her heartbeat--slow, even--and feel her pulse where her fingertips are resting against his forehead.
“Okay,” Matt says. There’s something else, he knows; something important. “The kids?”
“They’re safe, too,” she tells him.
He nods into her hand. “Good.”
Halfway across the room, Bruce is saying something about shock, but most of the words get caught somewhere in the too-thick air. There’s movement, sound, more hands; but Black Widow keeps talking to Matt, stroking his hair, and he focuses on the cadence of her voice, its rise and fall. There’s something cool and rough against his hip, and then the sudden sting of a needle; and Matt follows Black Widow’s steady heartbeat all the way into the quiet that rises to swallow him.
FILL: In the Absence of St. Germaine (3/?)
His head is full of brackish water and brittle sound. Everything is thick and clouded, and Claire didn’t, Claire wouldn’t--it’s like thinking through molasses, a swamp pushing in until his ears are almost popping. He’s drowning in sounds, in smells, and he can’t focus, can’t filter anything: heartbeats scattered across layers and layers of space, conversation in six languages; the subsonic hum of fiberoptic cable; antiseptic and metal and blood and the lingering too-strong scent of someone’s coconut shampoo. From somewhere to his left, rhythmic beeps cut through the cold air in sudden white-hot flares.
Matt tries to ground himself, to pull inward. He’s lying on--not Claire’s couch, a bed--not his--too hard, and he can’t place the texture of the sheets--smooth, synthetic, rasping under the ridges of his fingertips. Everything hurts, but some things hurt more, and Matt follows the pain like a series of beacons: right shoulder; left side; left leg. His left hand is throbbing, something sharp and cold under his skin--an IV line--and when he tries to move his arms, there’s a sharp pull and tug of rough nylon against wrists rubbed raw; which is enough to throw him back out of himself in a sudden burst of terror. The beeping gets faster as if in answer to his panic. He has to get up, get out.
“Welcome back,” says a voice. It’s mild, even--familiar--a man in his 40s or 50s. Matt can smell nitrile and sweat and soap, and a whisper of something strange and chemical that he can’t place. “Do you know where you are?”
Matt tries to focus, remembers--the warehouse, a panicked run, and--”Avengers?” His voice is muffled against something cool and plastic--an oxygen mask, he realizes.
His radar sense is almost useless through whatever drugs he’s on, but he can feel the air shift as the man nods. “Good. Yeah. You’re in Avengers Tower. You came in yesterday. Do you remember?”
Matt finally places him--the doctor from before. Something that starts with B. Brian? Ben? No, Ben’s dead. “The kids, did you--”
“They’re here,” says a second voice, female. This one, he recognizes immediately: Black Widow. “Safe and sound.”
“Why am I--” he tugs at the restraints. His radar is static, and his other senses are dulled to mud, and he can’t get the lay of the room or even work out where they’re standing. For the first time in a long time, Matt feels really, truly blind. “You drugged me.”
“You were in bad shape,” the doctor tells him. “It was pretty touch-and-go there, for a while.” He taps a nylon cuff, and Matt flinches at the sudden sound. “We added those after you ripped out the second chest tube.”
“Oh,” says Matt; and adds, on reflex, “Sorry.”
The air shifts as the doctor shakes his head. “Not your fault. If I take them off, will you stay put?”
Panic swells, pushes taut against the edges of Matt’s chest. All he wants is to get out, get home--but he’s not sure he could run even if he wanted to. He’s not sure he could even stand. Either way, he wants the restraints off even more, so he nods, then winces at the loud rip of the velcro.
“Thanks,” he tells the doctor. Flexes his hands gingerly, and raises the one without the IV to his side to feel the edge of the tube. “How long was I--” He freezes as his fingers skim across not the armor he’s expecting, but the same synthetic stuff the sheets are made of; and he realizes what he’s been missing. “My--” His hand flies to his face, pushes aside the oxygen mask and comes up against bare skin.
Matt’s out of the bed before he can think about it--feels the IV rip out of his hand. He tries to run, and his left leg buckles when he tries to put weight on it, pitching him down onto the floor.
“Okay,” says the doctor. “Not a great start.” There are hands on Matt, pulling at him, and he fights them off, swinging at random with the arm he can still lift, edging away until he realizes he’s backed himself into a corner. His lungs and leg are on fire, and the air tastes like copper, and oh, god, they’ve seen his face, they know who he is.
They’re on him again. Finally a punch connects, and he hears Black Widow swear as her heartbeat spikes. “Fuck. Bruce, get out of--”
The doctor’s--Bruce’s--heartbeat is racing, and his voice suddenly has an inhuman edge to it; something dangerous, bestial. “I’m--okay. I’m just going to--take. A few steps. Back.”
Widow withdraws, too, and he can hear them breathing in slow unison, hear her take Bruce’s hand. “We good?” she asks, after a moment.
“Ten-four,” says Bruce, from further away. His voice is normal again, if a little more ragged than before. Across the room, Matt hears his heartbeat slow down and even out; Black Widow’s--closer--follows.
“Not your fault,” says Widow. She’s walking over now, and Matt tries to edge back further into the corner, tries to find it in himself to get back up. Murdocks always-- He can’t. It hurts to breathe, and he’s freezing, shivering, and everything’s loud. He can hear phones on sixty floors, countless heartbeats, snatches of conversations.
Black Widow sits down on the floor next to him, careful not to touch. “Daredevil.” He curls back further. “Matthew. Listen.”
The sound of his name is enough to shock him to stillness. “Matthew,” says Black Widow, again. “It’s okay. Listen to me. I know you’re scared, and disoriented, but I need you to calm down. You’re safe here.” Matt tries to listen for her heartbeat, but his own is pounding in his throat, rattling against his ribs, drowning out everything around him. His name. They know his name.
“You know who--” he starts, and cuts himself off with a coughing jag that leaves him winded.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’m sorry about that. You stopped breathing. A couple times. And Bruce needed--Well. This was--the best of some bad options.”
The panic is draining away as rapidly as it came on; suddenly, Matt is exhausted, dizzy. He lets himself slide down until he’s curled up on one side on the floor, back to the wall. Black Widow reaches out, slowly--enough for him to duck away, but he doesn’t, not this time--and strokes his hair back, out of his face. “It’s okay,” she tells him, again. “You’re safe.” He can hear her heartbeat--slow, even--and feel her pulse where her fingertips are resting against his forehead.
“Okay,” Matt says. There’s something else, he knows; something important. “The kids?”
“They’re safe, too,” she tells him.
He nods into her hand. “Good.”
Halfway across the room, Bruce is saying something about shock, but most of the words get caught somewhere in the too-thick air. There’s movement, sound, more hands; but Black Widow keeps talking to Matt, stroking his hair, and he focuses on the cadence of her voice, its rise and fall. There’s something cool and rough against his hip, and then the sudden sting of a needle; and Matt follows Black Widow’s steady heartbeat all the way into the quiet that rises to swallow him.