Matt blinks back into the present late at night and only feet away from his building’s front door.
“God,” he mutters, because his muscles are all still tight and achy, and his stomach feels vaguely queasy. “Blah,” he says, tongue unfurling from his mouth, but thankfully the queasiness passes. At least he won’t be puking his guts out all over the sidewalk.
Anyway, he desperately needs to get inside. Briefly, he considers buzzing up one of his neighbors; Fran in the apartment across from his, maybe. But. It’s late, and the last thing he wants to do is to wake anyone up. Actually, the very last thing he wants to do is to have to explain to another person how he managed to lock himself out while completely naked.
On the street behind him, a car horn blares, loud and aggressive, and he would really rather not have the cops called on him, thank you very much. No matter how well he’d be able to lawyer his way out of it.
He slinks around toward the back of the building, stands underneath the fire escape, and flows into a half-assed stretching routine. He needs to loosen those tired, achy muscles, get his blood flowing again.
He’s still stiff, and a little sore, but he reaches for the lowest rung and hauls himself up with ease. He swings his body up the ladder, legs first, and uses his body’s momentum to carry him to the rooftop above. He moves like an Olympic diver, only in reverse. And he doesn’t make a sound.
Once on the roof, Matt casually hops up on the ledge, stands, and lets his bare toes hang loosely over the lip of the building. Casts his focus out wide, sends it across every seedy street corner and every dark alley below. Breathes in and just lets the city wash over him.
He should probably head inside and get dressed, and he will, eventually, but for now he just wants to stand here and let the weight of his city press itself against his cool, bare skin while he thinks about the last time he stood up here.
It was only a couple of nights ago, but that doesn’t feel right to him for some reason, like much more time had passed than that. Probably just that ol’ temporal jet lag wreaking havoc with his internal clock again.
Karen had mentioned spotting him a few nights ago dashing across the city skyline, and he suspects the two of them have the same night in mind: Matt had some asshole pressed against a grimy brick wall, while said asshole begged and pleaded for the punches to stop, please, dear God just stop punching, at least spare him his teeth, please, Jesus God.
Of course, Matt wasn’t very interested in stopping. Instead, he kept at it until the guy was ready to spill his guts.
Matt loosened his grip enough to give the guy enough room to breathe.
The guy reminded Matt about the human trafficking ring he busted up on his first real night out, then said, “They’re gunning for you, man. Really fucked things up for them interfering in their shit like that.”
Matt clocked him in the mouth once more for good measure.
Guy spat blood at him. “You poor bastard. You really have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you? Jesus, what a dumb fuck,” and Matt loaded up another fist. He held it back, though, arm trembling from the restraint. The guy might have been pissing him off, but Matt did have to admire the balls it took to give that much lip to the guy turning your face into so much ground chuck.
So Matt got in the guy’s face, horrible breath be damned, and placidly said, “Tell me.”
Like Matt was someone the guy could trust, like Matt was his new best friend.
“Look. You don’t get to piss off the Russian mob and go home safe and sound afterward, all right?” And with that, Matt released his grip. The guy collapsed to the ground in a boneless heap, and Matt simply walked away from the whole thing.
Whatever. He couldn’t say he put a whole lot of stock in the words of some low life asshole who just wanted to keep his face in one piece.
And as Matt predicted, he hadn’t heard so much as a peep from these alleged Russian boogeymen. So he went on with his life, topsy-turvy as it is.
He’s still standing on his building’s roof bare-assed to the world, so he heads inside and considers his next step.
He really wants to grab a shower. Maybe put in some meditation time; catch up on sleep.
But he also thinks he should probably go and use his time to do something a little more productive than that.
So he stalks across his living room, opens his steamer trunk, and slips into the night.
Back on the roof, Matt perches himself over the city like a sentinel. He stands and waits and listens for where he’s needed, and his fists curl tight when he finally hears the desperate cry of a child as he’s ripped from his father’s arms and dumped in the back of some van. For good measure, the kidnappers beat the ever-loving shit out of the kid’s dad before peeling off; Matt can hear every one of his cries, he can feel them in his bones.
He doesn’t know how much time passes; the night flies past him in a haze of blood and fists and one nameless asshole after another, and by the end of it he’s angry and frustrated because nothing he does is getting him anywhere.
He’s just uselessly bashing heads against the wall—his own included—and he’s screaming impotently into the night before he gives up and slinks back home. In his living room he stands with his shoulders heavy and hunched forward, arms limp at his sides, with his mask dripping loosely from his fingertips. The weight of his failure presses hard against his chest as the kid’s ear-piercing screams play on a continuous loop inside his brain: Please! Please help me! I just want my dad. I just want to see my dad. And how the hell is anyone supposed to crawl into a nice warm bed for a solid six hours with that on their conscious?
Matt certainly can’t. So instead of trying, he thunders back up the stairs and sprints across the city’s rooftops until he arrives at Fogwell’s gym. He desperately needs to put his fist through something, and the heavy bag he usually favors will do just nicely. It’s not long before he’s channeling all his pent-up rage and pouring it into the thing; he absolutely whales on it, just hits and punches and jabs and kicks and keeps doing it again and again until he can’t anymore, until he has no more sweat or blood or rage to expend. He stands and breathes, and the strange liminality of this place melts away until Fogwell’s gym ceases to exist as a place out of time—now it’s just a regular ol’ boxing gym with regular ol’ regulars, and Matt takes it as his cue to leave.
*
It’s morning, and Matt’s exhausted and angry. Briefly, he considers calling out sick. Give Foggy some bullshit excuse as to why it would be better for everybody if he just stayed home. You know how rough traveling is, he’d say, but the good news is I’m home now, and I could really use some sleep. Not like we have any real clients right now, anyway, right? But maybe give me a call if anything changes. Thanks, Fog, you’re a lifesaver.
Using traveling as his go-to excuse for any flakey behavior is awful, and it’s a habit he really needs to break. The world is not going to stop because he has a weird condition to contend with; no one is going to go out of their way to feel sorry for him.
So he drags his hand through his hair and rubs around his mouth at his stubble. Grabs a quick shower and begrudgingly goes about making himself presentable for the day. Heads into work. Smiles brightly, puts on a good show, and waits for nightfall.
*
Something his dad used to say to him when he was a kid: Whatever you do in life, be smart about it. You understand what I’m saying? You can work with your hands all your life, work real hard and still not get anywhere. But if you’re smart, if you use that noggin of yours, I’ll just bet you’ll be able to accomplish anything.
Well, the only thing he’s managed to accomplish tonight is failure. And pain and “this wasn’t very smart.” It’s the last clear thought in his head before he loses consciousness altogether.
Re: Always Crashing in the Same Car part 23a
Matt blinks back into the present late at night and only feet away from his building’s front door.
“God,” he mutters, because his muscles are all still tight and achy, and his stomach feels vaguely queasy. “Blah,” he says, tongue unfurling from his mouth, but thankfully the queasiness passes. At least he won’t be puking his guts out all over the sidewalk.
Anyway, he desperately needs to get inside. Briefly, he considers buzzing up one of his neighbors; Fran in the apartment across from his, maybe. But. It’s late, and the last thing he wants to do is to wake anyone up. Actually, the very last thing he wants to do is to have to explain to another person how he managed to lock himself out while completely naked.
On the street behind him, a car horn blares, loud and aggressive, and he would really rather not have the cops called on him, thank you very much. No matter how well he’d be able to lawyer his way out of it.
He slinks around toward the back of the building, stands underneath the fire escape, and flows into a half-assed stretching routine. He needs to loosen those tired, achy muscles, get his blood flowing again.
He’s still stiff, and a little sore, but he reaches for the lowest rung and hauls himself up with ease. He swings his body up the ladder, legs first, and uses his body’s momentum to carry him to the rooftop above. He moves like an Olympic diver, only in reverse. And he doesn’t make a sound.
Once on the roof, Matt casually hops up on the ledge, stands, and lets his bare toes hang loosely over the lip of the building. Casts his focus out wide, sends it across every seedy street corner and every dark alley below. Breathes in and just lets the city wash over him.
He should probably head inside and get dressed, and he will, eventually, but for now he just wants to stand here and let the weight of his city press itself against his cool, bare skin while he thinks about the last time he stood up here.
It was only a couple of nights ago, but that doesn’t feel right to him for some reason, like much more time had passed than that. Probably just that ol’ temporal jet lag wreaking havoc with his internal clock again.
Karen had mentioned spotting him a few nights ago dashing across the city skyline, and he suspects the two of them have the same night in mind: Matt had some asshole pressed against a grimy brick wall, while said asshole begged and pleaded for the punches to stop, please, dear God just stop punching, at least spare him his teeth, please, Jesus God.
Of course, Matt wasn’t very interested in stopping. Instead, he kept at it until the guy was ready to spill his guts.
Matt loosened his grip enough to give the guy enough room to breathe.
The guy reminded Matt about the human trafficking ring he busted up on his first real night out, then said, “They’re gunning for you, man. Really fucked things up for them interfering in their shit like that.”
Matt clocked him in the mouth once more for good measure.
Guy spat blood at him. “You poor bastard. You really have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, do you? Jesus, what a dumb fuck,” and Matt loaded up another fist. He held it back, though, arm trembling from the restraint. The guy might have been pissing him off, but Matt did have to admire the balls it took to give that much lip to the guy turning your face into so much ground chuck.
So Matt got in the guy’s face, horrible breath be damned, and placidly said, “Tell me.”
Like Matt was someone the guy could trust, like Matt was his new best friend.
“Look. You don’t get to piss off the Russian mob and go home safe and sound afterward, all right?” And with that, Matt released his grip. The guy collapsed to the ground in a boneless heap, and Matt simply walked away from the whole thing.
Whatever. He couldn’t say he put a whole lot of stock in the words of some low life asshole who just wanted to keep his face in one piece.
And as Matt predicted, he hadn’t heard so much as a peep from these alleged Russian boogeymen. So he went on with his life, topsy-turvy as it is.
He’s still standing on his building’s roof bare-assed to the world, so he heads inside and considers his next step.
He really wants to grab a shower. Maybe put in some meditation time; catch up on sleep.
But he also thinks he should probably go and use his time to do something a little more productive than that.
So he stalks across his living room, opens his steamer trunk, and slips into the night.
Back on the roof, Matt perches himself over the city like a sentinel. He stands and waits and listens for where he’s needed, and his fists curl tight when he finally hears the desperate cry of a child as he’s ripped from his father’s arms and dumped in the back of some van. For good measure, the kidnappers beat the ever-loving shit out of the kid’s dad before peeling off; Matt can hear every one of his cries, he can feel them in his bones.
He doesn’t know how much time passes; the night flies past him in a haze of blood and fists and one nameless asshole after another, and by the end of it he’s angry and frustrated because nothing he does is getting him anywhere.
He’s just uselessly bashing heads against the wall—his own included—and he’s screaming impotently into the night before he gives up and slinks back home.
In his living room he stands with his shoulders heavy and hunched forward, arms limp at his sides, with his mask dripping loosely from his fingertips. The weight of his failure presses hard against his chest as the kid’s ear-piercing screams play on a continuous loop inside his brain: Please! Please help me! I just want my dad. I just want to see my dad. And how the hell is anyone supposed to crawl into a nice warm bed for a solid six hours with that on their conscious?
Matt certainly can’t. So instead of trying, he thunders back up the stairs and sprints across the city’s rooftops until he arrives at Fogwell’s gym. He desperately needs to put his fist through something, and the heavy bag he usually favors will do just nicely. It’s not long before he’s channeling all his pent-up rage and pouring it into the thing; he absolutely whales on it, just hits and punches and jabs and kicks and keeps doing it again and again until he can’t anymore, until he has no more sweat or blood or rage to expend. He stands and breathes, and the strange liminality of this place melts away until Fogwell’s gym ceases to exist as a place out of time—now it’s just a regular ol’ boxing gym with regular ol’ regulars, and Matt takes it as his cue to leave.
*
It’s morning, and Matt’s exhausted and angry. Briefly, he considers calling out sick. Give Foggy some bullshit excuse as to why it would be better for everybody if he just stayed home. You know how rough traveling is, he’d say, but the good news is I’m home now, and I could really use some sleep. Not like we have any real clients right now, anyway, right? But maybe give me a call if anything changes. Thanks, Fog, you’re a lifesaver.
Using traveling as his go-to excuse for any flakey behavior is awful, and it’s a habit he really needs to break. The world is not going to stop because he has a weird condition to contend with; no one is going to go out of their way to feel sorry for him.
So he drags his hand through his hair and rubs around his mouth at his stubble. Grabs a quick shower and begrudgingly goes about making himself presentable for the day. Heads into work. Smiles brightly, puts on a good show, and waits for nightfall.
*
Something his dad used to say to him when he was a kid: Whatever you do in life, be smart about it. You understand what I’m saying? You can work with your hands all your life, work real hard and still not get anywhere. But if you’re smart, if you use that noggin of yours, I’ll just bet you’ll be able to accomplish anything.
Well, the only thing he’s managed to accomplish tonight is failure. And pain and “this wasn’t very smart.” It’s the last clear thought in his head before he loses consciousness altogether.
*