Matt Murdock (
manwithoutfear) wrote2011-04-27 11:21 am
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[for Steve] sticks and stones
I don't like hospitals. They're an assault on the senses. The monitors beeping. The astringent smell of anesthetic. The coughing and the crying and the hurried footsteps and the sirens and the oppressive presence of death and all that that entails around every corner. I appreciate the work of hospital personnel (despite Foggy's adoptive mother's accusations that her son is the only member of Nelson & Murdock to find injury, my life has been in someone else's hands more times than I have fingers) but the environment in which they do that work is hostile. It's my understanding that the room I'm in now is just a simple clinic, an off-shoot of the local laboratory, but the trappings are more or less the same.
I'm not here for myself; I probably should be, with the amount of minor injuries I've racked up over the past month, but I've lived through worse. I'm not recovering from surgery. I haven't been shot. Not like the man I intend to visit. The tap tap tap of my cane gives me an idea of the room's layout (that it's relatively small and that it's not empty). It hits the edge of something to my side (something with give, most likely a bed), and I stop to listen.
"Captain Rogers?"
His real name. I trust him to take the hint and use mine in turn.
I'm not here for myself; I probably should be, with the amount of minor injuries I've racked up over the past month, but I've lived through worse. I'm not recovering from surgery. I haven't been shot. Not like the man I intend to visit. The tap tap tap of my cane gives me an idea of the room's layout (that it's relatively small and that it's not empty). It hits the edge of something to my side (something with give, most likely a bed), and I stop to listen.
"Captain Rogers?"
His real name. I trust him to take the hint and use mine in turn.
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"Mr. Murdock," I reply with a slight smile.
"I think half of New York is on this island."
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"There are lulls- you happened to find me during one. I have to admit, I'm out of practice. There hasn't been much time for socializing, the past few months." Which is putting it mildly, perhaps, but the nature of time here begs caution when relating recent events to people from home.
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"You're a busy man," I say, suddenly reminded of something I told him once, when he asked me to join his New Avengers. We aren't all so lucky to have Peter Parker's talent for time management.
"Possibly more so than I'm even aware. You were shot?"
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"An old enemy saw an opportunity to make a very... public statement." If I hadn't been in the condition I was at the time, if I hadn't been surrounded by people, I could have dodged it, could have taken Crossbones down myself, but that doesn't matter because that's not what happened. No matter how many times I run the scenario over in my head, the result will still be the same for the world I left behind, and I'll still be here.
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I find my way over to a chair, relying on the amorphous shapes of sound to lead me in the right direction. I nearly miss the seat when I go to sit (I was standing on the wrong side of the arm), but I make a quick recovery, and settle soon enough. Embarrassment gnaws at the base of my neck; I'm better than this. I used to dance across the rooftops of New York City like it was my playground. Maybe I won't ever race through the trees of Tabula Rasa, but I'll do my damnedest to try.
It occurs to me Cap's in a similar position; in all the time we've known each other, I can't remember a time he's been bedridden for so long since they fished him out of the water years ago. It's the sort of thing that would have made the papers.
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"Yes. The Red Skull, apparently, hired Crossbones to do it-" I almost say as I was being led to my arraignment.
"When about are you from, Matt?"
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We're in the same line of work, but we run in different circles. His fight is bigger than mine; my focus has always been on Hell's Kitchen, my own backyard. I've weathered my share of criticisms from other heroes for this, but it's what I believe to be right. I can protect my neighborhood from harm (or I could, when I was still in my neighborhood). Even so, we're all more or less aware of what everyone is up to, at least when it comes to the major events; we're too ripe a source of news for the media to ignore (a lesson I've learned the hard way). I don't miss his hesitation; I wonder what's happened that he isn't saying.
"My guess would be at some point in your past."
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Yet.
At least not that frequently.
"I'm sure you'll run into it eventually, though, so unless you have an aversion to being told future events, I can explain better. I wouldn't blame you, however, if you did."
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"I'm sorry," I say, holding up a hand, "but did you say Bucky was from after your time? Bucky Barnes?"
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"He survived the war much like I did. His... resurrection wasn't publicized the same way." That's enough. More than. Anything more than that, Matt can find out elsewhere. What's important is that Bucky is alive, and here, and after all- I survived the plane crash, it can't be too far a stretch for people to believe Bucky did, as well (a hope I'd chased for years after my own awakening).
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"You must be glad."
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"This island may be misleadingly quiet, but I owe it a thing or two, regardless."
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"Though I'll confess it's nice to be out of the public eye."
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"I've never been forced to this much inactivity, maybe, at least not while I was conscious- but I do have to agree with you on that point."
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"Of course, you're already a hot topic."
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"How so?"
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There's probably still a stain.
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My own arrival was much less traumatic, if still exhausting. A long night stretched into a long day of explanations and introductions. Nearly two months later, and I'm still not as settled in as I would like.
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"Whatever circumstances may be, I have to be grateful for a thing or two. How long have you been here, now?"
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