Matt Murdock (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
blindninja) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
reverielogs2018-07-18 08:56 am
blindninja) wrote in reverielogs2018-07-18 08:56 am
Open
» WHO? Matt Murdock & OPEN
» WHEN? Now
» WHERE? Deck 6 => 6.27 => Deck 5
» WHAT? Arrival
» WARNINGS? TBC
Arrival Hall (CLOSED to Frank Castle)
It's cold.
He's not where he was before. He knows that much. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets his senses go, scanning his surroundings like an uncalibrated radar. Metal. Lots of metal, clanging, banging. But everything is wrong. Lighter, like things are floating even when they're not. People are talking. Laughing, maybe. But distant, like the next apartment building over, or somewhere down the next block. The fine hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck stand with the low buzz-hum of the vessel, creaking, engine churning like an old ship, suspended in space.
It's like a hangover, except. He feels heavy even though he's light. Shackles on his feet. His head hurts. Everything hurts. And God, what is that noise?
Less of a waking up, more of regaining consciousness as Matt rolls over with a pained cry and a grimace.
His hand crawls over to the smartwatch, trying to mute the beeping and humming and screeching grating against his ears. What day is it? What time? What happened? He clutches the device with one hand and runs the other hand down his body. Daredevil's gone. Only Matthew. A jumpsuit covering the bandages. Stitches. Blood. No pearly gates, no apostles. No questions to answer about how he's lived his life, whether he's lived it well, whether he's repentant. Paid enough of a price. Just a jumpsuit... and a pair of boots?
"...lectra." Talking feels like rousing up a sandstorm in his throat. He groans and struggles to his feet, using energy he doesn't have to drive him forward. Out. Just the one thing on his mind.
I have to save her.
He gets blood on his palm as he presses his hand over a wet bandage, stitches having been ripped as he sluggishly stumbles deliriously down the corridor. His boots clunk along at an uneven, unsteady pace. Everything is too loud. Too cold. Too heavy. There's blood on the wall where he braced himself against it. And then there's a door. Everything flickers behind his closed eyelids. Black, red, black, red, black, black, black...
Room 6.27. Where everything's a little quieter. And he can just focus. Keep the red lights on in the dark.
6.27. Matthew. Chapter Six. Verse Twenty-Seven. 'Can any one of you, by worrying, add a single hour to your life?'
Hn. That's funny. The chuckle bubbles to the surface. For all the pain He's inflicted, God still has a decent sense of humour.
Departure Lounge (OTA)
He doesn't take kindly to being dumped in the med bay, but there's not much of a fight he can put up against Frank Castle in his current state. He's not sure how long he's been resting there, but when he's well enough to orientate himself again, he's not staying in the med bay. The machines are noisy. He has questions. He's scared.
Matt makes it two steps out of the med bay before space sickness kicks in. The sheer wrongness of the gravitational pull throws him off, throws everything around him off. He sinks down to his knees and clutches his head, curling up against the wall. He looks pale, like he's about to throw up.
» WHEN? Now
» WHERE? Deck 6 => 6.27 => Deck 5
» WHAT? Arrival
» WARNINGS? TBC
Arrival Hall (CLOSED to Frank Castle)
It's cold.
He's not where he was before. He knows that much. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets his senses go, scanning his surroundings like an uncalibrated radar. Metal. Lots of metal, clanging, banging. But everything is wrong. Lighter, like things are floating even when they're not. People are talking. Laughing, maybe. But distant, like the next apartment building over, or somewhere down the next block. The fine hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck stand with the low buzz-hum of the vessel, creaking, engine churning like an old ship, suspended in space.
It's like a hangover, except. He feels heavy even though he's light. Shackles on his feet. His head hurts. Everything hurts. And God, what is that noise?
Less of a waking up, more of regaining consciousness as Matt rolls over with a pained cry and a grimace.
His hand crawls over to the smartwatch, trying to mute the beeping and humming and screeching grating against his ears. What day is it? What time? What happened? He clutches the device with one hand and runs the other hand down his body. Daredevil's gone. Only Matthew. A jumpsuit covering the bandages. Stitches. Blood. No pearly gates, no apostles. No questions to answer about how he's lived his life, whether he's lived it well, whether he's repentant. Paid enough of a price. Just a jumpsuit... and a pair of boots?
"...lectra." Talking feels like rousing up a sandstorm in his throat. He groans and struggles to his feet, using energy he doesn't have to drive him forward. Out. Just the one thing on his mind.
I have to save her.
He gets blood on his palm as he presses his hand over a wet bandage, stitches having been ripped as he sluggishly stumbles deliriously down the corridor. His boots clunk along at an uneven, unsteady pace. Everything is too loud. Too cold. Too heavy. There's blood on the wall where he braced himself against it. And then there's a door. Everything flickers behind his closed eyelids. Black, red, black, red, black, black, black...
Room 6.27. Where everything's a little quieter. And he can just focus. Keep the red lights on in the dark.
6.27. Matthew. Chapter Six. Verse Twenty-Seven. 'Can any one of you, by worrying, add a single hour to your life?'
Hn. That's funny. The chuckle bubbles to the surface. For all the pain He's inflicted, God still has a decent sense of humour.
Departure Lounge (OTA)
He doesn't take kindly to being dumped in the med bay, but there's not much of a fight he can put up against Frank Castle in his current state. He's not sure how long he's been resting there, but when he's well enough to orientate himself again, he's not staying in the med bay. The machines are noisy. He has questions. He's scared.
Matt makes it two steps out of the med bay before space sickness kicks in. The sheer wrongness of the gravitational pull throws him off, throws everything around him off. He sinks down to his knees and clutches his head, curling up against the wall. He looks pale, like he's about to throw up.
no subject
He listens to that heartbeat pounding away in Frank's ribcage. It's upsetting, unsettling for him to talk about this. No trigger finger or shaking leg really necessary to convey that.
Matt sighs and scratches his forehead, clearing his throat before he speaks. He's got words of reassurance. Words of comfort. Questions - a whole lot of questions that just seem to multiply for every minute he spends here. But first and foremost it's words of concern.
"Yeah. Are you okay now?"
no subject
"Physically," he manages with a nod, turning and looking back down at his lap, his mag-boots. He can feel his hands sweat as he wipes them on his jumpsuit pants and shakes his head. "Sure. We're all... fine. I'm really glad you missed the music."
That would have been Hell for someone as sensitive as Matt and the thought makes his heart squeeze uncomfortably. As awful as he feels right now, though? He's just so grateful that he can feel it at all.
"You've seen me at my lowest, Red. You know what that looks like. Here - here I've been lower."
no subject
Matt shuffles in a little closer and sits next to Frank on the bed, moving slowly. He hunches over with his elbows on his thighs, clasping his hands together and resting his chin on his thumbs. He thinks he's starting to get an idea of what happens around these parts. It's troubling. But there's also little they can do about it, and he's no stranger to being in a situation where very little is in his control.
"Shitty things happen, Frank. To everybody. You can't stop everything or save everyone." For every decision Daredevil makes to intervene in one corner of Hell's Kitchen, someone gets hurt on the other side of the neighbourhood. And he can hear it, and he knows it, and there's nothing he can do about it. He's learning to make his peace with that, to let that guilt roll off his shoulders because dwelling on all the people he couldn't save doesn't lead down any good paths. Frank maybe ought to do the same.
"These are things you can't control. You just have to help whoever you can and keep going. It's not about being a marine or being a hero. It's just. What we do."
no subject
"You know I really hate it when you're right," he grumbles roughly without any of the heat he might usually carry into their interactions. Matt is right though. Not being able to save everyone, or even himself on occasion, isn't a reason to give up. He'd become complacent of late, he has to find a way to put his skills to use. That is, outside of dadding everyone. That's not going anywhere.
Slowly, he forces himself up, knowing he should let the man get settled on his own. On his way up, he pats the other man's knee like your dad does after you have a real chat. Sorry, he's actually 70 on the inside.
"You remember how to find me?" Not like he thinks it'll be hard for him, but just to check. Again #justdadthings.
no subject
"Yeah." He probably won't come bother Frank. But they're on a small lifeboat in some unknown corner of the universe where terrible things keep happening apparently, so he won't be a stranger for long. "Take care of yourself, Frank."
no subject