A flash of panic somehow managed to claw its way to the forefront of his mangled thoughts as he soared through the air. Did I jump far enough? He wasn't entirely sure he had, but it became a moot point soon enough.
His free fall was rudely interrupted when he crashed into an unforgiving surface. Matt was now sure that he'd missed the river entirely and had actually belly flopped onto the concrete sidewalk below, because there was no way landing in water could hurt so much. It was a thumping, full-body shock that served as a loud counterpoint to all the other sharp pains that were scattered across his skin. Fortunately, he didn't have deal with it for long as consciousness fled the moment after he hit. Unfortunately, he snapped back a few seconds later when the dirty mix of water, toxic chemicals and sewage that called itself the Hudson River flowed into his mouth and sprayed into his lungs.
His limbs flailed jerkily as he struggled to find the surface. Matt disliked being underwater, disliked the way it threw off his hypersensitive awareness, especially when his senses were already going haywire from... from getting your dumb ass handed to you, Stick helpfully supplied. Matt had to reluctantly confess that he probably bit off more than he could chew, but he sure as hell wasn't going to admit that to phantom Stick. Not while he was on the verge of drowning and/or bleeding to death. Not ever, really. Not that he needed to. Stick would already know.
Soon enough, his head breached the surface and he gasped, sucking in a lungful of clean-ish air. It was sweet and life-giving and also set off a coughing fit that nearly sent him back under, both literally and figuratively. Matt splashed around gracelessly before finally wrangling his arms and legs into a semblance of coordinated motion that directed him towards the sounds of the city. The strong smell of copper and sludge that rose up from the river urged him on despite the increasing sluggishness that crept over him. Water kept splashing into his mouth as he chugged along, and he was forced to waste precious breaths spitting it out. By the time his fingers bumped into the wooden posts of the docks, Matt had made a vow to never go swimming again. It wasn't much of a vow, since he could count the number of times he'd voluntarily gone swimming on one hand and still have several fingers left over, but it made him feel a bit better.
Hauling himself up out of the river took the type of effort that made his mind blank out, and when Matt came to he found that he was flat on his back on the wooden pier, shivering uncontrollably while his lungs pumped for air. The quivering that seized his muscles pulled at the edges of the lacerations Nobu had carved into his body, none worse than the deep pit of red agony that was consuming his side. He could feel blood dribbling out of the wound, had unwanted, intimate knowledge of each hot drop that soaked into this black shirt and smeared over his icy skin. With a groan, he pressed one shaking hand over the ragged wound, silently commanding his blood to stop and clot. It didn't listen.
Are you going to lie there all night? The impatient sneer in phantom Stick's voice was impossible to miss.
"It..." Matt groaned. "It..." The words stuck in his throat and refused to come out.
It what? Spit it out, kid.
Not surprisingly, Stick was a pain in the ass even when he was nothing more than a figment of Matt's fading imagination. Nonetheless, he couldn't resist the impulse to obey. "It hurts."
Well, you've been sliced to shit. What did you expect?
"I don't know," he whispered. It was a stupid answer, but he couldn't corral his thoughts to come up with anything better.
Get up, kid. You're not going to let my training go to waste by bleeding out on a filthy dock.
Matt grunted in response and tried to shut out Stick's insistent voice. He didn't owe the old bastard anything. Did he?
Get up. Get up, right now. GET UP.
Back off, asshole. A new, achingly familiar voice joined the unwanted one that was yelling at him and Matt gasped as a vice clamped down around his chest. "Dad?"
Hey yeah, Matty. It's me. It's been a while, huh? Jack sounded sheepish, as if he was a bit embarrassed about being murdered on the street and leaving behind his only child. What have you gotten yourself into?
Matt turned his head, reaching out to try and locate his dad. He was suddenly desperate for Jack's comforting, solid presence again but couldn't seem to find him. "Where...?"
I'm right here. I know you can't see me, but I'm here, okay?
"Oh. Okay." Of course. He vaguely understood that he was alone and was probably in trouble considering he was conversing with hallucinated voices, but disappointment washed over him anyway.
You're not going to be alone for long if you don't haul your sorry ass up and start moving. So as I was saying - GET UP.
I hate to agree with the old bastard, but you need to move. They'll find you if you don't go now.
At Jack's urging, Matt inhaled deeply and forced his exhausted body to move. With one hand tightly clamped over his side, he pushed himself upright with the other arm and immediately regretted the decision to do so. An agonized moan slid past his lips as the movement pulled intolerably at the hole that had been ripped into his belly. The renewed cacophony of pain was enough to send him crashing back down to the slick wooden planks.
"I can't. I can't..." Pain was not new to Matt. He knew that every time he put on the mask, punishment would be coming, both for himself and for his prey. Since taking up his mission, Matt had been beaten with fists, feet, sticks, crowbars. He'd fallen off buildings and been thrown into walls and furniture. He'd been stabbed and thrown in a dumpster, for God's sake. He thought that he knew what pain was, thought that he could master it since it was practically a part of his DNA. He was wrong. The burning rage that had sustained him was now cooled, and without it, he was lost.
Yes, you can. You're a Murdock. That means that you're going to get on your feet and start walking. His dad's voice was firm and insistent. I know you can do this, Matty. You have to.
The soft slapping sound of patent leather oxfords striking concrete was growing louder. There were four men perhaps two blocks away, all armed with high caliber pistols that would tear him apart. With another groan, Matt pulled together the chopped up bits of himself and had a second go. This time, he was better prepared and somehow managed to stagger to his feet without vomiting or fainting. His chest heaved as if he'd sprinted the length of Manhattan and the fiery world around him tilted as he took one jerky step forward, then another.
Christ, that took long enough. You've gotten soft, kid.
Soft? You gotta be kidding me. He's half-dead, and who's fault is that, huh? Screw you and that damn war of yours.
"Stop," Matt panted as he stumbled towards the shadows. He was in no condition to take to the rooftops, so he pressed himself against the walls and lurched away from the docks, praying that he wasn't leaving any sort of blood trail.
Predictably, phantom Stick ignored him and scoffed. Don't blame this on me. He developed that obsession with Fisk all by himself.
"Not an obsession," Matt argued weakly. "Needs...needs to be stopped."
Phantom Jack ignored him as well. He could have gone about this another way, without using his fists. God gave him brains for a reason. I never wanted this for him.
"I tried, dad. I did. It just wasn't enough." Matt paused, pressing his forehead against the rough brick. Nothing he did was enough. Fisk was winning, and he was so damn tired.
Well then, it's too bad you got yourself killed and left Matty alone. Dead men don't get much of a say in how the living go about their business. Who said you could stop moving?
Matt swayed and staggered back into motion.
It's not like I wanted to leave him. I'm so sorry, Matty.
Oh really? Don't tell me you didn't know what would happen when you copped out of the fix. You knew, and you did it anyway. You even prepared for it, for Christ's sake. Was your moment of pride worth it?
You're one to talk, pal. You left him too. Anger seeped through Jack's voice.
Yeah, I did. But I did it for his own good, and managed not to stick him with a massive guilt complex as a parting gift.
You're an idiot if that's what you think.
His mind lapsed into silence and Matt breathed a short sigh of relief as he trudged along. He was cold, and growing colder by the minute. Whether it was due to his impromptu dip in the Hudson or the steady stream of blood still escaping from his body was unclear. He had briefly thought about going to Claire's place, but it was too far. He really didn't relish the idea of some stranger finding him unconscious in the street, as he doubted he'd get lucky twice. Instead, he allowed his instincts to direct him to his own flat. Home. I need to go home.
Matt didn't know how long it took for him to finally stagger back to his building, but he did know exactly how many excruciating steps it took for him to climb up to the roof and then back down into his apartment. By the time he was inside, he was shaking so hard that he feared he would fly apart at the seams. Matt fumbled his way into the bedroom, fully intending on passing out on his bed after dialing Claire, but whatever reprieve he thought he had earned by finally making it home was immediately crushed by the beautifully, terribly familiar voice that began yelling outside his door.
"Maaaatt? Come on, Matt. I need to talk to you, Matt."
Your friend has got some really crappy timing.
Matt could tell from the way Foggy was dragging his vowels that his friend was very, very drunk. That, and the fact that Foggy smelled like he'd been pickled in whiskey.
"We need to keep going, Matt. We gotta nail that bastard to the wall. We gotta make him pay, for Elena. For everything."
The anguish coloring Foggy's voice cut through the hazy wool blanket that wrapped around his brain. His heart jumped and skipped a beat when he thought about Mrs. Cardenas, about the pain in Karen and Foggy's voices when they went to ID Elena's corpse. He'd failed to stop Fisk, failed to rid his city of a monster. Matt couldn't find the will to face his friend after such a letdown. All he wanted was to burrow into a deep hole and hide from the world until he could take another shot at Fisk. Matt took another step towards his bed, praying that Foggy would simply disappear, when the abused muscles in his leg finally gave out. He stumbled and then collapsed, hitting the wall and then toppling over the nightstand. His mouth opened in a silent cry as he fell against his bed, fiery agony shorting out his senses.
"Matt, are you okay in there? Matt? Matt!"
You'll have to go someplace else to hold up, kid. He can't find you here like this.
Are you crazy? Matt's going to die if he doesn't get help soon. Is that what you want?
No, I don't. But do you have any idea what will happen if that loud drunk guy finds Matt in here, decked out in his hero costume?
Yeah, I do. He'll call for help and make sure my kid doesn't die.
"Matt? It's me. I heard a crash. Not the fun, sexy-time kind. More of the 'I've fallen and can't get up' variety."
Matt groaned when he realized that he hadn't locked the roof access door. Foggy was slowly creeping down the stairs, slicked with beads of nervous, alcohol-laden sweat.
Sure, he might do that. He might also destroy Matt's life by outing him as the vigilante running around Hell's Kitchen. How long do you think your kid will last once Fisk finds out who he is?
"No," Matt whispered. Foggy wouldn't do that to him. Would he? He really did not want to find out.
This is why you can't be close to people. It makes for too many loose ends. Better to be alone, and free to do what you need to do without worrying about anyone else.
Seriously? That is the worst advice I ever heard. Matty, you listen to me. Do you trust this Foggy guy?
Yes. He trusted Foggy as much as he trusted anyone in his life, but he wasn't sure he could trust Foggy with this. Not after so many lies of omission, and just straight up lies. There was too much at stake.
You need to go out there and let him know you're here, and that you're hurt. Survive this, Matty. Then you can worry about everything else, okay? Live first.
"Matt?"
That's a bad idea, kid. I can already tell you Foggy's not going to take it well. And what the hell kind of a name is Foggy?
That's not going to matter if he's dead. Matty, look at this way - if you die tonight, your friend will find out anyway. Please, Matt. Please. You need help now.
"If anyone's in here who's not supposed to be, I will mess you up. I'm not kidding!"
Matt exhaled slowly as he forced his quaking body upright. The pain was beginning to recede, flowing away from him on an icy tide which left him numb and completely drained. If possible, he would have protected Foggy from his inner devil forever. But dying now would mean leaving people like Foggy and Karen, people like Elena and Claire, at Fisk's mercy. That simply wasn't an option.
His feet had become replaced with lead bricks at some point during the night, and Matt found that each step forward was impossibly harder than the last. He haltingly walked towards the cloud of Foggy that was standing nervously in his living room, clutching at his cane with white-knuckled hands.
"Where's Matt? What did you do to him?"
It's me, Matt wanted to say. I'm so sorry, Foggy. I never wanted to put this on you. The words never made it out of his mouth, however. Matt finally toppled off the razor's edge upon which he'd been perched, and tumbled down into true darkness. As he fell, he could only hope that Foggy would understand and forgive him.
Hello! So, as usual, I have discovered the awesomeness of Daredevil (the show, not the comics) years after everyone else, and have just made my way through S1. I know it's old news by now, but I decided to write down what will hopefully be a collection of tags and scene fills before moving onto S2. I know these themes have probably been covered many times over, but I hope it wasn't too tedious a read. This is also my first fic for DD, so my apologies if the voices are quite right yet... Anyway, thank you so much for reading!
Disclaimer: This was written for fun, not money. None of the recognizable characters are mine.