Scar Tissue
Summary: The deepest cuts are the ones you don't see.
AN: It's a character study, a really long one at that. I took some liberties with Murdock's past but he's basically a mix of the TV and movie versions.
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Murdock gets nervous in crowds. There's so much noise and movements and swirling colors that he can't keep track of it all. His eyes follow every movement and he can't concentrate on what matters. It takes him several times to understand anything, and even then he is sure that he only gets half the story. His heart pounds to the rhythm of a jackhammer and it gets so bad that he feels the overwhelming urge to run.
It wasn't always like this; there was a time that he could be in a crowd. When he didn't feel like at any moment someone was going to stab him with all the blurring motions. He remembers being in crowds and being able to function in a crowd, but he can no longer recall how it felt to be comfortable in them.
He was falling, 2,000 feet and falling. Great. Just great. He knew how to fly anything he could get his hands on, but F-16's had a tendency to make him a little more risky than he was normally. Sighing, Murdock made sure that he had his aviators on before ejecting.
He can't stand it when he can hear the silence breathe.
He can't stand the sound of emptiness; the loneliness of it terrifies him. It throws him back into a place he doesn't want to go. Without noise, he can't help but to listen to the one in his head. It had been so soft at first, just little whispers at the edge of the quiet. It lulled him, kept him calm; kept him from punching the wall until blood dripped from the concrete. So he listened more and the voice helped him.
He watched his F-16 crash off in the distance; he could still see the flames reaching up for him and the sand bellowing out in a ripple like cloud. Markham was never going to let him live this down.
He wasn't landing anywhere near the crash site. A wind had picked up and he was going south east, which was in the total opposite direction of the American base. He wasn't too worried though, his unit knew the moment he went down. Help was on the way.
He hates being touched. Poked. Tapped. Shoved. Prodded. Jostled. Grabbed. Seized.
He hates the way he jumps and freezes. The way that he is instantly defensive and how he shies away no matter who it is. He can't stop himself from reacting violently and he hates it more because it makes his friends careful around him. They can't be like other friends, who can punch each other in a sign of affection or ruffle his hair or shake his shoulder. They can't do any of that because of the way his breathing hitches, and the way he curls up if he doesn't see it coming.
They were there before he even landed. Five men, two of them held AK-47s while the other three had pistols. Murdock barely had time to stand before they had him surrounded and started shouting at him in Arabic. He was stripped of his com and GPS. The head honcho took Murdock's Swiss army knife and he saw a brief glint of the red handle just as it disappeared into the Iraqis' pocket. Someone else took his gun and instantly used it to help the rest of the soldiers threaten the pilot.
The harness to the parachute was roughly cut off. They roughly pulled his hands together and handcuffed them in front of him. He was grabbed and forced onto his knees, all the while the hot sun baked him, making him feel like he was somehow on display.
When they demand answers, he has none to give. Although that doesn't mean that he doesn't talk. The first things to pass his lips make no sense to anyone but himself. The more the interrogators want to know, the less sense he makes. It's a nice trick but, boy, does it hurt.
It's a hard habit to break and he still does it even now. Somehow he stabs at the answer and all the while he skirts the issue.
He was stuffed inside a truck and blindfolded, not that the blindfold mattered much. He was always so bad at directions when he was on the ground. It just didn't make as much sense as it did up in the air. All he knew was that a few hours later they dragged him from the truck and into a building.
They stopped suddenly and Murdock stumbled from the momentum. The blindfold was ripped off as a man, who was clearly in charge, marched into the room and started shouting rapid fire instructions. Murdock's Arabic wasn't perfect but he understood more than not. Blinking in the dull light that filtered through the plastered windows, Murdock looked around the threadbare room. There were a few beat up wooden chairs scattered around and one lonely table stood next to the opposite window. Atop the table sat gleaming metal instruments, Murdock couldn't exactly make out what they were from his angle. Glancing upward, Murdock saw a rusted hook suspended on an equally rusted chain which had been bolted into the ceiling.
