He felt consciousness pulling on him like a hook wrenched through his mind. He clung to the numb darkness, but it was slippery as smoke, falling away as he was wrenched into awareness. The pain came first, as it always did. The first few deeper breaths of consciousness stoked the dull embers of badly healed bones, flaring angrily in his side, firing along his ribs and stabbing into his shoulder. He barely registered any of it.
The stinging of his right fingertips howled into focus next, pulsing furiously with razor fangs to every sluggish beat of his traitor heart. The colonies of bruises twinged with every breath, the air scorching past the half-healed burns that littered his torso. The sandpaper that had replaced his throat scratched against itself as he swallowed, trying to keep his face impassive, eyes closed. They would know within seconds he was awake, he knew, but every second left alone was a tiny heaven.
As the pain ebbed back to its usual, almost-ignorable levels, and the exhaustion sucked on his muscles like weighted molasses, habit catalogued his surroundings.
Something soft pressed against his back in a strangely painless way. Cool, smooth sheets lay like thought over him, while the tightness of what was probably bandages clung to his feet, ankles, wrists, his hand. Bracing his ribs. Forgetting, he parted his lips to taste the room and detected little more than a vague difference. The absence hit him again, as it always did. As though half of himself was missing. Still. Wishing he could return to the nothingness, he took another investigative breath. Everything took so long now. The world formed so slowly since he died. He waited anxiously, his incessant heart beating faster as the fear he concentrated on ignoring built in anticipation. This wasn't the tank, and it wasn't the terror room either. It was new.
He kept his eyes closed and his body relaxed as he tried to make sense of the sinking softness underneath him. So unlike the tables. More distinct than the tank. A far cry from the rounded bars of the cage. He knew whatever it was was familiar, he'd definitely encountered it before ... but the name for it escaped him. He breathed again and finally registered what was alien about the air. It was ... warm. Round. Not sterile. It didn't bite with every breath.
Bed. The thing he was lying on was a bed.
He opened his eyes, frowning.
Not again. Please, God, not again.
Ignoring the crescendo of complaints, he dragged himself onto one elbow, quietly amazed and instantly anxious that he was not tied down. The sheets fell into his lap, the whisper of the material lost to his half-deaf ears. Sweat was already beading his forehead. It was too quiet. Too still.
He couldn't hear them. Any of them. No one was screaming. It would be a sweet relief if he didn't know what was happening.
Please not again.
His arms shook with his weight and he gingerly leaned back. Something solid met his shoulders. He waited a moment, tensed to pull away. It didn't burn him. It didn't even sting. Warily, he let the something solid take his weight, curling one arm around his abdomen as the ache that had once been his stomach was momentarily drowned out by a sharp tug along the thick scar she had given him.
The fear was thickening like a storm, heavy clouds circling inside his chest, gently suffocating him as his heart beat wildly in a futile attempt to escape what was coming. How much longer? Who would it be this time? He gave his head a little shake, one angry jerk as another breath shivered through him. He can't say their names again. It was too dangerous. No matter who it was, no matter what they told him, he had to keep their names secret. Protected.
Footsteps. Hurried. A gasp.
"Matt!"
He stiffened. Muscles locked. Breath froze. His pathetic heart shivered and ached at the sound of her voice.
"Matt, it's okay, you're okay. It's me. It's Claire."
What he would give to be truly deaf. Each word, every note in the melody of her voice, the compassion dripping from every syllable, hearing his own name again ... Please, he thought desperately, just send me back to the terror room. To the tank. Make me run, make me fight. Anything but this. Any pain but this.
"Matt?"
The bed dipped as she sat on its edge, only inches from him. He pulled his legs in tight, wrapping one arm around his knees. Her hand alighted gently on his forearm and he jerked away sharply, though the contact had not hurt. In fact it had been – No. Don't.
"Matt," she whispered again, keeping her hands away from him. He wished he could sense where, but she was lost to the black smoke that was all he could see. "It's okay, I promise. You're not in IGH anymore. Jessica got you out. You're in Trish Walker's apartment. You're safe. We're not gonna let anyone hurt you again. I swear to God, Matt."
She was so earnest. So ... real. He couldn't remember any of the others being this rich, this ... accurate. But he shook his head again, biting down on his lip and curling his fingers into tight fists. It wasn't real. She wasn't real. It was just another hallucination. Another test. Another level of hell.
What the hell was IGH anyway?
Silence rose like a tsunami, ready to break any moment with a great wave of longing and loneliness. She would speak again, he knew it. They always did. But it wouldn't be real. They weren't here. They were dead.
They were dead.
Her fingertips brushed lightly against his arm and he flinched. There was space to his left he thought, maybe room enough to get away. But if it was that easy then it was part of the test, meaning that whatever lay in the empty space he couldn't see would be worse than the phantom. It always was.
So he stayed still, curling in on himself and trying to drown out the room by focusing on his own breath and ignoring her warm, gentle fingers as they slowly, so slowly, curled around the bare skin of his right forearm.
She didn't say anything. Just left her palm against his skin, not moving. God, it felt so real. He even thought he felt a heartbeat – but no. It was just his own damned heart hammering against whatever they used to fake flesh in this simulation. It wasn't real. It wasn't real.
The silence stretched on, the wave climbing higher and higher as he shook on the bed, his spine knocking regularly against the wall that might actually be a headboard. The phantom didn't move or speak, but kept the steady, light pressure of her hand on his arm as he trembled violently beneath it.
He knew he needed to make a decision. They weren't patient. If he didn't move quickly enough they'd burn him, like in the maze. Or electrocute him, like in the water. Maybe just beat him. It would be smarter to just get it over with, either acknowledge the phantom and let it get whatever they wanted out of him or run into the empty space and face whatever torment hid there. It was only a matter of time. At least if he chose, he'd know from what direction the blow would come.
A gusting breath shook through him as he slowly raised his head. She didn't move, didn't speak.
It had been a long time since he'd seen Claire in these hallucinations. It was usually Foggy or Karen. Or her. He couldn't remember what had happened the last time it had been Claire, but he remembered how it felt. He remembered shrinking from her words. Her accusations. Foggy would just shout and list his failures, and Karen would always end up crying, always in anger and always in between remarks that cut worse than knives. She would just remind him why he was there.
Maybe it would be better to just jump aside, take whatever was waiting for him in the black void he once was able to see.
But her hand was so warm. So soft. He couldn't remember any of the phantoms being tender before. This was all new.
He turned his head in her direction, wishing his world would ignite again. He could barely see through these smoking embers he had been left with since the procedure. Or was it the drugs that had taken his senses, his identity?
With the slightest pressure, she squeezed two fingers. Was that a warning? Or encouragement?
"Can you hear me?" A whisper. Not an angry one.
Swallowing hard down his sandpaper throat, he nodded once.
The pressure on his arm increased for a fleeting, unpainful second. He wasn't shaking quite so much anymore.
"It's really good to see you again, Matt."
He frowned. She sounded like – was she crying? None of this made any sense.
"I know this must be so confusing for you, but I promise you you're safe. Jessica got you out. You're free, Matt."
Jessica? Jessica Jones? He shook his head, biting his lip again and wishing he could think straight. Everything was swirling. The fog wasn't as thick as usual but it still hung over him like another layer of blindness. Jessica Jones was dead. They were all dead. They died at Midland Circle, same as him. Same as her. He could remember that much.
Couldn't he?
"Matt, talk to me. Please. Just say something. Anything."
Not knowing why, he opened his mouth. He wasn't sure what he intended to say but the sound that left his lips didn't resemble words anyway so he supposed it didn't matter. It was more of a rasping whimper than anything coherent.
"Shit, sorry, I didn't think. Hold on a sec."
The warmth of her hand vanished, then her weight from the mattress. In its place icy fangs bit into his skin. That couldn't be it. There must be more still to come.
A couple of footsteps, not going far. A cracking squeak that was familiar but he couldn't remember why. Then footsteps again and too quickly she was back on the bed, hand on his arm, pressing something against his hand. He gasped and flinched backwards.
"Sorry," she said quickly, a flicker of anger flaring momentarily in her voice before it cooled. "I'm sorry. Here. Drink. Take these, they'll help with the pain."
Experience shouted at him not to move, but he could smell it. The trembling returned as he slowly unclenched one fist and the Claire that wasn't Claire gently pushed the plastic bottle, heavy with sweet, untainted water, into his palm. He ignored the two tablets she pressed into his other hand, letting them fall unwanted into the crumpled sheets.
The first sip was tentative. Careful. But before he'd swallowed all caution was washed away by the most delicious thing he had ever tasted. He gulped the water down in drowning swallows, relishing the untainted flavour. There was no bite of zinc or cloying sweetness, not even a warning aftertaste as he paused reluctantly to breathe. The not-Claire said something beside him but the words were lost to his thirst. The bottle buckled noisily as he sucked the last drops onto his eager tongue.
Suddenly exhausted, he slumped back against the headboard, his legs flopping out of their defensive posture without him intending them to.
The not-Claire laid her hand on his bandaged shoulder, her fingertips squeezing gently. It didn't hurt.
"Do you want something to eat, Matt? Are you hungry?"
He turned his head towards her again, frowning now in earnest. This made no sense. The water the phantoms gave him was always tainted, always made him pass out or burned like acid in his gut. None of them had ever offered food.
"Do you understand, Matt?"
The phantoms had never sounded confused or scared before either. Hoping it wasn't as stupid a move as it felt, Matt forced his neglected tongue to speak.
"Is this real?" The words seemed to cut his throat as they rasped their way free, the sensation of formed air rolling past his lips so different from the wild screams he had become used to.
The not-Claire sniffed. "Yeah. Yeah, Matt, this is real."
His eyes narrowed. No one had ever answered him before. This was different. They must have found a new drug, or maybe he was in the tank after all and this was just another, weirdly realistic daydream. Just his tortured mind creating a momentary escape. It had happened before. Yes. That must be it.
"It's real, Matt," the dream-Claire said, her voice as sincere and firm as his most vivid memories. Her hand left his shoulder and curled around his bandaged wrist. He tensed, automatically sucking in a breath in anticipation of another scream. It was always worse when he had no air for a scream. It would just burn in his lungs like fire.
The dream-Claire pulled. Not like the other hands, squeezing and yanking and twisting him into position. It was more like a ... suggestion. Swallowing another wave of quiet panic, he let her take his hand and lie it flat against her chest.
Right over her heart.
Everything shattered. Every iota of his ruined senses zeroed in on the steady pulse beating against his palm with a level of concentration he hadn't thought he could still muster. There was no faking the tiny waves of warmth radiating from her skin. No recreating the familiar beat of a heart he had once been tuned to, had once plucked from the thrum of the city, from the wails of the hospital. Not even his memory could offer such a perfect, concrete impression of pace and pressure and heat and the ineffable feel of a heartbeat, and this. This was unique as her voice. This was Claire Temple.
"I'm real, Matt. This is real."
"C-Claire –!" The single word was little more than a trembling gasp, but she heard him. Faster than he could understand he was in her arms, his head tucked under her chin, his ear against the hollow of her collarbone, listening to the steady, too-fast pounding of a real heartbeat. Her arms were harbours around him, somehow keeping all the other agonies at bay as low, strangled sobs shook through him. Her scent filled his mind and it was exactly the blend of sandalwood and tulips that he had almost forgotten, and he knew that if he were whole he would smell the ghost of medical supplies, the shampoo she hadn't changed since she'd first saved his life, the hint of coffee that always chased her every breath.
Matt wrapped his shaking arms around her slender torso and gathered handfuls of her shirt in his fists, terrified the spell would break any second and she would vanish and he'd be back in that cage. One hand ran through his overlong hair with mesmerising rhythm, the other strong and steady on his back, just between two of the biggest whip scars. A steady melody of reassurances spun through the air around him, Claire's beautiful voice reaching right through to his crying heart and soothing it with forgotten kindness. Soft kisses pressed into his hair like slow-motion raindrops. Something that had been immovably rigid inside his chest gradually and finally relaxed as an alien thought looped through his mind.
Maybe, if Claire's here, maybe ... I'm safe.
