Incalescent

drewbug (July 2024)

Notes: I can't believe some of you have been with me for almost ten years now. It really means a lot. Here's a bit of nothing written for Tumblr's #whumperless-whump-event, a fill for the prompt Summer Is A Curse. Dedicated to everyone stuck in a heat wave at the moment. Warnings for vomiting, needles, and a bit of language. The usual.

Not mine. But you knew that.

The power's been out for hours now, this corner of the city still dark and dangerous. Heat waves have a tendency to make people crazy. He's been patrolling since sunset, has barely had a moment to regroup in the chaos. Looters are everywhere, mingling happily with the muggers and carjackers. He's just chased off three kids trying to break into a T-Mobile.

There's no part of his skin that doesn't feel disgustingly slick with sweat, not an inch of him that isn't hot and achy. His mouth is impossibly dry. He could probably use some water, but the logistics of making that happen feel far too complex. He certainly can't go home. It's not even midnight yet. But the headache that's been chasing him since this afternoon has moved from the front of his head to also encompass the back, and it's making it difficult to focus. He's been running on instinct and training tonight. Just one fire after another, his city coming apart at its seams.

Below his perch on the fire escape, a solitary man runs by; suspicious, maybe, but not doing anything obviously illegal. Matt lets him go, too busy fantasizing about getting out of this suit to really care. A drop of sweat trickles out from under the mask to slip down his jaw. He swipes at it with the back of a gloved fist.

God, he wants these gloves off.

Voices raised a few blocks over. It takes more effort than it should to separate the words from the sounds of the streets, from the pounding in his head. An argument, one of the hundred he's heard tonight. This one sounds like it's about a parking space. Sticky and frustrated and a breath away from becoming violent.

He bites down on the groan as he straightens from his crouch, climbs the last few steps to the roof. Around him the city moans and shouts. A siren screams through the intersection, its wail a physical thing that slices its way through his senses. He has to take a steadying step when he sways. There's not so much as a light breeze up here. Not enough moisture in his throat to swallow. The heat presses down like gravity, trips him up as he crosses to the other side of the roof.

He's got to talk to Potter about getting some kind of a cooling system in the suit.

Which isn't going to help him tonight, and likely not for the rest of a week that's forecast to be just as hot. Eyes closed, he pulls his lower lip between his teeth. Makes himself take a deep breath. The desiccated air burns through his sinuses.

The argument seems to have ended, but he can't detect any signs of either party left in distress. It makes no difference; a moment later he catches the sounds of desperate pleading, more fear. He reorients, dragging his body that direction. It feels like he's wading through waist-deep water.

The tight turns of the fire escape leave him dizzy but he lands on his feet when he springs off the ladder, taking the two men by surprise. They turn away from whoever they've got up against the wall to meet the full force of Matt's baton. He doesn't have a choice but to finish them off quickly. Taking out the second guy's knee, Matt drops him on top of his unconscious friend with a shot to the back of his head. The dizziness hasn't faded. He staggers a couple of steps backward into the support of the dirty brick wall and tries to breathe through it.

"That was amazing. Wow. I can't even… Thanks, man. Thanks a lot. I mean it." The only details Matt's getting from the person in front of him are small and young, too high energy and too close. They smell like they've been sleeping on the streets, body odor competing with the garbage and piss that fills the alley. "Hey… are you okay?"

"Fine," he grunts, swallowing down the rising nausea with the saliva pooling under his tongue. "You have someplace safe?"

"I got a couple of places. Man, that was so cra–"

"Good. Go there." Daredevil's growl sounds as if it's been scraped over the pavement.

"But –"

"Go. Now." There's no room to be polite. The base of his skull throbs a sickening beat, the back of his neck clammy under the cowl. If he's going to throw up – he's going to throw up – he doesn't want an audience.

"Fine. Jeez. You don't have to be a dick about it." The figure turns, starts to walk away.

Matt stumbles in the opposite direction. He gets as far as the next dumpster before he's bent and heaving, headache slamming into his brain. Tears in his eyes by the time he can finally catch his breath. Slumped against the brick, he struggles to see his surroundings through the ringing in his ears. He's too vulnerable down here.

The grappling hook gets him to the roof faster than the fire escape, but it doesn't do much for the dizzy nausea. Another round of retching leaves him shaky, weak, and he sinks to his knees beside one of the protruding ventilation shafts. He's panting. It feels like his skin is burning.

Stick melts out of the shadows. "You're a mess."

Matt spits, drags a gloved hand across his mouth. "Go away," he mumbles.

"That it then? You taking the rest of the night off?"

"No." It's ground between his teeth. He just needs a minute.

"Too bad for all those people still in trouble, I guess."

"Said no." The city goes into a spin as he pushes to his feet, and he has to brace himself on the vent housing to keep from going back down. The metal is relatively cool, and he presses the exposed skin of his face against it. It's a momentary bliss. His exhale sounds more like a moan.

"Take your time there, kid."

"Go 'way," he tries again. The coolness is already fading into a memory. This close, he can practically taste the dirt that coats the exterior. A shout several streets away raises his head. Vertigo blurs everything as he pushes away from the shaft, and he's forced to stop for a moment to regain his balance. He needs to pull it together. Stick says as much behind him. Still, his first step wobbles dangerously.

"There's something really wrong, isn't there?"

Matt knows that tone. That sentence. The same as when he'd finally realized it was strep after telling Matt for a week that it was all in his head. That time, Stick had known someone who'd been able to get them some antibiotics. This time he's not even here. "M'fine. Go 'way."

"Call that lady doctor," Stick counters.

"Name's Claire," he corrects automatically, before wondering why he's bothering to argue with a hallucination.

"Call Claire. Doesn't she live somewhere around here?"

Now that he mentions it… Matt strains to concentrate, and everything stops spinning long enough for him to find some familiar landmarks. Amazingly, Claire's apartment is only about two blocks away. "You're not usually so helpful," he slurs tiredly.

There's no response. He's alone on the roof.

"Great," he says to no one.

He tells himself he can handle the rooftops. There's certainly less chance of being seen, plus he's already up here. But the sick unsteadiness has him second-guessing every jump. A couple of close calls lead to graceless landings, and the Stick he remembers is back to rate him on every one. Too much to hope that he was done for the night. It takes three times as long as it should to reach the top of Claire's building; another clumsy landing forces him into an unbalanced roll. The stagnant night continues moving even after he's stopped, and for a long moment all he can do is lie there. He feels like he's bruised all over.

It isn't until he opens his eyes that he understands he's closed them; he has no idea how much time has passed. For a few terrifying seconds he isn't entirely sure where he is, and his attempt to jump to his feet is a mistake that somehow intensifies the pounding beat in his skull. Sitting with his head in his hands he realizes that for the first time tonight he doesn't feel like he's sweating. Stick is quick to point out that this probably isn't a good thing.

He remembers the small burner phone, fumbles it out of the custom made pocket. The only numbers in it are Claire's and Foggy's, set out of necessity to speed dial one and two. Matt presses down on the one, holds the phone to his ear. As it rings its way to voicemail, he exhales a slow exhausted breath. He hadn't thought about what he would do if she wasn't home. Isn't sure what he's expecting her to be able to do anyway.

Looking for any kind of cover, he wedges himself between a tall vent and the wall. He can't tell how visible he might be should someone come up on the roof, but it feels better than nothing. Especially with the way his eyes keep trying to roll back in his skull. He just needs a minute. A minute, and he'll get back out there.

He's got his head on his knees when the phone vibrates in his hand. It startles him back from wherever he'd been, and he drops the thing. Feeling around he finds it, flips it open. Claire's voice is too loud in his ear.

"Hey, I just got off work and saw I missed a call from you. What's up?" She sounds worn out.

"Claire…" is the best he can manage. He doesn't know now why he called her.

"What's wrong? Where are you?"

"I'm, uh…" His thoughts crawl sluggishly. "The roof. Your building."

He can hear people in the background. The subway. "It'll take me twenty minutes to get home. You gonna be okay until then?"

Somebody laughs. It might be him. "Yeah."

"Okay, that's not super convincing," she observes.

He doesn't have anything else to offer her. "... be here," he mumbles.

"Matt? Come on, Matt, talk to me."

A hand on his face. Someone crowding into his personal space. He's already moving by the time it registers, but there's really nowhere to go. He captures the person's wrist, trying to see through the panic, the confusion to be able to defend himself. Struggles to hear anything beyond the rapid thudding of his heart.

"Whoa, hey. You're okay. It's just me."

Soap and cucumber shampoo. "Claire." His breath comes fast and shallow, and he can't seem to slow it down. God, his head hurts. "What –?"

"That's what I'd like to know. You're burning up. Can you stand?"

He's having trouble fitting these three sentences together. Realizes he's still got ahold of her arm. "Huh?"

She frees herself from his fingers. "Yeah, we definitely need to get that temp down. You want to strip up here, or can you make it to my apartment?"

Matt blinks at her from behind the opaque lenses. "You want… What?" His tongue darts out to moisten cracking lips. "... not making sense," he tries to tell her. His ears are ringing again.

"Sure. I'm the one not making sense." She straightens, offers him her arm. The outline blurs and splits. When he reaches for her he only brushes her fingers.

Claire grabs his forearm; he copies her hold. It takes some effort to haul him to his feet. She braces him when he slumps against her, nearly going down under his weight. But she's strong. They hit the side of the vent housing, and the aluminum complains with a dull clang. Immediately he scans the roof, making sure that they're alone.

Impossible to be completely certain with this thumping in his skull. He needs to get her inside, where she'll be safe.

"Safe from what?" she asks. "Jesus, is there someone after you again? Matt?"

He doesn't remember. The grimace bares his teeth. "I don't… can't…"

"Okay. It's okay. We'll figure it out when your brain's not boiling." She pulls his arm over her shoulders. "Stairwell or fire escape?"

The fire escape would likely give them less chance of being seen by any of her neighbors. But truthfully, he doesn't know if he can manage it. Not on his own, not when she's having to prop up most of his weight in order to keep him standing. The interior stairs they could go down together.

He takes a breath to tell her some of this, but she's not done reading his mind. "It's after one. My neighbors are going to be asleep." Already losing the thread of the conversation, he just blinks dumbly. "Stairs it is then. Come on."

They stumble their way to the stairwell like they're in a three-legged race. It's a battle to get the thick door open with only one free hand; she swears under her breath in Spanish. Stick points out that he should be helping, but by the time he can convince his arm to move the door's already slamming shut behind them. It's all he can do to stay upright. He thinks he might throw up again.

The stairs are exhausting. Their panting breaths flutter around the enclosed space, distorting its corners. He tries to follow her lead, but it's difficult when his legs don't want to hold him up. The second time his knee folds and he barely saves them from falling with another desperate lunge for the railing, she suggests they risk the elevator. They still have an entire floor to go.

Matt can't think beyond one step at a time; the air in here had felt cooler when they initially came in from outside, but now it's smothering. The vertigo smudges his picture of the stairs, gives the illusion that the steps beneath him are swaying. "F'you wanna get there before… before I pass out… need to keep moving," he mumbles.

She shifts under his arm. "Yeah, fuck this." Fingers scrabbling over his face, peeling the mask from his cheekbone. It's an awkward angle, and he twists his neck away from her when he realizes what it is she's trying to do.

"No."

"Yes."

"No. Stays on until we get t'your place," he insists.

"I'm afraid you're not going to make it to my place."

"I will… f'we keep moving."

Claire exhales loudly. "Fine. Ready?"

"Mmmm…" It's harder than he expected to get back into the rhythm necessary for them to safely navigate the stairs together. His body is heavy, uncoordinated. When his chin comes down on the top of her head, it's his turn to swear. He just wants to sleep.

They get to her floor and she leans him up against the wall next to the door. "I'm going to make sure there's nobody out there. Stay here."

But the vertigo has gotten worse since they stopped moving; he can't stay up on his own. Sliding down the wall he sits down hard on one of the lower steps, hanging his head. Swallowing deliberately, he fights the urge to vomit.

It's how she finds him when she returns. "Nope," she says, pulling him back to his feet. "We need to get your temperature down like immediately. And that's not going to happen while you're still wearing all of that."

"The mask –"

"– stays on. Yeah, I heard." She drags his arm back across her shoulders. "Come on. Hallway's empty."

He doesn't remember the hallway. Doesn't remember her front door. Doesn't remember helping her get the suit off or collapsing on her couch. He blinks, and suddenly he's horizontal. Wearing only his boxer briefs, melting ice packs behind his neck and under his armpits and in between his legs.

Disoriented, flailing, he tries to sit up; the dizziness knocks him flat with a groan. He's about to try again when Claire enters the room. Realizing where he is calms him down a little, though it still feels like his heart is beating way too fast. He presses a palm to the center of his chest and tries to breathe.

"You back with me?" she asks. There's something in her hand. Flat. Smells faintly of plastic.

"Yeah," he croaks. "What… what time is it?"

"Just after two. You haven't been out long." She sits on the coffee table, facing him. "How are you feeling?"

Like he's run through two of his most brutal workouts back to back. Like he hasn't slept in a week. Like his head is being squeezed in a vise. "Headache," he settles on. As if such a mundane word could hope to convey this brutal pounding. "What's wrong with me?"

"Well I can't be sure without about a half dozen tests, but I'm treating you for the heat stroke. You should really be in the hospital."

This has him trying to sit up again. "Claire, no…"

"Yeah, I figured you'd say that. That's why I sacrificed all my frozen vegetables. You can keep those peas, by the way."

His hand goes self-consciously to the bag on his groin; his underwear feels damp from the condensation. "Sorry."

"You know the house rules. Just don't die on my couch."

"Do my best."

"Well this should help," she says, holding up whatever's in her hand. "Lucky for you I was so sick a few weeks ago. Still have a couple of these left."

"What is it? I don't want –"

"Relax. It's only saline. You need fluids."

The ice is quickly becoming uncomfortably cold, and Matt squirms. "Can't I just… I don't know, drink a glass of water?"

"Yeah… I think we're a little past 'a glass of water.'" She gets up and crosses to the door. Returns dragging something. Smaller than furniture but big enough that she doesn't simply carry it. Not a lamp. She stands it up between the table and the couch, leaves it there. Tall and thin, with a lump of fabric hanging off one side.

Coat rack, Stick sneers. Process of elimination. You're losing your edge, kid.

At least he's back in Matt's head where he belongs.

He again struggles to sit up, almost doesn't make it. A couple of the makeshift ice packs fall to the floor. The room spins, and he drops his head onto the cushion. "No. Don't have time," he says anyway. "Gotta… gotta get back out there."

"Look, you called me for help. So let me help. Thirty minutes."

If he was sure that he could stand up, he'd already be dressed. Still, he has to try. It isn't much of an attempt, and he ends up in pretty much the same position when he falls back onto the couch. Maybe she has a point.

"Fine." He trusts Claire. He trusts Claire.

She touches the back of his hand with gloved fingers before the cold evaporation of an alcohol swab. A pinch of his skin and the barely there sensation of the needle sliding into a vein. "You might as well lie back down," she says. "Be comfortable."

"Good like this," he grunts, closing his eyes.

"Suit yourself." He listens to her gather up the packaging trash, carry it out to the kitchen. "Can't say I think much of the new costume," she says, opening the refrigerator. "Doesn't look like it breathes at all. And the old one was definitely more accomodating for performing emergency first aid."

"Opinion noted," Matt murmurs.

The soft padded thump and faint suction of the fridge door closing. Claire returns to the living room, circles around behind the couch. "Lift your head," she tells him, bending to grab something off the cushions. It's one of the bags of frozen vegetables; she puts it under his neck. "I don't like how flushed you still are."

He sighs as the ice immediately dulls the headache. It's bliss. "M'fine."

"You're only saying that because you're not actively dying anymore. Heat stroke is serious."

Actively dying? Surely she's exaggerating. "I get it, Claire," he says, lifting the hand with the IV a few inches off the cushion as proof. He can't see the thin tubing running up to the hanging bag of saline, but he knows it's there. Imagines he can feel the cold liquid running into his veins. As soon as it's done, he's leaving. He'll put in a few more hours before he gets a bit of sleep. Maybe he'll even call Foggy in the morning and claim to be sick. Sleep the entire damn day.

"Bullshit," she says, coming back around to the front of the sofa. "I know you. You're already planning to get back out there."

He's feeling extremely exposed sitting here in only his wet underwear. Outside the open windows, a fire engine howls its way down the street. It spikes through his skull, reminds him that he's wasting time. "Somebody needs to be out there tonight."

"Well I'm not going to argue with you." He gets the impression that this is not what she was about to say. "Do you need anything? I'm going to go take a shower, try to cool off."

"No. Thanks."

"Are you still going to be here?" she asks.

He'll be a liar if he says he hasn't thought about pulling out this needle and getting out of here. But if he's totally honest he still feels like shit, even if he's not going to admit it to her. If she thinks this IV is going to help, he should probably stay until it's done. He trusts Claire.

"I'll be here." Her gaze is a tangible thing; he opens his eyes but doesn't lift his head. "I will."

A pause, like she's weighing this. "Rest," she says, leaving the room.

A few minutes later he hears the shower come on. The change in the sound when she steps in. Matt lets his eyes close, his head cradled by the melting vegetables. The hand with the IV rests beside him on the couch.

From the open window comes a faint breeze.

end.