@menarehaunted | foggy nelson. (vaguely plotted)
one ear still ringing from gunfire, it takes until he’s already all but crawled up the fire escape to be sure there’s only one heartbeat in foggy’s apartment—foggy’s and marci’s, and god, he’d almost gone to his old place by sheer muscle memory—and matt wonders, with the kind of idle distance he only has when he’s far enough past pain that he feels like he’s piloting his body from a distance, if that’s just saved his life, or if he would have had to have taken his chances anyway if marci were here.
she’s not, anyway, and that’s what matters as he forces the window from the fire escape, dragging himself into the air conditioned apartment, undoubtedly tracking blood across the living room as he finds his way to the couch and, miracle of miracles, manages to collapse on it instead of the floor.. foggy’s awake, his breathing picks up and matt can hear the shift of something metal—still the baseball bat, it has to be. foggy hasn’t changed that much.
even with the kevlar vest shielding him, three bullets to the chest hurts like hell—he can feel two cracked ribs through the bruising, maybe another few hairline fractures that could still get worse, and even though the fourth to his arm had missed anything major, he’s still vaguely aware through the fog that he’s bleeding, the bullet still lodged in his bicep.
“foggy,” comes out in one raspy exhale. matt fumbles with his good hand to peel the black mask off his face, wincing. “foggy.”
