Just Curse Through the Pain
Matt woke up slowly, awareness coming back to him in bits and pieces. The crick in his neck was one of the first things that got his attention, a rapid thumping the second. Matt strained his ears to try and identify the sound, rubbing his eyes as he sat up straighter.
‘Thud, thud, thudthudthud–‘ “Ты идиот!” a voice bit out. Matt rocketed out of his chair, stumbling over his own feet and landing hard on his ass. It took a minute for the angry stream of Russian to register, and another minute for Matt to realize that Vladimir was on the floor.
“What’re you doing?” Matt demanded, hearing the stitches in the Russian’s side pull, dangerously close to breaking. He crouched on the floor beside Vladimir, who he now realized was on his stomach, and trying his damned best to curse his way through the pain. The steady stream of what Matt instinctively knew had to be profanity was the only answer he received as he heaved the man off of the floor. The same shock from last night tore a path up his arm, stemming from where his hand cradled Vladimir’s side– burning, insistent, and surprisingly reassuring. But, that reassurance seemed to do absolutely nothing for the other man; the pain must’ve been particularly excruciating, because Vladimir proceeded to go silent, and then promptly vomit over the coffee table.
The harsh smell had Matt gagging, and the abrupt emptying of his stomach left Vladimir limp and off balance. “дерьмо стол в любом случае…” Vladimir muttered, and Matt only rolled his eyes, depositing the man back onto the couch. “You are fool,” Vladimir wheezed, as Matt stooped to check Vladimir’s side– nothing had torn, but the movement was definitely not helping his recovery.
“Yeah, so I’ve been told,” Matt huffed, turning to grab his discarded blanket and drape it over the Russian. The man said nothing else as Matt retrieved a glass of water from the kitchen, the Russian gulping it down like a man dying of thirst. “Why would you even try to get up?”
“Is shit couch,” Vladimir spat, turning his head to glare up at the vigilante, who he thought was purposefully refusing to meet his gaze. It took him a minute, the dizzy spell and churning of his stomach making it hard to focus, but he finally realized why the man insisted on staring at the pillow to the right of him, and not at his face.
“невозможно…” he breathed, watching as the man’s frown deepened, “is not possible!” Matt said nothing, choosing to instead retrieve a wipe and a bucket to clean up the Russian’s sick. It was a very crude, almost intimate action, and Matt hated how he could feel Vladimir’s gaze practically burning a whole through the back of his head. “The mask… you wear mask because you don’t need to see,” Vladimir stated, still in awe. He remembered watching the man before him take down armed cops, take out nearly all of his men… and he did it without once being able to see any of them. He had it in himself to be impressed.
He briefly thought back to the previous night, when they had been struggling for survival in the access tunnels. He remembered how ready he had been to kill the Masked Man for taking his brother from him– for decapitating him, and throwing away his body like trash. But then his world had shifted, and now he knew better. One night, spent half-conscious on the vigilante’s pathetic couch, was all it took to wholly convince Vladimir of the truth. The man was not a killer– he could be brutal when warranted, and Vladimir now knew him to be almost super human, but he was not a murderer. He hadn’t been pushed that far…yet.
“You know, I might not be able see, but I can feel you burning a hole in my shirt,” Matt said, startling Vladimir from his thoughts. The Russian only grunted, shifting to try and find a more comfortable position.
‘FOGGY. FOGGY. FOGGY.’
Matt cursed, lurching to his feet, and making a bee-line for the kitchen counter– his phone buzzed, clacking against the granite. “What is that?” Vladimir hissed from behind him, just as the phone began ringing again.
‘FOGGY. FOGGY. FOG–‘
“Hey,” Matt breathed, moving into the entry hall to keep Vladimir from overhearing. The man grumbled something under his breath in the other room, crossing and uncrossing his arms in irritation.
“Hey bud, you’re late! The one day I forget to call you, and you can’t even get yourself out of bed–”
“I’m not coming in today, I…I have a nasty virus, and I don’t want to get you guys sick,” Matt said, cutting Foggy off. It was one thing to lie to his friend about his vigilante work, but it was another to lie about something so monumentally important and life changing. But, then again, he wasn’t exactly lying in this instance…
“What? You seemed fine yesterday– OH, it’s probably one of those freak 24 bugs or something.”
“Yeah, that’s probably it,” Matt said, trying his best to sound congested, making Vladimir tilt his head in confusion.
“Do you want me to stop over? I could bring you that soup from 9th street–”
“No, but thank you, Foggy, I’m just going to sleep today. I’m sure I’ll be okay with some rest. I’ll call you later,” Matt said, hoping the other man wouldn’t stop by despite his words. If Foggy was truly concerned, he’d find a way into the apartment– Matt had no doubt about that, and he had an idea that finding a wounded, Russian mobster on his couch wouldn’t go over too well.
“Alright… feel better man, we’ll keep the hatches battened down over here,” Foggy said, and Matt smiled. He didn’t know what he’d do without him.
“Thank you,” Matt said, before hastily hanging up the phone, and pocketing it.
“Who was that?” Vladimir spat, as Matt once again took the seat across from him. Vladimir would never admit that the emotion that surged up within him as Matt talked on the phone, had been jealousy. It left a sour taste in his mouth, and had immediately turned him bitter. He was only curious about the Man in Mask’s contacts– that was all.
“A friend,” Matt said, not willing to volunteer a name if Vladimir had truly not been able to decipher it. The man may be his soulmate, but he didn’t trust him– not by a long shot, and if he had a choice… he never would.
“Friend… my friends, they are dead,” Vladimir hissed, suddenly overcome with a terrifyingly intense urge to sleep. His body needed rest, his mind need rest. He planned to be as far away from the vigilante as he could be, by the time he recovered. Soulmate or not, he was built for survival– he had survived without his other half for so long, in the worst of the places, in the worst of times. There was no room, no need, for one now. He could make it– he pointedly ignored the involuntary grimace that pulled at his lips; the sudden doubt that the Masked Man could not.
Matt frowned as the Russian’s eyes drifted closed, heart falling into an unsteady beat for a moment too long, before regaining stability. He thought back– back to finding Claire in that garage beaten almost half to death, on the order of the man who now slept fitfully in his apartment. Could he ever truly move on from that? He tried to think of what had caused him more horror, caused his world to grind to a halt, caused his palms to grow slick and his blood to go cold– Vladimir’s heart going silent, or the threat that Claire’s would.
He left Vladimir to thrash, alone, in the grips of a supposed nightmare a few minutes later, because he found that he didn’t like the answer his heart supplied.
Russian Translations:
“Ты идиот” = you’re an idiot
“дерьмо стол в любом случае” = was shit table anyway
“невозможно” = impossible