Chapter Text
Matt wakes where he fell asleep, only for the second time since the explosions. He slept upright in one of the four chairs in the foyer of the Queens-based home surgery, awaking only when the surgeon returns with heavy footsteps. Smelling only of soap and neutral deodorant, Dr Jen has a paper shopping bag with her, filled with pill bottles and boxes of bandages. The lawyer thinks she smiles, thin lips drawn wide.
“Good morning, Mr. Murdock,” she says, “I’d ask you how you slept, but I’m aware the chair is uncomfortable, and there are more pressing matters than small talk. The surgery went smoothly, despite everything that could’ve gone more wrong. There was the bullet wound, obviously, a left temple laceration, various other lacerations, and he’s covered in contusions...
“The bullet was less than an inch past the peritoneum, thanks to it nicking the armoured vest I had to cut off your friend, and the low velocity also meant minimal foreign materials were dragged into the wound. The cauterisation scar tissue was a little difficult to get past, but as I understand it, was necessary at the time. It took all the O-negative I had on hand to counteract the blood loss. If he were stable, I would take a blood sample to monitor haemoglobin and white blood cell levels, but that’ll have to wait. I gave him a tetanus shot, as I’m unsure of his being up-to-date. Are you awake enough to listen to the further necessary treatment?”
Matt’s posture straightens in the armchair, and he slowly moves to retrieve his glasses from the coffee table with a nod. The night before the one just gone was rough. Claire continued to talk Matt through how to stabilise Vladimir once back at his apartment until the criminal’s heartbeat finally settled on a steady rhythm; Matt was able to catch up on some sleep.
In the morning, Matt woke to Claire at his door, medical kit with her, but expression grim. A quick assessment of Vladimir’s abdomen - punctuated by continual curses and groans - confirmed to Claire that the bullet has obviously missed major organs and is instead probably lodged in the outer muscle/fat layer. Claire, after a short persuasive speech from Matt, called up a surgeon she knows does work for the criminal side of NYC. They arrived midday yesterday, being accepted quickly and Vladimir whisked away by the doctor almost upon arrival.
“Great,” Dr Jen replies, taking a seat across from him, placing the bag on the coffee table between them. She pulls out the first three pill bottles, tablets rattling softly. “This is a broad-spectrum antibiotic. This one,” she taps a bottle lid, “is called amoxicillin, to be taken twice a day, without food. This one is a weak steroid to support muscle mass; once a day with food. This one is an antiemetic, given when he feels nauseous. Got it?”
The lawyer shakes his head absently. “Can I label them? Do you have rubber bands, or something? The bottles are too similar,” he explains.
“Of course,” Dr Jen says, pant-suit rustling and keys jingling in her pocket as she stands, “an oversight, on my part... pun unintended.”
Beyond the foyer is a storage room, three hospital-like rooms, and an operating theatre, from what Matt can tell - he was a little distracted last night, what with dragging the half-dead Russian to this private surgery. All he could tell was that he, Claire, the near-dead man, and the doctor, were the only ones here. Claire left almost at once, promising to return when Matt calls.
Vladimir’s heart beats somewhat steadily in the closest hospital-like room as he sleeps. The lawyer ignores the thrum, and the reassurance it brings, to scope out the foyer instead.
There’s a shelved timber desk on the other side of the room. Dr Jen walks over to it, sensible shoes making little noise, and rifles through a few of the drawers. Being in lawyer-mode rather than man-in-mask-mode, and hoping to make this surgery as non-memorable as possible, Matt doesn’t tell her it’s in the third drawer down. Dr Jen returns with the rubber band ball, and places it on the table.
Matt takes it up, considering how to differentiate the bottles quickly.
“Antibiotic, twice a day, empty stomach,” Dr Jen repeats, picking up the corresponding bottle and placing it back down noisily. Matt takes it, wrapping two rubber bands around the middle. “Steroid, once a day, with food.” One rubber band round the middle, another over the lid. “Antiemetic, as necessary.” A rubber band across the lid. “Good to move ahead?”
“Yes.”
Dr Jen takes the final two bottles from the bag, placing them on the table as well. “This is an ibuprofen painkiller, as necessary, with food. I’d recommend two tablets, twice a day,” she says, and then taps the other one – a nearly empty bottle with only three pills in it. “Moxifloxacin, another antibiotic. One tablet tomorrow, one tomorrow-week.”
The painkiller receives two rubber bands around the middle and two across the top while the moxifloxacin gets none.
“What’s next?” Matt asks, face neutral.
“Don’t seem so worried, Mr. Murdock. Your friend has a good chance of making a full recovery now. I have a list of the medications, too, perhaps you have another friend who can read them to you,” Dr Jen says warmly, clasping her hands together. “Next, is dressing the wound. I’ve stitched it up with dissolvable Vicryl sutures – those are made from polyglactin nine-ten; they’ll be at fifty-percent strength after three weeks, and gone after three months. I applied a square bandage over the stitches. You need to keep the dressing clean and dry; sponge baths only, until the wound closes. Give it at least a week for that. Bed rest is non-negotiable, obviously.
“Clean around the wound and replace the dressing daily for the next week, or more often if it becomes dirty. Clean your hands after removing an old dressing and before cleaning around the wound. Clean your hands again after cleaning the wound and applying the new dressing. I’ve got these wipes,” Dr Jen removes a plastic package from the bag, “for the cleaning the actual wound – use only these. Ask for more if you need them, don’t buy your own. There’s also more sutures-” another package, “for when the originals dissolve, or the current ones become damaged. You might need them. With the sponge baths, wrap the wound in plastic to make sure it doesn’t get wet. When it’s healed over, he can have showers, not baths. Oh, and the rest of the stuff in the bag is extra dressings, and a roll of medical tape.”
Matt wets his lips nervously, fingers twitching. “And, how much does all this cost?”
“Honey, as I understand it, you’ve not got much in the way of money at the moment. Am I right?” Dr Jen asks kindly.
“Yes, that’s right,” the lawyer nods.
“But your friend, back there, might. Considering all you’ve done, I think he can cover it. As soon as he’s lucid, ask. It’ll be twenty thousand dollars, for everything. Not right now, but within a few weeks, I’d like a sign that it’s happening,” Dr Jen explains, “I trust you to pay me, so I’m not going to waste breath on threats.”
“Thank you,” Matt breathes, relaxing a little at her words. He wriggles his toes in his shoes, preparing to stand.
“Now, call the nurse to return. I’d like you to take the patient home as soon as is manageable,” Dr Jen says, retaining the same calm tone. “With no significant head injuries and no reason to induce a coma, he’s only on a temporary intravenous drip – some morphine, and some nutrients, other stuff. He’s well enough to hobble to the bathroom, when he wakes, so no need for any nasty alternatives, don’t worry about that. Now, the call?”
Matt nods, fishing the burner phone from his pocket and standing. Tired, slightly wounded muscles ache in protest. Claire arrived the morning after the explosions to stitch him up and check on Vladimir. She was angry he’d bothered saving the Russian, but not that angry – she did lead him to Dr Jen, after all. A private surgeon not exactly on the books, Dr Jen was eager to oblige once Claire mentioned the hospital contact from which she got Jen’s address. The doctor loves stealing patients, apparently.
Claire picks up on the fourth ring.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Claire, it’s Matt,” the lawyer says.
“One second,” she replies, voice tired. There’s rustling, and then she returns. “How’d it go?”
Is he dead? hangs unspoken in the short silence that follows.
“Fine. Alive, stable, currently sleeping. Can you pick us up?”
An exasperated sigh. Now that Matt focuses, he can hear telltale hospital sounds in the background – faint groans of pain, worried chatter, doctors’ orders...
“I’m at work right now,” Claire confirms, “I can leave in about four hours, at best. I’m sorry, there was a shooting in Central Park, haven’t you seen it on the news?”
“I don’t exactly watch the news,” Matt chuckles, “and no, I fell asleep yesterday afternoon, as soon as you left.”
“Okay. So, in five hours, with travel time?”
“Yep. See you then. Thanks again, Claire. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, yeah. Bye,” she finishes, and ends the call. Matt lets out a low breath and turns back to where he can hear the doctor still standing.
“So?” Dr Jen asks, hands clasped together behind her back. She’s as tall as Matt, a lean woman with a most peculiar occupation. He doesn’t want to consider who her other clientele might be.
“My friend, Claire, won’t be able to get here for another five hours,” Matt says apologetically, pocketing the phone, “could I – we – stay here until then?”
“You have no other friends who could help?” Dr Jen asks skeptically, her voice the only clue to the feeling. Her body temperature doesn’t change – as far as Matt can tell with the air – and scent makes no changes.
Matt shakes his head. There’s Foggy, of course, but he has no idea about any of this, and Karen’s not much more than an acquaintance.
“I’ll call a private taxi. It’s already eight-twenty; five hours is too long. Your friend is sure to wake soon, and he needs to either be talked down, or in a secure place, when that happens. You need to get home, Mr. Murdock,” Dr Jen says.
Matt’s heart quickens uneasily at the words, a light wave of panic, both at the prospects of Vladimir waking up – this being real and not some deluded death-dream – and possibly being kicked out.
“Doctor, please. My friend, in there,” he nods to where the Russian’s heartbeat permeates the walls, “made an enemy of a very dangerous man.”
“A regular taxi, then? Surely no man can have spies in a city’s taxis,” Dr Jen scoffs, shuffling her feet.
Matt adjusts his glasses with a barely shaking hand, unsure of what to say. He doesn’t trust that Fisk won’t find out somehow, and besides, carrying Vladimir around is sure to catch unwanted attention, even in Hell’s Kitchen.
Dr Jen sighs, short and planned. “Well,” her voice comes out soft, “if you’re still so hesitant, I insist on driving you myself; I have a van suitable for this sort of thing. It would be for an extra fee, of course, but we won’t worry about that now. I need you and your friend gone from my practice. So, what’ll it be?”
“I’d like to accept your generous personal offer,” Matt forces a smile he’s employed mainly for lawyer-ing and business, rather than a genuine expression of gladness. Not that he’s not glad Dr Jen is offering, or isn’t grateful for all she’s done, it’s more that he doesn’t trust the woman. He can handle himself, of course, but Vladimir is injured and regularly unconscious. It’s only by the Russian’s heartbeat that he can even tell the other man is alive, since any other scents have been replaced by rubbing alcohol, polyvinylpyrrolidone-iodine, and other antiseptics.
“Very well,” Dr Jen’s voice sounds again, sounding pleased. “For most injuries, I’d suggest hiring a wheelchair. But, with the side positioning of the wound, and so low on the abdomen, too, I think it’s better if your friend is merely aided in walking. I gave him a mild intravenous sedative just before the surgery. That wore off three quarters of an hour afterwards when I was cleaning the rest of his wounds. The GCS indicates no significant cranial injuries or incapacitation; the GCS, that’s Glasgow Coma Scale, rating was between eleven and fifteen, though I’d estimate a thirteen – it relies partially on verbal response, so I’m unsure as to whether he responded unintelligibly or in garbled Russian. Are you able to verify this?”
“I don’t speak Russian, sorry,” Matt says, swallowing with only a little nervousness, “he might’ve just not wanted to obey commands, with the first test. So, there’s that.” A small smile sneaks onto his lips, fuelled by something dangerously close to familiarity. Matt labels it ‘amusement’, regardless, and clears the thought from his mind.
“Ah. Okay,” Dr Jen nods, “well, if you would collect the bagged items, I’ll prepare your friend for the journey. Remove his IV, et cetera. I had to cut away his clothes to get to the injuries, so a hospital gown will have to suffice.”
Matt returns the nod, and Dr Jen walks off. He wanders to the coffee table, recollecting the pills bottles and small plastic packages, stuffing them into the paper shopping bag – brown, probably – and another, smaller wave of shock hits him.
He hadn’t thought this through at all. Those explosions were the Russians’ properties – taxi garage, weapons warehouse, apartments, safe houses. The lawyer is suddenly ninety-percent sure Vladimir has nowhere else to go, as well as no possessions. Matt feels as though he’s been suddenly forced to babysit, with no supplies or warning. If a babysitter’s regular charge was a rancorous, ferocious, half-dead, adult man. Matt supposes his clothes will have to do for Vladimir; it should be fine, considering the Russian is scarcely two inches taller, from memory. He wasn’t too focused on such minute things when his ears were still ringing from the explosions, beating up corrupt cops, and whatnot.
Matt lets out a soft sigh, and walks to wait by the door-sealed corridor. Dr Jen opens the door within the minute, scent now not only soap, but also faintly of blood. She must notice his slightly sniffing of the air; she says,
“The blood? Just from removing the IV, Mr. Murdock. Don’t worry. He’s still sleeping, and I’m not strong enough to carry him. The van is just out back, though. You can carry him or wake him up.”
“I’ll carry him,” Matt confirms, putting off the inevitable, and handing off the bag to the waiting hands of Dr Jen. He’d rather handle the situation in a familiar setting, rather than this shady home surgery. And of course, by ‘carry’, he means half-drag half-support, because neither of them are in any state capable of the over-the-shoulder technique Matt favoured on explosion night. That could tear those brand new stitches, and no way is Matt paying twenty thousand dollars for a dead Russian – or at all.
The corridor is cold, unfeeling. The rooms stink of washed-away blood, expensive cigarettes, and hospital-grand disinfectant. Vladimir’s, furthest from the foyer, is only a little more lively.
While most people are alight with flames; ever-changing scents of pheromones and toxins seeping through the skin, airwaves from fidgeting bodies, vibrations from their vocal chords, and the world moving around them. Vladimir – or rather, his body – is smouldering cinders and as still as the living can be. His chest rises and falls heavily, huffing breaths out of his broken nose. Eyes move beneath their lids. Fingers twitch and flutter minutely. Lips allow puffs of air to escape, partway between breaths and words.
Dr Jen clears her throat, hands clasped behind her back. Matt snaps from his focus on Vladimir, but only takes a few steps toward the hospital-like bed, careful of the IV bags suspended by it.
A thousand thoughts are continually flooding Matt’s mind, head swimming with Fisk’s operation, the sheer amount of corrupt cops, the Chinese being involved, Owlsley, a name to Fisk’s Shumway, as Vladimir so eloquently-
Matt chooses to find a point to focus on, and settles on the heartbeat of the criminal before him, the heavy thrum of being in repose. Matt practically basks in it, mustering the courage to just get this over with and take Vladimir to the van. The IV is disconnected, Matt remembers, and so decides to no longer hesitate. He snakes his right arm under Vladimir’s shoulders, hooking under the Russian’s right arm on the opposite side.
The heartbeat Matt’s honed in on barely quickens, despite the body it belongs to being lifted from the bed. The hospital gown crinkles as Matt’s fingers curl against Vladimir’s ribs through the cheap cotton. Matt reaches with his free arm to shift the unconscious man’s lower body to the edge of the thin mattress. Once Vladimir’s legs are off enough, Matt hooks under those legs, shifting the limp arm closest up over his own shoulder. It’s not easy, by any means. Matt is already injured himself, and Vladimir is a little taller and thus a few pounds heavier, and God, it’d be easier if the Russian weren’t dead weight.
Or, almost-dead weight.
Dr Jen nods appreciatively, stalking out, further down the corridor. The door is heavy, sliding metal, able to open only after three deadbolts and a latch are unlocked thanks to the keys in the doctor’s left pocket. Matt is aware of the world outside, as he always is, but doesn’t get distracted by it. He follows Dr Jen outside, to one of three vehicles under the four-space carport. He barely notices the makes and models of the cars, only nothing they all have full tanks, and the van they’re headed for smells of potting mix and cut greens.
“Are you a florist, in your spare time?” Matt chuckles after the telltale click of the van’s remote key, shifting the criminal in his arms as he reaches the side door.
Dr Jen laughs, and it’s scarily close to a giggle. Rather than lightening the mood, it sends a shuffle of a shiver down Matt’s spine. Dr Jen opens the sliding door easily, amused at Matt’s discomfort.
“That’s the impression the van gives, I suppose. There’s a row of seats, three feet behind the driver and passenger seats. Put him on the door side, I’ll strap him in, put the medical stuff in the shotgun seat,” she says in that regular matter-of-fact tone, though it has a hint of merriness now. Thinking of all that money, probably.
Matt does as she says, heaving the body onto the bench seat while Dr Jen throws the bag in the front. The lawyer takes the event of Vladimir not waking up yet as a token of ease in all this mess, and so acts with about as much calmness as this can muster. Climbs into the van, takes a seat next to the Russian, puts on the seatbelt, and waits for the van to move.
The engine starts up on the first try, and they’re off after the lawyer provides his address. Matt observes every passing sound and scent he can manage with little concentration, instead focusing on the two other heartbeats in the van. Both are even and steady.
It’s so close to meditation, time passes easily in the forty-five minutes to his apartment. Soon enough, the semi-faux florists’ van pulls up on the familiar street, cruising for his building.
“I’ll see you two back at my surgery in a fortnight,” Dr Jen proclaims, and it definitely is not a question, “only call me before that, with the number on the burner phone in the bag, if the pain doesn't improve after taking painkillers, there’s bleeding that won't stop after ten minutes of direct pressure, or if you notice signs of an infection: increased drainage from the wound, thick, tan, green, or yellow drainage, a temperature is above one hundred degrees, Fahrenheit, for more than four hours, or there’s red streaks that lead away from the wound. I’ve included non-frozen icepacks that can be applied to lessen swelling, but make sure they don’t get the dressing wet.
“And if you’re worried about being seen, don’t be. Be quick, act natural, it’ll be fine. It is Hell’s Kitchen, after all,” she says, stealing a parking spot from a taxi. “So, are you ready, Mr. Murdock?”
Matt puts more weight to the question than he really should. Regardless, he nods sharply. “Yes, Dr Jen. And thank you, for all you’ve done.”
Dr Jen giggles once more, leaning back around in her seat. “You remember the money, Mr. Murdock, and you’ll be beyond welcome,” she says, tone insouciant.
Matt nods again, and moves to leave, removing his seatbelt, and then the one beside him. He’s ready. Or, he’s going to have to be.