#fxggynelson

foggy has fallen asleep, fitful, troubled. not a hair out of place. bruce knows it’ll be trouble though. the man is innocent, joker wanting to break him with something unseen; the knowledge that no matter how many times bruce is broken, foggy is helpless to do anything save for watch.

bare feet scrape along the cold concrete, brows knitted together. if only, if only-- his gaze rises and he sees something, no, sees SOMEONE, that makes his breath catch in a painful stutter. dirty matted red hair. pale freckled skin. the pain means so little when he recognizes the face beneath the dirt, beneath the blood. the man at his feet stirs, finishing his task with a douse of cold water. they’re alone, the three of them, and bruce begins to think. he begins to take slow breathes and steady himself.

                                                        one.                                                                                 two.                                                                                                          three. four broken ribs, perhaps more. fractures wrists, and his vision was going in and out. foggy is beginning to stir the more he moves, the more he fights. good, he’ll need the help carrying bailey out. he has to swallow down the bile, the pain, when he pulls himself up slowly. curling, crawling up, fighting the darkness at the edge of his vision, bruce works at the ropes, tugging, pulling. it’s taken weeks, months, and finally he’s close. one tug. two twists. three snaps. one punch. two gasps. three grunts. foggy is grunting, straining. bruce doesn’t look to know those wrists are raw, ripping anew. it’s been two weeks, six days, thirteen hours, and too many minutes since he’d stopped telling foggy to stop.

                                                        one.                                                                                 two.                                                                                                          three.

there’s a loud S N A P-- bruce catches himself too late, too slow, and lands with a sharp C R A C K. the world is edged white and breath coming fast, ragged. it hurts, god it hurts. fingers push, slipping against the concrete, and bruce is tugging the dirty cloth from his mouth as he stumbles forward. foggy has something dangerous in his eyes as bruce fumbles with the knots.

hope.

hope.

it’s a haze through the pain.

there is someone else in the darkness he’s long since become accustomed to seeing. time is irrelevant but he busies himself keeping track by the slow dripping of water somewhere. smells coastal through the blood.

his lungs burn, there’s a new trick, a new drug today forced into his system and there are voices playing through his mind. memories he doesn’t recall; clark yelling at him, telling him it was his fault. jason kissing him and begging him not to go.

through the madness he steadies himself through what meditation he can manage. it’s not hardly enough to remedy the problem but it’s enough to keep him sane.

“What’s your name?”

bruce can wait. batman steps into the role of protector and it is another layer of armor to keep the pain away. a rattling breath slips free and he spits blood on the floor from where he’s strung up by his hands.

rip franklin nelson, beloved son

it’s remarkable what the glasses off some hobo and a cheap suit would do. toss in some rather questionable hair gel from the dollar store and a business card off his last lawyer, well, it would get you anywhere.

including hell’s kitchen where no one recognized him under the demure smile and hushed voice.

so imagine him waltzing in to the quaint little offices where the man his little birdie frequented was residing over law, order, blah, blah, blah.

a polite knock is given and he’s shown in by a quaint looking girl before he takes it from there and walks up to the first office on the right. he’ll deal with mister murdock next, but for now—

well, let’s see if his own birdie was right.

“Mister Nelson? The name is James Kern.”

a hand is offered.

matt he Does Not Like this one

omfg i have actually never been to arizona which is weird because it’s not far from me. i got stranded in utah for a couple days once and that was not a fun time. but i am so excited for you omfg even if most of that sounds scary

i might as well be moving to australia for all the deadly animals in the desert