#warjournaling

@warjournal -- ❝ I believe in a universe that doesn’t care and people who do. ❞

“all things considered the universe is probably ... pretty neutral,” she said, “not really here to guide us, or direct us, or do anything. it just exists. and people ...” she shrugged, “some care, some don’t. the real problem the people who don’t care generally have the most power. it makes the universe feel ... ruthless. cold. those men make the laws. make the rules. make us believe that the human condition is greed, and selfishness, and we’ve always favored strength over compassion. but that’s not true. you know anthropologists have found graves, people tenderly lovingly buried. people with disabilities. people who couldn’t have lived long, if their community hadn’t cared for them. and they must have right? to bury them with all those rituals, and all that love. power tells us greed, and ruthlessness is natural because then we’ll turn a blind eye to what they do to keep their power. 

    it’s not on the news as often anymore. there’s a new batch of drama to keep people occupied; the renegade AVENGERS aren’t the highlight of the week. but this evening, there is an interview on the television in the corner of the bar. some stupid, skinny kid thinks he’s seen cap.tain america, and is blabbering on to the host about it. barney takes a gulp from his beer and glances away from the screen to the men he’s been tailing in the corner. they haven’t moved a muscle. then it’s back to the screen.

       --- Claire was tired. 

In some ways she thought that she’d been tired since the day she’d helped a certain fearless man with his injuries on a couch that had gotten stained in blood. An apartment she no longer had. She’d told her mother it was fate, that she kept running into these people, kept helping them no matter what. 

          Too bad nobody ever said that just because it was your fate didn’t mean you weren’t bone tired. That the rest of your life didn’t get in the way. She’d just gotten off a midnight shift at the hospital, had just stopped in for a coffee to go when things went to hell. 

There was worse company to have with her, there was better too, she could think of someone, someone who’s blood wouldn’t have been running down their leg. She tried to stand, shifting small bits of rubble out of the way, ignored the bite of glass. Took his hand.

“    take it as a compliment. I don’t scare as easy these days. If there’s worse than this I don’t want to see it, let’s get out of here. We’re lucky that shrapnel didn’t get a main artery but I still have to take a look at you, see how bad the damage is.     “ 

She eyed him and then their surroundings, tried to navigate the least painful way out for him. 

“    C’mon, I’ll help you, let’s get out of here.     ”

“ow!”

she really wants to move. she really, really wants to jerk around and smack his hands away. she really, really, really, really, really, really, really wants to. he’s not gentle about this at all! didn’t even give her something to chug to dull the pain or a bullet to bite down on or anything! maybe she should have expected this from him, but hey, can you blame her for wanting to believe there’s some soft part of him left in there? but he’s just hard edge after hard edge after hard edge. a maze made of barbed wire. what’s in the middle? what if there’s nothing in there for her to find but more pointy bits?

good question.

she’ll cross that bridge when she gets to it.

it’s not that she wouldn’t like that; she probably would. she likes him well enough so far. it doesn’t bother her if he doesn’t care about her pain, or even if he enjoys it. she’d just like to know if he cares about her smiles too.

“ow-- ow! hey! whaddya tryna do, turn it inside-out? ‘cause that’s what it feels like!”

“you want me to just let you bleed out?”

“no, but--”

“then deal with it.”

“you’re a jerk.”

“yup.”

she’s got her hands balled into fists so tight that her nails are in serious danger of puncturing skin. these fists are, in turn, curled around her knees, which are brought up to her chest, and her legs are so tight and tense it’d be a miracle if she stops getting muscle cramps before the week is out. it really does feel like he’s trying to turn that wound inside out to her. what a disgusting image. normally, she’d find some childish pleasure in trying to imagine that scenario; right now, she’s got tears streaming down her face and is holding back a scream.

no-- make that was holding back a scream.

he’s stopped working on the gash in her shoulder, but whatever he was doing hurt so bad she hasn’t noticed yet. he’s lucky that he’s strong enough and big enough to hold her down. if he wasn’t, he might well be worse off than she is right now. she can vaguely register the feeling of flesh being pulled by stitches, but it’s through a haze of pain and tears, and this is the moment she vows never to let frank castle patch her up ever again, at all, under any circumstances.

“alright, you’re good.” he sounds mildly amused by her theatrical suffering. this does not comfort her much. he holds out his bloody hands to prove what he’s said. this does not comfort her at all.

he puts one of those hands on her uninjured shoulder and bends down until he catches her tear-filled eye. there’s something in his other hand. he holds it out to her, palm-up.

it’s a gcpd-issue nine millimeter bullet.

he was not patching up a gunshot wound.

“how long has that been in there? you know?”

she sniffs. wipes her faces a little (winces), unclenches her body (winces), blinks away tears and leans forward to get a better look (winces).

“that came outta my shoulder?”

“yup.”

“jesus. i’unno. few years, maybe?”

she looks at him. he looks at her. they both start laughing at the same time. it’s a weird sort of laughter, the kind that isn’t done solely out of humor, but it’s laughter nonetheless. it’s the first time she’s ever heard him really laugh at something. she likes the way he sounds when he laughs. she’d like to hear it again sometime.

                    New York  was like the bridge between Gotham and Metropolis. In Clark’s eyes, parts of the city would feel so alive ------ so progressive, so busy with it’s corporate American grind. The deeper he wandered, the more like Gotham it resembled. There was a sickness, deep within the city. A sickness that seemed heavier here, than most. Not exactly his ideal destination for spending Thanksgiving. It was the job, though. Already he had chewed off more than he could swallow, which only made him wary of politely declining the story Mr. White had designated for him. It wasn’t all bad though; the story had real meat  to it -------- a real chance to make a difference, and shine a little justice on a corrupt system. That, and well, it had brought him across a familiar face. One he’d never expected to run into.  

                      Things bound to get complicated; the wheels were churning, bringing him one step closer to achieving his goal. Tonight, however, all work would be put aside. It was a day of thanks. A day of reflection, and by 7:23pm ------- Clark had taken it upon himself to bring a little bit of the holiday to someone he thought was in need. Why bother asking, when he knew how the guy would react? No. He’d do it his way; without a word, showing up at his door with a large paper sack stuffed with food. Nothing like Ma’s cooking, but it would have to do. 

                There was every chance that this would go south; that the guy wouldn’t answer, or simply wouldn’t want anything to do with him. It was bad enough that he’d already invaded his work. Poking around the construction site, asking questions ----------- recognizing him. This could have been the cherry on top. The ultimate closed door. Clark hoped that it wouldn’t be. Passing through the hall, he could see the struggling residents ------- hear the arguments through thin walls ( even without incredible hearing ), or the babies crying, It was lower income; poverty stricken, but invisible. Out of the way. No one looking for you, no one caring. So he’d offer a smile when he could; a happy thanksgiving to house wives, or single mothers stepping outside their door and hollarin’ at their sons who stormed through the hallways. Finally, he was met with the door. HIS door. Frank Castle. Or Pete, as he called himself these days. An exhale gave him the push he needed to tap his knuckles against the door.  

     “My reach is limitless,” Fisk said, arms folding calmly over his chest, “However, the way I see it? Your very own is not.”