Slowly, but surely, the instinct to get away starts to ease. Matt doesn't try to get closer, and that's fine. That's good. It's what most people do, on the rare occasions things like this happen, and it only ever makes things worse. He doesn't like being around people when he feels vulnerable, let alone being touched. And nobody seems to get it.
It's different, with Matt. Not because Matt gets it, or because he knows what to do (he's not sure that Matt does know what to do, and that's fine. Tim doesn't know what to do either, truthfully), but because he's learned that feeling vulnerable around Matt Murdock is not altogether a bad thing. Somehow, Tim feels vulnerable all the time around the lawyer, like he's raw and exposed despite how much he works at keeping himself closed off. Either he fails terribly or it doesn't seem to matter, because it's like Matt can see right through him sometimes.
Ironic, maybe. But not untrue.
And here, now, when Tim's at his weakest, he can feel Matt's thumbs against the rapid pulse in his wrists, and he knows that even though he feels awfully exposed, he will be okay.
With some effort, he manages to concentrate on the words Matt's saying just as he starts talking about lunch. And just like the instinct to flee, everything else begins to fade too. It's not fast. He hardly notices it's happening, and honestly, it'll probably be days before he can forget the fine, gritty taste of sand in his mouth. But it's better. He's getting better.
"That was the third time that week my lunch got cut short," Tim says, and his voice is quiet and pained and it breaks twice just in that sentence alone. He moves a little closer, doesn't open his eyes, but puts his forehead on Matt's shoulder. He still doesn't think he can look at the other man without seeing a bullet hole in his forehead. And until he's positive that he won't see the blood and the death, he won't look Matt in the face at all. He can't.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2016-03-19 07:59 am (UTC)It's different, with Matt. Not because Matt gets it, or because he knows what to do (he's not sure that Matt does know what to do, and that's fine. Tim doesn't know what to do either, truthfully), but because he's learned that feeling vulnerable around Matt Murdock is not altogether a bad thing. Somehow, Tim feels vulnerable all the time around the lawyer, like he's raw and exposed despite how much he works at keeping himself closed off. Either he fails terribly or it doesn't seem to matter, because it's like Matt can see right through him sometimes.
Ironic, maybe. But not untrue.
And here, now, when Tim's at his weakest, he can feel Matt's thumbs against the rapid pulse in his wrists, and he knows that even though he feels awfully exposed, he will be okay.
With some effort, he manages to concentrate on the words Matt's saying just as he starts talking about lunch. And just like the instinct to flee, everything else begins to fade too. It's not fast. He hardly notices it's happening, and honestly, it'll probably be days before he can forget the fine, gritty taste of sand in his mouth. But it's better. He's getting better.
"That was the third time that week my lunch got cut short," Tim says, and his voice is quiet and pained and it breaks twice just in that sentence alone. He moves a little closer, doesn't open his eyes, but puts his forehead on Matt's shoulder. He still doesn't think he can look at the other man without seeing a bullet hole in his forehead. And until he's positive that he won't see the blood and the death, he won't look Matt in the face at all. He can't.
"Keep talkin'," he murmurs.