Your side of the street's a little darker than mine.

[man_without_fear]

The night doesn't go exactly as planned.

Rumors have been swirling lately about a new dealer in the Kitchen. Based on what he hears, Matt is thinking drugs, heroin likely, and the trail leads him to a shady apartment above a dry cleaner on 46th street.

What he finds instead is a gun dealer's dingy flop and 'store front', and a group of would be gangstas in the middle of a deal. Not exactly what Matt was looking for, but that doesn't stop him from kicking down the door and mixing it up inside.

The problem starts with there being too many guns in the hands of thugs with no real experience handling them beyond their street bullshit. Matt spends half the time trying to make sure they're not killing each other or spraying the walls of the occupied building while gunning for him.

Things get worse when the window shatters and a tear gas grenade comes crashing through, exploding in the middle of the fight. Heavy boots are pounding up the stairs and Matt realizes he's in the middle of a raid.

The gas canister is a mixed blessing, obviously someone jumped the gun and started early, otherwise the officers rushing up would already be in position, but because they're not Matt has the chance to wrap up and get out.

The police will find a room of unconscious thugs and their weapons, Matt is just trying to find his way to the rooftop. He's hacking from the gas, the sting of it almost unbearable to his nose and lungs, and his ears are ringing from the detonation making tackling the stairs an especially fun feat.

Banging through the roof access he breathes in deep even as he moves fast to put distance between himself and the situation below. He's a couple blocks away before he realizes he's bleeding. He determines why and where when he tries to leap from a rooftop to a fire escape across the way and the grip of his arm on the scaffolding gives way, causing him to fall two floors before he hits a railing and crashes onto the landing.

Five minutes laid out on his back gives him time to decide he should go see Claire.

At half past two a.m. there is a knock on the window outside of the apartment Claire has been holed up in. Matt would just let himself in, but that seems like it'd be rude. Besides that he's spent out and busy using one hand to hold the bullet wound on his other arm which also happens to have a dislocated shoulder.

There's every chance upright is only happening at the moment because he's leaning on the window frame.

Comments

[nocturnalmedicine]

She presses the towel to his left cheekbone, then the right.

"Treated a patient once," she says, her voice equally quiet in the small space between them. "She was in custody, brought into the ER from jail. Corrections officer said she was a real hell-raiser. Non-compliant, combative. So a whole team of guards pepper-sprayed the shit out of her in her cell."

She frowns to herself.

"Turns out she'd been trying to tell them she was epileptic and prone to anxiety attacks. They sprayed her into a seizure."

[man_without_fear]

He listens to her, frowning at what he hears.

"Was she alright?"

[nocturnalmedicine]

As she lowers the towel to his throat, she shakes her head.

"No," she says, catching herself, verbalizing her response. "She didn't make it."

[man_without_fear]

His throat works and the frown on his features deepens.

"I'm sorry."

[nocturnalmedicine]

She can feel him swallow against her palm, and it's somehow even more personal than seeing him shirtless, or listening to his breath sounds with her stethoscope.

"Yeah." She's whispering, now, as she draws the towel to the other side of his neck. "Me, too."

[man_without_fear]

He's silent for awhile, thoughts drifting out from what's been said to contemplate everything else going on out there.

"You must see a lot of the worst, working the night shift," he says, the words a little distant.

[nocturnalmedicine]

As the silence stretches, she drapes the cool towel around his neck, and turns to the table. Popping the tab on a cold can of ginger ale, she pours a healthy measure into Louisa's ridiculous Coney Island pint glass.

As the ginger ale fizzes down, she opens a bottle of ibuprofen, and shakes four into her palm in quick succession.

Her attention returns to Mike when he speaks.

"That's the job," she says, her mouth twisting — not quite a smile, not quite a frown. "I see a lot of people on their worst days."

[man_without_fear]

His head tilts a fraction with the hiss of the can and the pour. As tiny bubbles break on the surface of the drink they fill the air with the scent of ginger and he's momentarily distracted by listening to the fizzle.

"Out there it's people at their worst," he says, absently flexing his hand, testing out the ache in his knuckles.

[nocturnalmedicine]

"Your side of the street's a little darker than mine."

By the time those same people get to the ER, they're just that: people. Hurt, scared, mad as hell — but they all need help.

She takes his hand and turns it over, her thumb brushing his swollen knuckles in the process.

"Ibuprofen," she adds by way of explanation, placing the pills in his palm, "and I found ginger ale for your stomach, if you want some."

[man_without_fear]

His hand gives a small twitch when she takes it in hers.

Shaking the pills in his palm he considers her words.

"We live in the same neighborhood," he reminds her before popping the pain killers into his mouth, then holding his hand out for the glass.

[nocturnalmedicine]

"Not for long, you keep going like this."

Her condensation-slick fingers slide against his as she hands off the pint glass.

"I really wasn't kidding about the body armor."

[man_without_fear]

He drinks the soda, concentrating on the cold liquid running down and meeting the knot of his twisted stomach.

"Maybe I'll give Tony Stark a call," he replies, sardonic as he sips more of the drink.

[nocturnalmedicine]

Claire rolls her eyes.

"Before you leave him a message," she says, saccharine as a mouthful of Splenda, "maybe you'll drop your smart vigilante ass on the couch with this bag of frozen peas."

[man_without_fear]

He pulls in a deep breath, gathering himself and bracing before pushing himself out of the chair and onto his feet.

Everything puts up a protest at the action, especially his shoulder and ribs, but he contains his expression to just a tightening around his mouth and eyes, and a momentary holding of his breath.

He finishes off the ginger ale and holds the glass out towards her in exchange for the peas.

"Careful, your bedside manner is slipping," he notes to her.

[nocturnalmedicine]

"If that were true, these — " The peas get an emphatic squeeze as she makes the trade, "Would be down your pants right now."

She sets aside the empty glass and neatly steps beneath his uninjured arm.

"Besides, this entire conversation just collapsed under the irony of you telling me to be careful."

[man_without_fear]

He can't help but give an amused snort to that as he takes the bag.

Her attitude is another one of the things he likes about her.

Rather than push the stubbornness he accepts her stepping under his arm and moves for the couch.

Easing down onto the chair and letting his head sink back into the cushions while bringing the peas to rest against his side, he gives a shaded wry smile.

"Ironic, maybe, but I also represent the voice of experience here."

[nocturnalmedicine]

"That's assumption talking," she says, plucking the Bulletin from the floor. The dry rasp of its pages flutters to a dull thwock as she tosses the tabloid onto the coffee table.

Her expression softens a modicum as she gives him a once-over.

Then, gentler: "I can take care of myself, Mike."

[man_without_fear]

He focuses on his breathing, in, and out, and the feeling of the cold bag pressed to his ribs as they rise and fall.

"I don't doubt that," he says after a moment. "But you were right, about the sides of the street."

And he worries about her having crossed over to his.

[nocturnalmedicine]

Tea in hand, she pauses, the mug halfway to her lips.

"Yeah, well ... "

One corner of her mouth quirks in acknowledgment.

"Same 'hood."

[man_without_fear]

He huffs and shakes his head, bemused despite himself.

The bag crinkles as he adjusts it against his side, settling in to rest for awhile before he heads out.

He doesn't mean to nod off, but slouched against the armrest of the couch he does.

[nocturnalmedicine]

She downs an unpleasant sip of tepid chai, pulling a face as she swallows.

With a glance at Mike, who seems to be relaxing in spite of himself, she slips into the kitchen to dump and rinse her mug.

While she's at the sink, the cat head-butts her ankle. Biting down on a long-suffering sigh, she settles for a scorched-earth glare and shoos the shithead with a slow, deliberate sweep of her foot.

The cat gains refuge beneath the dining table, and Claire pads past the couch as quietly as she can, heading down the hallway to grab a spare pillow and blanket from Louisa's linen closet.

[man_without_fear]

Matt is used to fighting the slow, downward drag of exhaustion, pushing his body along against it. With its claws in him now, though, the drag turns into a tug and it pulls him under swiftly.

He passes out with a thawing bag of peas against his side and doesn't stir again for a few hours.

When he comes around it's with a start, which turns into a wince that he ignores in favor of trying to identify his surroundings and recall the events before he evidently fell asleep.

[nocturnalmedicine]

The cat is curled against his hip, warm and purring atop a raft of room-temperature peas.

Otherwise, the apartment is quiet. Down the hall, Claire's dreamless sleep is bedrock-solid; her breaths are slow and even, her heartbeat as steady as a metronome.

One floor down, in 312, Mrs. Yanarella is listening to NPR while she poaches an egg.

A third and final wake-up alarm — cheery, bright, escalating — chimes from the iPhone on the nightstand in 201.

At ground level, the liquor store has just received a regular delivery, heavy on the bourbon this morning; glass rattles in tinny clinks amid its cardboard confines, and the sticky scent of melted red wax emanates from the dolly stacked with Maker's Mark.

In bed, Claire inhales deeply, and burrows farther into her pillow.

[man_without_fear]

Tension eases as he puts the picture together. He reaches for his watch to feel out the time then realizes he doesn't have it on.

Scrubbing a hand down his face Matt sits up with a grunt. His ribs and shoulder put up the loudest protest and he gives them a minute to quiet down.

Slow breaths, in, then out.

Gathering himself, he gives the cat a cursory rub on the head before shoving to his feet.

Mindful not to wake Claire he heads down the hallway to the restroom; his intent to take care of business, get dressed and slip out before any more of the morning can get away from him.

[nocturnalmedicine]

The cat follows him down the hallway, ears pricked.

Outside: a honk, a shout — "Oh, shit, hey!" — splintered crates, broken glass. Vodka. Bourbon. Whiskey.

"Well, fuck."

The driver sounds more overwhelmed than angry, at least for the moment.

In the bedroom, Claire stirs, the corners of her mouth pulling down in a sleep-fuzzed frown.