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

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

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.

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The cat's ensuing mewl is as indignant as it is baleful. He stalks back to the couch; the tiny bell on his collar whisper-jingles as he leaps up, reclaiming the bag of thawed peas.

Down the hall, Claire squints, and breathes out a yawn.

She sits up, running a hand through her hair. As she slides out of bed, she's not sure what'll surprise her more: Mike's presence, or his absence.

When he finds his shirt he feels out the cloth around the tear in the sleeve with his thumb, the fabric stiff from dried blood.

It's pretty much a lost cause, just as slipping out without waking Claire seems to be.

He hears her getting up and stays where he's at; standing off the couch with his shirt in his hand and his shoulder hanging low.

Mike looks like steamrolled shit, but his continued shirtlessness does not go wholly unappreciated as Claire gives him an assessing once-over.

"Huh." Her voice tastes thick on her tongue, smudged with sleep. "And here I was expecting a pumpkin."

"Sorry," he says, tilting his head when she walks in. "I'll be out of your hair in a minute."

"I didn't say I was disappointed."

He smirks on that, dropping the shirt onto the arm of the chair for the moment and picking up the blanket he'd used to begin folding it.

"I really didn't mean to crash your couch."

"Eh, still looks driveable to me."

She leans one hip against the edge of the dining table, watching his hands.

"You, on the other hand," and she crosses her arms, "could use another whole day horizontal."

He finishes, managing a neat fold even with his one shoulder moving so stiff, and places the blanket on top of the pillow which he smooths out with his palm.

"Can't," he replies, setting both pillow and blanket on the far end of the couch.

Her sleep-creased features sharpen.

"I'm not trying to be shitty about the blind thing, but ... do you know it's morning outside?"

He chuffs a laugh, nodding.

"Yeah, I know. I wasn't kidding about having a day job, though."

"Mm, well, all this you've got going on?" She gestures with both hands, indicating his bed-head, blotchy face, bare upper body, the black pants, the combat boots. "Won't pass for business-casual."

She shifts her weight, pushing off the edge of the table, and takes half a step closer.

"If you have sick days, take one. You can stay here."

He doesn't move from the spot he's standing in, but his posture stiffens with tension in his limbs when she steps closer.

"I'd prefer it if you let me borrow a change of clothes and some cab fare," he replies, frowning a moment later at his own response; the words not exactly what he meant to say.

Her mouth opens, but her better angels close it a heartbeat later.

She flashes her palms, backing off literally and metaphorically, and heads into the bedroom to rifle through her duffel.

He lifts his head and opens his mouth to call her back, but doesn't get her name out. Instead he finishes fixing up the couch, straightening the cushions and reclaiming the bag of peas from the cat.

He keeps an ear on Claire down the hall, listening to her rummaging.

Moving stiffly, he takes the bag to the kitchen to drop it into the sink where he has to stop and lean up against the counter.

The mess at the liquor store downstairs isn't getting any better and Matt wishes someone would turn a hose on and wash away some of the cloying smell.

The cat trails Mike into the kitchen and launches himself onto the counter, pursuing his beloved pea-cushion.

The store owner is out on the spirit-soaked sidewalk, assessing the considerable damage with the delivery guy. A well-meaning passerby — glass crunching beneath the soles of her ballet flats — stops to offer her phone to call the police.

That begets a whole new conversation, and the owner's blood pressure is silently spiking when Claire reappears.

"Okay, so — oh, get off the counter, you scheming little bastard."

She's holding an olive T-shirt, cotton cashmere-soft from hundreds of washings, and the same white hoodie she huddled in the night Mike interrogated "Detective Foster" on her rooftop.

Matt starts when Claire returns, absorbed in the argument several floors below and in his own thoughts.

Moving back from the counter he draws himself up to stand straight.

He reaches out for the clothing with his good arm, because the other doesn't want to extend anywhere past his own body right now.

"Is this what you do all day? Fight with the cat?"

"Not all day," she says, handing over the T-shirt. It smells like Claire: the faint scent of her detergent, mixed with something vaguely tart-sweet and spicy — grapefruit, ginger — cladded with the canvas lining of her overnight bag.

"In my spare time, I knit tiny maternity sweaters for his harem of baby mamas."

He feels over the T-shirt, getting it straight before awkwardly pulling it on. His teeth catch and bite down on the inside of his cheek when his shoulder yells at him, and he keeps his head down counting his breaths after getting the shirt on and tugging it down over his abdomen.

"How thoughtful of you. Do you do booties for the kittens, too?"

"Too labor-intensive," she deadpans, almost absently, eyeing the stuttering line of his shoulder. "And way too cutesy."

Giving him a moment to collect himself, she shakes out the hooded sweatshirt, and tugs its zipper down to the bottom of the hem.

In his measured breathes he takes in the soft warm scents of Claire from the t-shirt. It feels well lived in, and it's his hope to get it back to her undamaged or stained.

Ready for the next piece he holds his hand out for the hoodie.

"And you don't do cutesy."

"That I do not."

Her eyes flick from his outstretched hand to his injured arm; she offers half a head-shake before she catches herself.

"Uh, hang on. See if we can't make this part mostly painless." She takes a step closer, stopping shy of invading his space. "Unless you're jonesing for the awkward struggle all on your own, I'll slide this sleeve on your bad arm."

There's a breath of hesitation, and then he lowers his hand and turns to give her his bad side.

"I trust you're not dressing me up in neon green or Hello Kitty."

She breathes a partial chuckle as she eases the sleeve over his hand and up his forearm.

"Tempting." She pulls the sleeve past his elbow, taking care not to jostle his arm. "But — no. This is just plain white."

He bends at the waist to slip into the shirt, breath held until after he straightens up.

"I'll get it back to you," he promises, turning to give up his other arm.

Adjusting the jacket on his shoulders, Claire mmms under her breath in acknowledgment.

She steps back, and slips her fists into the pockets of her robe.

"Oh, here," she says, pulling out a couple of folded twenties. "For your ride."

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