man_without_fear | 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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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."

"And pay you back," he adds, accepting the money.

Feeling the crisp folds in the quartered bills he arches a brow slightly. "Twenties?"

"Twenties."

A beat.

"I'm not prying, but is that enough to get you home?"

Slipping the money into a pocket on his pants, he nods.

"Yeah, it's enough."

She tucks her hands back into her pockets, and juts one hip against the edge of the counter.

"When you get there, do yourself a favor: more ibuprofen, more ice. A sling wouldn't be the worst idea."

He nods to the advice, not giving any indication of if he's just heard it or if he'll actually be taking it.

"I'll let you and the cat get back to it."

She scrunches her shoulders.

"Gee whiz, I can hardly contain myself."

He smirks, but after a moment it eases.

"Claire, I am trying to get you out of here." His voice isn't quite earnest, but it is of concern to him that she know he is working on it. "Just a little more time, that's all."

More now, with this delay.

She licks her lips.

Quiet: "Yeah."

Her balled hands punch down to the hems of her pockets; she exhales through her nose, not quite a sigh.

"I'm not ungrateful, Mike. You're worried for a reason — and I wouldn't be here if I didn't trust you. This is just ... all cloak-and-dagger, with the hiding out and laying low. It's weird, and I'm a little stir-crazy."

The robe she's wearing is covered in cat hair and dander, enough that even his own nose is itchy, and it makes him feel even more guilty.

He gives a near imperceptible head shake; he isn't expecting gratitude, if anything she has every right to be angry with him for dragging her into all of this.

"It won't be for much longer," he says again, trying to reassure them both. "And I'll try not to need more patching up. Unless you like the company."

The last part is a tease, again to reassure. Common sense and maybe more are saying he should stay, rest up, but he's tracking an old woman shuffling down the hallway. When she makes it to her door and inside that will be his window to exit.

A slow-spreading smirk graces her mouth.

"Say I don't mind the company," she says, her expression warming the words. "Still gonna be bleeding half to death before you show up again?"

It's very true that smiles can be heard. Matt decided the first night they met that he really likes the sound of hers.

"You saying I don't need the excuse?" he counters.

"I'd call it more of a reason, myself."

He flashes a smirk, then tilts his head, listening as a door down the hall closes and locks.

"I'll try and stay off the arm," he says, heading for the front door. "If you don't hear from me in the next couple of days I'm either okay or I'm not."

She eyeballs him as he makes for the door — he's stiff, stilted, moving at half-speed.

Stubborn smartass.

"So specific," she says, bemused despite herself. "Starting to think it might be a theme or something."

He goes down the succession of latches on the door, unlocking them and pausing briefly after the last to turn back to her.

"Just keeping things interesting," he replies with another smirk.

Pulling the hoodie hood up, he turns the door handle.

"Cat's on the counter again," he informs her before slipping out into the hallway, pulling the door gently closed behind himself.

Eyes narrowing, her head swivels.

"Oh, you sneaky fucker — "

Four self-preservationist paws meet the floor, and Claire dismisses the cat with a head-shake and an eye-roll.

She's two steps from the front door, lifting a hand to lock up, when she sneezes.

"Ugh."

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

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