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

Entry tags:

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He still feels guilty, making her wait it out here in someone else's place, but he's still convinced it's safer for her this way.

When he takes care of the Russians, then she can go home.

Of course, current situations suggest that might be later rather than sooner.

Waiting outside the window Matt can hear her trip-hammering heart when she gets up and walks over, and in deference to her he speaks up, forcing his voice to come out audibly over the stinging rasp in his throat, "Claire, it's me."

The window opens.

"Jesus, Mike — "

She's frowning, already scanning his shadowed form with concern.

"You really know how to make an entrance," she says, offering both her hands to help him inside.

"I try," he says, cracking a smirk as he accepts her help in.

Blood is soaked into his shirt sleeve and seeping around the glove he has clamped over the wound while his arm hangs dead at his side, but the first thing he wants is, "Can I get a wet wash cloth and a glass of water?"

He really wants to clear the last of the gas off of his skin and out of his throat.

She doesn't like the look of the gash in his arm.

She likes the hunch of his shoulder even less.

Despite the wisecrack, his voice is tight and raw, and a chemical stench clings to his clothes. The smell practically rolls off him, punching past Claire's own stuffy sinuses, causing her eyes to tear.

Halfway to Louisa's wooden dining table, she pauses, putting one palm flat against his chest.

Calm: "What were you exposed to?"

He starts moving towards a chair, but her hand stops him.

"I'm not sure, whatever NYPD is using to kick-off their raids these days," he says, sniffing loudly through his nose as his sinuses continue to play hell with him.

He turns his head and coughs into his good shoulder. There's been an urge to throw up ever since he cleared the building, but he restrains it once again.

Pulling off his mask his eyes are red and tearing and he tugs off his glove with his teeth so that he can wipe at his face with his bare hand.

"I sort of got tangled up in a gun bust."

Her relief is probably palpable, a small measure of tension bleeding from her spine and shoulders. As unpleasant as tear gas can be, at least this exposure involves something regulated. No need for a bona fide chemical shower tonight — given Mike's condition, even the closest one would be too far.

His gut clenches under her hand, and she silently catalogues his nausea.

Blinking past the burn in her own eyes, she resumes their journey to a straight-backed dining chair.

"Sit," she says, mostly resisting the urge to sniffle. Her fingers give his a brief, firm squeeze. "Try not to rub — just makes it worse."

Edited 2017-06-06 21:02 (UTC)

Her relaxing is a bit of reassurance and he hopes that means she can do something about the burn and irritation left behind by the gas.

With hell being played with his senses he takes the time to feel out the chair before he drops down into it with a grunt. After wiping at his face once with the heel of his hand he drops his arm and lets his head fall back, just breathing and working to clear out his lungs.

"So... how's your night going?" he asks, coughing again and wincing when the heaving of his chest jostles his arm.

"Well," she says, cracking the lid on a bottle of water from the fridge, "you just missed the mariachi band and the robot unicorn."

She places the bottle in his good hand, and turns to flick on the overhead light in the kitchen.

"So now I'm trying to decide if my evening has gotten better, or if we're on the downswing."

"Well, I'm not as entertaining as a mariachi band," he says, accepting the bottle, "but, on the other hand, I'm not as loud as one, either."

He cracks a tight smile then tips the bottle back and drinks thirstily.

The cold water is a great relief to his throat and even his chest, where he can feel the cooling affect as it runs down.

Over one shoulder, gathering her kit: "Or as fashionable."

His outfit still kind of sucks, in Claire's professional opinion.

(As for her personal one? That's ... another story, entirely.)

After snapping on a nearby lamp, she slips on a pair of latex gloves, and digs out a bottle of saline solution.

He gives a laugh that comes out through his teeth when they grit in reaction to him shifting on the chair.

"You think I could do this better... in a sombrero?"

"You did say your ensemble's a work in progress," she says, deadpan, cupping his cheek to tilt his head up and back.

"I have saline to flush out your eyes." She's subliminally stepping into her conversational ER rhythm, offering running commentary to her conscious patient. "Keep them open for me as best you can, okay? Might sting for a second, but it's about to feel a hell of a lot better."

He gives her his head, bracing and wincing, but not pulling away until she's done.

"Remind me to steer clear of NYPD from now on," he mutters, the saline wash isn't pleasant, but it's certainly relieving the irritation.

"I could," she says, swiping his wet cheeks with a clean hand towel, "but for some reason, you strike me as too stubborn to listen."

Her fondness fights with inward frustration as she assesses him; her thumb gently prods a small knot near his temple, and her fingertips sweep through his hair, seeking out any bumps or cuts on his scalp.

"And you haven't even seen me at my worst," he cracks.

He gives away tender spots with a slight flinch when she comes across them, but mostly manages to hold still.

Considering the firefight he was in, he got away pretty clean, minus the arm, of course. And the gas.

"Few knocks, nothing bad," he tells her while she examines his scalp. "They were more interested in shooting up the place than fighting me."

As satisfied as she'll get that he isn't brain-damaged, she shifts her attention to his arm.

"The cops, or the thugs?"

"Thugs. I actually didn't tangle with the police. I left the gun dealers behind and got out of there before the cops arrived to swarm the place."

His arm is hanging in a slump and moving it even just a bit is a painful thing.

"Bullet wound," he says before she can ask the question. "Just a ricochet, I think." Otherwise it'd probably be much worse.

"I tried catching a fire escape with it before I realized the damage, knocked my shoulder out of place in the fall."

Her hands are swift and sure as they move over him, her touch both impersonal and intimate.

"Clipped you pretty good," she says, the corners of her mouth turning down as she studies the deep graze. "But we need to take care of that shoulder right now, before the swelling gets any worse."

Her gloved fingers curl around his good hand.

"C'mon. Lie down on the floor."

"Lucky shot," he says, not wanting to give the men he fought too much credit.

He can't see her frown, but the impression of it is there in her voice. When she takes his hand he gives hers a brief squeeze before he draws and holds a slow breath and hauls himself up out of the chair, easing down onto the ground.

His exhale comes as a light chuckle, his head turned up towards the ceiling after he's on his back. "The cat is watching us."

On her knees next to Mike, she shoots a glare at the voyeur in question.

"Shithead's a creeper," she says, voice dark with disdain as she takes hold of his injured arm, and slowly guides it away from his body.

"But — how can you tell?"

His jaw tightens, but he tries to keep the limb loose while she maneuvers it.

"I can hear it purring close-by," he replies, giving a short laugh that comes out stuttered thanks to the protests from his shoulder. "Like a tiny, muffled engine."

"Don't be so sweet to the guy," she says, using both hands to steadily pull his arm toward her. "Make him think he's cute or something, when all he's trying to do is give me performance anxiety."

"Surely you've worked-- with an audience before," he replies, voice tightening until finally he let's out a grunt and a sharp shout as his shoulder finally snaps back into place.

"Jesus... "

Wincing for him, she eases his arm back to his side, so he can cradle it against his torso.

"I'm not usually allergic to my adoring fans."

As she speaks, she can't keep herself from brushing her fingers against his sweaty temple in you-did-good-kid reassurance.

"And most of those fans are so drunk or high, they can't even look at me straight."

He rests his arm on top of his heaving chest, fist clenched over his heart as he tries to get a handle on the pain again.

Her touch draws a smile from him and he takes a deep, steadying breath.

"Hazards of the night shift, hm?" he asks, possibly referring to either one of them.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject