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

[man_without_fear]

He hears the loss of cadence her heart takes, but before he can react to it he's flinching as cold metal presses to his skin.

He gives a chuckle before schooling himself and straightening out to even breathes while she listens.

"Nothing is cracked or broken," he says after taking in a few slow breaths. "Just bruised."

[nocturnalmedicine]

Her eyes narrow and her brow furrows as she listens to each inhale and exhale.

A few moments later, she hums her agreement; her gloved fingertips replace the diaphragm in a brief, silent apology for its chill.

"Humor me, slugger," she says, standing to step behind him. "I'm checking your lungs, too."

As she pivots in her socked feet to slip behind his chair, one hand skims his good shoulder, offering him a light, makeshift anchor to track her movements.

[man_without_fear]

He sits up on the chair, leaning forward a bit to let her get at his back as she moves around behind him.

As if on cue he gives a cough, his lungs stuttering as they try to expel the last of the cloying fumes.

"I don't know how smokers do it," he grates, frowning in distaste.

[nocturnalmedicine]

"Years of practice, they tell me."

Leaning forward, she applies the chest-piece to his bare back, listening as he wheezes through another cough.

Once she's satisfied, she tugs the stethoscope down to hang around her neck.

"How's your nausea?" she asks, rounding the chair.

[man_without_fear]

He works his throat and shakes his head, "Manageable."

His stomach is still doing un-neat little flips every once in awhile, but he hasn't thrown up so he'll call it a winning fight.

[nocturnalmedicine]

"'Kay," she says, somewhat absently, taking stock of the blotchy skin around his eyes, nose, and mouth.

Damn gas.

She discards her gloves, and swipes her sweating hands down the sides of her boxer shorts.

"Sit tight for me for a sec."

[man_without_fear]

He nods, fine enough to stay where he's at.

He may or may not be out again tomorrow, but he's most certainly done for tonight.

Sitting in the chair he reaches up and rubs his swollen shoulder carefully; feeling out the damage and the fix.

[nocturnalmedicine]

She pads into the kitchen to wash her hands, her tread as sure and purposeful as her treks down the antiseptic halls of Metro-General.

Two cabinets and a drawer open and close; the tap runs until the water heats up; stainless steel pings as a bowl fills. The fridge opens, shuts — the freezer door follows suit, accompanied by rustling, rummaging, and the crinkle of frozen plastic.

Claire makes two trips back to the table. On her second return, she dunks a washcloth in warm, soapy water.

"I don't advise wrapping your ribs," she says, squeezing out the cloth. "We've moved away from compression bandages for bruising — turns out it can hurt a lot more than help. Ice works best, and plenty of ibuprofen."

Her free hand cups his jaw, gently tipping up his head.

"Close your eyes for me."

[man_without_fear]

He listens to her moving around, dropping his hand and rotating his shoulder gingerly.

There's a kind of deliberate economy in her movements and actions, almost a determination that he finds interesting to follow.

When she returns he holds out his hand to take the cloth, close to protesting when she moves to do it for him.

Her hand on his chin keeps him quiet and he lets her push his head back.

"I can do it," he says, even as he closes his eyes as requested.

[nocturnalmedicine]

"You could." The pad of her thumb grazes his jaw as she takes a quarter-step closer, and leans in a fraction. "But I'm working on my bedside manner, here — "

The cloth meets his forehead.

" — and you are not killing my vibe."

[man_without_fear]

He holds still, very aware of her closeness and not speaking again until she pulls away to rinse the cloth.

"Considering the patient, I think most would give your manner a good rating," he notes, taking a slow breath and resisting the urge to wipe at his face with his hand.

[nocturnalmedicine]

She breathes out a low chuckle.

"High praise, considering the source," she says, and turns back to him with a fresh towel in hand.

"But I'm holding out for excellent, so: This one's cold," she warns him, before blotting his reddened skin with the cool, damp cotton.

[man_without_fear]

"High standards for yourself, that's good," he says with a smile before closing his eyes for her again.

The cool cloth soothes, providing relief to his irritated skin.

"Thank you," he murmurs after she moves away from his mouth.

[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.