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]

"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.

[man_without_fear]

Matt pauses when he hears the commotion, sorting it out and deciding it doesn't require action.

Which is good considering he's not even sure he could make it up or down the fire escape outside the window, let alone do a whole lot once he was there.

Returning to the living room Matt shoos the cat out of his path with a light swipe of his foot and tries to locate his shirt.

[nocturnalmedicine]

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.

[man_without_fear]

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.

[nocturnalmedicine]

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."

[man_without_fear]

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

[nocturnalmedicine]

"I didn't say I was disappointed."

[man_without_fear]

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."

[nocturnalmedicine]

"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."

[man_without_fear]

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.

[nocturnalmedicine]

Her sleep-creased features sharpen.

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

[man_without_fear]

He chuffs a laugh, nodding.

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

[nocturnalmedicine]

"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."

[man_without_fear]

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.

[nocturnalmedicine]

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.

[man_without_fear]

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.

[nocturnalmedicine]

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.