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]

"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.

[man_without_fear]

"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."

[nocturnalmedicine]

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

"The cops, or the thugs?"

[man_without_fear]

"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."

[nocturnalmedicine]

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."

[man_without_fear]

"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."

[nocturnalmedicine]

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?"

[man_without_fear]

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."

[nocturnalmedicine]

"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."

[man_without_fear]

"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... "

[nocturnalmedicine]

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."

[man_without_fear]

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.

[nocturnalmedicine]

As she sits back on her heels, giving him some space to just breathe and be for a minute, one corner of her mouth rucks up.

"We still talking about me?"

[man_without_fear]

He gives the impression of a shrug with his expression.

"You have to admit, it keeps things interesting." For both of them.

[nocturnalmedicine]

"Something like that," she says, half a concession, and wipes her sweat-dotted brow with the back of one wrist.

"But I'm thinking you could do with a little more boredom in your line of work."

From the kitchen, a plaintive mewl punctuates Claire's words.

[man_without_fear]

He gives that some thought then offers, "My day job involves a lot of paperwork."

He draws in a deep breath in preparation to move then lifts himself into a sitting position; arm held tight against his chest.

The cat earns an annoyed expression tossed his way.

[nocturnalmedicine]

Try as she might, she can't picture Mike riding a desk, pushing paper.

With a resigned, under-the-breath chuff he may feel more than hear, she reaches out one hand to steady him, palm hovering half an inch from the middle of his back.

Quiet: "Sounds like a pretty sweet gig. Maybe you should cut back on the moonlighting."

[man_without_fear]

Once upright he stays sitting, gathering himself again before attempting the next push to get to his feet.

"Can't." Simple as that, really.

[nocturnalmedicine]

"Won't," she counters, her tone more bare than biting.

Rising, she steps to his other side and leans down to slip her hand into his good one; she locks her knees, ready to brace as much of his weight as he'll allow.

[man_without_fear]

"I'm fine," he replies, and again it's 'take your pick' on what his words are applying to.

He does make a point though, of getting up with as little assistance as possible.

[nocturnalmedicine]

"Yeah, that thing I mentioned — something about you being stubborn?"

She gives his profile a sideways glance as they make their way back to the chair.

"Seems to be chronic."

[man_without_fear]

"Is that your professional opinion?" he asks, dropping into the chair.

[nocturnalmedicine]

"More like a statement of fact," she says, and the shitheaded peanut gallery issues another meow.

[man_without_fear]

"I'm starting to get what you don't like about the cat," he says, jumping subjects and working on getting his shirt off so that she can take care of the rest of his arm.

[nocturnalmedicine]

"Ugh, it's a smorgasbord." She rolls her eyes at the offending feline. "I've never been a cat person."

With unfortunately perfect timing, her nose twitches, and she turns her head to sneeze into the crook of her elbow.

With a sniffle and a slight head-shake, she refocuses on the task at hand, helping him peel off the battered and bloodied black shirt.