man_without_fear | You're the worst, you know that, right?

You're the worst, you know that, right?

Matt had things to do tonight. Leads to track down, situations he could be handling, people he should be helping.

Instead, he's wasted a bunch of energy in Milliways and now he's wasting time by returning to his place after, on this side of the door, just a short spell away.

Arriving on the landing, Matt clomps down the stairs, a perforated box tucked under his arm. He has the mask on, but along the exposed parts of his face there are a few lightly bleeding scratches, and he has more beneath the dark fabric of his shirt on his shoulder and back.

Clearly annoyed, he heads straight for the kitchen; depositing the box on a chair at the table and walking to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water.

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Matt tugs away from her hearing that, leveling a 'come again?' expression on her.

"If it's your cat that kills me, Claire-- "

He has no follow-up to that threat, just the promise to be very upset if Taco Cat does the job a city of criminals hasn't been able to yet.

To her credit, Claire doesn't laugh.

"Okay, one, he's not my cat, but let's consider Louisa grateful for your swashbuckling heroics."

(As long as Claire has her say, Louisa will never know her favorite furry palindrome took a side trip to the end of the universe.)

"And, two?" She makes for the first-aid kit already waiting on the kitchen table. "No dying tonight."

"He is tonight," Matt replies, pulling out a chair for himself. "I've still got things to do out there, so you two can keep each other company."

Before he sits he takes a moment to gingerly peel off his shirt, wanting to make sure that all of the scratches get taken care of.

"I'll do my best as always on the not dying thing."

"The gift that keeps on giving," she deadpans, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves.

If there's a silver lining to be had, well ... Claire supposes Matt's shirtlessness will have to suffice.

And, speaking of Matt's exposed torso, Taco definitely got more than a few good swipes in this evening.

Instead of simply soaking a cotton ball in peroxide, Claire returns to the sink, and fills a bowl with soapy water.

The small smirk tugging up Matt's lips might be just a little knowing.

Sitting backwards on the chair, he reaches up to gingerly dab at a scratch on his shoulder.

"Cat wanted to stay with anyone who would offer food or pet it."

"Ooh, so you've found your spirit animal," Claire says, dipping a clean cloth into the bowl. "Congrats on that."

She squeezes out the cloth, and washes the wounds on Matt's back and shoulder.

"I've been a lot of things, Claire," Matt informs her, voice tightening a beat when the cloth touches raw skin, "but never a moocher."

"You are a lot of things," she agrees, somewhat distractedly, as her attention moves to the side of Matt's neck. "Guess you can add scratching post to the list."

She rinses and wrings the cloth.

"Had a patient in the ER one night coming off some bad shit," she says, gently tipping Matt's chin upward. "The guy was agitated, really confused, hiding a feral cat under his coat. Threw it at me like a fastball."

"I was very close to leaving him there," he mutters. "Plenty of people seemed to want him."

He turns his head under her guidance, giving her more access to what she's working on. With his head angled up his Adam's apple bobs in a quick, disbelieving laugh.

"Only in this city. Were you okay?"

"Eventually."

Her nose scrunches at the memory.

"Hard to say which one of us was more surprised."

Matt gives a small frown, expression both bemused and sympathetic.

"Given that and tonight, I don't blame you for not liking cats." Not to mention the allergies.

"I try not to hold a grudge based on the one bad encounter, but being so allergic kind of seals that deal."

She cleans the last of Matt's cuts, and hands over a fresh towel.

Matt chuffs a laugh, realizing he may have benefited from that policy of hers himself, considering how they first met.

Accepting the towel, he rolls his shoulder, wincing a bit at the pull of the scratches. It's nothing he can't live with, though.

"Does that mean you two will be okay with each other until I can get him home?"

While Matt dries off, she trades out her wet gloves for a new pair, and rummages in the first-aid kit for a few butterfly closures and triple-antibiotic ointment.

"We'll manage," she assures him. "I'll take some Benadryl in a minute."

Matt nods, draping the towel on his thigh as he holds still again for her to finish up.

"There's some food in the box with him, courtesy of Cassian," he says. "Although the cat was much more interested in begging chicken."

As she applies ointment and bandages to the worst of the wounds, she breathes a nearly silent chuckle that ghosts over Matt's nape.

"You know, I don't think I've actually thanked you for going after him."

Matt's jaw tics a few times as the ointment settles into the cuts and scratches, but eases when her warm breath casts across the skin on the back of his neck.

Distracted a moment, he comes back around to her with a breathed chuckle.

"Well, I knew you'd miss him."

Her lips curve in private bemusement when Matt shivers, but she doesn't allow herself to linger, quickly shifting her attention to his jaw and throat.

"Must be the fever talking," she says with sardonic cheer, nudging his chin up with her fingertip. "Hallucinations are just around the corner."

Tilting his head for her, he smirks.

"Are they? I guess I should get going soon, then."

Smoothing the last butterfly closure in place, she hums in agreement.

"Places to lurk, people to punch."

"It's not all about the punching," Matt says, straightening up, rolling his shoulder.

"There was one time I stopped a robbery just by dropping in."

There's a little bite with the motion, but nothing he can't live with and the bandages feel like they'll hold fine.

Satisfied, he gives a smirk and a short laugh.

"The guy was so scared he turned around and ran straight into a drainpipe. Knocked himself out."

From the other side of the table, Claire waggles her eyebrows.

"Must've been terrified of your sparkling personality," she says, tossing over his shirt.

Matt catches the shirt out of the air, then sets about sorting it out to pull it back on.

"You really think it's sparkling?" he asks with a smirk.

"Oh, yeah."

A beat.

"Like the glittering edge of a knife."

Matt pauses with the shirt, a physical reaction to her words unexpectedly striking like a sharp jab.

He hesitates a moment, considering what that means, then finishes getting dressed.

Standing up, he tucks in his chair and moves over to the sink to retrieve his gloves and mask from where he left them.

"If he gets too annoying for you the bathroom is a good place to lock him in." The only place really, considering the open floor plan of the rest of the loft.

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