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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"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.

"I'll be generous, I promise," she says over one shoulder, depositing the last of the wrappers in the trash. "He may be more interested in sleeping than anything else." She peels off her gloves. "I'll find him a towel, make him a bed."

She joins Matt near the sink to wash her hands.

Letting the water run warm, Brittany Howard's sandpaper rasp skims over the soft rush.

♫ silence, they explain it to me
there's no joy I can take with no one worth waiting
here for now, but not for long
whether my mind slipped away, explain that to me ♫

Matt pulls on the gloves, flexing his fingers before securing the velcro around his wrists.

His motions slow a touch as he gets caught up in listening to the song and the music.

Claire's presence beside him is another distraction, the welcome kind that almost has him reconsidering heading back out again.

The needle on the record player glides through the final song note and plays the soft scratch of vinyl before the arm reaches the end and rises on its own; returning back to the rest as the record stops spinning.

Finishing up with the gloves, Matt grabs the mask then hesitates.

"I'm sure he'll like that," he says about the cat getting a bed. "Not that he deserves my clean towels after all the scratching."

But, Matt will try not to be bitter.

"Thanks, for handling it." The scratches, the cat, possibly a myriad of other things.

She dries her hands, fighting half a smile and mostly losing.

"Allergy meds'll probably knock me out cold." Her forearm grazes Matt's cocked elbow when she turns toward him. "I may not hear you come back, but — "

Her fingers curl around his, squeezing briefly.

"Don't take the couch."

His head angles down towards her and he finds himself unconsciously listening to the steady beat of her heart even as she speaks.

A smile warms his features and he returns the squeeze on her hand, giving a single nod.

"Alright."

The moment stretches in the space between them, and she's struck, again, by the depth of Matt's perception. His gaze is focused on her cheek, but just a fraction of an inch higher, and she'd never guess he's blind.

Something like surprise spreads in that smile he gives her, and with the gentle pressure of his gloved fingers — yeah, Claire thinks, whatever this is, it's getting dangerous.

"Okay." Her own smile is audible. "Try not to catch anything mortal."

He holds, lingering a few seconds longer in the moment, then throws on a smirk and lifts up the mask.

"No promises," he says, tugging the mask into place and taking a step backwards.

"Goodnight, Claire."

With that he turns, tapping light fingers against the sleeping cat's box as he passes on his way to the roof access stairs.

A few moments later, and the door shuts behind him as he exits.

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