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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"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.

Claire rolls her eyes, equally exasperated and amused.

But, true to her word, after she downs some Benadryl, she creates a makeshift bed for Taco beneath the kitchen table, and settles the sleepy cat onto the plush towel.

With his food and a small bowl of water at the ready nearby, Claire is satisfied he'll be fine for the next few hours.

She tidies the kitchen and the living room before calling it a night, and the allergy meds kick in while she's brushing her teeth.

By the time Claire slips into bed, she can hardly keep her eyes open. Whenever Matt returns, he'll find her burrowed in his pillows and bedding, smack in the center of the mattress, curled into a near-perfect fetal circle.

Matt can sense she's asleep when he arrives several hours later, and so he comes in quietly, hardly making a sound.

It was a slow night, and not very fruitful. He's tired, a little bruised, but with no injuries major enough to bother her with.

He washes his hands and drains a couple of glasses of water in the kitchen, then heads to grab a shower before he turns in.

He forgets all about the cat until he's dropping his sweaty clothes into the hamper and finds the animal curled up contentedly in the laundry basket; nesting upon Claire's cleaned clothes.

"You're risking life and limb there, Shithead," Matt informs the cat who displays his worry by stretching out languidly then curling up once more.

Finally ready for bed, Matt stands on the edge of the mattress, observing Claire's position and for a moment just listening to her sleep. He puts a knee down and the mattress dips. Carefully he lays down on his side at her back, with a relatively small piece of real estate to fit himself on, but without the heart to wake her up.

He's even willing to leave her the pillows and rests his head on his bicep, his arm bent and hand back behind his head.

The slight slide of the sheets draws a small shiver along her shoulders and spine.

As she swims up toward awareness, her breathing changes — catching, momentarily, growing shallow as she stirs.

Sleepily seeking out the source of warmth, one arm uncurls from her ribs, and her shoulder blades meet Matt's chest. A barely-voiced murmur follows, in what could be soft surprise or simple satisfaction.

He goes still, holding his breath, waiting to see if she'll pull out of sleep or drift back into it.

While he listens to her there on the edge, he reaches down to draw the blanket up higher; mindful of how chilly this place can get.

Another murmur: Matt's name, this time, almost intelligible.

She scooches over, burrowing deeper into the blanket, giving Matt a bit more room.

Her ribs protest the shift, sharp and unexpected. Breath hitching, she stiffens, waiting out the needling ache.

"Damn."

She relaxes in slow, small fractions, finally all but melting into the mattress.

"S'okay," she mumbles, mostly into a pillow. "C'mere."

He settles the blank, a small smile touching his features when he hears her speak his name.

When she shifts he starts to move to claim the space she makes when her breath sticks and she freezes. He goes still, holding his own breath, listening until her lungs are no longer stuttering and the tension eases from her.

Carefully, he finishes settling in; close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her against his chest, but leaving space for her to adjust or move.

"You alright?" he asks softly even as she tells him she's okay.

Hesitating a moment, he reaches out and lays his hand on her side; touch light so it's not a weight on her ribs, but enough so that maybe the heat of his palm may help. And so he can feel how she's healing.

She nods an affirmative against her pillow, nuzzling the silk pillowcase.

Matt's hand is a wide, warm assurance through the thin, softest-of-soft fabric of her borrowed tee. She breathes deep at the contact, pressing into his palm to encourage his touch.

"Mm-hmm."

Curling an arm beneath her breasts and around her torso, her fingertips brush the backs of his knuckles; one corner of her mouth curves into a phantom half-smile.

"Taking X-rays?"

His hand slides up along her side in a slow, careful motion; touch intimate and assessing.

His hand rests in place when she reaches hers up. His knuckles are slightly swollen, but the skin is unbroken tonight, minus the cat scratches on the back of his hand.

In the dark Matt smiles.

"Mm. Just a follow-up."

His voice cradles her as much as his body, rumbling in her ear and against her spine; she shivers into the sensation, smirking to herself.

"Aftercare." The pad of her index finger strokes his thumb. "Important work."

"They're healing well," he tells her, tilting his head into her, breathing her in.

"There may be something to that whole 'taking it easy' thing you keep telling me about."

Goosebumps course along her neck and shoulder, causing another pleasant shudder.

"Getting there," she murmurs in agreement, her eyes sliding shut.

"But I got lucky." Her fingers graze the back of Matt's hand, skirting the angry scratches. "Could've been a lot worse."

He murmurs a reply that isn't really saying anything as his head turns away for a moment. He doesn't want to think about the worse, how things could have happened. Not now. He's spent plenty of time in other moments waking and in dream thinking about how it could have ended. He doesn't want those thoughts to intrude into this moment here.

He concentrates on the warmth of her closeness and touch, the quiet shiver that runs through her, the soft sound of her voice even as he tries not to focus on the words.

Closing his own eyes, he slides his hand from her side to her stomach, holding her.

She hums in appreciation at that trailing touch, her ticklish stomach contracting under his palm. Lulled by the rise and fall of Matt's chest against her shoulder blades, surrounded by the scent of his shower-warmed skin, she drifts — comfortable, content, completely safe.

At length, she draws a deeper breath, and drowsily turns her head, her cheek and the corner of her mouth meeting his stubble.

"You good?"

He's content to let the conversation drop away and he falls into listening to the steady drum of her heartbeat and the cadence of her breathing. Having her here, holding her close, it's enough that all the other things that he has going on, the troubles on his mind and every weight on his shoulders, is pushed aside or lifted for the moment.

For the first time in... forever he feels relaxed.

Smiling warmly against the press of her lips he answers, "I'm fine."

A beat.

The situation deserves a better answer than that, so he turns his head enough to brush his lips lightly against hers and amends, "I'm good."

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