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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

Her lashes flutter at his temple, and she grins against his mouth.

"Mm-hmm." A teasing, husky hum near his jaw. "You're all right."

His smile rucks into a smirk and his fingers curl, lightly seeking those ticklish spots he found on her belly before.

"Thought you'd be proud of me, minus the cat-attack I made it out in one piece tonight."

Her stomach jumps beneath the attention, sparking a shiver that streaks from her scalp to the base of her spine.

"So far," she says, breathing a shuddery laugh.

She nips at his lower lip, playful and deliberate.

"But now you're begging for a beatdown."

His head bows and his nose brushes against hers, his lips puckering to hers again after the nip.

"Me? Not at all." He pulls her a little closer, plays his hand a little higher. "I'm all done fighting tonight."

With that gentle tug, Matt neatly closes what little negative space remains between them. Claire's spine and shoulder blades relax fully against the solid wall of his torso, and she shifts her hips slightly to better align their lower bodies.

"Nice change of pace," she murmurs fondly, her voice catching as his fingertips glide over her sensitized skin.

His head bends lower and he breathes against her neck, his lips pressing lightly against her jaw just below her ear.

"It does feel nice," he notes, fingertips gliding lightly along each rib, still trailing higher.

"Not that I'll make a habit of it," he adds, for the record.

She's a furnace against him, burning hotter as her pulse pounds beneath the brush of his mouth.

"Never," she agrees, while his butterfly touch draws another back-arching shudder from her. "You've got cred to maintain."

"Mm. Maybe I just don't know what I'd do with myself if I did stop."

He hears the uptick of her heartbeat, and feels the blood rushing faster through her veins. His own pulse goes from a steady drum to a canter as he counts each of her ribs with the pads of his fingers. .

One, two, three...

Four, and his trailing touch grazes the side of her breast, fingertips leading the way for his palm so slowly caress while his lips meet her cheek.

His tenderness stokes the sweetest of aches beneath her flushed skin, pebbling her nipples and pulling a pleased murmur from her parted lips.

She shivers into him, and covers the back of his hand with her palm.

"And if you did?" A gentle squeeze, and she guides his hand higher, until she can press a kiss to the sensitive pads of his fingers. "Could you make peace with it?"

He let's her have his hand, taking her action of redirect as a signal. He nuzzles her cheek and then draws back, keeping the closeness, but holding now to take his cues from her.

His focus shifts on her question; banter and quip replies fading as he's caught by what she's asking.

He's quiet for a moment, thinking about it, then finally replies, "I'm not at a place to walk away. I started this because I couldn't make peace with the way things were, and I haven't changed enough to find it yet."

As she absorbs his answer, the pad of her thumb sweeps along the swollen ridges of his knuckles in a light, contemplative back-and-forth.

"You don't strike me as a quitter, anyway," she says, turning her head, letting her lips graze his jaw as she speaks. "Peace, though — that's something I wish for you."

She leads his palm and fingers past her chin, down the warm column of her throat, to splay on her chest, resting over her heart's strong, steadfast beat.

"Want for you."

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject