you know the problem with martyrs?

When Matt trades his dress shirt and trousers for his all-black attire, Claire isn't naïve enough to tell him to be careful.

"Keep the Dumpster-diving to a minimum," she says, watching him tug his mask into place.

He smirks — crooked and cocky and annoyingly appealing — and even as she rolls her eyes, she can't completely ignore the fist that tightens around her heart.

"Don't wait up," he says over his shoulder, mounting the stairs.

"Lawyers," she murmurs, eyes on him until he disappears, knowing he can hear her. "Always getting the last word."


- - - - -


She doesn't change for bed, though she knows she should.

She's too awake to simply stare at the ceiling, so, after a perfunctory inspection of Matt's cupboard, she makes herself a cup of mint tea, and tucks herself into one corner of the couch to read the latest headlines from the Bulletin on her phone.


- - - - -


One cup of tea turns into a second.

Outside, the city's nighttime thrum ebbs, flows, potential energy clamoring to kinetic. Two sirens scream a couple of blocks away, and she can't help but wonder if Matt's caught up in the middle: if he's attracted the worst kind of attention, or sent someone else to the ER.

(Knowing Matt? Could be both.)


- - - - -


When she can no longer stomach another stupidly addictive round of Alphabear, Claire gives her eyeballs a much-needed break, closes the app, and puts down her phone.

She swaps out her jeans and peasant blouse for a pair of Matt's boxers and a gray cotton tank, and restlessly stretches out her sore, tight limbs as much as she dares.

Resettling on the couch, she picks up a battered Bic she rescued from Matt's junk drawer.

Writing might not help, but it certainly can't hurt.

[ previously: "Matthew. My name is Matthew." ]

Claire swims up and surfaces from the depths of sleep. Blank with confusion, she blinks dumbly from her borrowed bed.

Consciousness is definitely her bladder's fault. She shifts to toss back the silk sheets and sumptuous comforter; a sun-bright flare of hurt electrifies her ribs, locking her limbs.

"Ow."

Oh, okay.

Shithead Russians.

Yeah.

And ... Matthew.

She's in his bed, in his room, in his apartment; she's wearing his black T-shirt, sporting a pair of his boxers.

If she can breathe past the protests of her aching body, she can shuffle to his bathroom, where she can pee.

And, possibly, shower.

Bonus points if the water's hot.

Double bonus if she doesn't disturb Matt and his heightened senses out on the couch.




- - - - -

[ credit where credit is due: majority of dialogue taken from Daredevil 1.05, "World on Fire" ]