A/N: I'm on a roll tonight! Here, have some ClaireDevil angst.
It all circles back to one question.
What the hell are you doing?
If the first time makes her a savior, the second time makes her an idiot. The third time makes her delusional, and the time after that…
He's supposedly the one with the martyr complex, but she is the one who's been worshiping at his altar.
Claire grimaces into her glass of wine. That's a bit strong, even for a moment of self-loathing. She's a grown woman, and she isn't worshiping any man, even one who sees everything and nothing.
Maybe someday, he'll be a legend.
But Claire can't have time for legends. Claire's holed up in an apartment filled with cat hair and old magazines. Claire has a life, and not enough room in her heart for—whatever this.
(Or maybe she has too much).
This guy's no keeper, and she knows that. She's seen more than the scars. She's heard the passion, too, the mission. The martyrdom, spelled out in sacrifice and blood.
It's not like she can go back, but she can go forward. (Can't she?) One of these days she'll figure out just what the hell she is doing. One of these days—
But he's at the window, and she lets him in, glad to have his broken flesh under her capable hands once more.
He laughs through the pain that makes him clench his teeth, and he tells her he doesn't deserve her help. His voice is like rough velvet. It's silly—it's delusional—but all Claire wants to do is make him strong enough, so that he can win whatever battle he faces.
But she can't do that. After he goes, she even doesn't know why she wants to.
What the hell are you doing?
Maybe next time, she'll answer the question.