Claire walks into the kitchen barefoot, the floorboards creaking in the way that makes her heart race. She knows she's safe, or hopes she is. Some things can't be forgotten so easily. Some fears haunt your life; some choices beg to be undone.
But Claire is okay now, she thinks, as the light of the fridge illuminates her sullen face. Milk or orange juice? What does her parched throat desire?
Matt Murdock's fingers ghosting over her skin as he kisses her.
She sighs. A gulp of poison wouldn't hurt. Maybe cyanide, or arsenic. Or maybe she could stop pining after someone she can't have. Chose not to have, when it came down to it.
"Milk it is," she says, shutting the fridge door. Her relief from thirst, and uneasy sleep (who knew that working 20 hours straight could still cause insomnia) is interrupted by the sudden buzz of her cellphone. Only one person could be calling her this late, Claire decides. The only person who makes her heart beat this fast, even when she's this fatigued.
"Matt?" she asks, trying to steady her breathing. Could he hear her pulse through the phone?
"Claire."
"What needs fixing?"
There's a silence. "Claire, I wanted to see you."
She winces, massages her temple because there's a sudden pain in her skull. Sharp, unnerving.
"I can't," she whispers. "Matt, we agreed-"
There's a thud, the sound of the phone plummeting to the ground, a lost connection.
"Matt?" she calls out, but the line goes dead.
Panic sets in immediately. How could she care for the wellbeing of a man who throws himself under the bus no matter the consequences? How could she care for someone who for all intents and purposes is dead at this very moment? Or nearly dead? But how stupid was she to assume he was calling for any anything but her medical expertise? She had told him.
She rushes to his apartment, because where else could she go? Matt could be anywhere, lying in another dumpster, or in some abandoned building. She knocks, tries the handle when there's no answer. It's unlocked, but the doorway is blocked by an unconscious Matt, lying just as he had collapsed, phone smashed into smithereens, his glasses crooked. She kneels down, watches his chest rise and fall dramatically and takes a moment to breathe out. He's alive. Injured, or sick. But alive.
She tears his shirt because his breathing is labored, his face pale and shiny with sweat. There's no fresh wounds on his torso, but he feels hot. Checks his lymph nodes (swollen), presses her ear against his chest. It doesn't take special senses to hear the breathlessness of his lungs.
"C'mon, Man in Black," she musters, dragging him by the arms. "We need to get you in bed pronto."
He wakes, but doesn't come to his senses completely, mumbling incoherently, coughing and wheezing in between. She wipes him down with a damp towel, his forehead, chin, his neck and collarbones. There's something incredibly intimate about seeing Matt like this, delirious and unable to protest. But his skin is still fiery hot; one touch of his chest is enough to give her an idea of the degree of his fever. Claire sighs, pulls his hair back from his face, traces the contours of his face with her fingers.
His eyes flicker open then, gazing into the distance even more than usual, and his lips open more fully, cracked and painful.
"Dad," he mutters, "Dad don't-"
She caresses his face, "Matt, it's okay."
"Don't have to-" he says, "Dad please."
She shushes him, stroking his hair.
"Claire," he says. It's almost a whisper, and he furrows his brows as if trying to concentrate.
"I'm here, Matt." She says. "You're okay."
"Claire," he repeats, but his moment of lucidity starts to fade. "Claire, I need-"
"I'm not going anywhere."
"Please."
And with that he falls asleep. Which is a good thing, because if Claire's diagnosis is right, what he needs is a lot of rest.
There's comfort in watching him sleep, Claire thinks. She can't join him, in slumber that is, but she can observe his breathing patterns, the slight twitches of his muscles, the way his lips part open, just enough for her to – but she shouldn't, because he's ill, and she'd be breaking her own rules. And the fear, the fear washes over her the longer she looks at him, partially illuminated by the light from the hallway. She said she couldn't fall in love with him, but with each stolen moment sitting here she falls deeper and deeper. And it feels like heartbreak. But perhaps there's no way to avoid it. Is it better to never have something, or to lose it? Perhaps it's a choice she can't make twice.
But in this moment, Claire can't help herself but lean over him, press her lips against his and yearn for an occasion where he's not injured or sick, and she's not paralyzed with fear.
Morning comes the way it usually does in Hell's Kitchen, beautiful but dark, illuminating the grit of the city, a city that Matt loves enough to sacrifice himself for. But there's a sense of hope in the rise of the sun, a hope that the day won't end in a bloody mess.
Matt awakens with a groan, startling Claire enough to exclaim. He's disoriented, tries to establish where he is, and who he is with.
"Claire," he says finally, his voice hoarse and painful. "What happened?"
"You collapsed last night. After calling me." She explains, walking towards him from the chair she spent the night in. Presses a hand to his forehead and he flinches a little bit. "You're getting better, though I still think it's pneumonia."
His eyebrows furrow and he raises his hand to his mouth, touches his lips with his index finger. He couldn't possibly know, could he? He pauses that way, then relaxes.
"You're tired. Claire, you didn't sleep. Because of me."
"Yes, but you're not dead. For at least another day." She tries for a joke.
"I wouldn't have died." Matt says simply.
"You're sure confident about your body's ability to heal." Claire retorts. "Except the only reason you collapsed last night was because your body couldn't fight anymore."
He purses his lips, but says nothing. There's a strange feeling in the air, things to be said with neither of them volunteering to start.
"If you thought you were okay, why'd you need my help?" she says, reaching out to trace the long scars on his abdomen. Matt flinches at the contact.
"I didn't call for help," He says.
"Then-"
"Thank you," he interjects. "Claire. I think I'll be okay now."
She frowns. "You're still sick, Matt. Pneumonia doesn't go away in a day. I suggest you see a doctor."
"You should probably go home," he says. "You need to rest."
She huffs, because this is another case of Matt acting like he's right. Like he's protecting her from something. Except he's done enough harm by lying in that dumpster so conveniently. By letting her find him. Claire doesn't regret it, but things are complicated now. Her safety has been compromised. But then again, so have her feelings.
She grabs her cardigan from the chair, heads towards the door. She's comfortable in knowing she did her part. Patched him up like they agreed.
"Wait," He says from the bedroom. Claire stops, turns to face him.
"This is difficult for me," Matt explains. His face is blank, but his voice is strained. "We agreed on you patching me up and nothing more. But-"
Claire sighs, her heart beating erratically. She was right then? About the call? "Matt."
"Claire, I think I need more than just physical stitches."
She laughs. "You're too far gone. And I can't be always waiting for you to show up alive or dead. If I thought being in your life, that way, was any good for either one of us, I'd have stayed. I'd have."
"Then stay."
She purses her lips, looks away from him for a moment. "But you're angry, you're angry and careless. How do you want me to love you if you can't love yourself?"
He pouts, just barely. Probably listening to her heart, trying to establish if she's being truthful. And she is, though her heart has betrayed her in another way. It's not her choice to love him anymore. It's already happened.
"I love you, Claire." He says simply.
She takes a deep breath, runs a hand through her hair. Looks out the window for a moment because it's all too much for her right now. She was dealing with her own feelings, albeit horribly. And now there's his to consider.
"Why?"
"Because you're what I fight for."
"I'm a human representation of Hell's Kitchen?"
He's silent. "I realized I got hurt more just so I could see you, to have you fix me."
Claire swallows hard.
"I guess I see how Fisk put everything on the line for that feeling."
She shakes her head, purses her lips. "You said it yourself," she says. "You're not like Fisk."
There's a momentary silence.
"It's still a no," Claire says finally, walking away resolutely. She'll regret this later, beat herself up over it. But no amount of sexual tension, no amount of hope and optimism can make her believe that this could work. Maybe one day, maybe under different circumstances. But Claire Temple is her own person, and she won't settle for the love of a man who beats himself over it.
The creaking of the floorboards still scares her, and she still yearns to kiss him every night. But he can't hear the neurons in her brains working, and those are more reliable than the beating of her heart.
A/N: Thank you for reading, and do leave a review if you enjoyed it! I have fallen completely in love with the show. The chemistry between Matt and Claire is phenomenal. I hope they continue exploring their relationship in Season 2 and don't push for Karen/Matt too much because they have -200 romantic chemistry.