"Gotta love the irony, right?" Claire said once the door closed behind Foggy and Karen.
"Irony?" he croaked, raising a hand in protest as she replaced the mask over his mouth and nose.
"Hey, hands off. Yeah, I mean, I finally get you in a hospital bed and it's not even because of Daredevil. How is that not ironic?"
"Well, when you put it that way. When can I take this off? I'm breathing fine."
She wondered if her could hear her roll her eyes. Clearly he had super-selective hearing if he didn't pick up on that wheeze chasing his every breath. "It stays until the machine says you don't need it."
"Does it say that now?"
Shaking her head with an exasperated smile she thumbed the display in front of her, checking his O2 levels. Her eyebrows twitched in surprise. Already better than she'd expected.
"Does that mean I'm good?"
She frowned at him.
"Your heart spiked a little. You were surprised?"
"It's creepy when you do that, you know?"
"Yeah. I know."
"I'll make you a deal. I'll replace the mask with a cannula if you don't drive me insane while you're in here. That means listening to the nice nurse who's in charge of your discharge forms."
He smiled as he pretended to think it over, his tired eyes at half-mast.
"Deal."
"Good." A thought occurred to her. "Can I get that in writing?"
He laughed, then abruptly grimaced and curled in on himself, his arm wrapping around his ribs. He took a few deep breaths, relaxing minutely with each one.
"How bad?"
"Not bad. I'm fine."
Claire snorted.
"Okay, Macho Man. Here, you're bleeding through the bandage."
He leant back to let her at the red-tinged gauze. She snapped on a pair of gloves and pulled the edges of the tape back, peeling it carefully away from the angry red swelling, the skin bound tight by regimented black stitches.
"Okay," she said brightly, dropping the bloodied bandages on a metal tray and releasing an antiseptic wipe from its packaging. "It's looking pretty good, considering. Swelling's on the way down. But," she said, levelling him with an icy glare he couldn't see but no doubt heard, "you move around too much and this thing'll rip open. Same with the internal stitches, they had to patch up your lung too."
"Define 'too much'?"
Her eyebrow raised. "Pulling on a jacket."
His mischievous smile faltered. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh. You got hurt pretty bad this time, Matt. The bullet only barely missed your heart."
"Yeah, I heard the glass break and started."
"You did?" Wow. "Well, that's what saved your life. Gotta love the superears."
"Karen said my heart stopped in the ambulance."
She paused to take in his expression as she pulled medical tape free of its spool.
"Yeah, I hear it did. Three minutes, twenty-seven seconds according to the paramedics."
"Wow." Whatever he was thinking was kept firmly sealed behind a carefully impassive expression.
He remained silent as she redressed the wound. His thick brows twitched.
"Pain okay?"
"What? Yeah, it's fine. Hey Claire? How long till I can get out of here?"
She snorted as she pulled the gloves free of her hands.
"You've been awake, what? An hour? Hospitals aren't that bad."
"How long?"
She frowned as she pulled his mask away, setting it aside and reaching for the sterilised nasal cannula.
"I dunno, usually ... about a week for this kind of wound, maybe?"
He nodded. His jaw tight.
"Matt." She waited till his sightless eyes turned in her direction. "What are you thinking? 'Cause I'll tell you right now, if one of my patients disappears after major surgery the board will be on my ass and hearings put me in a very bad mood."
His lips twitched in what was probably intended as a smile. She fitted the cannula around his ears, positioning the two tubes in his nose. He kept his gaze far from her face.
"Matt, seriously. What?"
She started the flow of oxygen and looked back to him, one hand resting on his arm.
"I ... can't be here for a week."
"Because the streets need you? Matt, I know you heal fast but you can't be out –"
"No. It's not that." He was even quieter than usual, the words a tentative whisper.
"Then what?"
"I can hear it."
"Hear what?"
"All of it. Everything."
Oh. "I'd've thought the morphine would take the edge of the supersenses," she said quietly, her heart panging for the pain the drugs couldn't touch.
"Morphine?"
"Yeah, you're getting the VIP treatment. That's why you're able to lie still and have a conversation instead of, say, writhing around in pain while you suffocate."
He blinked. "So that's why I feel like I'm underwater."
"Yep. Trust me, you don't want to break the surface anytime soon."
He nodded, suddenly looking for the first time as though he'd been shot in the chest. His face was paler, drawn. His eyelids stayed half-shut with every blink.
"You need to rest, Matt. Sleep. Let yourself heal." She waved a hand vaguely around his chest. "Do some of your voodoo meditation shit. Get better."
He nodded again and seemed to deflate into the sheets, the ghost of a smile flitting past his lips. Claire gathered the metal tray and mask, rising to her feet.
"By the way I saw your X-Ray."
His eyes stayed closed but one eyebrow twitched in interest. "Oh?"
"Yep. And for the record your ribs look like splatter art."
His teeth flashed in a lazy smile. "Always liked art."
"Uh-huh." She leaned over and pressed her lips against his forehead for a moment. His breathing was already steadier, his face relaxing into sleep. She turned to leave, but hesitated by the door.
"And your friends? You're lucky to have them, Matt."
His eyes cracked open.
"I know."
"They didn't leave you alone for a minute while you were out. Maybe it's not for me to say, but people like that? They have good taste in friends. And they don't deserve to be lied to. They deserve to be trusted."
He took a deliberate breath. "I know."
She pushed the door handle down, the sound of the latch clacking through the quiet room.
"I'll see you later, Matt. Get some rest."