Matt collapses onto his couch, which has definitely seen (hah) better days, but also worse days. He winces, fingers tracing a cut on his leg he doesn't remember getting. It's deep, weeping blood.
The people who ambushed him and beat him up hadn't had a knife, had they? Just a gun, he's pretty sure.
He doesn't remember.
He doesn't know.
He wonders why it even matters.
There's a medkit under the couch that Claire had left the last time she was here. He leans down, feels around for the plastic box, and straightens up with a groan once he finds it.
It feels heavy, in his hands, weighing him down with memories.
Surely he can stitch himself up, right? He did it for his dad, before, when he was a kid. It can't be that much harder doing it on himself without sight.
He takes off the remnants of his formerly very nice dress pants, presses gauze to the wound, takes out an alcohol wipe, and starts working.
He can't thread the needle. He can't thread the fucking needle.
He tries to glare at the small suture kit sitting in his lap, but of course he can't.
He can hear the cars passing by on the street outside, can smell his own blood, can feel it drying by the minute, can taste the copper in his mouth, but he can't—
It's fine, it's fine. He's fine.
He's not fine.
He thought he'd known what he was doing, that he was doing something right regarding Fisk's incarceration, but now he's just lost.
"You're an idiot," Claire says with little heat. He winces, not just because of the sutures she's putting into his skin. This is nothing new.
He stays quiet, which alarms her, apparently.
"Hey," she says gently, suddenly closer, a hand on his arm. "You alright?"
Matt shakes his head, swallows, reaches a shaking hand up to rub at his eyes only to find tears. Why is he crying? This is nothing. He's been through worse. What's with him today?
"What happened, Matt?" Claire asks, finishing up the sutures with a snip and starting to wrap gauze around the wound.
"I was attacked," Matt says.
"I gathered that," Claire says dryly. "Were you mugged or something?"
"Or something," Matt says, shrugging a little. There's the sound of her taking off her gloves, and soon enough she's sat next to him on the couch, pulling a blanket over their shoulders and leaning into him, letting him lean into her.
"I'm here if you need me," Claire says simply, taking his hand and threading her fingers through his.
He sighs, squeezing her hand. "They didn't want money," he tries to clarify. "They wanted revenge."
Claire stiffens, alarmed. He really hadn't meant to do that. "Is it one of your cases?"
"Yes," Matt says, though it was much more than that. "Fisk."
"Fisk sent them," Claire says, voice flat.
Matt tries to backtrack. "No. He didn't send them, but he might as well have. They supported him. They didn't like that we had sent him to prison. They beat me up because of it."
"They support Fisk," Claire says, voice still flat, a dangerous edge to it. Matt is suddenly slightly concerned.
"Yes?" he says.
And all of a sudden, he's wrapped up in a hug. Despite the aches and pain, the warmth of her arms surrounding him helps ward away the dangers outside.
When they finally let go, Claire says, "They don't know."
"What don't they know?" Matt asks quietly. It feels like all of his struggles have been on display lately.
"They don't know all the good you've done for Hell's Kitchen. They don't know how much you've sacrificed."
"They never will," Matt says. "They never did." He thinks of the kid who'd pushed the old man out of the way and got blinded as a result, who cried and went to too many funerals and suffered through too many sleepless nights, who was interviewed by the newspapers as a local hero before being cast aside the next time a compelling story came about.
He thinks that he will always be alone.
Some of that must show on his face, because Claire immediately says, "But you've got me, Foggy, Karen, and Jessica. We've got your back. The rest of the world doesn't matter."
Matt smiles. "Thanks, Claire," he says softly.
She laughs a little. "Thank me by not getting hurt again. I'm sure I said this the last time, too."
"I'll try my best," he says truthfully. It's not like he goes looking (hah) for trouble. Okay. He thinks the blind jokes are getting a bit out of hand.
"Call me, the next time those assholes bother you," Claire says. "I'll set them straight."
Matt raises an eyebrow. "Should I be concerned?"
"No, not for yourself, anyways," she says, and Matt has no doubt about it.
So yes, Matt may know Hell's Kitchen like the back of his hand, but Hell's Kitchen does not know him. He will not view Hell's Kitchen in the same light again, not after its people betrayed him. Fisk, still in prison, has taken the only place he's ever called home.
It's a good thing, Matt supposes, that he's come to find home in his people, rather than a single place.
