AN Thank you everyone for the kind response so far! It's very encouraging, and I'm excited to take you all on this wild ride with me :)


Claire folded her arms as she watched Santino climb into the ring. His opponent was about ten years older than him, thin but covered in muscle. He had tattoos indicating he was in the navy. The man sneered at Santino, trying to get into his head.

She let out a slow breath as the referee addressed the small crowd. Santino was a good boxer. He'd learned how to throw a punch when he was barely a teen, though he had only used the skill for protection rather than persecution. His fighting career had begun when he hung around the prizefights in Spanish Harlem a few months ago. Claire had only discovered his hobby when she found him stumbling through the hallway one night, eye blackened and nose bloody. She had clicked her tongue and helped him clean up, muttering that his mother would have her head if she knew. Once Mrs. Velasquez became sick, though, Santino had insisted on going more and more often. Factory work was respectable compared to illegal prizefighting, but it could hardly pay for medicine.

Things had changed when Roscoe Sweeney scouted Santino from his back alley fighting and offered him a place in a real (though illegal) boxing hall. Santino had gone to Claire for advice, and even though every bit of her screamed Sweeney wasn't to be trusted, she also knew that it was a good offer.

In the end, Santino had gone to Sweeney's hall, Claire hot on his heels. She would have liked to think that Sweeney had crossed neighborhoods and ethnic borders because of an altruistic desire to give Santino a better chance, but she was too smart for that. All he wanted was a talented, exotic fighter to throw away when the crowds stopped coming.

Santino hadn't been excited when she announced she was going with him, but Claire set her jaw and dared him to keep talking. If he was going to go fight in a strange hall against a bunch of fighters with questionable backgrounds, he sure as hell wasn't going to do it alone. Also, Claire knew that Santino was less likely to take stupid risks with her breathing down his neck.

Claire watched as Santino and his opponent exchanged a few sharp punches, just enough on each side to get the small crowd cheering. She had learned that bare-knuckle boxing wasn't about raw aggression and lawlessness. It was precise in its attacks, feral in its quickness and strength, but not sloppy. A punch gone wrong in an official boxing ring had the safety of a glove to cushion the blow. A punch gone wrong in a prizefight resulted in a broken hand (if the fighter was lucky).

Punch, punch, Santino's mouth began to bleed. A quick kick to the shins and a warning from the referee, another punch. The sailor's eye was swelling shut. He grabbed Santino into a hold, trying to wrench him to the ground. Santino struggled to get free and almost lost his feet, but then he jabbed the sailor in the ribs.

Claire turned away. She could stomach the horrid aftermath of the fights, but she could not watch two people brutalize each other.

The big mach in the middle was between rounds. The two fighters glared at each other from their respective corners, while the crowd tossed and yelled. The men jumped back up at the referee's signal and again Claire looked away.

Santino managed to knock his opponent out at the beginning of the third round. Claire let out a sigh of relief. He had won. He could take his winnings and go. There was no point for them to stay when the cost of fighting outweighed the benefits. Claire waved at him after he had collected his prize and he obediently shuffled over.

He sat on one of the benches lining the hall as Claire checked the damage. He was still thrumming with adrenaline and victory, the infectious high giving him a big smile. She ran a damp rag over the cut on his eyebrow and tried not to scowl at his black eye. She needed to talk him down. The last thing any of them needed was this boy getting addicted to the buzz of a win.

"So what are you gonna tell your mama this time?" Claire said in Spanish, hoping that his native language would draw him away from the atmosphere of the fight.

"I figured I'll dodge her a few days until the bruises fade," he said, giving her a cheeky smile.

"Good luck," she scoffed, dabbing his split knuckles. He flinched and she flashed him an apologetic look, but kept going. The only anesthesia they had there was unconsciousness. "Your mama can smell trouble from down the block. Once her nose clears up and she can take a real breath, boy, you're in trouble."

"Yeah, yeah. Hey, Murdock!" Santino called, switching to English mid-sentence. He leaned around Claire, throwing his hand up in a wave. Claire turned reflexively, stomach clenching at Matt's name.

There he was, just come from his own fight. He had his back to them, his shoulders cutting a distinct swathe against the people around him. Matt turned to look at Santino, almost animalistic in the fluidity of the action. He hesitated a moment, then walked over. Matt had this way of creeping across the ring when he fought, every step calculated and light until he sprang on his opponent. The fact that he was doing it now meant he was still in the fight, if only with his body and not his mind.

"Santino," he said, nodding at him. His eyes wandered to Claire and stayed there. His arm was curved defensively against his chest and he had a vicious bruise growing on his cheekbone. "You win?"

"Yeah," he grinned. "But the takings are small today."

Matt nodded, gaze finally drifting away from Claire. He didn't seem to be focused on anything.

What did Matt do with his winnings? He didn't have the desperation of people that needed the prize money to survive. His rawness was different.

"Matt," Claire said. She felt his attention snap back to her, but she made herself wait a moment before looking up from Santino's injuries. "If you want, I can look at that cheek of yours."

He hesitated, glancing around the hall again. "I've…got a couple more fights," he said, shrugging. "Maybe after those."

"Okay," she said, making herself smile. "It's your face."

Matt nodded and walked away, shortly followed by Santino. Claire sighed through her nose and said a quick prayer that he would be safe. Both of them.

A few more men passed through Claire's care, the last of which was Frank Castle. He was a quiet man, speaking only in mumbles and growls. He was a monster in the ring, making up for any lack of technique with sheer savagery as he beat his opponents into submission. She wasn't certain anyone had managed to knock him out yet, and only a handful were persistent enough to throw him.

He was restless as Claire cleaned off a cut near his mouth, constantly shifting to watching the place. Claire braced her hands on her knees and glared at him. He came to her just rare enough that she managed to forget he was an awful patient until after he sat down.

"Look," she said, ducking her head to try and meet his eye, "if you wanna go watch the fight, get up and walk away. I only take care of people who sit still."

Frank clicked to attention, all that feral energy locked on her. He reminded her of Matt that way, only edgier. He stared at her for a moment, then gave a slow nod.

"Sorry," he grunted. "Go ahead."

Claire gave him a warning look, then resumed dabbing at his face.

Out of all the men in there, Frank was probably the most dangerous. Not to her specifically, but Claire knew in her gut it was a bad idea to cross him. There were rumors in the hall about him. Apparently, he liked to take on the gangsters of the city, using his expertise from the war to raise hell. Claire would have denied it in just about every instance, but after sitting less than a foot away from him…well, it was more than enough to change her mind. Anyone with that sizzling blackness in their eyes had to have something more than bare-knuckle boxing to their name.

"What's got you so riled up?" Claire asked.

He was quiet for a moment, then said, "Sweeney's rigged the fight."

"What?"

"The big one in the middle," he said, bobbing his head toward the crowd. "Paid Murphy to go down. I'm just waitin' to see when."

"How do you know?" Claire glanced at the middle ring like she expected a sign detailing Sweeney's trickery.

"Can smell it on Murphy. He's jittery, a fox in a hole tryin' to figure out if he really doesn't wanna go down."

"You think he could win?"

"Hell yeah," he scoffed. "Murphy could clean Lewinski's shit any day. S'just Lewinski's a big favorite with the Poles, and Sweeney's trying to sweeten them up."

"How do you know this?" Claire said again, trying to keep her voice level. There was a weight in her stomach that she didn't like, not only because it gave an infuriating amount of credit to everything Reynaldo had been saying earlier.

Frank watched her for another long moment, deciding what to say. "I pay attention, is all."

Claire leaned back, shaking her head.

"Rigging fights feels a lot more serious than some wholesome illegal boxing," she said, hoping she sounded more on the sarcastic side of glib. Frank was probably the kind of creature that could smell fear.

"Nothing's wholesome with a shitbag like Sweeney."

"That I believe," she sighed.

Claire wound the roll of bandages in her hand. She watched the crowd, like maybe they would become ghoulish at any second. She found Matt near the back, sporting a new bruise on his side. He glanced around and met her eyes. Claire thought he might walk over, but he slowly turned back around. She let out a long breath.

Frank watched her, the crystalline intensity back in his face.

"What?" she asked.

"Somethin' happen between you and Red?"

Claire blinked, not sure what to say. Frank leaned, somehow even more serious than he had been a few seconds ago. Her face heated at the implication (if it even was a proper implication). If only. Claire could barely imagine what it would be like to be with Matt, though something in her gut said 'wonderful'. But they always pulled themselves back from the brink, nullifying their tiny touches and almost nonexistent flirting before they made a mistake. Claire kept herself in check because that was begging for trouble she did not need, and Matt… She didn't know why he didn't let things go farther. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

She turned the sound into a scoff and waved her hand like she could shoo away Frank's suspicions. "Nothing's happened. Why're you even thinking about that?"

Frank's expression remained solemn despite her pointed nonchalance. He looked like he was chewing over her words, then shrugged. "Just feels like there's somethin' going on here. I wanted to make sure it was okay."

"And what would you do if I had said yes?" Claire asked, rolling her eyes to show this was not a serious issue.

"I'd make him rethink doing anything shameful."

Matt Murdock, you are lucky you're a good person, Claire thought, letting out a startled breath.

"Like I said, I pay attention," Frank said, finally leaning back. He ran his hands over his pants, preparing himself to get up.

"Right. Well, the absolute most he's done is irritate me by letting himself get hurt in fights."

"Yeah," Frank said, heaving himself up from the bench. "Makes no sense why he gets hit so much. He's fast enough to dodge and he doesn't let himself get angry when he's tagged, so there's no point in taking the damage."

Claire stared at Frank as he walked away, wondering just how much of the world he saw. What secrets did people tell with the tiny looks and minute gestures of everyday life? As he melted into the crowd, Claire noticed that Murphy went down.

Matt came to see Claire after most of the spectators had bled away. He was quiet, slouching as he straddled the bench to face her.

"You lucky tonight?" she asked, frowning at the bruise on his side.

His eyes were distant as he shook his head.

"You lost?"

Matt took a moment to find her, gaze dragging up to her face as he shook his head again. "No, I won."

"Huh. Don't know how that counts as being unlucky…"

The hall was quieting, slowly draining of its people. Everyone seemed spent after the main fight, the audience completely uninterested in betting on anyone else. The leftover boxers trickled away, disappointed at their poor prospects. It felt late without the people in the hall, the quiet gaining a tired sort of quality.

Matt smiled as she finished spreading Vaseline on his cheek. The expression looked tight, like Matt didn't actually mean it but he wanted to. "Just trust me on this one, Claire."

"If you say so. Now, when you get home I want you to put some vinegar on that bruise."

"Vinegar?" he repeated, wrinkling his nose.

"Mm-hm. It makes the bruise fade faster. Of course, if you didn't get hit so much…"

"I'm working on it," Matt said, handing her one of those cheeky sideways smiles he did so well.

"Yeah? Frank Castle thinks you're letting yourself get hit."

"That right?"

"Swear it is."

Matt huffed out a laugh and shook his head. Claire smiled as he pulled on his undershirt, noting that wasn't exactly an answer. She watched him for a moment, eyes skating over the muscles, the smeared away blood, the myriad of fading bruises.

"You look tired," she said, tilting her head at him.

Matt glanced up from buttoning his shirt and shrugged. "I work long hours and then I go fight people. Not the best for sleeping. You don't look much better, though."

Claire laughed and shook her head. "I work long hours and then go help the crazy people like you who choose to go fight. Plus, I have to help take care of my family."

"You have a family?" Matt asked, eyes flickering away from her face for the briefest moment.

She watched him, weighing her answer. Claire could make this a game, could flirt with him and be perfectly fine. But Frank's words lingered in her head, making her self-conscious. She didn't want to be the dumb Dora that threw herself over someone that was completely uninterested.

"Didn't sprout from the ground," she said, mouth pulling in a half smile.

"So it's your immediate family, then," he said, nodding in understanding. "Brothers, sisters, parents, that stuff."

"Why?" she said, raising an eyebrow. Then again, Matt probably wasn't completely uninterested. Her heart was thumping harder and harder as they edged out of the safety of double entendre and into something far more specific.

Matt's smile turned coy, telling her that he wasn't backing down from this anytime soon. "I'm curious, is all."

"What about you?" she asked, settling her hat over her carefully pinned curls. "What about your family?"

"Don't have any. My parents died when I was younger."

"I'm sorry," she said, softening instantly.

"Don't be, it happens. So," he said, the words quick and meaningless as though he had just brushed them from his sleeves, "what about work? What does our miracle worker do during the day?"

"I work in a tailor's shop," she said, glad she didn't have to name a factory as her employment. It was stupid, but she wanted Matt to think more of her than the dingy over-crowded machinery that processed fish or tobacco.

"That sounds very nice," he told her. His smile was genuine enough to make her insides tighten.

Claire glanced down at her lap. They were facing each other, the scant distance between their knees its own form of no man's land. She needed to leave. Santino was waiting for her outside, and she had promised herself that she would help Maribel when she got home. But Claire liked being able to speak to Matt without having to scream over the fights or worry about the rough looks or words constantly thrown in their direction. The empty hall cast a shell of privacy around them, lacing the moment with the safety of being alone.

Matt had a slight layer of scruff on his face, the day's growth adding to his look of exhaustion. Claire had to clench her hands in her lap to keep from reaching out to touch his jaw. She licked her lips and looked down. Maybe leaving was a good idea.

"Some of your hair's come loose," Matt murmured, regaining her attention just as his hand raised to fix the lock.

Claire dragged in a breath as his hand hovered by her hair. His expression became intent, gentle in a way she had never seen before. She stared at his hand, transfixed as it edged toward her hair. He had never touched her before. Not like this, not with him reaching out to her for no valid medical or pragmatic reason.

She bit back a shiver as he tucked the strand of hair back into her hat. His fingertips were warm, barely touching the skin of her ear. Claire's hand jumped up to fix it, her thin amount of control suddenly shattered. Her hand bumped against his, the contact sparking through her like lightning.

Claire swallowed, face on fire. Her half-hearted attempts to speak vanished as Matt leaned in closer, his face now less than a breath away. His fingers were still tangled in hers, but they fell free to touch her neck, the heat of his hand thrilling against her skin. Claire swallowed, leaning in to him, barely able to think as his lips neared hers, imagining what it would feel like even before—

Matt never kissed her. His mouth stopped just before hers, tantalizing and heartbreaking as his breath trailed across her skin. His hand dropped from her neck, too fast and yet too slow an action.

"Claire…I'm sorry, I can't," he whispered. He sounded choked.

Claire glanced down, face hot again. They leaned back. Claire swallowed. Matt stood up and put on his hat. She stared at her lap, her coat crunched in her grip.

Claire shuddered in a breath to steady herself. She looked up in time to see Matt leave the hall. He seemed very alone as he walked through the door, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched.

She stood up, slid into her coat, and put away the sparse medical kit. She glared into the locker before she closed it, clenching her teeth to keep the tears from falling . She couldn't do anything about the horrible, gutless sensation that had replaced her giddiness from a few seconds before, so she focused on breathing. Breathing she could control. Breathing she could rely on.

It took a few long moments, but Claire got herself under control. She apologized to Santino when she found him outside, surprised that her voice remained so steady. She didn't tell him anything as the walked home.


AN Damn, Matt, at it again with the not ever letting yourself be happy.