AN Thank you everyone for the warm response this story has received! I've loved reading all of your thoughts and reactions. I can't wait until we REALLY get into the plot.

Chapter title is from Psalms 23:4.


Matt walked fast, his mind cold as he pulled Claire down the street. He didn't notice if they were attracting stares. Matt's only focus was on getting Claire to safety. His brain spun over what had just happened, trying to force it into order.

Claire's boss had just been murdered. Matt didn't know why (his Spanish was rusty at best) but it had been obvious that he had needed to get Claire out of there immediately. She had been hysteric, begging him to let her stay and help her boss. She had been so upset that she continued speaking in Spanish as Matt pulled her away.

Now Claire huddled in his coat as they passed under a light, the dull yellow glow casting heavy shadows on her face. She looked her own form of shell shocked, eyes hollow as she stumbled along beside him. She reminded Matt of a new soldier. They had all been bright-eyed before the shooting, the rain, and the despair started. Then they were left empty. He hoped she would be able to refill that light soon.

"Matt, Matt, I need to stop," Claire said, tugging on his hand. She was back to speaking English, but her voice was still shaky.

Claire broke out of his hold. She held herself tight, hands clenched away from his coat sleeves to keep from bloodying them. He noticed that she had the shop key clutched in one hand, like it had been fused there from horror.

Matt watched her for a moment, muscle memory clamoring for them to keep going, to not stop, to go until they had finished orders. He stared at the sky and let out a slow breath. He took out his handkerchief and picked up her empty hand.

"Are you okay?" he asked, voice low.

She glanced at him as he carefully wiped off the blood from her skin. "I—I—I don't know. I thought I might be sick, but that's passed."

He gave her a thin smile. Matt moved on to her other hand as she focused on breathing. He wanted to hold her until she stopped trembling, until she could look at him and genuinely smile, but he didn't know how. His training said he needed to keep dragging her forward, to keep her from getting even more bogged down in the horror of what she had seen. He had forgotten how to be gentle in calamity.

Matt held her hands for a long moment, staring at them and the blood he couldn't quite erase. He glanced up and met Claire's eyes. They were big and desperate, terrified of things she could not control.

Claire grabbed him into a hug, her fingers and the teeth of the key digging into his back. He swallowed, a lump forming in his throat at her fast, hitching breaths. He inhaled, hating that her soft, lavender scent was mixed with blood.

"It'll be okay," he whispered into her ear.

Claire didn't say anything, but she tightened her grip on the back of his suit. After a few seconds she let go of him and pulled her face from his shoulder. She stared at the ground a moment, then settled into his coat.

"I'm fine," she said. "Let's…let's keep going."

Matt frowned, trying to decide if she really was okay. Then he took her hand. This time, she made sure to hold his hand back.

They walked slow, using the night to hide themselves. Matt's mind continued to whirl through questions until a thought broke through the haze.

What was going to happen to Claire? Now that she was out of immediate danger, what was he going to do? Everything in him rejected the idea of leaving her, but what was best for her? The men that had killed her boss—Solano?—had walked in with the purpose of murder. So why hadn't they gone after Claire? Had they not known she was there, or was she simply not important? No, no one with half a mind would have left a murder witness, not without giving them a good reason to say quiet. Although, Solano had been a message, if the word 'rat' pinned to his chest meant anything.

So why wasn't Claire?

They had to assume she was still in danger until they knew why Solano had been attacked. She couldn't go home and endanger her family. Plus, their panic would hardly be a balm on her destroyed nerves.

"Claire," Matt said, "do you know what might have caused this?"

They were by the water now, the muted mutters of the waves undercutting the clatter of cars and far off sirens. She stared ahead, face cast in shadow by the brim of her hat.

"No," she said. "Mr. Solano...he doesn't…he never would choose to get mixed up in something big."

So she had come to the same conclusion as he had.

"Until we know what happened, you can't go home."

She stared at him, worry in her eyes. "What, no, I—my family is expecting me! I can't—what will they think? I can't scare them like that."

"Claire, if you are in danger, you can't bring it back to them. You need to stay somewhere safe."

"But if they—"

"I won't let them lay a finger on you," he said.

He held her by the shoulders, making her look at him. Claire stared into his face, uncertainty tingeing her expression. A smudge of blood was still on her cheek. She gave a slow nod, then a faster one. Her eyes dropped from his face, settling somewhere around his collar. He let go of her shoulders.

"O-okay. I—okay, then. Let's go."

Matt nodded. She slipped her hand into his this time, her grip tight as though he was the only thing holding her upright.

Matt closed his eyes. He shouldn't think that. Any slant he put on the situation, any perverse, selfish tarnish that took advantage of her need and desperation was evil. He was doing this for Claire. She needed a safe place to stay and he was her only option at the moment. He just had to forget how her touch made his heart leap.

The walk to his apartment was silent. Claire was burned out, her steps already tired and slow. Matt guided her through the streets, chest tightening as they neared his address.

"Here," he murmured, pointing at the building. She glanced up, a quick peek before lowering her face. No one seemed to have noticed her, yet, though that would change. Even bundled up as she was, there was no mistaking her darker skin.

They climbed the steps fast, slipping through the staircases until they reached his door. Claire stood hunched against the wall until he let her in. Finally, they were embraced by the unassuming dark of his home.

"The bathroom's there," he said, pointing off to the side. Claire nodded but didn't move. Her hands were still clenched into his coat.

"You'll get the bed tonight," he continued, mouth going dry as he considered the logistics. "For clothes, you can—"

"I'll change out of my dress, if that's okay," she said. It was hardly more than a whisper, but at least there was sound.

"Okay. You get cleaned up, then we can get whatever you need after dinner."

"And your coat, I got blood on it."

"It's fine, I'll—"

"No," she said. She shook her head, but didn't meet his eyes. "I'll clean it. Please."

Matt stared at her as she turned pleading, desperate for the distraction his permission gave. "Of course. Just…make yourself comfortable."

Claire nodded, again consumed by numb silence.


Claire stared at Matt's apartment. It was dark, only a few bars of streetlight tumbling through the window. All she could think was how silent it was when he stopped speaking.

She had wanted quiet. Now she had it.

Claire walked through the neat living room, followed by Matt. He disappeared into his bedroom and returned with a bathrobe. She accepted it as he eased past, still so careful to maintain a reasonable distance between them. Not that he had on the walk back. The warm strength of his presence had stayed just under her fingertips the whole time. Now things were back to a hazy, hurtful distance.

Claire closed her eyes as he returned to the living room. She didn't want distance. She wanted him to hold her tight, strapping together her pieces with his arms until she didn't feel like falling apart.

Claire slipped into the bathroom. The room was comfortingly small when she closed the door. She set the key on the edge of the sink, vaguely surprised to find deep indents in her palm from the handle. She shrugged out of Matt's coat and set it on the back of the toilet.

The bathroom light made her appear sickly when she looked in the mirror. The blood on her hands didn't even look like blood anymore, just a large stain. Her reflection didn't seem like hers. The face was too pale, the hair too mussed, the clothes and skin covered and caked in a red-brown mistake.

Claire pulled off her dress and looked away.

She ran cold water in the tub and let her dress soak, then peeled off her stockings and threw them in. She picked up a washcloth off the rack. Claire's hands shook as she ran it under the tap, afraid to finally deal with the blood all over her legs and hands and face. She grit her teeth, though, and scrubbed herself down. The water in the sink turned murky and gained the smell of copper, but her skin became clean. Raw, cold, and rubbed pink, but clean.

Claire dabbed at the bloodied edges of her camisole. It wasn't bad enough her for her to need to wash it in the sink, and Claire didn't feel right stripping down any more than she had to. She already felt naked enough in front of Matt.

Claire sighed and set into Matt's coat. The blood came out easily, a few dabs of the washcloth and it was gone. She wrapped herself in his robe, picked up her shoes and coat, then left the bathroom.

Matt was in the kitchen preparing dinner. She didn't know if she would be able to eat. Her insides already felt so heavy, anything more might sink her through the floor.

She draped his coat over a chair to dry, then tucked her shoes against a wall. Matt turned and gave her a smile. He was more exhausted than usual, his eyes looking like they so badly wanted to close.

"It's not much," he said. "I didn't think I'd have any guests."

Claire gave him a waxy smile on reflex, then sat at the small kitchen table. His robe was a little too big for her, pooling up against her neck as she settled into the chair. She adjusted it, hand settling on her collarbones.

Everything was so clean in his home, each thing perfectly in its place. It was jarring after her own cluttered apartment, cramped and jostling with family. His loneliness made more sense, now.

Dinner was quiet. Claire was vaguely aware of a plate being set before her and the cold of the fork in her hand, but she didn't taste anything. Didn't feel anything, either. She was too consumed with Matt sitting across the table from her and her own persistent need to cry. Claire excused herself from the table.

The water in the tub had changed to a thin, watery red. She let out a breath and slipped off the bathrobe. She tried not to notice the smell of iron as she knelt beside the tub. Drops of water splashed on Claire's face as she started working soap into the fabric, but Claire kept running the soap down the pleats.

She didn't know how long it'd been. She knew she had seen clocks, but their faces slid out of her mind. It was too full of blood soaking the floor and Mr. Solano's determined, scared expression.

Claire pressed her wrists to her forehead. Her stomach seized when she noticed the copper smell mixing with the pleasant cleanness of soap. She huffed out a breath. She needed to focus. She needed to clean her clothes. She needed to pull herself together, then she could climb in bed.

She had needed to help Mr. Solano, but she'd failed. She had been feet away when he had had his throat slit open by strange men. And Claire had just sat over him, useless as she tried to push the blood back into his body, to finally make good on her hopes of fixing people, to turn her helper's hands into healing ones.

Claire didn't even realize she was crying until she rocked back on her heels, her soapy, bloody, shaky hands pressed to her mouth. Every tear and gasp she had stuffed back ripped itself from her lungs, like her body was tired of holding all of it in. Maybe, if she made enough noise and tears, she could wash away the pain.

The tiles bruised her knees and stung her skin from the cold, and her front was wet from both tears and washing water. It didn't matter. Claire hunched over the side of the tub, her knuckles digging into her face as she shook with sobs.

Everything was so wrong. Couldn't things have gone right for once? Couldn't one, kind, gentle man have been spared from this unknown wrath?

The bathroom door opened, but Claire couldn't dredge up the will to turn around. He was still for a moment, then stepped closer. The touch of his hands on her back actually made her flinch. She hated that he was there, hated that he saw her falling apart. He didn't say anything, even as he bent his legs at awkward angles to fit between the toilet and the wall. He reached out to her, gently touching her shoulders and guiding her toward him.

Claire folded into his chest, glad his shirt absorbed her relentless tears. He pressed his hand against her back, his palm half on her bare skin, half on the silky fabric of her camisole. The heat of it anchored her, the one thing that felt real amidst the insanity of the moment.

He didn't seem to care that she was half dressed, that her hands and front had the watered down traces of blood, or even that she was clinging to him like her world might break. Matt held her, arms wrapping around her shoulders tight enough to keep all her pieces from flying apart.

It didn't matter that he hadn't kissed her, it didn't matter that she had been so hurt and angry at him just an hour before. He and his Atlas' shoulders were keeping up her sky one moment at a time.


AN whoops look at the cohabitating that just walked in.