AN First this was disgustingly sweet, and then it wasn't. I have no regrets.

Matt healed. He went to work, kept a man wrongfully accused of assault out of jail, went out with Foggy and Karen, kept slogging through the streets. He stayed more or less safe.

It was the first time he had almost regretted not being very, very injured. The dark fruity scent of Claire's hair had faded from his home after the second day, but if he strained he could almost taste it; red, almost purple in nature. At night, though, Matt could still feel her next to him. When he turned off his ears and his nose and his tongue, he could focus instead on the way her lungs had expanded in her chest and how her pulse had skittered against the skin of her neck, her wrists, her ankles, the back of her knees, the creases of her elbows. The way she had let herself, just for that moment, hold onto his hand.

He never let himself think about how cold and alone he had felt when he awoke to find her gone, just like he hadn't let himself entertain false hope by calling out for her. Matt Murdock had many flaws, but he, by large, was a man of self-denial. That could apply to denying painful memories just as easily as denying temptation.

He had thought about calling her in the days after, but he wasn't sure how to start a phone conversation with Claire that didn't being with 'I think I may have bruised my ribs. And broken some toes.' And he didn't know what she wanted anymore. Claire had been very clear when she said she was leaving town and never coming back, not to what they had or could have been. It had left an ache in his chest like her stitches; neat, precise, and allegedly meant to help him in the long run.

But Matt had become good at stifling his aches and pains. He could exist this way, without the strong curves of her face reflecting his heartbeat back at him or the delicious dark scent of her lotion lingering in the air.

Although, he apparently couldn't exist without her help.

There's something funny about this, he thought, fumbling for the burner phone. He may have been too potentially concussed to realize it.

"Hello?" Claire asked, voice tight and tired.

"Hey," he grunted, then made himself breathe. Adrenaline was still cutting through his system, sending sound and smell catapulting over him. Her removed whisper in his ear helped anchor him, call him back to what he needed. "I—uhm, I…"

"How badly are you hurt?"

"I think I might have a concussion, and…maybe fractured my arm."

"Alright," she sighed. "Come on over."

His throat tightened at how good her voice felt against his skin.

Matt managed to reach Claire's apartment, even with the fire escape ladder clearly trying to make an already questionable night worse. Thankfully Claire had left the window open for him.

"You do not have horns on your head," she said.

Matt let out a laugh of surprise, then shrugged. "It seemed…fitting."

"More like perverse," Claire scoffed, but he heard the laugh in her voice. She slid the window shut against the cold. "Geez, you'd probably scare the sin out of them before you even landed a punch."

"I wouldn't say no to that. If it keeps them from taking a swing…"

"Like you could handle taking the easy route."

Matt had never had anyone to verify, but he was fairly certain Claire was someone that liked rolling their eyes.

"I hope you didn't neglect to tell me about any open wounds," she continued, voice a little more serious.

"No," he half chuckled, half groaned. "No open wounds."

"Except for that beast on your lip," she said, concern tingeing her voice. He felt her move around the couch.

"It's just a split lip."

Claire snorted and waved him over, stirring the air with her scent and pushing the grunge of the city from his nose.

"Come sit down before you hurt yourself."

Matt moved toward her, obediently opening his suit so she could survey the damage. He felt her eyes on him, examining every inch of his body for something amiss. She determined that his possible concussion was actually a painful bump on the head and an impressive case of exhaustion and battle fatigue. She checked his arm, sucking her teeth when he winced at her touch.

"I can't tell if it's only a bruise or—oh, speaking of bruises, I have the arnica for you." Claire turned away to thumb through her bag. Matt straightened a little. "I meant to get it to you earlier, but..."

"No, it's okay," he said, stomach tightening. She probably hadn't delivered it because of their moment on the couch. Did she regret it, wish it hadn't happened? He hoped not. Matt certainly didn't regret it. It may have kept the wounds open longer, but he would hold that moment close for as long as he could.

(He was by large a man of self-denial. That didn't mean he could do it all the time.)

"Here, uhm, take off your shirt. We'll just put it on now."

He slipped off the black t-shirt he was wearing beneath his suit, ignoring Claire's soft sigh of resignation.

"Amazing you could go out with you torso as hurt as it is," she murmured.

Matt opted to not respond, knowing that if he did he would let out a moan of pain.

"Here, I'll do the ones on your back," she said, words accompanied with the snap of the tube lid opening. Matt smelled the flat, creamy medicinal scent of the arnica, then tried to focus on the smell rather than her smoothing her hands over his skin.

The lotion was cooler than he expected, but it felt nice against the steady ache of his back. He had known there were a lot of bruises, but he hadn't realized how many until Claire spread it over most of his skin.

"What are the instructions?" he asked, lulled by the steady, silent care she was giving him. This was much better than receiving stitches.

"Uhm," she hummed, pausing to consult the directions label. "Apply two to four times a day. Stop if things get worse, don't improve, or you get a rash."

"Charming," he scoffed.

"Yeah, well, facts are facts. Should be better in a few days. Also, don't apply it to open wounds."

He heard her take an extra slow breath like she was biding her time, contemplating what she'd say next. Matt stayed quiet, heart going a little faster because not even the best senses in the world could tell him when she was going to deliver bad news.

"If you…if you want, I could come over and put this on your back. Only once a day, but…"

"No, I'll be fine," he said softly.

This was an olive branch, or at least, the first real attempt for them to move past…Matt really didn't know what to call it. He didn't have the words to describe their situation, but he did know that whatever muted heartbreak it was, Claire was offering him an out. He also knew that he didn't want to take it. At this point, he didn't really know if he could differentiate between 'move past' and 'try again'. So instead he gave her a tired smile and shook his head.

"Save your train pass."

"Alright," she said lightly, carefully raising his injured arm to rub some leftover lotion on his side. "You should probably get a sling for that," she added, gently touching the non-injured part of his arm.

"Probably."

"Hear any creaking ships?" she asked, the warm chocolate of a smile in her voice.

"A little," he smiled back, trying not to miss her touch when she pulled her hands away.

He could tell there was still something she was biting back, something perched on her tongue that she wanted to say. But he could also tell that she wasn't ready to say it aloud as she carefully applied bandaids and stern medical advice. Not yet.

"You gonna be able to get home alright?" she asked, turning her attention to the cut on his lip.

"Yeah, I'll—I'll be fine. It's not that far," he said. He pulled his shirt back on to give himself time to control his expression.

"Someday," Claire mused with that flat, put upon tone he had come to know so well, "you'll leave some clothes lying around so you don't have to acrobat your way through Hell's Kitchen when you're beat to pieces."

"Are you offering me a drawer?" he quipped. The words were out, catapulting to a very awkward conclusion if not full on catastrophe before he could even think 'wait no'.

But as yet another testament to the marvelous and unwarranted grace of God, Claire snorted.

"Yeah, a drawer full of sweats, medical tape, and spare pain killers," she said, packing up her bag. "Maybe some shades and a cane, if you feel like being really normal."

"A blind beat up guy in Hell's Kitchen this late? Even I'm not that dumb."

"Coulda fooled me," she said, voice getting a little dimmer as a floorboard near her kitchen creaked.

Claire put away the med kit and for a moment Matt let himself listen to the sound of her heartbeat, relaxed and good humored and all he ever wanted to hear strolling through her veins.

He'd missed this. He had missed how easy things were with her, how easy things had been before he donned his mask and put everything on the line. He had missed how she took his quest in stride but did it with an exasperated sigh. He missed being able to talk to her without it all blowing up in his face.

"Claire…"

Instantly her pulse sped up, worry catching in her blood at the sound of her name. He felt a thin smile spread across his face. He hadn't had a reason to speak, he just wanted the friendly touch of her name passing his lips. And that made her stressed. He should have guessed.

Matt dragged in a breath. "Where were you while you were gone?"

She paused for a moment, then sighed through her nose. Claire leaned against the doorframe, distancing himself from the conversation, from him. The room felt just barely colder with her so far away.

"Florida," she finally told him. "Miami. I've got some family down there and…I stayed with them."

"Was it nice?" he asked. He knew his eyes were pointed at the ground, but his face was tilted toward her ever so slightly. He didn't want her to know how much he was interested in what she had done, how often he had pictured her in this place or that, being safe and happy and sometimes, rarely, briefly, being with him.

(They were stupid thoughts, stupid, stupid, painful thoughts that made him so, so happy for half a second.)

"Yeah, nice change of pace. Good to see family for the first time in a while."

"Nice to not be on call every other night?" he asked, because jokes were good, jokes got him through with her. Jokes showed that he still thought about them a lot but that he always gave her an out if she wanted it.

"Didn't quite feel that way," she scoffed, and Matt had to chuckle. That was probably aimed toward his ambiguous question about nausea and concussions (which hadn't even been about him, but a boy he was trying to save from an abusive gang banger of a girlfriend. Claire hadn't asked, though, and he hadn't had time to explain.)

"But…yeah, it was nice."

Matt heard the mild smile in her voice, felt the slight uptick to the corners of her mouth. It felt sad, though, the same kind of sad as the time they'd met before she went to Florida, the same kind of sad as when she had said 'I didn't think I was ever going to see you again'.

"Why did you come back?" he asked, a whisper, a worry, a regret.

He focused on her, needing every breath and beat of the heart and tiny movement she made to understand what she might do next. Reading people was difficult. He had figured out little tricks like noticing when people lied or were trying to hide their anxiety or were in love, but knowing how specific people would act took time. Foggy was easy to read. His dad had been easy to read. Stick was, when he didn't care that Matt knew what he was feeling. Karen was getting easier, but Claire…Claire was hard. He didn't know much about her, despite his hunger for every detail. He knew the intimate smell of her lotion and the difference of her mending his body and her putting her hands on his skin, but he couldn't tell when she was simmering, when she was hiding something, when she was perfectly and completely content. He knew so precious little about Claire.

The silence between them felt so, so long.

"I told you I would," Claire said, an almost hostile edge to her defensiveness.

"I know," he said gently, "I know. Whenever I really needed you, I remember. I…wasn't it easier, though? To stay gone?"

"It never felt easy."

"I tried not to bother you, Claire."

"Bother me—Matt, silence from you bothers me! Not knowing you're alive bothers me!"

He swallowed as her voice rose to almost a shout. Of course. It had been too easy to think that this peace between them could last. Not when they were so diametrically opposed. That was...probably for the best.

Matt didn't know what to say to her, though. He didn't want to prove her wrong beyond a shadow of a doubt, didn't want to lay her low because of his argumentative prowess. He didn't want to fight her at all. But what else was left? She didn't want excuses or evasions, and he sure as hell wasn't about to start lying to her. That was one thing he swore to himself he would keep okay.

"I never meant to make you worry."

"How could I not when the only time I ever saw you, you were dying?" Anger was making her face burn, sending harsh fragments of heat across the room to spear him. Matt turned his face away like that would help.

"I thought…it probably doesn't matter what I think," he mumbled.

Claire sighed, and he thought she put her hand to her head. Her pulse was a jagged rhythm in her chest, fighting against the cars and the sirens and the wails of pain outside. "Matt, no…it matters. What you think matters. I mean, what you think started this whole thing."

"I…I just thought it would be easier to leave you in peace," he said, not giving himself time to be confused by her compliment. Or denial. He wasn't sure how to categorize 'what you think matters'. "I've caused you so much trouble, Claire, and you never asked that. So you being gone…you deserved the break. You deserved not having to worry about me. I'm sorry I made it tough for you to do that."

She was silent for a few long moments, not moving, not speaking, barely breathing. Matt wished his hearing was good enough to catch the whisper of her thoughts.

"Thank you," she said, and the words sounded so wrong that he almost flinched. She shouldn't have been thanking him, he had just listed the pile of reasons why she should have been cursing him. "I know this is hard for you, too, trying to look after an entire city. But…thank you for trying to help me."

"The least I can do," he said, forcing out a quick smile. He needed to pull them back, he needed to pull them back now. If he kept pouring this confession out at her feet, he might do something stupid like say how much it had pained him to not call her every week so he could hear her voice.

"Yeah, sure," Claire said. She didn't mean it.

She walked toward him, finally breaking into the no man's land that was the majority of her living room. He heard her swallow as she neared, the action heavy in his ears.

"You get yourself home," she said, voice a little more jerky than before. "Remember—"

"Let myself heal, I know, I got it," he said, easing to his feet.

His desire to stay near Claire succumbed to his need to escape from her. He had to get out of her house before they started arguing for real. He couldn't handle that, he could not face himself if he truly burned one of the last bridges he was clinging to.

Matt lied and gave her another smile, promising that he was alright, that they were alright (it didn't count as lying, though, if it was customary and she knew he always lied about his well being? He hadn't messed that up as well, had he?). Claire gave a slight huff and followed him to the fire escape.

He felt her lean against the window frame as he stepped out onto the stairs. Claire didn't close the window right away, but instead called, "And don't forget to get yourself a sling for that arm!"

He gave her a slight wave and swung off the fire escape. He hadn't earned a proper good-bye.

AN Claire's lotion is Midnight Pomegranate by Bath and Bodyworks. Matt normally dislikes their products because it's always waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too strong, but he loves it on Claire.

(Matt smells like lemongrass and Catholic guilt and SUNSHINE)