AN So if you haven't guessed by now, this story is basically deep conversations with some angst and cute and synesthesia styled descriptions.

Going back to Claire's place felt like adding insult to injury after their argument. It had only been a few days, after all. Matt desperately hoped he could deal with the knife wound in his arm by himself, but it took all of half a block to realize he needed stitches. Dammit.

Claire's voice was stiff when she answered. He grimaced, wishing he didn't always make her life so impossible.

"What's wrong?"

"Just a knife cut on my arm. I think it needs stitches."

"I don't even want to know what you were doing to need stitches so early in the night," she grumbled.

Matt wisely held back any comments on his own disappointment at having to quit so early. It would only fan his issues with Claire.

"Come on over, then. You're not bleeding bad enough to pass out on your way, right?"

"No, nothing that bad."

"Alright, then."

When had exasperated resignation become a full on invitation in his life?

Matt crossed the rooftops and street blocks to Claire's apartment. He hesitated as he climbed down to her window, both his arm and his worries cradled against his chest. She had sounded so angry the last time they had spoken. Each time he played it back Claire felt more hurt and more disgusted and more hopeless. It was at times like these he didn't blame her for leaving. And yet, if she hadn't maybe her scared, saddened refusal wouldn't have hardened, turning heated and unpredictable. He felt guilty. If he hadn't asked for so much, if he hadn't demanded her time and silence and trust and help and then gone that extra greedy mile and taken her love…

He climbed through her open window and stumbled to the table. The warmth of her apartment felt like an unearned luxury after the disapproving chill of the night. He remembered halfway across the room to close the window, but Claire was already sliding it shut behind him.

"I thought that fancy new suit was supposed to keep you from getting hurt," Claire said. Her voice wasn't hostile, which was encouraging. He had to tread lightly if he wanted to keep it that way. Matt couldn't bear fighting with her again. Not yet, not so soon.

"It does," he said, sitting directly on the table. He didn't have the energy to drag a chair into place. "But it doesn't stop all wounds."

He neatly forgot to tell her that though the red material was the dominant part of his suit, it also happened to be the weakest. He doubted Claire valued aesthetic appeal over safety.

Claire clicked her tongue like she had heard his thoughts anyway. She dropped the med kit on the table beside him, her heat an unfocused brush on his left.

"I guess a little blood is better than a ton," she mused, voice losing its worried edge and becoming objective like nurses were supposed to be. Claire helped him ease out of the top half of his suit, ignoring his grunt of pain as she picked the material away from his wound.

"Not too bad," she said. "It doesn't look too deep, you'll only need a couple stitches this time."

Claire walked to the kitchen to fetch some water to clean the wound. Matt waited in silence. The warm air had taken the sting off his face and hands, but he still didn't feel comfortable. His muscles were tense, and not just from the aftermath of the fight.

This was the first time he had ever had to face Claire right after an argument. Normally when he disappeared, he had a few more days or weeks to gather his defenses and figure out how he wanted to dismantle her anger. He had time to assemble his response and solidify the defenses she managed to shake loose with each pointed truth. Now he was off balance, unsure what he was supposed to do.

Matt felt uneasy and disoriented sitting in Claire's apartment. Every second was a new challenge as he tried to figure out when and if she would snap. He should have waited to come until later, until she had cooled off, until he didn't have to deal with what had been said. Which only made him feel like a coward. A pathetic, pathetic coward.

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, he thought, the Bible verse floating to mind on reflex. The second part (but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind) was a little slower to come. Some things, like crime fighting, came in leaps and bounds. Others came in shuffling steps.

Claire returned and dropped a bottle next to him. He didn't hear the clatter of pills, though, telling him she wasn't about to pick another fight over him using pain killers. That was good. He was too exhausted and on edge to make a coherent argument.

"Drink that," Claire ordered, scooting the bottle closer to his hand in way of subtle insistence. "I'm guessing you haven't eaten since, what, seven?"

"Eight," he corrected.

Claire scoffed. "Drink your damn Gatorade, Matt."

He smiled to himself and took a drink. His mouth quirked at the taste (Gatorade always managed to taste too strong and too watery and too weird), but he obediently sipped it down.

This time when Claire tended to him, the soft touch of her fingers on his skin didn't send shivers up his spine. There was nothing tender about the moment. It was capable and clinical with all emotion buried behind a concrete wall. Exactly what Claire had asked for. Exactly what he had intended to give her, but...things hadn't exactly gone as planned.

Matt was quiet at first, still hesitant to disrupt anything. Claire was in an alright mood, which was something, but she usually was before they argued. Claire's default was probably happy and relaxed, he just happened to sour it. He couldn't keep her safe. He couldn't keep her happy. No wonder she had needed a break.

"So what happened?" Claire asked, clearly having forgotten her earlier stance of not wanting to know. Her tone was almost conversational as she cleaned his wound. "I didn't even have time to change into my jammies."

"A gang of car thieves. I was following down a lead, didn't think it would pan out that quickly. They got me by surprise."

"That seems to be a trend with you," Claire said absently, dabbing the wound clean.

Matt pursed his lips but left it alone. He needed to keep himself in check. Claire wasn't at fault because he couldn't keep anything together for more than a few seconds.

"You know, when you talk like that you sound more like a sleuth than a vigilante," she continued, this time actually expecting a response.

"I do?"

"Mm-hm. Tracking down a lead, trailing a witness, gathering evidence…"

"Well, I'm a lawyer, remember?" he asked. He forced a smile as he took another sip of Gatorade, then scowled as the taste hit him. Honestly, anything would have been better than this. He would only be able to taste fake strawberries and red dye for days. "The story doesn't end after they're arrested. I want what I'm doing to last."

Claire let out a slow sigh through her nose. "Well, I guess that's one way to look at it."

They both fell silent as Claire began sewing his arm closed. Matt breathed deep and tried to focus on the sharp pain of Claire's stitches. He needed to clear his head, he needed to shake this surliness that was hanging over him. He was in charge of his body and mind.

As Matt tried to marshal himself, Claire continued her work. Her efforts never faltered as she carefully stitched and tied the wound closed.

Even though Claire continually complained about the limited care she could offer without hospital equipment, Matt was always distinctly aware of where her abilities outstripped his. His care usually petered out after superglue and a few ungainly sutures. Her stitches were neater, her hand steadier, her method undoubtedly cleaner. She really was a gift he didn't deserve.

Claire wrapped a bandage around his forearm, then peeled off her gloves. She carried away her med kit and the bowl of bloody water. Matt waited with her lotion battling the smell of the blood and latex gloves. Matt held off slipping back into his suit as he waited. He was tired and aching now that the adrenaline had left him, and even though he still felt tense…Claire was Claire. He would always be drawn to her.

"How's your arm? The fractured one, I mean," she said, sitting back down. Her words were accompanied by the soft tap and gentle slosh of a drink in a plastic cup.

"It's been worse," he said. He had neglected to get the sling as she had suggested, but he had made sure to cut back on the street time and double down on the meditation until it was usable.

Claire laughed, her chair creaking as she leaned back.

"Why do you always do that?" she asked.

"Do what?"

He felt cautious as he edged into the subject. They were still walking a line between devolving into a new argument and moving past their old one. But Claire's voice had a worn chuckle in it and her heartbeat and posture were relaxed.

"You always seem to add qualifiers. Things are good—for now. You arm's not great—but it's seen worse. Nothing's just black and white for you."

"I guess I see too much for that," he said softly. "Have...I always done that?"

"I don't know," she said. Her voice was little distorted as she took another drink. "It's just something I've noticed since coming back."

He nodded, mouth tightening as he thought about her time away from him. She had left and come back because of how he had been acting, and yet he had allowed himself to stay the same frustrating person as always.

"Claire—" he began, but she cut him off.

"Mm-mm, no. If it's more thanks for being a decent human being or, heaven forbid, another apology, I'm kicking you out into the cold."

Matt closed his mouth, trying to think of a way to finish his thought without violating her rules.

"I…meant what I said last time. I never intended you to worry. You deserve a rest more than anyone else. I meant that, and I should have tried harder to let you have it."

Claire sighed again. She shifted, but he couldn't tell what she was doing. She might have been watching him, toying with her cup, might have been sitting perfectly still and glaring at him. The stream of sounds, smells, tastes and touches that he normally was so good at deciphering was nothing more than a jumble. He needed to focus.

"You not trying hard enough was never the issue," she finally murmured.

Matt tensed in case she was gearing up for another fight, but Claire changed topics.

"Anyway, I think you need a rest. And I'm not even getting into the whole vigilante debate," she said, cutting over the beginnings of his protests. "I just think I'm doing us both a favor if I make sure there's at least one night where you're not out getting some shit kicked."

"Mine or theirs?" he asked, earning a laugh.

Her heartbeat was up, her nerves betraying her nonchalant tone. He wasn't going to argue with it, though. It was a cheap, easy out, but it was still the only safe escape he could find. He went with the black jokes and the offers without bandages or blood because it was less painful than where they had been a few moments before.

"Depends on the day, I guess. Anyway, there's going to be this thing next week. A lady upstairs, her son is coming home from school and she's making paella to celebrate."

"Paella?" he asked, almost breathless from surprise. This was...not where he had expected the night's conversation to end up.

"Mm-hm. Ever had it?"

"Uh, once? Foggy ordered it for me in college."

"Well, this is going to be ten times better," she promised. She leaned toward him as she spoke, close enough for him to feel the heat of her shoulder if he just reached out his hand. "Mrs. Escamilla's going to do classic Spanish have-everyone-over-to-eat-and-celebrate styled paella, so…the offer's there, if you want it."

"What day is this?"

"Tuesday. I mean, if nothing else, eating by yourself gets kinda lonely, so if you'd like free food and company… It'll be late, so you'll have to put your other night activities on hold."

"Yeah, I think I can do that," he said. He was trying his best to remain calm and controlled and not run away with himself, because things were still so very not fine. But still, Claire was offering him something more, freely, openly, without him ever having to ask. Or having to bleed first.

Matt smiled and reached out to touch her arm in way of thank you. He got the soft fabric of her shirt, then the hard edge of her elbow, but her heart didn't kick up a few dozen notches, so he kept it there. He could smell the warm, sweet smell of her shampoo, muted under the juicy dark smell of her lotion, glossed over by the delicate touch of her fabric softener. He didn't reach for her fingers and he didn't lean forward to kiss her. Matt just allowed himself that one moment of touch when he was encompassed by the smell of her.

"Well then," she said after a moment, and he politely pulled back. Claire clapped her hands together and heaved herself out of her chair. "You're good to go. Stay safe as you head home."

Matt nodded, forcing himself off the table. He took another drink from his bottle, just to make her happy, then eased back into his suit.

"Take it easy," she told him.

"You too, Claire. Stay safe."

AN someone help matt love himself.