AN Don't you love how good stuff gives Matt an existential crisis?

The welcome home party for Claire's neighbor left Matt feeling…weird. The party was different from basically every other gathering he'd been to in the last few years. The main party-like atmosphere he experienced was Josie's, which was not the same for a variety of reasons. The only other real exception were a few social gatherings while at Landman and Zach, which Matt and Foggy had gone to for strictly networking purposes. The women had counted calories while the men had slammed brandy, and Matt and Foggy usually made their excuses to leave pronto. The party for Mrs. Escamilla's son, though…well, in short, Matt didn't really know what to do with being in a place where everyone was happy, laughing, and at peace. It had been strange but welcome respite, one he felt okay taking because Claire had asked him soft and sweet.

Which was where things became even weirder. Claire had laid down the law weeks ago and he had strictly obeyed it. They were not a 'they'. They were Claire and Matt, and sometimes they crossed paths for the sake of the greater good and sometimes they didn't. She had said no to anything else and he respected (and cared for) her too much to disobey. He didn't understand where teasing and paella and enjoying each other's company fit into three a.m. concussions and heavy blood loss.

He couldn't tell if it was just his own selfish desires or an accurate depiction of what was happening, but he was starting to wonder if she wasn't saying no anymore, but rather whispering maybe. After all, Claire had let them drift into territory that wasn't quite the muted flirting nor the hard partnership they had entertained in the past. Their time on the couch and at the party felt different on a fundamental level.

And yet, he had not earned the right to be cared for that way. Not by Claire. And yet, the easy teasing back and forth had felt so light and effortless, a single departure from the wearying march of his life. Things could be so, so easy with Claire. But also complicated, because she was a straightforward person and he was (dysfunctional, toxic, needy, pathetic, a giant forsaken raging disaster) not.

He could rely on her crystal judgement, though. Claire would tell him if she had changed her mind, and since she hadn't raised the subject she obviously hadn't. He had to believe that.

As confused as it made him feel, Matt now had to believe they were simply progressing into normal friend territory. This must have been how Claire treated friends when no crime rings or grievous injuries were involved. A part of Matt hoped this was true, because it showed they could exist without pain lurking above their heads. Another part of him prayed that it wasn't, because the twisted, selfish, sinning part of his soul wanted this friendship to be all his and his alone. Which was shameful, so, so shameful.

But…was it really coveting if she was giving him a maybe?

The very thought made him feel dirty.

He needed to get his head out of his ass and focus on the important things. People faced bigger problems every day. Things were going great for him, all things considered. The worst injury he had was a couple bruised ribs, Claire wanted to be around him for more than a few bloodstained minutes, and Nelson and Murdock was doing well. He could hear Stick's voice in his head, reprimanding him for being weak, for suffering even with the petty creature comforts he so craved.

Which was dumb, which he wasn't doing, which he didn't even believe because Stick was a terrible human being.

Plus, he didn't sulk.

Until he knew exactly where he stood, Matt kept himself inside, off the streets and out of his suit and away from danger. He felt a muted wriggle of pride in his gut, like if he cataloged every moment he made a good decision he could show it to Claire and prove…something. That and the last time he had charged off without having his head on straight, he'd almost been murdered by a ninja.

It took a few days for Matt's uneasy confusion to turn into weary conviction. He was fine with how things were with Claire. This was normal, this was friendship. He believed that. Once he was back out on the rooftops, though, breathing in the city to find someone he could help, Matt could feel a nagging doubt at the back of his mind.

What would Claire say?

It didn't matter what Claire would say. She knew what he was doing, he knew she was more or less fine with it.

He stopped a mugging. He made it out clean without a scratch, though the other guy broke his hand. He tracked a drug dealer to his den and eavesdropped for information about the rest of the ring. He would follow up with the asshole's boss, Raphael, next week when he came back into town. He stopped a man from dragging another man into an alley, hurriedly taking off his pants, his victim's breath slurred as he tried to fight his attacker off, but he was drugged and—

It took two solid punches to the ribs and a kick to the stomach for the man to go down. It took five seconds to check the drugged man, his heartbeat picking up at the sight of Daredevil but it was even, he was at least semi-cohere—

A knife tore into his arm—dammit, it was always knives that got him—before Matt slammed his elbow into his attacker's face, breaking his nose. Matt wasn't the kind to kick a person while they were down, but he had no qualms breaking a shithead's collarbone before kicking them in the solar plexus hard enough to drive into the brick wall behind them.

(He knew from experience that specific combo made it virtually impossible to breathe through the panic and pain. That was without the extra creaking break of two lower ribs cracking.)

Matt helped the drugged man out of the alley, then used his phone to call for help before disappearing. He sucked in a breath as he examined the stab wound on his forearm. It wasn't deep enough to require stitches, thankfully, but it was easy enough to take it as a sign to turn in.

He went home and carefully cleaned the wound. He somehow felt guilty for getting injured, knowing that Claire would pick up on the injury the moment she saw him again.

He had been hurt to help someone, though, surely that was reason enough to shed a little of his own blood. Surely that counted as something—him doing something right. Claire would never be happy that Matt or anyone else was getting hurt, but if his reason was good enough wouldn't she still be as proud as if he hadn't gone on the streets at all? Would she be more lenient in their different points of view if she had the shallower emotional investment of friendship?

Matt wrapped his arm and went to bed. He doubted her being his friend instead of...whatever they could have been meant she would accept his behavior. And he doubted he would have wanted her friendship if it meant she cared less.

It had been a really good day for Matt. His arm still throbbed from the knife wound (he definitely had to talk to Melvin about a more knife-resistant material for his suit), but that was only nee of the normal aches and pains of everyday life. Karen had made a major discovery in a lawsuit over an allegedly doctored will, practically sealing Nelson and Murdock's victory in the case. Foggy had stopped butchering comedic operas around the office, though he was still ardently negotiating his rights to Broadway. Matt had thoroughly enjoyed his lunch of tikka masala, naan, and a mango lassi from his favorite pretentious organic Indian food truck (Foggy's name, not Matt's). Matt's confusion over how things were with Claire was baseless.

Things were fine. Some part of him, deep in his bones or nestled in his gut, would ache if things were wrong, just like it had when she hadn't been in the city. The last time they'd seen each other, she had given him her number. They had laughed and talked and eaten paella like that was the natural order of things. Things were fine with Claire.

Matt sat at his desk, toying with his phone. He needed to not second guess himself every moment of the day, not about this. Friendship with Claire was not everything he wanted, but it was everything he could get. He was allowed to interact with her within those boundaries.

"Call Claire," he said, finally squeezing out the words he'd been agonizing over all day. His stomach jangled as he listened to the dial tone. How would Claire react to her caller ID saying 'Matt' instead of 'Mike'?

"Hello?"

"Hey," he said, trying to force his voice past the sudden lump in his throat.

"How's it going?" she asked.

Matt blinked a couple times, suddenly breathless. He didn't know how to respond when she answered the phone without resigned concern. Matt fumbled for an answer, praying he sounded normal.

"Alright. Things are a little slow in the office. You?"

"Not bad. I've got a little while before my shift starts, so I decided to finally tackle my laundry."

"That stacking up?"

"Not really. Just a few stains and stuff I haven't taken care of. Enter the mighty baking soda and peroxide duo."

Matt broke into a smile, imagining her sitting at the counter, surrounded by stained clothes as she talked to him. He could do this. Calling her without the usual pain-laden pleas for help was too nice for him to mess up.

"What do you do about that stuff?" she asked.

"Hm? What stuff?"

"Stains on your clothes. Can you taste hints of grape juice mixing with your fabric softener and cotton?"

She said it as a joke, so Matt didn't admit that yes, he sometimes could taste the vaguest trace of stains on his clothes. But only before he took a scrub brush to them.

"I can't always detect them, no."

"So what do you do?" she asked, sounding genuinely interested.

"Me? Oh, uhm, well—Foggy usually tells me if there's a stain," Matt told her. He had talked to people about how his life changed with his disability, but never when they knew he wasn't just a blind man. Describing the accommodations he had to make felt odd, when Claire knew better than anyone just how capable he was.

The two sides of his life were merging in ways they hadn't before and Matt didn't know what to think. The last time this had happened it had resulted in a devastating fight and a slow, painful healing process. Now Matt was expecting the hellfire to start raining down. But Claire's tone was butterscotch light so he let himself relax and focus on how much he liked Claire knowing about him.

"For everything?" Claire pressed.

"Yeah."

"Man, this guy is a keeper. He supports your night job, tells you when you have stains on your clothes, takes you to questionable frat parties to round out your college life…what more could you want?"

"'Supports' is a stretch," Matt scoffed, even as caution crept into him. It was probably best not to sour the moment by mentioning Foggy's passive hate for Daredevil, as well as remind Claire that she felt the exact same. "Either way, I have all my clothes dry cleaned."

"Dry cleaned?" she asked, like she wasn't sure if she was supposed to believe him. "Like, everything? Always?"

"I do wash my own clothes, but if I get something on my work shirts it's easier to have it cleaned completely."

"You are such a badass," Claire snorted. "Matt Murdock, getting his undershirts and socks dry cleaned."

Matt made a face as she kept laughing, but it quickly morphed into a smile. He liked the warm sunshine of Claire's laugh. He was hearing it more and more lately, and that was a change he was perfectly fine with.

"When's your shift start?" he asked after her laughter died down.

"Seven. I was thinking about catching a movie before work, though."

"Do you have one in mind?"

"Nope. Just gonna go, maybe soak my brain in a chick flick or something."

"You'll have to tell me about it the next time I see you."

"Yeah. Sandra Bullock's hijinks are sure to be the thing you want to hear about when you're bleeding and clambering through my window."

"And if I come through the front door?"

Matt closed his eyes, trying to smother the panic that was shrieking through his stomach. He hadn't thought before he had asked the question, and now it only seemed like a bad idea. He could push himself, he could shove himself off buildings and bridges and moving cars before he knew how he was ever going to land, but he should not have tried the same thing with Claire.

Matt grimaced as he waited for her to answer. If she didn't take it well, he could always play it off. His comment could be read as jokey, not flirty, not hopeful, and not so damnably desperate.

"I'd say that's fine, but there's the blood getting everywhere I'm honestly concerned about," she said dryly.

Matt bit his cheek. She hadn't sounded upset, though he couldn't verify her heartbeat over the electronic buzz of the phone. So now he had a choice; play it safe or take a risk.

"If…I showed up like last time?" he pressed, then held his breath.

"Last time? As in paella last time?" Claire's voice was still open, not blocking him off, not saying no. "Yeah, sure. Next time we hang out I'll tell you about my chick flick."

"O-okay, then," he said. Irrational excitement was spreading through his chest and making it hard to speak. Any situation where he and Claire were together without bloody bandages or Neosporin was a good situation.

"So what'd you call for?" Claire asked.

Matt fought to tame his grin before answering. This had turned out so much better than he could have hoped for. He liked speaking to Claire like a normal person, liked liking her the way a normal person would. Normal didn't feel so false when he sat in his office and called her for the sake of talking.

"Just to chat. It's been a while, and I thought that now I have your number…"

"I'm sorry I'm not more exciting, then. As riveting as laundry is…"

"Better than looking for loopholes in copyright laws."

"Loopholes?"

"A guy is claiming that he invented something and is suing a woman for uncanny similarities."

"That sounds...really boring, yeah," Claire laughed. "Well, I'm sure both our days will pick up in a few hours. Me, to work, you off to—oh, dammit, I probably won't get to go to the movie, after all."

"Why's that?" he asked, frowning at the thought of Claire's disrupted plans.

"I've got to find someone to help me move my fridge. Completely forgot about that. The guys I already talked to have been a nightmare to deal with."

"Move your fridge? Why?"

"Oh, my lease is up on my apartment soon, so I figured I might as well find a new place. Preferably somewhere with floors that are easy to clean blood off of."

"You have hardwood floors," Matt pointed out. Hopefully arguing nuances would hide the panic crashing over him. She was moving? Where? When had she planned on telling him? The next time he called her in need of some stitches and a shoulder relocation?

This was the same as she had done last time, he realized. She hadn't mentioned she was leaving New York all those weeks ago until the moment before she actually left.

She's just moving to a new apartment, not leaving the city, Matt told himself, trying to wrestle his anxiety into submission. She wasn't leaving him. Claire of all people was not going to leave him.

Not for real.

"Yeah, but the place came furnished and your blood got all over the rug. And everything else," Claire countered, oblivious to the panic in Matt's head.

"Right," he scoffed, because he could play pretend when he had to. "When are you moving out? Sometime soon?"

"Mm, not for the next week and a half. I've been packing in my down time for the last couple of weeks. You didn't notice half my stuff in boxes last week?"

"No, I was focusing on something else." Claire something else. Claire wide awake and happy to see him at night and smelling not of disappointment and pain but of something dark and mouth-watering and sweet.

"Mm-kay. Well, that's the state of affairs in Claire World. Unless you're interested in the saga of my neighbor discovering that he's dating a furry…?"

"Absolutely," Matt said. He smiled into the phone, letting Claire's voice fill his head.

AN Matt needs a spa day from his own brain.