AN i don't care what season two says, autistic!melvin for life.

In a strange way, Matt missed his black outfit. Of course, he didn't miss the pain that came with it, nor the hassle of having to constantly buy replacement pieces when it became damaged. But there was as energy he liked about it, an almost lawlessness that came with combat boots and a mask. In those early days he hadn't been certain of what he could do, what he would do. 'Save the city' was an easy answer to sling out when questioned, but there was so much more to it than that. Most everything back then had been a new decision made on gut instinct and reflex. Matt had been blinded by inexperience and ignorance, fumbling his way to his objective in the dark.

Now, his path was much clearer. His decisions were (for the most) thought out and made before his adrenaline started going and fists went flying. Decisions like when his suit needed to be taken to Melvin for an upgrade.

"Mr. Daredevil, you're not wearing the suit," was the first thing Melvin said when he noticed Matt in the workshop. He sounded deflated. Matt had to work to hide his smile, touched by the concern in the man's voice. Few people were half so considerate after Matt beat them into submission (though Matt felt genuinely terrible about that. He had tried to make up for it the best way he could, which was through a bottle of Yoohoo and a sincere apology. Melvin was thrilled.).

"Is it okay, do you not like it? I can make you a new one, Betsy says that sometimes problems can be fixed by doing things better the second time."

"No, I like the suit," Matt said. He walked closer, weaving past a work bench. "But I was wondering if there was something stronger you could make it out of? Knives have been giving me some trouble lately."

"Knives? Knives are bad," Melvin said. He took the suit from Matt, holding it like it was fragile as a kitten. If he noticed the multiple slashes on the arms and chest, he didn't comment. "I thought you were too fast for knives. You said you were too fast for bullets, so you should be faster than knives."

Matt sighed and leaned against a table. "You'd think that would be the case. It's harder to sense a knife coming, though."

Melvin hummed in agreement, and Matt wondered yet again if he knew more about Matt's abilities (and disability) than he let on. Most people didn't seem overly concerned about the logistics of him wearing a scarf over his face when he was kicking their kneecaps in, so he hadn't had to worry about it. With Melvin, though, Matt was sure he noticed. He didn't question why Matt said 'sensed' rather than 'saw', and he had already made slight adjustments to the suit unrequested. The gloves were the biggest example, with the slit around the knuckles for him to slip his fingers through and feel unhindered. Melvin had also offered to line the suit with a gentler fabric, though Matt didn't recall ever complaining about the slightly abrasive material already used.

"How long will it take to fix?" Matt asked.

"That depends, that depends a lot." Melvin draped the suit over his desk, his fingers making a slick rubbing sound as they skimmed the suit fabric. "The red is letting you get hurt, so I don't wanna use the red. If you'd let me use black, that would keep you safer, a lot safer. But it'd be a week to come in."

"I like the red," Matt said. Melvin heaved a sigh like reasoning with him was the most frustrating thing in the world. It might have been. Foggy would be the leading expert on that (though Matt supposed Claire might be able to give him a run for his money, these days).

"But the red is letting you get hurt."

"I've already changed suits once. How're people gonna recognize me if I keep changing it?" he said, fighting again to keep the smile from his face.

"I recognize you," Melvin said sullenly. Matt's mouth quirked, but he didn't let it turn into a full blown smile.

"I like the red," he insisted, voice softer this time.

Melvin huffed and clomped to the other side of the workshop. He ran his hand over the rolls of material, the sound shifting from a rough whisper to a sticking, sliding hum as he jumped rolls.

"You're gonna keep wearing the old black outfit, aren't you?" Melvin grumbled. "I don't like that black, that black doesn't keep you safe, and I gotta keep you safe. I gotta keep Betsy safe, and I gotta keep you safe."

"I know. I'll be extra careful."

"Okay. And I'll try to make a better red."

"Thank you, Melvin."

Of course, two days later a group of gang bangers made Matt a liar. Which really pissed him off, because he didn't like lying to Melvin, and he didn't like having his arm laid open with a butterfly knife.

He thought he'd been careful. He had scouted the scene, determined what weapons were on the thugs, had prayed for deliverance before leaving his apartment like always. He had been careful.

And yet.

Matt's nostalgia for the cargoes and athletic shirt vanished once a man with brass knuckles clipped his shoulder. He gasped, momentarily stunned without his armor to absorb some of the blow. A woman with the knife to get in a few good slashes. Matt blocked with his arms, hissing out a breath as her blade sank into his skin.

Knives were genuinely a bitch and a half for him to deal with. Who the hell cared about gun control when knife control would save him from being turned to mincemeat every other damn day of the week.

He backed up a few steps, just enough to make the woman get confident and come within range of his batons.

Things were pretty quick after that.

Matt held the leader with the brass knuckles by the shirt front, the other members of his crew incapacitated on the ground.

"Who do you report to," he growled. "I want names, locations."

The drug ring he had been trying to ferret out had proved to be resilient. Every time Matt thought he had stomped them to the dust, another part rose up. He had been after them for weeks and was real damn tired of dicking around with the underlings. He had ousted Fisk, after all. A drug ring shouldn't have even been a bump in the road for him. The fact that he now had two new slashes on his arms didn't help his mood.

"Look man, I'm just a dealer, don't know anybody!" the man babbled, trying to lever Matt away without hurting his broken hand. Matt didn't even bother to listen to the jackhammer of his heart. He knew full well that he was one of the lieutenants of the whole operation.

"Listen to me, Levi. Tell the truth or I break the rest of your arm."

"I did! I'm a dealer! Look, the pay's good, that's why I've got the car and the hoes flock to me, alright? And—and I kinda talk myself up, I'm not actually—"

Levi broke off in a stream of what having been swearing in Portuguese when Matt twisted his arm.

"Okay! Okay! It's an old man, right? Old school, thinks himself like one of those old gangsters, some Al Capone shit. Goes by Ramone, yeah? I got nothin' else, lay off me!"

Matt dropped him. "Hand me your phone," he said.

Levi reluctantly gave it up. Matt dialed nine-one-one, then forced Levi to place the call. Then he zip tied him and his crew together.

Matt waited a few blocks before he called Claire. She sounded tired when she answered, but not sleepy.

"No rest for the wicked?" she asked, making him smile.

"Nor anyone else, it seems."

"What's the damage?" she asked.

"Just a couple of cuts."

"I thought you were being careful," she said. Matt rolled his eyes. He'd thought so, too. He cocked his head at what he thought was the clatter of pots through the speaker.

"I was. There were…extenuating circumstances."

"Sure there were. Just get over here before you hurt yourself more."

Fifteen minutes later, Matt climbed through Claire's open window. He hadn't been to her new apartment before, and he'd taken a few extra moments to make sure that the open window on the fourth floor was an actual invitation and not a coincidence. He strained to make out every detail of her apartment, sorting out what was new and what was different. The main room seemed a little more open than her last place, though that might have been due to her still not having unpacked properly (apparently, Claire believed 'slow and steady wins the race' was suitable for making her living space comfortable).

The predominant sensation, though, was the smell. Claire's whole apartment smelled like breakfast; sausage, eggs, and toast all warming the air. It made her new place feel homey after the chilled bitterness of the city.

"What is this, retro day?" Claire asked. She was sitting on the arm of her couch, making it groan slightly as she stood up. "What happened to your red duds?"

"They're at the dry cleaners," he said, sliding off his mask. Claire scoffed and walked to the kitchen, setting a plate in the sink with a clatter. She came back out, her footsteps soft on the floor.

He frowned in surprise as she walked closer. She didn't smell like herself, or rather, the medley of scents he associated with her (coconut conditioner, rose soap, dark fruity lotion) was smothered by the smell of other people. He wrinkled his nose at the mix of sweat, cologne, alcohol, and what he thought might be fake leather.

"Were you at a club?" he asked, tilting his head.

Claire laughed and guided him to her coffee table. "I was. What gave me away?"

"A lot." That certainly explained why she hadn't sounded groggy when he called, and why she was eating in the middle of the night. "Are your hands gonna be steady after drinking?"

"For your information, I had one alcoholic drink tonight, thank you. Nikki would have literally died if I didn't indulge on my first club outing in months."

"I hope you wore something slinky," Matt said. He could tell she was wearing a skirt, but nothing beyond the fact that it didn't have sleeves and that it hugged her legs (it took a surprising amount of will not to lift his hands and explore the exact shape of it).

"Very. I even had heels."

"Very nice. Did you have fun?"

"Yeah, I guess," she said, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "I mean, clubs are a mixed bag. The music was great and I like the dancing, but then it gets a little loud and people always try to grope you and your shoes start to hurt…"

Matt raised his eyebrows, mouth pursing in distaste.

"It's better than it sounds at the moment," Claire promised. "Shirt off, please."

"It sounds pretty horrible," he said, grimacing as his shirt stuck to the wounds on his arms.

"Have you ever been in one?"

"No. Dancing isn't high on a blind man's list of to-dos." Not to mention that much noise, smell, and touch would probably have him down with a migraine for a week.

"What about sky diving?" Claire asked. She dabbed an antiseptic swab over one of his cuts, her hands steady as promised.

"What?"

"You know—plane, parachute, the whole thing."

"Uhm, no."

"Just checking. I've been wondering how far the daredevilry went."

"When'd you get home?" he asked, holding up his other arm for her to clean.

"About…five minutes before you called. I was starving, so I decided on food first. Otherwise, I would have cleaned up at least a little bit before you dropped by. There's some food left over, if you want it, by the way."

Matt had his refusal primed on habit, but then he hesitated. Why not? What could it hurt to accept?

"Sure," he said. "If you don't mind me hanging around a little longer before I go home."

"It's—" Claire leaned back to look at something, her leg straining against his to keep her balanced "—holy hell, Matt, it's almost three in the morning. I'm not going to make you go home bandaged and bruised in the middle of the night."

"Don't worry, you'll have been a good host. You gave me dinner, after all." And her sending him bloodstained back into the night wasn't exactly a new thing for them. It was sort of how they'd first met. Apparently Claire had a more vested interest in his overall health now that they were dating. Matt couldn't actually say that he minded.

"Matt. Come on. Just stay the night." She spread butterfly stitches across his skin as she spoke, then grabbed a roll of bandages.

It was amazing how just a few words could turn Matt's amused pleasure into panic. To listen to her, it was like this was the most normal thing in the world. Which it wasn't. She had just offered to let him stay the night. Normally, this was when red flags started popping up in his brain. Things became complicated when he started sharing concentrated space with his girlfriend.

Though probably not as complicated as secret identities and mob kidnappings.

"You look like a deer in the headlights. Come on, is the idea really that bad?"

"I…no. Not really."

"Good. Then you're staying," she said. "Take your aspirin. Eggs are in the pan."

She heaved herself up from the table, brushing her hands off like she had just completed a day's hard work.

"I'm gonna hop in the shower. Don't leave while I'm in there, or else we will have words."

"Yes ma'am."

Claire walked away, her footsteps soft on the hardwood. Matt obediently shook out his painkillers from the bottle and wandered into the kitchen. The smell of eggs and sausage was stronger there, making his stomach rumble. Matt smiled and searched the cabinets for a plate, cup, and fork.

Claire didn't take long in the shower—by the time he had finished the eggs and cup of milk (whole milk, he noticed with approval), she was back in the living room. She entered the kitchen, wafting in the smell of her rosy soap, fabric softener, and lotion. Matt opened his mouth slightly, trying to get the most out of the smell. He wished bottled fragrances were like this; delicate, tantalizing, just enough to want more.

"Here is your complimentary toothbrush," she said, setting it in his hand. "Bathroom is all yours."

"Thanks," he said. He wanted to pull her closer and nuzzle into her neck, drinking in as much of her as he could. He held himself in check, though. He couldn't reasonably eat her food, take her hospitality, and get handsy. Plus, he probably didn't smell that great.

"Where do you want me to sleep?" he asked, easing out of his chair. He grimaced as the cuts on his arms stretched.

"Oh, uhm…" Claire glanced behind her, wet strands of hair swinging slightly onto her shoulder. She was wearing an oversized cotton t-shirt and shorts, both slightly damp from the bathroom's humidity. "I didn't even think about that, to be honest. The bed?"

"And…where does that leave you?"

Claire shrugged. "I've got a good couch."

Matt instantly shook his head, wrinkling his nose. "I'm not kicking you out of your bed."

"It's not kicking out if I offer it," she grumbled, walking with him to the living room. Matt turned his attention to the couch. From what he remembered, it was just a few inches too short for him to lay down comfortably. Not that he'd ever tell her.

"Claire. You go to bed. I'll make do."

"You're funny. Not funny 'haha', but funny. I'm not making the injured guy with church in the morning sleep on my couch."

"So you, the night shift ER nurse, will take the couch."

"If I must, yes."

"Claire—"

"Matt—"

Matt rolled his eyes, unable to hold back a smile. "We could just share the bed. I think we're both too exhausted to try anything."

"You sure?"

"About being tired? Yes."

"No, I about the bed. What if it's twin-sized?"

Matt snapped his face toward her in slight horror, straining to tell if she was telling the truth. Claire laughed and shook her head.

"Relax, it's not. Fine, we'll share. How early do you want to get up tomorrow?"

He sifted through the hours in his head, trying to decide just how long it would take him to make it to his apartment, get ready, then make it to mass.

"Seven?"

"Oh my gosh, you're making me even more tired just thinking about it. Four hours of sleep, if you're lucky, you realize that, right?"

"I'll take a nap after church."

"You'll need to hibernate after church." Claire sighed, shaking her head. "Go clean yourself up before your bad habits give me a conniption. I'll take care of the bed."

Matt retreated to the bathroom, suppressing a grin.

Claire's bathroom was small but tidy. It was mostly tile and linoleum, but there was a thick rug and a fluffy towel hanging from the bar to give it some warmth.

Matt skimmed his fingertips over the counter, searching for the toothpaste. He picked it up, smiling slightly at the smell of baking soda and mint. He brushed his teeth, then searched for a washcloth. Matt would have preferred taking an actual shower, but he was too drained to mess with his fresh bandages.

Matt closed the bathroom door and cleaned himself off. He worked fast, shivering slightly as the warm water cooled on his skin.

Claire moved around outside, pacing from the living room to her bedroom. He listened to her, slowly letting the rest of the world filter in. Claire's unfamiliar neighborhood sounded like a nonsensical mix of noises, but he knew that if he waited it would resolve itself into patterns.

After he finished, Matt indulged himself with leaning against the counter for a few seconds. The adrenaline had disappeared, leaving him exhausted. The thought of going to sleep with Claire curled up beside him was honestly nicer than he wanted to admit.

"All done?" Claire asked as he walked back into the living room. The words were more mumbled than spoken, like she was too tired to open her mouth all the way.

"Uh, yeah, thanks. Where…" Matt trailed off, frowning. He focused, unsure if he was reading the room correctly. "Why is there a bed made on the floor?"

"Because I thought this would feel less awkward than sharing an actual mattress."

Matt edged closer, careful not to step on any of the blankets or pillows spread across the carpet with his boots. Claire had pushed the coffee table off to the side, making way for a makeshift queen-sized bed. She was already lying down, buried beneath a heap of blankets.

"How did you—was I gone for that long?"

"No. I scalped the foam pad and blankets from my bed and brought them in here."

Matt blinked a couple of times, distinctly aware that he was stalling. "Well…do I need to do anything before—"

"No, Matt. Lights are off, door's locked, curtain's closed. Just come lay down."

He hesitated again, then sat on the couch to take off his boots. He picked at the laces, then pulled them off. He peeled off his shirt, hesitated, then slipped out of his socks and pants. He edged around the bed, stomach turning.

This suddenly felt like a lot. The bed shouldn't have felt like something huge, he knew that. It was, after all, not even a bed, just a crude reproduction of one. But it did, it felt like some fantastic gift that had been purchased under false assumptions. People didn't do this sort of thing for him, not really. He typically didn't deserve it. Matt couldn't say exactly where the line between 'acceptable' and 'undeserved' was, but he was certain it fell somewhere between saving him some eggs and reconstructing a bed on the floor to make him feel more comfortable. He felt like he had tricked Claire again, had somehow made her think he was worth more effort than he ever was.

Matt's mind flashed back to escapes routes—all of the dozens and dozens of back doors and safe guards he had built into every word and action around Claire. Why had he stopped, what could have possessed him to give it up just when he so desperately needed it? This had to be a test of some sort, had to be a challenge to see if he would follow Claire's overarching rule of not giving in to temptation.

He sucked in a breath.

The reason he had stopped giving himself escape routes was because he didn't need them. Claire had promised him that when she walked in and asked if he was still willing to give them a try, and then underlined it when she said that her desire to go slow was not his fault. How many times had she told him that this was okay, he was okay? Dozens. So he didn't need to feel like he was about to try something he knew he'd fail.

(Then again, he had failed every major romantic relationship he'd tried.)

"Matt, are you gonna lay down or what?" Claire mumbled.

"Oh, yeah, sorry," he said, then clenched his teeth.

He was blowing this out of proportion. Laying in the same bed as Claire didn't mean he was bound to have sex with her—they both had agreed on as much fifteen minutes ago. And Claire wasn't acting like this was something huge. She had just dragged the foam cover of her bed to the living room as a sort of halfway point between one of them sleeping on the couch and the other taking the bed (or maybe she was just making a point, no halfways about it).

Matt knelt on the empty side of the bed, hesitating one last second before pulling back the covers and sliding in.

His breath stuttered as the sensation of Claire enveloped him. Claire smell, Claire sound, Claire taste. He swallowed, imagining the wave washing over his head and then settling behind him. All he wanted was to reach over and kiss her, from her mouth, down her neck, to her collar bones, under her shirt…

Claire let out a slow breath, like she was finally letting the tension in her body go.

"You warm enough?" she asked.

"Yeah, I'm good," Matt managed. Her sheets were soft, settling on his skin like knit jersey rather than woven cotton. "Are all these blankets from your bed?"

"Yep."

Matt clenched his hands in front of him, then made himself relax. This was what he wanted. No more questions, no more doubts. Just him and Claire.

Matt reached over and put his hand on Claire's side. He ignored the pain in his arms, focusing instead on the difference between her shirt and her skin. He took another deep breath, almost drunk on the dark red smell of her lotion. Her breath stirred the air, slow and relieved like an exhausted person finally allowed to rest. He scooted closer to her, their fronts pressing against each other.

He slid his hand down her back, slowly, slowly, testing where the limits were. Claire didn't say anything as he spread his hand across her back, but she did loop her arm under his. He hesitated, then slipped his hand under her shirt.

The only things Matt could hear were their heartbeats, currently out of rhythm with each other but soon to be resolved into a single tempo. He was acutely aware of every place their bodies touched—their legs, their hips, his hand and arm on her side and back, her fingers just barely brushing the skin over his ribs.

He loved her so much. The craving he had long since resigned himself to was gone, replaced instead by an almost dizzying sensation of freedom. He knew how to smother the desire to touch her, to hold his senses from roaming over her in an extreme form of voyeurism. Knowing he was allowed do and then doing it, that was a different matter entirely.

Matt leaned over and kissed her neck. It was small, the tiniest touch to see if it was okay. Claire dragged in a deep breath, holding it like she was deciding what she wanted to say. Then she exhaled, the quietest form of acceptance she could give.

Matt pulled her closer and kissed her again, tasting the slight salt of sweat on her neck. Her hand moved up to his shoulder, holding him just a little bit closer.

He leaned back, licking his lips like he could swallow the heat from her skin. He lay there a moment, drinking in the buttery warmth of the moment, the sweet sincerity of being able to just hold her.

Claire ran a hand over his hair and whispered, "Good night, Matt."

He didn't say anything in response—couldn't, really. His throat was stopped up with the need to thank both her and God, to express his utter amazement that she was fine to let his battered, stained hands touch her skin. He closed his eyes, lulled to sleep by her breath playing across his skin and her heart murmuring in his ears.

AN It is my strong belief that Matt equates touch with affection. Finally being able to touch Claire in an intimate yet completely nonexpectant way is probably the moment that this all feels real to him. Claire is also probably realizing what emotional intimacy with Matt is like, which will be fun to explore later on.