AN This is a turning point. On the surface, this chapter looks much the same as the others, but there's a strong undercurrent here that I can't wait to explore.

Claire was having a movie night at Nikki's. Despite Nikki's self-proclaimed 'punk status', one of her favorite pastimes was watching cheesy Bollywoods and stuffing her face with popcorn. They were two-thirds of the way through a movie that Nikki loved and Claire loved to make fun of when Matt called.

"Hello?" Claire said, pressing the phone hard to her ear like that would make Matt's voice any clearer.

"Claire?"

"Yeah, hey, Matt. What's up?" Claire's eyes found a clock as she spoke. It was almost midnight. She couldn't remember him ever calling from his own phone so late before.

Nikki's head swiveled at the mention of Matt's name, eyes brightening. She still had not met Matt, and appeared to live solely so she could suss out further scraps of his existence.

"Can you come over?"

"What do you need? It's kinda late."

Claire waved Nikki away, who had paused the movie and was now making suggestive eyebrow bounces at her.

There was a long pause on Matt's end of the phone. Claire frowned and opened her mouth to ask if he was still there. Then she heard the slightest catch of breath over the other end of the phone. Matt was probably weighing the situation, trying to see if his problem was worthy of disrupting her if it didn't involve him holding his insides in his hands.

"Please, Claire," he whispered, voice catching just the slightest bit. "Just…please, can you come over?"

"Yeah," she said slowly. She started to stand up then remembered Nikki sitting beside her. Claire pressed the phone to her chest, opening her mouth for words she didn't have.

Nikki's expression fell from teasing to concerned. She read the whole conversation in Claire's face, and shook her head at the apology Claire was trying to give. "No, go. Forget me, we've watched this a billion times. Go to Matt."

"I'm so sorry," Claire said, still not sure how she sounded so calm. It wasn't even nurse calm, it was just…empty calm. Something was wrong with Matt, but the situation seemed so odd, so weirdly normal that she couldn't connect panic to it. There had to be more to this, something severe, something terrible, not Bollywoods and popcorn and quiet phone calls.

She shook her head. "Nikki, I know we said we'd have a girl's night—"

"Claire, no. Seriously. It sounds like he needs you. How far away is he?"

"Half an hour by the train…?"

"Screw that, I'm taking you," Nikki said, pushing herself up from the couch.

"Nikki, no, don't ruin your night."

"It's not ruined, you're more important. He's more important. Get your shoes, homie, and answer your boy on the phone."

Claire opened her mouth to protest, then raised the phone to her ear. "Matt, are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm not bleeding."

Claire closed her eyes, because those were such specific words.

"Okay. I'll be there in ten, alright?"

"Yeah, okay."

Claire hung up the phone as Nikki returned to the room, now wearing an enormous sweatshirt and shoes. Claire grabbed her overnight bag, then jammed her feet into her own pair of sneakers.

"Is he alright?" Nikki asked, leading them out the door.

"I don't know," Claire murmured.

Nikki gave her a hard look, but nodded. "If you need anything, you call, okay? I'm here for you, too."

Claire forced a thin smile, but didn't say anything.

They were quiet as Nikki drove them to Matt's apartment. The radio murmured in the background, dull and meaningless in the face of Claire's worries. She wished she hadn't hung up with him. She wanted to know exactly what he was doing, exactly what he was feeling right up until she walked through his door. Not that talking over the phone would do much. Phones did no justice to a man who lived through half-truths and silent gestures.

And there was the chance that the longer they talked, the more Matt would convince himself that he didn't need her, and Claire would honestly die if he turned her away now.

Claire nearly launched herself out of the car when Nikki pulled up to the curb.

"Keep me posted!" Nikki called as Claire swung the door shut. Claire threw up a hand in acknowledgement, already jogging toward the building. All she could think of was the break in Matt's voice, the long pause before he pleaded for her to come.

She climbed the stairs three at a time, not caring that she would arrive out of breath. She knocked on his door, waited a long moment, then tried the handle. It swung open, either a thoughtful gesture or a terrible omen.

Claire shook her head hard and closed the door after her.

"Matt?" she called.

"One second," Matt called from his room, voice still so horribly flat. It wasn't exhausted or resigned or angry. Just…beaten down. It had the faintest rustlings of before she had left the city, when he had been drowning in the horror of Fisk and she didn't have the strength to be his lifeboat.

Matt's apartment was almost eerie in the dark, with only the haunting glow of the billboard next door to offer light. The pictures shifted and danced, mocking in their shades of yellow and pink.

Claire turned the lights on with an aggressive click.

Her assumption that Matt wasn't hurt proved to be correct as she looked around the room. There was no horrifying trail of blood, Matt's suit wasn't discarded haphazardly on the floor, and nothing was broken. Nothing, in fact, seemed the least bit out of shape.

"Matthew?" she called, stomach twisting itself into ever tighter knots. "Matthew, what's wrong?"

The shower switched off, a sound she didn't notice until it was gone. She stood in silence for a moment, pretending she could hear the drip drip of the shower head. Claire closed her eyes when she felt Matt give a slow sigh.

"What can I do for you, Matt?" she asked. She wanted to shout the question, wanted the tearing release of anger after her mad scramble to go help. But there was something about the terrible stillness of his apartment that demanded she be soft.

"Uhm…there's some tea on the shelf," he called, voice empty and disconnected, like he wasn't really aware of speaking.

Claire stood there in his living room, heart thumping out the seconds. More than a little bit of her wanted to barge into his bathroom and demand what, what was wrong, let her help, she was there to help him. She wasn't there to be relegated to tea patrol.

She clenched her teeth. Loud noises and sudden movements frightened, shy creatures. She had to hold herself in check.

"Do you have a particular flavor in mind?" she asked, praying he didn't hear her bite as she gave him one last chance to let her in.

"No," his voice said, ghostly as it floated from some place she couldn't see.

Claire dropped her bag into a chair, then stalked to the kitchen. She flicked on his electric kettle as she passed. It took her a couple tries, but she found his tea boxes, a whole cabinet of kind earth tones and soothing pictures. Claire riffled through, then settled on chamomile. It was silly and probably wouldn't matter, but anything to help them stay relaxed always sounded good to her.

Claire picked through the cabinets and drawers, looking for spoons and honey. When she had those, she went ahead and grabbed the milk to keep from being still with her thoughts.

The kettle gaze a dry wheeze, the prologue to a real whistle. She clicked it off and poured herself a cup. Claire scowled at her mug as she added honey and milk to it. On impulse, she carried everything to the table, another attempt to whittle away the time until Matt made an appearance. The apartment was quiet around her, except for the ragged clink of her spoon in her mug.

"Sorry, didn't mean to keep you waiting."

Claire jumped, spoon almost flying from her hand. She huffed out a laugh as she turned to find him in the doorway to his room, like she could smile away Matt's apologetic grimace.

"No, it's fine," she said. She looked him over as she spoke, uncertain worry solidifying into unhappy truths.

Matt looked like he had just stepped from the shower, though she couldn't imagine what he'd been doing in the eons between turning off the water and appearing beside her. He wore only a towel, the tidy dark grey fabric wrapped tightly around his hips. His hair was damp and a little spiky from where he'd dried it, and though he was too far away to tell just yet, she had the suspicion that there were bags under his eyes. And, of course, he had his hollow smile on, the one that went with devastated apologies and a lowered head.

"What'd you pick?" he asked, head tilting as he crept deeper into the room.

"Chamomile," she said. "Your mug's on the counter, but everything else is here."

He nodded, mouth set in that purposeful way that meant he was biting back every single other thing he wanted to say. Claire clenched her fingers into her mug. Even though his body was miraculously free of blood and bruises, his mind clearly had turned into a warzone.

"I'm surprised you got here so fast," he said.

"I was at Nikki's," she said. "We were having a girl's night."

His expression instantly folded into guilt. He tilted his face away, but his hands continued to fidget with his mug.

"Oh," he murmured. "I didn't realize I—I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It just meant I have an overnight bag, if need be."

The corners of his mouth lifted, but his eyebrows stayed crunched in regret.

Claire waited a long moment, watching him, counting the seconds. She bit her cheek. She knew that waiting and letting Matt think wouldn't resolve anything. He'd simply get caught in a thought spiral, tumbling farther down and down into a pit of self-condemnation. But if she started pushing, Claire knew she wouldn't stop, and honestly Matt wouldn't survive the fall if she pushed him over.

"I'm not mad you called, Matt," she said, because sometimes the obvious needed to be said.

He lifted his head too fast to be real, sucking in a breath like he could make her forget his unhappiness if he just swallowed it. He gave her another damn smile. "Yeah, yeah, no, I know. You said the honey was over there, right?"

"Yeah," she said. She took another sip to keep from saying something unkind.

Matt walked toward the table. His mug was held like an afterthought, a little too loose and a little too far from his body.

He stopped just in front of her, close enough to put his mug down, close enough for her to feel the echo of heat from his skin. The air thickened between them, turning heavier with all the words they did not say, the things they did not do.

Claire stood up, mumbling something about putting the milk away if he didn't want it. She didn't want to sit there and let him not say what was wrong. She stopped after she stood up, though, staring him down and daring him to let this continue.

He stayed quiet. His whole body was restless, like his thoughts were running around under his skin, begging to be loosed.

"Why did you ask me to come?" Claire finally asked.

He raised his face to her, that insincere smile returning to his lips. "Did you never consider that this could be a booty call?"

She'd seen him do this a dozen times, and yet it still felt like a punch in the gut. Bravado masking the unruly pain and doubt, because lying was infinitely preferable to admitting the pain and doubt he was really feeling. And yet, it made it even more obvious that he was still just a tragic boy with a scared body and a weeping heart.

Claire looked at him for a long moment, too tired and tense to entertain his game of pretend.

"It's a thought." Her voice was flat as the edge of a cliff.

Matt's smile fractured a little. He hesitated, then stepped closer. She held her breath, foolishly thinking for a moment that he would whisper those dangerous secrets about what he was truly feeling, but no. Instead Matt tilted his face away from hers, determined to never let her know the truth.

She pulled in a slow, agonizing breath and fought not to dig her fingernails into the table.

Claire looked down when he reached past her for the honey, his arm brushing her side. He fumbled with it for a second before she turned and placed her hands over his. He kept struggling, but she guided his fingers and snapped it open.

Matt kissed her. It was an apology of a thing, his actions attempting to be far, far more than his wounded words. She let him, because this was hard for both of them. Claire didn't like being useless, and Matt didn't like being helpless.

He guided the honey back to the table, freeing the space between them. He kissed her deeper, his hands finding her hip, splaying out, taking up as much space as possible, anchoring himself or claiming her or affirming that she was real.

Matt's whole body was pressed against her, muscles tight from the fervor in his head. Claire stumbled back into the table, the edge hitting her legs. She grabbed hold of him, pressing them even closer. He clung to her, teeth finding her lip, needy and tantalizing and the possible beginnings of something sinfully good and also the sign of all the terrible things that could be.

Claire stopped at the taste of Matt's terror. It made her heart skip, the sickening thud of realization that he again was trying to bury what he felt. She had come there to help, not to let him kiss her out of pain rather than pleasure. She turned her head away, and he kissed down her neck, fast, burning things that were more of a plea to not stop than a declaration of love.

"Matt," she said, shaking her head, hands braced against his shoulders.

His kisses hitched, turning slower, sadder, open-mouthed and desperate.

"Matt," she repeated.

He petered out, mouth at the crook of her neck. His breathing was heavy, great huffs against her collarbone that confessed all his sins. His body curved against hers like the link of a chain, rigid and without any sweetness at all.

"I know," he whispered. "I know, I—"

Claire pressed her hand against his neck, not sure if she was supposed to comfort or push him away.

He didn't give her a chance. He stumbled back, hands still held out like he wasn't sure what to do when not holding her. Matt shook his head, a new kind of fervor gripping him as he muttered another apology.

Claire stepped forward, but he was already walking fast to his bedroom. She watched him disappear. As she leaned back against the table, she felt something sharp jostle in her chest, a broken rib, maybe, or her broken heart.

She did not yell or throw things or show in any way how painful it was to see Matt torn open like this. She kept it together, because that was what they did. When one of them broke apart, the other stood tall and carried them both.

It still hurt like a bitch, though.

The floor creaked across the room. Claire glanced over her shoulder to see Matt. He had changed into sweats and a dark t-shirt. They didn't say anything as he walked back toward her, settled a foot away. Claire kept her back to him, waiting, waiting.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I…"

Matt sighed. He took a step closer, and she could imagine his mouth ghosting through the words he knew he was supposed to say.

He stopped right behind her. She could feel him again, his thighs just touching hers. His breath barely touched the skin of her neck, making her hair prickle. He sighed again, hesitated, then inhaled like he was fighting to make up his mind. Then he pressed his face into her neck.

It wasn't a kiss, this time. It was an act of defeat, of resignation, of trust.

Matt wrapped his arms around her waist, his cheek pressed against hers.

"Today's been so terrible, and I just—" He let out a shuddery breath. "I don't know what to do. I made it worse."

Claire settled her hands over his, and leaned back into his chest. "We can talk about it, or we can do something else," she offered.

"I thought I was supposed to tell you everything," he said, the tiniest, saddest laugh in his voice.

"Not right away," she countered. "Only when you're ready."

He was quiet for an agonizing amount of time. Claire focused on his breathing, waiting to see if it would catch, if he would try to begin. But he just sighed and turned his face so that his nose was touching her cheek.

"Thank you for coming," he whispered.

"It's my pleasure."

"Thank you for staying."

"It feels kinda like the same thing."

She could almost feel him swallow, could almost feel the tense moment of confession as she placed value on something he found so weak. But Matt didn't run or protest or do anything to break the moment like he might have months ago, moments ago.

"You should drink your tea before it's cold," she murmured.

"Okay."

"You wanna sit?"

"Yeah, sure."

He didn't move away. Claire leaned her head back onto his shoulder. "We can sit together, if you want."

"That—that sounds good."

He let go of her, then stepped away when he was sure she wouldn't fall. Claire waited, expecting him to walk to the couch or the easy chair, but he instead sat at the table. He sat with arms open, cup of tea held loosely in one hand.

Claire considered all her rules and expectations and moments of better judgement. She knew what he was asking, knew that he was hoping she would stay close and let him hold her, even after the fiasco of whatever it was that had just happened. She also knew both options had not inconsiderable costs.

If she sat on his lap, she could be inviting more trouble, more kisses and touches and pressure on the no sex rule. If she left him alone, he might pull back into himself, make it that much harder to help, make it that much harder to chip through the walls that someone had forced around softer parts of his heart.

Claire sat on his lap. Matt's arms fit snugly around her waist like they always belonged there. She leaned into him, his forehead resting against her cheek. They curled into each other, shrinking away from the difficulties of the outside world.

The colder parts of Claire whispered that they couldn't keep doing this, couldn't keep patching up hard moments with intimate ones and then dealing with it all later, but there wasn't much else for her to do when Matt clutched her like she was the only safe thing in this world.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her neck, the words spooling out across her skin and making her want to shiver and cry at once. "Claire, I'm so, so sorry."

She didn't know what to say. Not 'it's okay', or 'I'm fine', or 'don't worry about it', because it wasn't okay and she wasn't fine and he should worry about it. Matt was wrong and she shouldn't and wouldn't excuse him for it. But she didn't have words, so she didn't try to give him any. Instead, Claire rested her head against his and pressed her hand against his face. Words went far with Matt, but actions went so much farther.

They did not speak after that. Claire was still dying to ask her questions, dying to know what blackened secrets Matt held so close to his chest, but they had earned silence just then, not secrets. Those would come later.

Matt finished his tea quickly, setting it aside before Claire was halfway through with hers. He didn't say anything, simply nuzzled into her further. When Claire finished her tea, he mumbled, "Are you gonna stay?"

"I think that's a good idea." She ran her thumb over his cheek. "You ready for bed?" she whispered. He grunted low in his throat, but didn't move.

"Come on," she said, putting her mug down and picking his arms away from her. "Time to sleep."

She helped him up and they carried their mugs to the sink and turned off the lights. Matt kept his eyes down as they walked, his fingers finding the hem of her shirt. It was the slightest touch, not even a pinch of the fabric, really, something unobtrusive to either stay close or be closer to her.

Claire didn't comment as she grabbed her bag and walked him to the bedroom. Matt let go and drifted to the perfectly made bed. His hair flopped low over his forehead, making him look both young and woefully disheveled, like the thing that kept him clinically neat had broken.

"I'm gonna change real quick, okay?" she asked. He sat down on the corner and gave a heavy nod.

Claire stepped closer, edging into the space between his spread legs. She brushed the hair back from his forehead, making him both tilt his head up at her and lean his face into her hand.

"We can go to bed when I'm done, okay?"

"Okay," he said, the word barely making a sound. Claire smiled and kissed his forehead.

She walked to the bathroom and changed fast, then washed off her makeup. It wasn't like Matt was going to care about any smudges under her eyes, but something about the moment, that whole night, really, demanded that she go through all the steps, take all the care that she was supposed to.

She studied her face as she brushed her teeth. She looked tired, but she could handle this. She'd done worse. She had always done worse.

Claire left the bathroom to find Matt in the same place.

"Still here?" she asked, setting her bag down by the nightstand. Matt tracked her as she came closer, head turning to follow her with that same exhausted, hollow look as before.

She stopped in front of him again. Claire considered him a long moment, then asked, "What's the matter, Matt?"

He swallowed and turned his head away. Claire let out another breath. She put her hands on his shoulders.

"Do I at least get a good night kiss?" she asked, choosing to not count his frantic kisses from earlier.

Matt's mouth twitched into something like a smile. "You're not afraid I might do something indecent?"

"If you do, I'll put salt in your coffee tomorrow."

He cracked a full smile and put his hand on her hip. For a moment, his expression looked lost, his fingertips tracing tiny circles into the soft fabric of her pajama pants. Then he pulled her into a hug, his face hidden against her stomach.

Claire blinked at him, then shifted her hands to his back. She rubbed circles of her own into his shoulders, praying that she was doing right, that she wasn't making completely the wrong choice.

"It's just been…a real shitty night," Matt muttered.

Claire fought not to let her circles slow. Matt was quiet for another long pause, his hands tightening into fists against her back.

"There's this gang I've been fighting, and they keep holding out and tonight I found they weren't just into drugs, they were also sex trafficking, and—" The words caught in his throat for a moment before "They had kids."

Claire closed her eyes. "Did you stop them?"

"Yeah. But if I'd been serious about stopping them sooner—" He cut himself off, jaw working against the words. "Never mind, never mind you don't need to hear it."

"Does talking about it help?"

"I don't know." The words were too flat for her to tell if he was lying.

He let out a slow breath.

"Just—just stay here with me. I don't—I don't wanna feel lonely right now."

"Okay," Claire whispered. She put her hand on his hair, then smoothed it back to tilt his face up to hers. "Let's get to bed, let this day end."

Matt gazed blankly up at her for a long moment, then turned his head into her hand. He held her wrist as he kissed it, eyebrows furrowing in something between torment and adoration.

It reminded Claire of the first time he'd kissed her wrist, after they had agreed to date for real. The gesture had unsettled her then, unsure as she was about what it meant. Now, she had the growing feeling that it meant all the love, sorrow, and promises Matt could give, if he only let himself.

Matt stood up and walked to the other side of the bed. He didn't take off his sweats, just climbed right into bed. Claire made a quick detour to turn off the lights, then got in beside him. She shivered slightly at the cold fabric, then Matt was there, curled up tight against her. Claire closed her eyes as his arm pulled her closer, their bodies pressed together perfectly.

"Thank you for coming," he whispered, the most he could say about the squalling thoughts in his head.

Her hand settled over his, fingers lacing together. Matt's breath ruffled her hair. Every one of his muscles was taut for at first, then he relaxed into her.

Claire had thought a lot about Matt since she had decided or maybe realized she couldn't untangle her heart from him. Matt was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, he stalked crime and doled out punishment with almost zealous fervor. There was a fire in his blood he couldn't quite control, an anger than fueled every self-righteous step. The dark reality of it all was that she would suffer for it. Claire's soul may have demanded justice, but her heart screamed at pain, no matter whose it was. Someday, they both would have to reconcile Matt being the vengeful angel of Hell's Kitchen. They would have to reconcile Matt covering up his deeper wounds with this frantic need to prove he was worth something by saving everything.

But that wasn't today. Today, he wasn't battling for the city's soul or his own. Today, he—they were just trying to go to sleep.

AN I've been kicking around this bush for eons, but I'm glad I can finally openly address some of Matt's habits. I've talked about him connecting best with people on a physical level, but I think physical intimacy has turned into a bandaid for all of the problems he's facing. It's an easy short cut to feeling better, and that's something he and Claire are going to have to work past together.