A/N: Daredevil keeps on happening in my mind. This fic will become a four-part story with short(-ish) chapters dealing with Matt and Claire over the course of the first season. This chapter contains spoilers for the episodes "World on Fire" and "Condemned".

Disclaimer: I own nothing, Jon Snow.

For a couple of weeks now, every time the small phone tucked in her pocket has buzzed, a strange feeling of dread and joy has coursed through her. A phone call means he's alive. A phone call means he's injured. It's been a bearer of news she hasn't quite been able to identify as either good or bad. Tonight is different. The small buzz still sends shivers down her spine, but it's followed by anger.

After his cold parting words, she just stood there, frozen to the spot. You're right. You shouldn't. In a way, Claire could understand his anger, his deepseated need to go out and bring justice to those who broke the law. Their conversation the night before had been revealing, in a way. Matt felt so guilty, but she couldn't quite understand why. The evil that festered in Hell's Kitchen was not his fault.

The suffocating silence in the dark, empty apartment finally got to her. She had thought she could reach him. For a moment, an instant, a single kiss, she'd thought she could help him. Tending to his wounds was one thing. Stitches, bandaids, antiseptic… It was all easy, but Matt was battling something that no suture or butterfly bandage could force to heal. She couldn't help him if he didn't want to.

Returning to the hospital was the only thing she could come up with that might take her mind off of current circumstances. They'd need every available nurse, and if Shirley tried to send her home, she wasn't above wrestling her boss to the ground. She needed to do something.

Her rotten luck, unfortunately, seemed determined to follow her.

Shirley was no problem, but she has barely even laid out what she needed to tend to Mrs. Cardenas head wound when the familiar ring tone cuts through the air. Shit. Claire quickly excuses herself, miraculously finding the nearest stairwell empty. Afterwards, she wonders if the night would've been better if she hadn't answered.

It's like something straight out of the late night sucky actions movies she sometimes dozes off to after a long shift at the hospital. The noble doctor having to save the life of their enemy. She scoffs at those scenes. Now she's in the middle of one, technically by proxy, but still. And in the middle, they somehow still find time to be snarky. She's still angry with him, and he's, well… Matt. The seconds of hesitation are the longest in her life. Ultimately she can't let her anger stand in the way of possible justice.

At least the bastard could feel every second of the flare burning his flesh.

When he all of a sudden hangs up on her, she can't even bring herself to be angry at first. It's so typical, and they're back to square one, where he's holding all the cards. She stomps back in, shoving her way past gurneys and wheelchairs until she's back at Mrs. Cardenas' bed, testily muttering "I got this" to the nurse preparing the needle and suture. It's not her best work, and that irritates Claire even more. As soon as she's done, she instructs her co-worker on how to proceed, hastily saying goodbye to the elderly patient before moving on.

She expects him to call again, to have her play phone M.D again, or even to let her know that he is okay, if she should expect him to come stumbling home all bloodied and broken. She works through the night, her nerves on edge as she waits for the call to come, but her phone stays silent. It's not until she showering in the locker room that she hears the phone ring. Part of her wants to answer, but she ends up letting it ring. She's tired, she's angry, nothing good could come out of a conversations between the two of them now.

You have one new message: "It's me, I'm… I'm okay. Vladimir's dead."

Nothing else. Claire listens to it over and over again. It's me, I'm… I'm okay. Vladimir's dead. She listens to it until his voice sounds like nothing but garble in her tired ears. It's only then she realizes she's got nowhere to sleep tonight. Her place is trashed, her friend's place is trashed. Massaging her temples, she considers her options. Go to Matt's place, and run the risk of making things worse. Not an option. Santino… asleep. His mother would kill her. Sighing heavily, she walks across the street. There's a cheap motel just down the road, often used by patients' next of kin during long stays. It's not the Hilton, but it's a bed and no fighting waiting for her. Considering the days she's had, splurging on a room for the night sounds pretty damn justified.

The night manager doesn't bat an eye when he sees her split lip and the scar on her forehead peeking out from behind her hair. He's probably seen a lot of it, people who have lost their homes, either temporarily or permanently because of tonight's explosions. Claire signs in under a fake name, relieved to have a bit of cash on her to pay for the room. The night manager hands her the keys to her room without a second look.

The bed is a lumpy mattress with worn covers. At least the pillows are ok. But it's not the uncomfortable bed that keeps her awake. Claire's mind refuses to let go of their fight. She can't deny the fact that she wanted the moment from this morning to continue. Waking up, wearing his robe, kissing… There are worse things to aspire to. There had been something brewing between them for a while now, and their kiss seemed to confirm that they both wanted to explore that something. Then shit hit the fan. She keeps repeating the last part of their conversation, unable to get it out of her head. It's still repeating when she finally drifts off to sleep.

"I just don't think I can let myself fall in love with someone who's… so damn close to becoming what he hates."

"You're right. You shouldn't."

Maybe he's right. Maybe she shouldn't.

A/N: Make me a happy hobbit and leave a review! ^_^