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Matt tries for the window and misses, doubles over, feels the blood ooze. He wears the smell of copper like a second skin. With confusion, he realizes that his hands are shaking. He can handle cuts, and the knife barely touched him. This is – something different. Blood shouldn't ooze like this. Another smell under the copper, something dizzy and sickly sweet. Poison is crackling out from the wound, burning through his veins. His face is hot – the cowl is too much. It grates over his face. Matt wrenches it off and slumps against the cool glass.
Time compresses and stretches back out again. The window opens, and he just manages not to fall over.
“Just creeping on my fire escape now?” Claire's voice is light and teasing. He tries to answer, but a only a groan escapes him and he feels her body tense. “Shit. Come on.”
Between the two of them, he gets in the apartment and sinks into the couch. Her voice fades in and out. The apartment is washing over him. Thai takeout, now sitting in the fridge. Sandalwood incense. Her tea tree shampoo. Most homes are overwhelming, an aggressive catalog of days piled on top of themselves. She is different. He's known it from that first feverish night.
“-att. Matt!”
“Hmm?”
Claire is bending over him, frustration and worry in the timbre of her voice.
“I'm sorry. I think-” he shifts and groans, clenching his fists to try and stop the shaking. “Poison. Not lethal. Just...annoying.” A spasm wracks him and Matt's fingernails dig so deeply into his palm that he can feel the pinpricks of blood.
Claire sighs, and not the exasperated sigh that she makes when she wants him to hear it. “Just hold on.”
Matt leans back. Somewhere, his eyes close and he is cradled in light sleep.
*
When he blinks back into consciousness, something damp is sitting on his forehead. He sets the washcloth down beside him and takes stock of his body. He feels like shit, but grounded. More in control. The cut aches like a normal cut and he's still a little dizzy, but he's spent a lot of time smiling through that. People tend to give him a pass for bumping into things.
“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Claire says. She sounds tired. Coffee, fresh, wafts from the mug in her hands. Matt feels a stab of guilt for keeping her up, but guilt is practically his birthright. He pushes it aside and slowly, slowly, angles himself into a sitting position. “You were right,” she continues. “Not lethal. I wasn't sure for a while, but it made its way out. Someone just wanted to fuck with you.”
“Makes the kill easier.” Matt fingers experimentally at the bandage and winces.
“Don't touch it!” she cries, then huffs. “I don't know why I bother.” She pauses, then slaps a hand on her leg and laughs. “Oh, right. The shirtless thing.”
“Miss Temple,” he grins. “Are you only using me for my body?”
“Mmm. If you haven't figured that out by now, it's a good thing you're pretty.”
Matt chuckles, which is painful, but worth it.
“So, I'm curious. What kind of person walks around Hell's Kitchen with a poison knife? A ninja?”
“There has been an uptick in the ninja population.”
“Mmm. Your life.” Her chair creaks as she leans back. “I think you'll make it. Want coffee?” Matt feels her shifting to get up, and his hand shoots out without thinking. He curls his fingers around her wrist, feels the weight of her careful, slender fingers.
“Matt,” Claire says. Not a warning. Just sad.
“Let's just – I know. I know. Just -” he shudders, but doesn't let go.
“I know,” she murmurs. “I know.”
The moment sits, soft and quiet. There are only breathing and heartbeats, with sounds of the city bleeding through the walls. He will always - always respect her wishes. But she has carved out a piece of him he can't get back. She owns it with her laugh and the brush of her hair against his shoulder while she works.
“Claire."
"Yeah, Matt."
Somewhere, a woman screams. Loud enough for Claire to turn towards the window. Matt swallows down the lump in his throat. Another time, maybe. He squeezes her hand and rises unsteadily to his feet.
The night doesn't stop for moments.