Chapter Text
“Uh…Matt?”
It’s not panic in Foggy’s voice. Not exactly. The tone is awfully familiar though, even if Matt can’t place it. Whatever it is though is enough to make him hesitate before eating another French fry.
“What?”
“You and Nurse McBurner Phone –”
“Claire.” Just saying her name is enough to make the scar she’d left behind ache, though the pain is duller than it used to be. “Her name’s Claire. What about her?” They haven’t spoken face to face in months. Not since he’d dropped in to check on her after that…weirdness…had gone down at Metro General. She’d gone from guarded to nearly hostile as he’d asked her for information about what’d happened. Had eventually treated him to a scathing rant about “vigi-loonies” who are not actually impervious to injury no matter what else they might be able to do that the average Joe can’t –
“Uh…are you guys still pretending the other doesn’t exist when the sun is up?”
“That’s not what happened.” Her rant had been enough for him to deduce that her sense of compassion had once again won out against her more sensible pragmatism and she was probably up to her eyeballs in whatever had happened. Not that she’d admitted to anything when he pressed. And she might have gotten a little offended when he’d implied that she might be the one with less than stellar self-preservation instincts…
“Fine. You were a overprotective jerk and she dumped your ass –”
“That’s not what happened either –”
“ – but what I need to know is if it’s rude to pretend I don’t see her, or if blissful ignorance would be easier on everybody.”
Marci-panic. That’s what the tone is. And suddenly Matt knows what’s going to happen, even before the door opens and stirs a cold breeze through the small space. He can smell her ever so faintly – that distinct scent of disinfectants and cocoa butter, overlaid by the slightest trace of…roses.
He wonders who’s sending her roses, then shakes his head. None of his business.
“Matt?”
Foggy’s voice is so low that even his super-hearing has a hard time with it.
“Up to her.” He still feels like he unfairly dragged her into a world that…well, according to the news, no one is equipped to handle. And really, she’s done so with a hell of a lot more grace than most of the current world leaders. But Claire maintains that everything, from digging him out of a dumpster to whatever it is that happened that she won’t tell him about, has been her choice. She’s the one who chose to get involved, who keeps choosing to get involved (and why won’t anyone give her a break by just staying in the bed she put them in for five goddamned minutes).
He understands some of Foggy’s frustration now, about how close-mouthed Claire can be. She keeps the secrets of those she helps.
For a moment his heart races with…something. Things he doesn’t want to examine too closely or try to name. But Claire is…she is still everything that calls to him, a strength that calls to every weakness in him.
He tries not to overhear, tries to give back the privacy she keeps for so many others, but the café is small and the waitress behind the counter doesn’t keep her voice down.
“Don’t tell me you’re back for more. How many servings of rice pudding does that make?”
Claire’s laugh is exhausted, but genuine. “Too many. And not yet. The pain killers have worn off enough that we’re going to try something more substantial.” Matt’s hand tightens around his bottle of water. What’s wrong that she’s been on pain killers? And if she is, then why is she here, so far from her apartment?
“Her regular then? Greek omlette and a V8?”
“Yeah. Might even bring her down tomorrow to order for herself.”
“Well, we’d love to see her. Now, what about you?”
Matt deliberately focuses his attention elsewhere. Whatever is going on, it’s not Claire who’s hurt or recovering. And someone is making sure she’s taking care of herself.
His determined silence must become awkward, because Foggy starts filling it.
“Karen wants to get a tree for the office.”
The drastic change in topic catches him off guard. “Like…a potted tree?"
“No. Like a Christmas tree, dude.”
“Okay.” Claire sits at the bar, presumably waiting on her order. Her heartbeat is steady. “Does that mean she’s thinking about getting one, or that there’s going to be one there when we get back?”
“I don’t think she’s going to get it up the stairs by herself, but…probably closer to the latter. Which is totally not fair. You get that, right?”
“…no?” Christmas trees just are. He can’t think of any inherent fair or not fairness to them.
“Well I do. Because who’s going to be expected to help – and by help, I mean do most of the heavy lifting required – get this tree up the stairs? Not the blind judo master, that’s for sure.”
Matt ducks his head to hide a smile. “Sure must suck, being able to see where you’re going and all.”
“I’d hit you. I really would, except you’d probably let me and then all these people would see me hit a blind man. Which makes me the bad guy. Oh. Looks like we’ve been made.”
“What?”
“Uh, not actually sure yet. She made eye contact, but looked away. You know, she looks even more tired than you usually do.”
He swallows hard, tries not to think of how many other late night callers she might be getting. “That’s because she works harder than I do.”
“Now there’s a terrifying thought.”
“Yeah.” Because whatever she was getting into with her other side patients is probably at least as dangerous as anything he’d ever involved her in.
“She’s looking over here again. I’m starting to feel awkward. Like I should go use the head and give her a chance to come over here and say whatever’s on her mind.”
“Is she looking over here because you’re staring at her?” Matt suggests.
“Naw. You’re the only one who can hear me freaking out.”
That makes Matt laugh, despite the slight ache in his chest and the tension in his shoulders. “Why are you freaking out?”
“Because I’m an excellent wingman.”
“I don’t disagree, but I don’t think your services are needed right now.”
Which is, of course, when he feels Claire come up behind him.
“Hi, Claire!”
Matt doesn’t know if it’s awkwardness or surprise at the enthusiasm in Foggy’s greeting that makes her pause before answering, but there’s quite a delay before she says, “Hello.” She sounds…bemused. “I hate to interrupt, but…” She takes a deep breath and huffs it back out like she’s impatient. Or nervous. “Matt, can I steal you away for a moment?”
“Uhh…” This is the last thing he’d expected, but Claire asks for so little and gives so much that he’s halfway out of the booth before he says, “Sure.”
“Thanks.” She backs up enough to let him out of the booth. “Umm… Mind if we step outside?”
“Why? You planning to start something?”
She doesn’t laugh but her breath stutters like she’s hiding one. Which is about a thousand times better than the last time they spoke. So he follows her outside, even though it’s cold enough to make him wish for his coat.
Claire thinks it’s cold too. She turns her back to the wind and crosses her arms over her chest. Holds tight. Scuffs her feet. Or maybe she’s not cold. Maybe something’s…
“Is something wrong?”
“What?” She sounds…distracted. “No. I mean, yes.”
“What is it? Who’s been hurt?”
“What?” This time the word comes out a little sharper, like she’s finally paying attention.
“I heard you say something about painkillers and you smell like roses.”
She sighs, uncurls enough to tuck some hair behind her ear. Or at least that’s what he assumes the motion is. “I should’ve known you’d overheard that.” Her head shakes slowly. “No one’s hurt. Not the way you mean it.”
“Foggy says you look tired.”
“Does he.” Now she sounds almost amused. “Are you going to let this go?”
No. He needs to know… She has to be safe. Which means the people around her need to be kept safe because Claire takes risks for the people she cares about. Not that he knows how to say that. The last time he’d expressed his concern for her he’d gotten a tongue-lashing.
She must correctly interpret the look on his face. “Matt, it’s nothing. My mom had hip replacement surgery. I’m helping her out for a few days.”
He hadn’t realized how tense he’d gotten until the tightness in his chest eases. Nothing Claire’s involved with has circled back to her. (Yet.) “What’s wrong then?”
“I, um…” She’s nervous. He can hear her heart stutter before speeding up. Can hear her palms rub over her denim-clad thighs. “I wanted to apologize.”
The words are so different than anything he was expecting that the rest of the world disappears for a moment, his senses fuzzing out completely in surprise before fading back in slowly. Claire still sounds worried, but she hasn’t moved. Isn’t fidgeting. She’s committed to seeing this through.
He wets his lips, nervous himself, and asks, “For what?”
“The last time we spoke I was…unfair. I was already angry over other things and I took more than your fair share of it out on you. You didn’t deserve half of what I said, and I’m sorry.”
“Uh…” He should say something – anything – in acknowledgement. In fact, whatever it is that he should be saying should also be articulate and clever and just the right amount of distant. She doesn’t need to know about his own temper, about the anger that erupts as destructively as any volcano but without as many warning signs. (She has to know already. She’s seen him in action. Hell, he’s felt the tightly controlled quiver of her own rage in fingertips pressed against the ridge of his eye socket.) (She doesn’t just call to his weaknesses; he thinks there’s times she vibrates at the same painful intensity he does.)
But better she know about his temper than that she ever find out just how deeply he’d internalized her words. Just like he always does. (He’s disappointed so many people.) (Every one of them is like a wound that never completely heals no matter what he does.)
He’s silent for too long. The space around them feels awkward in a way it rarely has. Claire sighs, the sound somehow heavy and hopeless. “Anyway, I just thought you should know. In case you thought I was still angry. Or something.”
Her body shifts, starts to pivot, and he realizes she’s leaving and he’s done nothing but make her think he’s holding some kind of grudge which is so far from the truth that she should know better because she’s always seemed to intuitively understand him in ways he should be uncomfortable with but he secretly cherishes because if she understands him then maybe he’s not so (alone) (broken) (lost) (past saving) (separate) as those old wounds tell him –
He reaches out and halts her with just the merest brush of his fingers against her arm. “You weren’t wrong.” Maybe she’d been as unfair with him as she seems to believe (not that it matters) but she hadn’t been wrong.
“That doesn’t mean I can –”
He shakes his head, fingers greedily clutching a little more (and a little more) of her body-warm jacket. Keeping her in place for just another moment.
“We ask too much of you.” He says it like the confession it is and includes the nameless person (or persons) she’s decided to help without the least bit of guilt. “And we’re not there to face any of the consequences.”
“You’re helping people.” And it’s not a disagreement, but God help him, he can hear the utter sincerity in her voice. The conviction that leads her out onto limbs she shouldn’t have to face.
“You’re helping people,” he murmurs. “We’re just trying to…make a fraction of the difference you do.”
He doesn’t know what she’s thinking. Can’t even hazard a guess. But she suddenly (heart-breakingly) feels in tune with him again.
“You know my opinion on that.” Her voice is dry. Wry. Fond even. (But then whether or not she likes him has never been the problem.)
You’re the man this city needs. But I think you’re also the man this city created.
The divide that exists between them gapes at their feet, insurmountable as ever. Then her hand covers his, her fingers chilly and work-roughened in a way that sets his nerves tingling in helpless (hopeless) awareness.
“I do.” If Claire is the best of Hell’s Kitchen, all its faults and joys and humanity personified, then Matt can’t help but want to live up to her expectations. (Or beyond them, as the case may be.)
They stand in silence for a few more seconds before she squeezes his hand and steps back. “Take care of yourself, Matt.”
“You too, Claire.”
She goes back inside and, safely alone, he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. The cold air burns in his throat, a minor distraction compared to the way he always feels flattened by Claire’s particular brand of emotional vulnerability. The whole thing is just…
Shit.
Still, he can’t quite suppress the smile that steals across his face.
“Good talk?’ Foggy asks when he sits down at the table again. His fries are cold by now, and Matt fiddles with them while he thinks about his answer.
“Yeah, actually.” Despite the lingering pain it had been. At least he knows Claire probably won’t be mad at him if she catches him doing some extra sweeps around her apartment. (Since that’s about all he can offer her.)
“Got everything cleared up?”
“Foggy…”
“I know. It’s not like that. It’s times like this that I actually believe that you might be blind.”
“…I am?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
Matt shakes his head and tries not to listen in on the conversation Claire’s having with the woman behind the counter. Or at least tries not to seem like he’s listening in. Since her conversation sounds remarkably like his own…
“You know, I’ve got that mistletoe hanging up out there for a reason.”
“First of all, you have plastic mistletoe hanging up out there,” Claire says wryly. “So it doesn’t exactly count. Secondly…you will not mention my lack of a love life to my mother since I have finally gotten her off of that topic. If I have to hear the word ‘grandchildren’ one more time…”