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Matt’s friend shows up on a Tuesday.
Claire's her on break, sitting in a grungy but quiet stairwell with a granola bar and a bottle of water, avoiding the third floor staff lounge and all the weird microwave smells and meaningless conversations waiting within. He’s tracked her down. She wonders who he asked, what he said. Not that it matters; with that combination of kindness, concern, and sincerity on his face, pretty much anyone would've been soft enough to have given her away.
But these thoughts are extraneous, secondary to the matter at hand. They flash through her mind in the seconds before Matt’s friend - Foggy, his name is Foggy - says, “Hey. Got a minute?”
Claire’s folded the granola bar up its wrapper already. Neatly, calmly. Overreaction rarely serves well in any crisis. Her voice is even when she asks, “Where is he? Downstairs? Outside?”
Foggy’s brow creases, then straightens. “No, no! He's at the office. It's nothing like that.”
A Matt outside your direct line of sight is a Matt who might be anywhere, Claire thinks. She unwraps her lunch-slash-snack again. “Then yeah, but a minute is about all I have.”
When she gestures to the step beside her, he squeezes in. Foggy’s not a small guy, and these are close quarters; their shoulders brush. Claire says, “You told him you were coming by, right? You know he'll be able to smell me on you now.”
Foggy opens his mouth for a silent beat, looking shocked and begrudgingly impressed. “You waited to say that until after I sat down on purpose, didn't you?”
A shrug. It means of course, and Foggy looks like he gets it. He’s got such a transparent face, she remembers thinking the same thing the night they met; Claire doesn’t quite know how to live like that herself, but she can appreciate it. It’s refreshing.
“I was going to tell him I had a doctor’s appointment, figured that would cover the -” Foggy waves a hand - “eau de medicine.”
She snorts. “Like his protective ass was just gonna let “doctor’s appointment” go on by anyway.”
“Ah, man, you're right! That would’ve taken us down the road of him hyper-managing my salt intake and blood pressure, wouldn’t it, and that’s a sad, sad road, with not enough french fries on it.” He says this with a laugh, and it’s a nice one, the warm kind that makes it easy to join in, but -
“Clock’s ticking,” Claire says. “Gonna tell me what this is about?”
That clearly requires a struggle. He lifts a hand, drops it back down to his knee, sighs. “You lawyers,” she says. “You're used to having a captive audience to make your points to, aren't you? Tougher when you have to respect other people's time, right?”
Foggy makes a pained face. “Boundaries. I'm trying to - okay, respect your boundaries wouldn’t actually be a fair statement, since I'm about to step all over them, but I'd like to do that lightly, at least. Tiptoe, can you let me tiptoe, Claire?”
She spreads her hands. “You wanna spend the five minutes I've got left tiptoeing, go for it. Tiptoe your heart out.”
The mix of determination and discomfort he’s displaying is truly impressive. And deserved. If he's not here about Matt’s physical well-being there's really only one other option, and damn right he should feel uncomfortable poking his face in there.
She can admit that it’s nice to know Matt’s got somebody that far into his corner, though. Because yeah. It is.
“When I found out about Matt,” Foggy finally begins, voice pitched low, “when it all - I walked out the door. And I - okay, no one could have seen the blind vigilante thing coming. I defy anyone to predict that plot twist. But the way things went after - I should've. That’s on me. I know Matt Murdock in ways only two guys who share an eight by ten room for years possibly can. I've heard all the dumb heartbreaking shit that comes out of his mouth when he forgets people might be paying attention, and I should have known.”
“Three minutes,” Claire says. “If you're working up to “he went out and got himself beat up even more than usual because he has self-flagellation issues” and implying that's the sort of thing I should feel responsible for too, I'm not sure it's the best use of your time.”
She thinks it's kind of shitty, actually.
Foggy shakes his head. “No, I wouldn’t - I didn’t mean -” He draws a deep breath. “I guess my point is, I should’ve known he’d be a world champion at just,” he opens both hands, “letting people go. Not because he wants to be. Life's given him a lot of practice, you know?”
“If he’s so good at it,” Claire says carefully, “then why are you here?”
“Look, I can’t say too much without breaking all the rules of the bro code, but you must’ve seen the sad little snail look before.” Foggy hunches his back, demonstrating. “There’s been an uncomfortable amount of that lately. Also, he may have jumped out my window the last time I suggested calling you. Literally,” he does an up-and-over motion with his arm while mouthing a silent wheeeee.
“Flattering,” she says. “You probably should've quit after the first half of that.”
He lifts his shoulders. “Eh, details make a case, right? And you believed that one.” He's not wrong. She can picture Matt vaulting out that window pretty clearly. “Anyway. If I didn't see that coming, and I should have, I thought, you know, you might not have either. That you might… maybe you said something. Something you meant, something you can't even necessarily be sorry for, but… that doesn’t mean you were prepared for the reaction you got.”
A number of responses war within her; the one that comes out is, “Jesus, you’re just like him, aren’t you? Think it’s on you to iron out every wrinkle of unhappiness in this city?”
“Just like is a strong statement,” Foggy says, smiling, and hell if it isn't as inviting as his laugh - she’s mirroring it before she even realizes it. “I mean, you'll never see me depriving the good people of New York of this,” he gestures to his face. “Day or night, I know what they want. I know what they deserve.”
Now Claire’s laughing. She likes this guy, she honest to God does. Not just because he's clearly devoted to Matt, but because of the way his eyes are flickering over her right now, soft and assessing. Not like he's trying to see if he's scored enough of a hit, won his case. But like his attention had been caught by the word unhappiness, and now he's searching her gently, wondering if there's any way he can help her.
That night when she'd desperately been trying hold Matt’s body and soul together, Foggy had stepped up. He takes orders well. Not that it matters in this particular situation, but it's something Claire appreciates.
He's warmed her up enough that Claire finds herself saying, “When you… not give an ultimatum, exactly, but....” She sighs. “When you're saying the words, even if you don't mean it as a power play, just saying what's on your heart, you still feel powerful, you know? In charge. Right up until the last one falls out of your mouth.”
He knows. Christ, one look in his eyes and she can see how well he knows. Quietly, he says, “Then you realize you turned over all that power to someone else.”
Yeah.
Claire usually tries not to do that.
“One more thing, before I tiptoe my way out of here.” Foggy jerks his thumb towards the door, grinning, encouraging her to grin too, to picture him actually, physically on his tippy-toes. “Say you close a door behind yourself. You might think, I might think, it would have a knob on it that would work from the other side. That anyone left over there could choose to walk through whenever they wanted….”
But Matt Murdock doesn't look for knobs. He leaves doors closed, and throws himself out of windows.
*
It's almost noon. Very late by fish market standards, where all the best action happens before dawn. No prize bluefin for Foggy today; only the saddest fish steaks and scrawniest clams are left on ice in the cases, but all he's really after is a chance to soak up the aroma.
He heads up one aisle and down the next. Under the pretense of assessing a questionable sturgeon, he lets it dribble its fishy juices onto the sleeve that’d been pinned between him and Claire as they sat in the stairwell.
His dry cleaning bill is taking one in the ass for Matt.
In the end, Foggy buys a decent-looking assortment of sushi he can call “bringing in lunch” and a sub-par sea bass that, crammed into Nelson & Murdock’s mini-fridge - or even better, left lying forgotten on top of it - should provide hours of distraction for Matt.
Foggy sniffs his sleeve and ponders Matt’s senses. Maybe he should make one more stop. Maybe it’s time Bess got a few more cigars.
*
There’s a gash in a tricky spot on Matt’s back. It would probably heal faster with a stitch or two, yes, Matt’s aware of that, but who said he was short on time? Foggy’s monologue about how nice it would be if they happened to know a friendly medical professional - oh wait! - had been frankly unnecessary, to the point that Matt had seen no reason to continue the conversation.
The cool rush of night air was its own kind of medicine as he made his descent to the street.
Sixteen hours later, the sting between his shoulder blades is bright and sharp, a more welcome companion than the dull throbbing in his sinuses. He leaves work a little early, something that's probably part guilt, part you brought this on yourself, Murdock righteous determination peppering Foggy’s heartbeat as Matt makes his apologies and heads out the door. At home he jumps straight into a hot shower, trying and somewhat succeeding in lifting layers of tobacco and fish and chemical antiseptic from his nose and throat.
He knows where Foggy’s been. What he said... that’s another matter entirely. But if Claire does come by tonight, well. She’s going to see that Matt has the situation well in hand.
That means pulling on a fresh pair of work trousers after his shower - ones that don't smell like an afternoon down at the docks - and settling down on his bed with the first aid kit.
He can certainly reach the wound if he puts the effort in. Flexibility isn't about comfort, it's about forcing your body to get the job done, and soon enough Matt's threading skin to skin.
Problem solved.
He's just slipped into a clean dress shirt and snapped the first aid kit closed when Claire enters the building. She moves softly up the stairs, feet light and quick in her athletic shoes. Matt lets her knock twice before opening the door, more to counteract the impression he’s been waiting by the door like a hopeful puppy than to hide the fact he’s tracked her every step. She knows what he can do. What he does.
“Hi,” Matt says, and God, to his ears it sounds like nothing so much as a tattered flag being jerked uselessly up a pole. “Come in. Sorry. Foggy worries. And meddles.”
“Can't disagree there.” Amusement runs through Claire’s words, a low, sweet song, and her footsteps fall neatly behind Matt’s as he makes his way toward the couch.
Shirt’s off by the time he gets there, and he drops it into his lap as he sits. He's angled so that the arm of the is couch directly in front of him, with plenty of room for Claire at his back: a familiar position. A practical one. This is how you check a wound.
Claire sighs, a gust that lifts the small hairs at the nape of his neck, and folds a leg beneath her as she settles down behind him. Matt can breathe her in properly now, clean and true, the hint of her that's been tickling his throat all day now bursting to life. She's warm, she makes the air around her warm, and that’s a gift to him whether he’s earned it or not.
The air shifts as Claire tilts her head to the left. Must be more light from the billboard for her at that angle. “Well. Looks like you’ve had New York’s finest seamstress up in here.”
“Hey, I haven’t seen anything to complain about.”
She snorts, and Matt soaks up the feeling of her breath on his skin, because he can and because her fingertips are hovering an aching inch above it. She's tracing the wound, but she's not going to touch it, and it becomes clear that she isn't going to touch him anywhere else, either, when her palms hit her thighs with a hollow slap.
She knows what she's going to say. She knew before she walked in the door. There's surety in her heartbeat; for Matt, there's some comfort in that. She knows, even though he doesn't - he doesn't - he doesn't -
“I know you can cook a decent breakfast,” Claire says. “What do you do for dinner?”
Matt's tongue goes thick. “I. I can roast a mean chicken when I have a chicken. But tonight - pizza? Thai?”
“Uh-huh. And do you ever eat outside your apartment?”
“Ah, the, the pizza place is a sit-down joint? There are booths. Salad bar.”
“Mm. Sounds like something I could go for.”
Claire’s heartbeat is lost to him now, buried beneath the sudden staccato of his own. He’s as surprised and confused as she is steady and sure, but Matt says, “We’ll need an umbrella, storm’s coming,” and slips back into his shirt.
Shoes, wallet, phone, keys. A minute in the bathroom to slap a gauze pad over his handiwork; bleeding through the back of his shirt at dinner would probably be bad form. The umbrella, small enough to fit in a pocket. His cane.
Down on the street, Claire doesn’t offer her arm, and Matt doesn’t ask for it. He swings his cane, and with each hollow tap finds himself feeling more and more unsettled. Claire’s never seen him like this, without his abilities. Like the man the rest of the world sees. It's the first time he's performed the lie for her, made her party to the transgression -
But of course that's not it. The lie is necessary, and Claire is one to understand practicalities. Is it that he likes showing off for her a little too much? Is that part of what she is to him - an audience? And what does it say about him, about them, if that’s true?
They make it to the restaurant before the rain hits, but he can smell it, tangy and ozone-thick, waiting in the air. “Please seat yourself,” Claire says as they stand in the entryway, clearly quoting a sign. “Let me guess, booth with your back to the wall? Ear to the door?”
Matt laughs. “In perfect world, yes.”
He’s been here numerous times, but only to the takeout counter. Matt’s never experienced the seating or the service. The booths turn out to be hard as a church pew, refreshingly clean without porous vinyl cushions to accumulate layers of grunge, and high-backed, funneling loud sounds up towards the ceiling and keeping soft ones close and private. The service teeters just on the friendly side of ruthlessly efficient, which is how Matt likes it. He has a feeling it’s the same for Claire.
Two beers on the table, a pizza order placed. “Salad bar’s around the corner,” Matt says, gesturing to where the crisp fresh smell of vegetables cuts through the permeating heaviness of garlic and cheese. “If that’s what sold you on the place.”
Claire shakes her head, hair rustling over her shoulders. She’s wearing some sort of thin hoodie, Matt thinks. Rayon. A cotton tank underneath. That’s easy.
Knowing what’s in her head….
Is it that she wanted to see him like this? Dressed up, civilized, just a man out to dinner with a woman. Button down shirt open at the collar, watch on his wrist, glasses perched on his nose. Talking to waitresses. Folding a napkin in his lap.
No, that doesn’t feel right. Claire has never seemed like the type to deal in illusions, and that's what it would be. Matt's not a different person just because he's having another guy’s night.
Still, he pushes it. That's pretty much what he knows how to do. “Did Foggy tell you he was going to the fish market? After he left you.” Claire laughs, the sound rolling deep in her throat. “It's true. Somehow he decided that to - to cover you up, a cocktail of sturgeon and sea bass was the only solution.”
She leans in. He hears the thunk of her elbows as they hit the table. “But you would know me anywhere?”
Simple truths. “Yeah. I would.” Coconut oil and nitrite residue and the soft musk of her skin.
Maybe she smiles, maybe she doesn’t; he can’t be sure. She wasn't surprised by his answer, he knows that much, because her heart thumps steadily on. But Matt’s glad he said the words anyway. It’s the kind of confession this booth was made for.
The pizza comes. Roasted peppers and mushrooms on his side, pepperoni and mushroom on hers. The first bite is oiler than Matt usually cares for, a legacy of her pepperoni, but he doesn't mind. This is what pizza tastes like with Claire.
Is this night just some kind of attempt to force him off balance? That doesn't feel like Claire either. Still. It's working.
“So,” Matt begins, pausing to knock back a swallow of beer. “Are you going to tell me what Foggy had to say?”
“Nope,” she says cheerily, the word bending around the slice she’s lifting to her mouth.
Matt could guess, of course, and maybe even guess well, considering how well he knows Foggy; to begin with, there’s no way Foggy would bother hiding his determination to get Matt medical care behind seafood. He’d wear that badge proudly and dare Matt to take it off. So Matt knows the path his questioning would take, and he’d know when he'd guessed right - Claire’s body would tell him. Heartbeat. Breathing. The sudden stiffening of her spine.
But she'd know exactly what he was doing. And this new thing - pizza with Claire - it could end that quickly. Maybe it should, for her sake. But he can’t quite bring himself to cut it off at the knees.
“But I will tell you this,” Claire says, when they’ve sat in silence long enough for her to deposit pizza crust tidily at the side of her plate. “I thought I knew who you were before I ever met you. All those nights in the E.R., my hands in blood and tissue and cracked bones. Your splatter pattern. I had... I had a picture.” She pauses. “The reverse image of the one your friend had, probably.”
“And, what. Tonight you're trying to fill in the rest?”
“Mm. No.”
Matt tries to breathe. He takes a drink, rather than let himself than say anything else. He is, and he knows this is an understatement, not a fan of being lost.
“I’ve seen the rest,” she says, a little gently, like she thinks gentleness is what he needs. “And then I flinched because you were so angry, and I flinched because you were so driven, but. What did I expect?”
“You didn't expect the devil. He's worth a flinch.”
“Careful,” Claire says. “Those ears of yours might be going. You’re hearing words I didn't say.”
“You didn't have to,” he says, much as she did to him once. Right before she walked out the door. “There's truth in names.”
Claire sighs, dropping her head back, looking heavenward, probably, before shaking it hard. She picks up her beer bottle, her short, neatly-trimmed fingernails clinking against the glass. Matt thinks about how she hasn’t touched him. Not once the entire night.
He picks at that wound, because it feels like that’s what it's for. Slips his hand across the table to come to a rest inches from hers, hovering in empty air, air that she’s warmed by her presence.
She knew him from the blood he’d spilt. When he lay on her couch, before he even swam into consciousness, he knew her by her hands.
“Matt,” Claire says, and crosses that final distance, gripping his fingers. A choked noise tears out of him; he can’t stop it. He holds on. “Matt,” she repeats, “oh my God, the first thing you did tonight was try to prove to me how much you didn’t need - Oh my God.”
This last in a tone of wonderment: whether it’s for him, herself, or them both, Matt can’t say. He’s glad he’s wearing his glasses. He’s glad their waitress is far too busy being efficient in clearing away another booth to pause to observe their little drama.
He’s glad, God, pathetically glad Claire’s touching him now. Claire separate from her body just isn't Claire.
“You don’t need to know what Foggy said,” she says finally, quietly, the words held close between them within the walls of the booth. “Because you know the most important thing. The lengths he went to to say it. And even before I knew about the fish market,” a laugh escapes her, and Matt echoes it, shakily, “just knowing that he would do that, that he was there, caring for you, looking out for you, I felt - lighter. Just so much lighter.” Claire squeezes his hand. “I felt like dinner.”
“Do you think.” Matt clears his throat. “Do you think you'll feel like it again?”
“I did hear you roast a mean chicken,” Claire says, soft and teasing and true. The words curl through Matt's chest with the beat of her heart and the touch of her hand, and this, this is how he knows her smile.
The skies open before their meal ends; Matt hears the rain pelting the pavement, echoing off cars, rushing through metal grates down into the sewers. They finish their pizza, they finish their beers, they pay the check and tell the waitress to keep the change.
At the door, Matt folds up his cane and raises the umbrella over them both. His hand fits neatly in the crook of Claire's elbow, and he was right about her hoodie - it’s synthetic, probably sheer, and too flimsy to be any protection against the storm. But he’s handling that.
They step out into the night, and the door swings shut behind them. Claire leads them forward.