Chapter Text
Claire has had a long day. Most of her days feel long, lately, and she's been out of the city and back but her fingers still twitch for a bat that she won't allow herself to carry in broad daylight.
She's been busy, and she's tired, and there is an injured vigilante flailing around on her couch.
Injured vigilante on the couch – okay, fine, she shouldn't be used to that but she really is. The flailing is new, and worrying, and at this point if she gets hit in the face she can't promise she isn't going to hit back(do no harm, do no harm, do no harm, she recites, compassion, compassion, compassion).
“Matt," she hisses, heart pounding, trying to keep at least one ear attuned to her surroundings because neighbors, "Matt, I need to know where the blood is coming from! Matt!” She's just off a double shift and it's frankly a miracle she hasn't slipped and whispered, MIKE!
He's hyperventilating, exhaling gasps and sobs and getting hardly any air back in, but he's still moving, aggravating any wounds he might have and running a real risk of punching her or himself with very, very strong fists. At least she managed to get his gloves off. His very, very hard gloves.
His gloves are off.
She has an idea.
She bought ten stuffed animals last month for a toy drive at the hospital. One fell out of the box and has been living on her bookshelf ever since, and she risks leaving Matt's side long enough to grab it.
It's a bear, brand new and soft, a little understuffed and a little smaller than a throw pillow, and she shoves it into Matt's hands and says, “Hold this for me, will you?”
Matt stops flailing, keeps shaking, unclenches one fist just far enough to grab the bear by a leg. Claire takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, waiting. Hoping.
“Claire.” Matt's voice is hoarse and he is still breathing wrong. “Claire. Sorry. Panicked. It's – My shoulder, right shoulder, knife went through the armor, must've... been a bad angle. I don't – know why I – I'm sorry, I didn't –”
“Sh.” Claire peers at his shoulder, sees the tear in the suit now that she can take a closer look, and, oh. Ouch. Well. Matt has never asked her to sugar-coat anything. “...I think a piece of the knife broke off in your skin.”
“I know,” he grits out. “Can you just –“
“We'll have to take the armor off,” she says.
Matt does not look or sound thrilled with this plan.
“I don't have anything that can cut this,” Claire says, patiently, and helps him sit up. “Just try to hold still, only move when I move you. I'll be careful.”
It's a slow process, but in the end, the upper armor is off, and Claire has already cut away part of Matt's undershirt when she realizes he is stretching the fingers of his left hand out for something.
She looks down. The bear is on the floor.
“Her name is Truffles,” she says, handing it back to him. “She's a teddy bear, brown with black eyes and a purple ribbon tied in a bow around her neck, and she came with the name. Keep holding still and you can take her home.”
“Hm.” Matt holds the bear well away from himself, as though worried about getting her covered in... in everything he's covered in, which, all right, Claire is going to start billing him for all the cleaning supplies this couch soaks up.
She works quietly and he offers no commentary, no complaints. When it's done, when the metal is out and disposed of and Claire has disinfected and stitched Matt's shoulder with steady hands that she decides, after this many hours awake, she is allowed to be proud of, he is still holding Truffles.
“Thank you,” he says quietly, and carefully moves his right arm – just far enough to hold the bear in both hands now. His fingers roam over the ears, slightly softer on the inside, Claire remembers, and the smooth, half-bead plastic eyes, and the soft, round nose. He finds the ribbon and toys with it. Turns his head to face Claire and cracks a smile. “...Can I really keep this?”
His voice cannot be soft, not after all his struggling and those ragged, gasping breaths. His voice is rough, but quiet, and the little of his face that she can see under the mask seems... uncertain.
He is completely serious. And possibly afraid she's going to laugh at him.
She answers completely seriously, and does not laugh at him: “You can do whatever you want. You can even sleep on my couch if you get the blood and grime and... and Hell's Kitchen off of it tomorrow. I'm going to bed.”
She wakes up to a sofa covered in drying spots of upholstery cleaner.
Vigilante and bear are noticeably absent.
“I'm getting pictures from an unknown number, Matt.”
“What–”
The panic from his end of the call makes her feel a little bad about opening with that, so she interrupts him: “Pictures of Truffles.”
“...Oh.”
“She's mostly posed on top of dangerously high surfaces, like desks, and filing cabinets. I'm worried for her safety.”
“Foggy,” Matt growls.
Claire still does not laugh. But she smiles, and hopes it comes through in her voice. “I thought so. At least you washed the blood out.”