3105/Matt. In 6C. (A Moment in History)

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Matt. In 6C. (A Moment in History)
Date of Scene: 26 August 2020
Location: Claire Temple's Apartment 1 Year Ago
Synopsis: Claire meets that nice lawyer boy, Matt who lives in 6C. By dragging him out of an alleyway bleeding violently and stitching his unconscious body up on her couch. It's a bonding moment.
Cast of Characters: Matthew Murdock, Claire Temple




Matthew Murdock has posed:
Matt's senses swim as he staggers through the detritus strewn alleyways of Hell's Kitchen. He'd been careless, he should have taken his time, used his senses before leaping in against the Chico Locos, he should have sensed the trap. But he didn't and the night ended with them piling on, knives, bats, one of them had a gun, but Matt had managed to disarm him before the real fun and games begin. Even without it they'd worked him over before he was able to dive out that second story window to freedom. From there it was a game of cat and mouse through Hell's Kitchen, made more complicated by the fact Matt wasn't even sure he was heading in the right direction any more.

He pauses a moment to catch his breath, feeling brick under his hands, were they the same bricks as his building? He should be able to tell, but he can't, indeed, all of his senses were getting fuzzier, his arms and legs weaker.

"No," he breathes, trying to keep going before his legs turn to wet noodles and he topples to the ground at the mouth of an alley, a man in a black mask beaten and bloody.

Claire Temple has posed:
Double shifts were never fun but often necessary in a city like this. They were always under-staffed and over-worked. But she's nearly home and that means six hours sleep before she does it again. She's got her building in sight when something catches the corner of her eye at the side of the building. She's seen bodies collapse before. Maybe she's wrong, maybe she's dreaming things, but she double times it in that direction just in case.

Soon, non-skid crocs carry that slender frame around to his side and she's staring down at a body not twenty feet from her door. "...shit. *Shit*." She hisses beneath her breath, shrugging her work duffle a bit farther across her back as she kneels down to reach for the side of his throat, expert fingertips searching for a pulse. She smells like antiseptic, feminine sweat, and hospital. That faint clinging of death and latex that always seems on the air. She exhales a breath of relief as she catches that pulse against her fingertips.

"Hey... hey. Talk to me. Can you hear me?" She states firmly, fully kneeling in the muck of the alleyway now as she sets down her bag and drags it open to pull out a pair of gloves. Once she's got those on, she starts searching his body for injuries. Making certain she can, in the very least, move him.

Matthew Murdock has posed:
A pulse thrums under Claire's fingers and when he calls out to the man in black he stirs. Matt waking to pain and then the smell of hospitals, "No, no hospital," before Claire can really begin to examine Matt's injuries, he turns over, trying to get his feet under him, though even at this range, it's clear he's taken a beating, the black shirt that covers his torso is ripped and bloody, with at least three slashing wounds Claire can see, and by the bruising on his face likely more than a bit of blunt force trauma as well. "Got to get home," he murmurs as he grips the wall and her shoulder trying to stand. "Can't go to the hospital."

Claire Temple has posed:
"You shouldn't-..." He's already standing. Claire releases a small huff of a breath but, instinctively, shifts herself to rest beneath his arm so he doesn't collapse again. She's ginger about it, not wanting to pull something worse if he's broken a bone or dislocated his shoulder, but she tries to get his arm entirely over her shoulders so she can take most of his weight. "You can't go home either, you could bleed out." She whispers fiercely, torn with indecision.

A heartbeat later, she starts to the building, having made some internal peace with herself. Or, at least figured she can stablize him from her couch. She tries to guide him inside the front doors, quick as possible. The building smells right -- like home. And in this old foyer with the traditional Manhattan tiles, her scent is something that belongs as well. She's a part of this place and always has been.

Matthew Murdock has posed:
Matt seems to take his arm over Claire's shoulders without additional injury, but it's an open question whether or not at this point if Matt is even aware they're really moving or not as they move towards the building, he definitely doesn't protest, and his body moves robotically forward under Claire's guidance.

"Won't bleed, meditation, Stick," he murmurs, seemingly incoherently as he soldiers forward.

Claire Temple has posed:
Dark eyes glance sideways at him, skepticism heavy in the air. "...I don't know if meditation really helps with internal hemmoraging and sticks certainly don't." But it's clear she's already made her decision. At least he's able to walk enough that she mainly has to guide him while only holding part of his weight. She probably couldn't have muscled him inside on her own.

And, of course, the little lift in their apartment building was out again. Granted, it was broken more often than functional, which made taking the ancient, brass gated vintage elevator a scary proposition on most days, but Claire would have taken it tonight if it wasn't out of order. So, still in her scrubs from shift, she starts her way up the stairs with him. Fortunately, she's only up one floor. She's slightly breathless with his weight, but she's carrying on, adrenaline kicking in for her third wind tonight. "Just... a few more steps. Stay with me, buddy."

Matthew Murdock has posed:
Each step was its own trial, one foot, then two, and so on. After the meditation talk Matt goes silent for awhile lost in his head. "We don't quit," he murmurs out loud. "Nothing gets done sitting on your ass," wherever Matt is now, it's not in this moment but all the same he makes those final few steps to Claire's door.

Claire Temple has posed:
Claire has heard that kind of talk before. People delirious with fevers or high on drugs. Or bloodloss and pain, in this instance. "Yes, well, healing gets done laying on it so let's try that next." She mutters beneath her breath, mainly to herself. She doesn't expect him to hear. She balances him on one shoulder as she pulls her keys out and shoves them into her door, shoving it open a moment later. Then it's into the dim, old apartment with her long, too-comfortable couch and messy coffee table.

She shoves the coffee table back and out of the way, helping him shift down onto her couch, her gloved hands guiding him down to actually laying. "Just... stay there. No more walking." And, as long as he's still breathing, she makes a dash for the bathroom. Gloves off. Hoodie off. Sleeves rolled up, hands scrubbed. Emergency kit out, fresh set of gloves on. She does everything with the speed of habit and pure muscle memory.

Matthew Murdock has posed:
Walking won't be a problem. As soon as he is vertical the man in black is out like a light, his hand drooping to the floor. In the light of the apartment his wounds are clearer to see than in the dark of the alley, a stab in his side, two slashes on his chest, a bruise on the side of his head and likely others, under the get up he's wearing including the eyeless black mask.

Claire Temple has posed:
It's barely three minutes before she's back at his side, fresh gloves and first aid supplies with her. "Hey... You still with me?" Claire swears beneath her breath as he's fully unconscious now. But maybe it'll make taking care of his wounds easier. The stab wound is the worst, fingertips probing gently around it to figure out how bad the internal hemmoraging is, but it doesn't feel lethal. She flushes it out before disinfecting. It will get a few stitches, but right now she's keeping heavy pressure on the thing while she checks his other wounds.

"I should...really call an ambulance. F*ck." Claire mutters to herself, but she still doesn't go for her phone. The slashes on his chest get well cleaned and butterfly bandages before she pulls out her stethoscope, bell placed to chest and ribs, searching for any internal damage that will push her over the edge of making that phone call.

Matthew Murdock has posed:
Stethoscope pressed to his chest, the Man in Black's breathing and heart rate seem to be steady, and what damage was done to his side, seemed to crack ribs rather than break them so thankfully nothing is likely to get punctured. As long as the stab didn't knick anything he might just make it without the hospital.

Claire Temple has posed:
As everything she can tell without more advanced machines or x-ray vision confirms he's stable, Claire just sinks back to the floor. "...Thank god..." She breathes out, staring at the unconscious stranger on her couch. She leans back a bit deeper, shoulder blades finding the edge of her coffee table as she just starts to peel off her gloves, tossing them in the neat biohazard pile she's made at the head of the couch. "Just... stay that way.. and maybe you'll make it through the night without that ambulance ride." She mutters to him, exhausted eyes pressing shut for just a few heartbeats as she drags the inside of her wrist across her forehead, brushing some cold sweat away. Adrenaline only lasts so long.

Matthew Murdock has posed:
Matt sleeps for awhile after Claire's treatments are done lost in a world of his memoires, the battle with the Chico Locos, his meeting with Skye just after speaking to Father Lathom about what he was about to do that helped cement his course, Stick and his training, Elektra, and of course his father nudging him awake at their tiny breakfast table, 'Get up Matty'.

The Man in Black sits up suddenly, breathing out sharply in pain, before his hands dart to his face, feeling to see if the mask was in place, "Where am I?" he asks, the words coming out clearer more coherent now.

Claire Temple has posed:
It's not, of course. In his sleep, Claire's done her best to clean him up. Flesh wounds, scratches on his face and all. She didn't get him in the bath or anything, she's not moved him from that couch, but his face is clean and bare as well as his chest, other than the places she's sewn and bandaged him up. She did managed to move from exhausted lean against coffee table into a curled up ball in the big chair perpendicular to the couch, so she's right next to him as he jerks forward.

"Whoa! Whoa, hay, wait... take it easy. Lay back down. I still have no clue how rough off you are." She's awake and at his side in the split of a second, one hand coming up to gently press him back to the couch with his good shoulder, the other grabbing her pen light to flash across his eyes. To double check the worriesome lack of pupil response she got before. Still nothing. "...either you are blind... or you are way worse off than I thought. But you've still got cracked ribs, not to mention a *stab* wound... You really should be in the ER."

Matthew Murdock has posed:
When Matt finds the mask gone, the attention snaps to Claire at his side, his senses taking in the whole of her, trying to assess just how much damage he'd done to himself by letting himself be seen. "It's a long story," he says about the eyes still fighting to stay up and indeed stand. "Thank you for your help but I need to get out of-"

His head swims and he sags back to the couch, letting out a frustrated sigh. He takes a moment, eyelids closing over sightless eyes, "So, who are you and did you call the cops?"

Claire Temple has posed:
"I... didn't." Claire admits, quieter than before, some of the sharp edge taken out of her voice as he's laying back down again. She just doesn't want to have to fight another patient tonight. She sinks back enough to sit on the edge of her solid coffee table, still close enough to intercept him if he tries to move without being right on top of him. She still smells like hospital, but much of it has worn off under multiple rounds of washing her hands here, a change of shirt, and simply being in her own apartment.

The space smells like her minus the hospital. Clean soap, a hint of rose oil, spicy cooking, lots of coffee. Now that he's settled, her pulse has come down to a controlled, more calm rate. Too calm for someone who has a bleeding man on her couch. She's exhausted and use to crisis situations. "You need to lay down and give your body at least a chance to recover. It's a miracle you made it this long. And I... I'm Claire." She breathes out a bit softer than her other words. "Do I get to know your name?"

Matthew Murdock has posed:
The smells of the apartment and the woman who lives there are pleasant and distantly familiar. He can't quite place it, even as he lays back and allows more of his senses in past the walls he set up to keep himself from being overwhelmed. The more distant smells were familiar too, and then it hits him, he'd almost made it home this is his building.

There's a moment after she asks him his name where he's silent, considering options, how did he best protect himself, but in the end he sighs, "Claire I'm Matt, in 6C" he offers trusting his instincts that if she hadn't betrayed him by now she wasn't going to.

Claire Temple has posed:
He is so close to home. Complete with the old oil from the elevator cables, the stoner in 5B, and so many other scents he's taken in for years. Her apartment carries the strongly spiced scents that he's caught on the wind before. This week it's a fresh mole she cooked for hours on her one day off, no longer flooding the whole building but most certainly still in her space. There's an afghan on the couch behind him recently washed, that smells faintly of fabric softener and her skin. Other than the sharp tang of hospital from her bag, shoes, and hamper, everything about her apartment is warm and homey.

His introduction gets a soft, almost exhaustion drunk laugh from her. "Matt. From... 6C. The lawyer." She's heard talk around the building. Everyone does. "...My neighbor Matt. From 6C. Is the masked guy I keep hearing about on the streets. The one that helped that girl which got swiped off of 176th the other night... Or maybe the one that stopped that crate of children from being sent off the docks the other week? Or the guy that stepped into stop the robbery down at Eduardo's? And he's *blind*??" Claire's laugh comes a bit more hysterical, not loud. Just a small part of her that thinks there is no way this is real.

Matthew Murdock has posed:
A wry smile forms on Matt's lips as Claire laughs, he even chuckles a little himself before the pain stops that short and he grunts and puts a hand to his stab wound. "Got to admit it makes for a good cover," he says about the blind thing.
"Anyhow, figure it goes without saying this is best kept between us, for a lot of people's sakes," he adds cautiously, conscious of how big of limb he was going out on her. Not that Claire hadn't climbed out there with him by patching him up and not calling anyone.

Claire Temple has posed:
Silence lingers for just a few heartbeats as Claire stares at him. It's actually settling in that he's being honest. This isn't some elaborate joke. Finally, she gives a low whistle and a slight shake of her head. "... this is... Impossible. No one would believe me even if I *told* them." Not that she was going to, but her mind isn't quite grasping reality yet.

She unfolds tiredly from the coffee table then, content that he's not going to choke on his own blood right in front of her. It's the sound of her socked feet going from the low carpeting in the living room to the tile of the kitchen. A glass out of the cabinet that still smells a bit like dish detergent. The familiar scent of tap water not just from the city, but the pipes in his own building. A moment later, the warm scent of her returns. She perches very carefully next to him so one arm can come down and help him half sit up. "...water. Take it slow. But it'll... help."

Matthew Murdock has posed:
"Believe me it took me awhile to believe it too and it was happening to me," Matt says of his condition. "But it's real, even if it strains the mind a bit." He closes his eyes a bit focusing on Claire as she speaks, listening to more than just her words. He seems to settle afterwards, some of the nervousness going. "So, this happen a lot finding vigilante's on your way home from work?" he asks, trying to keep things light and likely falling short.

He listens to her move, and when she comes with the water he sits up with her help and reaches out for the glass without being shown where it is. "Thanks, Claire," he says, "Not just for the water, all of it." Then he takes a halting sip of the water, feeling good after all his body's been through.

Claire Temple has posed:
The fact she doesn't have to guide his hand to the cup stops her. Claire blinks, giving a slight shake to her head. "... Wait. You're blind. How... How in *hell* are you fighting half of these toughs out there, much less know where that glass is? I saw the condition of those two guys from 176th. They looked like they were done in by an MMA fighter. And..." She looks across his body again with a slightly more gentle set of her jaw. Still worried. The adrenaline of concern was one of the few things keeping her away. "Your body looks like one too. How?"

Then something in her mind registers that he'd said thanks. Not just a casual thing for the water but with the weight of actual, earnest gratitude. Something simple as a thank you drains the last bits of defensiveness from her. It was shockingly rare in her life. She lets out a low breath, letting him lean against her arm still as he drinks. "... it's... No problem. I'm just glad I found you and not someone else. You... you have enemies in this city, Matt from 6C. I've heard them curse your name."

Matthew Murdock has posed:
Matt holds fast to that water taking another tentative sip. "Good to know I'm having an impact." he says about his enemies after he lowers the glass. "And for what it's worth, I'm glad you found me too."

He lets out a breath then, trying to sit up a little higher as he readies himself for that long story he mentioned. "I'm blind, it was an accident as a child," he says. "A chemical spill nasty stuff. Anyhow, when I woke up in hospital, I was blind, but at the same time I could hear everything, the beeping of the ECG was pounding in my ears, I could hear the guy with pneumonia in the next room struggling to breathe, I could smell the guy's vomit who had the room before I did. All of it just pushing in on me all the time. Almost drove me crazy, eventually, and with some help, I learned to focus it, shut out the extraneous sensations and focus on what mattered, that and another sense I developed, let me form a picture of the world around me, something I could work with. That's how I could take the glass, how I know you're two feet to my left, and are about five foot four, your place is pretty tidy, and that mole from earlier smells like it was really good." He leaves it at that for now letting this part sink in before he carries on.

Claire Temple has posed:
Her unhappiness at the fact he's trying to sit up again isn't voiced in a way anyone but he would hear. A subvocalized, brief almost huff and then her body coming forward to help him up before he strains something. Two firm-with-age pillows are put behind him, so he can still lean and not work injured ab muscles more than he needs. But she doesn't stop him from sitting up. The hall full glass of water is set near to his hand on the coffee table before she steps back. She retires to sitting in the chair she'd been dozing in earlier. From the scent of it, she's spent a lot of nights asleep in that chair.

She listens quietly, tired eyes focused on his injured frame, but mainly his blind face. Like she could still somehow make eyecontact. She's a warm ball of exhaustion in the chair across from him, arms hugging around the front of her legs.

The comment about the mole doesn't exactly make her *blush*, but it does bring a bit more warmth to her cheeks. A happy, earnest smile and a bit of a husky laugh behind it. "It was good. If you actually get a full night's sleep here and don't run off on me, you can have some in the morning." It's easier to process bribing him with food than the fact he might have some strange super powers.

"That sounds... maddening... and maybe sometimes very beautiful. I don't know. There's a lot of times I don't want to smell New York City and I have allergies." She's only half joking.

Matthew Murdock has posed:
"Don't worry, I'll be fine," he says voice straining in contradiction to his words as he replies to that little huff. His senses follow Claire to that well-used chair and he grins turning her way, when he can feel that smile in her voice. "Deal," he says of the offered exchange, no running off or making things worse in exchange for mole. "Besides, you know where I live." That statement has none of the concern it would have even minutes ago, it's said lightly.

There's another laugh, and more flinching that comes with it, "Yeah, not always the best smells, and living with my college roommate was definitely a sensory experience, but it's more beautiful than maddening now. You find the right places, where the acoustics and the airflow are right, it's like I'm plugged into the whole city, good and bad. I like to do that sometimes, just feel New York, it helps me remember what I'm doing this for."

Claire Temple has posed:
"... She's a good city, some nights. Best city in the world." Claire whispers, the tone of a life-long New Yorker behind her words. The sort of person who is frustrated to screaming more often than not on any given day, but is so utterly in love with the city she'd never leave. The bones of her family are in this apartment (probably literally and figuratively). There are scents and ghosts from 50 years of Temples here. It's no surprise she's so dedicated to the city.

Then, before she lets herself drift off into other thoughts, or sleep, she jerks her head up and unfolds from the chair. "But. You're still beat to shit and I should get... at least one sleep cycle in before going back to the hospital. You want... Asprin? Tylenol? You allergic to anything? Take a few pain killers. Finish the water. Sleep. Nurse's orders." She stands up, exhausted bones popping in a few areas, as she pads into the bathroom. A few moments later, there's the slightly bitter smell of painkillers in crisp plastic bottles. She brings both sets out.

Matthew Murdock has posed:
"She really is," Matt says, smiling fondly. He can hear that love in Claire's voice, it's familiar to him, one life long New Yorker to another, people who would never live anywhere else. Not while there was still a New York to come back to.

"Tylenol," Matt says, before flashing another wry smile, "And yeah, sleep might be a good idea all around."

When the pain killers are brought out it takes him opening both bottles to find what he's looking for, unable to read the labels, but he manages, popping two down with the rest of his water before capping both bottles again. Once that's done, he slowly, carefully, lays back down with a few groans as he does so, "I know I already said it but, thank you Claire, not everyone would do what you did for a stranger."

Claire Temple has posed:
As he gives his painkiller preference, she slightly nudges that bottle forward, but it seems he's got it covered. She leaves that bottle out on the table next to him, along with a refilled glass of water. While he can't see the light fading, there is a quiet click and that ever-so-faint buzz off overhead flourescent from her kitchen life suddenly dies. The living room bulbs, quieter incandescent that create a bit more heat but less sound and are probably a warmer, more homey light to the sighted, die a heartbeat later. The quiet that comes over a soon to sleep household.

She pauses in the doorway of her bedroom, seemingly content that he's stable enough she doesn't need to live on the chair the whole night. She turns around to face him one more time, bottle of asprin in her hand, tucked beneath her elbow as her arms fold across her chest. She just watches him, breath and heart calm. Lost in thought for a few long moments. "I'd say... don't make me do it again, but somehow I doubt you would keep that promise. So... just make it back home, Matt. Whatever the hell you do, make it back here in enough pieces I can put you back together." She stares at him in the darkness for a moment longer, then turns.

She doesn't bother shutting her bedroom door. He might have super hearing, but if he needed her, she be more likely to hear with the door open. There's the quiet sound of fabric leaving skin. A sharp scent of the hamper open a moment, piled with a weeks worth of hospital discard. Then a body on a soft, well worn bed. Within a few minutes, it's the soporific sound of sleeping breath and an at rest heart.