12170/Damsel and the Devil

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Damsel and the Devil
Date of Scene: 13 September 2020
Location: Claire's Apartment
Synopsis: Aftermath of Claire being used to bait Matt into a trap. She gets tired of his crap and tells him to hit the road.
Cast of Characters: Claire Temple, Daredevil




Claire Temple has posed:
It's been a few months now, since that first fateful meeting. More than once, Matt ended up on her couch for much needed tending to. Once, Matthew Murdock even went through her ER, to talk with a few patients and not be one himself, but their lives seem to be getting closer and closer. Two weeks ago, they fell asleep on her couch together without him being injured, but simply because they dared to spend a nice night together. Things seem to have gotten to a comfortable equalibrium. Until tonight.

Someone got rumor of who was helping out the Devil. Claire's name has been on more than a few vigilante's lips in the Kitchen. People know she helps. So, a certain gang determined to take him off the streets went for the easy bait. Granted, they were ready for him, but by the time he showed, much of the damage was done. They'd beat her multiple ways -- fists and bats. A knife to her throat in attempts to intimidate, but he arrived before they could do lethal damage with it. By the time the fight is over, she's knocked over the chair where she's been tied and managed her legs free, but battered arms are still behind her back. She's trying not to hyperventilate or cry in the echoing, suddenly too-quiet, damp warehouse basement where they dragged her.

Daredevil has posed:
Matthew is a man of drive and focus. When he gets something in his head, he aims to see it through to the sometimes bitter end. When he was baited into confronting a group of people who made the incredible mistake of using Claire to get his attention, Matt wasted no time. He fought with a ferocity surprising even to him. One thing became abundantly clear: you do not fuck with Claire.

Once the last of the kidnappers is downed, Daredevil uses the back of his wrist to wipe the blood away from his lower lip then runs towards Claire's chair. "Hey hey hey, let me get you up," he says with a voice that sounds as reassuring as he can make it with a hint of worry and a slight wavering that suggests he's not as together as he usually presents himself. He works quick to free her from her binding and offers his hands to help her sit upright . He can't help but kneel close and pull her into his arms, resting his chin against her head and whispers, "I'm here... I'm here."

Claire Temple has posed:
There's blood everywhere. She can smell it. Some of it's her own, a lot of it's not. His is there too, but she's been blindfolded until the moment he gets her wrist free, when she drags that old bandana from her eyes and tosses it away like it's dripping in filth. Claire doesn't fight him then, as he gathers her up. It hurts -- everything hurts -- but it's the first time she's felt safe all night and she just presses her nose into his sweat and blood dampened neck. She's still trying not to panic.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I d-didn't even see them coming... I'm sorry..." Her breath shakes as she tries to pull away again, trembling hand tracing down his shirt. Up his arm. Looking for injuries she knows must be there, but she can see barely anything in this darkness. "Y-your...hurt."

Daredevil has posed:
He knew she was a strong person. There's no denying it. But her apology and concern for his well-being hits him like a brick to the gut. He pulls back and looks at her with his head tilted slightly to one side and downward, almost like he's listening for something in the distance. He's not. He's both stunned and heartbroken.

Reaching up to take her searching hand into his own, he brings it to his face and kisses a bloody knuckle, tasting its metallic flavor along with her sweat and the dirt from the floor. Her hand is then brought to his chest as he brushes hair dampened with her blood and sweat from her face, checking her for wounds as well. "You have nothing to be sorry for," he says as he looks over her head for any trauma. "I'm fine, Claire, don't worry about me. I need to get you out of here and to a hospital." He rests a palm gently against her cheek, "Can you stand?"

Claire Temple has posed:
His hand around her's helps slightly stop the trembling, especially as she felt that kiss. It's grounding, something she knows only he would do and some strangely sweet reminder of the better times they've had. Even if it always comes back to this -- blood and sweat. Claire forces herself to take a deeper, slower breath through her nose before exhaling across lips and then repeating, the grounding things a damn good nurse has told other people to do a hundred times before to stave off the start of panic attacks. She knew the routine. She just had to manage it herself, as her heart threatens to gallop out of her chest and the hour of fight or flight adrenaline tries to figure out where to go now.

"I... I think. They didn't really go for the legs... once they got started. Lucky me." She tries to deadpan it, keeping her sardonic sense of humor, but she's definitely hurt. A few cracked ribs, broken skin across her back and arms. A shoulder on the edge of dislocation from the way she fell. A few places they skinned her with that knife. Nothing lethal, lots of things paintful. They were experts.

She shifts into shakily standing, still not able to see how hurt he is. She didn't have enhanced senses to tell her what she needed. "...if we go to the hospital, t-there's going to be... a hundred questions." Every reason he's refused in the past now collides through her head.

Daredevil has posed:
Matt is careful to help her to her feet. He doesn't want her to move too quickly and make anything worse. He's able to hear her body move and get a better idea of the damage those bastards did to her. The cuts and bruises across his body are forgotten as his singular concern now is getting Claire out of here and taken care of.

He wants to beg for her forgiveness. This is his fault. He knew better than to get close to her. It made her a target and he knew it. He tried lying to himself that it would be okay and now this. He'll never forgive himself for this. But now's not the time. She needs his help.

"Tell me where to go and I'll take you," he says as he lowers his posture to sling her arm over his neck and hooks his arm behind her legs so he can scoop her up into his arms. He knows she's going to protest, but he doesn't care. He can still move quickly so he'll take the verbal abuse if he has to.

Claire Temple has posed:
The smallest blessings come in the form that they aren't far from their apartment building. A few blocks. Hell's Kitchen is really just a pocket of Manhattan and this gang must have been local to know both of them, have a vengence against the Devil, and know where to scoop her. So, he won't have to carry her overly far to get to their usual oasis of help -- her very own couch.

The largest sign that things are Not Right in Claire's brain is the fact she doesn't protest him picking her up. Any other night, this would be a complaint, some gentle grumbling at least of the same sort he got one night when he carried her to bed, after she fell asleep on him watching a movie. That night he got a half asleep mutter that 'her legs work and this isn't the princess bride'. Tonight? She just shifts her least injured arm around the back of his neck, the other tucked in against her chest protectively, trying not to move too much. "...Home... if... If there's no one to follow us, just... let's go home. I've got... everything we need there. Can *you* walk?" It's a silly question, because he *is*, but her mind is far more comfortable focused on his injuries. Those are familiar to her. That's habit.

Daredevil has posed:
With Claire now in his arms, Matt wastes no time in getting them the hell out of here. His own adrenaline pumping through his body, any pain in his body is non-existent. He shifts his weight back and kicks his leg out, slamming his foot against the door out and smashing it open. He gets her home in no time, taking care to make as little noise as possible once they're inside the building. The less people who know she lives here and knows him the better. Of course now he has to hunt down those who found out already and chose to involve her in this mess.

Entering her apartment, he sighs to himself and wishes he was holding her in his arms for any other reason than this. By now he knows where to find a blanket to throw across her couch before putting her down. He's no doctor but he knows how to clean wounds and where she keeps her supplies. Supplies she's been stocking more of since meeting him. The increased stock makes the man curse himself under his breath as he grabs up everything he can carry before returning to her. He'll cut her clothes off, mirroring her treatment of him, and slowly start searching her for the worst of the injuries. He tears his mask off and is using all of his senses to care for her.

Claire Temple has posed:
Once they are back in her apartment, Claire calms down just a bit. The door is shut, all three of her bolts are secured. "...The window..." She mutters. Often she leaves it open or unlocked when she's home, a quiet invitation to him that if he really needs help, she's there. Tonight? She wants every entrance to this apartment locked as tight as Fort Knox. He doesn't really have to cut a lot of clothing off of her, as she's carefully trying to pull her scrubs top free -- they grabbed her on the way home from work. She gets the over shirt off before he comes back to her, but raising her arm that high for the long sleeved undershirt? Well, that's going on the trash pile as he cuts it away. Her body is already starting to look like ten miles of bad road with bruises all across her torso and arms, but there's little to be done for them. The cuts need cleaned. Probably a heat back on that shoulder.

When he's back at her side, she's breathing slower now, focused more on the practical situation at hand. Her fingertips go to his face, then tracing down the side of his arm, trying to make certain he's not hurting himself by attempting to patch her up. "How...bad off are you? I can't tell with... with your ..." Uniform? Costume? What the hell did she call it? "...work clothes... on. Let me see. I...I'm not in danger." No, only shock. But medical workers often make the worst patients.

Daredevil has posed:
Glancing over at the window, Matt pushes to his feet and quickly flips the lever to the locked position and takes a moment to listen. He's listening to the ambient sounds from outside to make sure there's nothing out of the ordinary. No signs of anyone who followed. They're clear for now. And he's not leaving her side until morning, if even then. He's responsible for this.

Then he's back at her side, carefully cleaning her wounds and clearing her skin of any dirt or sweat from her ordeal. He lets her look him over so she can be focused on something other than her own pain. "I've been much worse, just let me take care of you for a change, okay?" He pauses and looks at her, again resting his hand gently to her cheek, "I'm so sorry, Claire." His hair a tussled mess, and his brows raised in the center, he's clearly hit hard by her condition. "This is my fault. I never wanted to get you involved in my... in *this*."

Claire Temple has posed:
This is the first time he's been on her couch, in the Daredevil outfit, that's he's not in some sort of life threatening danger. Even some of the minor wounds he's received over the months could go very wrong without being treated. But of course, on the night where she could use anything to take her mind off of it, she finds nothing too dangerous. "Scratched up... a bit.. They should be cleaned, but you... You're not a complete mess, for once." Claire admits to him, a sickly little laugh at the edge of her voice. Shock is a strange thing. She's generally better at handling it.

His hand on her cheek stops her for a moment. Her skin is clammy, sticky and cool beneath his touch. She stops trying to fight back against that care. Claire knows the knife wounds needed cleaned and covered. She knows his hands are skilled enough to do that and she needs it. But she just leans there a moment, breathing, her eyes pressed shut. "...I could have kicked you out of my apartment months ago. Maybe I should have. But we... we both made this decision. You think it's important enough to keep going out there? I told you...months ago... this would get bigger than you. Is it that important?"

Daredevil has posed:
He could watch her for hours. Even with his unique vision, he could get lost in those eyes of hers. Now, seeing her all beat up and in pain and clearly in shock, Matt's stomach twists and turns and rage and sorrow swim around in his mind. Her little laugh makes him lose it. He smiles and lets out a laugh. One that's grateful that she's okay enough to make jokes. One that signals his inability to keep up his stoic facade. His eyes well up slightly but he visibly regains control and gnashes his teeth, jaw muscles rippling beneath his stubble.

Of course she could've kicked him out, but neither of them could've seen this coming. He should've, though. He knows what the city is really like. His hand slips from her cheek and rests on her chest so he can feel her heart and warmth. "Of course it's important. People out there need help." He 'looks' at her with all senses. Memorising her. He can't let this happen again. He can't put her in danger like this.

Claire Temple has posed:
It's the first time he's ever seen her like this. Not just beat to hell, but this much skin, nothing on but the little white t-shirt bra she wore to work, covered in a bit of blood itself. She'll need a shower desperately when this was all over, but he's gotten the worst of the wounds cleaned up. There's little to do for her ribs or shoulder other than painkillers and time. She's not quite as fiery warm as normal, the shock clear all across her skin, but the shape of her frame is lovely, unmuted by layers of fabric and focus on other bits of the world. She was lovely, even like this.

Claire wraps her hands overtop of his his, almost hugging the heat of his palm against her heart which still flutters a little too fast, skipping on occasion, blood pressure a mess with shock, injury, and the aftereffects of adrenaline crashing. She holds him there, breathing, focusing on him as much as he is her. It's easier than thinking of the world.

Finally, she sinks forward, still holding that one palm against her, but her forehead rests against his cheek and nose at the edge of his jaw, tears mingling with those on his handsome face. She drinks in his scent, drowning in it that close. Sweaty and copper salt, though his aftershave under it all and the other bits of him she's come to know so well. "...It's going to get worse, isn't it? All of this? People are scared of you."

Daredevil has posed:
She is indeed lovely. There's nothing about her that he doesn't admire. Which is exactly why he's struggling inside. The touch of her face to his gives him the moment he needs to close his eyes, a tear pushing free from his eye and mingling with the sweat that is finally drying on his skin.

His eyes remain shut and the world around them disappears. "Claire," he says in a hushed voice, almost cracking in his throat which is dried from the fight and subsequent retreat back to the apartment. He turns his head against her touch so his forehead is resting against hers. He drinks in her scent. Even through all the sweat and blood and work, she still smells sweet. Her breath hypnotic. "They should be scared." His mind returns to what happened tonight and his face tenses. A part of him wants to put his mask back on and go find every thug on the street and beat them within an inch of their lives. It's easier than confronting the current reality.

Claire Temple has posed:
Claire Temple might not have the gifts of the Devil, but she knows the man across from her. She knows every inch of his body by now -- the way he breathes, the way he moves when he's thinking of work. The new tension that enters his body, the faintest twitch of his fingertips under her palm as his hand almost escapes to reach for his mask? She doesn't miss it. And that tone of her voice? She knows a threat whens he hears it.

She pulls back just enough to look at him, her throat a bit tighter than before. "If... if you want to go back out there and... take whatever revenge you think this city which already bleeds *every fucking night* deserves... do it. Just... go. I'm not going to stop you. I've never been able to stop you before." She's withdrawing already, some of her grit coming back as she forces herself out of panic into practicalities. She never has time to just *feel*. She doesn't live a life like that.

If he lets her pull away, she shifts back, trying to gently move off the couch. To her feet. She needs a shower. Tylenol. Anything but looking at that man on her couch who she just wanted to hide with in safety. "But... don't come back. I can... take care of myself. You can take care of the city."

Daredevil has posed:
Matt knows Claire by now as well. He can hear the change in her breathing and the increase in heart rate. He knows what's coming before she pulls away. Of course he wants to go out into the city and punish anyone and everyone who deserves it. The words 'just go' and 'don't come back' pour through him and harden him with a chill that he's not felt in years.

He doesn't want to let her pull away but he does anyway. When she moves to try to get up, he reaches out and gently places his hand on her shoulder, "Claire." He'll push to his feet and let her get up but he'll be right there with her to help her should she need it. "I'm not going anywhere tonight. I'm staying here and making damn sure you're safe." She's been angry with him before about his chosen profession but this is different. He knows she's slipping away. He also knows he needs to let her. And he hates himself for it.

Claire Temple has posed:
His hand on her shoulder is not just a comfort, but slightly necessary as she sways, not near so steady on her feet as she'd like to be. Claire can't remember the last time she was this injured. The answer is probably never. She's certainly never been beaten in her life and fighting through the shock doesn't really work when it's one's own body working against them. Some of those defenses she's putting up crumble just as easily. As he promises he's not going anywhere, she sinks forward, against him again. Maybe it'd be okay. Maybe he'd always make that choice.

"...People are scared... and I am one of them. I...I don't like being scared in my own neighborhood, Matthew. I've lived here my whole life and I... I don't want to be scared." She admits against him, still fighting with her own instincts as she breathes into his neck.

Daredevil has posed:
For now, Matt is here and he's not going anywhere. His arm is around her waist and he's being careful not to squeeze her too tight or jostle her around too much. He stands still with her for a moment. One he wishes could be under different circumstances and much, much longer. His hand finds the back of her head and holds her against him.

"I know," he says to her admitting to being scared. "That's why I do this." It's why he puts his body through the punishment and risks his life every day. It's why she'll probably grow to resent him.

He pulls back just enough to press his lips to her forehead. "I want you to be safe. To feel safe." He hesitates but finally pulls away so he can help her to the restroom so she can get cleaned up, if she decides to move. He feels out of place. He wants to help her but doesn't know what to do. "Tell me what you need."

Claire Temple has posed:
He can probably feel it, or hear it in the quiet beat of her heart, the momentary stopping of her breath. Claire standing on the edge of a decision she's not quite ready to make. To pull away or to give in. Safety or comfort. Her throat tightens a bit more, a fresh wave of stinging behind her temples, as she realizes she doesn't want to choose. Hates that she has to. Claire shuts her eyes tightly against those tears as he kisses her forehead. "...I want that too..." She whispers against the scruff of his jaw, her words more air than actual sound. A quiet, desperate sort of prayer.

Silence lingers for far too long after, but she finally makes some sort of decision. "...shower. Both of us. We... need it." No more words. She didn't have any good ones left. She lets him walk her back into the small, pristine bathroom and a shower that is almost too hot to be comfortable. She's silent the whole time, the act intimate but also numbing. It's easier to cry in the shower when she's already soaked, surveying injuries on his body and her own. Counting cuts and scars, her hands too slow with the amount of pain she's fighting. Broken ribs are awful.

Daredevil has posed:
Matt knows that he's balancing between being in her life and being asked to leave it forever. The tension in her throat. The subtle shift in her pulse. The silence between them is both a comfort from the potential of its very end and a void into which he would love to climb with her and stay.

Following her into the shower, he takes care to wash her so she doesn't have to move too much and hurt herself. While they're both in too much pain for the shower to be as sensual as he, maybe they, would ordinarily like, his hands are gentle and affectionate. Once she is cleaned up, he washes himself, taking care around his cuts. Then he just stands with her under the running water. He steps forward and takes her into his arms and holds her against him in their shared silence.

Claire Temple has posed:
For tonight, the end of it all is pushed away. His gentle touch, the sight of his body in the brighter light of her bathroom, too many scars to count, so many she remembers stitching up before they became so much ragged, old tissue. She doesn't move too much, but her fingertips find those old wounds, tracing him like a map. She stands with him under the water, not willing to move, though it will soon run cold.

"...And what happens the night you don't get back to me in time. When they cut you open so bad...I can't put it back together?" She whispers against his jaw. Somehow, that's still her worst fear. Now that she's survived her own injuries, even as her whole body cries out with creaks and hitches that weren't there before, she's thinking of his scars.

Daredevil has posed:
The touch of her fingers tracing the evidence of his many fights resonate through his body, comforting him. Almost hypnotising him. Thanks to her they're not even worse. The water temperature is already beginning to lower, but not to the point of being uncomfortable. He does reach over Claire's shoulder to turn the water off before it can get too cold but lingers inside the shower with her.

Her question is met with silence. His head hangs to the side and water pours down his face, his hair flattened against his head. He's watching her and just listening for a moment before speaking. "I'm not going to lie to you and say that it's never going to happen." His head tilts a bit as his eyes search hers, "I can say that as long as I can breathe I will not stop fighting to get home to you." He means the words but knows they're not the ones he should be saying. They're what he *wants* to say, sure. Reality is cruel, though. Water races down his chest, getting held up by his scars and pooling up before continuing its journey to the shower floor. "It's not fair to you."

Claire Temple has posed:
As he says the words 'home to you', everything in her stops for just a moment. Breath. The faint movement of her left hand against a scar on his lower right ribs. Even her heart jerks slightly, those words illicting a full body reaction in a way she can't control. Claire wants them to be true so badly. She forces herself to breathe again, standing against him as they both drip. Now he's the warmest thing around, the apartment hair cold against damp bodies. She turns her head up, pressing one slightly trembling, damp kiss to the corner of his mouth. Her right hand lifts just enough to comb back through his hair.

"No... It's not." She finally whispers. Then she forces herself back, the cut of cold air cruel between them. She stares up into his always slightly unfocused eyes, still torn in too many directions. "Let's...go to bed. You said you'd stay. Stay...tonight. We're cold. Tired... Everything... Hurts. We should go to bed."

Daredevil has posed:
It's the truth. But it's also idealistic. It's a reality that they both know that they want but they both know isn't likely to happen. They're both strong in their convictions, which is a part of their mutual attraction but it's also bound to be their undoing. His eyes slowly look over her face as her fingers comb through his hair, his lips stretching into a sympathetic smile.

He leans forward and kisses her. Slowly, softly. He knows he may not get many more chances.

Finally he pulls himself away from her and steps out of the shower and fetches them both a towel. He'll help dry her off and then help her into the bedroom where he'll climb in with her, lying on his side so he can look at her. His fingers will lightly trail over her shoulder and along her collar bone. His stomach tells him this will be the last time he shares her bed. The last time they share this feeling between them. He'll lie awake all night to see her for as long as he can before she wakes up with clarity and realizes what a huge mistake she's made. And what a bad idea it is for him to put her at risk. He'll push those thoughts from his mind for tonight. Tonight he'll just be with her.

Claire Temple has posed:
Claire doesn't pull away from the kiss. If anything, her lips slightly follow his as it breaks. If she wasn't quite so hurt, other distractions might be far more tempting tonight. But the kiss helped. She gives the faintest, most breathy, quiet laugh after they fully kiss. "I was wondering if you were ever going to do that..." While the moments are stolen, she's trying not to let them go. It helps everything make a little more sense.

Drying off is not fun. She finally downs two Tylenol and two NSAIDs, something to help take the edge off enough she can sleep. She sinks into the bed with him in nothing but a thin t-shirt across her injuries and a few fresh strips of gauze on the ones that still bleed. As his fingertips trace those lines of her form, she turns towards him, exhausted but faint smile on her lips. "How do you do that? Just know...where to touch. How did you even know where to find me?"

Daredevil has posed:
As they lie together, Matt slides an arm underneath him and props his head in his hand, smiling at her as she asks how he can find her. "When I lost my vision," he says as his fingers drag towards her other shoulder and up her neck to her jawline, "everything else became more sensitive." His unfocused eyes drift across her face to her neck and shoulder, "I can hear your heart beating. Your breath. I can smell the soap and your shampoo." He leaves out some of the details that are a little too personal to mention. But she gets the picture.

"I also see.. fire," he says, knowing how little sense that makes. "I can vaguely make out shapes of what I'm looking at. They're red and flicker like flames." He reaches up and lightly touches the tip of her nose, "I can see that's your nose." He smiles the first genuine smile after everything, "Like a cute little flaming nose." He exhales sharply in a series of laughs that end up in a wince as a bolt of pain interrupts him. It's not bad enough to wipe the smile from his face.

Claire Temple has posed:
She knew he was different. That he could fight and track things far better than any blind man should. But Claire had no clue *how* different. Her head turns, studying him in the now dim light of her bedroom. (The one blessing she had was being on the opposite side of the apartment building as him, so she didn't have that horrible, blinding display in her windows at night.) She could just make out the outline of his shadow against her window. But she'd know that profile anywhere. Her mind filling in the blanks, that somehow-still-school boy smile of his. It makes her smile drowsily in turn. She's too tired, tonight. In too much pain to keep those defenses up.

"Oh god... I know what the hospital smells like. I'm sorry you get that every night. I hope the shampoo makes up for it." She jokes lightly, easier to think on that then just how much he might know about her. How she can't lie to him, even if she wanted to. It's strangely vulnerable. "Fire?" She questions softly. And the rest of that gets a wrinkle of her nose. "...Matthew Murdock, you really must be blind. There is nothing about me that is *cute*. But... shit. If I saw the world on fire, I might want to hit a lot of people too..." She muses quietly.

Then she can hear that pain in his breath. She knows him almost as well, as much as any doctor knows her best patient. She shifts a bit closer, trying to tug him down into laying next to her. "...you need sleep. We both do."

Daredevil has posed:
The stunning fire outline that makes up her form looks back at him. He can see her eyes clearly. They're like two breaks in the flames that stand out from the rest of his world. If he was explaining it, that description might not sound very provocative but to him it's beautiful. The sound of the exhaustion in her voice both makes him want to smile as well as breaks his heart. She's had a terrible day. One that she should never have had to experience.

"I like all of it. The hospital, the shampoo, everything." He smiles again, thinking about all of the scents he's noticed on her since they met. When she accuses him of being blind, he feigns offense as he chuckles.

When she notices his pain, he lowers down and rests his head on the pillow beside her and moves in close so his mouth and chin are lightly pressed against her shoulder so he can feel her skin and her warmth. "Sleep well, Claire. I'll be here when you wake." He'll be watching over her all night. Making damn sure she has nothing to fear. God have mercy on whoever tries to hurt her again.

Claire Temple has posed:
He might be up the entire night, but she's not. Claire's body is use to exhaustion and long shifts. She's even use to the adrenaline of a crisis. She's not used to physical injury and life or death fights. Slipping into the grasp of sleep, watched over by a man she trusts more than anyone in the world, isn't something she can fight any longer. Soon enough, her breath and heart sinks down into the slow, even rhythms of a healing rest. Whatever nightmares happened tonight, they're over.

The morning comes too soon. Six or so hours later, pain meds having worn off and the time her alarm normally goes off for work hitting, Claire rolls over with a faint hiss of pain. Now, some of the worst swelling is down, the little injuries of her body are probably more audible. Two cracked ribs. Damage to the cartilidge in her shoulder. The feverish warmth of green and yellow hematomas all across her back and the outside of her forearms, deep defensive bruising. She's pulled open the long cut under one butterfly bandage on her shoulder over night but it's mostly dried up bleeding by now. Otherwise, they both smell like the faint vanilla and lavender of her soap. Her bed smells like her, soap, sweat, her hair, her skin. He's surrounded in her here.

Daredevil has posed:
Matt is tired. He's in need of sleep. But he can sleep later when he's back home. So awake he is all night, lying on his back and listening to Claire lying beside him. Since their meeting and him being here in her home more and more over the past couple of months, this apartment has become a comfort to him. Evertyhing he senses here reminds him of her. The smells, the sounds. And especially in her bed, being enveloped by everything that is her makes it difficult at times for him to not close his eyes and sleep. He only left the bed long enough to pour a glass of water and grab a few Tylenol to put by her bed in case she needed them when she woke up.

When she does and rolls over in pain, Matt turns his head to watch her. Her bed hair and the way she is sunk into the mattress makes him want to smile. But he doesn't. Today is a new day and the adrenaline and shock have run their course. Today they have to face reality. That she can't be with a man that does what he does and he can't stop being who he is. It hurts. Worse than any beating he's taken. He reaches over to brush a strand of hair from her face.

Claire Temple has posed:
Everything is a little more harsh in the morning light. Claire turns her head, not quite reaching for the painkillers yet. The day after soreness was vicious and she didn't even want to move out of the bed. But she stares up at him with drowsy, slightly pinched dark eyes. Instinctively, her head tilts into the brush of his fingertips. It's supposed to be reassuring. All she can see are the bruises on the side of his face and the split of his full lower lip. One hand comes up to trace the scar that runs over his left shoulder. One of the first things she ever stitched on him.

"...that happened. It... wasn't a bad dream." Claire rasps quietly. It's not really a question, just a reminder to herself. Her tone is more numb this morning. More distant. She lets her fingertips slowly fall away from his shoulder so she can attempt to push herself up into sitting. A faint hiss of pain escapes her teeth. "...You didn't tell me it hurt worse the day after." She admits, almost laughing.

Daredevil has posed:
The difference in her tone is light night and day for Matt. Not unexpected. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and runs his tongue across the mostly-healed split. "The day after is always the worst," he says as he slides over to the edge of the bed and kicks his feet over and onto the floor. He runs his hands through his hair and rises to his feet. Lifting his arms above his head, he stretches with held breath, sending a series of pops throughout his nearly-unclothed body.

Turning, he looks across the bed towards her as she sits up. God, she's just as beautiful first thing in the morning. He forces himself to look away, lowering his head a bit as if he can't still hear her breathing or smell the soap and shampoo that lingers on her body. Her morning breath that he finds endearing. The way her nose wrinkles and one eye clamps shut tighter than the other when the sun hits them through the drapes. His jaw clenches as he resists the urge to climb back into bed with her, convince her to take the day off, and he retire from his life as the Devil.

Claire Temple has posed:
"...I... should probably call off work." That is the real sign that she's in more pain that she cares to admit. In the six months they've known each other, Claire hasn't taken a single day off work. No matter how late he kept her up, how much blood was on her couch. She always makes into the hospital. Her head turns as she hears those pops from his own battered body. She watches him stretch and, still, some warmth comes back into her. It's hard to stay cold to him. Not when there were too many nights she thought of waking up just this way.

Somehow, the matching bruises they now wear makes it less romantic.

She forces her dark gaze away and gingerly shifts to the side of the bed, bare feet on the floor. Her fingertips reach for laid out pills and she takes them in a motion of exhausted muscle memory. How many days had she done the same for him, pills waiting in the morning? It's a strange swap. One she doesn't like much at all.

"It... is worse. And you're still going to go back out there, aren't you?" She asks after a few too long, silent moments.

Daredevil has posed:
Her voicing the need to probably take the day off lures a silent nod from the bruised man in her bedroom. His view lifts towards her as she looks away from him and goes for the pills he left out for her. Watching her swallow them, hearing the tension in her body as she winces from pain as she moves, he purses his lips together and frowns the slightest bit.

His distance, standing across the room with the bed between them, might make him look like a stray. Unsure of his place there. The close warmth of the night before replaced with a cold uncertainty. "I have to."

His head lowers and tilts, his eyes moving from side to side as he listens to her heart. His head shifts and he grimaces as he tries to stop using his senses to read her. It doesn't seem right given the circumstances. It feels invasive all of a sudden. "Claire, I know it's not fair to ask you to be okay with who I am and what I do." He looks back up at her, "But people out there need me. Need.. *him* to be out there for them."

Claire Temple has posed:
It takes her a few moments to get feet under her, but she doesn't ask for his help. Nor does she let herself sink back down into the bed and just give up on the day. Most of the fear now pulled back, stuffed into a tiny little box at the back of her mind where all the screams go she has no time or fortitude to deal with, she can face the day with her normal, thick skinned self. It's just a little harder than she remembers. Everything feels a bit more sharp, all rough edges and points instead of the normal, exhausting marathon of her daily life.

She steps over to him, even as he doesn't dare come closer to her. The heat of her slender frame cutting through the room, heart quickening in response to steps, trying to fight with pain she hasn't been trained to handle, and simply being closer to him. She stares up to his face, searching for something. Anything to talk her out of these decisions. Her short fingernails find their way back through his hair again. "...You know how long I was hoping you'd be there? That we could just... wake up like this? That you'd stay not because you're half dead but because you wanted to stay?" Her eyes flicker back to the bed for a moment, "But some jack asses taking a baseball bat to my back had to happen to get you to stop. For *one* night."

Daredevil has posed:
While Claire manages to climb out of bed, it's all Matt can do to not leap over to her and help her. But he has to stop. He can't be what she needs and they both know it. Instead, he stands on the other side of the room like a child preparing to be scolded.

When she rises and makes her way towards him, he turns his body to face her. His own heart hastens as she grows closer. It excites and terrifies him at the same time. As she searches his face, she'll find the same handsome man. His features soften at her touch. The tension held in his jaw and forehead release and he turns his head into her touch, letting his eyelids relax and lower. The warmth of her soft skin and her smell that he never tires from almost causing a trance. His eyes follow her gaze to her bed and he opens his mouth to confess his want of the same thing. But he hesitates.

Then the left hook to the gut. The softened expression hardens. His eyes search her face as flashbacks from the night before play through his mind. How he felt when he saw her strapped to a chair, badly beaten. Her crawling to safety once she managed to topple her chair and get her legs free. He'll have nightmares about that for the rest of his life. "You are important to me, Claire." He leans closer to her, "I'll never forgive myself for this happening to you." He pauses for a moment as he struggles with the next thing he's wanting to say. He has to stay strong. It's for her own good. Keep telling yourself that, Matt.

"There are people out there who mean the world to those close to them. And I'll never forgive myself if I don't do everything I can to make them safe from all the shit out there that's trying to hurt them." Like they hurt her. His his lowers as he knows what he's saying is not the right thing to say to her. It's not what he wants to be saying to her.

Claire Temple has posed:
Claire wants to be hardened to him. She wants to just pull away and tell him to leave. She's fighting herself on it but watching the way his face softens at her touch makes it nearly possible. Her fingertips fall through his hair to rest faintly on the back of his neck, palm warmer than the clamminess of the night before. She probably almost feels feverish compared to the mess of last night. The sharp scent of salt hits the air as she blinks against tears she's not quite letting herself cry, but can't hold back. Her throat tightly fights the words she has to get out.

"I'm...not asking you to... find forgiveness, Matt. I forgive you. I knew what the fuck I signed up for when you started bleeding on my couch. I... I'm not stupid. I knew this could happen. I know... I know it might happen again." Her other hand come up, though that arm is slower to move, shoulder grinding in socket against damaged tissue and strained tendons. Still, she cups his cheek quietly, forcing him to look at her as much as he can.

"I'm asking you to stop and think... To really think... when it's worth it to go out there. And when you can take some time to just be Matt Murdock. Because it's not just me. They're going to get to Foggy some day... Anyone else in your life... We sign up for this too. And do you *have* to go out there every night? Do you have to bring this down on your head *constantly*? Or do you do it because... you like it? Because you don't know who you are if you're not fighting?"

Daredevil has posed:
Matt looks at her. He sees her surrounded by flames with those two amazing eyes looking back at him. It's something he never quite got used to, seeing those eyes looking back at him. The saltiness he can now smell from her pierces his chest and he's almost visibly affected. The sound of her shoulder grinding to hold his cheek pierces him again. He's truly glad that she forgives him, but he still has to forgive himself.

He knows she's right. He's putting everyone he's close to at risk. It makes him selfish. It took him too long to come to that realization. But is it enough to make him stop? He's not sorry to say that it isn't. He knows he should be, but he isn't. He has no answer to her questions. Every fiber in his being is urging him to take her into his arms and put an end to all of this nonsense. But another part of him knows better. Knows that he would be miserable without the mask. Maybe he does like it. Maybe he feels like nothing when he's not fighting. Maybe that's who he really is and the mild-mannered, charming young attorney is his real mask. With every bit of willpower he has, he takes a step back and turns, walking over to her bedroom window. "I can't stop."

Claire Temple has posed:
The moment he pulls away, something in her hardens a little. But she's not angry and she doesn't let those tears come harder. She just watches him go to the window, her hands hovering a moment in the cold air before she folds her arms across her chest, hugging achingly against sore ribs. She's not going to stop him from going. But then the anger comes.

It's his words that bring the anger. Like he just lit some sort of match in her chest, Claire's temper flares. She practically growls out, "God dammit that isn't what I asked you to DO! No where in ANY of those words did I ask you to STOP! Fuck." She shakes her head to him, turning on the ball of her bare foot and stalking to the door of the bedroom. She stops before actually getting the whole way out, just barely having swallowed the rest of her temper back.

"I never asked you to stop. I asked you to think a little harder about when you *need* to go out there and when you *want* to go out there. But I think... looking at all this too hard makes you too uncomfortable. Easier to make it black and white. All or nothing. Well, fine, Matt. Fine. Go. Take care of your city. I know your choice." And with that, she moves out of the room. Anger makes the pain easier, driving her into the kitchen to make her usual coffee and start getting ready for work. Easier to push through the physical pain that sit home wallowing in the emotional hurt of it all.

Daredevil has posed:
The moment her mood changes, he can sense it. It still doesn't prepare him for the sting of her anger. His eyes stare out the window at nothing in particular as she lets her anger overshadow her sadness. The words cause him to wince as he faces her temper, which in the back of his mind he assumes could be way worse and she's just not fully unloading on him. She's right, she didn't ask him to give it up. But he is always working. Even when he's playing lawyer.

When she turns and leaves the room, he lowers his head and sighs. He eventually follows suit and heads out into the living room, gathering up his tight, black shirt that's stiffened with dried patches of blood. He hoists it over his head and tugs it down over his bruised chest. He can hear Claire in the kitchen going about her morning routine. He mind drifts to her in there, him walking up behind her to hug her. Then the thought is pushes away. He steps into his pants and bends down to snatch up his mask, rolling it over in his grip as he has everything he needs before leaving. But there's the hesitation. He turns his head to listen more closely to Claire.

Claire Temple has posed:
She's still there, body protesting her motions, faster and sharper than injured torso and shoulder deserve. But anger is soothing, in it's own way. Something that drives Claire not to dwell on it now that the coffee is going. It's another familiar scent. She's made them this columbian dark roast every morning he's slept on the couch, recovering from wounds. She lives off the stuff. She moves for the fridge, opening it and leaning down to grab the carton of eggs.

That was a mistake. Something shifts in her back ribs, slightly popping, and that cut on her upper arm is open again. She freezes as the white hot pain cuts through her frame, knuckles going white as they cling over the edge of the fridge door. She just stands there a few moments, breathing through her nose, trying to steady herself.

She knows he's not left yet. She'd have heard the door if he did. Quietly, without looking back to him, she mutters, "...Can I *help* you?"

Daredevil has posed:
The sudden change in her breathing and the sound of her body popping has him turning, starting towards the kitchen. But he stops himself. Her angry voice echoing from the fridge hits him. He takes a look around the apartment, letting its ambiance wash over him one last time. He can't come back here.

After a few too-long moments, he turns and steps to the door, grabbing up his boots and opting to carry them to his apartment instead of putting them on first. He opens the door and the pressure in the apartment shifts. He pauses on his way out and almost turns to take one more glance, but pushes out into the hallway and pulls the door closed behind him.

Once in the hallway, he leans back against her door, closing his eyes. Then his instincts kick in and the feelings inside turn cold. He pushes off the door and starts to head for the elevator.

Claire Temple has posed:
Once she hears the front door to her apartment shut, Claire finally lets herself move. She doesn't go far. She simply pushes her body off the fridge and gently into the cabinets across from it, sinking down to the kitchen floor. Everything hurts. She was cold and now, officially, quite alone. She kicks the door of her fridge shut with her foot as she finally lets herself just fall into wracking, aching tears.