Just Another Favor
Just a few stories, huh?
Your couch felt like a cloud under your ragged, bruised limbs - which begged to differ that the length of a few stories wasn't so bad. And that stinging throb beneath your hip had returned in full force, almost worse than before. You considered staggering into your kitchen to down a painkiller - or two, or three - but decided that fuck, you just needed a minute.
Matt had practically flown up the fire escape alongside you, pausing every story or so to offer you a hand. In most cases, you pushed it away - but closer to the end of the climb, your leg had become weaker, and you had no choice but to let him assist you. With Matt’s help, you'd had a fumblingly awkward clamor through your window, where you'd all but collapsed onto the couch - and you really would have tumbled had Matt not been there for you to hang on to.
And, although that flirty energy between you and Matt had given you an extra boost, your exhaustion was finally baring its teeth.
More like sinking its teeth into my hip.
Fuck.
You removed your gloves and sheath and tossed them onto the coffee table before gingerly shifting your left hand over to the cut. Under the light of the lamp which Matt had kindly turned on for you - before swinging back out the window to put your bike away - the slice glistened through the slit in your pants, crimson crusting dry at the edges of the fabric, slick and shiny in the middle. Eyes shut and jaw set, you placed a finger at the upper edge to push the sides of your skin together - and immediately tore the hand back with a small yelp.
Okay.
This is…
Not great.
You clenched your jaw harder and pushed again. The injury ached under your touch, and you wondered how you would possibly make it through stitches.
Although it hurt, the pressure was important. Blood had already seeped further down your leg through the fabric, and with your exhaustion and the lingering ghost of smoke in your lungs, you couldn't afford to lose much blood.
A cool breeze blew through the window by your shoulder. Matt had left it open, and you didn't mind; after being stuck in that burning building for so long, the breeze was more than welcome. It gently tousled your hair - which was free once you'd removed your mask, which lay beside your gloves on the coffee table. But your hair felt far from clean - it was grimy, strained through in layers of sweat, blood, ash, and whatever other building materials may have been floating around in Jessica's office. Even the sludge and gravel of the underground tunnels seemed to have permeated it.
Your skin, too, felt disgusting. It was like you now had another layer of skin, born of sweat, germs, and slime, crawling across your body as it just waited to molt off you. To say the least, you couldn't wait to be done with this night. The mere thought of climbing into your soft bed, clean and freshly showered under silken sheets, was exhilarating to your tired mind.
The window squeaked as it slid up, and you turned your head to see Matt slide his legs through, hopping off the windowsill and onto your living room floor almost soundlessly. If you weren't so totally drained, you would have scoffed.
How can he be so fucking graceful right now?
After a brief pass of his tongue over his lips, Matt tipped his head toward you and lifted a hand to tug off his mask. The black fabric dragged smoothly up from his face, fluffy hair scattering over his forehead, tousled as yours was - though his seemed exceptionally cleaner. He tossed the mask onto your coffee table, ran a hand through his hair, and turned to you.
"Bike is pretty nice. You take good care of it."
You nodded, the rest of your body still and sunken into the much-appreciated cushion beneath you. "Yeah. I try."
Matt smiled, tugging off his gloves and tossing them onto the table. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
He pursed his lips and knelt down, fingers moving deftly to untie one of his boots. "You sure?"
Your eyes followed the quick movements of his fingers as he moved to untie the other boot. "I'm okay. I'm not great, but I'm okay."
Matt returned to his feet with a nod, slipping out of his boots and moving them beneath the window. "Your smoke inhalation isn't as bad as it might feel. You do seem pretty drained, though."
"It feels disgusting," you affirmed, eyes following Matt as he, without announcement, walked through your living room and into your kitchen. "Feels like my lungs were replaced with a chimney full of soot. On fire."
His laugh resonated from the kitchen, and you watched as he reached up to open one of your cupboards. You were too tired to question it.
"You'll be alright. Just don't go into cardiac arrest on me."
You shut your eyes, somehow relaxing even further into the couch. "No promises."
Eyes still shut, you felt a gentle tap on your shoulder a few moments later. Heavy eyelids forced themselves open to reveal a glass of water in front of you, held out in Matt's tireless grip. Your smile was light and small as you took it from his hand, only now realizing just how thirsty you were.
The water was cool, flowing, honey on your ragged throat, bringing calm to your still-churning stomach. You gulped it down like you hadn't had anything to drink in weeks. Wiping the corner of your mouth, you handed the glass back to Matt, who laughed.
"More?"
"Yes, please."
He grinned, took it from your hands, and walked back into your kitchen.
As the tap gushed back on, Matt called out your name again. To your tired ears, it sounded like music, the soft rasp and warm grit of his tones carrying each syllable through the air like a perfect melody. Too comfortably tired to focus, your eyes fell shut again until you felt another tap on your shoulder. You shook yourself awake, eyes flying open to land on Matt again - who, smirking, said your name once more.
God.
I really can't hear that enough.
"Sorry," you shook your head, fighting off a haze mixed with pain, fatigue, and something a touch lighter. "What was that?"
Matt chuckled, handing the once-again full glass to you as he knelt at your feet, one knee sinking into your shag carpet, the other knee upright. You took the glass from his hands, and he crossed his arms loosely atop his upright knee. A pit formed at the base of your throat, your eyes and focus sucked in by Matt's position in front of you.
"I was just checking in," Matt started. His voice seemed to be warmer, raspier than before. "We've got to get that cut stitched up, but I wanted to see how you want to go about it."
You nodded, lifting the glass to your lips and downing this second round just as fast as the first. Matt continued.
"I know you're tired, and I also know you've got some bruising and had some hits to your head. Is there anything specific you'd like me to check out first?"
Despite the aches working through your body in a constant, stuttering throb - concentrated beneath your hip - your eyes narrowed at Matt.
"So now you check my preference, huh?" You joked. "Stole my motorcycle and weaseled your way into my apartment, and now I get a say?"
Matt raised his brows, but his lips still curved up.
"Well, in any case, your leg is the first priority." Matt paused, pressing his lips together and releasing them, his eyes seeming to track over you. Your shiver was unavoidable, and the shiver only multiplied as he spoke again. "Already weaseled my way into your apartment, though, so yeah. I might as well try to make sure you're comfortable."
Teasingly, you leaned forward to sneer down at him. "Not usually the appropriate order, Matt. Sounding a little creepy, there."
Matt didn't hesitate for a moment before responding to your quip. "So - next time, I should get you comfortable and then work my way into your apartment?"
"Next time I get ambushed by an assassin, you mean?"
"Right," he nodded, his lips pursing downward before perking up, the lamplight reflecting in teasing sparks off his eyes. "Something like that."
Your jaw fell slightly, but you collected yourself with ease, pulling parted lips closed as you worked to relax a raised brow. "You know, Matt, you're not being very clear." The cooled sweat and grime of your shirt grated over your skin with your lean forward, and you tilted your head as you grew closer to Matt's bemused expression. "Don't know what I'm supposed to think about a guy who's acting this vague about his intentions."
Matt's lips pulled back into a warm, lazy half-smile, his voice pure grit, pure heat, as he purred his words to you. "You know you can trust me."
Warmth flashed over your cheeks, your gaze still fixed on Matt's dark eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly as his lips pulled closed, and it took a great deal of mental energy to bring your focus out of his eyes and back into the present moment. Leaning back in your seat, each limb seemed to ache with your movements, and it was all you could do not to groan.
"What would make me most comfortable would be a damn shower." Your head fell back onto the cushioning behind you, deep chestnut cradling you in a soft, polyester hug. "Every part of me feels gross. Especially my hair."
You tilted your head back up to see Matt nod thoughtfully. "Well, I'm gonna have to sanitize and stitch you up first, but as long as you're careful, you should be okay." He shifted his jaw. "Might be best to just sit under the water. I don't think you should be walking on that leg any more than you have to for the rest of the night."
"I have a removable showerhead," you shrugged. "Shouldn't be a problem."
Matt nodded, and in your haze of injured exhaustion, you hoped he wouldn't call up some remark about what else you could do with a removable showerhead.
Come on.
You are literally the only one thinking about that right now.
Get it together.
The hydration of your two glasses of water was beginning to work its magic on your lacking brain, and you swore you could feel it relax and expand in your head, that haze lessening, the pull of sleep dulled by the unforgiving discomfort in your leg. You licked your lips and reached over to place the empty glass on your coffee table, putting most of your effort toward ignoring how close your upper body came to Matt's before you pulled yourself back into the couch.
"Okay," you shook your head, patting your hands against your knees. "I'm good to go. Stitch me up."
"There's just one little thing," Matt began. You tilted your head at him, his expression something you couldn't quite discern.
Amusement?
Concern?
Embarrassment?
Or all of the above?
Matt sighed. "Look, with the angle of your cut, the length of it - the only way I'd actually be able to stitch it right is, well..."
You watched him expectantly. His chest rose and fell with a deep breath, and his hand tapped along his raised knee where he remained settled in front of you. He said your name, and you smiled.
"We have to get your pants off."
Your smile faded into a very plain, very much not-comprehending expression. "Get my pants off?"
He nodded, eyes closing briefly yet slowly with the movement of his head. You half-squinted, your still-tired mind working to comprehend this conversation.
"If this is some type of line- I mean, first of all, your timing is really-"
"No, no, no," Matt shook his head, lifting his hands to shake them in tandem.
And it did make sense. The slash ran all the way from just below your hip to your upper inner thigh.
A very upper, very inner part of your thigh.
Even through your own pain, you were surprised that the guy was able to manage such an incision. Sure, with the other time Matt stitched you up, he'd cut away a section of fabric - but this time, only removing a portion just wouldn't make sense.
I have really got to stop getting my pants sliced up by homicidal men.
"No," Matt affirmed. "Nothing like that. It's just the injury. If you don't feel comfortable with me doing this, I know a female nurse who could get you stitched up, no problem. She's great with this stuff-"
"No, no," you interrupted, raising a hand to stop him. "I don't want any more people drawn into this than necessary. And I'm sure she's lovely, Matt, but I don't know this woman."
Matt pursed his lips. "Okay." And, briefly letting his eyelids fall closed, he ran his tongue over his lips before shifting his eyes back toward you.
"Are you sure you're comfortable with me doing this? It's…" he paused, looking for the right way to put his important and intimate point. "It's bound to get pretty close."
You shrugged, blinking slowly before reopening your eyes with soft sincerity.
"Out of anyone I know, I'd want it to be you."
The feeling of your heart beating strong and steady in your chest affirmed for both you and Matt that your words were truthful. A part of it surprised even you.
"Okay," he rumbled, lips turning up into a soft smile, his eyes darting from side to side as he got to his feet. "I'll grab the kit."
You smiled back. "Okay."
Matt stepped back into your kitchen and opened the cupboard beneath the sink to grab your first aid kit, pulling it out from where you'd left it, resting snugly behind some cleaning supplies. You had opened your mouth to tell him where it was but caught yourself, remembering that he hadn't had to ask where you kept your glasses, either.
Of course. Superpowers.
He stepped back over your carpet, kneeling on the shag and placing your first aid kit on the coffee table. You watched as he sanitized his hands and withdrew a large pair of surgical shears.
"Surprised you have these," Matt commented, shifting back to your legs. You shrugged.
"Call me well prepared."
You set your jaw and watched as Matt wrapped a gentle hand around your left ankle, lifting it onto his lap. Where the fabric parted between your pant leg and your socks, you felt the brush of his soft hands, interrupted intermittently by the rougher drag of calloused skin. Your breath caught at the contact, slight as it was.
He lifted the edge of your pant leg and began to cut, splitting the fabric from its end, through your calf, to your knee. Once the shears reached the midpoint of your thigh, he carefully rested your left foot back onto the carpet so he could shift around to the outside of your leg, moving cautiously to avoid disturbing your injury.
You watched him bring the shears back to your leg, his tongue darting out over his lips. A gentle press of his free hand to the outside of your thigh worked to guide the shears in their continued cut. He paused.
"This okay?"
You nodded, your eyes drawn to his stable hands, stilled against your leg.
"Yes."
Matt pressed his lips together with an upward quirk and continued to cut, drawing the shears up through the last stretch of this pant leg, careful to keep the blades' path along the very outside of your hip, away from your gash. He snipped up and through the waistband in a final clip.
"There," Matt breathed, a smile gracing his lips as he stood. "One side done, one side to go."
Your eyes followed Matt as he stepped carefully around your legs to the other side of you. Since this leg wasn't nearly injured in the same way, Matt could afford to be a bit quicker, swiftly slicing up the side of the fabric with the shears - although his brief touches against this leg were no less gentle. In his quick work, you suddenly remembered that you were about to be pantsless in front of this man, and your pulse picked up.
Yeah, sure, he couldn't exactly see you, so the color of your underwear wasn't really a concern - but there are other things he's bound to notice, superpowers and all.
Thank God I fucking shaved.
Matt clipped through the waistband of your pants and paused for a moment before turning to set the shears on the coffee table, blades and handle tapping gently into place on the wood. He turned back to you, lips pursed, his brow slightly raised.
"I'll get everything prepped if you want to, uh… take them off."
You gave a slow nod, and Matt got to his feet, stepping over yours and back to sit next to the first aid kit where it lay open on your coffee table. You drew your attention back down to your lap and took a breath.
The fabric of your pants was thick enough to be insulated and protective, thin enough to wrap snugly around your legs, so as not to get caught on anything - like leggings, just more durable. You pursed your lips and hooked your thumb under the fabric over your right hip, careful not to tug down your underwear with it. You placed the other hand on the center of your waistband so your movements wouldn't rip the bloodied parts of the fabric from your left side, where dried blood stuck the pants to your skin. Leaving the left for last, you pulled the fabric over your right leg with ease. Your eyes drifted to Matt as the right pant leg fell between your knees, landing over your carpet and hanging off the couch from where it remained caught beneath you.
Matt worked silently and diligently, sanitizing a surgical needle and threading it carefully with a first suture. The sterile gauze he'd taken out of the kit rested atop a clean antibacterial wipe spread flat over your coffee table. He rested the threaded needle alongside the gauze and turned back to the kit, producing Q-Tips, the rest of the wipes, and two bottles - one of saline solution, one of antiseptic.
You looked back down at your left leg and clenched your jaw. Placing each hand on the waistband, you gripped it with your fingertips and began to pull the fabric away, slowing where you reached the slit of your would. With a grit of your teeth, you closed your eyes, deciding it would be better to just rip it away from the area of the cut. You tugged - and your body jerked at the sensation of crusted, bloodied fabric peeling off your gash and the area around it.
Matt's head whipped over in your direction, lips parted, brow furrowed in concern.
"You okay?"
Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, and your eyes fluttered closed. The pain rippled briefly across your hip and thigh, but you nodded.
"Yep."
He sighed, half-smiling with a head shake as he turned back toward the first aid supplied. Your lips curved up as well, and you heaved a sigh, the ridiculous intensity of what you were wrapped up in driving into your brain like that knife had driven through your skin.
The cut was relatively straight, running from your inner thigh in a slight curve over the front of your leg, trailing off into a scrape just under your hip. As you leaned forward to remove the rest of the fabric from your leg, your face twisted grimly. The skin around the gash was red, streaked with lines and splotches of dried blood. Fresh, hot red sprung up still from the cut itself. Although its flow was so slow it could hardly be considered a flow at all, the blood still glistened enough for you to gulp and tighten a hand into a brief fist, your stomach flipping at the scent, other remnants still brushed closer to your nose by your hair.
You settled yourself, taking a moment to breathe as your eyes softly closed.
Been through worse.
Just breathe.
You snapped your eyes open and, resolve running each movement of your fingers, flipped the pant leg onto the floor. Pushing one hand back into the cushion beneath you, you ground your teeth and lifted your hips just enough to tug the pants out from under you and toss them to the side. You sank back into the couch, a sigh racking your still-gritty lungs as a new, hot rush of ache flashed through your thigh - and your eyes trailed down to examine your position.
Blush flushed your cheeks from the sight of your legs - entirely bare, down to your socks. Your gaze tracked up to your exposed thighs, every inch revealed up to the edges of your black underwear. Not a thong, thankfully, but it wasn't exactly the most conservative pair you owned.
Your eyes then flicked up to Matt - who, saline and a clean cloth in hand, was just getting to his feet.
Matt stilled as he stood tall, his head tilting to the side. Though his body was hard with strain, held tight by black fabric marred with soot, his face was the giveaway to his distraction. Matt's tongue took a small, slow drag over his lower lip, and you felt the blush of your cheeks run down your neck, through your chest, down your body, at this movement of his. His dark eyes flitted over the couch, over you, in a drag that was so sightless but still saw so much.
You swallowed, your own tongue dragging out over lips that now seemed ever too dry. Matt shook his head and cleared his throat, snapping you both out of the brief moment.
You blinked hard, inwardly groaning.
Pull yourself together.
"So," Matt started, taking a step toward you. "I'm gonna have to get, uh - I'm gonna have to get pretty close," he half-laughed, gesturing to the space before him.
That is, the space of open carpet between your feet, your thighs resting atop the couch cushions.
Spread apart.
Your lips crept upward in a slow smile, teasing on the edge of a grin. "I know. It's okay."
Something flickered in Matt's brows, and he took another step forward, lowering himself to kneel in front of you. He inched forward, and you felt as if your breath was trapped amongst your frozen vocal cords, your soul stilled in silent waiting as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen knelt between your parted legs.
Matt held out the cloth.
"Lift up a bit to get this under you," he explained as you took the cloth with a nod of understanding. "To catch any excess saline."
"Sure."
The muscles in your face drew back in a slight wince as you shifted carefully, stringing the cloth beneath your left hip and pulling it up on either side of your cut. Matt leaned further forward and - after a quick press of his lips together - lifted his free hand to hold it against the back of your left thigh.
A cool flicker passed through your chest.
Matt's hand was warm, softly rough against the sensitive back of your leg. You felt his fingertips edge upward, stopping shy of tracing anywhere too intimate - simply holding your leg steady so he could work. He lifted the bottle of saline upwards, just above your injury.
"Just have to rinse the cut, try to clean it as best we can." Matt paused, stopping the bottle shy of dripping solution over your cut. "Might sting a bit."
You nodded, blinking slowly with a set jaw. "I know. I'm good."
Matt's brow flicked up. "Okay."
You watched as the bottle tipped to the side, saw the lamp light reflect in the water's shine as it formed a small bauble at the tip of the dropper - and felt flame race across your gash as the saline splashed down, the cool solution somehow feeling unbearably hot. You clenched your jaw and tilted your face toward the ceiling in an effort not to throw your head back, feeling strain grate through your neck and shoulders.
"You're good," Matt hummed, his thumb rubbing against you, callous dragging hypnotically calming traces over your sensitive, soft skin. The pain quickly receded, though, as the cool saline worked to calm your aching thigh. The cloth felt soft under your touch, and you held it up on either side of your thigh, feeling cool trickles of saline run down from the gash to be absorbed beneath your fingertips.
Matt's voice resonated out over you once more.
"Good. You've got it."
The saline worked to cool your aching wound, but Matt's voice did just the opposite to the rest of you, whispering out tension and heat that curled tightly between your hips. You clenched your core to stop yourself from squirming - and not in response to the pain.
"You gonna egg me on the whole time?"
Matt's brows flew up, as did the edges of his lips. "Damn. Would you rather me not try to comfort you?"
You sighed, part of it a faded smile. "Just saying."
Matt smiled back. The hand beneath your leg pressed up gently, and you helped him lift your thigh, eyeing his movements as he tugged the cloth out from under you.
"Does it not help?"
Feeling thick and heavy in your distracted mouth, your tongue seemed to stop back any words that could give Matt a reasonable explanation for your reaction.
It doesn't help - but not for reasons enough to make that answer a real truth.
In any case, you had no answer but a shrug.
"Maybe it's distracting for both of us."
Matt's brows knitted together, lips still quirked as he gently dabbed the cloth over the surrounding skin of your cut. "Distracting?"
"Distracting," you affirmed. Whether you could reasonably get into why it was so distracting was another matter. "Neither of us should lose focus when you're doing me such an important favor."
Matt half snorted as he traded the saline for the antiseptic and a Q-Tip. "You find my words distracting?"
Jesus.
Your eyes widened before narrowing in an impatient peer down at Matt, whose fingers worked to quickly and carefully soak one end of the Q-Tip in the antiseptic. His head, dipped slightly down, still couldn't hide the dimples formed by his warm grin.
"I- listen. I think it's perfectly reasonable for us to prioritize our focus when you're stitching me up." You paused your frazzled response to add another crucial consideration. "Especially in the… position we're in."
"I didn't do anything that would make either of us lose our focus," Matt said, his voice teetering on the edge of heat and clear, self-assured concision. "Just said you were doing a good job handling the pain."
You wanted to open your mouth with a response - but you had none, only a new expanse of blush running reddened waves over your skin.
What is this?
How does he have me so…
What?
Flustered?
Matt brought that hand back to the underside of your thigh, gripping you more firmly this time. His touch brought you back to the moment just enough to dropkick your hazy mind right back out to outer space, swirling into the pull of the gravity that the sensation of his skin always seemed to generate. He lifted the Q-Tip up to the outer end of your now-clean cut, and you assumed he'd decided to do a little extra sanitizing, just to be sure.
You were fine with that. You'd taken on the bitter burn of antiseptic many times before.
"This is… well," Matt began, his lips forming a thin line. "This is going to sting."
Bracing yourself, you nodded. Matt moved to touch the Q-Tip to the slit of your injury, and you shut your eyes just in time to feel a burning, bubbling sting burst through the cut, to spread out with razor claws through your thigh.
"Fuck!" You cried out, hands shooting to either side of you to dig a white-knuckled grip into your cushions. You kept your body still, holding yourself like hard rock through the discomfort, picturing stoicism wash over you like a cold, static rain.
"Good, good," Matt drawled out once more. He whispered your name, the sound of it dancing through your ears, into your brain, beating through the stilling threat of rain around your consciousness. "You're doing so good."
New heat snapped open in your core, and although you felt flushed, raw, and unnecessarily comfortable, you shifted your jaw.
"Please stop doing that."
Matt, halfway through the gash, doused the other side of the Q-Tip with antiseptic. "Doing what? Saving you from an infection?"
"No, I- Matt." You stuttered. "I'm fine. I don't need you to comfort me."
At that, Matt tipped up his head to face you. Tiny lines crinkled around his narrowed eyes, thick brows drawn together under warm lamp light. After a pause, he half-snorted in a light laugh.
Your eyes narrowed at him. "What?"
Matt shook his head. "I just- huh."
"Huh, what?"
”Nothing.”
You frowned. “You’re not allowed to do that. Huh, what?”
Matt paused for a moment, a curious look passing over entertained eyes as his tongue ran along the inside of his cheek.
"I mean,” Matt started, slowly, cautiously, his slow-spreading grin all slick and sly. “You're all about making sure everyone knows you've got yourself so well handled," he continued, staving off a hint of a chuckle. “Guess I just didn't think of praise being something you'd like this much-"
Oh my God.
"Matt!"
No fucking way he just said that.
You reached out to swat at Matt's hair. He leaned back, grinning, his own face flushed with something light, something warm.
Devious.
He is literally devious.
"Then again," Matt dared to continue, "I guess it could make sense, if you push praise and support away in your waking life-"
"Matt!" you called out again, swatting once more at him and just catching the top of his head, your palm brushing over fluffy hair. It was softer against your skin than you'd expected it to be. He only fell back again, giggling boyishly, his grin silly and wide. Despite your light indignation, you felt a grin of your own forming.
"I didn't let you into my apartment so I could get a psychoanalysis. Especially not one like that."
"I mean, you did insist, but I suppose you're right," Matt nodded, his expression settling so just the grin remained. He straightened and leaned closer to you once more, but his voice was still laced with that sarcastic, dry edge it sometimes held. "Sorry for doing you the extra favor. Hope I didn't use up that 'double-the-favor' thing by accident."
Your scoff would have appeared incredulous had it not been for the grin you simply could not stave off. "Absolutely not. I have not called that in yet."
"Really? And what would count for such a thing?"
"Something bigger than another round of stitches, that's for sure," you nodded surely, your smile no less warm.
After a beat, Matt shook his head and placed his hands back on your leg, the freshly-soaked edge of the Q-Tip hovering above your gash. With your hands braced against the cushions once more, you gave Matt a quick nod, and he drew the Q-Tip down, searing pain driving again through your leg.
This time, though, it didn't hurt quite as much.
Matt worked quickly and calmly, dabbing your wound with dry cloth and placing the Q-Tip back on the coffee table. He lifted the threaded surgical needle and your needle driver and brought it back to your leg. You drew soft breaths, oxygen settling deeply within your chest, your lungs seeming to have calmed a great deal from earlier.
And exhaustion drew a thick blanket over the edges of your focus - but you kept alert, holding your attention upright, your eyes following every movement of the man on his knees in front of you.
"Okay," Matt asserted grimly, "This is bound to hurt."
"But we've done this before," you added. Matt smiled.
"But we've done this before."
Holding the needle driver, Matt's hand lifted to rest atop your thigh. He pressed the edges of your cut gently together, and you winced but focused on deep breaths. His other hand floated up to land against your hip. You felt the end of the needle trace over your skin in silent, scraping threat.
"Ready?" he asked, his dark eyes warm, patient, expectant.
You nodded. "Ready."
Gritting your teeth, you shut your eyes and Matt sunk the needle into your skin. You kept your body still but couldn't hold back from crying out, the sharp dig of cold metal through your torn flesh bringing back memories of that man, slicing suffering through you with your own knife.
You clenched your jaw and unclenched it, biting the inside of your cheek as Matt finished up the first suture and re-threaded his needle for the second. You fought to remind yourself that it only gets easier from here.
The second suture still hurt like hell, though. You didn't cry out this time, but it was more like a stifled groan, the noise starting off high-pitched before falling low and dark in the depths of your throat.
As Matt prepared the third stitch, he raised a calm voice to reassure you.
"We're halfway there. You're doing great."
You nodded, lower lip stuck between the clench of your teeth, any awareness of pain other than your leg entirely muted.
With the third suture, you tried once more, and failed once more, to remain stoically silent. A yelp coursed out from you, your fingernails feeling like they were tearing through the polyester. As Matt worked diligently to finish the stitch, you collected yourself with a deep breath.
"What a night," you breathed, watching one of Matt's brows quirk up. You smiled still, needing a reminder of lightness to draw away from that heavy agony beneath your hip. "Might have been blown up and trapped in an abandoned warehouse with a mobster, but you still ended up between a woman's legs."
Matt snorted, caught off-guard by your joke. You shrugged, fighting for nonchalance as you kept on.
"Must be a plus."
Matt's lips curved together in a downward smile before he parted them to speak. The raspy grit of his low tones seemed to soak every one of his words.
"This isn't exactly how I usually picture it, but sure."
"Wow," you drawled, a dizzy smirk hitting your tired, pained lips. "So, you're saying you picture this, Murdock? You, between my legs?"
Matt chuckled, the sound of it dark, still focused on the suture - his fingers brushing across your skin in deft efforts to tie it off tightly.
"Watch yourself," he warned, knowing how exhausted you were, how hard your hazy mind was working to search for a distraction. His subtly curved lips were cased in some glassy layer of heat, imbued with a warning that it could burn you just with a touch, its very smoke trailing out between each syllable that fell from his lips. The heat of that darker energy made you shudder. Then, after a pause, he shrugged, a faint hint of enjoyment lilting up from somewhere within his core.
"I mean, considering that picture you're describing - I can't argue for the visuals, but I can see the noises being similar on your part."
"Oh, really?" you scoffed. "You watch yourself. What is that supposed to mean?"
"Well, if these are the sounds you make when you're in pain," Matt explained, his lips twisting slightly as that voice fell ever deeper, fingers finally finishing the stitch with a sharp sting through your leg, "I can only imagine the alternative."
This flirty motherfucker.
You shifted slightly with the brief flash of pain, but didn’t so much as take your eyes off Matt. "Are you calling me loud?"
Matt shrugged. His right hand resting idly on your thigh, he lifted up higher on his knees, jaw jutting out toward you as his head tilted to the side. You suddenly became quite conscious of how close his face had been to that lowest section of your core. "Nothing wrong with being loud, but feel free to prove me otherwise."
You cocked your own head to the side, narrowed eyes unable to mask the part of your lips, the dart of your tongue just over them. Matt's voice kept on its gravelly conquest of the air around your ears, the free space in your brain. Although this was intense, deep and dark and full of heat, you were thankful for any sort of distraction. Part of you felt certain that Matt knew how much you needed a distraction in this moment.
"Or just prove me right," Matt breathed. His face twisted into a near-sneer, built on stands of confident poise, of teasing sureness - furrowed brow, flushed face, smirking lips. "I have a feeling I'm right."
Despite Matt's splitting flirtation, you smiled, basking in his ever-constant warmth even as it flickered from soft to sharp and back again.
”I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
”Well, if you were to decide you do need to,” Matt offered, dark eyes flashing up over you as his voice fell impossibly lower, gravelly and hot, “I’d happily let you try.”
Your expression was heated and sharp, skating over this thin connection as if it was ice, a plunge beneath the surface nearly imminent. ”You, Matt Murdock, one of the most stubborn men I’ve met, would let me prove you wrong?”
His smile remained husky, pearly teeth laced with the smoke of his words and the smoke he imbued your name with as it fell from his lips. “There’s a lot I’d let you do to me.”
A grin - one you couldn't hold back, no matter how hard you tried - took over your face just as blush spread over your cheeks. “Easy, there. Didn’t I tell you we had to stay focused?”
Matt tipped his head to the side, leaning in further, so close that your eyes once again fell to his lips, your gaze tracing the light lines in the pink, plush skin. His eyebrows dipped with the grinning curve of those perfect lips, and your gaze floated up to his eyes once more, the haze of lamp-light painting them beautifully golden and just as dark. You felt your breath hitch, your memory trailing back to the feeling of his hands on your neck and jaw. The current sensation of his idle hand resting on your thigh, a thumb tracing back and forth over your skin, sent your heart and breath spiraling - and Matt’s grin only intensified at your shudder.
”Says the one getting distracted,” he murmured heatedly.
You shifted your jaw, that smile no less impossible to fight.
Touché.
Matt finished your sutures swiftly, letting out a mix of comforting hushes and soft chuckles as you continually failed to stay silent through your pain. A new glass of water and an extra-strength ibuprofen was welcomed from his hands after he traced over your stitches with the smooth slick of antibacterial ointment. Matt placed a protective cover over your injury so that you could shower, helped you limp to your bathroom, and even got some clean clothes for you from your bedroom - a loose, flowy pajama shirt, with shorts of a similar make.
You'd removed your clothes and sat in your bathtub, the weight of the day crashing down upon you like some mountaintop boulder - heavy and unavoidable if you were in its unforgiving path, which you very much had been. Matt - who insisted on staying to ensure that you could get into bed alright - waited for you in your living room.
Though it had been more than helpful in clearing bubbling suds of body wash off your skin, the showerhead felt unreasonably heavy now in your growingly exhausted hands. Though your worst wound kept on in a dull ache, your other bruises and bangs were hitting you harder now, and you bit your lip as you felt their pain radiate through you from all different sections of your belabored body.
You're okay.
All that's left to do is your hair.
You steadied yourself, placed the showerhead at your side, and faltered as you reached for your shampoo. Your hair lay across your shoulders, dripping down your chest and back in soaking, spitting drenches of clean water.
But it didn't feel clean in the slightest.
It felt coated, oiled up in layers of destruction - destruction you'd enabled, destruction you'd suffered at the hands of, destruction that led to nothing but suffering for either side of the battle you waged.
The water was hot and steamy on your aching skin, yet you shivered.
You blinked hard, trying to snap back into focus, when a gentle knock rapped against the other side of the bathroom door.
"You okay?"
You sighed. "Yeah. Just gotta wash my hair, and I'm good."
In the pause that followed, your eyes trailed up through the clouds of steam forming in the small room's air.
"You must be exhausted," Matt continued, his voice strong and kind even through the door. "You are exhausted. Do you- do you need any help?"
"I-" you started but faltered. Matt noticed the pause.
"If you're too tired, I can help you with your hair. I don't mind."
You hesitated.
Would that be too much, too fast?
A nervous giggle escaped you. "I mean - I can manage. You've done so much tonight, and-" you paused, considering how little you and Matt had talked about whatever he'd had to go through tonight, but knowing it had to have been just as bad as your own toil - if not worse. "Jesus, Matt, I'm sure you're just as tired."
"Well, I'm definitely looking forward to crashing into bed," he laughed, his tone sinking back into softness. "But, like I said, I don't mind."
Another pause. The hot water rushed out against your right hip from the showerhead, steam still working through the room. Glancing down at the tub around you, you saw that most of the streaks of blood had been drawn out and down the drain by hot, soapy water, bits of ash going with it - but tiny traces of those more painful hints of your night still lingered, black and red against the white of the tub.
You ran your fingers through soaked and grimy hair - hair that desperately needed shampoo and conditioner. And, God, if your aching hands weren't drained enough, your bruising arms dreading the thought of any more effort.
I mean, maybe… maybe that wouldn't be such a bad idea.
You twisted your lips, brow dipping in consideration. The clothes Matt had gotten for you rested atop the counter, their peaceful sage green color radiating tones of tea leaves and a wispy forest floor. The fabric was very thin, very light, very loose and flowy.
Potentially - they would cover you just fine and would be more than comfortable, even under rushing water and soap.
Matt said your name tenderly from beyond the bathroom door, the sound of it another warm comfort.
"If you're not comfortable with that, though, that's fine, too. Just thought I'd offer. I'll be here if there's anything you need."
"No," you interjected before he could walk away from the door. You bit your lip. "No, Matt, I- that would be really… helpful, actually. Just give me a second?"
You pictured Matt nodding on the other side of the door.
"Okay."
Okay.
You braced yourself and, tensing the muscles in your core, held onto the side of the tub to reach over and grab the clothes. A hiss whirred through your lips at the ache in your injury, and your fingers brushed over the clothes before you could grip them, jolting back into the tub.
Your chest expanded and contracted with a deep, stuttered breath.
First, you tugged the top over your head, slipping your arms through and pulling the cloth down over your body. The light fabric quickly became damp where it met your skin.
Okay, sure, this might be unnecessary, but this is still some guy helping me shower.
Going without pants was enough nakedness in front of Matt for one night.
Accepting the fate of your once-dry clothes, you lifted your feet slightly to pull your shorts over them before laying back into the tub. Water rushed up your right side, and you raised your hips slightly to tug the shorts up and over your lower half, the waistband settling softly around you. You sat up and turned toward the door.
"Okay. You can come in."
You watched the door expectantly as the doorknob turned, and Matt pushed it slowly open. Stepping into the room, his sock feet padded lightly over tile, and you noticed the scrapes and slight swelling along his face once more. Your brows drew together in concern.
"Wait, Matt, you're hurt too. Look, I don't want to be-"
"It's not a problem," Matt hummed, his hands flipping up lightly, lips curved up to the left, dark eyes soft. "I'm happy to help."
Soot still stained Matt's shirt, which hugged his torso tightly as he stepped over to you.
"You know," Matt offered, holding down a chuckle as he sat at the edge of the tub. "I am blind. I did tell you that, right?"
You couldn't stop your eyes from rolling and turned your head back to face him, your soaked clothes twisting along your skin with the movement. "It's the principle of the thing, Matt."
"I know, I know," he murmured, smiling, as you passed him the shampoo. "Whatever makes you feel comfortable."
You nodded and turned your head back to face forward, catching a shadow of your reflection in the white wall at the end of your tub. You seemed smaller beneath the starker light of your bathroom, your hair wet and strung every which way, down your chest, your shoulders, your back. The way the light worked, you couldn't make out the details of your face in the white material, your eyes and lips cast in shadow.
Behind you, Matt had poured shampoo into his hands and rubbed them together, lathering bubbles into his hands before lifting them to your scalp. You watched him place his fingers at your hairline just as you felt them grace your skin.
And, as he began to work a lather into your hair, you let your tired eyes fall closed.
Matt's hands worked deftly against your head, working to clean your hair but also doing his best to help relieve some of the tension you felt. His fingers rubbed over your scalp, working the shampoo through your roots from the top to the sides of your head. His thumbs dragged down the back of your head, moving pressure against your scalp to where they massaged into the base of your skull and down against the uppermost part of the back of your neck.
God.
He's good at that.
Matt ran his fingers down through your hair, reaching across your shoulders to pull it all together at your back. Your eyes fluttered as you felt him pull the shower head out from around you, its steamy spray flicking water along your back.
"Tip your head back," Matt murmured. You obliged, and the side of his hand landed atop your hairline to block the water from rushing into your eyes.
As Matt rinsed the shampoo and any residual grime from your hair, you felt your thoughts melt, your stressors and that ever-present tension through your muscles leaking slowly away with the swirl of water down the drain. He cleared your scalp of the shampoo and lowered the showerhead to force the last few suds off your ends. The hot, consistent pressure of shower spray felt ridiculously calming against your bruised and battered back, and your eyes flew open as Matt pulled the shower head away.
"Conditioner?" Matt asked, holding up another bottle. You nodded and took a breath, settling once more as he pressed the conditioner into his hands. He started at the ends of your hair, working it up the strands and back up to let his fingers knead again into your scalp. His hands paid particular attention to that spot where your skull met your neck, thumbing into it deep enough so that you could feel long-formed knots begin to unravel beneath each press.
The steam in the room, steadily rising upwards, felt soft and hot against your skin. Finally, although you were still injured, although the pain was still present - you felt clean. The visual, textural residue of your struggles tonight was long gone, down your drain in a stream of water, with the help of your showerhead and Matt's careful hands.
A safe, hazy feeling blanketed itself around your mind, spreading its balmy ease through your torso and down your limbs. Though that haze remained strong, you blinked back to attention as Matt pulled his hands away once more to grab the shower head. You tipped your head without Matt having to ask and, closing your eyes, felt that side of his hand land on your hairline as the hot spray returned to your scalp.
"Does that feel any better?" Matt asked, working the spray down your head. You couldn't exactly nod, but your voice worked just as well.
"Yes," you insisted, eyes blinking open. "Yes, Matt. Yes. Thank you."
A smile shaped his words. "Good. Glad I could help."
Water rushed from your scalp and down your neck as Matt cleared the conditioner from your hair, streams of heat flowing over your chest and back from either side. The pressure of the water against your back felt more soothing than you could explain in words, working out knots that were considerably out of reach for your weary arms.
"There," Matt hummed, pulling the showerhead away from your conditioner-free ends and reaching back to turn off the water. "All done."
You basked in your warmth for a moment, watching Matt's silhouette through the white tub wall as he got up to place the showerhead back in its holder. You pulled your hair around to one shoulder, twisting out the excess water, careful to avoid dripping it too heavily over your bandaged wound.
"Here," Matt offered, grabbing the bath towel that lay folded on the counter. "I'll grab you some dry clothes."
You smiled, grabbing the towel from him to press your hair into it, soaking up the water as best you could. "Okay. I have sweatpants and a sweatshirt just on the end of my bed. Think they're folded, but don't quote me on that."
"Just where these were?" He asked, gesturing to the sage ensemble you wore, stuck to your skin by water. You nodded.
Matt left you with the clothes and the towel to dry off and change, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. Feeling warm, relaxed, and more comfortable than you'd felt in a long while, your exhaustion quickly overcame you. It was all you could do to step up and out of the tub.
That slight struggle wasn't due to the ache in your thigh but the cloud of sleep deprivation forming fast in your overworked mind, spreading pure storms of fatigue to every section of your body, heavily burdened and blown into drowsiness by the day behind you.
Your soaked clothes fell to the floor, sopping wet, and you merely brushed them back against the tub wall with your heel, too tired to do anything more. Patting yourself dry was the best course of action so as not to disturb your bandage, scrapes, or bruises - and because anything stronger would require a level of energy that you simply did not have.
Your sweatsuit felt fluffy and comfortable and, finally clothed and dry - apart from your damp hair - you dropped the towel onto the floor and limped over to the door, pulling it open.
Matt waited for you on the other side. Low lamp light set one side of his face and body aglow, the rest of him in soft, brownish shadow. He gave a faint smile and, noticing your utter exhaustion, stepped closer.
With no energy left to stop the impulse, you curled your arm around Matt's, reaching up your other hand to grip onto his bicep. Matt wordlessly lifted a hand to hold yours steady and, helping to take some weight off of your injured leg, led you to your bedroom.
"Do you do this for every girl you meet in the dark?" you asked lightly, the lilt of your voice wavering with drowsiness as your toes met the soft carpet beneath your bed. "Clean her up, wash her hair, tuck her into bed…"
"Only the ones who get stabbed," Matt quipped, pulling your sheets back so you could settle in under them. He let you grab onto his arm as you got in and didn't so much as make a face when you gripped a little tighter at the lace of fresh pain through your leg, though it was dulled now just slightly by the medication in your veins.
"I didn't get stabbed," you clarified. "Makes it sound like I lost. I very much did not lose."
"Might as well have been stabbed," Matt laughed lightly, helping you pull your covers carefully up and over your body to your chest. "But I believe you."
Your eyes trailed over Matt's face in the dark, catching on that light red and blue of bruising. Something broke within your chest at what you knew must only be the tip of the iceberg of his injuries.
"Are you okay?" you asked earnestly, your voice quiet. Matt tilted his head, still standing over you. "You couldn't have had an easy night. I doubt the Ranskahov guy was particularly pleasant to deal with."
"Don't worry about me," Matt insisted, his voice a reassuring murmur. That gritty, heated drawl was the last thing your exhaustion needed, and although you wanted so badly to stay awake, to make sure Matt was taken care of - you were fading fast.
The mattress cradled your body in a plush hug, and the pillow beneath your head felt like the closest thing to a cloud that you could possibly think of at this moment. Your eyes, fighting not to flutter closed, were resigned to a series of slow, heavy blinks. You had to firmly fight the pull of sleep to move even your lips and tongue, realizing that every other part of your body felt so warm, so comforted, so safe and secure and relaxed that you simply could not move.
Five more minutes, and I'm absolutely out.
"Of course I'm gonna worry about you, Matt," you asserted, though it came out more groggy and dozing than commanding, as you would have wanted it to. With a sleepy haze cradling your tired ears, you barely registered the difference.
Okay.
Maybe more like one more minute.
"You know, you can shower here, if you want," you offered, lazy eyes flitting to the soot on Matt's clothes. "I've got plenty of soap, and towels, and I have tons of big sweaters and sweatpants you can borrow."
Matt dipped his head with a smile. His broad shoulders and powerful chest bent forward in the dark, his body lowering closer to where you lay. You felt him tug your comforter just a little higher up over you, and he placed his strong hands gently on your shoulders, before leaning in closer, his nose nearly brushing yours. His voice felt feathery warm on your skin, the sound of it little more than a floaty, flittery whisper - something you would have missed entirely if you'd been even just one more second beneath the pull of sleep.
"Another time, sweetheart."
And, as if that wasn't warm enough for you, his face shifted further up in the darkness - and you felt soft lips press a cautious kiss to the centre of your forehead, settling in warm and steady against you, slow to part from your skin.
"I'll come to check on you in the morning, okay?" he murmured, tilting his head down to press his own forehead against yours.
Your lips curled up in a small smile, eyes glazed with awe, eyelids having grown nearly impossible to hold up.
"Okay."
Matt pulled away with a smile in the darkness. Now shut and unwilling to open, your eyes shifted back and forth behind your eyelids as you heard him wish you goodnight, get his boots back on, and slip back into the night.
The sound of the window shutting barely registered at the back of your mind. That kiss to your forehead was one thing - warm and balmy and shooting slow-moving electricity through you in a warm wave - but that word was another thing entirely, taking up all the free space left in the dimming light of your mind.
Sweetheart.
That word repeated over and over in Matt's gritty tone, the breath of it heated and burgeoning with care and concern as it wafted over your skin. It was all you could think of, tipping your lips up and swirling warmth through your head as you fell fast into a deep, vivid sleep.
Sweetheart.
Sweetheart.
Sweetheart.