Claire's not particularly surprised to see a black-clad vigilante climbing through her living room window at two am. This is my life now, she thinks to herself, and sighs.
"I thought you were going to visit your mother," Matt says.
"If you thought I was gonna be at my mom's," Claire replies, "then why are you here?"
"I could tell you were home. I need your help."
She gives him a quick appraisal. He doesn't seem hurt, but then, she's not the one with x-ray hearing. She dog-ears the right-hand page of her paperback and sets it aside. "You okay?" she asks.
"It's not me," he answers. "She's at the church."
"She?" Claire asks, but Matt's already halfway out the window to the fire escape, so she supposes she'll find out soon enough. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, give me strength, she thinks, trying her very best to avoid watching him leave.
Claire's newest patient turns out to be a blonde woman, huddled in one of the pews, blood trailing from her nose and a gash on her cheek. Her hand might also be broken, from the way she's cradling it in her lap. "-they killed Ben Urich, just for helping me," she's saying to Matt as Claire approaches from the side aisle. Tears streak through the gore and grime on the girl's face. "They've been trying to kill me, too - for weeks. So no, I'm not sorry, okay? I won't be sorry until every last one of those bastards is buried or behind bars."
"Another vigilante, huh?" Claire asks, and the girl scrambles sideways, until her back bumps up against the pew divider. "It's okay, I'm a nurse. Jesus, Matt, what did you do to her?"
"I kept her from killing the Senator's aide," he replies.
"I told you, that was his gun - he kidnapped me!" The girl pulls her knees up, wrapping her good arm around them. "What do I have to do to get you to believe me?"
"I believe you," Claire says gently, setting out her kit and pulling on her gloves. "Start from the beginning, knowing the whole story will help. How about the easy stuff first: what's your name?"
"Karen," the girl answers. "Karen Page."
It's almost dawn by the time Karen's done talking, laying out the whole sordid mess, from street-level drug deals to human trafficking, all leading gossamer-thin trails to Senator Fisk's office. Matt would question her for another day if he could, but Claire can see the adrenaline crash approaching and waves him off. "She needs rest, Matt," she declares. "Can she stay here?"
"Yeah," he says. "We have a- a guest room." Claire doesn't ask. She doesn't want to know why Matt hadn't put her there the other day instead of his own bed. She already knows why - but she doesn't know if Matt knows why.
It's better not to ask.
She has other questions, though. So as soon as Karen's tucked away asleep, Claire goes looking for Matt, hoping he hasn't left yet on whatever crusade this has become.
He's back in his clerical garb, crouched in the confessional, hiding his vigilante costume under the bench, which he closes up as she draws near. "I know I keep saying this," he says, "but thank you."
"I'm glad you weren't bleeding out on my couch this time," she replies, hoping to elicit a smile. He gives her one, but it's wan and fleeting. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," he says. "Whatever it takes?"
"No, no," she says, turning to sit so that she's facing him. "Don't do that. Don't give your whole heart and your life and your blood and your soul to this." Without thinking, she brushes his hair back from his face, fingertips lingering at the bruise still coloring his cheekbone.
Matt's eyes slip closed and he leans, very lightly, into her touch. "All I have left are my life and my blood," he tells her, in a faint, despairing whisper. "I've already lost the other two."
It takes her a moment to realize what he means, but when it sinks in, it pushes the air from her lungs all in a rush. "Oh," she says.
"Oh?" he asks, and then - then! - he laughs, though there's no joy in it. "I tell you that my heart is yours and my soul is damned for the sake of it, and you say oh?"
"Well," she says. "At least you're not alone."
"...oh," he breathes. He drops his head, blinking rapidly, and she thinks she sees the glint of tears. "I'm so sorry, Claire."
"Why?" she asks. "Whatever else happens, I am so, so glad to have met you, to have you and all your-" she gestures expansively, "weirdness in my life. I just don't want to see you become something you hate in some futile attempt to - what, destroy the devil of Hell's Kitchen?"
"I don't think Fisk is the Devil," he says. "...my grandmother always used to say, 'Be careful of the Murdock boys. They've got the Devil in them.' I think she was right. I think... I think that's why I joined the Church. I wanted to help people, sure, but I was also afraid... I thought if I gave my life to God, he'd cast the Devil out."
Now Claire's eyes are stinging, too. She leans forward, bringing her other hand to his face, tilting his head up. Eye contact is pointless, but she wants him to feel her sincerity in the insistence of her voice, the solidity of her embrace. "You don't have the Devil in you, Matt. You're just a person, a man like any other, with weaknesses, sure, but also with incredible blessings and a good, good heart. That's all."
Matt's expression crumples, anxious and perplexed. "But-" he starts.
Claire surprises them both by interrupting him with a kiss. It only lasts a moment before she catches herself, pulling back with a gasp. He looks stunned, blinking up at her from the floor. He grazes his lower lip with two fingers, the tip of his tongue flashing into view and then away.
Thoughtfully, like his mind's miles away, he says, "I was wondering how you'd taste." That shouldn't be hot, Claire thinks, but his words have kindled a heat that coils at the base of her spine anyway. "My sheets still smell like you," he continues, sounding wretched, sounding wrecked. "I wanted- I wanted so much, but I didn't-" It takes her a moment to comprehend, and then the image flashes into her mind, of Matt so hard he hurts, twisting under his sheets but refusing to touch himself.
Claire aches in sympathy, flushed with her own arousal and shame. "Oh, Matt," she says. "Matt, you-" She shifts forward, meaning to go to the floor beside him, pull him close so they can lean on each other, but he stops her, his hands on her shins.
"Please," he says, the word cracking like glass. "Please, Claire, just let me-" And slowly, slowly, his palms skim up to her knees, beneath the hem of her skirt, thumbs ducking into the space between her thighs and oh.
It's then that she realizes that they've come too far, that neither of them will ever say no to the other, that she'll never refuse him anything. Not when his hands caress her with such trembling reverence, when he bows his head to press his lips to her skin with such fervent care. She moves where he guides her, lifts her hips when he tugs at cotton. His mouth finds where she's wet and wanting, his tongue tracing the shape of her while she murmurs reassurance, encouragement, praise.
Claire lets her hand rest on the crown of his head, combing her fingers through his hair, and his muffled moan thrums through her pelvis. She arches up, gasping, and he does it again, learning what she likes through the hitch in her lungs, the quivering of her legs, the roll of her hips. Has he ever--? she wonders absently, but then he slips two fingers into her, crooking them just so, and that thought is banished by a bright, electric crest that has her muffling a cry into the back of her wrist.
Coming back to herself in stages, she can feel his ragged exhalations along her bare skin. His spine is bent, cheek pressed against her thigh, lungs working like a bellows. "Matt," she says, curling over him, arms around his shoulders. "Oh, Matt, come here, come here." She scoots up and drops to her knees beside him, stroking his face, peppering light kisses over his slick mouth and jaw.
"I can't," he says, eyes squeezed shut. He's clutching at her forearms, and when she trails her hand down his chest to find his hot hard length straining behind his fly, he gives a broken moan. "Don't," he says, "I can't," but he's pushing into her palm with little helpless thrusts anyway.
Claire gets it, then. He thinks he needs to deny himself this, even now. She kisses him again, tasting herself on his lips, his tongue. "Matthew," she sighs, feeling him jolt beneath her, hearing his shaky sob as he comes at her touch.
She rubs soothing circles into his back while he catches his breath.
"What do we do now?" he asks in a small voice.
"We deal with Hell later," she says, her stomach turning to lead and her spine to steel as she realizes where they are, what they've just done. "We save Hell's Kitchen first."
FILL [6/6]: "Revelations," (5x+1, as discussed above) Matt/Claire, Priest!Matt, Priest Kink
Claire's not particularly surprised to see a black-clad vigilante climbing through her living room window at two am. This is my life now, she thinks to herself, and sighs.
"I thought you were going to visit your mother," Matt says.
"If you thought I was gonna be at my mom's," Claire replies, "then why are you here?"
"I could tell you were home. I need your help."
She gives him a quick appraisal. He doesn't seem hurt, but then, she's not the one with x-ray hearing. She dog-ears the right-hand page of her paperback and sets it aside. "You okay?" she asks.
"It's not me," he answers. "She's at the church."
"She?" Claire asks, but Matt's already halfway out the window to the fire escape, so she supposes she'll find out soon enough. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, give me strength, she thinks, trying her very best to avoid watching him leave.
Claire's newest patient turns out to be a blonde woman, huddled in one of the pews, blood trailing from her nose and a gash on her cheek. Her hand might also be broken, from the way she's cradling it in her lap. "-they killed Ben Urich, just for helping me," she's saying to Matt as Claire approaches from the side aisle. Tears streak through the gore and grime on the girl's face. "They've been trying to kill me, too - for weeks. So no, I'm not sorry, okay? I won't be sorry until every last one of those bastards is buried or behind bars."
"Another vigilante, huh?" Claire asks, and the girl scrambles sideways, until her back bumps up against the pew divider. "It's okay, I'm a nurse. Jesus, Matt, what did you do to her?"
"I kept her from killing the Senator's aide," he replies.
"I told you, that was his gun - he kidnapped me!" The girl pulls her knees up, wrapping her good arm around them. "What do I have to do to get you to believe me?"
"I believe you," Claire says gently, setting out her kit and pulling on her gloves. "Start from the beginning, knowing the whole story will help. How about the easy stuff first: what's your name?"
"Karen," the girl answers. "Karen Page."
It's almost dawn by the time Karen's done talking, laying out the whole sordid mess, from street-level drug deals to human trafficking, all leading gossamer-thin trails to Senator Fisk's office. Matt would question her for another day if he could, but Claire can see the adrenaline crash approaching and waves him off. "She needs rest, Matt," she declares. "Can she stay here?"
"Yeah," he says. "We have a- a guest room." Claire doesn't ask. She doesn't want to know why Matt hadn't put her there the other day instead of his own bed. She already knows why - but she doesn't know if Matt knows why.
It's better not to ask.
She has other questions, though. So as soon as Karen's tucked away asleep, Claire goes looking for Matt, hoping he hasn't left yet on whatever crusade this has become.
He's back in his clerical garb, crouched in the confessional, hiding his vigilante costume under the bench, which he closes up as she draws near. "I know I keep saying this," he says, "but thank you."
"I'm glad you weren't bleeding out on my couch this time," she replies, hoping to elicit a smile. He gives her one, but it's wan and fleeting. "What are you going to do?"
"I don't know," he says. "Whatever it takes?"
"No, no," she says, turning to sit so that she's facing him. "Don't do that. Don't give your whole heart and your life and your blood and your soul to this." Without thinking, she brushes his hair back from his face, fingertips lingering at the bruise still coloring his cheekbone.
Matt's eyes slip closed and he leans, very lightly, into her touch. "All I have left are my life and my blood," he tells her, in a faint, despairing whisper. "I've already lost the other two."
It takes her a moment to realize what he means, but when it sinks in, it pushes the air from her lungs all in a rush. "Oh," she says.
"Oh?" he asks, and then - then! - he laughs, though there's no joy in it. "I tell you that my heart is yours and my soul is damned for the sake of it, and you say oh?"
"Well," she says. "At least you're not alone."
"...oh," he breathes. He drops his head, blinking rapidly, and she thinks she sees the glint of tears. "I'm so sorry, Claire."
"Why?" she asks. "Whatever else happens, I am so, so glad to have met you, to have you and all your-" she gestures expansively, "weirdness in my life. I just don't want to see you become something you hate in some futile attempt to - what, destroy the devil of Hell's Kitchen?"
"I don't think Fisk is the Devil," he says. "...my grandmother always used to say, 'Be careful of the Murdock boys. They've got the Devil in them.' I think she was right. I think... I think that's why I joined the Church. I wanted to help people, sure, but I was also afraid... I thought if I gave my life to God, he'd cast the Devil out."
Now Claire's eyes are stinging, too. She leans forward, bringing her other hand to his face, tilting his head up. Eye contact is pointless, but she wants him to feel her sincerity in the insistence of her voice, the solidity of her embrace. "You don't have the Devil in you, Matt. You're just a person, a man like any other, with weaknesses, sure, but also with incredible blessings and a good, good heart. That's all."
Matt's expression crumples, anxious and perplexed. "But-" he starts.
Claire surprises them both by interrupting him with a kiss. It only lasts a moment before she catches herself, pulling back with a gasp. He looks stunned, blinking up at her from the floor. He grazes his lower lip with two fingers, the tip of his tongue flashing into view and then away.
Thoughtfully, like his mind's miles away, he says, "I was wondering how you'd taste." That shouldn't be hot, Claire thinks, but his words have kindled a heat that coils at the base of her spine anyway. "My sheets still smell like you," he continues, sounding wretched, sounding wrecked. "I wanted- I wanted so much, but I didn't-" It takes her a moment to comprehend, and then the image flashes into her mind, of Matt so hard he hurts, twisting under his sheets but refusing to touch himself.
Claire aches in sympathy, flushed with her own arousal and shame. "Oh, Matt," she says. "Matt, you-" She shifts forward, meaning to go to the floor beside him, pull him close so they can lean on each other, but he stops her, his hands on her shins.
"Please," he says, the word cracking like glass. "Please, Claire, just let me-" And slowly, slowly, his palms skim up to her knees, beneath the hem of her skirt, thumbs ducking into the space between her thighs and oh.
It's then that she realizes that they've come too far, that neither of them will ever say no to the other, that she'll never refuse him anything. Not when his hands caress her with such trembling reverence, when he bows his head to press his lips to her skin with such fervent care. She moves where he guides her, lifts her hips when he tugs at cotton. His mouth finds where she's wet and wanting, his tongue tracing the shape of her while she murmurs reassurance, encouragement, praise.
Claire lets her hand rest on the crown of his head, combing her fingers through his hair, and his muffled moan thrums through her pelvis. She arches up, gasping, and he does it again, learning what she likes through the hitch in her lungs, the quivering of her legs, the roll of her hips. Has he ever--? she wonders absently, but then he slips two fingers into her, crooking them just so, and that thought is banished by a bright, electric crest that has her muffling a cry into the back of her wrist.
Coming back to herself in stages, she can feel his ragged exhalations along her bare skin. His spine is bent, cheek pressed against her thigh, lungs working like a bellows. "Matt," she says, curling over him, arms around his shoulders. "Oh, Matt, come here, come here." She scoots up and drops to her knees beside him, stroking his face, peppering light kisses over his slick mouth and jaw.
"I can't," he says, eyes squeezed shut. He's clutching at her forearms, and when she trails her hand down his chest to find his hot hard length straining behind his fly, he gives a broken moan. "Don't," he says, "I can't," but he's pushing into her palm with little helpless thrusts anyway.
Claire gets it, then. He thinks he needs to deny himself this, even now. She kisses him again, tasting herself on his lips, his tongue. "Matthew," she sighs, feeling him jolt beneath her, hearing his shaky sob as he comes at her touch.
She rubs soothing circles into his back while he catches his breath.
"What do we do now?" he asks in a small voice.
"We deal with Hell later," she says, her stomach turning to lead and her spine to steel as she realizes where they are, what they've just done. "We save Hell's Kitchen first."
- end -
...speaking of hell, who's coming with me?