Claire probably never wanted to see Jessica Jones again.
Too bad, she's going to see Jessica Jones again. In fact she's going to find Jessica in her apartment, probably bloody and passed out on her couch. If it makes Claire feel any better, Jessica probably at least feels a little bad about it, but for right now, she's too unconscious to say so.
It's true, Jessica wasn't high up on the list of people Claire is excited to see breaking into her apartment. ...Then again, hardly anyone would be on that list, if one existed.
"I need a black couch," Claire mutters as soon as she sees Jessica, but she's on her way to the first aid kit immediately. When did she become go-to medic for the city's superpowered residents, and why don't any of them knock or call ahead before inviting themselves in to bleed all over her furniture?
Bandages aren't going to cut it. Claire pulls out the suture kit along with those, hoping Jessica doesn't wake up just in time to object to the treatment. That could end poorly.
The moment someone is touching her, Jessica's hand snaps out and wraps around her wrist - not tight enough to do any damage, but tight enough to make a point. Exhaling slowly, her eyes open and when she sees that it's Claire, she lets go immediately, moving her hand up to rub her eyes instead.
"Sorry. Reflex." Or habit. Whichever is easier to believe. "What time is it?"
Claire freezes, then lets out a breath of relief as Jessica releases her wrist. Jessica could have broken bones if she wasn't so careful even after just waking up.
"Almost two. You need stitches. How long have you been bleeding on my couch?" Not for Claire's whole shift, clearly, or there'd be a lot more of a mess and a trip to the hospital for a blood transfusion in their future.
"Not long." She rubs her eyes again before blinking blearily up at the ceiling. "I passed out from boredom, not blood loss." So at least that's something. She's also really hoping that Claire's not going to ask any questions about how she got these particular injuries.
For being New Year's Eve, it's surprisingly quiet in Claire's neck of the woods. Maybe it's because all of the drunks are out at the bars. Maybe it's because everyone else has packed themselves into Times Square, alongside the tourists, to wait for the ball to drop at midnight. Either way, while there's been the occasional idiot jumping the gun and setting off fireworks before it's time, you'd think it was Christmas for how nothing is stirring, not even a mouse.
And for how, at some point sooner rather than later, there's a suspicious thump on the roof and then the sound of footsteps.
It's not Santa come late in this case, however -- it's Matt, dressed in uniform despite the fact that the purse-snatchers are all over on the Square, this time of night, this time of year, too. He needed to get out of his apartment, regardless; he needs to see a familiar face, now. Someone who he maybe hasn't completely ruined his relationship with, as is the case with Foggy, with Karen, who knows the truth, now. He won't be surprised if Claire isn't thrilled to see him, mind, but he's hopeful. And he's headed down the stairs towards her apartment, now.
Claire is home alone on New Year's Eve. She prioritized her work over most everything else, to the detriment of personal relationships. She even prioritized her work over her job itself when the hospital administration wanted to sweep loss of life under the rug. Now it's all over and she's at loose ends. She has no idea what her life will look like when she figures out what comes next.
In the meantime, she recognizes that thud on the rooftop. Claire is already out of her chair and halfway to the apartment door when she hears the footsteps that follow it down. At least Matt's moving under his own power.
She doesn't bother waiting for him to knock before opening the door, slightly relieved to have her suspicions confirmed. Matt, not an unexpected threat, and he even seems to be in one piece for once. He wouldn't admit he needed help if he weren't beat to hell and back, with injuries obvious at a glance.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, though she supposes she has an idea. It isn't for medical attention. Not this time.
Matt isn't the only one who's lost something important recently.
"Come in," she tells him after a second's pause, opening the door a little wider and stepping out of the way.
"Would you believe me if I said I couldn't sleep?" he asks, voice low and for more than just its pitch, volume. He sounds tired, despite the fact that they both know he wouldn't be in bed at this hour, anyway, and certainly not on New Year's Eve.
A brief, wry smile follows, and then he's stalking past her, silent as he makes his way into the apartment. He needs human contact, right now, but he has no idea what to actually say. At least, for now, he can blame it on the mask, the persona that comes with it, if she tries calling him out on it. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen doesn't do awkward, he's just stoic. Mostly. When he's not beating the shit out of someone.
"About as much as you'd believe me if I said I stayed in to catch up on sleep." Which is to say, not at all. And Matt can try hiding behind the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, but Claire isn't likely to let him get away with it for long. This is a social call, apparently, and those are hard to make as a stoic masked vigilante.
Claire follows Matt back into the apartment, pausing as she passes the kitchen. "Do you want a drink?"
Matt lets out a breath, likely meant to be a laugh, and tries for a smile. Both fall a little flat for any number of reasons. He gives up on both when even he realizes how hollow they are and pops one shoulder in a shrug. "Point."
A beat.
"And uh -- " A part of him wants to say no; a part of him desperately wants to say yes, even if he's not particularly thirsty. The latter wins out, in spite of himself, and exhaling heavily, he reaches for the catches on the cowl to take it off. It feels a little ridiculous, having a drink, alcoholic or otherwise, with the mask on. " -- yeah, sure, I guess?"
He rakes his fingers through his hair, once the mask is off, making even more of a mess of it.
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triangularity2016-04-12 09:43 pm
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Too bad, she's going to see Jessica Jones again. In fact she's going to find Jessica in her apartment, probably bloody and passed out on her couch. If it makes Claire feel any better, Jessica probably at least feels a little bad about it, but for right now, she's too unconscious to say so.
Hi, Claire. How's it going?
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"I need a black couch," Claire mutters as soon as she sees Jessica, but she's on her way to the first aid kit immediately. When did she become go-to medic for the city's superpowered residents, and why don't any of them knock or call ahead before inviting themselves in to bleed all over her furniture?
Bandages aren't going to cut it. Claire pulls out the suture kit along with those, hoping Jessica doesn't wake up just in time to object to the treatment. That could end poorly.
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"Sorry. Reflex." Or habit. Whichever is easier to believe. "What time is it?"
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"Almost two. You need stitches. How long have you been bleeding on my couch?" Not for Claire's whole shift, clearly, or there'd be a lot more of a mess and a trip to the hospital for a blood transfusion in their future.
no subject
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And for how, at some point sooner rather than later, there's a suspicious thump on the roof and then the sound of footsteps.
It's not Santa come late in this case, however -- it's Matt, dressed in uniform despite the fact that the purse-snatchers are all over on the Square, this time of night, this time of year, too. He needed to get out of his apartment, regardless; he needs to see a familiar face, now. Someone who he maybe hasn't completely ruined his relationship with, as is the case with Foggy, with Karen, who knows the truth, now. He won't be surprised if Claire isn't thrilled to see him, mind, but he's hopeful. And he's headed down the stairs towards her apartment, now.
no subject
In the meantime, she recognizes that thud on the rooftop. Claire is already out of her chair and halfway to the apartment door when she hears the footsteps that follow it down. At least Matt's moving under his own power.
She doesn't bother waiting for him to knock before opening the door, slightly relieved to have her suspicions confirmed. Matt, not an unexpected threat, and he even seems to be in one piece for once. He wouldn't admit he needed help if he weren't beat to hell and back, with injuries obvious at a glance.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, though she supposes she has an idea. It isn't for medical attention. Not this time.
Matt isn't the only one who's lost something important recently.
"Come in," she tells him after a second's pause, opening the door a little wider and stepping out of the way.
no subject
A brief, wry smile follows, and then he's stalking past her, silent as he makes his way into the apartment. He needs human contact, right now, but he has no idea what to actually say. At least, for now, he can blame it on the mask, the persona that comes with it, if she tries calling him out on it. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen doesn't do awkward, he's just stoic. Mostly. When he's not beating the shit out of someone.
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Claire follows Matt back into the apartment, pausing as she passes the kitchen. "Do you want a drink?"
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A beat.
"And uh -- " A part of him wants to say no; a part of him desperately wants to say yes, even if he's not particularly thirsty. The latter wins out, in spite of himself, and exhaling heavily, he reaches for the catches on the cowl to take it off. It feels a little ridiculous, having a drink, alcoholic or otherwise, with the mask on. " -- yeah, sure, I guess?"
He rakes his fingers through his hair, once the mask is off, making even more of a mess of it.