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It wasn't a bad fight. It wasn't a good fight, either. If anything, it was annoying, and left the man in black muttering under his breath and shoving a cigarette between his lips with rust stained fingers. Flicking his zippo open and giving the flint a few rolls before it catches fire. Dragging, until the cherry blazes, he then slips the lighter away, his other hand resting up and under his jacket, pressing to his side securely.
Word gets around these parts, this city, and even if he wasn't one to trust easily, the woman's last name meant something to him. Climbing the steps, he allows others to go before him; he looms, he waits, he bleeds through to the wall behind him and nurses his cancer stick. He looks worse for wear, an aged man with a vibrantly bruised face, blood mouth, and smelling heavily of sweat and vitae. Still, he waits patiently.
*
The only challenge to Claire's make shift, personal apartment clinic is the fact that it's a third floor walk up. Still, a decent building, as Hell's Kitchen goes. Her mom's old apartment which she inherited the rent control of, when her mother passed the other year. Now it's just her and the steady stream of patients, two bit heroes, anti-heroes and street kids, who cannot afford to go to the hospital. Claire's on shift at 4 am, so she was trying to sleep. It means the knock is allowed to wait a few moments as she pulls on a pair of oversized pants and a teeshirt, probably wearing very little beneath. Eventually, though, the door opens.
"…You… Need help?" Claire's husky, just very slightly accented voice rasps out as she stares across at Frank through drowsy, dark eyes. She looks like her mother in some ways. Younger, thinner… but the same wide, dark, protective eyes. The perfectly olive skin, full lips. Her mom was a beautiful woman when she was younger, and even through a haze of exhaustion, Claire isn't too bad looking. She looks over the injured man, the bloody mouth, the scent of copper on the air, and she just nods, "Come in. On the couch. What's the worst of it?" She asks, clinically. Unsurprised.
*
"Ms. Temple?" Frank greets with a gravel like baritone to his voice. Glancing over her face, he crushes the cigarette out on the floor before reaching down and claiming the spent leftovers. Passing through, he nods, offering a silent 'thanks' before starting to shrug off his heavy jacket. "Heard the rumors, didn't think they were true, though. Didn't think your mama would let you do something like this." A pause, he scoffs. "You grew up, too." First jacket, then holsters, armor, and finally, his under shirt. Leaving his upper body exposed, he takes a seat on the sofa and breathes, deeply. There, she could easily see three wounds, patched up haphazardly and on the fly. Glue and tape were busted, one wound more bruised around its entry point thanks to repeated blows. "Think I still have a slug in me, in my back. Couldn't reach it." He explains. "Need it out, and to be closed up good."
*
"I'm a nurse at Metro General. My mama was very proud of what I did before she died." Claire states flatly, in that slightly cold, defensive way a lot of girls in this area get when they are on their own for so long, making their own way, and still living in dangerous streets. Of course, being a nurse at a busy hospital was far different than helping random people off the street in the privacy of her own home. But she's a soft touch. Claire pauses at the closet, opening it to reveal a whole ton of stashed medical supplies. She gets out one bin in particular, seemingly made for gunshot wounds and stitches, and carries that over to his side at the couch. "…What's your name? How'd you know my mom?" She asks, as she cracks open a bottle of rubbing alcohol and pools it in her hands, disinfecting them before starting to pull on some gloves. Then she can get a look at his back. She swears in Spanish as she looks at his back. "Next time, forget the glue, just… get here faster." SHe scolds him. He's going to enjoy what comes next even less, as she begins to pour alcohol in to clean out the wound. Then she'll be reaching for her forceps, dousing them with alcohol too.
*
"Name's not important. Not anymore. I just knew your mom from way back when. My wife, she, ah…loved your mom's food. I remember her asking for it while she was pregnant with my daughter." He explains gently, giving the apartment a paranoid glance over before turning to allow the woman more access to his back. The cursing brings a chuckle from his lips, perhaps he understood her, and the pour of alcohol causes him to grit his teeth. "No time. Just back in town and I'm rather busy." Staring off at nothing in particular, it takes the man a few moments, simply breathing in and out as his back and all its scars and wounds are on full display for the nurse. "I'm sorry to hear about her passing away. She was a wonderful lady."
*
The woman works with the hands of an expert. Not just a nurse. This is a woman who has done more minor surgeries on this couch than one could dream. She sighs, pouring a bit more alcohol over the wound and then nudging the couch-side table so she can see his back a bit better. She uses two gloved fingertips to gently ease open the wound a bit more and then the forceps to slip in, searching for that bullet as gently as possible. "You come in here talking about my mom. I'm pulling a bullet out of you from God knows what. You talk about your wife. The least you can do is tell me your name. I'm Claire. And you sure as hell have time considering you are going to be laying on this couch for at least twenty minutes. Preferably the rest of the damn night. I'm not doing all this work for you to pull the stitches open 30 minutes later."
*
Frank tsks, his tongue pressing at the back of his teeth. He doesn't answer, not for the longest time. Seeming content with his own silence, and the work she's doing, he only reacts with a twitch now and then, or the flexing of his fist, knuckles busted and violet from prior use. "I know your name, Claire. You use to be a beanpoll of a kid. A lil chubby later on." He muses with a smirk, but doesn't turn his face to look at her, or needlessly shift his body. The seconds pass, turning into minutes, as he allows her to work without much fuss. "Frank." He finally allows to pass his lips. "It's nice to meet you again, Claire. If you're anything like your mama, then I'm not going to argue with you, either. I'll sit, I'll stay."
*
While Claire isn't exactly content with his silence, the fact that he clearly knew her mom, and her, is enough to keep her working on him, despite frustration. She tries to remember the voice, the face, but with the bruising and the blood, it's hard to exactly recognize him. Still, the woman thinks it through as she works, wracking her brain for a guy that looked like him, had a pregnant wife that came through the diner a lot. Then he gives his name and it's enough to click some things in place. Especially around Hell's Kitchen. It's a small place in a big city. There are stories that go back. "…Frank. I remember you. My… mom talked about you. " Claire is quiet again, as she focuses on ever-so-carefully pulling that bullet out of his back. She manages it with one go. "Lucky this is in tact." She mutters beneath her breath, dropping the bullet on her coffee table before going back to staunching the fresh bleeding of the wound. "She…talked about what happened. I'm… sorry." That's all Claire offers. Not asking more about it. Not forcing him to talk. Just her quiet heart and her dedicated hands.
*
"Yeah." Is all Frank murmurs, not saying much more on the topic. "I, ah…your mom was good to us. Sorry that my wife, and kids, never got to meet you." In truth, the Castle family was long gone by the time Claire came into the world. Perhaps there were questions about the big man in black who came, specifically, for a Hispanic twist on American classics. Either way, here he sits, allowing the prodgeny of a long time friend dig metal out of his body. "I'll need the stitching to hold tight. I'll spare you till morning, but after that, I can't promise where my day will take me." He warns.
*
A slightly unhappy sound escapes her throat as he comments about the stitching holding tight. "I'll put a few extra in. Somehow I don't think the needle is going to bother you. But I'm not a miracle worker and… tough or not, you're still just human and this is still just, basically, fishing line. So you could take some care with it, you know." Claire mutters, the flatness to her tone saying that she very much suspects he's not going to, but she's still doing her work. She keeps that pressure there against the now open, mostly clean wound, for a few more moments before she picks it up and checks on just how bad it's bleeding. If it needs packed or not, if she can go straight for stitching. An unhappy breath escapes her nose and she reaches for more alcohol, pouring it in with that burning, awful sensation of something cleaning EVERYTHING out, often good and bad, but she can at least see sinew beneath the skin so she can meet the edges of a wound in a way he may not have muscle damage. May. A minute later, there is the familiar, expert pricks of someone who is very good putting in stitches. Her breath comes slow and even against his back, leaning ever so close to get each minute motion done clean and quick.
*
Frank only grunts at her advice. His conversational skills are lacking now as he stares off, perhaps even feeling that he's say too much about himself, or his family. In all honesty, he's still upset that he gave his name. The rush of the cleaning solution causes an annoyed groan to rumble in his throat, his hands flexing once more, but he doesn't pull away, nor does he protest. He stills ram-rod still as she starts her work with the needle.
*
"You need a warning, big guy, before I do these things?" Claire asks, only partially teasing him, as there is the genuine concern of a nurse and a caregiver beneath her husky tone. The quick, tiny stabs of the needles seem to come a bit more gentle after that, she not going quite so fast, giving him time to recover breath and pain tolerance between. She ties off each stitch neat and clean before moving onto the next one and she is, it seems, giving him about double the stitches as would be necessary, so the whole wound is held firmly shut together, not balancing on a few thin threads.
*
"No thank you, Ms. Temple. I just need them done." He answers, perhaps missing the rueful, if not playful, tone intended for him with the warning. Stitches were something he was use to, so each dig and pull of flesh being woven together has him siting in place without a twitch or shake.
*
One last stitch and then she pulls away, resting the needle on her table next to the bullet, all things to be cleaned up and disinfected after the man is bandaged and done. She then looks back to the wound, very gently testing the edges with her gloved fingertips, before she reaches for another length of cotton doused in alcohol to clean the area one last time. Once that is done, she waves a hand over it to let the skin dry a few moments before she's going for the tape. "What are your other injuries? I know this isn't the only thing bleeding."
*
"You can't see it?" He questions with a hint of surprise on his voice. "There should be another gunshot wound next to that one. Not sure if you have to do any digging, though. And a third one in my arm. That one went through, though, so not digging there." He explains, pointing in both directions with the rough finger of the opposite hand. "That's about all that's actively bleeding. The rest of it? I don't think it's my blood."
*
"Well, yes, in addition to the awful that is right in front of my face. Who the hell did you piss off?" Claire asks, not able to hide the disapproval in her voice. She goes for another length of cleaning cotton and the sharp scent of alcohol hits the air again before she starts cleaning out that second wound. She isn't ALL that gentle, as she's searching for a bullet at the same time she's cleaning.
*
"I don't know who they were. Mutants, I think. Kinda…wrong place, wrong time, honestly." He shrugs, pausing in that as the sudden bob and pull causes a rippling of his nerves to set him straight. "You ever live anywhere but here?" He then questions casually, allowing the woman to work with a still patient.
*
"…Really? Wrong place, wrong time? Guy like you? You're bullshitting me." Claire states flatly, sounding really quite skeptical about it. At least she doesn't seem to have found another bullet. It's another dousing round of alcohol then the needle is cleaned off before she's at the second set of stitches, tightly put together as before, meant to hold through whatever nonsense he gets into.
*
Another gravel laced chuckle rolls from the man's throat. "No, no. Not me, /them/. They were in the wrong place, I was right where I needed to be." He clarifies, giving a thankful sigh as he feels her fingers work around the wound, not hinting at the pressure of some left behind slug. "Anyway, you didn't answer my question."
*
A small grunt at his question, no other answer coming yet. Just the focus on his back as she secures a few more stitches. But, finally, she lets out a low sigh. "No. Went to school in the city. My abuela was sick for a lot with it, stayed close to home to help mom, then she passed… Mom was getting older… So, I stayed." Essentially, Claire has been nursing people in this house for probably twenty years, even before she was a nurse. No wonder she is not phased by people bleeding on the couch. There's another round of alcohol on that wound.
*
"Any reason some clown in a red-devil outfit is running around your burrow?" Frank questions flatly. "More so than that, what the hell happened to people in this city. Everyone is wearing a mask like they're afraid to just be a good person and do the right thing." Brows furrowing, he lowers his gaze and drags his tongue over his teeth behind the cover of his lips. "Sorry. Sometimes I remember I'm just a grumpy old man."
*
"Because he's like every other idiot around who wants to try and help the city they care about, but can't risk their families, their lives outside of that. So… they hide as best they can and keep fighting back. They don't know anything else to do. We… all fight in our own ways." Claire murmurs softly, no real hate in her voice, or disgust. Perhaps just a bit of admiration and understanding. But then, she fights too, patching people up at all hours of the night. Sleeping barely a few hours as she juggles vigilantes on her couch and the city's ER at work. "And it's alright. I'm a bitchy, middle aged nurse, so… not much different." She half teases, as she begins taping across the bandage on his second wound.
*
"Hmm." Comes Frank's reply. Really, it was a simple as that, wasn't it? Shaking his head, he drinks in a deep breath, exhaling it smoothly, feeling for himself if something is 'off' or 'wrong'. "I think you did good work, Ms. Temple. You should probably get back to sleep. I can clean up this stuff." He offers, glancing over his shoulder toward her.
*
"The arm first. Then I'll clean up. I'm up for the night anyway…" Claire mutters quietly, tossing a momentary look over her shoulder to look at the clock. "I go in in an hour. Yeah. Sleep.. isn't happening." She doesn't actually sound like she's complaining, just a woman who has accepted this fact about her life right now. It's not uncommon. Somehow, she's functional. She gently reaches down, helping him sit up if he'll take it, so she can look at the more glancing shot on his arm. Another round of stitches, at least, but this angle he can at least watch her work.
*
"Reminds me not to visit when you're trying to sleep." He offers, sounding genuine and honest with his request. Rolling his shoulders, he moves his head, giving his neck a nice 'pop' before relaxing in his seat and allowing her to move his arm however she needs to. "I can clean up. I know how." He offers once more with a bit more paternal sterness to his voice. "And I'm making you coffee." He decides without any room to disapprove. Looking her way, he then questions, "How much do you want for this?"
*
"Frank. Seriously. If it's not you, it's someone else. I'd rather you here and not dying, or in a hospital, than bleeding out on a street somewhere. My door is there. Just… survive long enough to get there, alright?" Claire states, a touch more firm than before. Even if he might be the bad guy in this situation, having opened fire on mutants that may or may not be innocents. He knew her mother. That is enough. She actually pauses in what she's doing to look up to his handsome, hardened eyes from where she knees next to him, searching his gaze for affirmation that he understands. "And you can make coffee while I clean up. Make it right." Strong probably being 'right'.
*
"Sometimes, I think the only thing that can kill me is me." He murmurs, and after making eye contact, he simply gives her a nod of understand. Finally done, he stands, giving his back and arms a (careful) stretch. Rubbing at the back of his head, still feeling a bump there from a wayward baton, the man shuffles toward the kitchenette and starts digging around for coffee fixings. "I only make coffee one way, and that is the right way." He assures Claire, whatever that means.
*
A nurse and an insomniac, there are plenty of coffee fixings in her kitchen. Cafe Buestlo, like any proper latin house hold, espresso fine grounds. While he's going to make coffee, she's busy picking up the things she needs to disinfect and keep. The bullets included, just in case there is some police investigation another day. She has no clue why she keeps them, really, but she does. The bullets and needle are thrown into a little steel bowl she'll take to the bathroom later, then everything else with blood on it is gathered to be double bagged into the garbage. She keeps her gloves on while she wipes down the table and any other blood that has dripped places. They are the last things to be removed. Finally, she just stands in the bathroom, door open, running cool water over her face and hands.
*
The fresh smell of java soon fills the house with a more pleasing aroma than blood and gun oil. Having stepped away from the machine, Frank takes a moment to scrubs his own hands and pad them dry. Setting down a mug, just one, he leaves it be for the time being and strides toward his left behind clothing. Picking up each as he goes along, he checks his shirt for holes and grumbles a bit to himself after slipping a finger through one of the many. Then, it's back to the sink, where he starts cleaning it off as much as he can without soap, twisting it and allowing crimson stained water to drizzle out. "I'll be out of your hair soon." He offers back toward Claire, keeping his tone soft.
*
Whether it was the soft padding of her barefooted steps, or the sound of her breath that keyed him off to her being in the kitchen, or something else, who knows. She just leans in the doorway, watching him work as the scent of coffee deepens in the air. Her arms are folded across her thin torso, almost hugging herself but the stance is too tough really for that. "No you won't. You promised you'd sleep the night. Give yourself time to rest and recover, a little, at least. I'm holding you to that promise."
*
Frank eyes Claire, then his watch, and back again. "Morning is at 0100." He explains flatly. "I'm here till then." Giving his shirt a small 'flap' he starts pulling it on and then moves back to his gear, armor first, then holsters, everything strapped into place securely. "You got work, I do, too. Sometimes, promises are said to make people happy. Everyone deserves to be happy, right?"
*
Frank Castle probably intimidates a hell of a lot of people. He should. He's armed to the teeth, built like a bear, and practically unkillable. But Claire Temple has been a nurse in New York CIty for too long and has seen bigger men fall. She also probably has no actual sense of self preservation these days. So, as he starts to grab his armor, she comes straight back to him and gets close enough to violate his personal space. Arms crossed over her chest, shoulders square, yes, she has to look up to get to his eyes, but she isn't backing down and her look is all steel. "Bull shit. You do not come in here, ask for help, then tell me to fuck off. That was my price. You asked. That is the price. You get some rest and let those stitches heal a few hours. You lay on that fucking couch and sleep until actual *dawn*. That's my price. No arguments. You don't lie to me. You can lie out there all you please. I don't take bullshit or people pleasing."
*
"Sweet heart," he starts, his voice that of a father talking to his daughter. It's light with frustration, and more leaning toward understanding and some sympathy. "You can't keep me here. You're going to work, and once you're gone, there is no keeping me here. I'll rest, sure, but I'm not taking orders from you, nor am I tell you to fuck off. Take what you can get, Ms. Temple. You can't control everything." Comment made, he looks down at the woman before him and moves to sit back down on the sofa. "Coffee's done." He then remarks, giving a light sniff at the air just to make sure.
*
"… I'm not sweetheart. I'm Claire. And no, I can't keep you here. But if you want a safe place to come that isn't going to call the cops, it'd be smart to keep me happy and losing a few hours of darkness isn't the end of the world for you. So, why fight me on this? Rest, go at dawn, and hopefully you actually hold together with those stitches. This isn't an order, this is the deal for getting my care. Understood?" Claire still isn't backing down, even as he patronizes her, she stands her ground stiff and unhappy. She does, finally, turn on the ball of her foot to go get some coffee. He'll make his decision.
*
"That's not a deal, that's fucking blackmail." Frank mutters now, his expression slipping into a darker one. "Don't worry, I'm not coming back. Running something like this out of your home is an idiotic idea, and you're just asking for trouble. Thanks for what you did, I'm grateful, honestly, but now I'd rather not stay at all." Pressing off the sofa, he reaches for his jacket and slips it on. "Have a good night at work, Ms. Temple." Moving for the front door, he flicks any locks that were put into place, and moves to exit, quick to put another cigarette between his lips.
*
Cup of coffee in hand, the expression his back gets is actually somewhat angry, her jaw tightening. "I'm certain you do damn fine work, Frank… Whatever you do which gets you shot. But this is *my* work. And I put my heart into it. That means your life means something to me, even if it means nothing to you. Don't get pissed off over that. Or have you forgot what it's like to have someone care?" Claire calls after him, both worried and angry.
*
Frank pauses at the door. His hand clutches the knob, knuckles turning white as if he threatens to tear it from its place. "Stop talking. I'm not staying. Christ, is everyone in the kitchen self-rightious now? Fuck sake…You do your job because it's your job. No one should have to thank you for it. If you feel they should, get a new job." He exits then, shutting the door behind himself, gently, and heads down the hall.
*
A few quiet curses in Spanish and Claire just shakes her head, wearily turning back into her kitchen to finish coffee and consider some breakfast for the day.