He was asleep.

Calina sat back in surprise. She'd been taping the bandage over his wound when she realised that he hadn't stirred in several minutes. That his breathing was deep and even. That the hands loosely clasped in his lap were slack.

She idly tugged on her lower lip as she studied him. He looked so peaceful, his mouth slightly parted and the lines around his eyes relaxed.

His eyes.

He hadn't bothered wearing his glasses this morning, and she'd finally gotten to see his eyes. They were beautiful. Light brown in colour, with a warmth and vulnerability shining from them. She had a feeling he only showed them to people he was comfortable with...or when he was not feeling well and forgot all about hiding them.

Like this morning.

Because he had a cold.

A cold.

Something so simple, had brought this strong, fearless man low.

But it made sense. If Anya was right, and his ability to navigate the world depended entirely on his heightened senses, congestion of his nose and ears from a cold would affect him so much more than the average person. It was no wonder his balance and his reactions were so off last night. And why he'd looked so annoyed and miserable when he'd opened the door to her.

He must feel terrible.

Which gave her the perfect opportunity to repay his kindness from last month. She would help him today - as much as she could, and as much as he would let her.

She carefully eased off the couch and grabbed the blanket that was lying over the arm. She shook it out and gently draped it over him. Then she quietly tidied away the first aid supplies and took stock of his kitchen - he would need to eat soon.

Unfortunately, the fridge contained nothing but five bottles of beer, a half empty carton of milk, and a few boxes of leftover Chinese food. The cupboards weren't much better - he seemed to have been living off of take-out and cereal.

She could fix that.

She tiptoed passed his still-sleeping form and headed for the door. She found a set of keys in the jacket hanging on the coat rack and used them to lock his apartment behind her. Then she set off for the bodega a couple of blocks away.

She returned an hour later, arms laden with groceries. She let herself back into his home...to find him still asleep.

He'd shifted to a more comfortable position, his head now resting on the arm and his legs stretched out along the length of the couch.

The paper bags she carried crinkled, and the tins insides clanked together, as she entered the living space, causing him to stir slightly. "Shh," she whispered. "Its just me. Calina. You're safe. Go back to sleep."

He let out a deep breath and sunk below the waves of awareness again.

She smiled, and headed for the kitchen. She put away the food and placed the medication she'd bought - some vitamins, a tub of aspirin and a packet of cough drops - on the coffee table in front of him.

Then she sat in one of the armchairs opposite him and debated what to do.

She could leave. He had food and medicine now, and was sleeping soundly - there was nothing else she could do for him.

But she didn't want to go. She didn't want the two of them to return to being polite acquaintances again. She wanted to be his friend, and talk with him and take care of him.

She checked the time on her watch and reached a compromise with herself - if he didn't wake in the next half an hour, she would leave. Waiting any longer than that would be a little weird.

She nodded to herself, satisfied with her plan, and settled back into the comfy seat. She picked up the magazine she'd bought from the bodega, flipped it open and started to read.

———

The insistent shriek of a car alarm pierced through the cotton wool fuzziness of Matt's skull. He groaned slightly, as the sound seemed to pulse in time with his headache.

He kept his eyes closed as he sorted through his other ailments. His temple was throbbing - the source of his headache. The bruises over his back and cheek were a duller, more manageable ache. His ears were still blocked, and so was his nose. He tasted the air...but detected nothing.

He concentrated, ignoring the sharp stab of pain that it caused, and sent his feeble senses out into the world, hating the feeling of being locked in his own head.

He heard the muffled sounds of the television in 5A. The kid in 3B practicing piano. Pigeons cooing on the roof. A skateboarder wheeling along the street outside.

And he heard a heartbeat that was not his own, three feet away.

He strained, trying to bring together a picture of the apartment around him. It was hazy, indistinct, but he could 'see' the outline of a person in the armchair opposite.

And they weren't moving.

He silently got to his feet and stalked around the coffee table. He crouched down in front of the still figure and took a deep breath.

Strawberries and sea salt.

It was Calina. And she was asleep.

She was curled up in the chair, her legs tucked underneath her. One hand was wrapped around her waist, the other held something loosely in its grip. He took the object, feeling the glossy pages of a magazine.

Just then, her breathing quickened. From this close, he could hear the soft flutter of her eyelids as they blinked open, the sound like butterfly wings.

"Matthew?" she whispered.

"Yeah, its me."

"What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice husky with sleep. "And why is it so dark?"

"I'm here because this is my apartment. As to the darkness, I'll have to take your word on that."

"Huh?"

The corners of his mouth tipped up in a small smile at her baffled tone. Did she always wake up so muddled and disorientated? It was kind of endearing.

The confusion cleared in an instant. She sprung upright, and he had to lean back to avoid an elbow to the face. "I'm so sorry," she said, smoothing down her hair. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"There's a lot of that going around."

"What?"

"I fell asleep on you first," he replied. "Earlier, when you were patching me up."

"But you're sick. I'm not. I'm-"

"Still not sleeping well at night?," he guessed. "Nightmares again?"

She nodded. "Yes, sometimes. Other times, it's just...hard to shut my brain off."

"I know what that's like. Do you, um, want to talk about it? The nightmares, or the things keeping you awake?"

She gave him a small smile, and he thought he could sense sadness in it. "No," she said softly. "I can't. But thank you."

"Anytime," he replied.

"What about you?" She asked. "You said you know what its like. Do you want to talk about what keeps you awake?"

He shrugged and rose out of his crouch. "The usual. Work. Money. Whether the Yankees will ever win the World Series again."

She laughed and joined him on her feet, just as his stomach let out a loud grumble. "Sorry," he said. "I haven't eaten today."

"Oh!" She replied. "Yes. Food. I got you some." She rushed into the kitchen and opened the cupboard above the stove. "Do you want tomato or chicken?"

He followed her into the small space. "What?"

"I bought you some soup, and some other stuff. Have a seat at the table and I'll warm it up for you."

"You don't need to do that. I can manage." No sooner had he said the words than he was suddenly hit with a coughing fit. Which set off a chain reaction of pain, starting in his back and travelling to his head, until he felt like his skull would explode with the pressure. He rubbed his forehead and winced.

"Uh-huh," she said, dryly. "You seem just peachy."

He gave her a wry smile in response. She took his arm and steered him to the small dining table on the other side of the kitchen counter. "Sit here and rest." She grabbed something off the coffee table and brought it to him. The rattle of pills clued him in moments before she spoke again. "In the meantime, take some aspirin. Your head must be killing you."

"Yeah, you could say that," he replied, enjoying the way she fussed over him. He hadn't experienced that...in a long while. Ever since Clair had left his life years ago, he'd gotten used to patching up his own wounds. He'd gotten used to shuffling around his empty apartment, the pain from his nightly fights a constant companion as he tried not to imagine exactly this - someone caring for him.

Someone to come home to.

Someone who would hold him close and make the world disappear for a while.

Calina making him soup and bandaging his cut was as close to that dream as he'd been in years. Closer than he'd probably ever be again.

And like a dying man in a desert, he grasped at the oasis. Basked in the shade and drank the water...knowing full well it wasn't real.

———

"Do you like being a lawyer?" Calina asked as she dipped a chunk of soft, fluffy bread in her soup. She had opted for the tomato; Matthew went for the chicken.

"That's...a strange question," he said, his voice still raspy from the virus he was battling. But his colour was better now, and he seemed to have more energy after his hours long nap.

The nap that she'd inadvertently joined him in. They'd slept through most of the day, the apartment dark when she finally woke. She'd obviously needed the rest as much as he had, but it had been embarrassing waking up in his apartment, like Goldilocks in the wrong bed.

"Is it?" she replied. She was fascinated by how people chose the lives they lived. What made someone become a lawyer, and not a doctor or a teacher or a scuba instructor? Did they feel fulfilled in their choice or did they forever regret their decision?

She'd never been given a choice growing up. She'd never been free to pursue a career or plan a future. Until now.

And she had no idea where to start.

"Maybe not," Matthew said. "Maybe it should be asked more often. I think people just accept that once they become adults, and they're on their chosen path, there's no going back. So it doesn't matter if they enjoy their job, they're stuck with it regardless."

"Do you believe that? That you're stuck? Or are you happy?"

He laughed. "Now we're getting really philosophical."

She blushed and ducked her head. "Sorry, I didn't mean to get so personal."

She seemed to have lost the ability for small talk. It was something she excelled at when she worked undercover. She always had the knack for conversation, for engaging targets, drawing them in and making them comfortable as she inveigled her way into their life.

But as she was discovering, so much of what she thought she was good at, so much of who she thought she was as a person, was nothing but a smokescreen. The personas she adopted - they were good at small talk. She - the real Calina - blundered and tripped through conversations. She apparently asked intrusive and strange questions. She bypassed the superficial banter and went straight for the substance.

Luckily, Matthew didn't seem to mind. "It's okay," he responded. "I'm...content, for the most part. Happiness is fleeting in my opinion - it rarely comes and then so easily goes. I try not to judge my life on whether I'm happy or not. Just on whether I'm making a difference."

"And are you?"

He stirred his spoon around the small puddle of soup in his bowl, his head down and his unseeing eyes hidden from her. "I hope so. At least, with the firm, I think I am. The people that come to us...they're at their lowest point. More desperate than they've probably ever been in their lives. And when we can help them, when we can right the wrong that was done to them, get them the justice they deserve...yeah, it makes a difference." He raised his head and smiled at her, a full unguarded smile that made her breath catch. "So in answer to your original question, yes, I like being a lawyer."

She returned his smile. "I'm glad."

"What about you?" he asked. "Are you happy?"

"No," she laughed. He frowned, and she realised that her answer may have been a bit too blunt.

And it wasn't entirely honest.

She tried again. "I'm not unhappy. Especially compared to how I use to be. But I can't say that I'm exactly happy either. Or content. And I'm definitely not making a difference. But I'd like to. I really want to find my purpose in this world." She didn't want to believe that all she was fit for was killing and lying and subterfuge. And she wanted to find a way to make up for the damage that she had wrought in the world. She wanted to find a route to redemption.

She just wasn't sure how.

She startled at the feel of Matthew's hand on her arm. "The fact that you want to make a difference, is a lot. I'm sure you'll find a way."

"Thank you," she whispered. She pulled her arm from under his gentle touch, not wanting to get used to the feel of such wonderful affection.

He seemed to sense her need to lighten the moment. "So, anything for dessert?" he asked.

———

He'd been joking, but she jumped up from the table with a smile. "Actually, yes. Let me wash up first."

"I'll help."

"No, its okay."

"I can manage some dishes, Calina," he said gently.

She relented, and they stood side by side at the sink, rinsing off the plates in amiable silence. The simple domesticity of the moment made his yearning for companionship all the more acute. But he wasn't in the right place to start anything - with anyone. This past week had proven that. He was running on empty. He had nothing left to put into a relationship. And with the way his head was still messed up over Elektra...it just wasn't the right time.

The problem was, he had to keep reminding himself of those facts every time Calina managed to get close to him. Because it felt so...easy...with her. Which was crazy given the amount of lying they were both doing.

But the way he felt in her presence - the peace, the calm, the way he could breathe - it all meant that falling into something with her would be...effortless.

The effort came in staying away.

"I have to grab something from next door," she said, drying her hands on the towel. "I'll be back in a moment."

As she brushed past him, their skin touched, her arm against his. The unexpected contact made him shiver.

Which she completely misinterpreted.

"Oh, you're cold. You should have said. I brought you this back." She grabbed something from the small table by the front door and passed it to him. It was the sweater he had given her the night she was caught in the rain. "I didn't feel right keeping it." Before he could object, she slipped out the door.

He put on the sweater, inhaling deeply as the material slid over his head. It smelled of her. Not strongly - she hadn't worn the garment since she'd washed it. But it had been sitting in her apartment, absorbing the essence of her.

He'd just settled himself back on the couch when she returned, the spicy scent of ginger accompanying her. "Dessert, as requested," she said, handing him a container of star-shaped cookies and taking a seat next to him.

"Gingerbread cookies?" he asked, biting into one of the treats. The crumbs melted in his mouth, leaving a delicious warmth behind. If his tastebuds had been operating at full power, the flavour would have been overwhelming. But right at this moment...it was perfect.

"Lebkuchen, to be precise."

"Lebkuchen?" he mumbled around his second bite.

"Yeah. German Christmas cookies. I know its only October, so its a bit early. But Alma - Mrs. Schneider from downstairs - showed me how to make them. And according to her, nobody should have to wait till Christmas for lebkuchen. What do you think?"

"Very tasty."

"Thank you," she beamed.

"When were you baking with Mrs. Schneider?"

"Yesterday. I've helped her with her shopping a couple of times, and she invited me into her home a few weeks ago. I've hung out with her a bunch since then. I think she's quite lonely, even though she won't admit it."

God, how had he ever thought this woman cold or unkind?  Matt thought.

"You said earlier that you weren't making a difference, but I think Mrs. Schneider would disagree. I think that you probably make all the difference in the world to her," he said, truthfully.

Calina ducked her head. Sitting this close to her, he could feel the warmth in her cheeks as she blushed. "I guess so."

A thought suddenly occurred to him. "Wait, I thought she barely spoke any English." The odd times he'd encountered the older woman in the hallways, she'd only ever greeted him with a quiet 'Guten morgen, Matthias'. "Do you speak German?" he asked Calina.

She bit her lip. He could hear her teeth digging into the soft tissue and he wanted to run his finger over her lip, free it from the damage she was doing. "Um, yes," she admitted eventually.

"And Russian too," he guessed, remembering the few times he'd heard her talk to herself - she often did so in a slavic language of some kind.

He could sense her frown, and he heard the suspicion in her voice. "How did you know that?"

He smiled. "Lucky guess. Given your name," he explained.

"Oh. I see."

"So were you born in Russia, or just your parents...?" he asked.

She stood up suddenly. The box of cookies almost toppled to the floor, but they both reached out at the same time to catch them. He got there first, and her hand ended up over his as they both clutched the container.

He could feel every ridge of her fingerprints. He could feel the slight callouses on her palm, and the moisturiser that she'd applied that morning. He tilted his head up to her. Their faces were close together, her hair brushing his shoulder as she leaned over him. He breathed in the spice on her breath and the salt on her skin...

And then she was gone.

She snatched her hand away and straightened up, stepping away from the couch. "I-I better be going. Its late," she stammered. She reached the door before he could say anything and wrenched it open. Then paused. "Bye, Matthew."

"Call me 'Matt'," he said, but it was too late. He heard the snick as the door closed behind her.

Matt sighed and slumped back on the couch. "Great job, Counsellor," he muttered to himself in rebuke. He knew he'd been pushing too hard with the questioning, but he'd been desperate for something...real from her.

No, that wasn't right.

Everything she'd shared with him today - her trouble sleeping, her desire for meaning in her life - it had all felt real. Honest, and personal. But he still had nothing tangible on her. He wanted to know the past that haunted her. The decisions that had led to her being in Hell's Kitchen, so uncertain and alone.

He wanted to know her.

But he'd scared her off.

Foggy was right. He needed to be patient. Earn her trust, and hope that she would open up to him.

Despite his reservations, it looked like operation 'Be Her Friend' was a go after all.