A/N: Matt/Claire feelings, basically.

He doesn't mean to. It just—her hands are cool and strong and capable, and when she's finished the second row of stitches, he captures her fingers in his and presses his lips across her knuckles.

Her heart beats faster, but her voice, when she speaks, is level and calm. "I thought we had an agreement."

"Sorry." He tries for a smile. It's easier than whatever the alternative would be. "Old habits."

"You've got a lot of bad ones," Claire says, sighing. She sterilizes the needle again, readjusts the thread. He can hear it and smell it, and in a second, he's going to be feeling it.

"Why do you think I go to confession so often?" he shifts on the mattress, then stills himself. It's weakness, trying to get away from the pain. In, out. He inhales, centering himself. "I can't get you out of my mind, I guess," he murmurs. "Just—can't."

"So, what? You're going to ask me on a date? What would that even look like, Matt?" she almost sounds like she's joking, but her heartrate hasn't slowed. "You gonna take me out, ask me to dance?"

"I'm not half bad at the waltz," he deadpans, but it hurts, more than the stitiches do.

Claire rags in a breath. "You've got to stop trying to make me fall in love with you," she whispers. "It just makes…this…crappier."

"Leaving?"

"Coming," she says, voice needle-sharp and somehow tired, all at the same time. "I told you I'd come. But I can't stay, Matt. I just—can't. And would you even want me to?"

A tear leaks out of the corner of his eye. She can see it, and for just a second, he's glad he can't see her. "I'm a bastard for even suggesting it," he says. He's got to stop this. He's already blind enough. "Forget I said anything."

She doesn't answer for a long time, just pricks and pulls as gently as possible. He knows she's trying, because he knows what that's like, holding the needle.

"Alright," she says, packing up her things. There's a brief pause, and then he feels her fingers tangle in his hair. "My turn," she breathes, and traces his lips with hers. She pulls away after a moment, then says, quite flatly, "Stop flirting with me, Matt. Or it's not going to get any easier for both of us."

He shuts his eyes. Point taken. But before she leaves, she grasps his hand—tightly, kindly.

The warmth of her touch stays longer than she does.