bakerstreet | (no subject)

Some combination of the touching, the shaking and the verbal insults seemed to work. It was probably the shaking. It disoriented him and made everything else around him shake, and after what felt like an earthquake in the safety of his own home he wasn't very fond of the shaking. Seemed like a bitch couldn't even let him slip away quietly in peace.

He groaned softly and canted his head to the side, listening to the retreating footsteps before giving her a few small nods. Fortunately or unfortunately it wasn't his time just yet, although he was definitely relieved to at least know that she'd be getting out fine.

"Goddammit," she hissed at him, bending to try to scoop him up over her shoulders. She'd carry him in a fireman's hold, keeping his feet up off the floor to stop it from leeching anymore heat from him, then stomping over to the freezer door. It was, of course, locked, but she wasn't going to let a bunch of metal stop her. Her foot came up and she gave the door a good hard stomp. Then another. And another. The metal dented, but didn't give. Not yet. She had to find that sweet spot, that place just where the lock was on the other side to put enough force on it to break it. "Stay awake, Matt. I need to be annoyed to do this. Tell me something annoying, like that I need to stop drinking."

Oh, this was terrible. It was one thing to be flipping around or navigating rooftops, but being suspended upside-down on top of the shaking and the side effects of whatever meds he'd been given was starting to make him nauseous. It was just as well she was focused on the door than Matt being too exhausted and confused to flail like an unwilling virgin being kidnapped and dragged to her wedding.

"I like you," he heard himself say, ice-cold fingers curling into her shirt. If Elektra hadn't had him thinking with his other head from the moment he made her shape out from the other indistinguishable red bumps around him, he might have come to terms with it sooner. He could count on one hand the number of people who knew about Matt Murdock's past, what motivated him to do what he did now both as a lawyer and as a vigilante, and accepted that he just had to do what he did without trying to tell him they knew better.

"I like you but I don't want to do anything about it." Because, like her, he was afraid of people close to him getting hurt in ways that made him feel helpless. And selfishly, he'd rather she come to his funeral than forcing himself to go to another one. Technically she might have already been to his. He wasn't sure what happened to the survivors after the explosion.

Jessica almost stopped kicking for a minute, hearing something she hadn't expected. And maybe something that she wasn't sure she wanted to hear. Real things, things with feelings... she didn't do well with them. She'd walled herself up for so long, actually trying to be there for someone, to care, it felt like something she wasn't capable of. Trish would argue that, but Trish was also biased where Jessica Jones came into play, and Jess wished her friend could see that.

But it had the added affect of pissing her off, because it sounded like an attempt at a death bed confession. "Good. Half-dead blind lawyers aren't really an attractive prospect. Especially Catholic ones." Another boot to the door and there was a screeching scream of twisting, snapping metal. She'd been kicking at the wrong side, breaking off the hinges instead of the lock. Whoops. Whatever. Another solid boot had the door flying out of the way, and she stepped through it, trying to keep him as stable as she could while making for the underground exit that led to an alley-level delivery bay.

Half-dead blind Catholic lawyers, huh. Well he was shit out of luck, then. "My loss," he said with a small laugh that turned into a cough. The sound of the door ripping open was in close contention with high speed car crashes for the worst sound to ever scrape across his eardrums.

"Put me down. Please," he implored as they got closer and closer to the possibility of getting away. Seemed like he wasn't done pulling small miracles out of his ass. "I feel sick." All this cold and hot and blood loss and panic wasn't doing either of them any favours.

"Damn right it is. I'm a fucking catch," she grunted as she headed towards the elevator lift, pressing the button and stepping onto the lift, the doors above them opening to bring in the fresh, garbage-laced air of the alley it opened into. She half looked up at him from where she carried him, frowning at the request. "I'll change methods, but you're not walking out of here. We have to move fast and you're still half-dead. I'm letting half be as close to dead as I let you get for now, until I kick your ass later."

Moving to set him on his feet, she adjusted her jacket around him so that it was over his front and would cover him when she tried to pick him up in a bridal carry.

He wouldn't know about that. He seemed to like them hot, dangerous and sometimes with an unhealthy dose of batshit crazy. Maybe there just weren't that many 'normal' women in his life. Whatever 'normal' was for a woman.

As much as it was a relief to feel the ground solid beneath his feet, he had trouble standing upright without her support. This wasn't how he wanted anybody to think of him, battered and bruised with about as much fight left in him as a pool noodle.

"Think you could kick my ass over a drink?" he asked shamelessly. Just the one, maybe two for a bit of liquid courage. He didn't want her to save his sorry ass and then proceed to outdrink him before beating him up. It'd be too big of a blow to his ego.

"You're such an asshole," she said, but there was no heat to the words as she picked him up. When the lift hit street level, she started out into the alley, looking as if it was every day that she walked around with a grown man in her arms. "You're also lucky I stole Trish's car to come get you, otherwise we'd have to do this the hard way and I'd rather you not puke on me."

She headed out for the street, which was mostly empty this late, taking a left to where she'd parked the car -- two blocks down. "The drink is happening regardless. We going to your place or mine? Fair warning, I don't have a first aid kit in mine anymore."

"Borrowed you mean." Of course he was going to try not to throw up everywhere, but he wasn't lying when he said he was feeling sick. And add cold, tired, annoyed and weak to the list. The warmth of dim streetlamps got closer and further with every light she carried him past, like fireflies hovering around the back of his head.

"Do I still have a place?" he asked. It'd have been very un-Christian of him to say he cared about his worldly possessions - and for the most part he didn't - but he was facing a very real prospect of not having a place to go back to. Briefly he wondered where all his father's things would have gone. If they mattered to anyone else. He was so confused about what had happened, how he'd gotten to where he was now, why did it all turn out like this. His father was dead, his other father was dead. Elektra was probably dead - again. He was supposed to be dead. Matt was a hair's width away from being a physical and emotional wreck. He could swallow the lump in his throat but there was not much he could do about the tears.

"I don't- I don't have anywhere to- I don't want to go anywhere," he protested like a recalcitrant drunk, squirming and trying to shove her away.

"Danny paid your rent for six months. Kid figured he owed it to you in case--," she cut herself off, remembering her irritation with him over that particular argument. "We never found a body, and you never had a funeral. You just... 'went out of town' for a bit. Seemed better than trying to explain that you may or may not have been in a building that exploded and no body was found. No one knows about... you know."

His secret. That one he'd tried so hard to keep.

He squirmed and she scoffed. "Really? You're going to try to strong-arm me? Did you get hit in the head, too? We're going to your place. Now shut up, we're almost at the car."

You'd never accuse a lawyer of selective hearing, but he wasn't in a good state. He did manage to pick up on the keywords of what she'd just said. He didn't want to owe anybody anything, but could he blame them for holding out hope? He'd feel the same if one of them had stayed behind in his stead.

He was relieved that they'd respected his wishes to keep his identities separate. It meant more to him than words could articulate. Especially since he hadn't been around to protect the people in his small social circle had word gotten out about who the devil was.

"I'd win," he bit back despite being in no shape to be swinging fists at her. She'd seen him fight. Never let it be said that Matthew Michael Murdock wouldn't rise to a challenge.

"The building came down on my head. You were drunk the whole time. Let's just leave it at that." Lord knows she wasn't completely sober when she rushed into the fray. He suspected it's been a while since she was last completely sober.

Hey, she was sober a lot. It was the bane of her existence. She was stone-cold sober right now, and it sucked. "In your coma-dreams." Muttered as she reached the car, setting him down carefully before opening the passenger side for him to slip into. "Hurry up. Someone needs a hot bath."

She went around to the driver's side after shutting his door, opening it and sliding the key into the ignition, turning it with a quiet purr before she pulled quickly out of the space, driving faster than was strictly legal. "That someone's you, by the way."

He groaned as he eased himself into the seat, thankful for the precious half a minute where it would feel like nothing around him was moving until she started driving. The fine hairs on his skin stood as his back brushed against the seat. His senses were flooded with that new car smell, factory mustiness when the outside air pushed through the air conditioning, and some light but sickly sweet scent resembling some summery version of Chanel No5 that this 'Trish' person must have worn.

Yeah, he was probably going to throw up.

Trying to shut out the sensory overload as the world slipped away like a rug being pulled out not-so-slowly from under him, Matt closed his eyes and sniffled, squirming uneasily in his seat.

"I'll bet you say that to all the guys you want to see naked," he joked. Come on Jess. Eventually he's going to find a way to get over those walls.

"No, I usually just start pulling their clothes off." Which she would also be doing when they got to his place, but that would be to put him in a hot bath and get his temperature up.

She may or may not be tempted to enjoy the view a bit. Okay, fine, she'd enjoy it, but she'd be trying not to. His comfort with her driving wasn't her priority in that moment. She'd take him throwing up in Trish's car over still being trapped in a freezer, dying. It didn't take long, but it was still longer than she liked before she found herself pulling up to a spot half a block down from his place. That was the luck of the Irish there, since parking on this bock was usually shit. Killing the engine, she was already getting out on her side and coming around to his. Welcome to babysitting mode, Matt. Not many got to see it.

When the car came to a stop he clawed at the door handle like he couldn't see it - the whole car door was an indiscernible blob to him right now - he pushed it open just in time to throw up on the pavement. There was blood from his internal injuries mixed in with whatever his empty stomach was rejecting, and for a moment he had to wonder if dying wouldn't have been the easy way out.

"Sorry," he murmured apologetically at the pavement, wiping the blood and acid away from his lips with the back of his hand. Even though everything about this area was familiar and comforting to him, he wouldn't have minded sitting in the car a little longer. Or a few days until his body started decomposing. But clearly Jessica had other ideas.

"You know I always thought you'd be the one drunk and throwing up out of a car," he mused.

"The night is young. Give me a few hours and a couple bottles and we'll see what I can muster up." She waited for him to finish, not at all bothered by it. He was injured, had been through excessive cold, adrenaline rushes, and her shitty driving. She could give him a second.

Second was up. Holding a hand out to him, she jerked her head towards his building. "Come on. You don't have shoes. Let me carry you up again. I'll be gentle this time now that we're not running from guys with guns." He looked like shit, and she was feeling just a little bit bad for manhandling him earlier. But it had all been necessary.

Even knowing that, it was hard to look at him like this and not feel guilty.

This was a sad way to crawl back to the land of the living, and not at all how he'd envisioned coming back when he first came to. He stole a few more seconds of just sitting back and breathing in the car, letting the relief wash over him before attempting to move again.

"Don't do that," he said softly when he gripped onto her forearm and climbed out onto the passenger seat, feeling cold and uneven gravel beneath his feet. He was referring to that thing she did when her eyebrows went up in the middle and she held her breath for half a second hoping it wouldn't come out like a sigh, but she probably didn't realise she did that. "Nothing to beat yourself up over."

Besides, shouldn't they be happy? They made it out alive. He was only bleeding out of ~~six~~ seven holes. The tinnitus had stopped ringing and that feeling of imbalance was subsiding. Home sweet home. Or something.

"Shut up," she mumbled, moving to pick him up, slowly this time. A careful bridal carry that gave him time to adapt to the change in position. Then she kneed the door closed and started to head towards his building. "Stop trying to save me. It's too late."

Trish had been a godsend, really. If it hadn't been for her, Jessica could have gone down a darker, more twisted road. Trish had been her true north, her moral compass after she'd cleaned herself up. Before that, she'd been someone who had needed her, and Jess needed to do something to fill that hole in her chest where her family had been. They'd had each other, and without that, she might have been a lot colder and more cruel than she was. Matt should thank her for that sometime. Maybe if she'd had Matt around back then... maybe if she'd had someone else, other people to care about, she might have been able to pretend better that she was normal.

Maybe not.

"It's not too late." It was never too late. His entire belief system hinged on the notion that it was never too late. Everyone had a second chance. Sometimes even a third if they screwed the second one up. She could try and build her walls even higher, push him away when he knocked on the door, slam that door in his face. She could even deck him if she wanted. He could take a punch or three. But he'd heard the way she snickered when he joked about beating up the neighbours if they were late paying the rent, knew that she was capable of smiling even if she wasn't forced to.

"If you don't want to see me again, tell me. And you won't," he promised. "I won't do anything that you don't want me to. Not to you." He couldn't promise that it'd never happen to her again, but he could do his part.

She stopped just before she reached the door, looking down at him with something that was a mix of shock, fear, and maybe a little pain. Something she fought with for more than a second to shove back down, feeling the way her throat tightened as she remembered... him. He was dead and the bastard was still in her head. But... she'd thought he'd been dead before and that hadn't stopped the panic attacks. They were less now, now that she knew for sure. Now that she'd taken care of him herself. But he'd left more than one scar on her.

"I want you to stop treating me like a victim. I hate that more than anything." It was the truth, and he'd hear it if he was listening. She shifted her hand a bit to grab the handle of the door under his back, opening it and kicking it wider to get them both through it. "Not sure how well stocked anything is outside of what you left in it. I know Iron Crotch sent someone to fix it up and give it a cleaning, but the cupboards are probably bare."

Despite how the police reports had framed her, Jessica wasn't a victim. Survivor, maybe. A fighter in her own way. And very unlucky - but so was the framed preacher's son and the boy who lost his parents in an aeroplane crash. Matt was just trying to treat her as an autonomous human being - someone who could decide what she wanted and didn't want for herself. He hadn't let her help him despite not being someone who readily or easily accepted it because he thought of her as a victim.

"You're not a victim. Just- a friend," he said simply as he blinked slowly, treading carefully with his words. He could tell he'd said something to make her upset, which wasn't his intention.

"You can put me down now unless you're planning on proposing. Cupboard next to the fridge has a bottle with your name on it."

"Don't tempt me. I might do it just to make your life miserable." She set him down just as carefully as she'd picked him up, letting him take the lead on how he wanted to enter his own place. She didn't think anything had been moved, other than what had been cleaned up and fixed after the quake. Danny was annoyingly generous like that. It was why she didn't let him up to her office/home. Trish pestering her was bad enough. She didn't need two people with more money than they knew what to do with trying to make her their next project.

"Still say you got a hell of a deal for having something heavy curtains can fix."

He really wanted to just let it go, but Matt hated how someone had been in his place in his absence. It was fine if he had died in the chest cavity of a fossilised dragon, but this- this smell of methylated spirits and everything being arranged neatly in places he wouldn't put them got under his skin. They even hung his crooked paintings straight. Matt just clenched his teeth and huffed a sigh, staggering down the dark hallway towards his couch.

Where Jessica might like to build walls to keep people out, Matthew had always been more of a maze-builder. He let people in, but he didn't guide them and just let them make their own conclusions from the different dead ends they stumbled upon. He didn't like people taking shortcuts and messing with where he put everything.

"It's probably just small change for Danny," he muttered as he groped around his couch until his fingers found and snatched up his blanket - annoyingly neatly folded. He held it out in Jessica's direction. She might want to drink to warm herself up but she didn't need an invitation or unspoken gestures for that.

She took all of four seconds to look at him, rolling her eyes in disgust before she moved past the couch, past him, into his bedroom to go find his bathtub. Clearly someone had to start running the hot water, and that someone seemed to be her. "I meant what I said about just taking your clothes off for you. You better be naked by the time I get out there," she called out over her shoulder, fiddling with the taps until the water was at the temperature she decided was necessary. "Where's your 'I've been bouncing off roofs all night' kit? You're going to need to get patched up after."

"You know I can hear that," he pointed out, his lips pressing into a thin, flat line. Unless she was planning on joining him in the tub, she'd need to get warm too. She might put on a tough exterior but Matt didn't see exteriors very well.

Draping the blanket over the back of the couch, he headed into the kitchen and opened three cupboard doors to find it somewhere hard to reach. Trust Danny Rand or whatever idiot had been here to think that Matt rarely needed to fix himself up.

Placing the first aid kit on the counter, he picked the blanket back up and went over to the bedroom, until he was standing a few steps behind her. He was just wearing some ill-fitting pants, but he was holding the blanket in both his hands.

"Would you please?" he asked. Because waiting for Matt to be less stubborn, she'd be waiting until hell froze over.