bakerstreet | (no subject)

"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.

"Hear what? The sarcasm dripping from everything I say?" Yes, she was still chilly, still cold to the touch, but she wasn't important right now. He was. He'd damnwell come back from the dead and she wasn't about to let him slip back off to it over some stupid cold.

She heard him bustling around, heard him walking up behind her. She turned as she was turning the taps off, looking at him and shaking water off her hand. "You first." One day, they may have to have a contest to see just which one of them was actually the more stubborn one. She had a feeling she'd win. "I will pick you up and put you in the tub myself."

IF she didn't know him better she might have thought that was a derisive sort of laugh. "I'd like to see you try," he joked. It was the first time Matthew had really laughed since he came back to the land of the living. Really, he couldn't take his pants off until she took the blanket from him, so he was trying to force her to accept his small token of kindness unless she really wanted to challenge him to some jello wrestling action right here and now.

If he didn't look like her waving her hand at him might knock him over, she damn well might. Instead, she got up and grabbed the blanket from him, gesturing for him to get in the tub. In case he was unclear on what that gesture meant, she clarified. "Get in the tub, Murdock. Your lips are as blue as your balls."

He was still grinning like an idiot, though it was probably more to do with the small victory of having the blanket actually exchange hands. "Why are you looking at my balls?" he queried as he started taking his pants off. When she didn't immediately flee for the living room, he pulled his pants off the rest of the way. You needed two people to play this game of stubbornness or chicken or whatever it was they were doing.

He wouldn't ever admit to stripping deliberately slowly, but he did take his time getting into the tub. The water was hot to his touch, but the hiss quickly gave way to a relieved and satisfied sigh. "Thank you..."

"You're a martyr. Martyrs generally have blue balls." She fought against it, tried not to look, but he was moving too slowly. She could tell herself that she was just checking to see if it was because he was injured somewhere she hadn't seen, but really, it was just worth the damn show. Battered or not, Matthew Murdock was something to look at. She gripped the blanket tighter, chiding herself for being an asshole as she heaved a sigh and moved to set the blanket on top of the closed toilet, crouching down by the side of the tub as he settled himself in.

She heard the hiss and wondered if she'd made it too hot, but that look of strain on his face eased off and she felt better about it. She reached for a cloth, soaking it in the water and starting to slowly and carefully clean him up. She was gentle, surprisingly so, more of a visible contrast because of how bitchy she generally was. "Next time I see you naked, I'll tell you how stacked you are. I might even swoon. Just... relax, okay? You're safe now." And she'd fight the whole damn city to make that a truth for longer than a handful of minutes.

"I wouldn't know, I've never looked at a martyr's balls." And he wouldn't be so quick to call himself one either, but people seemed to like pinning that label to him, and it made him feel a bit better about what he was trying to do.

Even though he sensed her coming, he flinched when he felt the wet towel on his forearm, and he turned his head towards her, unable to mask the surprise in his raised eyebrows. She wasn't begrudgingly trying to be kind. It was... well, he didn't like to say it, but it was throwing him off. It made him bite back his 'you mean you weren't swooning just then?' comment in case it drove her away.

He'd spent the whole night with her being vulnerable, what was the difference in just one more little thing, in just letting her reassure him even though he didn't even feel safe in his own place? He hadn't yet processed anything he couldn't remember, which didn't explain why there was sadness in his eyes. She sure knew how to make a man feel alone.

Matt grabbed a handful of air before he curled his fingers around the back of her hand, warm bathwater dripping down her forearm.

"Stay." It didn't sound like a question, even though it was. And it probably should have sounded more like 'were you planning on being somewhere else tonight?'

She hated seeing that look on his face. That deep sadness, like he was feeling all the things that no one else wanted to say. It made her want to wipe it off, to hurt whoever had put it there. How dare they.

Jessica was just as surprised by him reaching for her. She'd expected him to tolerate her ministrations, possibly griping about them and that he 'wasn't a baby' or whatever other bullshit he had to spew to make himself feel like he was a grown adult and not a grown adult who'd been hurt and needed tending. It stilled her hand, her eyes lifting towards ones that couldn't see her. She wanted to quip back, too. Wanted to say something that would have him smiling instead of looking like he was expecting a blow to land from somewhere. Instead, she moved the cloth over his chin, staring at him even if he couldn't see her gaze. "Do I look like I'm going anywhere?"

Her tough-girl routine was marred slightly by a shiver that went over her, Jessica still chilled a bit from their freezer visit, but she was warming up a little, feeling better as she started to wipe the blood and grime off him, as his color started to come back. "Besides, someone has to make sure you stay here and rest."

God he needed a shave. That probably shouldn't have been the first thing that came to mind when he felt the touch of her hand muffled by coarse wet towel scraping across his unkempt facial hair. A few more days and he could probably pull off Tony Stark's goatee. "I don't know," he said frankly. Maybe she'd tuck him in, read him a bedtime story and decide to go out and start pub-crawling her way across Hell's Kitchen.

"I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight," he accentuated with a small shake of his head. Probably not tomorrow night or the night after that either. As much as Matt wanted to reconnect with the people who cared that he was dead - one at a time; he could only get his ass handed to him gently right now - he needed this time alone. (Jessica didn't count.)

"You, me, a bottle of scotch and the Eagles. What do you say?" A smidgeon of hope flared up in the light caught in his eyes as he tried on a small smile, unsure if it complemented or shattered the image of his brave front.

He looked so... Matt. A part of her was a bit surprised to find that she'd already found a look for him, a place in her head where he was his 'normal' self. God, she shouldn't care. She really, really shouldn't. She didn't have it in her to care.

She kept telling herself that lie, because the reality was terrifying. The cloth was rough over the thicker parts of the stubble on his face, catching once or twice as she continued to wipe away the dirt to find the man beneath. Maybe it was a good thing he couldn't see her, couldn't see the way her eyes skimmed over him, marking every bruise and cut in her mind, but also just glad to see him alive. "I don't know which idea's the truth; that this is you trying to make sure you lose those blue balls, or that you're feeling sorry for me." Said quietly as her thumb traced just under his lip, expression as close to soft as she got before she realized what she was doing.

She quickly cleared her throat, dipping the cloth in the water to start to work on his chest. "The scotch is the tempting part." Her heartbeat would show what a liar she was.

He licked and pursed his lips, holding back the laughter from how the towel was scratching his chin. He was like a cat with his lazy, slow blinks and the way he angled his head, welcoming her touch. He didn't say anything - not when he felt her caress and not when she lied about the scotch. She didn't know the full extent of what he could do, and he was happy to play along as the half-dead, clueless idiot drowning in his own bathtub if it helped her to say yes.

He ducked his head and ran his wet hands through his hair before rubbing his face tiredly. She probably wasn't expecting him to be covered in scars, but then, she probably wasn't expecting to ever see him again full-stop.

"I was hoping you'd be the one feeling sorry for me. Otherwise I don't think I have enough scotch to hold your attention."

"There's a corner store." And just like that, Jessica had unwittingly admitted that she was staying the night.

Goddamn you, Matthew Murdock. She didn't let on that she was aware of her slip up, the cloth moving over old scar tissue and carefully around newer marks. The cat analogy wasn't one she'd argue with. He certainly had enough lives to be one. The water was getting a little clouded, but she dipped the cloth in again, dragging it gently down over his further arm, leaning over him in the tub to reach it. "After I tuck you in, I'll see what you've got to drink." Which she, oddly, wasn't really feeling like doing just then. Oh, she wanted a drink, but she wasn't sure she wanted to sit and drink a whole bottle and drift off into oblivion.

And that thunderous applause was the sweet galloping heartbeat of victory. Matt kept the smugness in the pit of his stomach and off his face, if nothing else so that he could just savour it for a while. He tilted his head and leaned in a little closer until he could breathe in the New York City smog and the chemicals that made her shampoo smell fruity unfurling from her hair, managing to look like he was unwittingly doing so.

"Is it bad?" he asked quietly, staring straight ahead. "I mean, could I pass off as having had two tequilas and falling down the stairs?"

"Oh, sure," she said, flippantly. Almost too flippantly, which should prepare him for the rest of it, "-if you mean the Haiku stairs and if you fell down them, then got up and did it again, just to show off." Okay, so, it wasn't that bad, but it was bad enough that she was treating him gently. Gingerly.

She turned her head to look at him, watching him seem to sniff at her and cocking a brow at him. "Really? You're sniffing me now? Trying to see if, what, I'm 'in season' or something?" A smirk. Hey, she knew how pheromones worked.

Matt made a face, wrinkling his nose as he visibly recoiled a little. "What do I look like? A puppy?" She had her own lie detector that was different but not necessarily less effective than his, but she didn't need to use it to know he could say a lot more than he was letting on.

"I'd ask if I could touch your face, but I don't want you to break my fingers."

"Do you really want me to answer that?" She was smiling now, amused at everything and pleased despite herself that he was back. Back, alive, and mostly in one piece. Thank Christ.

The comment had her pausing, a little frown furrowing her brow. "You actually need to do that?"

She just did. He looked like a puppy. That was infinitely worse than two tequilas and falling down the stairs. It was the only thing that stopped the pout from fully forming and made him bite down on his lip instead.

"It'll be the second time now I've said 'I'm still blind'. Are you sure you're not drunk?"

"Yeah, whatever, you're blind. But you're not. You grab glasses, you can smell pork, you hear neon. You bounce around and parkour your way up buildings. It's hard to equate that to someone that can't see something." The cloth was in the water again, tracing down over his chest, stopping when she felt a thicker ridge of scar tissue through it. She moved it aside, using her finger to feel the long, thick line, frowning. "Jesus."

"When you figure out what your face smells, feels or sounds like, let me know."

He ducked his head when he felt the water giving way to her touch on his bare skin. It had him breathe in a sharp intake of air and hold it in for two seconds before breathing out slowly.

"I'm two nails and a crown of thorns away from getting there." Too soon?