“I would've shot him,” she says. Voice level. Chin up. “You know that, don't you? You know what I have in my purse.” Karen’s never mentioned the gun before, never mentioned any of the baggage that goes with it, but if his senses are everything he says they are - he has to know it’s there, adding weight to her purse, smelling of steel and oil.
The knife slides in nicely beside it.
It’s another test. If his response is an automatic Oh no, you'd never do that, I know you wouldn’t - fail. If he says I know and his lips curl up in a disgust he can't hide - fail.
He exhales. It’s shaky. “I know. And we’re both glad you didn’t have to.”
This time, Karen thinks, that fury blazing up again, this time I didn’t have to, where were you last time - but that wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair for her to expect Daredevil to be everywhere, in every moment, and the world didn’t owe her a savior just because she was in trouble. Besides. She’d answered that call herself.
But he's not wrong, of course he's not wrong: tonight, she’s glad she didn’t have to.
“You're right,” she says, since he is. “Thank you.”
And, God, the little smile that steals at his lips, the way he ducks his head, it's all Matt, Matt when he's pleased and embarrassed and at a loss for the next word to say. And it's good; it’s softness she forced on him.
“Daredevil,” Karen says. “Walk me home.”
*
He walks in the shadows. Even so, even partially obscured by darkness, it’s a startling sight: the Devil grounded, not swinging away, not disappearing into the night, just steady, solid, and silent at her side, walking a path she sets.
She likes it. It satisfies something within her Karen didn’t quite know was wanting. She’d like to have this moment on film too, she thinks. Saved in her playlist. She’d like to see it again.
Two blocks. Three. Just the two of them on the street, like this little corner of the Kitchen belongs only to them. Four -
Karen doesn’t see or hear anything, but something must cross Matt’s radar, because suddenly his hand is on her arm, and he’s drawing her back into a darkened corner. Maybe he pulls just a little bit more than necessary, maybe she stumbles in a little closer than she has to, or maybe both, but they end up with his back to the wall, her pressed tight against him, waiting while a pair of shuffling footsteps passes by.
“Just a New Yorker out for a midnight stroll?” Karen whispers, when - for her - the sound has faded into the distance. She’s sure the answer is yes; a whiff of a threat, and Matt would’ve shouldered his way in front of her instead of letting her do the work of blocking most of his devil suit from view.
He makes small noise of agreement, then drops her arm, hand fisting the air at her waist before falling to his side. Karen could take a step back. She doesn’t. She’s studying his face from inches away; that mask with its red lenses over the eyes is so much less disconcerting, now. It’s Matt, and she's used to his eyes being obscured.
[FILL] Matt/Karen, Daredevil's rage/violence turns her on [6/?]
The knife slides in nicely beside it.
It’s another test. If his response is an automatic Oh no, you'd never do that, I know you wouldn’t - fail. If he says I know and his lips curl up in a disgust he can't hide - fail.
He exhales. It’s shaky. “I know. And we’re both glad you didn’t have to.”
This time, Karen thinks, that fury blazing up again, this time I didn’t have to, where were you last time - but that wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair for her to expect Daredevil to be everywhere, in every moment, and the world didn’t owe her a savior just because she was in trouble. Besides. She’d answered that call herself.
But he's not wrong, of course he's not wrong: tonight, she’s glad she didn’t have to.
“You're right,” she says, since he is. “Thank you.”
And, God, the little smile that steals at his lips, the way he ducks his head, it's all Matt, Matt when he's pleased and embarrassed and at a loss for the next word to say. And it's good; it’s softness she forced on him.
“Daredevil,” Karen says. “Walk me home.”
*
He walks in the shadows. Even so, even partially obscured by darkness, it’s a startling sight: the Devil grounded, not swinging away, not disappearing into the night, just steady, solid, and silent at her side, walking a path she sets.
She likes it. It satisfies something within her Karen didn’t quite know was wanting. She’d like to have this moment on film too, she thinks. Saved in her playlist. She’d like to see it again.
Two blocks. Three. Just the two of them on the street, like this little corner of the Kitchen belongs only to them. Four -
Karen doesn’t see or hear anything, but something must cross Matt’s radar, because suddenly his hand is on her arm, and he’s drawing her back into a darkened corner. Maybe he pulls just a little bit more than necessary, maybe she stumbles in a little closer than she has to, or maybe both, but they end up with his back to the wall, her pressed tight against him, waiting while a pair of shuffling footsteps passes by.
“Just a New Yorker out for a midnight stroll?” Karen whispers, when - for her - the sound has faded into the distance. She’s sure the answer is yes; a whiff of a threat, and Matt would’ve shouldered his way in front of her instead of letting her do the work of blocking most of his devil suit from view.
He makes small noise of agreement, then drops her arm, hand fisting the air at her waist before falling to his side. Karen could take a step back. She doesn’t. She’s studying his face from inches away; that mask with its red lenses over the eyes is so much less disconcerting, now. It’s Matt, and she's used to his eyes being obscured.
She’s used to taking her cues from his mouth.