They've never slow-danced, but it's as if their bodies are falling into the rhythm anyway, swaying together slightly, with Karen's feet back on the ground, her hands clasped around his neck, his at her waist. If she'd ever dragged him to his feet at Josie’s when a song she liked came on, they might have held each other like this. It disquiets Karen; when Matt murmurs her name, she’s quick to say, “If you ask me out to dinner, you're gonna wish you hadn't.”
He breathes out, a puff of warm air against her skin. “No, ah.” His nose is buried against her neck, and before he pulls back, Matt inhales so strongly that Karen can feel it in the lift of his shoulders, in the broadening of his chest: his own snapshot moment, Matt storing her up to keep.
When he lifts his head, Matt says, “I got you something.”
Karen raises her eyebrows. He steps away, bending to extract something from a hidden pocket of the suit; Karen lets herself appreciate every line and every curve of that bend before Matt straightens and holds the object out to her.
“You got me a phone,” she says flatly, thinking of every joke Foggy ever made about Matt and his women and his phones. “A burner of my very own?”
Matt shakes his head. “Belonged to our new friend.” He jerks his chin over his shoulder in the general direction of their encounter with the jackass. “Thought maybe you could get something from it.”
Tap. Swipe. No fingerprint lock, no passcode. “Yeah. Maybe I can.” Texts, call log, browser history. A new trail to follow, with maybe some answers as to what was going on in that time bomb of an apartment building at the end of it - “Thanks,” Karen adds sincerely, turning the phone over in her hands. There’s something sparking in her chest, small and delicate next to the tinderbox of anger she’s grown used to. It’s different. She’s not sure what to make of it, and she's not ready to find out. But it’s warm.
When she looks up again, after stowing the phone in her purse, Matt’s pulled on his black pants and is tucking the tied-off condom into his pocket. A faint frown line is creasing his forehead, and it’s so similar to his “accidentally picked up Foggy’s p.b. & j. knife by the sticky end” expression that a laugh bubbles up in Karen’s throat.
He cocks his head; she shakes hers. His mouth twists, and he disappears beneath his tight black shirt for a moment. When his head pops back through, his hair’s a mess. Not that it’ll matter beneath the mask.
“So, um. When I catch up with our friend’s buddy Jay, I'll give you a call.” He pauses. “If your number hasn't changed?”
“It hasn't.” Karen finishes buttoning up her blouse, then leans in and brushes her lips against his cheek. “It's a date, Daredevil.”
*
She takes the stairs down to the street.
Dawn is still hours away, but gray is seeping into a corner of the sky, slow and quiet and welcome. The night air is cold on Karen’s cheeks, but her blood is running high, too much heat in her veins for any chill to match.
She doesn’t look to the rooftops. There’s no need. Matt was still working his way into the red suit when she left, but by now she’s sure he’s with her. She doesn’t need to see the shapes of the shadows to know she’s not alone.
He’ll follow her all the way to her building, right up until her deadbolt slides home, and her bed creaks under her weight, and her lamp clicks off. And she’ll follow him, too. Her smell pressed into his skin, her taste on his tongue, the echo of her pulse lingering in his ears, the warmth of her hands still branding his back.
There are blocks left to go, but Karen takes her time. She's in no hurry.
[FILL] Matt/Karen, Daredevil's rage/violence turns her on [11/11]
He breathes out, a puff of warm air against her skin. “No, ah.” His nose is buried against her neck, and before he pulls back, Matt inhales so strongly that Karen can feel it in the lift of his shoulders, in the broadening of his chest: his own snapshot moment, Matt storing her up to keep.
When he lifts his head, Matt says, “I got you something.”
Karen raises her eyebrows. He steps away, bending to extract something from a hidden pocket of the suit; Karen lets herself appreciate every line and every curve of that bend before Matt straightens and holds the object out to her.
“You got me a phone,” she says flatly, thinking of every joke Foggy ever made about Matt and his women and his phones. “A burner of my very own?”
Matt shakes his head. “Belonged to our new friend.” He jerks his chin over his shoulder in the general direction of their encounter with the jackass. “Thought maybe you could get something from it.”
Tap. Swipe. No fingerprint lock, no passcode. “Yeah. Maybe I can.” Texts, call log, browser history. A new trail to follow, with maybe some answers as to what was going on in that time bomb of an apartment building at the end of it - “Thanks,” Karen adds sincerely, turning the phone over in her hands. There’s something sparking in her chest, small and delicate next to the tinderbox of anger she’s grown used to. It’s different. She’s not sure what to make of it, and she's not ready to find out. But it’s warm.
When she looks up again, after stowing the phone in her purse, Matt’s pulled on his black pants and is tucking the tied-off condom into his pocket. A faint frown line is creasing his forehead, and it’s so similar to his “accidentally picked up Foggy’s p.b. & j. knife by the sticky end” expression that a laugh bubbles up in Karen’s throat.
He cocks his head; she shakes hers. His mouth twists, and he disappears beneath his tight black shirt for a moment. When his head pops back through, his hair’s a mess. Not that it’ll matter beneath the mask.
“So, um. When I catch up with our friend’s buddy Jay, I'll give you a call.” He pauses. “If your number hasn't changed?”
“It hasn't.” Karen finishes buttoning up her blouse, then leans in and brushes her lips against his cheek. “It's a date, Daredevil.”
*
She takes the stairs down to the street.
Dawn is still hours away, but gray is seeping into a corner of the sky, slow and quiet and welcome. The night air is cold on Karen’s cheeks, but her blood is running high, too much heat in her veins for any chill to match.
She doesn’t look to the rooftops. There’s no need. Matt was still working his way into the red suit when she left, but by now she’s sure he’s with her. She doesn’t need to see the shapes of the shadows to know she’s not alone.
He’ll follow her all the way to her building, right up until her deadbolt slides home, and her bed creaks under her weight, and her lamp clicks off. And she’ll follow him, too. Her smell pressed into his skin, her taste on his tongue, the echo of her pulse lingering in his ears, the warmth of her hands still branding his back.
There are blocks left to go, but Karen takes her time. She's in no hurry.
It’s a good night.