shewaswarned | (no subject)

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matt murdock

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By the time the island goes back to normal, Ellen's realizing that she doesn't have many complaints to speak of. Her gift from the island had arrived shortly after the snow had disappeared, though the sudden arrival of an armoire filled with new clothes in her bedroom hadn't gone without some suspicion on her part. Only after talking about it with friends had she realized that this seemed to be a yearly happening, maybe the island's way of making it up to them for everything they'd been put through over the past year - and then she almost laughs at herself, for starting to consider the island as some sort of higher power, personifying it, though the other option (magic) sounds just as ridiculous, if not moreso.

She's grateful that the armoire arrived when it did. Everything inside is definitely not considered Victorian-era wear, more beach appropriate with a few nicer dresses mixed in for some of the parties she'll go to this year. She's had some luck with the clothes box - the little black dress, in particular, worked in her favor - but she's given up on finding anything designer since then.

She dons a sundress at the first available opportunity and steps out into warmth instead of winter chill, taking a deep breath of salty ocean air, and sets off down the beach to the dock she likes to sit out on, only a few minutes away from the hut she calls her own. It takes her a little while to reach the end of the dock once she starts walking, but after she gets there, she realizes she isn't alone.

"Matt," she murmurs, greeting the unexpected company by name before she crosses the space to stand next to him. "Hey."

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I barely hear my name over the sound of the water, but I heard the approach well enough, could feel it, almost, beneath my bare feet. I shucked off my shoes a few moments ago, intent on dipping my feet in the water, but I put those plans on hold for the moment. A smile graces my lips as I turn, for her benefit more so than my own, in the direction of Ellen's voice.

"Ellen," I say, with a tone that can only be described as friendly, "what a pleasant surprise."

"I have to admit, I wasn't expecting company," she admits, figuring it's better to be honest and straightforward with him than attempt to dance around with conversational pleasantries. Matt already knows a little more about her than most people do on the island, and he's listened to it patiently, without judgment. The least she can do is be upfront in her confessions, even the most minor ones.

"But I'm not complaining, either," Ellen adds, eyeing the space to ensure there's enough room for him and shifting over by a few inches. "How are you?"

"Warm," I reply without a moment's hesitation. I don't consider myself a sentimental person; while some part of me is sad to lose the relative comfort that comes from the familiarity of city streets, even if they didn't belong to my city, I can also appreciate the present circumstances for what they are. Missing what one no longer has is both counter-productive and ungrateful. The future always holds more promise than the past, even when you find yourself trapped in the metaphorical ship in a bottle.

"And yourself?"

"Definitely warm," Ellen agrees, the edges of her mouth curving up into a tiny smile. While there's something about a city that can't be replicated - even if it's a city from the Victorian age, with its ancient chimneys and smoky atmosphere - she'd never quite been able to shake the overall chill that had settled into her bones, mostly because she'd wound up with a fireplace that only tended to warm the most immediate room, forcing her to sleep out of the bedroom on the coldest nights. It's something she's grateful she never had very long to get used to - now, she can go sleeveless and enjoy the sensation of the sun again, even seek out a place to dip her feet and adjust her body temperature in the reverse.

"I admit, I missed this a little," she adds, before correcting herself with a laugh. "Okay, a lot. Though the winter was fun while it lasted. Did you enjoy your New Year's?"

"It was quiet."

I stopped by the party long enough to indulge in a few foods from home before returning to my apartment building to eat them on the roof. Perhaps I could have hobnobbed some more (I certainly don't mind parties), but taking advantage of the night air struck me as a better time than dancing around flirtations I shouldn't act on. Foggy would've had a few choice words to say about that, I'm sure.

But Foggy isn't here.

"How about yourself? Or did the temperature dampen the mood?"

"Quiet can be nice," Ellen agrees, voicing the sentiment in a quiet exhale of breath before she looks over to him and nods slowly. Maybe she would've been better off taking the quiet route that evening, but being here means not having to suffer through a hangover at work the next morning, and she'd been able to stay in bed for as long as she'd wanted, huddling under her covers until eventually being forced to start another fire.

"Only the morning after," she admits. "I was a lot happier once I realized I didn't have to curl up under five blankets in order to stay warm."

"Only five?" I tease, moving to settle down on the edge of the dock rather than keep standing, and hoping she'll take the time to join me. "You're a trooper."

"I didn't mention the part where I was wearing at least ten layers at the time?" Ellen replies, making a soft thoughtful sound as she seats herself beside him.

"Huh. Must've slipped my mind while trying to avoid freezing to death."

"You were really that cold?" I ask on a laugh, resting my weight behind me. The sensation of sun dried wood crusted with salt feels novel after a month of rich oaks and mahogany, and I let my fingers stretch out against the slats, the tips pressing in between the grooves.

"You should've hired one of the ghosts to keep the fire running all night."

Or invited someone over, it occurs to me, but I have the decency not to add that part.

"I wasn't used to dealing with that level of cold back home," Ellen protests. "Oh no, wait, I was. I just had things like central heating and other lovely modern inventions."

She settles back with a sigh, leaning back on both hands and tilting her face up towards the sun, her eyes drifting closed under bright light and warmth.

"At least the fireplace worked," she adds, in an absent murmur.

"Who needs modern amenities when you have two pieces of wood to rub together?" I say, wry. I've slept on the streets, half dead. No chill could compare to such an experience; I wasn't impervious to our recent cold front, but it hardly kept me awake.

"I'd make the argument it's easier to dress for cold than it is for the heat, though."

"And Mom said being a Girl Scout would never pay off," Ellen mutters wryly, lips parting for a brief smile as she keeps her eyes closed.

"Oh, it's totally easier to dress for cold. At least if there's heat, you can start taking things off," she adds, feet absently swaying over the edge of the pier.

"And then just jump in a cold shower if things get out of hand with the heat," I add. It's not hot enough to do so now, but still I find myself listening for the water, judging how far a drop I could expect were I to slide in right now. I wouldn't even have enough time to draw a full breath, I don't think.

I wait a beat, enough to impose a lull in the conversation, then ask, more seriously, "How are you doing?"

"Or the ocean," she finishes, opening her eyes to glance over the edge while her feet swing, legs dangling loose from the knee down. "When in Rome."

It doesn't take him any time to shift into a more serious topic - one she's almost anticipating, at this rate, since their last conversation had gone. She'd nearly been reduced to tears, there at the waterfall, and after the fact, she couldn't help but think she'd probably done everything to ruin the good impression she'd made at speed dating. "Okay," she admits, which is the closest thing to the truth. "Better. You know what they say about time."

"It heals all wounds," I intone, knowing the proverb, but not believing it. I've never been one for proverbs. Which is strange, maybe, given my background, my training. But Stick never bought into any stereotype, and I don't, either, as a result.

I wish I could hear her heartbeat. Know just how much she's lying, or if she's lying at all. Class doesn't afford the opportunity for much personal conversation.

"It's okay if you're not, you know."

It's okay if you're not.

No one's given her that follow-up, not even given her the impression that it would come after the initial idle pleasantries, the are-you-okays left to hang, as if they're not sure they want to hear the truth - and so she's told them exactly what they're listening for, and nothing more than that. Just the fact that he's offering her permission to feel more than she's allowed herself to dwell in - it hits her, for a split second, a pang in the chest, and she averts her gaze, blinking rapidly.

"Among other things," she manages, gliding over the other remark altogether.

Interesting. The hesitation, the silent dismissal... She's given me an answer without saying a word. I can feel my mouth twist, the corners turning downwards. My brows furrow with quiet concern. But I don't press further. Not yet, at least, though I'll probably revisit the issue. Given everything that's happened to her, I can't imagine that she would be fine. Not so soon. Not so quickly.

But denial is a very powerful thing. A crutch and blanket both. For now, it's not my place to take that from her. Another change of subject, then.

"We should go swimming," I declare. I'm not dressed for it, exactly, but I'm not modest, either.

There's a beat where, lost in her own train of thought, the shift into another topic of conversation doesn't quite register, though when it does she actually laughs out loud, a surprised chuckle at his sudden idea.

She has to admit that it does sound like a good one, at least initially, only because she's starting to border on the sweaty side of warm and the water glistening below them looks particularly inviting.

"I didn't bring a swimsuit," she admits, but the tone of her voice all but implies that obstacle wouldn't be enough to stop her. Not quite.

"I wouldn't know if you had," I point out, wasting no time to get back to my feet. I'll admit, it feels good to move freely without the threat of an ice patch looming around every step. If I'm going to take a fall, I'd prefer it to be from a building than just walking down the street. It's a lot more fun that way.

"C'mon. Let's celebrate the return to warm weather in style."

She can't resist grinning, a soft chuckle slipping past her lips as she rises to her feet, joining him in standing up slowly. "You're going to be a bad influence," she teases, glancing over the pier's edge.

"So, what? Are you saying we should jump?" It's not a long drop, and it looks deep enough, but she doesn't know exactly how daring he's willing to be.

"I'm saying we should jump," I reply. My thumbs hook under the hemline of my cotton t-shirt, and I pull it up over my head, letting it drop down beside me with a soft thump. I'm conscious of my scars, even though I'm the only one who can't see them. Some where such marks as a point of pride, but to me, they're just parts of a past my body won't let me forget. I'm not ashamed -- the level of comfort I have in my own skin should be obvious to anyone -- but they're not something I'll boast about, either.

"Unless you have a compelling argument not to," I add, toeing off my shoes, now.

She won't deny it; there's a beat where her stare lingers, even if she experiences a touch of guilt in the aftermath for having done so. She has her own scars, though - the silverlight line across her throat, and others long since healed, making it easy to wear the sundress she's got on now. Her feet are already slipping out of her sandals though, toes curling against the warm wood of the pier as she finally reaches down for the white cotton hem, arms crossing over her front as she pulls it up and over her head.

"The defense rests," she murmurs, unable to stop the trill of excitement that courses through her, a minor shiver. "On three?"

"Why wait?" I laugh.

There's no real reason to and I'm struck with a surge of impatience that pushes me back off the pier, body streamlined into good diving form, not being able to help myself from showing off even if it's bound to raise questions. Blind lawyers from Hell's Kitchen aren't known to be acrobats, but in the moment, I can't care, too glad to relive the brief thrill of leaping off buildings to mind anything else as I cut hands first through the tepid water only to surface seconds later, the taste of salt lingering on my lips.

"Well?" I call out.

"You can't cheat on a countdown," she calls back, as he resurfaces, and there's something about the way he dives in - fearless, no hesitation. Her own dive won't be as elegant - it's been years, though she was part of a swim team once, so she remembers some of the basics, and she turns off to one side to avoid a collision, hitting the water a few feet away. She comes up for air seconds later, blinking water out of her eyes, treading water slowly before she swims over.

"I did miss this part too," she admits, arms circling out in front of her, her body swaying back and forth with the pull of waves.

"I don't go swimming as often as I ought to," I admit, twisting my body in the water to face her -- or at least make some approximation. Sound travels faster through water, but above it like this, between the reflection off the waves and the white noise of the water crashing around us, it's difficult to pinpoint her with my usual accuracy.

Maybe it balances out the dive.

"It's nice, though. A way to relax without feeling lazy."