shewaswarned | (no subject)

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matt murdock

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Matt's instructions for showing up to dinner are fairly simple: come as you are. But the houseguest in her - or hut-guest, more accurately - insists on bringing something whenever she's invited over to anyone's place, and it's a habit started in New York that seems to have carried over to Tabula Rasa, regardless of the fact that she doesn't need to worry about impressing anyone, or climbing any particular social ladders. She brings a bottle of the island-brewed wine anyway, hoping it will somehow fit with the theme of the meal he's planning, and starts her walk over a little earlier than necessary, since it looks as though it might be dark by the time she arrives.

Her directions take her to the second path that veers right from the boardwalk she takes starting at the lifeguard stand, and if she's got it right, that means his hut is the first one on the left once she makes that turn. Praying she's remembered his instructions correctly, she makes her way up to the door and knocks, shifting her weight back slightly and then speaking up once she hears sounds from within.

"Matt? It's Ellen," she calls out, hoping to be heard through the door.

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"Come in!" I call out from the little nook that is my kitchen, so preoccupied with finishing the last touches on 'dessert' (a fruit salad that smells like a tropical slice of heaven, if I do say so myself) for the evening's meal that I trust she can manage the door on her own. My living quarters aren't what I could call spacious, but they serve my purposes just fine: clean and uncluttered, with everything down to the last sock in its rightful place. Living alone, I can't afford to be messy, and I'm not prone to nostalgic keepsakes, least of all in a place whose very name discourages such a thing.

Drying my hands on the soft, thick cloth I've had slung over my shoulder for the duration of the afternoon, I fold it across the edge of the small sink when I'm done with it, then move the dessert to the table I've set up, relying on memory to ensure I don't drop it onto the entrée. It's all cold fare (fruits and vegetables and cheeses, a pasta dish of my own creation), but it's fresh and light on the palette, the kind of meal that leaves you feeling energized and sated by its end rather than drained. I'm dressed with a similar theme in mind, my shirt a crisp button-down with the top few undone and the sleeves rolled up to my elbows, my pants a lightweight wool perfect for the weather. (Something comfortable enough for me, but hopefully stylish enough for her. It's a date. A certain amount of effort's going to go into my appearance even if I'm not the one who's going to appreciate it.)

A smile touches my lips as I walk towards the front door, clasping my hands together. Nerves aren't in my repertoire, but excitement certainly is. It's been a long, long while since I've done anything like this, and I can only hope I remember the steps as they come. "Hey."

In those few seconds between her call and his answer, Ellen idly checks over her appearances, touching the back of her neck where she's pinned her hair up only a few inches above to make sure the clip isn't close to falling out. On the other hand, the strap on her left sandal has managed to slip off her heel in the walk over, so she takes a pause to fix it, balancing her weight on one foot until she can manage to pull it back on without hopping too far.

It's as she's righting herself that she hears his voice from inside, and trying the door, she finds she can open it without much fuss - unlike her own, which tends to need an extra shove to budge open and which she's consistently forgetting to speak to someone about. She nudges the door behind her with a bump of the hip and steps a little further inside as he approaches to greet her, her mouth immediately lifting into a smile at the sight of him looking - calm. Casual, but nicely dressed. Handsome.

"Hi." She rests her empty hand against his forearm in greeting, shifting her grip on the bottle in her other. She's positive she'll get the tour in a moment; for now, her attention rests solely on him as she leans in to press her lips to his cheek. "I hope I'm not too early."

"Not at all."

I smile as her mouth hits my skin, and I turn slightly to catch her cheek with my own kiss before she gets too far. She's wearing something different today than her usual lavender. I like it, but I don't know that that comes as a surprise.

"Jasmine," I note, my hand finding the small of her back to usher her forward. "Great choice."

Both eyebrows rise in surprise, though she eventually chuckles, leaning in towards him as he correctly places the origin of her perfume without so much as a pause in the conversation. It had seemed a more appropriate time for a different scent, but she hadn't expected him to pick up on it that quickly.

"Wow. Most guys wouldn't be able to even place that as floral," she murmurs, visibly impressed as he leads her forward. "Dare I even ask what else your nose has managed to pick up on so far?"

"I'm not most guys," I say, swallowing a laugh that's meant for my ears only. It's an understatement at best, even with the number of superheroes forced into sabbatical hanging around. None of them are quite like me. But then, my story's pretty unbelievable even by their standards.

"You usually wear lavender, freesia. If we had brands, here, I'd give you the name."

"That's for sure," she murmurs, momentarily distracted by her surroundings as they step a little further into the hut. But if she thought she was at all surprised before, it doesn't really compare to the unexpectedness of the words that follow.

"Did I say wow already? Because wow." She pivots back to face him, shifting the weight of the wine in her hand. "I mean, I know you said your nose was sensitive, but - okay, I'm going to stop before I say wow again."

I hear something other than her voice-- Liquid sloshing around. Sounds like glass. Circumstances more so than any latent radar sense clue me into its source: wine, most likely.

"You brought something to drink?" I say, just showing off, now, but unable to care. "Thank you, Ellen."

"Mmhmm," she murmurs, gently pressing the bottle into his hand until she's certain he has a grip on it before pulling away, still smiling faintly.

"Well, I thought it could kind of be for the both of us, if you're willing to share," Ellen adds, taking a few more steps to swerve away, grinning over her shoulder.

Edited 2012-02-07 23:28 (UTC)

"More than," I reply, fingers curling around the bottle's neck as I make to follow. I'm not much of a guide, though this is one of the few places I've lived that I've actually seen, during those handful of days this summer when I was returned to the days of my youth. I just don't know that there's much to show. (Other than dinner, of course.)

"Take a seat, everything's ready."

She takes a beat to look around a little more. It's fairly Spartan, though she isn't expecting very many objects of sentimental value, given what people arrive with, or conversation pieces for that matter. But he's guiding her towards the table, and she takes the seat he indicates.

"You weren't lying when you said just to show up and eat," she replies. "Although those are two things I definitely know how to do."

"Some conversation wouldn't go amiss," I say, letting my fingers skim the line of her shoulder as I walk around her chair to take a seat in my own. I set the bottle down between us, relying on memory to find a free spot between the various dishes. It'll be safer for her to pour, most likely. (Not that I'm known for taking the safe route in any situation, but if the wine is red, she might like to avoid anything getting stained.)

"Though I find that if you take the time to really enjoy it, eating can be a fairly enjoyable exercise all on its own."

"Lest you forget, I was a lawyer," she lightly responds, a chuckle in her words as she pushes her chair in to bring herself closer to the table, taking the napkin resting directly to the side of her plate and spreading it out across her lap. She's grateful for bringing the white - it looks as though this meal isn't going to involve something heavy, like steak.

"There's definitely some value in the ability to spar a little with someone - verbally, of course."

"Of course," I say, and I'll be damned if I can help the smile that tugs at my mouth, laughing at a joke I doubt she's even aware of making. I turned to the law to help make sense of the chaos around me, and I turned to alternative means when even the very system I fought for wasn't quite enough. A lawyer by day, a vigilante by night.

"Fisticuffs don't really go with the entrée."

"But maybe with dessert?" she suggests, making a note of the smile that rises at her earlier comment as she shifts her weight in her seat.

"One course at a time, though." Everything looks good from where she's sitting, and she can't deny that she's been trying to stave off her appetite in preparation for a good meal. She doubts anything he's made will disappoint.

"My father was a boxer, actually," I say, reaching for (what I hope is) the salad to start us off, and holding it out for her to take her portion. It's not the greatest of moves, talking about myself on a date with a woman as charming as Ellen, but it seems relevant, and besides, for all our conversations, I've left her precious few details about the man she's sitting beside tonight while I know her life's story. It can't hurt to give, a little background information.

"He wanted me to be anything but."

"Maybe he had the right idea," Ellen admits, reaching out to serve herself some salad before she moves to pour them both some wine. It's a small pour, but there's more than enough white to last them several courses, if they so choose.

"It's hard to imagine that nose after multiple breaks," she replies, taking her filled glass in hand and slowly sipping. "What made you decide to choose law?"

I almost want to tell her she doesn't need to imagine, but that's a heavier conversation than matches the meal. I don't know that there's a bone in my body I haven't broken over the years, but it must be said that I know a few excellent doctors.

"It made sense," I say, lifting my glass, but not yet taking a sip. I'm not much of a drinker, admittedly, but I trust her taste, and I would hesitate before turning down a gift.

"For a kid growing up in Hell's Kitchen, having some sense of structure, of the order of things... It was a godsend."

"Everyone can benefit from a little structure," she agrees, putting the wineglass down and reaching for her fork to dig in to the salad, stabbing some greens and taking a bite.

Looking back on her childhood, she can't say she was ever lacking in structure, but the glamour of the big city had always appealed to her, the desire to be somewhere greater than the suburbia where she'd originated. "That is supposed to be the point of the law, isn't it? Supposed to being the key word."

She sighs softly. "I'm sorry. It's tough not to be a little cynical."

"Tough, but arguably worthwhile," I say, taking a quick sip from the glass before setting it down. (The wine is good. Clearly local, but made with the sort of care that can be afforded in a place with little else to do.)

"Though given your background, I'd argue that your cynicism is perfectly understandable. You fell in with the worst of our profession."

"I never wanted to look back on anything with a bitter aftertaste," she confesses, absently turning her fork around in the salad as she stares down into the plate.

"In the long run, I'm glad my eyes were opened. I can't say that I haven't learned from my mistakes."

"It'll prevent you from making any more down the line," I say, candidly. This isn't a conversation in need of much sugarcoating, the severity of what she's been through too heavy to insult with promises of false hope. She says she's learned, and I believe her, plain and simple.

God only knows I've made my own mistakes. It's why I've played things so close to my chest these past few months. After having my life plastered all over the papers for anyone to read, I've reveled in the anonymity of this place.

"Of course, the Island helps with that, too. Not too much law in the land of the lawless."

"That's how I like to look at it, anyway." She purses her lips in thought, picking up the wine glass again, but doesn't drink from it right away, holding it briefly.

"Well, you never know. Someone could call on any one of our services at some point. Theft of coconuts or something," she adds, hiding a smile behind the rim of the glass, her laugh mostly muffled while she sips.

"The salad is delicious, by the way."

"Made with all legally obtained ingredients," I reply, her laughter quiet but contagious.

"I know people lament the loss of fast food, but I prefer this. That processed stuff is awful."

"I certainly hope so," she replies, though she doesn't picture him as the type of guy who would do anything less than legitimately.

"I admit to having at least one or two takeout numbers memorized." It's silly to blush, but she feels herself doing so anyway, heat rising in her cheeks all the way up to her hairline. "Convenience, mostly. And lack of time to prepare."

I groan, pressing two fingers to my forehead in mock despair.

"My partner was the same way," I admit, an edge of fondness sneaking into my voice. I try not to think about Foggy too much, but I feel his absence more keenly than anyone else I could name. He's been my best friend since law school; it's strange not having him around. "Used to stink up the office with those bags of microwave popcorn."