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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"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."

"Popcorn. I remember it well," she murmurs. "Oh, and you really could never go wrong with that General Tso's chicken, either." There'd been more than one night per week where either she or David had been in charge of dinner, and more often than not, it had been out of bags or those little white containers.

"There is something to be said for eating healthy," she's quick to add. For more reason than one, she's felt better here than she has in the time prior to her arrival. "And exercising regularly, although it was pretty easy to burn off those calories navigating Manhattan in high heels."

"I'll defer to your experience," I say, digging into the salad with more gusto than necessary, if only to celebrate the fact that it tastes like actual food. Here, I make a point of savoring every bite, knowing the likelihood that I'll have to dash off to save someone at any given moment is slim to none. There's no need for convenience. I chew slowly, thoughtfully, taking the time to appreciate the textures, the flavors.

I smile around my latest mouthful, swallowing.

"I've got the legs for heels, but not the patience."

"Mmm." She makes a curious sound around a mouthful of salad, gently setting down her fork, taking a break for another moment to talk and observe, a faint smile playing across her lips.

"I'm not so sure I believe you," she lightly responds, trying to sound skeptical. "Don't you know how many men I've spoken with who claim to have the legs for it? And so many of them wind up a disappointment."

"Then it's a good thing you met me," I reply, trying not to laugh at myself. It's probably the greatest joke I've ever told, but I'm the only one who'll get it. I've made a life for myself here, however temporary it might prove to be. Quiet, for the most part. While some part of me has begun to crave the adventure others in my former line of work have managed to stumble their way into, I can appreciate that what I have shouldn't be dismissed... Even if it's proven strangely lonely.

"My legs never disappoint."

If she was a bolder person - emboldened by the wine, perhaps, or made braver by a closer proximity - she'd probably have a better response than what she comes up with, but as it stands, she settles for quietly laughing at the expression on his face as he struggles not to do the same.

"We'll see about that," she softly says, setting her fork back onto her empty plate after she finishes her salad.

"That a promise or a threat?"

It takes me a moment to gather she's done eating rather than just taking a pause, but once I've sussed it out, I reach over for the main course, holding out the bowl for her to take her serving even as I pull out her empty plate to make way for the new. Truth be told, it all feels a bit like a juggling act, but then, we're at home instead of a restaurant. While I appreciate the intimate atmosphere of cooking for someone, there's a level of convenience in having a waiter do the grunt work.

"The only way it would be a threat is if you were the opposing counsel," Ellen replies, reaching out for the utensils to serve herself as her gaze lingers on his face.

"And even then it might not be all that threatening. That was never one of the things I was very good at - not while keeping a straight face, anyway." She's convinced he'd be able to spot the truth from the lie all from the tone of her voice. He's caught smaller notes in it before, pauses or hesitations. No doubt he can already perceive the playfulness in it now.

That was the part of my job I tended to excel at, but boasting about how good you are at threatening people doesn't tend to make for good dinner conversation unless you're one of the bad guys. It's a skill I had to learn to be effective in my work, not necessarily a point of pride. I think my father would prefer it that way, if he could forgive me for Daredevil at all.

"No?"

"Mm-mm," she replies, sharing the sentiment around a mouthful of food without uttering the word itself.

"Then again, maybe that's why I never got very far at Hewes and Associates." It's difficult to take the bitterness out of her voice at even the mention of Patty's firm, let alone Patty, but she manages. "Even my threats aren't very convincing. Maybe I just need a little practice." She laughs dryly, taking another bite of food.

"A little directness hasn't ever hurt anyone," I reply, finishing off the last of my salad before I join her in enjoying the pasta.

"Though I will say that you've never struck me as someone who doesn't get what she wants, so maybe you don't need threats at all."

A laugh escapes her, short and surprised, before she reins it in a little.

"You'd be surprised," she says. "Though maybe you're right. Maybe I should focus on being more direct. Playing games gets you nowhere, in the long run."

"They certainly didn't get you here tonight," I say, maybe sounding a little pleased. Playing games has its place, but in my experience, they're better used if you're running from something, not trying to accomplish.

"No, they didn't," she agrees, finishing her pasta before she pours herself a little more wine. Her hand lingers on the bottle, waiting to see if she should offer to pour.

"If I recall correctly, that part was mostly your doing. You're very convincing when you try."

"Only when I try?" I counter, feigning disappointment. "I'm off my game, then. Guess it's self-improvement all around."

"So you're admitting you have game?" she asks, one eyebrow rising.

"And as far as your powers of persuasion are concerned, you don't need to try all that much."