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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"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."

"Mmn, well, with a concession like that, I'd argue you're saying I have game, too," I reply, once I've finished my last bite.

"No admission on my part required. Though, since you asked..." I smile. "Yes."

"You might have more than you think," she says, leaning back in her seat, the wine forgotten for the moment.

She's forgotten how much she missed this, the give-and-take of a playful conversation, one remark served only to be followed by a volley of a comeback.

"I can't remember the last time I did this, actually," Ellen confesses. "Been on a date, I mean."

"Now that you mention it, neither can I," I admit in turn, pushing my plate forward, but in no rush to serve dessert just yet.

"Before coming here, undoubtedly"

There'd been Wes, and Josh slightly before that, but neither of those relationships - if she could even call them that - had lent much in the way of actual dates. The last person she can actually remember going out with, just the two of them, was - David.

"Thank you," she murmurs quietly. "For all of this. I'd - well, I'd forgotten how nice it could be."

"My pleasure," I say, tipping my head a little in her direction, my mouth curving in a smile. And it is. I've been wary (and weary) of getting too close to anyone, so used to my secrets being turned against me that the chance for a fresh start was too good to pass up. But I'd be lying if I said the past year or so hasn't been lonely.

"I'm free most evenings, you know."

"What a coincidence. I find myself in a very similar boat these days. Practically identical," Ellen replies, though it's probably no secret at this point. Almost everyone here has to find ways in which to fill the hours of each day, and there are only so many activities that can hold one's attention before they need to resort to new ideas.

"Of course, the last thing I would want is for us to get sick of each other. How would we handle it if that happened?"

"I imagine we'll figure out should we get there," I reply, leaning towards the sound of her voice, chin tipped upwards. I rest my weight on my forearms against the table, feeling my mouth curve in a smile. (I look to the future about as often as I look to the past. In my life, it's the present that occupies my time, because it's the only thing I can control, just one second at a time.)

"True. But that means you're going to have to be totally and completely honest with me," Ellen counters, leaning forward when he does, her chin cupped in her hand.

"Because if you're going to get bored, better to speak up now and avoid lots of painful awkwardness in the long run."

She has her burdens. The past has left its mark on her, no doubt about it. But she's from a different world than any other woman I've come across in my entire life, and that alone makes her infinitely interesting, even ignoring her (considerable) charm.

"Oh, so there's a long run?"

He's got her there. She opens her mouth to speak, closes it again, mulls over her response a little longer so that when she finally moves to reply, there's a little less impulse behind it.

"Very possibly," she says. "Or the potential."

"The potential," I echo, voice lilting with a teasing tone. No pressure, it's meant to convey; trapping her in a corner hadn't been my intention (it's just habit, really, picking at someone else's turns of phrase). Straightening, I hold my breath for a moment, needing some measure of focus to remember where it is I put the dessert amongst all the dishes, used and unused, on the table.

"Sounds exciting."

"Mmm. Well, there's always potential, isn't there?" Ellen murmurs, watching him carefully, trying to decipher what he means to be reaching out for among all the plates on the table. She leans forward, finding the one they've yet to touch, fingertips gracing the edge of the dish.

"Until there isn't, anymore."

We have the same idea, it seems. (I've been working on it. Redeveloping my radar sense. Stick always claimed it was a learned trait than one that was gifted to me with the rest of my abilities, but I have my doubts that there isn't something more to it. Either way, I don't sense her hand near the bowl until my fingers brush over hers, prompting a sudden smile to break across my face.)

"But we're not there yet," I reply, not taking care to move my hand. "We're still right at the beginning."

"You're right," she admits, though she doesn't move to take her hand away either as his lingers, her own curling in against the edge of the bowl in reflex.

"Sometimes I tend to get a little ahead of myself. But there's really no rush." She turns her wrist, tilting her palm to face upward, her fingers shifting to link through his.

"This isn't a place that lends itself to planning for tomorrow, let alone next week, next month, next year," I say, forgetting dessert in favor of her hand. (There's a wealth of information I can learn about a person just by their hand. If they had a desk job or worked a trade by the smoothness, grooming habits by the length and feel of their nails, if they're nervous or calm by the dampness of their palms, the light flutter of a pulse beneath their fingertips if their lying.) Our fingers still linked, I pull her hand towards me, and bow my head to brush my lips against her knuckles.

"But that's not necessarily a bad thing."

"Maybe you're right," she admits, her voice dropping to a softer decibel as he draws her closer by his hold on her hand. His lips are warm where they meet her skin, and maybe she is kidding herself in thinking that there aren't going to be the kind of interruptions that come with the island, that she isn't going to wake up one morning and be right back in that hotel room in the city.

But there's a piece of her finding more and more reasons why this place is better for her, will always be better.

"It certainly lends itself to the whole 'eat, drink and be merry' way of life," she points out.

"So long as you can live with the consequences if there is a tomorrow," I say, dropping our hands back on the table, but not letting go.

"It's a fine line."

"Oh, I can," she insists, surprising even herself by the determination in her own voice.

"Can you?"