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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"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?"

I've certainly lived with worse consequences. Whatever we're doing now, whatever we're about to do, if anything, won't put the world in the balance. It's an easy risk to make. A natural one. And that she seems as eager to jump into the fray as I do heightens the unspoken tension in the room. In a smooth, fluid motion, I let go of her hand, bracing myself against the table to lean in towards her, listening for her breath to make sure my mouth lands on hers.

Part of living a dual life is knowing when action outweighs the meaning of words.

It still surprises her, how quickly it all happens; one moment, the only point of contact between them is the joining of their hands, the warmth of his skin against her own, and then before she can blink he's closing the remaining distance altogether, drawing near until there's nothing that can constitute as space between them.

It's different, in a sense, from the kiss earlier shared, but it still grips her tight in her chest, that inner warmth that starts deep in her chest and ripples outward until she's shifting forward, leaning over the table to cup his face in her hands.

The angle's awkward. I aim to correct it, dropping down to one knee rather than staying bent over, so that my approach is slightly from below rather than above. The floor's hardwood, no carpet; not the ideal place to stick around, but there's more give than pavement. I don't mind staying here a while, though I can think of at least one place in this very hut more comfortable for the long haul.

I don't need to rush it, though. I taste, more than anything else, the supper we just ate, but I was careful in my preparation to not use any ingredients that could make even the possibility of another kiss an experience I'd like to avoid. I focus on other things. The jasmine lingering on her skin. The pressure of her fingers. The light, fuzzy feeling that comes from the mind disconnecting from the body, leaving the latter to feel without the heavy burden of thought.

The shift in angle is a small surprise, but not jarring enough to force her to shift in turn, or to move away - and yet she realizes the comfort factor in his lingering on the floor like that is probably nonexistent at this juncture. There's no haste in her movements, though the less time he has to kneel like that, the better, and she uses her touch on his face, her fingertips skating along his jaw, to guide them both into standing, slowly rising to her feet.

It's almost better, than the first kiss. There's another layer to this one, as though each one is delving deeper into feelings she thought she'd long since stifled before now. It makes her want to hover in his space as long as she can, even as the kiss tapers off naturally, her nose nudging along his cheek as her arms slide around him, preserving that nearness.

I bow my head to press my forehead to hers, one hand slipping between us to lay flat on her abdomen, the other lifting to cup her cheek. My touch is light, but exploratory, the pad of my thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone, then doubling back.

"May I?" I ask, wanting to map her features, her expression, to create my own personal memory for what she looks like, if only to me.

It takes a moment for her to figure out what he's asking permission to do, but once she realizes, her eyes fall shut again, lashes fluttering against her cheek in the wake of fingertips tracing the shape of her face.

"Okay," she whispers, tilting her face up slightly into his hands.

With her permission, I'm more liberal in my discovery, retracing first her cheekbones, and then her brows, lifting my other hand to mirror myself, and get a better sense of symmetry. My fingers brush over the bridge of her nose, the line of her jaw, but I leave the best for last. While her mouth is, at this point, the least mysterious part of her beyond her hands, there's a delight in memorizing the pout of her lower lip. The pressure of my touch never changes, every point of connection as light as the first, but a shape starts to form in my mind's eye, one undoubtedly different from a man who could see, but unique to me.

I smile a little, my own brows inching up from behind my glasses. In a tone that borders on reverent, I murmur, "You're beautiful."

It's undeniably strange, having her face mapped out this way, but she stays completely still, keeping her eyes closed - for the most part, at least, but she does open them again when his touch descends to her lower lip, tracing the swell of it with his fingertips. She doesn't know if she should swallow, should so much as breathe before he speaks, and then she smiles, the shift in expression no doubt felt underneath his hand when her cheeks shift and redden with an unexpected blush, lips curving in a genuine grin.

"Okay," she says, and when she speaks, the words are slightly hushed in turn. "You've definitely got game."

My laughter is almost hummed, my teeth biting down lightly against my bottom lip to keep from smiling. I lean forward, my cheek passing against hers, so that I can whisper in her ear, "The defense rests."

"Yeah, yeah," she mutters, smoothing her hands over the front of his button-down.

"Time for closing arguments." Her arms find their way back around his neck shortly before she leans in again.

There's no more urgency behind the latest kiss than there was for the first, but there is, undoubtedly, an intent. I'm quicker to part my lips against hers, quicker to deepen it, eager to discover what I haven't yet felt, though I'll be certain to revisit everything again, should there be that elusive later. My breaths begin to shallow, fingers curling lightly in the fabric of her clothes to keep her close, though she seems to have had a similar idea, her arms a comforting pressure around the back of my neck.

Great minds.

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