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Chapter Text

Day 1- Searching

Thunder cracks and the sky opens up to pour down on her mercilessly the moment she steps out of her apartment building. She curses the sky as the rain starts to soak her clothes, but she doesn’t turn around or go back inside. Her mind is made up: she’s thirsty and there’s no way she could stand to be alone in her apartment for a moment longer.

And anyway, she’s out of whiskey.

Pulling her jacket up to hold over her head in lieu of an umbrella (because who the hell carries one around all the time, just in case?), she sets off toward her current favorite bar, a few blocks northeast of her apartment. She chose this particular bar because it’s empty enough that she can feel like she’s melting into the background, but just busy enough to not feel desperately lonely, like she’s the most pitiful customer. And by now, the bartender knows to open a tab and set her up in the corner booth with her own bottle of Jim Bean without any kind of verbal interaction the moment she walks in the door. It’s the most perfect place she’s found to drink, at least since Luke’s place b-

Her steps falter as the thought of his name makes her insides churn with a cocktail of negative emotions she isn’t interested in naming. She tries to shut that line of thought down and push it out of her mind as quickly as she can. The endeavor is partially successful, but still she finds that she ends up feeling worse when the thoughts recede into nothingness. Like she’s feeling almost … hollow. Suddenly the idea of drinking alone all night in some dive bar sounds more daunting than appealing. But where else can she go?

She’s really not in the mood to face Trish right now, especially not dripping wet and feeling pathetic about the relationship she ruined with the only guy even close to being on her level when it comes to having gifts. She can already imagine the lecture about becoming a “prepared and mature adult” who carries an umbrella, and using a “healthier” coping strategy than drinking the night away by herself in some dive bar. And anyway, Jessica thinks she remembers Trish mentioned having to go to some work function or party or something tonight. But she still needs somewhere to go.

She keeps walking as she tries to think of a solution, because she doesn’t know what else to do. But she is so intent on trying to come up with an idea that she is completely oblivious to the path which her feet are taking while her mind is occupied. At least, until she reaches the apartment complex. Matt’s apartment complex, to be exact. She comes to a dead stop as she realizes where her path has taken her. And she has to force some slow, deep breaths to keep her anxiety from consuming her whole.

It’s not that she doesn’t enjoy spending time with him (as much as she enjoys anything these days, at least). She very much does. But that’s the problem. She enjoys spending time with him so much that she is starting to worry what that might mean for how she feels about him. They’d stayed in touch after he showed back up, beaten to hell but decidedly not dead. Since, they’ve worked with the others a few times to take down various big bads, and the two of them have referred clients to one another a few times over the last couple of months. But each time she sees him, she can’t shake the feeling that she’s looking into a mirror when she looks at him. As though she’s seeing a reflection of herself more clearly than she ever has.

Because he carries the same tension in his shoulders that she has to constantly remind herself to release, or else suffer the effects of the sore muscles that follow. And his head is on a swivel the same way that hers is, vigilantly scanning the environment, constantly on the lookout for disaster around the next turn. The semi-permanent furrow of his brow mirrors hers- a tell-tale sign of the internal struggles, the relentless ruminations and self-loathing that he must battle as often as she does. But the thing that really gives it away is the look in his eyes. Even though his gaze is technically blank, his sightless eyes not capable of making true contact with hers, she can read the expression she sees there. Because she’s intimately familiar with it; she sees it every time she looks in the mirror.

It’s a look of scrutiny. Of longing. Of searching.

But whenever she looks up at him and sees him wearing it, she can’t help but feel like she’s found something. And she’s seen the line of his flat mouth turn up into the slightest of smirks before, as though in some kind of recognition of this feeling that they share. 

It’s the memory of that smile that convinces her to start moving again, across the street and to the door of his building.

Once there, she steps inside the front door, shaking off the most recent layer of rain, and shrugging back into her jacket. With a deep breath that she sucks in and holds for a moment, she starts up the stairs toward his apartment. She knows he knows she’s there, and part of her expects him to be waiting with the door open as she turns the final corner of the staircase. But he isn’t, so she hurries over to his door and exhales heavily as she knocks twice, in quick succession.

The amount of time it takes for him to come to the door is not out of the ordinary, but her heart begins to hammer and her foot starts to tap because it suddenly feels like years are passing. When the door swings open, she sighs in relief.

“Jess? To what do I owe the pleasure?” His voice seems puzzled, though she senses that he is still pleasantly surprised.

She shrugs and uses a bland, uninterested voice. “I was in the neighborhood and the weather decided to take a serious shit on me. So, I was hoping to wait it out here… if that’s cool.”

Her heart flutters as she sees a familiar smirk curl his lips.

“Sure, come on in.”

She looks at his face one last time as she walks past him and into the apartment. And she can’t help but smirk back. Because maybe they have each found something. Or someone.

Though a part of her is unspeakably glad for this fact, she’s not prepared to do much of anything about it. So instead, she speaks over her shoulder at him as she shrugs out of her jacket and scarf, hanging them up, then continuing down the entryway.

“Good. So, where’s your whiskey?”

He laughs softly at her as he follows her into the apartment. “Top of the fridge. Pour me one too? Glasses are in the cabinet directly to the left.”

She scoffs under her breath as she crosses toward the kitchen. “You’ve got a lot to learn about me, Murdock. Because I don’t need a glass.” She arrives in front of the fridge and reaches for the whiskey.

He pauses at the edge of the counter and shakes his head at her. “Oh, I know. The glass is for me so that I get some amount of whiskey before you drink the entire bottle.”

She bites the inside of her lip to keep from laughing at him as she pours his glass, because she’s becoming more comfortable with their situation much, much faster than she ever thought she would. But there’s no reason he needs to know that right now.

“Fast learner. Maybe you’re not as dumb as I thought.”

“Wow. Now, that is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

She downs a generous swig and shrugs. “I’m feeling magnanimous today. But don’t count on that continuing.”

“I don’t know about that. I think I’m growing on you, Jones.”

“Don’t push your luck, Murdock.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

This time she can’t keep from smirking, even though she tries. Because this time, her face is a mirror image of his- an expression of relief and fledgling hope. And she lets herself feel that hope for a full five seconds before locking it away, to be dealt with later- much later, with a proper amount of distance between them. But as she knocks back another shot, she finds she doesn’t dread the thought of that as much as she might have months ago. Before they found each other on the crazy quest to take down the Hand. Before she even realized she was looking for someone. Someone who could understand her, accept her, and handle her. Someone like Matt Murdock.

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Day 2- Barefoot 

The first time she takes her shoes off in his apartment, he smiles. Because it seems like progress- a sign of her familiarity and sense of security in this place that doesn’t belong to her, no matter how welcoming he’s tried to make it. As though she is committing to being more present when she’s here with him.

He’s noticed, on the occasions he’s been invited over, that she prefers to be barefoot in her own apartment when she can help it. And for some reason, he has found he much prefers her that way. He knows it’s a strange thing to notice or to care about, but her gait is different when she’s barefoot.

The boots she typically wears are loud and heavy, weighing down her feet and subconsciously encouraging her to stomp around with a heavy and authoritative step that he doesn’t think is really her. Because he doesn’t think she plods around intentionally.

If he had to guess, he’d say it’s something of a performance, an extension of the other armor that she fits herself with to help her take on the world each day. Her leather jacket, thick wool scarf, and her combat boots- all a shield to protect her and make her seem more threatening to the masses, encouraging people to keep their distance from her. But it’s never worked on him. He’s never been afraid of Jessica Jones. Intimidated a few times, sure. But not afraid.

So as she pads into his kitchen to retrieve a beer from his fridge in her stockinged feet, he takes a moment to appreciate the sound of her feet on his hardwood floor as she moves. Because it tells him quite a story, even if she isn’t barefoot.

Her pace is similarly steady to when she wears her boots, her tread just as purposeful. But she isn’t barging around with barely concealed fury or trudging along, as though she’s fighting a battle against her own will to continue on with each step.

Instead, it’s just a sure, solid step as she rolls through her foot, heel to toe, while crossing toward the kitchen. And it sounds surprisingly … normal. Like she’s calm and relaxed. Like she’s willing to let down her guard and be with him, allowing this one thing between her and her exit strategy, just in case something were to happen and cause her to leave in a hurry. He knows she may never fully get to the point where she doesn’t have some kind of a worst-case scenario escape plan running in the background of her mind, just to be prepared, and he doesn’t blame her for that in the slightest. But to see her deliberately place an obstacle between herself and that plan by taking off her shoes seems like the surest sign that she is warming up to him. That she trusts him enough to believe she is safe and that she won’t need to get up and bolt at a moment’s notice.

He sees it for the gift that it is and wants to show her that he doesn’t take it for granted. But he also doesn’t want to scare or overwhelm her by drawing too much attention to it. So, he decides to comment in the most nonchalant way he can think of.

“Moving in, Jones?”

She snorts a derisive laugh at him under her breath as she crosses back to the couch.

“What?”

“Well, you took your shoes off as soon as you came in the door, and now you’re helping yourself to my beer. So I thought I should ask if you’re moving in. Because I might need to do some rearranging to accommodate that.”

She flops down into her spot at the opposite end of the couch and rolls her eyes at him. “You wish. My feet were just hot. Blame global warming.” She takes a quick swig from her beer, stilling as she swallows.

He gets the distinct impression that she’s watching him closely, aware of his unspoken words but unsure of how to respond. And he can’t keep the soft, genuine smile from curling his lip at the thought that she is so invested in his reaction. And then the little smile on his face breaks into a full-fledged, goofy grin.

At the sight of it, she settles into her corner of the couch, as though making herself comfortable with the intention of staying for a significant amount of time.

“But you better watch out. I won’t be easy to get rid of just because I’m not moving in.”

He chuckles and has to bite his tongue to keep from giving her a response that he doesn’t think she’s ready for, no matter how sincerely he means it.

Instead, he settles back into his corner of the couch and takes a sip of his own beer. “We’ll see about that.”

She huffs a laugh at him before she takes another drink. He hears the genuine mirth in her voice, and he can’t help but think that it will only be a matter of time before she’s comfortable enough to be barefoot here, too. And if he’s lucky, maybe she really will move in some day. Eventually. 

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Day 3- Warmth

The first time she spends the night at his place, she can’t shake the feeling of how nice it is to have someone there. Someone next to her. A solid presence to anchor her and help her know which way is up when that bastard’s voice invades her dreams and causes her to jolt awake. It’s made the tiniest bit more manageable when she registers Matt beside her, but just because he’s there doesn’t mean that she’s able to reach for him.

She fights off an almost instinctual urge to curl into his arms. For a whole host of reasons.

Because she sees him sleeping soundly and suddenly worries that he may struggle with sleep disturbances just as she does. Because she is afraid to make him take on too much of her bullshit, lest she scare him off. Because intimate but non-sexual physical contact is not a thing that she does with just anyone. Because part of her is afraid of how much she would like the feeling of it if she did.

But she knows she needs something from him, because her heart is still pounding through her ribcage. So she moves closer, rolling onto her side to face him. She inhales deeply as she attempts to sync her breathing with his. After a few long, slow exhales, her heart rate starts to settle, allowing her to shake off the last vestiges of her nightmare. A small victory. But she is fairly certain she won’t be able to fall asleep again. And isn’t that just par for the course. She settles further into her pillow as tries to decide how to pass the time until it’s late enough that she can believably claim to wake up.

And it’s strange, but for once, she isn’t interested in walking out under the cover of night, nor does she want to try to drown her tumultuous thoughts in whiskey. 

Instead, she finds herself focusing on Matt, tracing the lines of his face with her eyes, and noticing all of the small imperfections and details that she has never noticed before. Like the small scar that bisects his left eyebrow, likely the handiwork of one of the criminals he has dispatched in the mask. Or the faint lines at the corners of his eyes- proof of a life full of laughing and smiles.

She frowns because she is sure she has no such lines. But in the same moment, she realizes that it would be because of him if she ever did develop them. Because, much to her chagrin, she smiles more around him that she can ever remember at any other point in her life.

Because there’s something about being here, being with him which makes her feel … better. Not cured or “normal” by any stretch of the imagination, but a little more balanced. More grounded. And a little less lonely. Less cold.

It’s funny, really- in the way that something is unexpected and strange more than it’s humorous- because at first glance, she never would have suspected she’d end up here. Sure, he’s handsome, but that’s not even close to her first level of criteria for a guy these days. There are plenty of other boxes that she has to check first, and chief among them is the ability to handle her and her shit.

He was on her radar from the beginning because of the mixed read she got on him about that. Most people aren’t equipped to handle the darkness within her, nor the disaster that follows her around like a bad penny. But he hadn’t given her that vibe. In fact, it was the opposite; the vibe she got from him said he was equipped to handle her darkness and disaster because he had plenty of experience with both on his own. And she can’t deny, that was (and continues to be) one of the most enticing things about him.

But as she’s come to know him better, she has begun to notice something else about him. Something unexpected. That he’s capable of a strange kind of contrast. A brightness in spite of his darkness. One that hides under the surface, occasionally slipping out and dazzling her before she realizes it’s happening. He’s blindsided her with it more than once, but she doesn’t mind. Not anymore. Honestly, he’s nearly impossible to resist when he’s like that. So much so, that a part of her has even come to crave that energy from him. Because being around him has helped her understand how much she wants to have this light for herself- that inviting sense of warmth that she cannot explain but which blooms in her chest whenever he smiles at her.

She never realized how cold she was without it before.

As she finishes observing his face, he starts to stir, as though he can feel her looking at him. She holds her breath, letting out the slowest and longest exhales she can manage, in the hopes that she can trick him into thinking she’s still asleep. But, of course, he can tell that she’s faking.

His voice is soft and still rough from sleep as he checks in on her. “Hey. You okay?”

She can’t help but sigh and shrug at his concern, voice carefully neutral. “Fine. Just couldn’t sleep.”

But she’s coming to understand how well he can read her, even when she’s actively trying not to give anything away.

“‘Couldn’t sleep’ as in you woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep, or as in you never feel asleep to begin with?”

“Just a nightmare. But it’s nothing to worry about.”

He merely gives her a skeptical frown, which is unfairly adorable with how sleepy he still looks. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Definitely not.” If it weren’t the middle of the night, she might try to use a sharper voice, but she settles for resolved, yet calm, tone.

“Okay. Well, is there anything I can do to help?”

She sighs and gives a small shake of her head. “No. Truly, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” He smirks softly at her as he snakes his hand out from under the covers and finds hers, clasping it gently in his.

She raises an eyebrow at him, words of protest already forming on her tongue. But then she feels a measure of relief come over her at the physical contact between them, so she exhales and squeezes his hand gently. “Fine. Maybe that helps… a little.”

He chuckles softly at her and gives her a brilliant, if tired, smile. “I live to serve.”

She rolls her eyes and chuckles under her breath. Because she can’t shake the feeling that he’s a walking, talking beacon of hope and light and warmth that she so desperately wants to give in to.

And this time, when the urge to curl into him hits her like a blow to the stomach, she uses her gargantuan will to fight off all of the reasons she shouldn’t. Instead, she moves closer, wrapping an arm around his stomach and snuggling into his chest. And as he wraps his arm around her, pulling her closer and giving a satisfied hum, she feels it. The light. The warmth. The hope that radiates off of him like heat from the sun. And she closes her eyes as she allows herself, just for now, just for tonight, in the safety of his darkened apartment, to give into that warmth. Without reservation.

Tomorrow she’ll likely retreat away from it, assuming her more typically reserved and cold air, maybe even putting some distance between them. But for now, here in his arms, she feels warm and safe. Like being home. Like it’s all she’s ever wanted. And if she’s being honest, maybe it is. With her eyelids growing heavy, she decides that, for tonight, she can live with that thought. And then she slips into the deepest and most restful sleep she’s had in months. All while safe and warm in his arms.

Chapter Text

Day 4- Compliment 

“God, can you seriously not take a fucking compliment?”

She’s sitting on his lap where he sits on his couch. Her hands are under his shirt, as she was in the process of removing it when he so rudely interrupted her while she attempted to express her appreciation of his form.

She’s more incredulous than angry, but her frustration with him about this issue has been intensifying over time. While it was initially cute to watch him get embarrassed or try to deflect her words by being self-deprecating, now it’s getting old. Because it’s starting to seem like he truly has trouble accepting any positive feedback about himself. 

Unsurprisingly, she’s not a very complimentary person by nature, but she finds herself bestowing intentional, sometimes even unintentional, compliments on him with relative frequency. Which could be fine, if he would just fucking accept them, but he continues to shut her down every time, as though he doesn’t understand how remarkable it is for her to even make the effort.

“Oh, come on. Like you’re any better.” His hands slide up to encircle her waist.

But she doesn’t let him distract her. Instead, she crosses her arms and adopts her signature, snarky tone. “Yeah, but that’s my thing. Because I’m a fucking mess. But someone as ‘well adjusted’ as you should be able to handle them.”

He huffs at her and tips his head back against the couch. “I’m not-”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Do you even realize that you’re kind of proving my point right now?”

He sighs heavily and drops his hands from her waist. “Okay, fine. I guess… I just don’t think of myself as being very ‘well adjusted’. Or deserving of many compliments, in general.”

Her brows furrow as she frowns deeply at him. She shifts off of his lap to sit next to him, sideways on the couch. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. I’d suggest you start taking the ones I give seriously, because I don’t give a whole hell of a lot of them out. Or has it somehow escaped your notice that I’m a stone-cold bitch?”

“What? Now, that’s bullshit.” He turns to face her, laying a hand along the back of the couch. “You’re definitely not a stone-cold bitch, Jones.”

“Nice try, but we’re not talking about me right now. You don’t get to change the subject.”

He raises an eyebrow in skeptical frown. “Jess, what is this really about?”

“It’s about the fact that you can’t stand to hear someone say something positive about you. And I’m fucking sick of it. So what, exactly, is your problem?”

She watches as a pained expression passes over his face, and he hangs his head. When he opens his mouth to speak, only to close it moments later when no words come, she almost starts to feel bad for how harshly she asked. She’s nearly ready to apologize, however begrudgingly, when he opens his mouth one last time, actually producing words.

“It’s … I’m just not very accustomed to hearing positive things about myself for just… existing or being myself. Not without somehow … earning it, regardless of the context.”

She eyes him, hard, for a moment. Then, she huffs at him. “Seriously? That’s it?”

The look he gives her is the closest to cutting she’s ever seen him attempt, and his voice has a flinty edge. She can’t help but be a little proud of him for it.

“What do you mean? Were you expecting something else?”

“Well, that’s a bit of a let down, don’t you think? I was kind of expecting a sob story, Murdock.” Her tone is teasing and she gives a comically oversized shrug.

He hesitates for a moment, as though unsure of her reaction. But after a beat, he shrugs at her, his voice adopting a similarly joking tone.

“I’m not nearly drunk enough to share all that with you, Jones. And at this point, I really can’t tell if you’re asking because you’re trying to help me or because you’re trying to make me feel worse.”

She clicks her tongue at him. “I don’t see why it can’t be both.”

He chuckles once under his breath, as though in spite of himself. Then he shakes his head at her. “So what are you looking for, here? A fully itemized list of all of my insecurities?”

She rolls her eyes and huffs an exasperated sigh before leaning forward to address him more directly. There is not hint of a joke in her voice this time. “No, dumbass. I want you to hold your head up and hear me when I say that you’re attractive. And capable. And good. And a lot of other positive things that I’d rather pull out a tooth by hand than say out loud. Again.”

He sits, silent and still, as he processes her words. A strange tension falls in the space between them for several beats. Just as she’s starting to worry that she’s royally fucked up and pushed him too far, a tiny smirk curls at the corner of his lip.

“Well… I’m listening.” His voice is low and lilting, and she recognizes that he’s holding back a laugh, based on the way he’s holding his mouth.

With a scoff, she puts a hand on his chest and pushes him flat against the back of the couch. Her voice is a purr and a mischievous smirk breaks across her face as she speaks to him. “Oh, that was a one time offer, buddy. Sorry, but you missed out.” There are scant inches between their faces as she moves to straddle him again.

He grins at her, returning his hands to her waist. And he feigns a non-committal tone as he answers her. “Are you sure you can’t do it once more? Maybe some repetition would help to convince me.”

She leans in closer, to the point that she is whispering against his lips. “I’m a fan of showing rather than telling.” Then, she kisses him like she means it, hoping he’ll understand her message. And he responds in kind, threading a hand through her hair and lifting the other to drag along the column of her neck, telling her that he has.

And she smiles internally at the thought. Because, one way or another, she’ll break him of this habit. She’ll get him to accept compliments and recognize his strengths, if only because she can’t stand to see him constantly questioning his self-worth, since it reminds her of her own tendency to do the same. But a voice in the back of her head says there’s another reason she wants to help him break this habit, one that has more to do with how attached to him she’s becoming. But she silences that voice instantly because she is wholly unprepared to consider what it’s telling her right now.

Instead, she kisses him harder, trying to lose herself in the sensations of him. And her last conscious thought is that she won’t complain about helping him break this habit if she gets to have this kind of fun along the way.

Chapter Text

Day 5- Fallen

Matt Murdock has a problem, and he knows it. A big, unexpected, complicated problem. One that is starting to keep him up at night with a mounting sense of anxiety in the pit of his stomach . Because somehow, against his better judgment, he’s fallen in love with Jessica Jones. 

He doesn’t know exactly how or when it happened. Maybe it was when they spent time together investigating the Hand. Or maybe it’s been happening over time, during their increasingly common evening drinking and bullshit sessions. And it likely has something to do with her sharp tongue and biting wit, which have become the bright spots in his day, to which he looks forward. Or because in every conversation, she makes him laugh more than anyone ever has, even as she makes fun of him mercilessly. Or because she sees through him without any effort, and calls him out on his bullshit without hesitation.

On second thought, he seems to have some idea of how, but he’s still not clear about when. He simply knows that he can’t ignore the fact that he has fallen in love with her any longer.

But he’s in a bit of a pickle, because he also knows he can’t do much of anything about it.

To say that Jessica spooks easy is the world’s largest understatement. There have been multiple times that she has ghosted on him for several days after he said much less intense things. So far, she’s always eventually come back around, but he thinks that if anything would be the final straw, a declaration of love would probably be it. He’s made himself very familiar with her comfort zone about expressing feelings or affection, and he understands the risk he runs of losing her with such a statement. It’s simply not a gamble he’s willing to take.

But he knows how to be patient, even if he doesn’t always practice this skill. He’s fairly confident that she’s coming to care for him as more than a platonic friend, and he doesn’t mind sticking around as she comes to terms with what that means for her. Because he can empathize with her struggle to let anyone in. She’s justified in her fear and doubt about relationships based on the experiences she’s had. And he considers himself lucky to have earned even the slightest bit of trust and friendship from her.

And it’s the strangest thing, but it’s precisely because of her fear that he is so confident that she’ll eventually learn to trust and care for him. Because he has stood where she’s standing now, and being able to see himself reflected in her gives him the strength he needs to let her in and trust her in a way that he has never trusted anyone. And he’s hopeful that she’ll have a similar experience.

But until then, he’ll take whatever she can give him. Any amount of time together. Any relationship. Any amount of affection. Anything. And he’ll do so with the biggest, most genuine smile. Because he can hear the way her heart rate speeds when he looks at her like that, and it bodes well for him and the idea that she is coming to care about him.

So later in the day, after he has his realization, he feels his heart skip as she dazzles him with her wit while they walk to dinner from her apartment, where they spent a significant amount time hanging out (another good sign for him). Because he remembers how much he loves her, and he smiles as he allows himself a moment to appreciate that. And even if she doesn’t know (yet), it doesn’t change the feeling of joy and weightlessness that comes over him as he listens to her voice and catches the scent of her.

But as distracted as he is, he still manages to be ready for her when she pauses briefly and calls him out for the no-doubt dopey look that is all over his face.

“What are you smiling about, Murdock?”

He gives a small shake of his head and presses his mouth into a flat line. “Nothing.”

Even if he can’t see the side-eye she’s giving him, he can imagine it. And it’s glorious in its potency.

“Well, you look like a goddamn idiot.”

He can’t quite manage to suppress a chuckle, but he tries to keep it under his breath.

“Sounds about right. But just for reference, this is what ‘happiness’ looks like. You might want to take notes in case you ever get the chance to experience it.”

She rolls her tongue over her teeth, a tell he’s noticed she has when she’s trying to keep from laughing. And even though she tries for a sarcastic, biting tone, he can hear the hints of mirth that underlie it.

“That’s fucking rich coming from you.”

He huffs a laugh at her. “A fair point. But it’s been a little easier for me lately.”

She turns sharply to look at him, and he hears her hair swish with the movement as her heart starts to pound. But before she can worry anymore or say anything, he shrugs and speaks again, feigning nonchalance.

“Must be the company.”

They walk on in silence for a beat or two before, finally, she turns her head forward. Then she rolls her shoulders and speaks with a carefully neutral voice. “Must be.”

He can’t help but smile at her as they continue on toward their chosen restaurant, because he’s a goner, having fallen for her who knows when. But he reads heartbeats like she reads people, and it sounds like she’s pretty close behind him. Because he can hear the truth in her heartbeat- the racing, stuttering rhythm that matches his own- when he smiles at her. And for now, that’s all the proof he needs.

Chapter Text

Day 6- Water 

In a stroke of luck that surprises him, it starts raining on their walk to her apartment, where they had planned to discuss a case they share. Other than the achiness that flares up throughout his whole body, which has gotten much worse since his heroics at Midland Circle, he doesn’t mind it. He’s even pleased. For most of his life he’s loved the rain. So much sensory input- the scent, the sound, the feeling. It’s a clean, refreshing filter through which he can observe the world. It makes everything seem slightly muted, with a pleasant white noise in the background. He finds it very calming.

And there are certain other… benefits he can think of related to the rain. One of which he is attempting not to focus on right now. Because the rain helps him to see things in ways nothing else can, and he is suddenly consumed with the desire to see Jessica Jones’s form in its entirety.

There are general things he can gather about someone’s physical appearance based on the sensory abilities at his disposal- height and a fairly good idea of body type and size- but that’s not good enough in this case. What he really wants to see- her silhouette, and the exact lines of her body- is not something that he can do without special circumstances. Circumstances such as the rain.

It has recently come to his attention that he is incredibly attracted to her. He’s a bit embarrassed to admit it, if only because he’s nearly certain sure that she doesn’t return the sentiment. But that doesn’t keep him from wishing, particularly at a time like this. A time in which he’s mesmerized by the breathtaking portrait the rain is painting of her.

He concentrates on her face, noticing the droplets which fall on her forehead, nose, lips, and cheeks, rolling down her skin and tracing the angle of her cheekbones, the pout of her lips, the shape of her jaw, and the slope of her neck. His pulse quickens as he imagines tracing the same path with his fingers-

But that thought has probably gone too far already, if he’s hoping to keep any kind of composure around her when they get her place. He forces a few deep breaths as they continue to walk, and tries to focus on the rain, the people inside the apartment buildings they are passing- anything other than her.

He sighs in relief as they turn one final corner and begin crossing the last block toward her apartment. Once inside, he’s hoping he can put a little distance between them and give himself an internal slap. Maybe then he will be able to banish the thoughs he has about mapping every square inch of her body so he can focus on the work they need to do.

He counts the seconds until they make it to the front door of her building, choosing to keep his mind occupied by surveying himself to see how soaked he is. He's disappointed to learn that he’s sopping wet, all the way down to his socks. So much so, that as they ride the elevator and walk down the hall toward her apartment, he’s totally preoccupied with the unpleasant feeling of his wet socks inside of wet shoes. He‘s so busy being disgusted that he doesn’t even realize that he’s successfully stopped thinking about Jessica. At least, until she closes the door and takes of her jacket.

Then his attention snaps back to her. Because she’s nearly drenched underneath her jacket, and he hadn’t realized at all. And he can’t help but notice her form under the wet fabric that clings to her body.

She didn’t wear her scarf today. Whether that was an oversight or a deliberate choice due to spring beginning to set in, he’s unsure. But all that he knows is that while the leather of her jacket may have wicked some moisture away, the wide neck allowed plenty of water in. And now, as more water streams from her dripping hair, he is spellbound by the path a particular drop takes. Down her neck, under the collar of her shirt, down her chest, between her breasts, and down the plane of her stomach to melt into the fabric at the waist of her jeans.

And suddenly it’s all he can do to breathe against a barrage of images which make his heart race and his cheeks flush. He is so caught up in trying not to imagine trailing his tongue down her body, following the line traced by the raindrop, that he doesn’t hear her question. 

“Uh… sorry, what?”

“I said, ‘do you want to borrow some clothes?’ Or would you rather stand there, soaked and freezing all night?”

He clears his throat, hoping to even his tone. “Yes, that would be great. Thank you. But forgive me for asking how you happen to have some that would fit me...”

She toes off her boots and turns toward her room, speaking to him over her shoulder as she goes. “Don’t get too excited. They’re just old workout clothes. I went through an oversized athleisure wear phase in college and never got rid of them. Lucky for you.”

“Indeed.” He follows behind her, pausing as she stops at the bathroom, grabbing a towel for each of them. She tosses him his, then brings hers up and around her neck to wring out her hair. After a few intense squeezes, she drapes the towel over her shoulders and continues to her room.

He takes a moment to towel off his hair and face before following her to the doorway of her bedroom. He pauses at the threshold, acutely aware of boundaries he doesn’t want to accidentally cross, and hears her rooting around in a drawer. After a moment, she makes a sound of triumph and stands.

“Here. You can change in the bathroom. And just hang your clothes on the shower rod so they can dry.”

He nods and she turns away, bending to look through, what he’s assuming is, a laundry basket.

“Thanks, Jess.”

She just grunts at him, already reaching for the hem of her shirt. And it takes all of his considerable willpower to turn his back to her and head toward the bathroom. But, try as he might, he can’t completely drown her out of his awareness.

He hears the squish of wet fabric as she gathers the shirt in her hands. He notices the way the fabric clings to her frame, dragging against her skin as she removes it. And he definitely senses a few last drops of water that escape the shirt as she lifts it off of her, sliding down her arms to trace the curve of her waist and hips.

And suddenly he’s glad to be alone in the bathroom because he needs to get his head on straight if he’s going to stay here for any length of time. After changing, he pauses for a moment and splashes some cold water on his face, hoping to shock himself into business mode. He takes a few deep breaths to calm his pulse and mentally prepare, then he heads for the main room.

He finds her already working at her desk, feet crossed and up on the corner while she types away on her laptop and drinks some whiskey straight from the bottle- Maker’s Mark, he decides. As he sits across from her, she slides a full tumbler across the desk to him.

And he smiles as he catches it and takes a drink. Because it reminds him of a night she recently came to his apartment. A night not unlike this one, when she was soaking wet and he offered her what he could to help her feel more comfortable. And now that he thinks about it, that may have been the night he truly decided he could see her being more than just a friend.

As he sips from the glass she remembered to pour for him, he considers the fact that maybe his attraction to her is less one-sided than he thought. Maybe she remembers that night too, and maybe she came to the same conclusion he did. Only time will tell, but he’s suddenly a lot less anxious about working with her tonight.

He takes another sip, then leans forward to set the glass down on the desk. “So what do we know?”

And just like that, they’re back to business. And he’s smiling at how easily they work together- like they were meant to be partners. He doesn’t even have to remind himself to keep his thoughts from wandering to the pleasant memories of her in the rain that his subconscious is dying to review. Because being present in the moment with her right now is compelling enough. And with the rhythm of the rain in the background as they work to crack the case, he finds that maybe working so well with her like this is going to be another memory he will come to cherish, particularly when it rains. And if he like the rain before, he really loves it now.

Chapter Text

Day 7- Confusion

Really, the whole thing is Matt’s fault. If he wouldn’t have gone and recklessly gotten himself hurt, it never would have come up, and she never would have needed to say anything to the others.

A month or so ago, when she finally decided to give in to her urge to kiss him and see where things might go, they had a conversation and decided that she would be the one to set the pace and pick labels and all of that, because she is the more reserved of the two. She didn’t want to tell the others yet, with everything between them being fairly new and not official, and he agreed to follow her lead and not say anything that would give them away. So far he hasn’t, but the bastard didn’t say anything about how he’d act. And now she’s regretting making such a vague agreement with a lawyer. She’ll have to rectify that for next time.

Things had started out just fine. She and Matt had showed up at Danny’s request to help take down a drug ring he and Luke had been tracking in Harlem. They’d all four worked together a number of times since taking down the Hand, and they’d all been getting along well. And so far, she was having a fine time keeping her and Murdock’s … whatever from the others. Until tonight.

Because tonight, Matt had to go and be “heroic” by needlessly throwing himself headlong into danger. He had taken on the entire upper floor of the warehouse by himself, which put him in the path of entirely too many bullets for her liking. Especially when Luke wasn’t very far behind.

She sighs in relief when they win the fight with relative ease and no major injuries sustained, but that does little to calm the fury raging in her chest. And when she finally gets a look at Matt in the office area, where Danny and Luke are looking for clues about any of other people involved in the drug ring, the fury in her chest ignites into white-hot rage. Because he is holding his side in a way that she doesn’t like at all. And when she looks at his face, he grimaces in a way that is so guilty that it tells her everything she needs to know.

She cocks her head sharply at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Her voice is acidic and loud, reverberating off of the hard surfaces of the room. It startles the other two, causing them to jump and spin toward her though Matt simply sighs and hangs his head.

She stomps across the few feet between them and fixes him with a withering stare as she surveys his body for injuries. She catches sight of a wound on his side and huffs.

“What the hell is this?” She digs her fingers into the wound, making him grunt. Some blood remains on her fingertips as she takes them away, and she shoves her hand into his face so he will know, without a doubt, what she means.

He presses his mouth into a flat line and hesitates a moment before answering her.

“Jess, it’s fine. Just a graze. One of them just happened to get me right at the seam of two plates of my armor. But I’m okay, I swear.”

But she's not buying it. She practically snarls her response to him.

“Goddammit, Murdock! Do you have a fucking death wish? If you are going to continue to work with us as a team, you’re gonna need to act like a team player and accept help from the other ridiculously capable people in this room. Otherwise, don’t pick up the phone when one of these idiots calls you next. Or I’ll take it upon myself to make you regret it.”

She turns on her heel and storms off, out of the room. As she goes, she barely catches Danny’s voice behind her.

“Uh… What’s that about?”

But then she’s far enough away that she can’t hear anything else. That’s better anyway, because it means she can go seethe in peace. And seethe she does.

Because he doesn’t seem to get it. He doesn’t understand his limits and is constantly taking on too much by himself. He doesn’t seem to see the world the way everyone else does, and feels as though he’s the only one who can save it, even when he’s not well-suited to the task he's taking on, compared to the rest of them. But worst of all, he doesn’t seem to understand why it bothers her so much. Why her pulse skyrockets when she loses sight of him during a fight, or why her heart drops through her stomach whenever she sees him hurt. As though he doesn’t understand how important he is to her, how much it hurts her to see him care so little for his own safety.

But, when she really thinks about it, maybe that’s partially her fault. Because she hasn’t, exactly, been able to tell him any of that. But with the way he sometimes looks at her, and the way he says her name when it’s just the two of them, she’s almost sure that he knows. And he has to know. How could he not?

Her thoughts continue to swirl as her body goes on autopilot and takes her to the rooftop. The slight chill of the night air helps to clear her head, and after a few deep, slow breaths, she’s calm enough to go back inside. But the room is almost empty when she returns. She enters to see Danny bent over a desk, looking through a ledger, but she doesn’t see the others.

“Hey, where’d the other two idiots go?”

He looks up at the sound of her voice and gestures vaguely to the left. “Luke thought he saw an old first aid station on the first floor of the warehouse, from when it was still a factory. They went to see if there were any supplies left for Matt's side."

She nods once and heaves a big sigh. “Good. That asshole is gonna get himself killed one of these days.”

Danny huffs a laugh. “I think that’s part of the reason Luke went with him. To give him some advice.”

She raises an eyebrow at this. “What do you mean?”

Danny shrugs. “Well, he just said he needed to give Matt a ‘talking to’ so he didn’t ‘ruin a good thing’. So I assumed he meant telling Matt to be less reckless and helping him learn to rely on the rest of us.”

Jessica closes her eyes in a grimace, cursing under her breath. She could kick herself for losing her temper in front of Luke and blowing her cover. Even if they hadn’t been together for all that long, he got plenty of experience at reading her, and because of that, she’s screwed. Because Luke knows, and she’s sure of it. Because Luke understands that the only reason she would get so upset about Matt getting hurt or putting himself in danger would be because she cares for him.

And if Luke knows, it’s only a matter of time until Danny knows.

Dammit, Jones. Nice going.

So she might as well rip the band-aid off and tell him now, on her own terms and while it’s just the two of them... even if she’d rather stand in front of a firing squad.

She gives an exasperated sigh, and rolls her eyes as she walks over to sit on the edge of the table where Danny is looking over the ledger.

“He’s telling him to stop being reckless, alright. Because Luke knows I won’t stick around if he doesn’t.”

Danny’s face crumples into a frown. “But why would you need to leave? I’m sure we can convince Matt to change his tactics without you needing to leave the group, Jess.”

“I don’t mean leave the group, dumbass. I mean leave him. Because I don’t have room in my life for that kind of martyr bullshit.”

Danny jerks upright, and gives her the purest, most intense, most hilarious face of confusion that she’s ever seen. And she really wishes she had her camera, because the face that he’s making is a work of art, and she wants to be able to cherish it forever.

She lets a few beats pass, soaking in as much of the moment as she can. In the meantime, she hears Luke and Matt approaching from the opposite hallway. As Luke walks in and takes in the sight of them, he raises an eyebrow.

“Everything okay in here?”

A smirk curls her lips as she responds. “Yeah, fine. I just blew Danny’s mind by telling him that Matt and I are fucking.”

She turns to see a delicious flush rise on the little bit of cheek she can see beneath Matt’s mask. And at the same time, a light blush is forming on Danny’s cheeks as his eyebrows raise high enough to meet with his hairline.

Luke chuckles, low and soft, and shakes his head. “I think you broke him.”

She huffs a laugh as Danny shakes his head and finally finds his ability to speak. “No, I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

With a smirk, she walks over to lean an elbow on Matt’s shoulder. “Yeah, well... you and me both.”

They all share a collective chuckle at that before Luke joins Danny at the desk to continue scanning the ledger. In their relative privacy, Matt turns toward her, a look of concern on his face. He lowers his voice as he mutters an apology.

“I’m sorry. For worrying you and forcing you to tell everyone.”

She rolls her eyes, and sighs in annoyance. “You didn’t force to me do anything. Luke could tell and I knew it was only a matter of time before Danny knew too. But at least I got to watch his head explode as I told him.”

He chuckles and licks his lips. “Jess-”

But she cuts him off, because he’s not getting off that easy.

“You did, however, force me to worry about you for making a stupid and unnecessarily dangerous decision. And I’m getting tired of being mad at you for doing that.”

He frowns and hangs his head, voice low and rough. “I know. And I’m sorry. Really. I won’t do it again, I sw-”

“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep. That’ll just make things worse. But you better start making an effort to be less reckless.”

He pauses for a moment, then raises his head as if approximating her gaze. “I can do that.”

Good.” She slides her hands into her pockets, suddenly uncomfortable because she wants to kiss him but she doesn’t think she’s ready to do that in front of the others. But, luckily, a thought occurs to her and distracting her, causing her to straighten her jacket and tilt her head.

“So, what were you two talking about?”

He shrugs and pursues his lips. “Nothing important.”

But by now, she can read him as well as he can read her. “Bullshit. Want to try that again?”

With a sigh and a nervous chuckle, he puts his hands on his hips. “He just… gave me some advice. And helped me see things from a different perspective. That’s it.”

She turns to glance briefly at Luke and smirks. She could guess what he said. And later, maybe she will. But for now, she nods at him before Danny calls them over to strategize about the next person to target in the drug ring. And for the rest of the night, when she looks at Matt out of the corner of her eye, she has to actively try not to think about the reason that she got so mad in the first place. Because that’s a thought for another day.

For now, she’s happy to know that he might have finally come to appreciate her desire for him to remain safe and alive. And maybe, eventually, they can talk about the overwhelming feeling she gets in her chest when she’s afraid she’s going to lose him. But she’ll have to put a name to that emotion first, and for now, she’s content to feign confusion. Ignorance is bliss, and she'd like to stay ignorant as long as she possibly can.

Chapter Text

Their first real fight is a bit of a doozy. And it hits him out of nowhere. For a terrible moment, he even worries that it might mean the end for them.

They are laying in her bed on a Saturday night, having just had some pretty damn good sex, talking and laughing and generally enjoying themselves. She’s getting sleepy, he can hear it in her voice, and the warmth radiating off of her is starting to make him sleepy too, like it’s trying to convince him to stay. But he takes a deep breath, trying to force himself to leave, because if he doesn’t get up now, he’ll stay until the morning, again. And that wouldn’t be bad, except for the fact that he hasn’t been to Mass in weeks, in so long that he’s forgotten just how long it’s actually been, and it’s starting to eat at him.

Her breathing is evening out, and he knows it’s now or never. So he inhales one last breath of her hair to focus on during the walk home and rolls to the edge of her bed. “Call me tomorrow if you want to get lunch. Or a drink.”

She groans and rolls toward him. “I didn’t take you for the ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em’ type, Murdock. What gives? I was just getting comfortable.”

He chuckles softly and stands, beginning the search for his clothes. He finds his boxers and steps into them as he answers her. “I need to get up early, and I thought it would be easier for both of us if I left now.” He bends again, this time grabbing his shirt and shrugging it on.

He hears the springs of the mattress whine faintly as she props herself up on an elbow and rests her head on her palm. “Must have a hot date. Should I be jealous?”

He can’t help but smile at that, laughing brightly as he finishes buttoning his shirt. “Nah. Father Lantom’s not really my type.”

She snorts a laugh as he bends to pick up his pants. "Going to church, then? Huh.”

He raises an eyebrow as he steps into his pants. “Was that a good ‘huh’ or a bad ‘huh’?”

She shrugs. “Neither. Just an expression of my surprise.”

A frown furrows his brows as he buttons and zips his pants. “My going to church is surprising? I was under the impression that you knew I was Catholic.”

She heaves a heavy sigh at that. “No, I knew that. I just didn’t think you were a particularly … good one.”

He blinks at that, unsure of what to say, in no small part because she’s unknowingly given voice to a worry that plagues him constantly. An uncomfortable silence descends upon them as he struggles to find words, and he can hear her pulse rising with each second that passes. Finally, she can’t take it anymore and sits up, pulling the sheet around her lap.

“Look, I’m sorry. That didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean th-“

The sound of her voice breaks him from his trance, and he shakes his head, cutting her off. “Didn’t mean that as an insult?”

Her teeth grind the slightest bit as she sets her jaw, and the sound sends a shiver down his spine. Her tone is low and begrudging when she answers him. “Yeah.”

He raises his eyebrows once, then hangs his head. “It’s okay, I know. And even if you did, you’re not wrong. But that’s part of the reason that I need to go. It’s been too long.” He bends to pick up his tie and starts threading it under the collar of his shirt.

She licks her lips and turns away from him, her pulse speeding all the while, as though trying to decide whether or not to ask a difficult question. As he finishes tying his tie, she speaks, voice hesitant.

“So does that stuff really work for you?” She turns her head back toward him, and he can feel the look she’s giving him for how heavy and intent it is- like she’s scrutinizing him.

He can’t hold back a chuckle at the way she phrased that question. “What do you mean?”

She lets out an exasperated sigh that would make him laugh if there wasn’t suddenly such tension in the room.

“Does the stuff that you do- like going to church, and believing in God, and whatever else- actually help you?”

Her skeptical tone takes him aback almost as much as the question; he can’t seem to wrap his brain around it. His answer comes out sounding like a question also, because he’s still confused about what she’s asking him and why.

“Yes… otherwise I wouldn’t be going.”

The disgusted scoff she gives him at that sends a flare of anxiety up in his stomach. His heart starts to race because he doesn’t know where she’s going with this, but it doesn’t seem good.

“Don’t be an asshole. I’m serious. Do you honestly believe there’s a god out there, even with all of the suffering and pain and bullshit that exists in this world?”

Wow, he really didn’t expect that. Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He hears accusation in her tone, as well as incredulity, and a hell of a lot of pain. A beat passes and he can do nothing but gape at her as his anxiety skyrockets.

But then he blows out a long exhale to try to calm himself, and puts his hands on his hips to help him feel more grounded. He can still feel her staring at him, and he has to work to regulate his breathing as he opens his mouth to answer her. But however hard it is to work up his courage to speak, his answer is clear.

“Yeah, I do.”

But that doesn’t seem to be the answer she was looking for. He can’t understand why, but suddenly fury is radiating off of her like heat from the sun. Her voice is harsh, a mix of angry confusion and frustration as she pleads with him.

“H-how? How can you think that? You’re not a dumb guy, Matt, so explain to me how that makes sense.”

But he’s just as confused and frustrated as she is. “Jess, what is this really about? Because I don’t think those have to be mutually exclusive things. I don’t see why the existence of suffering is counter to the idea of God. We all have free will, and sometimes the decisions we make cause pain and suffering for others. That’s why it’s important that we try to follow God’s teachings- so we don’t end up hurting other people.”

Somehow, he keeps picking the exactly wrong things to say to her. Because now she’s seething. He thinks that, if she were clothed, she’d be pacing the floor and pushing into his personal space.

“Right, right. So, let me see if I have this straight- it’s all God’s plan until it isn’t, because of good ol’ free will. And the truly evil people in the world, well, they just need to learn to make better choices. But that’s totally on them, no responsibility at all for the guy up there who allowed the situations to occur that taught those people to make bad choices in the first place. It all makes sense to me now.”

The more she talks, the more his hackles are rising, but he doesn’t want to fight with her. Hell, he’s still unsure of exactly how this fight even started. He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose as he lets a beat pass. Then he speaks to her in a soft, calm voice.

“Jess, I’m sorry I upset you. I don’t know how we got here, and I really don’t want to fight. So maybe we should both just take a breath and agree to disagree for now. We can save this conversation for another time- when it’s not almost midnight and when we’re both … dressed.”

He hears her scoff at that, but counts it as a win, because she seems much calmer when she answers him. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have-“ she heaves a sigh, and her hands shift on the bed, as she takes hold of the sheets, as though reaching out for an anchor. Then she tries again.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to start a fight, either. And I’m not angry at you. But I have a lot of problems with religion and the idea of God because… I’ve seen the actual face of the devil, and I can’t imagine a God who would allow anyone to be subject to the devil's torture if he actually cared about anyone on this piece of shit planet.”

And just like that, the final piece of the puzzle clicks into place. No wonder she has such strong feelings about this topic. From what he’s read, Kilgrave is the closest thing to the literal incarnation of the devil he’s ever heard of, even more so than Fisk. And that’s saying a lot. Her arguments make a lot more sense when he’s considering the lens through which she views the world. But it’s still not a problem they’ll solve tonight.

“It’s okay. Those are discussions I would be happy to have, at some point. But Jess, please know that just because I believe that we all have free will doesn’t mean that I think you deserve what happened to you. Because nothing could be further from the truth. And a part of me wishes that bastard was still alive so that I could give some of his own medicine, Catholic or not.”

She’s silent for a few moments, and his heart threatens to hammer out of his chest because he’s afraid that for the third time tonight, he’s said the wrong thing to her. He really didn’t mean to add that last part, even though it’s true, for fear that he might frighten her with the intensity of his reaction to that bastard, Kilgrave.

But then she breaks the silence, voice flat and nonchalant. “I guess that’s what confession is for.”

He chuckles in spite of himself and gives her a smirk. “Something like that.” With a sigh, he crosses the few steps back to the bed and traces the line of her cheek before he moves his hand to thread through her hair and pull her closer so he can place a kiss on the crown of her head. She hums softly at the gesture, and he says a silent prayer of thanks that he did not see to ruin things between them.

He steps back, but she grabs his hand before he can step out of her reach. “Have fun being a good little Catholic boy.”

“I will. And I mean it- call me tomorrow if you want to talk. Or if you’d rather do something more enjoyable.”

She chuckles and squeezes his hand once before dropping it. Then he turns and heads for the door, but she calls to him before he reaches the threshold.

“‘Night, Murdock.”

With a growing smile, he turns to call back to her over his shoulder as he crosses to the front door. “‘Night, Jones.”

And then he’s leaving her apartment, mind going a million miles a minute as he processes the last half-hour. They survived their first fight, though it was touch and go there for a bit. And even if they weren’t able to settle their argument, they were able to reach an understanding for the time being. And maybe it’s better this way, because it will give both of them time to formulate their thoughts for the next time they have the chance to discuss the issue. But until then, he’s happy to know that she cares enough about him to have broached such a personal and intense topic. And he’ll use whatever opportunities he is given to remind her of the fact that what happened was not her fault.

If he can convince her of that, maybe he can get her to consider his perspective a little more seriously. But ultimately, he wish is for her to be able to work through her feelings about the awful things she has experienced and to find peace. And he’ll do whatever he can to help her with that process, impasse be damned. If he just so happens to change her mind and help her see the world - and specifically herself- the way he sees it, that is just an added bonus.

Chapter Text

She honestly can’t believe he remembered- what with almost dying and being crushed by a building and spending months in a convent while he slowly tiptoed away from brink of death. It seems like one of the last things he should have had on his mind in that time. But, somehow, here they are. It was clearly a priority to him, though only God knows why. But as unexpected as it is, she can’t deny that part of her she is pleased. And, also, a little bit vindicated. Just because she didn’t expect him to do this doesn’t mean he shouldn’t have. And her respect for him has increased significantly with this one gesture.

But even as he continues to hold out the box to her, replete with a ribbon and tag, she hesitates to reach out and take it. Because in her experience, nothing is free, not even so-called “gifts”. And she needs to know the terms before she accepts anything from him.

“Damn, Murdock. A camera? I have to say, I’m surprised you remembered after all this time. Also impressed. But you didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs. “I know. But I owed you.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m gonna owe you now. Because that’s a way fancier model than the one you smashed.”

He chuckles, a smirk playing on his lips. “Don’t worry about it. It’s the least I could do.”

She just blinks at him. Because it’s all she can think to do. It really is a nicer model, the top of the line with all the bells and whistles- the best sensor and a crazy large ISO range, which produce incredible image quality without sacrificing speed. It’s perfect and particularly well suited to the kinds of situations she typically finds herself in. Hell, it’s something she hoped to maybe splurge on one day, if she could ever find a way to justify it to herself. But the truth is that she doesn’t technically need it. She was doing fine with a basic model before, and there’s really no reason to take this gift from him. It’s way too much on way too many levels that she doesn’t want to get into right now.

“It’s really not. It’s a hell of a lot more, actually. Look, I appreciate the gesture, but no thanks. I don’t need it.” She slides her hands in her jacket pockets so that he can’t somehow shove the box into her hands.

And now it’s his turn to blink silently with a furrowed brow. “Oh. So you already replaced it? That’s okay. I can take this back and get you something else. Some new lenses, maybe? Or whatever. I mean, it doesn’t have to be camera relat-“

She closes her eyes and shakes her head as she lets out a scoff. “I said thanks, but no thanks. I don’t need your charity, Murdock.”

He deflates a little at that. “Jess, that’s… I’m not… that’s not what I’m trying to do. I just wanted to apologize for ruining your other camera. And I wanted to do something nice for my friend.”

The face she makes at him is skeptical to the point of bordering on disgusted. She kind of wishes he could see it, because it sums up what she’s feeling pretty well. But since he can’t, she tries for the most incredulous tone she can muster, hoping her emotions will come through in her voice. “So you’re giving me a several thousand dollar camera just because you’re my friend? But what am I supposed to get for you, then?”

He huffs an amused laugh at her. “Nothing… because it’s a gift. Are you familiar with the concept of gifts?”

She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms at him, her voice an exasperated sigh. “Fuck you. Yes, I am familiar with the concept of gifts. But in my experience, gifts are exchanged between two parties. And I don’t have-“

He gives her a soft, sad smile as he cuts her off. “Okay, fair enough. But I’m of the mindset that a gift given begrudgingly or out of obligation isn’t much of a gift at all. And I really don’t expect one from you. I just want to give you this. Because I think you could use it, and because it’s my way of apologizing. That’s it, I promise.”

She’s silent for a moment as she scrutinizes him, attempting to find any sign, however small, that he might be lying. But after a quick scan, she doesn’t find anything, causing her to entertain the possibility that he is being honest. She doesn’t know what to think about that.

But as she ponders her bewilderment, she realizes something- Matt surprises her a lot. Almost on a daily basis. He’s constantly making her shift her perspective and reconsider things which she has, until this point, taken as given. So maybe he is telling the truth. Maybe it’s possible for two friends (And is that what they are now? She supposes they must be.) to give gifts without expecting anything in return. Maybe it’s possible that her friend - a friend other than Trish - wants to do something nice for her. Maybe she can accept his gift and not feel guilty or indebted or anything other than grateful. Maybe.

She narrows her eyes at him, voice hesitant. “No strings?”

He shrugs, barely concealing a smirk. “No strings.”

She looks hard at him for another beat before she blows out a long sigh, and decides, Fuck it. She takes her hands out of her pockets and takes the box. And as she does, the whole debacle of the last twenty minutes is almost worth it, solely for the smile that he gives her- dazzling and so damn content. She’s surprised by how pleased she is to see him so pleased with her.

But she shelves that entire line of thinking, because she’s unsure of where it’s heading, and it’s making her nervous. Instead, she turns the box over in her hands, taking in all of the statistics and features it advertises.

“Shit, Murdock. This is a nice fucking camera.”

He huffs a laugh at her. “I’m just glad to find a home for it. Wouldn’t do me much good.”

That gets a snort out of her. She shakes her head, then looks up, biting her lip. A beat passes, but she takes a breath and finally opens her mouth. “…Thanks.”

The word feels stiff and stilted in her mouth, but he deserves at least that much.

But he's oblivious to the difficulty she had in saying the word, and simply smiles at her. “You’re welcome.”

And then he’s gracious enough to nod and change the subject, allowing them to focus on more pressing matters- like, alcohol and where to go drink it. But for the rest of the night, his kindness lingers in the back of her head. Because she finds that she’s glad to be able to count him as a friend… and only partially because of the badass camera that she got out of the deal. Maybe there really is something to the idea that his perspective is a much needed foil to her own understanding of the world. She supposes she'll keep him around to find out. At least for a little longer.

Chapter Text

This one is a special treat for my tumblr friends @martial-quill who gave me the idea based on some lovely fan art by @mrsdaredevil. See it here, if you're interested. Also, check out their blogs because they are awesome, fellow Darejones fans.

As he runs over the events of the last few moments in his head, he has to admit- it was a stupid mistake. A careless moment following a maneuver he’d pulled off plenty of times without incident. But this time he’d been distracted. By Jessica, of course. And now he’s paying the price for that distraction- with his ankle, specifically.

It happens as he grapples down from the rooftop where the two of them had been standing moments earlier, waiting to cut off the path of the mobster Luke and Danny had funneled their direction. Jessica’s chosen method of fall-flying puts her on the ground several moments before him, leaving him to follow behind her by grappling down the fire escape with the cable of his billy club.

As he reaches the end of his swing and is about to touch down on the ground, his focus shifts completely to Jessica as he hears the guy she is fighting pull out a knife and get in one jab before she throws him against the brick wall of the alley. He gives a small sigh of relief as he realizes that the knife only got her jacket and not her, but his attention is diverted for just enough time to cause him to misjudge the distance to the ground at the moment of impact. And that causes him to mistime his landing, leading him to twist his ankle. And it really kind of hurts.

He falls forward on his hands and knees, cursing under his breath as he calls back his billy club.

Jessica’s head bobs up from where she’s kneeling into the mobster’s chest, keeping him in place. “Smooth move, dumbass.”

He sighs around a grimace as he struggles to stand. “Yeah, well, I did just turn my ankle in the process of hurrying to your rescue. So maybe you could act a little grateful.” His voice is strained and tight as he attempts to put weight on his foot and immediately comes to regret the decision, letting out a groan.

She huffs a chuckle at him. “Sounds like you’re the one that needs rescuing, Snow White.”

He sucks in a breath, resting the toe of his boot on the ground and leaning against the wall of the building behind him. “Does that make you Prince Charming? Because I’m not sure you’re charming enough for that.”

She scoffs, but he can hear that she’s really suppressing a laugh. “We’ll see if you change your tune when I’m carrying your limping ass around.”

He gives her a skeptical look, even though it’s hidden beneath his mask. “Hold on. Who said anything about that?”

She shrugs. “If you want to try to walk home, be my guest.”

With a frown, he realizes that she’s totally right. He’s in way too much pain to be able to do that. But he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it…

...Which, happens to be several minutes later, after Luke and Danny arrive to deliver the mobster to Misty.

And then it’s just the two of them again. Him, standing awkwardly against the wall, and her, standing across from him, radiating smugness. After a beat he takes a breath as he swallows his pride and breaks the silence.

“So… what was that you were saying about carrying me around?”

She snorts, crossing her arms and causing her leather jacket to creak with the movement. “Oh, you need help now? Huh. Actually, I think I’ll need to check my schedule for the night, and see if I have any other pressing matters which need my attention…”

He presses his mouth into a thin line. “I deserve that. But clearly you were right and-“

Her tone is uncharacteristically bright as she interrupts him. “Wait, what? What was that? Did you just say I was right?”

He blows out an exasperated sigh and leans his head against the brick behind him. His tone is nothing short of labored as he gives her a mirthless smile. “Yes. And I would appreciate it if you could-“

“Wow, and now you’re actually asking for my help? What a night.”

He closes his eyes and hangs his head. “Jess, as much as I would love for you to continue to mock me shamelessly, I do have one request- can you do it after you’ve taken me home? So I can take some painkillers and put my foot up before you really get into it?”

She chuckles under her breath and uncrosses her arms, taking a few steps closer. “Fine. I guess you are being a fairly good sport. I will pause, and I might even find it in my heart to only do half of the roast material I was planning when we get to your place.”

He chuckles in spite of himself and presses off the wall. “So, how should we do this?”

She crosses the few remaining steps between them and picks him up in a bridal carry without any comment or sign of effort. But he finds himself protesting almost immediately.

“Wait, really? That’s how?”

“What’s the matter, Murdock? And I disgracing your honor as a man? I didn’t think you had any of that left at this point, what with admitting to being wrong and asking for help. But if you’re that upset about it, your other choice is to have me sling you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes.”

He feels her gaze on him, sharp and challenging, like she’s daring him to refuse. But he knows that he’s completely at her mercy, so he just sighs, shrinking down into her hold, resigned to his fate.

The tone she uses tells him she just rolled her eyes at him. “That’s what I thought. Now, hold on. I’ve been told that the first jump can be very unsettling.” And then she’s bending her knees, gathering potential energy until she pushes off a second later, causing them to jettison up into the air.

It’s an exhilarating sensation, but it’s also quite disorienting; they are high up enough that there are few things in the vicinity which can help him get his bearings to understand just how far they are traveling and how quickly. But there’s a certain kind of freedom in that unknown, because somehow, he is absolutely certain that Jessica will not let go, will not let anything happen to him. He inexplicably knows that he’s safe with her.

And a realization hits him like a ton of bricks. Because he has tried, for weeks now, to do the same for her. He has done everything he could imagine to try to help her feel secure around him, has tried with every breath to show her that he would do anything for her. But he never realized that he needed to feel that too. And now that he does, he feels invisible weights, which he has been carrying for longer than he can remember, dissolve off of his shoulders. And he instinctively curls into her. Because it suddenly feels like he belongs right there, in her arms, and he always will. And the subtle way that she holds him the slightest bit tighter as he relaxes in her arms tells him that she just might agree with him about that.

He spends the rest of the trip to his apartment savoring the moment, breathing in her scent and allowing himself to revel in the security he feels with her arms around him. And shortly after, when he’s sitting on his couch with his foot up, she’s headed toward his door. But he stops her, and invites her to stay, just for a drink. And something about the way her breathing slows and her shoulders relax when he offers, as though she’s releasing some of the tension that she just can’t ever seem to truly get rid of, makes him think that maybe he’s been the slightest bit successful in his efforts with her. Maybe she is starting to feel safe around him, too. And with any luck, and a just little more time, he’s hopeful that she can come to feel as safe and secure as he did, all while wrapped up in his arms.

Chapter Text

Falling in love with Jessica Jones is an unfamiliar process. Because he falls in love with her over a series of moments. It doesn’t happen all at once- it is not a sudden flame or bolt of lightning like with Elektra. It’s a slow, steady thing that happens as they spend more time together. Another moment here, another day there- through yet another conversation or another laugh at each other’s expense. He falls in love with her along with the passing of time, the changing of seasons.

He falls in love with her one day at a time.

-

They meet in winter, wearing heavy, warm coats- her wearing her scarf- when their hands beg to remain in their pockets against the pervasive chill of the winter wind. Their breath condenses into mist, swirling like smoke between their faces as it comes into contact with the cold air while they walk down the sidewalk on that bleak, winter day. But something about her is somehow warmer and brighter than the muted, brittle, frigid world around him. He is drawn to her like a beacon, and the way she makes him laugh gives him the slightest bit of his own warmth. He soaks up every ounce of it even though he doesn’t yet know that he will need her warmth to sustain him while the days slip away, and the winter with them, while he lays in an infirmary bed, trying to keep breathing.

-

He wakes in the spring, and he notices right away, breathing in a sigh of relief as the last of the winter chill is carried out on the back of a sweet, spring breeze that smells like wet earth and freshness and tells him that things are sprouting. Blooming. Growing. Living. He’s beyond grateful to count himself among those things.

And when he sees her again, even though she is angry at him initially, he knows that she appreciates him coming back to her as much as she also appreciates the change in season. Appreciates that she doesn’t have to wear her scarf every day (“Because you ruined it, Murdock!”), appreciates going outside without cursing the heavens for the temperature, appreciates the joy and newness that is latent in the air. She seems a little softer now, as though the excitement and vivacity that permeate each new day are just the slightest bit contagious. And she laughs a little more freely.

He appreciates all of that too, but mostly he appreciates the possibility that he feels, down to his bones, with this new season. And he appreciates the possibilities that may be available to him as he spends more time with her.

-

They drink in the summer, spending hours upon hours sitting on his couch or on her floor as they tease and laugh and bullshit their way through multiple 100 degree heat waves. Usually he hates the summer- the stifling heat, the sweat, the rancid scents around every corner- but with Jessica, he finds a new reason to appreciate the summer. Or rather, reasons.

Like spending nights laying out on one or the other of their rooftops, chatting but also just being. Listening to the lively sounds of the city, feeling the crisp, cool temperature drop after sunset, and contemplating their place in the universe, the way that only seems to happen on a clear summer night in the company of a dear, dear friend.

Or like spending time in the rain during summer thunderstorms (anything to cool off) and being totally overcome by the sensory input of it all. The water droplets rushing down, the sharp and clean scent of ozone, the constant, soothing rhythm of the rain in his periphery. And he finds he enjoys Jessica in the rain because everything about her- her scent, her shape, her energy- is amplified through the filter of the water. And he’s mesmerized by every aspect of her, always left wanting to spend more time with her.

-

They kiss in the fall, under a canopy of rustling, changing leaves that herald the end of the sweltering heat of the summer. She smells like jasmine and oak and leather, and she tastes like whiskey and coffee and desire, and the earthy scent of decay lingers in the margins of his awareness, rounding out his sensory picture. And it’s perfect.

They stumble through the awkward first stages of a relationship while watching horror movies and drinking homemade (and home-spiked) cider. They reluctantly attend other people’s Thanksgiving meals, because they aren’t completely sure about what it would mean for them to make their own. But they’re both grateful for one another, and they don’t need to sit around a table and share their blessings while passing the turkey plate to show one another that gratitude. Their time together is proof enough.

-

He loves her in the winter, almost a year after meeting in the precinct, after so many things have happened between them. After exchanging gifts, and stories. After fighting and making up and making out. After stepping out and being vulnerable, despite the fear and nagging doubt in the back of both their heads, warning of certain heartbreak. After quiet, tender moments of struggle, pain, and growth.

But as he thinks back, he understands that he doesn't just love her now. He loved her little by little, all along the way. He loved her when she didn’t slam the door in his face when he showed up at her apartment after returning from the convent, still bruised and healing. He loved her when she held his hand on her rooftop while they shared memories from childhood, before they learned how cruel the world could be. He loved her when she kissed him, in the middle of the sidewalk covered in leaves, and warned him- only partially joking- that she would “kick his ass” if he told the others.

He loved her for every jab, every snarky remark, during every step along the way. In every season. And if there is one thing that he knows to be true, with every beat of his heart, he knows he’ll love her in every season after that. Forever.

Chapter Text

If it was a surprise to learn he can play the piano, it’s a shock to learn he also knows the guitar, let alone that he owns one.

She finds it in the corner of his under-the-stairs closet, the case collecting dust, when she offers to help him put his armor away one night. And she can’t contain her surprise. “Holy shit! Is that a guitar?”

He’s in the kitchen, head in the fridge, when she says it, but she can still hear his sigh, clear as day, like he’s deflating. “…Yes. Excellent detective skills, Jones.”

She deposits his armor in its trunk and picks the guitar up, closing the closet doors behind her. “Hardy-har. But why do you have it? Do you play?” She can’t quite keep the curious notes out of her voice as she asks.

But he seems very reluctant to respond- a mix of embarrassment and sadness on his face. And the sighs just keep coming. “It was my dad’s. And, yeah, I do. Or, well… I used to.”

“So why’d you stop?” She walks to the couch as she asks, and plops down, gently opening the case as it rests on her lap. Then, she carefully retrieves the guitar, discarding the case on the floor. She takes the neck in her left hand, positioning it against her stomach and strumming a chord with her right.

He crosses back from the kitchen, sitting on the opposite end of the couch and grimacing spectacularly at the out-of-tune chord she produces. He shrugs slightly as he settles into his corner and answers her question. “Why does anyone quit anything? Not enough time and then I just… forgot about it.”

She hums softly as she continues to strum, turning the pegs carefully as she tunes each string. “I guess. So, who taught you?”

With a frown, he settles further back into the couch and sits silently for a minute, like he’s thinking hard about something, assessing maybe. Eventually he sighs and tips his head down as he speaks. “My dad… before he died.”

She stills, silencing the chord that was still reverberating in the body of the guitar. And she looks at him, intently, for a beat, because that’s fucking kismet if she’s ever heard of it. But she wonders if he knows they have this element of their tragic backstories in common. She doubts that he has read anything about her childhood, because she doesn’t think that anything other than her run-in with Kilgrave made it into the file he would have read at the precinct. After another beat, she sighs and looks down at the guitar again, resuming her task of tuning. Her voice is carefully neutral as she finally speaks. “Mine too.”

He nods once and gives her a curious smile that lacks genuine mirth. “The ‘teaching you how to play' part, or the ‘dying’ part?”

She snorts under her breath as she finishes tuning and produces a clear, harmonious E chord. “Both.”

Before he can engage her in any sort of meaningful conversation about that, she starts playing a distantly familiar tune- as if she knows it from a dream and is trying to reconstruct in reality. Her fingers stumble a little at first, struggling to find the melody at times or remember the exact fingerings, but after a minute or so, it starts to come more smoothly, like it hasn’t been years since she’s touched a guitar. She’s so focused on playing that she doesn’t notice the intent tilt of his head and the soft, sad smile on his face until she’s nearly finished. And by then she’s so wrapped up in the music that she doesn’t allow herself to pay it much mind.

When she plays the last chord, he claps softly, beaming in her direction. “Well done. Was that the Red Hot Chili Peppers?”

She nods and hums in affirmation. “‘Under the Bridge.’ It was the first song I learned to play.”

She starts absently strumming again, a different song coming back to her, more muscle memory than anything else. She looks up and catches his expression, and he seems wistful. And then he’s asking her a question, voice barely loud enough for her to hear.

“Do you sing?”

She flushes instantly, and her embarrassment causes her fingers to stumble badly enough that she inadvertently creates a dissonant and off-key chord that has then both flinching. Because the thing is, she does (or she has in the past), but suddenly she’s incredibly nervous at the prospect of singing in front of him. Clearing her throat, she looks down and re-centers her grip, trying to pick up where she left off. She uses a voice that sounds more teasing than it feels to help her try to save face. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He chuckles, but pushes back, unsatisfied with that answer. “As a matter of fact, I would… which is why I’m asking.”

She sighs and continues to play, fixing him with a raised eyebrow that she hopes he can feel. “Occasionally. But don’t push your luck about it right now. I am not in the mood.”

With a huff of a laugh, he smirks at her. “Fair enough.” And this time when she finishes, he nods at her before holding out his hand, requesting the instrument.

She raises her eyebrows, but hands it over, curious to see what he can do. “Think you still know how to use that?” Her tone is playfully mocking, and it makes him smile wider at her.

“Don’t worry, Jones. I think I’ll be able to stumble my way through something.”

With a shrug, she settles back into her corner of the couch and is pleasantly surprised when she hears him start playing … and singing. Really well. She definitely wasn’t expecting that, but she revels in it, appreciating the beautiful music that he is producing, as well as how attractive he is while doing so.

When he finishes, she claps a few times and whistles low, voice begrudgingly amazed. “Damn, Murdock. I’m impressed.”

A faint blush rises on his cheeks, but he gives her a playful smile. “You’re welcome, then.”

She scoffs and holds her hand out, silently requesting that he return the guitar to her. He obliges, and they go on to take turns playing different songs they remember from years ago, sharing memories about their fathers as they learned to play, or about their families in general, before their respective tragedies struck. And later, as she smirks at him, having just shared a number of personal stories- maybe more than all the other things she's shared with him, combined- she is struck by the domesticity of the moment. And most surprisingly, she is shocked by how comfortable and happy she feels with this sense of domesticity around him. But rather than think too hard about that, she simply allows herself to be consumed by the music he is making and thanking any deity who might be listening for the fact that Matt Murdock- attorney and vigilante; charming, caring, musically-inclined idiot that he is- followed her to Midland Circle however many months ago.

Chapter Text

Upon reflection, he can admit it wasn’t the best plan. Well, the trying to hide something from her part, at least. Not considering her preternatural abilities of observation, or how good she is at her job, despite the fact that she doesn’t have his senses. And, it might also have to do with the fact that he should probably be more careful about not letting her around his phone when trying to arrange a surprise for her. But that had, apparently, just slipped his mind while he tried to do everything else. Because a part of him had felt compelled to try to do something she would never expect. And he really did make a significant effort, setting up pieces and making moves weeks in advance, as though orchestrating a high-stakes chess game he was committed to winning.

It had all started with Trish, a number of months ago. In order to even contemplate planning something for Jess, he needed her birthdate, but he was relatively certain that if he didn’t ask someone who already knew, he wouldn’t be able to learn what he needed without violating a law, since she wasn’t technically his client any longer. Hence, Trish. Some seriously quick thinking had inspired him to ask Jessica for her number, all under the ruse that he wanted to put her in contact with Karen for networking purposes (though he hadn’t needed to because, unbeknownst to him, the universe had already seen fit to bring them together).

He had been eager to start planning, and finally had the chance a little more than a month ago. But in order to pull off all that he imagined, he needed more information from Trish. And these questions were much trickier, having to do with Jess’s preferences for a party. But Trish had simply laughed at him when he floated his idea to her the first time. In fact, she laughed so hard that he had to put the phone down for a moment because she was so loud. And then the conversation turned downright painful.

“I’m sorry, but did you just ask what kind of a birthday cake Jessica would want? Is that why you’re calling?”

He couldn’t keep from sighing into the mouthpiece. “…This was a bad idea. Please, just forget I asked-” But she didn’t let him finish, talking over him with an apologetic tone.

“No. Matt, I’m sorry. Forgive me. But… Okay, please don’t take this the wrong way, but why? Why are you trying to plan something for her? You may not have had the chance to witness her in action yet, but let me tell you that she’s terrible at receiving gifts. And the whole concept of a traditional birthday is lost on her. It’s a sweet gesture, but it’s not really Jessica.”

“No, I understand. It’s just that… Look, I’ve learned that just because someone may hate some typical tradition - might find it hollow or extravagant or all a part of a ‘sinister capitalist ploy’- that doesn’t mean that a part of them doesn’t wish for someone to make the effort anyway. Just once, for the sake of doing it. And I get the impression that, other than you, no one has ever made the effort for her. With anything. So I’d like to. Because she deserves to have someone make the effort, and I’d like to use things that she actually likes so she will be at least a little more inclined to participate.”

He had surprised her with that explanation, apparently, because it took her a beat to respond. “Huh. Maybe I underestimated you, Murdock.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“I bet you do. Well… alright then. She prefers ice cream cake, but there’s a specific kind she likes, and there’s only one place you can get it. I’ll text you the details and address. If you want to get her flowers, don’t get her roses- just make sure to get a bouquet with some purple iris and blue hydrangea. They were her mother’s favorites, and she planted them every year when Jess was growing up. And even if you’re trying for the traditional birthday thing, I wouldn’t do a surprise party… unless you want to risk getting the cops involved. It’s not a good idea to startle her.”

He had laughed at that, because it was the one thing he figured out on his own. “Noted. Thank you, Trish. I really appreciate your help.”

“You’re welcome. I’m just happy that she’s found someone thoughtful enough to ask.” He heard the smile in her voice when she spoke, and smiled back as he said his goodbyes.

“You and me both.”

So with Trish’s help, he had arranged what he hoped would be the perfect birthday, the bulk of which would take place when the two of them had retreated to his place, after he dragged her out to her bar of choice to have a few drinks with the gang. He even bought her an expensive, hard to find whiskey he was confident she’d love- the most practical gift he could think of. And he had been planning to have Foggy come over to his place and set everything up while they were out, so that she wouldn’t suspect a thing. If only he hadn’t left his phone on the coffee table while he made her dinner.

And as soon as he hears his phone chime, he grimaces, because he knows it’s too late. She’s there on the couch- right next to his phone- and already picking it up to bring it to him, narrating as she goes, even as he tries to stop her.

“Jess, wait-”

“Text from Foggy. He wants to confirm the time to come over and set up the cake and flowers…” Her voice trails off as she reads ahead and realizes what’s going on. With a huff, she pauses at the dining table, tossing the phone down and crossing her arms. “Seriously? You’re planning a party? I thought you said we were ‘just going to the bar to meet everybody for a few drinks, I promise’. So what the hell is this?”

He sighs as he closes his eyes and hangs his head, moving the pan he is currently holding to rest on the back burner of the stove-top. “It’s a fool’s errand, apparently. Since I’m terrible at being secretive.”

She just stares at him, and after a beat, he shrugs and turns to lean against the opposite counter. “I just… I wanted to do something nice. Something unexpected. But it wasn’t going to be a big production.”

“Sure about that? Because cake, flowers, and whatever else sounds like a production to me. Were we even going to go to the bar, or were you going to have them all come here instead and then make up an excuse for us to come back?”

He shakes his head, sighing in frustration. “No, it wasn’t like that. We were going to go to the bar to see everyone, briefly. Then I thought we’d come back here so that I could surprise you with a few things. But it was just going to be the two of us. I knew you didn’t want something big or ostentatious. And definitely not a surprise party.”

She scoffs and drops her arms heavily at her sides, voice sharp and flat. “No surprise party is great, but I don’t remember signing up for any of the rest of it - not the cake, not the flowers, not the balloo-”

Everything is backfiring, and he didn’t mean to upset her. He needs to try to make her understand, so he talks over her, a sliver of panic coming through in his voice. “Look, Jess, I know you hate anyone making a fuss over you, but if there’s one day a year that I’m kind of allowed to do that, it’s today. And I wanted to. Because I care about you and I wanted to do something that you would like, that you weren’t expecting.” He hears her heart rate slow the slightest bit, and walks a step closer, standing a fraction of an inch taller, but he keeps his voice carefully neutral as he continues. “And besides… there aren’t any balloons. You’re not a child.”

She huffs at him, and he’s fairly confident it’s to cover a laugh, so he smirks softly at her. After a beat, she rolls her eyes and blows out a long exhale. “So, in the interest of full-disclosure… what kind of cake?”

With that, he moves a few steps closer, a knowing smile drawing across his face. “Oreo-fudge ice cream. From a fantastic creamery I heard about at 45th & 11th.”

Her hair swishes softly as she cocks her head at him, voice hesitant. “And the flowers?”

He crosses the final few steps between them, stopping right before her. With a shrug, he places his hands on his hips. “A little birdie told me you like iris and hydrangea.”

The floorboards under her feet creak the slightest bit as she shifts her weight into her hip. “And the gifts?”

At this, he walks past her toward his room, speaking over his shoulder as he goes. “There’s just one. And I think you might get some use out of it.” He goes to the back of his closet, pulling out the bottle that he has been hiding for weeks, now. Present in hand, he walks back to the dining room. When he gets close enough that she can make out the label on the bottle, she stills.

“Shit. Is that a bottle of Macallan 18?” Her tone is surprised and incredulous all at once.

“Indeed. For your drinking pleasure.” He hands her the bottle and she chuckles at the ribbon he’s tied around the neck.

For a moment, she’s silent, turning the bottle over in her hands. But after a beat, she looks up, and he can hear the faintest smile in her voice. “You’re still an idiot for thinking that you could keep this from me, of all people. Though I will admit, it’s not nearly as bad as I expected.”

He flattens his mouth into a line to keep from chuckling and smiles back at her. “I think that’s your way of saying ‘thank you’, so you’re welcome.”

She sets the bottle down on the table and turns toward him, voice low. “Actually, I have a different idea for how to thank you.”

He listens as her heartbeat speeds and she prowls slowly across the floor toward him, before drawing him in for a long, deep kiss. When she finally lets him up for air, he raises his eyebrows and hums. “You’re right. This is a much better way for you to show me your gratitude.”

She doesn’t say anything in response, just goes back to kissing him while she brings her hands to the neck of his shirt, starting to loosen his tie. And before he loses his capacity for higher-order thinking, he has a fleeting thought that at this rate, they will probably be a bit late to meet everyone at the bar. But suddenly, he can’t find it in him to care. And he smiles to himself, because he's pretty sure he can count this birthday as a success.

Chapter Text

She’s still not sure why she called him, specifically. She could try to make an excuse, to explain it away by pretending she didn’t have any other options. She could say that it was because she was sure that Trish was busy with a work function- but that’s a fucking lie, and she knows it. She could say that it’s because Malcolm was out of town, visiting his family (but it’s not like she would have told him anyway, unless he had miraculously showed up at her door in the midst of everything). Or, she could say that it was an accident or that she butt-dialed him in the world’s strangest coincidence, but that thought is barely even worth the effort it takes to think it for how ridiculous it is. Eventually she’ll have to face the fact that she intentionally chose to call him because she wanted to. But that day is not today, if only for the fact that she’s still reeling from the flashback. And all because of that god-forsaken perfume.

J’adore by Dior.

In all her life, she doesn’t think she’s ever hated an inanimate object as much as she hates that fucking perfume. And it’s a shame, really, because it is a fairly pleasant scent in and of itself. But she will never be able to smell it and not be reminded of the worst year of her life- being a slave to that bastard’s every whim, being violated in every conceivable way, being a shell of her former self and being helpless to do anything about it. It’s just another thing that has been ruined for her by him, one more example of the way his influence lingers in her life, haunting her relentlessly. And all because the entire time he kept her captive, he made her wear that perfume every goddamn day.

But never again.

Unfortunately, the rest of the world hasn’t received the memo about never using the perfume again, to her continual dismay. And so, there are days like today, which she can never prepare for or predict, when she’ll encounter it accidentally. It’s usually a day that starts out fairly well, lulling her into a false sense of security and complacency while she’s just trying to live her life… until she catches the scent of it on some random stranger. And it could be anyone. A passer-by on the street, someone in Hogarth’s lobby, or in this case (and in the worst scenario yet) a client coming in to try to hire her. And her reaction is always the same as time stops and her world descends into chaos.

First, her composure melts as her pulse skyrockets, her breathing shallows, and her temperature spikes. And then her lungs start to feel too big for her chest, as panic creeps up her spine from the pool of dread collecting in her stomach, until it crawls around her ribcage and constricts around her organs. Then, the walls start to implode, seeming to close in and trap her with no way out. And at this point, it’s all she can do to focus on the rhythm of her breathing as she recites a familiar and calming, if ridiculous, mantra.

Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane. Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane. Birch Street. Higgins Drive. Cobalt Lane.

It’s enough to keep her mind from unspooling entirely into a never-ending stream of flashbacks, but it’s a close thing, just like it always is.

Today, though? Today it goes a little differently after that. Because today, the first thought she has after she finishes with the mantra is of Matt.

Matt, who makes her laugh. Matt who makes her smile. Matt who seems to understand her more than he has any right to. Matt who anchors her like no one ever has, even if she can’t explain why.

All she knows is that she needs to speak with him.

She dials before she even realizes she has her phone in hand. He answers on the second ring, and the amount of tension that drains from her body at the sound of his voice would be surprising if she wasn’t so relieved. And somehow the words come out without any coaxing or thought, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Hello?”

“Murdock, you home?” She tries as hard as she can to keep her voice flat, to keep from letting any emotion creep into her tone. But part of her still worries that he can hear it anyway, even over the phone.

“Hey, Jess. Yeah, I’m home. What’s up?”

She covers the receiver for the amount of time it takes to blow out a steadying breath. “Just suddenly got the urge to pop open that bottle of Macallan you got me. But for once, I don’t want to drink alone.”

“Wow, okay. Rough day?” She can hear how concerned he sounds, and it makes her want to hang up and burrow a tunnel underground. Or at the very least, rescind her offer. But instead, she just lets a threatening edge into her voice to keep him from asking more questions.

“Look, I don’t want to talk. I just want to drink. If you can’t handle that, I’ll just have to drink alone.”

He’s quick to respond, trying to reassure her and calm her with his softest voice. “No, it’s fine. I can handle that. If it’s what you really want.”

She nods once to herself because she thinks she can handle this, so long as she just doesn’t say anything to him about what happened. “Good. I’m on my way. See you in 20.”

She wastes no time gathering her things and books it to his apartment. But she can’t help but think about everything on her way over, replaying the memory of his reaction and the interest he had shown in trying to help her.

And it’s strange because, by the time she’s there on his couch, with him pouring them both a glass of some very nice whiskey from where he sits across the coffee table from her, a part of her actually wants to say something. To offer some kind of explanation of what happened to him. But more importantly, to let it out. To let go of these painful, poisonous memories that continue to haunt her and follow her around by speaking them aloud and stripping them of the shame they create for every second she remains silent. Because she doesn’t need to be ashamed of anything that happened as a result of that son of a bitch’s influence on her. And something about the look Matt gives her helps her remember that.

So when the silence lingers for a moment and she hears him shifting in his seat- likely as a result of the effort it requires for him to remain silent- she makes a decision. And she takes a gamble that she prays doesn’t backfire spectacularly. She opens her mouth for the third time tonight, surprised by the things that come out, but relieved at the same time.

“… So, uh, you probably already figured it out, but… Something happened earlier. Something that reminded me of him, and I kinda freaked out. That’s why I wanted to come here. Because it’s harder when I’m by myself.”

Up until this point, she had been staring at the floor, afraid to look up and see whatever emotion might be written all over his face. But finally she does. And the genuine concern and acceptance that she sees there steals her breath. Thankfully, he talks next so she doesn’t have to.

“Jess, thank you for telling me that. I can imagine how difficult it was for you, but I do hope you know that I’m always willing to listen to whatever you’re willing to say. About this or whatever else.”

His words don’t do much to help her regain her breath. But she can’t help but believe what he’s telling her, with every fiber of her being. And that makes her happier and calmer than just about anything. So, with another drink of her whiskey, she opens her mouth to try to share something else. To shed light on another one of the awful truths she has been carrying on her own, for longer than she’d like to admit. And it’s unexpected and terrifying, but also exhilarating. Because she thinks she’s finally found someone to help her banish her demons and bury her ghosts. All she has to do is just talk. And for the first time she can remember, that doesn’t feel like an impossible task. As long as she’s talking to Matt.

Chapter Text

A big thanks to @onlymorelove for the prompt, as well as to @mrsdaredevilfor making some beautiful fan art! I love you both!

It sneaks up on her, the way so many things do with him (though they are miraculously never bad things, and she can’t find words to express how glad she is about that). This, though, is a bit of a surprise, for how suddenly she realizes the way their interactions have been leading up to this moment, and how she is actually happy, incandescently happy, to be where she is - sitting on her couch, him next to her, holding her feet in his lap while they share stories from childhood. Something she never would have imagined was possible before. Because for how ridiculous it sounds, it’s strikingly and terrifyingly intimate. And she really doesn't do intimate, in a non-sexual way. But for once she’s turning into that feeling of raw vulnerability instead of turning away. But she doesn’t have a good track record for that. She never really has.

Even before Kilgrave, she had the tendency to keep her truest self under lock and key, hidden away, and safe where no one and nothing (except for Trish- the only family she has left) could find her, let alone hurt her. Loss will do that to a person, and in her line of work, she’s watched many people learn the necessity of living this way. And she's no different from the masses; she’s lost plenty in her life. Everything with Kilgrave just multiplied that loss, magnifying her pain and creating infinitely more layers of separation and security through which someone would need to pass in order to really know her.

So it comes as a bit of a shock when she realizes that Matthew Murdock has come quite a long way toward achieving that feat. Mostly through their increasingly familiar and very entertaining bullshit sessions in which they share about their lives... while drinking whiskey. And to be honesty, that might have a little to do with how she continues to be able to engage in this game of theirs, even as the questions get increasingly more personal.

She starts this round, after they toast and she takes a drink from her glass of whiskey. “Alright, time to get into the hard-hitting stuff. What was your most embarrassing moment as a kid?“

"Wow, the gloves are really coming off, huh? Oh god… well, when I was ten or eleven, I was finally chosen to be a server Mass. It was a big deal because I had practiced really hard to prove to them that I would be fine, that I had the route memorized and wouldn’t run into anything or whatever. But when the time finally came, I was so nervous that I ended up tripping on my robe on the way up. And I biffed it in front of a church full of people.”

“Yikes, that sucks. But I tripped in the cafeteria when I was in second grade, with a tray full of food that ended up all over me. I was so messy that my mom had to bring me a change of clothes, so I think I win. Your turn.”

“Hmmm… what was the first cd you ever owned?”

The sigh she lets out tells him that she just rolled her eyes. “That’s the best you can do? Whatever. Technically, the first cd I ever owned was something by Mariah Carey, but it was given to me by my aunt who was very out of touch and had no idea what I was really interested in. I don’t think I ever even listened to it, so I’m saying that doesn’t count. But, the first cds I bought for myself were Nirvana’s Nevermind and the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Blood Sugar Sex Magik. You?”

“Oh wow, I don’t know. Maybe The Goo Goo Dolls' Dizzy up the Girl?”

"Seriously? You didn’t own a cd before 1998?”

“Hey, I was lucky Sister John Marie let me keep my original walkman when I moved in.”

The eye roll she gives is automatic more than malicious. “I guess. Well, what was your first tape, then?”

“Bob Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks. My dad was a big fan.”

“Fair enough. Let’s see … hm, who was your teenage celebrity crush?”

“Yikes, I haven’t thought about that in years.. Uhhhhh, I don’t know … maybe, Fiona Apple?”

She does a double take because she really didn’t expect him to say that. “What? Seriously? Not someone like Alicia Silverstone or … Angelina Jolie? Or hell, Madonna? She had that whole fake chastity angle going and everything.”

He gives a throaty chuckle at that, and her heart flutters at the sound.

“‘Fake chastity angle’ aside, consider my criteria, Jess. I lost my sight at nine, and that changed my life and the way I saw the world pretty significantly. This might surprise you, but I’m not a big movie guy. I much prefer music. Hence, Fiona Apple. And have you ever really listened to her music? Her voice is gorgeous- smooth and haunting but also lush and warm. In my opinion, very attractive.”

“Uhh huh. And it’s probably just a coincidence that you became a lawyer. Doesn’t have anything to do with her being a ‘criminal’ and needing a ‘good defense’?”

A beautiful flush rises on his cheeks, but he’s a good sport and plays along with her. “That has less than a fraction of a percent to do with it. Believe it or not, I’ve always been this righteously indignant.”

She sighs to keep from chuckling back at him. “Oh, I bet. But, what about before the accident? What was your type back then?”

She’s not sure how he manages it, but his blush intensifies, and it’s possible that it’s the prettiest blush she’s ever seen.

“I’m entirely sure that, being the good little Catholic boy I was at nine years old, I didn’t have a type.“

She snorts derisively at him. “Bullshit. Just because you were nine doesn’t mean you weren’t looking. You had to‘ve had a preference, at the very least. So share. Was it blondes or brunettes? Or maybe redheads? And I’m positive that by then you had already formed an opinion about tits vs. ass, whether or not you’re willing to admit it.”

He blinks at her a few times, still and silent where he sits. “Wow. I really don’t have clue how to answer that. And why is this starting to feel like a trap?“

"Oh, come on! I’m not going to take offense at what you say. I’m not insecure, I’m just curious. Besides, you have plausible deniability, anyway.”

She hears him chuckle under his breath as he lifts his eyebrows. "Well, I will admit that now I’m curious, or at least even more curious, to know what you look like- what color your hair and your eyes are.”

“Nice attempt at a deflection there, but I’m not telling you until you phrase it in a question, and you’ll have to wait your turn and answer my question first.“

He is quiet for a moment, expression intent- as though he’s calculating something. Finally, he lets out a long, belabored sigh. "Well… when I was growing up, I remember- we had this picture of my mom, which my dad kept framed on the mantle. It only the proof of her existence that I had back then, and I remember spending hours looking at it and thinking she was the most beautiful woman in the world. So I guess I’d say… brunette hair- like a warm chestnut color- and bright blue eyes.”

She doesn’t know why her heart jumps at that, but it does, so she uses some wit and sarcasm to (hopefully) distract him and keep up appearances. “So maybe Freud wasn’t too far off with that whole Oedipal complex thing, huh?”

The look that he gives her at that is priceless. “Oh, god. Tell me you didn’t just accuse me of being sexually attracted to my mother.“

She can’t help but chuckle under her breath. "Fine, whatever. It’s your turn, then.”

He shrugs and gives her a knowing look. “Okay. What color is your hair?“

Her heart starts to hammer in her chest, and she feels her cheeks flush, so she forces a few deep breaths to calm herself. When she's confident she can speak with a calm, unwavering voice, she dodges him again. “Nice try, Murdock, but that’s a hard pass.”

“Oh, come on! How is that fair, Jones?”

The look she gives then is lost on him, but she’s hoping he’ll feel her weighty stare. “What about me gives you the impression that I care if it’s fair or not?”

He sigh exasperatedly at her. “Fine. Who was your teenage celebrity crush?“

She smirks and takes a sip of her whiskey. "I’d think that was obvious- Kurt Cobain.”

He gives her a skeptical look. “Wasn’t he already dead by the time you would have formed any kind of a serious opinion?“

She shrugs, a wry smile on her face. “That was part of the allure, honestly.”

He’s quiet for a beat, but after taking a drink of his own whiskey, he looks up at her, approximating her gaze. “So, what’s your type, then?“

With a shake of her head, she flattens her mouth into a thin line. “Nope, you already asked your question.”

“Come on! You got a two-parter last time. Turnabout is fair play. We’ve set plenty of precedent for that.”

She silently stares at him for a beat. “Again, I ask you: what makes you think I care?”

His shoulders slump, and he shakes his head at her. She thinks that, in this case, it’s the equivalent of him rolling his eyes. “Fine. Next question, please.”

She can’t help but smirk at that and how she was able to shut him down so easily. “What was your superlative?“

”…I don’t understand how those words go together in that order.“ His eyebrow might as well be connecting for how hard he's furrowing them.

"You know, in high school yearbooks - people voted 'most fill-in-the-blank’? What was yours?”

“Oh, right. Well, I was voted 'worst driver’.”

She snorts as she takes a drink of whiskey. “Who knew? Turns out Catholic kids have a sense of humor after all."

"Yeah, well Sister Mary Margaret didn’t share that sense of humor. Everyone who voted for me got a demerit. A lot of people were pissed at me the last month of school.”

She huffs a laugh at him. Yikes.“

"Yeah, it wasn’t a great time. But what about you?”

“Oh boy. Well, a group of kids got together and created their own write-in ballot section and voted me as 'most likely to die alone’. But Trish was on the yearbook committee, obviously, and she wasn’t about to let that slide. Instead, we were voted 'best buds’ or some shit like that. But to this day, I’m not convinced that she didn’t circumvent the voting process to make sure the only place my name turned up was next to hers.”

“Must be nice to have connections.”

“Yeah, Trish continues to be a helpful contact that way. You’re up.”

He starts to blink at her, and she has to bite the inside of her mouth to keep from decking him for the false gratitude he uses in his tone.

“Oh really? It’s my turn? How gracious. Thank you. And as penance, I want to know … your worst nickname.”

She grimaces at that. “Oh god. Well, in middle school, after the accident, people just started calling me an orphan. Even if it was true, that was brutal as an adolescent. But my parents and my brother always called me Messy Jessie. Because my room was always a disaster.”

Her thoughts drift off for a moment, to her family and the way things were before the accident. But she doesn’t continue with that train of thought for too long- the memories are too bittersweet. “Wow, I haven’t thought about that in years. What about you?“

He sighs heavily. “Well, the kids at school were not all that creative and generally just called me a freak. But my dad, and later, Stick, called me… Matty.”

She chews her lip and looks at the floor before sighing and offering an apology. “Shit. Sorry. Shouldn’t have brought that up.”

“It’s okay, Jess. His death is a thing that happened. That won’t change even if we don’t talk about it.” His expression turns cloudy and distant, and it occurs to her that she should probably ask him about that sometime. Maybe offer to listen and help him grieve. But that time is not today, because she’s already feeling vulnerable enough as it is. So she simply fixes him with a steady gaze.

“Doesn’t mean that being reminded of it isn’t the fucking worst, though.”

The slightest of smirks flashes across his face, but it’s gone in a breath. And then he raises his glass, his mouth a grim line. “I’ll drink to that.”

She raises her own glass to his and drinks in tandem with him. A heavy silence falls between them, and suddenly she has the urge to share something with him- something meaningful and personal. Her mouth opens and she hears herself speaking before she consciously registers the word that comes out in a hesitant voice.

“Black.”

But he’s only confused by that, tilting his head toward her. “What?“

She closes her eyes and blows out an exhale. Part of her wants to take it back, pretend to say something else, but she’s committed. So she tries again, using a louder and surer tone this time. “My hair. It’s black.”

He doesn’t quite gasp at that, but he inhales sharply, and it makes her stomach do gymnastics. “Jess-“

But she cuts him off, barreling ahead, because she knows she’ll lose her nerve if she lets him talk now. "And my eyes are hazel, but mostly dark brown. Not all that different from yours, actually. So, I guess it turns out I’m not your type.”

He huffs a breath and shakes his head once before reaching out a hand and cupping her cheek softly. "Actually, you’re just my type.”

She bites the inside of her lip to keep as neutral an expression as she can. But her eyebrows don't want to stay put. "And what is your type, exactly?”

“An intelligent, strong, dangerous woman who doesn’t take anyone’s shit.” He draws her closer, resting his forehead against hers as he speaks. He drops his voice- not quite into a whisper, but close. “And I’m a sucker for an alto.”

Her heart jumps at that, and she has to take a few calming breaths. With a shake of her head and a sigh, she leans back from him, raising an eyebrow in his direction. “Does that line usually work for you?“

He smirks at her. "It’s working for me pretty well right now, if your pulse is anything to go by. But in all seriousness, thank you, Jess. For telling me.”

She rolls her eyes and shrugs. “Just consider it my apology for not playing fair earlier… Matty.”

She smirks playfully as he shakes his head, a pained look on his face.

“You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“No. I’m not.”

He sets his jaw and raises his chin the slightest bit. “Okay … Messy Jessie.”

She hums at him and leans a little closer. “You’ve got some nerve, Murdock.“

"I’m just following your lead, Jones.”

She gives a comically large shrug and uses a teasing tone. “Fine. But you know, I can go back to calling you St. Matthew, if that’s what you would prefer.”

With that, he sighs and deflates, hanging his head and conceding his defeat. “… No, you don’t have to do that.”

“That’s what I thought. Matty.”

The beaming smile he gives her as the endearing nickname falls from her lips is like a star going supernova. It’s brilliant and mesmerizing, warm and beautiful, and it creates a strange, though not necessarily unpleasant feeling in her chest.

And it’s a curious one, this feeling- frightening in its unfamiliarity. Because she hasn’t felt this way since… well, maybe ever. And now that she does, she has to admit, it isn’t quite what she thought it would be like. But she can’t deny that she really likes it, suddenly yearns for it as if it’s the only fuel on the planet which could sustain her. And all because of the way he smiles when she calls him by that sweet name that so few people know about.

It’s times like these that remind her of how well they are coming to know one another. And it’s because of that strange feeling- which is getting harder to ignore for how it's increasing in its intensity, but which she is still not quite ready to name- that she settles further into the couch, leaning closer to him, and relaxing more fully than she has done in god knows how long. Because something about being close to him- physically... and emotionally- feels right. For the first time.

Chapter Text

The first time that she gets mad enough that she wants to deck him - how she felt when he returned from the “dead” notwithstanding- they’re working a case. A client suspicious of her employer had come to Jessica asking that she do some digging into the company’s finances. And after she did, the whole team had gotten involved when they found connections between said employer and a crime syndicate Danny and Luke had been after for a while now. Jessica’s client was still their main source of information, so Jess had been staying in close contact with her… at least until she ended up getting exposed, then kidnapped and held hostage.

Upon learning what has happened to the woman, Jessica absolutely loses it. Because there have been too many innocent people in her life who have died or been hurt while trying to help her handle bad situations. And she will not lose another. End of story. Full stop. Not as long as she can draw breath. And this determination, along with the fury she feels, clouds her judgement and causes her to make some very rash decisions - like going in against three of the employer’s strongmen, alone, to rescue the woman. And as soon he learns of her actions, this causes Matt to lose it. And now, here they are, having a shouting match in her apartment as they lose their collective shit all at once. And it is a decidedly rough sight.

“Jess, what hell were you thinking? You knew that the rest of us were on our way to help, if you had just waited long enough to take a breath and call for backup. But instead, you raced in by yourself when I specifically asked you not to!”

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him so angry- face red, nostrils flaring, and lip quivering. In a different set of circumstances, one in which she was not just as furious, she might have laughed at the sight. But not tonight.

Instead, she stalks over to her desk and picks up the bottle of Jim Beam she left there, unscrewing the cap with a haughty air. “Yeah, well, it all worked out fine. So there you go. Now can you lay off? Jesus.” She knocks back a generous swig, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

He scoffs at her, standing straighter and putting his hands on his hips. “No, as a matter of fact, I can’t. Because that’s not the point! You could have been in danger and I-“

She rolls her eyes and huffs an exasperated sigh at him. “Oh my god! Are you kidding me with this? What is your fucking problem?”
She watches his eyebrows raise violently at the question.

“My problem is that you don’t take your own safety seriously, and then you get pissed at me when I express my frustration at that.”

She sets the bottle down and crosses her arms over her chest. With a dangerous tilt of her head and a sardonic tone, she speaks just softly enough to let him know that she’s not fucking around.

“Because I don’t need your help. I can lift a car with my bare hands. I’m fine. And, by the way, you’re one to talk about not taking their own safety seriously.”

His brows furrow at that, and she can almost see the gears working in his head as he tries, frantically, to think of a response. “That’s different-“

Using the razor sharp edge of her tone, she cuts him off. “It really isn’t.”

He sighs heavily and brings one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m just trying to keep you safe, Jessica.”

But that does it. Matt doesn’t call her Jessica. At least, not like that - exasperated, over enunciated, and drawn out into three distinct syllables. No one says her name that way. Not anymore. Not since… him.

And with that bomb of a thought, all of her defenses spring up into place, and the big guns come out, regardless of the fact that it’s a disproportionate reaction to the situation. Her logical brain screams this at her from the locked, padded room it currently finds itself in, while her irrational brain takes center stage.
Her eyes narrow and she all but snarls at him.

“Don’t ‘Jessica’ me. And here’s a novel fucking idea- back the fuck off! Because your help is patronizing, and I don’t need you to save me, anyway. I’m not a wallflower or a damsel in distress, Murdock. I can handle myself.”

“Whoa, what just happened? Why are you so angry at me?” He has the audacity to look confused and shrug at that, and suddenly the white-hot rage that has been simmering in her stomach for the last minute ignites.

She drops her arms and stalks back in his direction, stopping directly in front of him. And then she proceeds to seethe at him, eyes wild and voice brimming with contempt.

“Because I don’t need your help. Because it’s not your fucking job to save me. Or that girl. Or the entire goddamn city. And are the one that’s going to end up hurt if you continue with this savior complex. And ... I won’t help you do that. I’m not willing to hang around and watch you needlessly throw your life away to save someone. Again.”

She backs away from him, trembling with the raw emotions that are roaring in her mind. She closes her eyes as she forces a breath to keep the rising panic in her chest at bay.

His face crumples and he takes a step toward her, hand outstretched. “Jess-“

But she’s having none of it. “No, Matt! I’m fucking serious. Figure it out, or we’re done. Now get the hell out of my apartment.”

The look of terror that she sees come over his face hurts more than she imagined it would, but she funnels that pain into her anger, fanning the flames higher- her protective skin against the many other emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

His voice wavers and is uncharacteristically small as he pleads with her. “Jess, wait. Please. I-I’m sorry. But please don’t do this-“

She remains still, her defiant gaze fixed on him, as she raises a finger and points to the door behind him. The crisp way she enunciates the words makes him flinch. “I said ‘out’.”

He closes his eyes and folds his mouth into a thin line. “Well, can I call you tomorrow?”

She pauses for a beat, staring him down, then turns and reaches for the open bottle of whiskey on her desk. She gives an apathetic shrug, voice flat and lifeless. “You can try.” With that, she slams back another shot, and licks her lips as she sets the bottle down and leans both hands against the desk. “But I’ll say it for the last time. Get out.”

He winces at the words, as if it physically pains him to hear them, and hangs his head. A tense silence falls as he gathers his coat and walks toward the door. The only sound in the apartment is the sound of his shoes on the hardwood below his feet, the rustle of his clothes as he moves. Just as he reaches the door, putting his hand on the doorknob, he pauses and turns back. “Jess, whatever is going on, whatever I did to make you angry, I’m sorry. So I’ll give you some space. But I’m begging you- please don’t shut me out for good.”

She has to swallow a sob that comes out of nowhere and threatens to escape her throat as tears brim at the corners of her eyes. One hand creates divots in the edge of her desk with force of her grip while the other reaches for the bottle so she can drink again. As she is swallowing, she hears the door open and shut, and immediately tears begin to stream down her face. Because she doesn’t know what happens now. All she knows is that she’s terrified that she’s ruined everything and she isn’t prepared to deal with that possibility. So she does the only thing she can think to do- she drinks until she passes out, all while hoping that tomorrow she’ll be able to find her way out of this mess.

Chapter Text

When she wakes the next morning, she’s immediately aware of three things- regret for the way she acted the night before, terror that she’s ruined their budding relationship, and a terrible fucking headache. But she probably deserves the latter, considering.

She spends a good portion of the day moping around her apartment and half-assing some internet investigation for an open case. But by the time night is falling, she’s restless.

She hadn’t told him not to call, but she hadn’t exactly encouraged him to, either. A part of her is dreading him calling, because then she will have to apologize and try to explain herself. But a part of her is becoming increasingly anxious for her phone to start ringing, because she needs to hear his voice and know that they are okay. That they aren’t over. Because she’s suddenly very invested in not giving up on whatever it is that is developing between them.

Thirty minutes pass as she paces the length of her main room, weighing the pros and cons of reaching out to him and running contingencies in her head to try to assess how he would respond if she called first. But for how worried she is, she feels guilty more than anything else, and in the end, the guilt wins out. It seems a monumental task to face him with how terribly she acted, and so she decides she’ll let him be the one to initiate. But she has to drink another bottle’s worth of whiskey to make herself stand by that decision.

And unfortunately, she’s still waiting for him to call the whole next day… and then the next after that. But by the evening of day three, her anxiety about the fact that they haven’t talked is overpowering her anxiety about talking to him, so she caves.

She still hasn’t allowed herself to consider exactly how she feels about him and what it might mean, but she does know that she isn’t okay with the void that not having him around for the last few days has left in her chest. So in a moment of incredible personal growth (and wouldn’t her old therapist be so proud), she sets off for his apartment.

On the way over, her mind is a mess, replaying their fight and chastising herself for all of the ways she fucked up.

Initially, she was mad because he was trying to control her, and that’s maybe the biggest trigger she has- other than anything that specifically reminds her of Kilgrave. Because she is done with all of that- the feeling of being powerless and like she’s at someone else’s mercy, like she isn’t the one who runs her life. She takes pride in the fact that she makes her own decisions in all things, and she hates it when people try to restrict her ability to do so, even in the spirit of caring and concern.

But she was also upset because Matt Murdock is the world’s biggest hypocrite when it comes to the issue of personal safety, and she’s not willing to see him risk his life on anyone else’s behalf. Never again. The man almost died under a ton of rubble because of his guilt and misplaced sense of martyrdom, and she will not sit idly by as he as he places himself in another such situation. She simply can’t because she cannot bear to lose him again, especially now that they’re getting closer.

And maybe she’s unconsciously a little mad at him for that, because it makes her feel so vulnerable. She absolutely hates that, the raw, wide-open feeling that she gets when he tries to tell her how much he cares about her. And it’s made worse when she is triggered in that state, which is the final piece of the puzzle from their fight several nights ago. All because of the way he said her name - her full first name - with that specific cadence that still haunts her dreams. She needs him to never say her name that way ever again, for the rest of her life.

So now, she just has to tell him all that so next time he’ll know. So he won’t try to make decisions for her or control her. So he will give up the savior complex and take his own safety more seriously. So he won’t remind her of him when he says her name. But she is choosing not to explain her anger about feeling vulnerable. At least not yet.

These thoughts carry her all the way to his door, where she hesitates long enough to take a few deep breaths before she works up the courage to knock. It’s still strange to her, the knowledge that he can sense her coming from miles (but, seriously, maybe? She’s not clear about his exact range) away. It makes things feel uneven, like she’s starting off balance before they even truly begin. And she doesn’t need any more disadvantages on that front. Especially tonight. But at the same time, isn’t that kind of the point? She’s been unbalanced enough the last few days without him around, and this is an attempt to remedy the problem. With a sigh, she forces herself to knock before she can think any harder about it or talk herself into leaving.

She wonders where in the apartment he was when she knocked because he’s at the door in record time. That calms her speeding pulse one degree because it’s a good sign? Maybe an indication that he was anxious for her to come, or that he hasn’t had the best time over the last few days, either? As he opens the door and she takes him in, her suspicions are confirmed. Because he looks rough. Like the last few days have stolen sleep and calm from him as much as they have from her. She breathes a sigh of relief at the thought as he gestures for her to come in and wordlessly leads her to the living room.

She hesitates at the couch, hands fidgeting in the pockets of her jacket, while he goes to the kitchen and retrieves a bottle of whiskey and two glass tumblers. She doesn’t sit until he returns, sitting in the chair across the coffee table from her. As he pours two glasses, she clears her throat and sits, just barely catching the tumbler he slides across the table to her. She takes a drink and bites the inside of her lip while a beat passes. She’s not one hundred percent sure where to start, so she tries for something somewhat neutral.

“So… you didn’t call.”

He hangs his head, placing his elbows on his knees. “Seems like you needed some space, so … no, I didn’t.” He raises his glass and takes a sip as a thoughtful look comes over his face. “Did you want me to?”

It’s because she’s Jessica Jones, damn good private investigator, that she catches the slightest glimpse of hope on his face and in his voice as he asks. And it makes her happier than it has any right to. But it’s something she needed, an assurance that she didn’t make a huge mistake in coming here. And it inspires her to be a little more honest with him than she might otherwise have been.

“A little. Was kind of dreading it, though. ‘Cause you know by now how I’m total shit at apologies.”

That earns her a look from him, one eyebrow sliding up, skeptical tone in his voice. “Really?”

She sighs, voice flat. “Really.” She looks down at the floor for a moment, gathering her confidence to say what she knows she needs to say. Then she takes a drink and swallows. And with the liquor, she swallows down her pride and her terror, and opens her mouth to do something she’s not typically inclined to do: tell him the truth.

“Look, I’m sorry. I overreacted for two reasons. One, because someone was in danger because of me, and I had to take care of the situation before any harm came to her. And two, I hate it when people try to control me, even if they’re trying to help. Connect the dots about that. And then, the way you… god, it sounds stupid, but the way you said my name really set me off. Don’t call me ‘Jessica’ like that again, okay? Just call me Jess.”

He blinks at her and the relative ease with which the words escaped her mouth. But then he shakes off his shock and nods. “Okay, I can do that.”

She sets her jaw, a contemplative expression on her face. “Good.”

It’s his turn now, and he hangs his head for a moment before he speaks, voice low and quiet. “I’m sorry too. I thought about what you said, and I did some reflecting about how you must feel when I rush into something head first, without any concern for myself. And if it’s even a fraction of the anger and anxiety and frustration I felt for you, then I can see why it makes you so upset. So, I’ll try to tone it down.”

She huffs at him softly and raises her eyebrows. “Can I get that in writing, Counselor?”

The grin he gives her at that is bright- enough that she’s convinced it could light up a whole city block if only someone could engineer a way to collect and contain it. But then again, she wouldn’t want to share it even if they could. He doesn’t grin that way for just anyone, and she is proud of the effort she has put in to grant her such privileges.

“For that, you will need to contact my lawyer, Ms. Jones. I believe you’re already acquainted with Mr. Nelson, at HC&B. He should be more than happy to accommodate your request, seeing as he’ll want a copy too.” The smirk he is now wearing filters into his voice, making it light and playful, and the sound washes over her like a summer breeze.

And suddenly the guilt and shame and fear that she had been lugging around for the last three days evaporate. These weights which had previously been burdening her mind seem inconsequential when she’s here, in his orbit- feeling the warmth of his smile and hearing the lightness in his voice. And in the place of those familiar, if unwelcome emotions from before, now she finds only happiness. Pure and unadulterated. She would even go so far as to call it jubilance, the likes of which she has never known before. And it terrifies her, for the fact that this is definitely in uncharted territory, and she worries that she will lose her bearings or take a wrong turn and end up completely lost. But it is becoming increasingly clear to her that she doesn’t want to be without him, regardless.

Distantly, she knows what this likely means about what she feels for him, but she’s still not willing to consciously acknowledge it. For now, she can only bring herself to admit that she didn’t think that this kind of happiness was something meant for someone like her. But with each new moment spent with him, she is becoming more and more open to the idea. And it’s only a matter of time until she is able to believe that maybe she does deserve a chance at a happy ending with someone just as fucked up and snarky as she is. Thank God for Matthew Murdock

Chapter Text

The first time she kisses him, they are on a rooftop in the middle of the night. Her muscles ache from overuse after chasing him around, doing God’s work in the darkest, most dangerous corners of the city. He’s winded, his labored breath leaving a trail of condensation in the air that’s just cold enough to bite at the exposed skin of his cheeks. Cheeks that she takes into her hands, as she follows an impulse that has been hounding her for weeks. It’s late spring, and there’s a breeze at her back that would be quite chilly if she weren’t suddenly consumed by rays of light and heat at the points on her body that are making contact with his. Her lips are chapped and his stubble is irritating the skin of her cheeks, still red from the cold, and somehow it’s everything and nothing like she pictured. But it’s perfect all the same.

The first time she kisses him, she feels the earth shift beneath her feet, like the forces which control the intricacies and inner workings of the galaxy are guiding her movement, forever altering her reality. But she doesn’t think that it’s because of the chemistry between them, even as it sizzles and ignites as she finally gives in to a desire she has been vehemently denying for longer than she’d care to admit. No, the sense of monumental change which she can sense more than see comes from the feeling of relief and stillness she suddenly experiences.

Jessica Jones is not a person who is known for being particularly relaxed or calm. Her therapist said that was thanks to her PTSD - ‘hypervigilance’, or whatever the hell she’d called it - but she thinks that it goes back further than that. At the very least, it’s because of undiagnosed PTSD she might have had in the years before Kilgrave, due to losing her entire family in the same traumatic car accident as a teen. But regardless of the cause, she has spent the vast majority of her life in an odd sort of suspended animation. A lifelong sense of anticipation which will not abate. A perpetual state of waiting. But she never knew for what. Not until today.

But that all changes when she finally allows herself to kiss Matt Murdock. Because as their lips finally touch, time stops. And in that moment, she understands something true and life-shatteringly important. In that moment, she is able to stop second guessing, stop doubting, and breathe. And with a lungful of fresh air, she feels her mouth curving into a genuine smile. Because she is done waiting, whether for a sign, or for some indeterminate future period in which she could possibly, eventually be okay. Something about this moment- one she had hoped and longed for but denied herself for so long- is showing her that she will be okay, so long as she chooses to jump in, head-first and with reckless abandon. And she can’t quite say why, but she knows that she must, that it’s a chance she does not want to pass up.

So she leans into him, just as she leans into the way her pulse is climbing at his proximity, and she chases the joy that shines from his smile. He had teased her moments before, though she can’t remember his words. But they don’t matter now. All that matters in this moment is that she is kissing him and banishing the voices in her head which alternate between screaming insults and whispering insecurities to make her doubt and continue to pause, to remain a world apart from anyone else - just in case. But no longer, and never again.

When she draws back from him, allowing them space and time to regain their breath, the smile he wears is bright and happy and good. And he seems lighter and more relaxed, himself. Like maybe he had also been waiting for something. Or maybe for her. But now that wait is over.

She finds herself mirroring his smile. Because she’s the only person standing in her way, and she is just now coming to understand this. But she doesn’t want to make either of them wait any longer. And, there’s no time like the present to make a change. To stop resisting him. To stop waiting. To turn toward instead of away. Maybe it’s easier said than done, but she’s finally ready to try. And she’ll start with another kiss, because can’t stand the thought of waiting another moment to feel his lips on hers again.

Chapter Text

She lets it slip one night as they are taking turns bullshitting and drinking in his apartment, discussing recent cases and adventures in vigilante-ing.

“Hey, uh… thanks for being less reckless, by the way. I’m glad to keep you around. At least for a little longer.”

The comment catches him a little off guard, and by the awkward huff of an aborted laugh that she gives, she may have also caught herself off guard with it. He listens to her blood-pressure start to rise as a blush forms on her cheeks, But as he really thinks about it, it’s kind of funny.

He knows by now that she’s a very private person. Part of him would be willing to guess that was true even P.K. (which is what he’s taken to calling her life before Kilgrave- at least in his own head), if only because Trish appears to be the only friend in her life from that time period. He knows that her trust is not won quickly and that establishing any kind of relationship with her is a thing that happens over time, with intention, in steps and pieces. He has come to appreciate the journey of that. And he can definitely appreciate the fact that sharing is not a thing she does easily or lightly. To be honest, he has a somewhat similar perspective.

Until very recently, he had not felt as if he could be completely honest about himself with anyone in his life. That’s a direct result of the way he had to hide such an integral part of himself for years, in not being able to explain his abilities to others. And because that was the case since he was a child, duality and secrecy are automatic habits- part of an ingrained reaction, things which were part of the fabric of his life for so long that he grew oblivious to them. He used to believe that he would always need to hide important things about himself, used to take it as an immutable fact of his existence. But, he has recently come to believe that, maybe it isn’t. Or at the very least, maybe it doesn’t have to be. Maybe complete transparency could be possible with the correct person.

Because the truth is, he and Jessica Jones are remarkably alike in surprising ways. Despite the differences in their personalities- with his idealistic charm versus her snarky realism- they are typically coming at the world from the same angle and struggling with the same issues, even if their struggles end up looking a little bit different. By nature they are both very secretive, suspicious, and private. But if anyone has ever made him want to rip himself open, nose to navel, and proudly put all of his secrets and insecurities on display, it is Jessica Jones. Because he thinks that if he did, she would be able to look at him and shrug before scoffing that his shit was “nothing” compared to hers. And even as he can hear the flippant tone she would use to say such things, he imagines it would be the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. Because that would be her way of expressing her acceptance of him. And that's all he’s ever wanted - to be seen for who he truly is and validated, without reservation. And he would offer her no less in exchange, because something tells him that she has been longing for the same acceptance and validation for just as long as he has.

But he knows her well enough to know that she’ll never be able to say that. It’s just not in her nature. But that is not truly a problem for him. Because he understands enough about her to know that he can say it for her, and she will reluctantly, but gratefully (if silently) accept what he is offering. So that’s what he strives to do, in every interaction, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

He gives her space when she needs it, sometimes before she verbally requests it. He allows her to doubt and create distance when she gets overwhelmed and afraid. He is as steady and consistent as he can be, her anchor when things get stormy. He meets her where she is and always helps her find her way off the ledge, no matter the thing that causes her strife. And he is always there, whenever and however she may need him.

Because all of that is in his nature- being the rescuer. The savior. He is making a conscious effort to do less of that, if only because she specifically asked it of him. And he knows how difficult that must have been for her, how much it must bother her that she has made such an effort. But that doesn’t mean that he can’t rescue her a little right now as she reels from the honesty she has shown him.

He tilts his head at her, a knowing smile on his face. “Are you trying to say you’re fond of me, Jones?”

She just scoffs at him. “You wish.”

But through the put-upon sarcasm and exasperation, he hears the truth in her voice- the thing she can’t find it in her to actually say.

Yes, I care about you, you idiot. Please stay safe.

And he can’t help but smile at her because it’s not really in his nature to be transparent either. But he’s guessing she’ll understand what he’s really trying to tell her.

“Maybe a little.”

I hear you, and I know this is hard for you. So I’ll try, because I care about you too.

He hears her huff at him, short and harsh, like it’s covering a laugh. But then he also hears her exhale and notices the way her shoulders sink, like they’re losing some amount of tension. And he can’t help but breathe his own sigh of relief at that, because he will always want to save and protect others, helping them in whatever way he can. That’s just part of who he is. But he's pretty sure he can get away with saving her.

Chapter Text

He had really hoped it wouldn’t happen again, but he guesses that with the life he leads, that was a ridiculous hope to have. But it’s made ever so slightly more manageable this time, because of the fact that he isn’t alone. Jessica is there.

It takes him a bit to notice, because the first sensation he is aware of upon waking is sharp pain in his skull, and his first conscious thought is a review of the events of the night before. He doesn’t remember much, other than nearly getting concussed when what he had thought was going to be a routine bust of a drug warehouse had turned into an explosion when one of the chemists got creative with his escape plans. Matt had been pretty damn close to the blast, and had been thrown back a number of feet before colliding with an empty shipping container. And that had hurt quite a bit. Thank God the others had been there, and particularly that Jessica had been there. Otherwise he’s not sure how he would have gotten back home. And he should probably thank her for that.

He turns to his left, listening for her breathing to judge if she’s still asleep, but for some reason he can’t pick it out. His pulse starts to rise as he expands his circle of focus, trying to pick her out in some other area of the apartment, if not in the bed, but again, he can’t. So he starts listening harder, for any other sounds in the apartment, anything that might explain where she is. But that’s when he realizes- he can’t hear anything. Not the sound of his own heartbeat, not the ever-present noises of traffic from the streets below, not the background static of voices and televisions and music and electricity that he can normally hear if he’s taking it all in. Absolutely nothing.

He shoots up in bed, chest heaving as he gulps down deep breaths of air and to try to remain calm. He thinks he knows what’s going on, because this isn’t the first time it’s happened. After Frank had shot him in the head, he had experienced something similar- an intense headache followed by periods of temporary deafness. It had been unpleasant, to say the least, but not permanent. He’s hopeful that will be the case this time as well, and that it will pass sooner than later.

But then he feels the vibration of the mattress as Jessica stirs next to him. He turns his head toward her, the habit to listen to her heartbeat upon waking too ingrained for all the times she woken from nightmares. He shakes his head once and tries to soothe himself by trying to pick out her scent instead- the scent of coconut from her shampoo, with the ever-present notes of whiskey and the underlying hints of leather. He exhales a little as the familiarity of the scent slows his pulse by a beat. But she must have spoken to him, because suddenly, she’s reaching out to him, one hand on his shoulder and one at his cheek, her firm grip as she lifts his head up toward hers.

He sighs as he realizes that he needs to try to fill her in on what is happening. Isn’t today going to be fun.

-

She wakes as she feels a jolt on the bed, some kind of disturbance next to her. As she rolls over, she sees Matt sitting up in bed, breathing hard with wide eyes and white knuckles where he’s got fistfuls of sheet in his hands, like something has him terrified. And suddenly she’s barreling toward being terrified, too.

“What’s wrong?” She sits up and turns his direction, but other than titling his head in her direction, he doesn’t answer her. And that has her even more terrified.

She tries again. “Matt, are you okay?” Her voice is less steady this time, less controlled, because a very small part of her had worried that something like this might happen last night after she got him home from that awful explosion, and sometimes she really hates being right.

And as he still does nothing other than stare blankly in her general direction, she decides that usually it isn’t even fucking worth it to be right, because she only ever seems to know when truly terrible shit is going to happen. And now she’s dangerously close to losing her shit because if he has lost his hearing in addition to his sight, what the fuck are they gonna do?

“Matt? Hey, talk, to me. Matt, please.” She finds herself reaching for him, taking his head in her hand and scanning his face, looking for a sign that he’s okay, that he’s playing a stupid joke or something, but he seems genuinely oblivious to what she’s saying, and still pretty fucking anxious. And her blood pressure skyrockets.

But just before panic starts to creep up her spine and wrap itself around her rib cage, she feels his hands on hers. And then he starts speaking in a too-loud voice for how close they are.

“Jess, please don’t freak out when I tell you this, but I seem to have temporarily lost my hearing. Or at least, I really hope it’s temporary. This has happened to me once before- after I took a pretty bad blow to the head courtesy of one Frank Castle. But I am significantly limited in terms of my movement and functioning if I can’t hear.”

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. Because of course this is happening. And she doesn’t have a fucking clue of what to do to help him. She opens her mouth to start talking reflexively before remembering that won’t do her a bit of good.

So what am I gonna do now?

A beat of awkward silence passes, but it’s suddenly as if he has read her mind, because he starts talking again.

“Look, this whole thing makes me pretty anxious, so, uh… I’d appreciate it if you didn’t go too far.”

He looks up at her, like he’s trying to guess where her line of sight is, and she’s surprised to note he’s pretty damn close, even without being able to hear. And as she takes in his expression, she sees the furrow in his brows and the tightness around his mouth, and she kicks herself for worrying about how she’s gonna handle today when she should really be worried about how he’s gonna handle it.

She hates the scared vulnerability she sees on his face because it makes her heart hurt for him, so she scoots closer and wraps an arm around his back. And as soon as her arm makes contact with his body, he seems to relax. Instinctively, he leans into her, and she can’t deny that seeing him react that way makes her heart swell. And the kiss he places on her bare shoulder helps with that feeling too.

“Thank you, Jess.” His voice is softer now, less tight and anxious. And hearing the difference helps some of her own anxiety abate. She leans back against the headboard and brings him with her, trying to find a comfortable spot to settle into as she prepares to spend a significant amount of the day doing very little. Other than being with him. But she can think of worse ways to spend the day.

Eventually though, she gets hungry and assumes that he probably is too. She sits up and moves like she’s going to get off of the bed, but he immediately tenses and reaches for her, eyes wild. “Going somewhere?”

He shakes his head as he realizes the ridiculousness of the question, but the look on his face is bordering on panic, and it hits her right in the chest. And suddenly the idea of getting up and walking to the kitchen seems much harder than she expected. She knows that she needs a way to communicate to him what she’s trying to say, but that’s pretty fucking difficult when you can’t see or hear.

She’s never been very good at charades, but she starts trying to think of a way to pantomime what she’s going to do. Inspiration strikes her, and she reaches for his stomach.

He startles a little at the touch of her fingertips on his bare skin and squints in her direction. Then he raises an eyebrow at her. “Are you trying to make a comment on my fitness, Jones? Because I appreciate the sentiment, but this doesn’t seem like the best time.” His voice is a little forced, and he gives an awkward chuckle, as though he’s trying to make himself laugh instead of being anxious or angry or any of the other emotions he’s more than entitled to be having.

But all she can do is sigh, because this really isn’t working out how she would like for it to. She thinks for a moment, then tries something else- taking his hand in hers, opening his palm and pressing her extended pointer finger into it while using her other hand to touch his stomach again. Even though she knows he can’t hear her, she can’t help but narrate what she’s doing, anyway.

“I’ll be right back, okay? Just give me a minute. I’m pretty sure you’re just as hungry as I am.”

He tilts his head at her, brows furrowing, and she sighs heavily because that doesn’t look like a face of enlightenment.

“Jess, I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” He frowns and she chews on her lip, as she wracks her brain for a way to help him understand. If only she could find a way for him to read what she is trying to say. But she doesn’t have any way to create something in braille for him to read. Unless-

A triumphant smile breaks across her face as she remembers that, duh, Matt has a braille display that attaches to his computer. So she just needs to bring that over so they can have two way communication again.

This time when she gets up, she turns and places her hands on his shoulders, pressing down slightly. “Tell me you know that I’m asking you to stay put.”

He looks up at her and though she can still see anxiety on his face, he gives her a small, tight smile. “I’m guessing that means I should stay. And I’m hoping that means you’ll be back.”

Her heart does a flip at that because he’s so damn vulnerable right now. Physically, she knows he’s always much more vulnerable that all the rest of them in terms of his strength and stamina, but he has enough drive (and bullheadedness) to make up for that. But now he looks just as weak as she feels he is when he tries to throw himself into danger, and it just makes her want to wrap him up in her arms and hold him there, forever - sheltering him from all of the things he tries to take on by himself.

For a moment, she’s glad he can’t hear her right now, because that means that he doesn’t have such an awareness of the response she is having. She hates for him to suffer this way, but a part of her will admit that it’s nice to have the upper hand in this regard, for once.

To keep him from worrying and to try to assure him that she won’t just leave, she takes his face in her hand again and kisses him softly. The sound of relief he gives makes her heart melt and a flush rise on her cheeks. Unfortunately, he can still probably tell that, but oh well.

He huffs a laugh. “I’m guessing that means yes.”

She shakes her head to chase off a laugh as she takes his hand once more and presses a ‘thumbs-up’ into his palm. And then she turns and heads into the living room to get his computer.

When she returns a moment later, she sits down on the bed next to him, computer on her lap. She plugs in the braille display, then places it on his lap and goes about opening a document to start typing a message to him.

As soon as he takes the braille display into his hands, a brilliant smile breaks across his face. He looks up at her and huffs surprised laugh. “Oh my god, of course! I don’t know how I didn’t think of this.”

She can’t help but smirk, because this time, she has a way to respond to him.

You can call me a genius, it’s okay. Actually it would probably be better to do it now, because you wouldn’t have to listen to my gloating reply.

It takes him only a moment to read her response, and then he starts chuckling at her. “But how do I know you wouldn’t just bring it up later?”

A fair point. I guess we’ll just have to silently agree that I am, in fact, a fucking genius. But I’m also a hungry genius. What about you? Want something to eat?

He hums in agreement. “Now that you mention it, yes. I am pretty hungry.”

Well, what do you want?

He tilts his head as he thinks. “I think I have stuff for omelets. Would that work?”

Sounds great. Sit tight while I make them.

“Okay, I can do that.”

She stands and sets the computer on the bed, but just as she’s about to turn and head for the kitchen, he speaks.

“Uh, Jess? I just wanted to say … Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done without you today.”

Another blush rises on her cheeks, but she’s still glad he can’t hear the way her heart starts pounding in double-time. She slides a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck and pulls him in for a kiss. And she spares a moment to laugh because that’s one response that is definitely easier to show than to say or type, at least for her. She’s sure he can understand it, though.

You’re welcome.

As she goes to the kitchen and begins making their breakfast, she realizes she is considerably more relaxed than she was an hour ago. Because she’s pretty sure that they’ll be fine- so long as his hearing really does come back. He seemed confident that it will, and considering what other things he has been through and survived without incident, she’s cautiously optimistic that it won’t be very much longer until he’s back to normal. And until then, they can spend the day together, chatting and doing whatever it is that will help him stay as relaxed as possible. Part of her might even enjoy this excuse to be so close to him and dote on him. She would never admit to it, but she knows it, and it helps to remind her that for all his frustrating qualities- such as his tendency to run head-first into dangerous situations that end in explosions- he is something else. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

Chapter Text

One her favorite things about him is his fingertips. She knows that it’s strange, but something about the way he touches her makes her feel… valued, almost worshipped, in a way that nothing and no one ever has.

Even the very first time he touched her- when he grabbed her arm and tried to get her to leave Midland Circle- she could feel it. The inherent sense of respect for her, even as he tried to steer her out of a bad situation. Because for Matt, touch is not a thing to be used to gain power and control over others (… unless they happen to be criminals). She would guess that it’s because of his blindness, but regardless of the reason, it’s clear to her that touch has a different significance for him than for most people. And he uses it to communicate in ways that other people never have to. Or never think to. But lucky for her, he's a very creative guy.

The first time that he touches her in a slightly-more-than-platonic way is when she takes a right hook to the face in the midst of a back-alley brawl they get into with a couple of punks trying to mug a terrified young woman on her way home from work. The asshole she faces off against gets in one good hit before she knocks him out cold with a perfectly placed right hook of her own.

As soon as the girl is safe and the punks have moved on their merry way, he turns to her, head tilted like it gets when he’s concentrating his senses on something.

“You’re bleeding.”

She rolls her shoulders and sighs. “It’s fine.”

But he steps closer, yanking off his glove and slowly reaching for her cheek. And when he touches her face and slowly drags his thumb under the split of her lip, wiping away a drop of blood, her heart stutters. Because the gentle intensity of his fingertips on her cheek and her lip is such a surprise. And she has to work to regulate her breathing because she can’t afford to think of him in the way that touch makes her want to think of him. But she's pretty sure that, eventually, that line won't work for her anymore.

The first time he touches her in an officially romantic way is after she gives up trying to not think of him that way. She takes his face in her hands, pulling him in for a kiss, and he follows suit immediately. One hand winds around her waist while the other goes to her cheek. He brushes his thumb along her cheekbone while soft, light fingertips trace her jaw before he settles his hand around the base of her neck. The placement unsettles her for a moment because he would only have to squeeze and she would be in some serious trouble, but as her pulse races at the thought, he exhales heavily against the skin of her face. And with a humming little laugh, she realizes he’s tracking her pulse. Which is honestly kind of … hot. He seems to like the vibrations of her vocal chords as well, because the hum she gives him makes him take a shuddering breath. And suddenly, she’s unclear about why she ever tried to deny her desire for him in the first place.

The first time he touches her in an intimate way is later, after she kisses him on his couch, sliding into his lap and losing herself in the gentle rasp of his stubble on her cheeks. But then her pulse jumps as she feels his fingertips sliding just under the hem of her shirt and pressing into her flesh with enough pressure to show that he doesn’t want to allow any more space between them. And he buries his other hand in her hair, fingertips gently massaging her scalp as he threads his fingers through the silken strands. And she finds that's she's furious with her past self, and wondering why she didn’t allow herself to do this much, much sooner.

But her favorite way that he touches her is after. Yes, he’s talented and thorough and more than capable of getting her to enjoy herself. But after, when they’re laying together, enjoying the quiet stillness- the security they have found in each other’s arms- he traces the length of her body with those soft, intent fingers. Like he’s exalting her and showing her worship she was never sure she deserved. He traces the curve of her spine, the divots in the small of her back, the long, shapely line of her legs. Then he makes his way back up from the curve of her hip to the bow of her waist, up to the swell of muscles on her arms.

And that’s when the real devotion begins, because the way he traces the slope of her collarbone, the elegant column of her neck, the edge of her jaw, the shape of her cheeks, and the line of her nose makes her feel beautiful. Like she’s a work of art that he is committing to memory. And he does all of this with a silent look of awe on his face. Like she’s the most important thing in the world to him. And it would be terrifying, or at least more terrifying - unbearably so- if it were anyone else. But it’s not anyone else. It’s Matt. Sure and steady Matt with his calm intention and tender reverence, and fingertips to match. And so that is how she comes to appreciate this seemingly ordinary body part more than she ever thought she would.

Chapter Text

When he finally invites her to come along, she isn’t surprised. Honestly, she’s only surprised it took this long for him to ask. Maybe that means she should have offered first, but she’s still pretty damn proud she said yes at all. Because if there’s any place that’s a bummer to go at anytime, it’s the cemetery. And she’s not exactly jumping up and down at the prospect of being around him when he’s so emotional, but he’s still grieving and she remembers how much that sucks. Especially when doing it alone. So she agrees.

The cab ride over is a little tense, mostly because she’s incredibly anxious and unsure of herself. This is really not her strong suit - talking about feelings or offering supportive words. But she’s hoping he’s smart enough not to expect any from her in the first place. So she just stays silent, a calm presence at his elbow as they make the trek toward the grave. Stick’s grave.

She doesn’t know the whole story, but she knows the man was a stand-in father for Matt after his real father passed. And she knows enough about how it feels to lose something to know it’s probably best to wait for him to speak first. But when he does, she almost doesn’t hear him for how soft his voice is.

“I don’t really know how to feel. He could be a real bastard. But it was one of those things where he was ‘my’ bastard, you know? And even still, I loved him. More than he ever really knew. Or at least more than he was ever able to reciprocate. Like a father.”

He bends and removes his glove to trace the lettering on the headstone. Still silent beside him, she bows her head and slides her hands into her pockets to give them something to do. Anything other than rubbing his shoulders or sliding into his hair and ... She doesn’t know where that urge even comes from, but it (thankfully) passes as he speaks again.

“He found me in the orphanage after my dad died. Said he’d been looking for me and that he knew about me and my abilities, though I have no idea how he could have. Anyway, he trained me to use my senses- taught me how to focus and filter them. And he also taught me how to fight. I was only nine at the time, and he still tried to tell me about the Hand and the Chaste and indoctrinate me. But it didn’t last long, because as soon as I showed him the slightest amount of affection, he bailed. And I didn’t see him again for years. Not until last year, actually. Did I ever tell you that?”

Her brows furrow because it sounds like this guy was a real piece of work - maybe even jockeying for a position alongside Trish’s mom.

“Well, did I ever tell you my horror stories about growing up with Trish’s mom? She may not have tried to brainwash me or turn me into a ninja before I hit puberty, but she was a real abusive bitch. We should compare notes sometime.”

He huffs a sigh that is almost a laugh. “Maybe.”

They both fall silent, and the only noise to be heard is the breeze rustling the grass. She sneaks a look at him out of the corner of her eye and his expression is wistful and distant. After a beat, he stands and turns back to her, brows furrowed.

“Does it make sense that I miss him more than I hate him? Even after all the terrible things he did? Or tried to do?”

She exhales heavily and turns to look at nothing in particular over her left shoulder so she doesn’t have to look at his face. This is exactly the kind of conversation she is terrible at, the very thing she was trying to avoid. But at the same time, she knows he needs it. So she takes a breath and does it anyway.

“I mean… I’m not exactly the picture of sanity over here, but yeah, it makes sense to me. He was your only remaining family, shitty as he was. We’re wired to want that connection with other people, even if that means getting it from people who aren’t always supportive or caring.”

He cocks his head at her, eyebrow raised and mouth pursed. “That’s surprisingly insightful. Have you been holding out on me with some hidden wealth of psychological and philosophical knowledge, Jones?”

She scoffs to cover a laugh, and uses a put-upon exasperated tone. “Fuck you. Trish has spent a lot of money over the years going to therapists to undo all of the damage caused by her piece-of-shit mom. She may have shared a few insights along the way.”

He chuckles under his breath and nods. “Fair enough.” After another pause and a prayer uttered under his breath, he sighs. And as he turns to her, his expression is soft and gracious. “Thanks, Jess. For everything, but especially for just agreeing to come.”

She fights the ingrained impulse to roll her eyes and use sarcasm to guard against any kind of emotional exchange, if only because she knows that this is a moment. Something significant between them. And even as it terrifies her, a part of her wants - as she has never wanted anything else - to be with him in this moment.

But she's still not entirely sure how to be transparent about the emotions she is feeling, so she uses a tone that is intended to sound generally disinterested. She's hoping he can use that super-hearing and catch the honesty underlying it, though.

“Whatever. It’s not like I was doing anything more important, anyway. Not today, at least.”

And as he smirks at her, slow and bright, she thinks he heard her. For that she’s grateful, because seeing him smile like that while standing here, feet away from the grave of his stand-in father figure, helps her to feel a little less out to sea. As if she isn’t completely incapable of figuring out how to be with another person- to be supportive and caring and present through the difficult times as well as the good. And at that, an interesting thought strikes her.

Maybe she’s actually getting better.

And if so, maybe she can learn how to be with him without ruining either of their lives in the process. Maybe she can even learn how to talk about the people she’s lost. Something about the look he is giving her makes her think that’s something he is offering to do for her, and for reasons she is not prepared to name, part of her wants to take him up on it. But not today.

Because today is for him. Today is for holding his hand on the cab ride home, for toning down her sarcasm just a smidge, and for being just a bit more emotionally present than normal.

But a few days from now, after she’s had time to recover from today, maybe she will work up the courage to try to share some of her losses with him. Because she finally understands that there is something to be gained in that process, and she's finally found someone whose losses she is willing to take on in exchange for her own. Because she's getting better enough to understand that some things in life can only be carried, but they don't have to be carried alone.

Chapter Text

He’s not sure exactly what makes him say it. Maybe it’s the alcohol, loosening his tongue. Maybe it’s the unexpected but rewarding sound of her laugh, low and soft, as he makes some self-deprecating joke. Maybe it’s the rhythm of her heart, hypnotizing him and dropping his guard. Regardless, as he checks his watch and registers the time, he finds himself saying something he hasn’t said for many, many years.

“Huh. It’s 11:11. Make a wish.”

But he starts to worry he may have misread the room, because he is met with deafening silence as soon as the words leave his lips. An excruciating beat passes as he immediately begins to regret saying the words. But after he clears his throat and takes a drink from his beer, she finally answers him, confusion in her tone.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He cocks an eyebrow at her. “Not familiar with that superstition?”

“Apparently not. Care to enlighten me?”

“It’s just something ridiculous I learned in elementary school. The idea is that the time of 11:11 - am or pm, doesn’t matter- is inherently lucky, so you’re supposed to make a wish at that moment, and then it’s supposed to come true.”

She makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “God, kids are dumb.”

The remark catches him off guard, and unfortunately, in the middle of taking another sip of his beer. He has to choke back a laugh to not do a spit take and cause a scene.

“So, I take it that you never participated in this fine childhood tradition.”

The sardonic tone she uses is classic Jessica Jones. “Shocking, isn’t it?”

But it makes him do little more than smirk at her. “Right. Because it’s obviously beneath you.”

He’s sure she’s rolling her eyes to match the sigh she lets out. “Did I say that? I simply implied that it’s not the type of thing I would have done … because it’s stupid.”

He can’t help but chuckle at that, bright and unrestrained. And then an idea occurs to him. “Okay, fine. But if you had, what would you have wished for?”

He can hear the frown she’s wearing in the sound of her voice. “What are you after, Murdock?”

But the truth is, he’s not sure himself. He just suddenly has the urge to know what she used to dream about, what hopes she had for herself and her future, what she used to wish her life could be like, back when she was still a little girl, unburdened by the hard truths of the world.

“Just… a desire to know more about young Jessica Jones. Humor me?” He intentionally gives her his most charming smile, because he can hear her heart flutter when he does, and he thinks that might help to convince her.

She sighs and shifts her position on the couch. There is irritation in her tone as she shrugs and answers him. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to learn. I’m basically the same person now that I was then. Except I was a little less of a bitch with slightly more wholesome language … and I was sober then.”

To emphasize her point, she raises her glass with a self-satisfied grin, and downs the rest of her drink in one go.

He can’t help but smirk back at her, as he leans back in his chair where he sits opposite her. “Okay. But you still haven’t answered my question.”

“You really won’t let this go, will you?”

“I’m just curious.” He flashes her one more smile and he congratulates himself as he hears the jump in her pulse.

She sounds absolutely defeated when she finally tells him. “Fine, Jesus. I would have wished for… more friends.”

But that makes him pause and tilt his head in her direction, because he definitely wasn’t expecting that. “Oh. Uh, right. Okay.”

She cocks her head at him, crossing her arms in front of her chest. “What’s the matter, Murdock? Did you think I was too heartless to want something so prosaic as friends, even back then?”

He shakes his head, looking down because this conversation is suddenly perilously close to crashing and burning. With a sigh, he decides honesty is likely the best policy, lest he make things worse.

“No, it’s not that. I guess I just didn’t expect you to take the question so seriously.”

She sighs at that. “Yeah? Well, sometimes I surprise even myself.” She takes another sip from her glass, then brings it down to rest on her knee. When she speaks again, it’s soft enough that anyone other than him would struggle to hear.

“It’s true, though. I was always a bit of a loner, but it bothered me a hell of a lot more back then.”

He has to bite his tongue to keep from asking more about when that all changed. But her anxiety is rising- he can hear her pulse increasing- and her body language is not exactly telegraphing that she’s open to continuing this line of discussion. So he takes things in a different direction.

“Fair enough. Well, what would you wish for today?”

She shifts on the couch again, leaning her elbows on her knees and sighing exasperatedly at him. “God, what is with the twenty questions?”

“Sorry. I just… no, you know what? Nevermind.” He’s pushed her too far and he knows it, so he tries to backpedal as smoothly as he can.

Several beats of silence pass as he takes a drink and works very hard not to be consumed by embarrassment for how well things had been going until he’d stuck his foot in his mouth. He’s so focused on himself that when she eventually she breaks the silence, voice quiet and hesitant, she almost startles him.

“God. I don’t know. I guess … I’d just want to make sure that there would never be another person like Kilgrave. To know that no one else would ever be hurt by someone like him.”

He blinks at her a few times, unable to conceal his awe at her response and the vulnerablility she is showing him in sharing it. One of these days he will have to come to terms with this and realize that she is always going to surprise him in one way or another, because that’s just what she does. Since the moment they met in that interrogation room months ago. And this moment is no different.

He smiles softly at her, voice low. “That’s a great wish. Honestly, I think I’d wish for the same thing.”

She makes a humming sound of acknowledgment, then extends a finger and points it in his direction, a faux threat in her tone.

“But you better not go spreading that around, Murdock. I have a reputation to maintain.”

He can’t help but laugh and smirk at that. “Don’t worry, Jones. I won’t tell anyone. Despite popular opinion on the matter, I do value my life.”

She just huffs at him. “Yeah, right. You know, past performance is indicative of future performance. So we’ll just have to see about that.”

She turns to look out the window, bringing her glass to her lips. And as she does, he spares a moment to appreciate her and all of her many contradictions. Jessica Jones, who detests the label of “hero”, but still wants to save the world. Who appears so small and slight, but can pick up a car with her bare hands. Who comes across as gruff and abrasive and callous, but who is thoughtful and loyal and concerned underneath the layers of leather and defensiveness and alcohol.

And with her on his mind, he makes a wish for himself: that he will somehow avoid screwing things up with this beautiful, intelligent, driven woman.

Chapter Text

It started as a dare. He had insinuated that he would beat her handily if the two were ever to go up against one another in hand-to-hand, but she soundly disagreed. And she’s never been one to back down from a challenge, particularly from Matt Murdock. So they agreed to set a long-standing appointment for sparring each week, which they both come to enjoy very quickly.

It takes some convincing for her to let go and give it all she’s got, though. And he’s no better. But she finally gets him to let go and land a solid blow at full strength to her stomach, knocking the wind out of her, she can’t help but smirk a little.

One of her favorite things about him is his refusal to be too soft with her. She’s not exactly weak, and he’s never made the mistake of treating her like she’s made of glass. Which is good, because few things make her more irritated. 

Even from the moment they met and he let it slip that he knew her identity- had read about her history with Kilgrave- he didn’t look at her like she was somehow lesser-than. And even though she detested him digging into her personal life without her consent, a part of her was glad that he never looked at her with pity or patronizing concern. Because she’s never wanted any of that.

So maybe it makes sense that he, of all people, has never treated her that way because he has been on the receiving end of it too many times in his life. She has seen, more times than she would care to, how he is subjected to condescension masquerading as sympathy because people inherently perceive him as fragile. Vulnerable. Breakable.

If they only knew the half of it.

But if she’s being honest, she does struggle with a variation of this thought at times, too. Because, technically, he is quite breakable - at least compared to herself and Luke, and to a lesser extent, Danny. All of them share an element of super strength in their abilities, but Matt possesses no such quality.

This doesn’t seem to bother him. Not usually. But there are moments when she wonders if it might. Because occasionally, when they’re fighting in the larger group, or even when it’s just the two of them, she will catch flashes of something in his expression and body language- a furrowed brow or tension in his shoulders. And if she had to guess, she’d say that in these moments, he is aware of, if not lamenting, this lack of brute strength.

But, unfortunately, he tries to make up for it with a recklessness that will likely be the cause of her early death for the way it makes her blood pressure skyrocket- partially due to worry and partially due to anger. But that’s just another reason she’s glad for this sparring arrangement they have worked out. So she can work through some of that. But also because when they’re here, he doesn’t seem to act that way. At least not anymore.

She’s reluctant to admit it, but she used to pull her punches when sparring with him. It was just a little, but enough that he noticed. And he wasn’t pleased. So, a few weeks in, he calls her out on it.

“Come on. You can do better than that.”

That stops her in her tracks, hands dropping to her sides with a dry, dry tone. “Fuck you very much. I’m doing just fine. Great, actually.”

He shakes his head at that. “No, I mean you’re holding back. But you don’t have to. I’m not made of porcelain, Jones. I can take it.”

An arch tone in her voice, she crosses her arms and leans into her right hip. “Right. Look, forgive me if I struggle with the idea of intentionally hurting you with my super-human strength. At least not when you haven’t majorly pissed me off lately. Why does it matter so much to you, anyway?”

With a sigh, he puts his hands on his hips, tone bordering on pleading. “Because I’m not breakable, Jess. No more than you are. Not really.”

She huffs an exasperated sigh at that, rolling her eyes instinctively. “Okay, we’re gonna need to revisit this conversation later, because you seriously need a reality check about this, and I don’t want you to end up dead over it. But I do get what you’re saying, at least when we’re here, and it’s just us. So I will stop taking it easy on you. But just remember - you asked for it. If I break your rib, don’t come crying to me.”

He smiles at her- wild and bright- while she rears back and lets him have it.

And she gives him an answering grin, as he takes the hit with ease, then squares off and gives her his own full strength punch. And she can’t help but feel a bit of pride. Because little by little, she’s breaking him of his hypocritical habits. She’s showing him that he doesn’t have to hold himself to a different set of standards than everyone else, that he doesn’t have to make exceptions or exclude himself from the grace and mercy that he tries so hard to offer to other people. And if she is really letting go in these rounds, he is entitled to do just the same. So maybe he’s actually starting to understand that.

If so, she’ll happily take however many punches it takes to get that lesson through his head. But she will be sure to give as well as she gets in that time, because it’s only fair.

Chapter Text

He’s not all that surprised when Trish texts him. Honestly, from what he’s heard of her, it makes a lot of sense that she would reach out and get to know him. And he’s quite curious about her too, considering how she’s managed to keep Jessica alive and (mostly) well for the last however many years. But that doesn’t keep Jessica from giving him shit about their lunch date when they hang out for their weekly bullshit session later that evening.

“So, I heard you got an interesting invitation today. Scared, Devil Boy? ‘Cause you’ll be going up against Trish Walker, herself.”

He huffs a laugh under his breath. “Not at all. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. From the admittedly limited interactions I’ve had with her so far, she seems lovely. I can’t wait to get to know her better.”

She has to be rolling her eyes at him with that tone. “Yeah, keep telling yourself that.”

He just smiles as he takes a sip from his glass. How bad could things possibly be?

A week later, he arrives twenty minutes early to the exclusive new restaurant with rave reviews that Trish had suggested. He stalls outside for several minutes, using his breathing exercises to calm his elevated pulse. He can’t help but feel a little out of place at an upscale restaurant like this, though he knows how to pretend like he doesn’t- but it still takes him a minute to work up to it.

After he feels sufficiently calm, he walks in and is lead to a table toward the back where she is waiting for him. She stands as he approaches the table, tone bright and body language open.

“Matt, it’s good to see you. Thank you for coming.” She reaches out and takes his hand in both of hers, a hybrid handshake that feels welcoming without feeling too cold or professional. It brings a smile to his face as he sits down opposite her.

“Trish, always a pleasure. But I think I should be the one thanking you for inviting me to this marvelous restaurant.”

She hums, a soft smile on her face. “Well, what fun is it to be a local celebrity if you can’t share the perks with friends?”

He can hear the note of teasing threaded through her voice as she speaks, and he chuckles. He appreciates those who can poke fun at themselves, and it’s just another reason he likes Trish. Plus, it reinforces his hope that this meeting will go well.

It takes him a long moment to decide what to order- every scent coming from the kitchen is just so good- but he finally does. Then as soon as the waiter finishes taking their orders and turns to walk away, he hears her suck in a deep inhale. And as she does, he takes his own deep breath to brace for whatever queries she might throw at him.

“So, Matt… Jessica tells me that you have been hanging out more frequently lately. That you’re becoming rather good friends.”

He’s impressed by the way she is able to keep even the slightest hint of accusation out of her tone, simply stating facts then looking at him intently and allowing him to read in between the lines. He knows the tactic well because he uses it himself. No wonder she’s so successful at interviewing people on her talk show. 

But his familiarity with the tactic allows him to breathe a little easier under her gaze. His tone is calm and collected as he answers her, a slight smirk on his face.

“Really? I’ve been promoted to ‘good’ friend. That’s great.”

She huffs a laugh at him. “Jess wasn’t kidding. You’re clever and charming. No wonder she likes you.”

But he stills and his heart stutters violently at that. No matter how much he had hoped for that to be true, he definitely didn’t expect her to say it.

Jessica likes him?

He fights a blush at the thought, but then as quickly as the surprise hit him, anxiety silently slides into its place. Because, what does that mean, exactly? He’s unsure what it may or may not signify in terms of her willingness to engage in any sort of relationship with him in a more than platonic way. He guesses that even if she didn’t it wouldn’t be so bad, as long as he could still be her friend. But he still can’t deny that the idea is a disappointing one. And that’s a concerning thought that he will have to continue pondering later, because Trish is speaking again, voice carefully neutral, as she breaks him out of his reverie.

“You look surprised. Is that news to you?” She’s leaning forward, like she’s trying to read him and pick up every available bit of nonverbal information he’s providing to her right now.

Shit. He’s really backed himself into a corner here. And he can’t see a way that it ends well, particularly if he tries to play coy or bullshit her. So he sighs deeply and decides to try for some honesty.

“Not necessarily. But, I’m hesitant to set any expectations or jump to any conclusions about how she feels or where we are without her explicit say-so. For obvious reasons.”

She’s quiet for a beat, and his anxiety begins to rise in the seconds that collect between them. But eventually she clicks her tongue at him, a smile in her voice.

“Smart. So, if you don’t mind my asking, what kind of a relationship are you hoping for?”

Her gaze is intent, unwavering, and just the slightest bit intimidating. He suddenly finds himself wishing he had taken Jessica’s words to heart and worried a little harder about this meeting. But with a deep breath, he relaxes a bit and tries for some humor to help him find his feet again.

“Right. So, is this the part where you ask me about my intentions with Jessica and threaten bodily harm if I hurt her in any way?”

He barely covers a smirk as she laughs heartily at him, leaning back in her chair.

“Well… now that you’ve brought it up, I don’t have to. But seeing as she’s my best friend and the only family I’ll willingly claim, I highly encourage you to tread carefully.”

He simply nods at her, expression solemn. “Noted. And I absolutely plan to.”

This seems to be the correct answer, because she smiles softly at him again. She opens her mouth and is just about to speak again when the waiter arrives with their food. A temporary and unspoken truce goes into effect as they go about fixing their meals and preparing to eat. But after the first few bites and pleasantries about the food are exchanged, the trice is lifted.

She spears a cherry tomato and looks up at him as she resumes their conversation.

“She’s been through a lot, you know. So please be patient with her. There really is a caring, warm person under that leather jacket, if you can show her you’re not going to try to control her and you’re not going to run when things get difficult for her.”

He sets his fork down, smirking softly because he’s seen glimpses of that already, and he is bound and determined to see more. “I’m not planning on going anywhere. And really, I’m just hoping to help her through some of those difficulties, in whatever capacity she needs me. I’ve had a number of them myself, and it’s always a little easier to face them with some support.”

Trish nods. “Well said. And I hope you can help her with some of that. But … a word of advice?”

She has set her silverware down and has her hands steepled, elbows on the table, and he can feel the weight of her gaze. She’s serious about whatever it is she’s about to say.

He cocks his head at her as he also sets his silverware down. She lets out a sigh, and when she speaks, he can hear how earnest she is.

“Be careful.”

But his eyebrows furrow because he can’t understand why she’s suddenly warning him about getting involved with Jess after everything else they’ve talked about. But before he can think any more about this strange advice, she continues.

“She told me about your … second job, though she didn’t share many details about how you do it. But even if I don’t understand how, I do understand that it’s dangerous work ... particularly if you have an idealistic desire to save the world.”

He can hear wistfulness in her tone - the kind that comes from chagrin at one’s own personal experiences. From what Jess has told him about Trish, this does sound like an issue they have in common. Maybe they could sit down some time to talk about it. But for now, she’s not quite done with their heart-to-heart.

“But try to remember to save yourself from time to time, too. I’m not sure how much she’s been able to verbally tell you, but I know she cares about you. And she was devastated when she thought you were gone. So please- take care of yourself, for both your sakes.”

He can do nothing but blink a few times, dumbstruck as he takes in her words. There are so many questions racing through his mind, so many things which he is now wondering about, but mostly just wondering how much she really does care about him and what that might mean for them in the future. But these are questions he will need some time to process before he begins the process of answering them, so for now he will just focus on his response to Trish. And makes it as grateful as he can muster.

“Fair enough. Well, thanks. I will definitely bear that in mind.”

She nods once, then picks up her fork again to resume eating the last bites of her lunch, and he follows suit. And as they switch to decidedly less sErik is topics, he can’t help but feel a warm, bright hope blooming in his chest. Because he thinks he just got the best-friend stamp of approval, and this helps him to believe that he’s not crazy to believe that one day, he and Jess might be together. And that’s a lovely thought.

After they’ve finished with their lunch, when the waiter returns with the check, he snatches the bill before she can even reach for it. He may have been cheating, just a little thanks to his senses, but it’s totally worth it.

“Matt, that’s very kind of you, but you don’t have to do that. I did invite you out.” She shrugs, extending a hand in his direction.

But she shakes his head. “I appreciate the offer, Trish, but I insist.”

She lets out a huff of laughter. “I’m sure you two get along perfectly, what with both of you being bullheaded.”

He chuckles as he takes out his wallet and reaches for his card, which he gives to the waiter. “You have no idea.”

She chuckles, low and soft, at that. “I’m rooting for you, by the way. I think you’re just what she needs. If she could get out of her own way.”

A smirk breaks across his face. “I’m hopeful that with a little more time, it won’t be a problem.”

“Hopefully so.”

The waiter returns his card, and they gather their belongings, slipping on their jackets as they head for the door. Once outside, she offers to drice him home, but he politely declines. They say their goodbyes and make tentative plans to meet up again, just to chat (and won’t Jessica be thrilled to hear that), but just as she is turning to leave, he calls to her.

“Trish, wait. I just wanted to say thank you. For everything, but especially the advice.”

She raises her eyebrows and shrugs. “Like I said - I’m rooting for you, Murdock. So don’t fuck it up.”

He chuckles under his breath. “I’m going to do everything in my power not to.”

She smirks and nods once. “Bye for now.”

He waves and echoes her goodbye before turning and heading toward his apartment. And as he walks, he feels as though he’s floating. The lunch went just about as well as it possibly could have, and he is buzzing with hope and excitement about what Trish said. Because he may just have a chance with Jess after all. And he’s going to do whatever he can to ensure he doesn’t blow that chance.

Chapter Text

There is nothing remarkable about the day she finally realizes what her subconscious has been trying to tell her for months. In fact, it’s almost unfair how typical it is. There’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary, nothing earth-shattering or particularly memorable about any part of the day. And while she’s never been the world’s biggest romantic, part of her wondered if there would be some kind of… something. Maybe not a lightning bolt or divine chorus from the heavens, but a subtle sign of some kind, if you knew what it was you were looking for. But she’s looking, and she still can’t find anything.

And later, even when she replays the day in her mind, scouring her memories for the universe’s acknowledgment of this momentous occasion, she will not find it. Eventually, though, she will realize that doesn’t actually bother her because it doesn’t work that way. It’s not a big production. It’s all about the quiet realization- like the clearing of your vision or the understanding of what was previously unclear. But for now, she is still a bit surprised by how she has ccome to be having this discussion with herself.

The thing is, the son a bitch snuck up on her. And she didn’t think that could happen to her. But while she was busy giving him shit and smirking at his ability to laugh at himself, while they bullshitted and joked and snarked and sparred and spent time together, he wormed his way under her skin and into her heart. And it probably shouldn’t come as a surprise, now that she thinks about it.

Because if she’s being honest, she has felt something for him for months. It may have even started when they first met in that interrogation room, however long ago. Initially, she felt a baffled kind of fascination, which later turned into an exasperated concern. Then, eventually, it turned into a kind of kinship, with maybe the slightest bit of attraction there, though she allowed herself to think that just in time for him to go off and (almost) die on her.

The sense of loss she felt then had been overwhelming and terrible, as it was mixed with plenty of guilt and raging fury, too. But then the bastard had waltzed back into her life, not too worse for wear, and she hadn’t known what to feel about that. She had been relieved, sure. Grateful too. And even truly happy. But there was something else underlying the happiness - something she didn’t want to name. Something she shied away from. That she flat out denied for as long as she possibly could. But she can’t do that anymore.

Because she sees now what she has been avoiding for so long.

She, Jessica Jones, loves Matt Murdock.

And it all comes to her in the strangest way. Because it’s just a normal morning- he’s cooking breakfast in the kitchen (they both know his skills far outclass hers in this area), and she’s sitting at the table, sipping coffee. And as she takes another sip from her mug, she notices a pleasant, if unfamiliar, feeling - a warmth and a sense of security in her chest. Like she’s settled in a way she has never been. Like she belongs right where she is, more than she has ever belonged anywhere. Like she could spend the rest of her life right here, drinking coffee with him, every day, cliché as that sounds. But somehow it doesn’t bother her. Because she loves him, and she’d rather be a boring caricature of domesticity with him than be anything without him. And even though she’s chosen not to name the feeling until this moment, she’s pretty fucking sure that’s what love is.

She’s baffled by the thought because everything about him, everything about them as a couple, everything about this moment is nothing like she ever would have pictured for herself. She didn’t ever, in a million years, think that this kind of life would ever be her reality. Not even before Kilgrave. She was sure it just wasn’t in the cards for her - because of all the loss and pain and darkness that always followed her around and permeated every molecule of her life. She just never thought she was cut out for this kind of simple, ordinary love story, so she used to try to convince herself that she didn’t want it anyway - anything to take the edge off of the bitter resentment she felt every time she had to watch other people experiencing it while she was standing apart. Alone.

But now she knows that’s all a lie. And sure, maybe she never imagined Matt or the way that their ridiculous lives fit together, but still she knows that it’s perfect - better than anything she ever could have imagined.

She can’t say for how long, exactly, she has felt this way. Her capacity for denial is immense when she wants it to be. But, maybe it doesn’t truly matter, because she knows now. Finally. And she will never be able to forget.

She loves everything about him- his smirky, stubbled face, his wit, his sense of humour, his ability to take what she gives, then turn around and give it right back. She even loves the things about him that so often drive her crazy, including his reckless idealism, his refusal to let her have the last word, and his desire to save the world, his personal safety be damned.

And then, there are the secret, difficult parts of him that he tries so hard to hide from view, but which she can honestly say she loves as much as the easy parts. Because his rage, his self-doubt, and the horde of demons that haunt him remind her that he’s not afraid of her rage and her doubt and her demons - that his rough edges miraculously line up with hers. She doesn’t know what she’s done to deserve that, but she’s grateful all the same. And even if she never would have dreamed of finding someone like him, she’s happier than she knows how to express about the fact that she has.

But she’s not sure he knows how either (because she’s sure he loves her too, now that she’s done denying the signs and clues that have been staring her in the face for months). She wasn’t ready to consider the possibility before, was too afraid that if she let herself acknowledge how they both felt, she would get overwhelmed and run, as fast and as far as she possibly could. But subconsciously she knew he was her chance to be happy because he actually understood her. So she had waited and taken it one day at a time, slowly and unknowingly warming up to the idea until it had time to fully form in her mind. Until today.

She’s so caught up in her own head that she doesn’t notice he has turned to her, facing her across the counter, a confused frown on his face.

“Everything alright over there? You’re awfully quiet.”

And isn’t that just another reason to love him? Because her heart rate is up (from nerves about her realization, but he doesn’t know that) and she’s been sitting still and silent for however long she was having her realization, but typically when she’s like this, she’s thinking much less pleasant thoughts.

She shakes her head to clear it of her musings and grips her mug a little tighter. “I’m fine. Just … thinking.” She tries, though not too  hard, to keep the wistful note out of her voice, but she’s sure he heard a little of it. Just enough to raise an eyebrow at her, sarcasm coloring his tone.

“Well, don’t over do it. You don’t want to hurt yourself.” He smiles at her for good measure - a warm, dazzling thing that makes her pause. Makes her breath catch. Makes her heart stutter.

Because he’s smiled at her like that hundreds of times since they’ve been together, for a multitude of different reasons. But she’s never really seen his smile until today. Until this moment, she’s never read the joy, the devotion, the love in his eyes, has never felt like she was looking at the one person in all of the world who embodies her home. And if she was confident he loved her before, now she’s certain of it, down to her bones.

For a moment, she’s sad because he can’t see the smile she gives him in return, one that mirrors all of the things she saw reflected in his face. Maybe, though, he can get some of that from his other senses. She hopes so. But even if he can’t, she’s sure there are other ways she can show him. And she knows that now she’s finally ready to start.

Chapter Text

Their second big fight is almost entirely his fault. And it all starts with a question.

But it’s not really a fair question, and he knows it, though he has to do something to make up for the fact that she practically forced him to get checked out by Claire. And it’s not that he doesn’t like seeing Claire, but lately she makes him feel uneasy, and pretty damn guilty - particularly when Luke is around. So when they get to his place and he’s in his room changing out of his armor, he calls over his shoulder to her where she sits on the couch, drink in hand.

“So what all happened between you and Cage?” He uses the most innocent tone he can, but immediately her heart starts to race, and a flush rises on her cheeks.

“Why do you want to know?” She sounds particularly cagey as she answers him, and he can feel her staring daggers into his back as he steps into his sweat pants.

He carefully pulls on a t-shirt, minding the bandaged wound at his side, and gathers up his suit as he walks out toward his under-the-stairs closet.

He shrugs, still working hard to keep his voice neutral. “No reason in particular. He just made a comment tonight which confirmed my previously unvoiced assumption that you two used to date.” He pulls open the doors and places his gear in its trunk, and he hears her scoff and mumble under her breath.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it ‘dating’.”

He closes the trunk with a huff of a laugh and crosses toward her on the couch, cocking his head at her. “Well, do you mind if I ask what happened?”

The sigh she lets out is long and exasperated, almost pained. She’s silent for long enough that he starts to wonder if he should have let these particular sleeping dogs lie. But after an awkward beat, she throws back the rest of her drink, wiping her mouth with the back of hand as she swallows. Then she speaks, voice clipped.

“I’m an asshole. That’s what happened.”

His brows start to furrow because her tone is nothing but bitter self-reproach, and he didn’t mean to poke what is clearly still a very sore spot.

“Jess, I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me. I just thought it might help to talk about it, because you still get a little tense whenever he’s aroun-”

But he doesn’t get the chance to finish that thought, because she cuts him off, her tone prickly.

“Yeah, well you’re one to talk. What happened between you and Claire, anyway?”

He closes his eyes and nods his head. “I deserve that. And I suppose it’s only fair.” He reaches for the glass she poured for him earlier where it sits on the coffee table, and takes a big drink before letting out a long sigh.

“Well … I, too, am an asshole. I’m also a stubborn, reckless idiot with a savior complex and an allegedly non-existent sense of self-preservation. We barely even got together before all of that became too much for her to handle. But I don’t blame her. I do tend to be the center of entropy in the universe.”

With an internal grimace, he realizes that all came out surprisingly wistful, so he huffs a weak laugh at himself as he tries for some self-deprecating humor to lighten the mood. But it doesn’t seem to work. Instead of laughing with him, she sits, silently assessing him as the tension between them thickens. He raises his glass to take another drink as another awkward beat passes.

But eventually she speaks, and with an exaggerated and tightly controlled calmness that barely masks the defensive tone underneath. And all of that works together to raise his anxiety by several degrees.

“So you still have a thing for her? Is that why you hate interacting with her so much?”

His eyes go wide as saucers because this is definitely not how he intended for this conversation to go. Suddenly, he’s leaning toward her, because he has to make her understand what he’s actually trying to say. He takes a deep breath to keep from sounding desperate, because that probably won’t help his case any.

“No, Jess, I don’t have a thing for her. And I don’t hate interacting with her, I just … God, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I guess I’m a little jealous.”

Her brows draw down in confusion. “Of Claire?”

He runs a nervous hand through his hair. “No. Of Luke.”

But apparently that still isn’t enough of an explanation for her. “What are you… Why the hell are you jealous of Luke if you don’t still have a thing for Claire?”

He lifts his free hand, making a mindless gesture in the air as if it will help him find the words with which he is suddenly struggling.

“Because it’s not really about her. I-it’s the principal of the thing. She couldn’t handle being with me, in large part because of my vigilante activities, but she can handle it with Luke just fine. And I have to think that’s because he’s more capable. Stronger ... Unbreakable.”

He hates the disgust that drips from his lips as he says the word, but it’s an issue that has been festering and itching under his skin for weeks now. And it’s finally bad enough that it’s pushing its way to the surface, meaning he can ignore it no longer.

But Jessica seems even more pissed now. She turns toward him on the couch, and gives him a hard stare. “What- Where is all of this coming from?”

“Jess, come on. Where do you think? You saw what happened tonight. I tried to take down a whole group of guys by myself, but I got shot in the process. Because I wasn’t quick enough. Because I wasn’t strong enough. Because my skin isn’t bulletproof.”

He’s sure the face of confusion she’s making is a good one if it matches even a fraction of the confusion that’s coming across in her voice.

“Right. Which is why I chewed your ass for rushing in all by yourself, like an idiot. Thank God that point has finally managed to sink into your thick skull.”

That’s not his point at all, though. He shrugs as he tries again to get her to hear what he’s saying. “Yeah. But if it had been Luke? He could have taken down all those guys on his own. Easily.”

She freezes in a shrug for a moment. “… Okay? And?”

He huffs a sigh and deflates, shoulders rolling forward as he forces out the thoughts that have been hounding him for weeks.

“And I couldn’t. Because I won’t ever be able to do the things he does, no matter how hard I train. My senses don’t stand up to super-strength and bullet-proof skin.”

Her whole body goes rigid, and her tone turns downright frightening with the acid lacing it. “Okay, I think you need to revisit your feelings about Claire. Because if you’re not still carrying a torch for her, I do not understand what’s causing this existential crisis.” But right as she finishes that thought, she cocks her head at him and lets out a bitter huff of a laugh.

“Wait - I think I get it now. This is some kind of dick-measuring contest, isn’t it? That must be why you asked me about him - to see how you measure up. And because you need me to tell you about how much of a train wreck our relationship ended up being so that you can feel superior to him in some way? Jesus.”

If his eyes were wide as saucers before, they’re full on dinner plates now, but he can do nothing but gape at her as his tongue goes numb and lifeless in his mouth. Anxiety starts coursing through his body, and it’s only his muscle memory and breathing exercises that keep him from hyperventilating. Because holy shit, what is even happening? His free hand reflexively curls into a white-knuckled fist as he tries to formulate a coherent response and stop her from thinking anything worse about him.

“Jess-”

But, apparently, she’s still not done.

“Goddammit, Matt. I’m fucking you. Not Luke. So what the hell do you want from me, here?”

He can’t help but hang his head. It takes him a few tries to finally answer her, and his voice is low and harsh when he finally does.

“It’s not you, Jess. It’s me. Because I don’t … I don’t fit. You and Luke are ridiculously strong. Hell, Danny is too, part of the time. But not me. All I can do is fight. But that’s not always enough, and I’m …”

Suddenly, his chest is getting too tight and his breathing is becoming labored, preventing him from finishing the thought that is running on loop at maximum volume in his head.

I’m not enough. I’m not enough for the group. I’m not enough for you, Jess.

But something in his face must give his inner dialogue away, because suddenly she’s sighing and shaking her head, voice hesitant and strained.

“Look, I’m sorry if I made you feel bad earlier. But you’re still missing the point. And fuck strength, okay? You’re a very capable fighter, and you add plenty to the team. But I’m telling you that you need to learn how to accept help. Because in all of these situations, it’s dangerous for any one of us to go in alone. Luke included.”

He sits silent and still for several beats, his head in his free hand and his elbows on his knees. Eventually, he calms his breathing and his overwhelming anxiety enough to try swallowing his pride and speaking.

“So, uh, I don’t know what to say. Except that I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to subject you to that very embarrassing meltdown.”

But she just shrugs at him. “It’s whatever. I did chew you out pretty hard before. So, I guess… sorry for that.”

“Actually it was a very effective ass-chewing. It made me start thinking about my limits. But, unfortunately, those thoughts about limits quickly transformed into thoughts about my insecurities. Then the topic of exes got thrown into the mix, and it was very… not good.”

He’s happy to hear her scoff at that. And this time when she speaks, her tone is much more pleasant, a mixture of concern and confusion.

“But seriously, why does it bother you so much?”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, when it’s the four of us … it makes me feel like a liability. And when it comes to you and me, it’s because… I can’t match your strength. Not even close.”

She shrugs at him again. “But why the hell does that matter? Do you really think you need to? Because I’m going to hurt you? Or, because you think you need strength to impress me?”

He hangs his head, because now that she’s saying it out loud, he can hear how ridiculous it sounds.

She huffs an exasperated sigh at him. “That’s what I thought. So a word of advice: knock that shit off right now. You don’t need super-strength to impress me, Murdock. I’m already here. And besides, I wouldn’t have made such a scene in the warehouse if I didn’t already care about you.”

He can’t help but chuckle under his breath and give her the tiniest of smiles at that. And as he does, the knot of anxiety that has been coiling in his stomach starts to loosen. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

She smirks at him for a beat, then crosses her arms in front of her chest. There’s a playful challenge in her voice as she speaks this time.

“Damn right, you’re sorry. So what are you gonna do about it?”

A small, slow smirk spreads across his face as he places his glass on the coffee table and slowly slips off of the couch and sinks to his knees. Then he starts to slowly move toward her, pausing at her feet. He takes one foot in his hands and slowly lifts, brushing her pant leg up just enough to press a soft kiss to the inside of her ankle.

“What are your thoughts on groveling?”

She hums at him, as though she’s considering his question carefully. “Hmm, it’s a start.”

He switches feet then, pressing another soft kiss to the inside of her ankle as he chuckles. And suddenly all of the worries and insecurities of the last hour start melting away as she threads a hand through his hair and leans down to align their faces - so he knows she’s being serious.

“I meant it when I said you don’t need strength to impress me. So why don’t you use that Columbia education of yours to start thinking of some other ways to do that.”

And he can do nothing but smirk at her. Because, somehow, she always seems to know what to say to quiet his racing thoughts.

He still has some of his own work to do on that front, though, and he knows it. And, he will admit that he does still wonder about her relationship with Luke, if only because of the pain and regret she still feels about it. But that’s a conversation for another time, when both of them feel less defensive and vulnerable. For now, he’ll try to be with her in this moment, free of the insecurities and doubts that so often plague his mind. Because she’s right here - smirking at him, her hand in his hair. And if that isn’t proof enough of her interest, he’s doesn’t know what else would be. And he will do everything he possibly can to make them both forget about his lack of super-strength.

Chapter Text

At this point, she’s not expecting to be surprised by him much anymore. They’ve been together several months now, and after the months they spent as friends, she assumes that most of the big reveals about him have already happened - that there’s nothing left to catch her off guard. But occasionally, even she can be wrong. And today is one such day.

On this particular day, they’re out and about, on their way to get something to eat when he cocks his head to the side, brows furrowed in a concerned frown as he focuses on some unseen bit of sensory data someone in the ether.

“Is Timmy in the well?” Her tone is flat, but she’s smirking at him.

But after a moment of listening, he cocks his head a little further. Then his eyebrows shoot up to meet his hairline, and he chuckles under his breath. “Just a false alarm. I thought for a moment that someone was being hurt. But … it turns out that she was a willing participant, and was, actually enjoying herself quite a bit. So… no need for any heroics this time.”

His voice remains remarkably calm and steady, but the slightest of blushes rises on his cheeks. She smirks wider at the sight of it and adopts a sardonic tone.

“Scandalous. Your poor sensibilities must be thoroughly offended.”

He shakes his head at her, a smile curling his lips. “I’m sure I’ll manage.”

They walk a few more steps as she considers the implications of these powers of his, specifically related to the permanent ability he has to eavesdrop and intrude, no matter how delicate the situation.

“That must be a hell of a nuisance - always knowing everything that’s happening around you like that. Because ignorance really can be bliss.”

He shrugs. “Well, someone once told me that ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’ So, you’re right; it sucks at times. But if I want to be able to save people and do what I do and, it’s a necessary evil.”

She gives him a half-hearted hum of consideration. “I guess.”

They walk another half-block in relative silence. But then he sucks in a shaky breath.

“But there are definitely worse things to hear. Days when it’s truly a burden.” His expression is distant, his voice quiet. “That’s part of the reason I started putting on the mask - because I could hear and notice terrible things happening which no one else knew about or could stop.”

She bites her lip, stomach starting to churn with anxiety. “I’m pretty sure I don’t actually want to know the answer to this question, but… what kinds of things?”

His shoulders slump, and he turns his head toward her. “Jess, it’s okay. You don’t have to ask.”

Rolling her eyes and sighing, she slides her hands into her pockets.

“Yeah, well, I did. So?”

They continue on in silence for a beat before he finally sighs and speaks again, tone low and uncharacteristically flat.

“Initially, it was a young girl, maybe five years old. She was being abused by her father at night. And no one did anything about it for weeks, even when I called and tried to go through the official channels. So, eventually I did something about it.”

“Fuck.” She frowns deeply at that, looking down at her shoes as they move across the sidewalk, and she tries to process what he’s telling her. But somehow she knows that’s not even close to the only example he has.

“And the other times?”

He gives a belabored sigh. “I’m not going to list them all out, Jess.”

She gives him a sidelong glare she’s sure he can feel.

“… Okay, fine. One more.” He pauses for a moment, a look of calculation on his face as he attempts to pick his other example. His voice is strained and hesitant when he finally speaks again.

“… Do you remember two weeks ago - we were in that bar and suddenly I jumped up because I thought there was something wrong down on the next block? But by time we got there, I said that the cops were on their way and that things were fine. Then I promptly left, claiming a migraine was coming on?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, okay. So…”

Suddenly he looks very upset - visibly shaking with a tortured expression on his face. After she does a quick scan of the block, she pulls him off of the sidewalk into a side alley so that it’s just the two of them.

Once settled there against the brick of the building behind him, he takes a deep breath to calm himself and tries again.

“Well, there was some kind of dispute between a man and a woman. It sounded like he was high on something - agitated and mindlessly furious. Things started to get violent, and that’s when I had us start in that direction. But before we could get there, he pulled out a gun and shot her, point blank in the head. And she died instantly… But at that point, there was nothing we could do. The police were on their way - a neighbor had heard the scuffle and called - and he was too high to make a successful escape. So I called it off and went home because I was so upset, so livid at myself for not being fast enough to help her.”

She stands silent and completely still for a beat as her mind reels with what he’s telling her. Eventually she takes a breath and tries her voice, though it comes out sounding rough.

“Jesus Christ, Matt. I- I’m sorry.”

The words sound puny and thin, like they’re ridiculously lacking in the face of what he’s experienced, but they’re all she has to offer.

But he gives her a small, hollow smile in return, as if to thank her for her effort, regardless, before he flattens his mouth into thin line. “Yeah. That was a rough day.”

She has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing uncomfortably at that, because she doesn’t know what the fuck else to do.

But with this information, suddenly she feels the last gears slot into place as her mental image of him crystallizes. Because this is it- this is the piece of the puzzle she’s been missing when it comes to understanding him, particularly when it comes to the reckless way that he throws himself into danger without a second thought for what will happen to him in the process. Because he feels compelled to. Because he can literally find problems that no one else can, and in many cases (probably more than anyone wants to admit), he’s the only person that can help. Or at least, he’s the only one to show up and try.

And, holy shit, that is a motherfucking albatross if there’s ever been one in the history of man.

Immediately she feels her sense of respect for him triple in intensity, because he may not have super-strength, but he’s stronger than anyone else she’s ever met to walk around with all of the loss he is exposed to everyday, no matter how far removed he may be from the situation.

She finally looks up at his face, baffled and in awe of this ridiculous man who is so good in so many ways. Because it’s moments like this in which she doesn’t understand how she’s ended up here. She doesn’t know why he seems to care about her so much, but she can’t deny that she is coming to care for him too - though she’s still unsure if or how to express that most of the time.

But tonight, as she says a prayer of thanks to a god she’s still not entirely sure exists (but which she thinks is one of the only logical explanations for how she’s ended up with Matt), she doesn’t even think. She just reacts. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes just hard enough until he lifts his head up toward hers. And in a soft but sure voice that brooks no argument, she gives him the only support she can think of.

“Murdock, next time something like that happens, tell me. ‘Great responsibility’ may come with ‘great power’ or whatever the hell, but who says you have to deal with either of those things on your own?”

The smile he gives her then is small, but brilliant and true. And her heart stutters when he brushes his thumb over her fingers.

“Okay, Jess. I can do that.”

And as he says the words, something tells her that maybe, in time and as long as they’re together, they’re both gonna be okay in the end- able to deal with sadness and loss and the sometimes depressing reality of the world around them. So long as they can trust and lean on one another to get through. She she’s starting to believe that may not be such an impossible future after all. She can certainly hope so.

Chapter Text

The reflection currently staring back at Jessica from the floor length, filigreed mirror of some upscale clothes designer on Twelfth Street is well-dressed but frowning. Deeply. Scowling, actually. Enough to create deep creases between her eyebrows that Trish once casually suggested a nighttime face cream regimen for before Jessica turned her death glare on her, causing Trish to raise her hands in resignation and go immediately silent. But internally, Jessica is anxious more than anything. Because in a way, it’s funny that she’s found herself in this situation. And a distant part of her is terrified to fuck it up even as she hates that she has to take part in the first place.

“Remind me again why I let you talk me into this?” she asks Trish with a roll of her eyes and an exasperated huff.

Trish raises her eyebrows and gives Jessica an inscrutable look that she doesn’t like one bit.

“Because you owe me. Big. For multiple reasons. And I need your support if I’m going to be facing these people, including my mother. Especially my mother.”

Trish pushes off of the ornately papered and flocked mauve dressing room wall where she’d been leaning to inspect the fit of Jessica’s latest outfit. “But it’s not as if I’m going to be feeding you to the wolves or leaving you to fend for yourself. At least you actually have a date.”

Jessica sinks into her right hip and crosses her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes in perfect tandem with the gesture. “Gee, thanks. ‘Cause that didn’t sound patronizing at all.”

With a pained sigh, Trish closes her eyes. “Jess, I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant-“

“Whatever. It’s fine.”

“Hey,” Trish pleads as she catches Jessica’s gaze in the mirror and holds it while she comes up to stand directly behind her, hands on her shoulders. “I’m just so excited Matt accepted the invitation to come. I’m sure he’ll be a great support for you throughout the whole weekend.” Trish uses soft, delicate fingers to smooth out invisible creases on Jessica’s shoulders and upper back.

“God, I hope so.” Jessica’s attention returns to the mirror as she shrugs out of Trish’s hold and turns to the right, considering her profile. Her eyes are sharp and critical, assessing the elegant white pant suit she’s wearing. It’s definitely the most comfortable thing she’s tried on in the last grueling hour, and she thinks it actually looks pretty fucking great, but she’s still not really sure how she convinced Trish to include it in the pile in the first place.

“Honestly, this is my favorite,” Trish says over Jessica’s shoulder.

That catches Jessica’s attention. She snaps her head back to look at Trish, brows raised.

“Seriously? It’s not even a dress. And it’s white. I’m no fashionista, but isn’t that forbidden for anyone other than the bride?”

Trish just shrugs, a sly smile on her face.

“So? It’s 2018 and I have seen plenty of people wear white to a wedding at this point in my life. No one will think twice, but even if they do, are you telling me that you honestly care? And as for the pants, if Hillary Clinton did nothing else for us, it was to solidify the place of the pantsuit in the world of fashion as a staple and a valid choice for any event. If you want to wear a dress, be my guest. But this is the first time you’ve seemed to be even a modicum of comfortable since I forced you in here and all but held you at gunpoint to take off your jacket. In light of everything else I’m asking you to do, this is a concession I’m willing to make.”

A begrudging half-smirk makes its way across Jessica’s face. “Deal.”

Trish smiles knowingly at Jessica, then steps out of the dressing room, pulling the heavy brocade curtain closed behind her. Jessica takes one last look at herself and sighs before she turns to change back into her unofficial uniform - torn jeans, dark tank, combat boots, and leather jacket.

First Jessica removes the pants and carefully returns them to their hanger, with a care that would surprise most people to know she possessed, then she steps into her jeans. Just as she is removing the ivory colored top and jacket and hanging them back on the satin padded hanger, Trish addresses Jess through the fabric of the curtain.

“…Speaking of Matt, have you talked with him at all about the rooms at the hotel?”

Jessica’s stomach drops at Trish’s words because she has decidedly not talked with Matt about the rooming situation. Just asking him to come as her date had been difficult enough, considering that they’re just friends but for some reason, her mind has been running away with her lately and bombarding her with images of them doing extra friendly things with an alarmingly increasing frequency. The idea of having a conversation with him about beds and sleeping arrangements sounds as disastrous as pouring gasoline over an open flame for that particular problem of hers, so she has been avoiding any further discussion about their relationship, rooming situation, or anything else related to the wedding like the plague.

A beat of silence passes, and when it becomes clear that Jessica isn’t going to respond, Trish carries on, voice a mix of excited and anxious.

“Because, well, I had this idea, and it’s really simple, actually — we request adjoining rooms at the hotel! Officially, Griffin and I will have one room, and you and Matt will have the other, but once we’re inside, we’ll switch so that you and I are sharing a room while the guys share the other. It’s genius, really. No one would be the wiser. I’m sure when we explain the situation to Griffin, he’ll be totally fine rooming with Matt. He’s very understanding that way.”

Jessica closes her eyes and sucks in a deep, regulated breath. Because this whole situation is becoming frighteningly real for her, and the weight of it all feels like it is collapsing her lungs. Tingling in her hands alerts her to the fact that she is clenching her hands into fists tight enough to threaten her circulation. She supposes that is technically a preferable outcome to putting her fist through the mirror in front of her. And even though the urge to punch something (or someone) is still very strong, somehow she refrains.

Trish finally senses Jessica’s discomfort, or at least grows uneasy with her continued silence, and knocks gingerly on the dark wood panel serving as a door frame for the dressing room curtain.

“Hey, Jess? You okay?”

“…Yeah. J-just give me a minute.” With one last measured breath, Jessica pulls on her tank top and jacket, sets her shoulders, and stomps into her boots. She grabs the pantsuit and throws back the curtain, striding from the dressing room, purpose in her step and hardness in her gaze.

Trish startles as Jessica rips the curtain open and breezes past her.

“Let’s just get out of here, okay?” Jessica calls over her shoulder, and stomps off toward the counter.

Trish follows, a confused frown on her face. “Sure,” she says softly. But something about her look tells Jessica the conversation is far from over.

Chapter Text

Jessica Jones has a secret and Matt Murdock is shocked when he learns what it is.

When he happens to notice this new, secret bit of information about her is almost as much of a surprise as the discovery itself; he is not typically one to miss such details, though he’ll chalk most of that up to the fact that the first time he was introduced to that patch of her skin, he was a little preoccupied. But when they’re getting up and around the next morning, he’s free of distractions as he happens upon it again.

It all happens the morning after - after they spend the night together for the first time - when he offers to make her breakfast, having woken her gently with kisses, soft touches to her face, and general adoration that she pretends to despise but he can tell she actually loves. She grunts a begrudging affirmative, still groggy and very put out to be awake before 10 am, but gets up and puts on her underwear and t-shirt as he pulls on pajama pants and a t-shirt of his own. Next she finds her jeans and moves to step in them, but in her still half-asleep state, her foot catches in the fabric, and she starts to fall.

He’s behind her in seconds, pulling her up with one hand grabbing her hip and the other at her shoulder to steady her, a smirk on his face. But his expression immediately morphs into one of confusion.

“Wait, is that a tattoo?” The hand holding her hip now traces the skin slightly to the right of her left hip bone where a circular tattoo, about the size of a plum is inked into her skin.

She heaves a big sigh and fights a losing battle with a blush, rolling her head to angle away from him. “I was wondering if you were going to notice that.”

He chuckles softly. “Forgive me if my attention was diverted last night when I might have had the chance to notice it. I would hope my efforts were appreciated and that the oversight could be forgiven,” he says with a sly grin as he leans in and kisses her neck where she’s exposed it for him.

She shivers and he notices her pulse spike. The shiver seems like an indicator that she enjoyed the gesture, but he can’t quite parse if it’s the good kind of pulse spike or not as her adrenaline spikes as well. But then she turns in his hold so that they’re face-to-face, and he makes a mental note to avoid her neck from behind until they’ve had a conversation about it, just to be sure. She doesn’t seem too upset, though, and links her hands around his neck.

“I probably don’t want to know the answer to this question, but how can you tell?”

He settles his hands on her hips and shrugs. “It has to do with the … density of the skin in that area, for lack of a better word. I can feel the ink sitting in the dermis layer.”

“Yeah, that’s not creepy and simultaneously gross at all.”

He just smirks at her. “May I?”

“Fine,” she huffs.

With gentle, teasing fingers, he resumes his tracing of the outline of the shape with a quiet intensity. He pretends not to notice her sharp intake of breath or rapidly increasing pulse as he does. Instead, he narrates what he finds.

“So it’s a smiley face. But a … dead one? Like, with ex-ed out eyes?”

She huffs an exasperated sigh at him, but it sounds like she’s holding back a bit of a chuckle. “It’s the Nirvana logo, dumbass.”

Matt closes his eyes and inclines his head a few degrees, appropriately chagrined even if it’s not technically realistic for him to have known that. He wasn’t really a fan of grunge before the accident.

“Right. Sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve seen it.”

She bites her lip and rolls her eyes at him, still fighting a laugh. “I guess you’re forgiven.”

He puts a hand to his chest, voice feigning shock. “I’m touched by your magnanimity.”

At this, Jessica playfully punches him in the shoulder.

A beat passes as he begins re-tracing the outline of the shape on her soft skin, mesmerized by this new discovery. His voice is quiet when he finally works up the courage to ask the question that is suddenly burning a hole through the center of his brain.

“What made you decide to get it?”

She doesn’t seem to understand the sincerity of his interest and shrugs. “I don’t know. Why does any young idiot get a tattoo? I had just turned eighteen and was desperate to do anything that would prove my independence to any and everyone who would listen. Plus, I might have been a little drunk. And I, uhhh … nevermind.”

Matt cocks his head at the way that she begins to trail off, as though editing herself before sharing something too … well, he’s not quite sure what. But he has a suspicion.

“What?”

“Do you not know what ‘nevermind’ means?”

And the flinty edge that is now creeping into her tone does nothing to dissuade him of said suspicion. He runs a few contingencies in his head about how to proceed before making a calculated choice to respond with sarcasm.

“Oh, wait … I do know this one! It’s the name of a Nirvana album?”

“Cute,” she huffs with a halfhearted sneer of a smile. But it’s not too far off of the mark for what he was expecting in response, and it’s less of a shutdown than she could have given him, so he looks at the floor as he pushes her just a little harder.

“Thanks. But, it just seemed like you were thinking really hard about something before you changed your mind. And it just seemed like it was somewhat significant. Now, you don’t have to tell me; you never have to tell me anything you don’t want to. But you also don’t have to not tell me something just because it is significant. I don’t scare that easy, Jones. I’m Daredevil, remember?”

She shakes her head and scoffs at him. “I don’t — I mean, look, I just … ughhh. Fine. It’s just that … even though I wasn’t really consciously thinking it, looking back, it was something I wanted to do for myself. To myself. To show that even though those bastards at IGH had done whatever the fuck they’d done to me, my body was still mine and I got to decide my fate. Including choosing to get a shitty Nirvana tattoo on my hip.”

She’s deflated by the end - as though the disclosure took an inordinate amount of energy from her - posture sagging and looking down and away from him.

Matt blinks at her. “Wow, Jess. That is … surprisingly insightful. And it makes a lot of sense, actually. Thank you for telling me that. Truly.” He brings a gentle hand up to cup her face and lifts her chin, as if to make eye contact with her and emphasize his words.

“Yeah, well, congratulations. You know all my secrets now,” she says in a flat voice.

He struggles and fails to suppress a chuckle, because the idea strikes him as patently ridiculous. Someone as complex and complicated and intelligent and interesting as Jessica Jones is bound to have more secrets than a Nirvana tattoo. Surely.

“Somehow I doubt that,” he says in an arch tone.

But she doesn’t chuckle back or even huff a laugh under her breath at him. Instead she pushes hard against his chest, effectively breaking out of his hold, and smacks him in the arm with a surprising amount of force.

“What? What’s wrong?” he asks, very confused at her sudden change in mood.

“That wasn’t supposed to be funny, asshole. But believe me, I’m thrilled to know this is just a big joke to you. That I’m a joke to you.” She storms off, out of his bedroom and into the living room.

Matt hurries after her, his mind reeling and anxiety coursing through his veins. He’s never made such a terrible miscalculation in how she’d respond to his sarcasm, but he supposes it was bound to happen eventually. He just wishes it wasn’t in response to such a fragile moment that he unintentionally stomped all over.

“No! Jess. Never. You’re the furthest thing from a joke to me. I swear. I-I’m sorry. You’re right. That was … very unfair of me. Please forgive me for being so flippant. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or invalidate what you were trying to share with me. I’m sorry.”

A quick scan reveals she’s not particularly moved by his words, standing still and silent, arms crossed tight over her chest, as she stares out of his apartment window into the distance.

He runs a nervous hand through his hair and walks a few cautious steps toward the next window over, but she gives no sign that she acknowledges him. Heaving a heavy sigh, he leans back against the brick wall in between the windows and looks down, addressing his feet as much as he’s addressing her.

“I just meant that there’s so much more to you, so much more than what you present to the world. And I see that. Just as I see why you keep it locked away. You’d be crazy not to. Or at least a glutton for punishment with no survival instinct. But you’re neither of those things. You’re beautifully complex and complicated and messy and I love you for it. For all of it. But please believe me when I say I’m not scared of it. I’m not scared of you or of any possible secret you may have. I meant it when I said you never have to tell me anything, but you always can if you want to or if you need someone to talk to. About whatever.”

She answers him in the form of a heavy sigh as she shifts her weight, leaning into her opposite hip. But she still says nothing, staring blankly out at the city below.

Matt sighs in frustration before making himself take a step back to reassess. He’s pretty sure she’s listening - if not, she would have just left. She had every opportunity to. And he’s seen her leave for much less in the past. So he can’t give up yet. Matt licks his lips as he tries his last remaining strategy, edging ever so carefully closer to her as he speaks.

“Not gonna argue - I totally deserve the silent treatment, but that’s gonna make today pretty miserable for me. So is there anything I could do to make it up to you? Or to show you how sorry I am? I mean, I was already going to make breakfast, but at this point, maybe you’d like it in bed?”

She still refuses to look at him, but she turns from looking out the window to looking down at the floor as she leans her left side against the brick wall in between the windows.

Matt considers this progress and continues edging toward her and offering suggestions for how he could pay his penance.

“Or maybe some old fashioned groveling would help?”

Jessica rolls her eyes at that, and Matt smirks at the fact that he seems to be winning her over, slowly but surely.

“Or maybe … I could get a matching tattoo?”

She bites her lip at that, no doubt to keep from smirking at him. But he’s not about to let her get away with that.

“Is that it? Oh, I think that’s it. But where do you think would be best? Here?”

He holds up his arm, flexing his bicep, and though she can’t help but look at him now, she’s doing her damnedest not to smile. But Matt is nothing if not persistent.

“Or maybe here?” he asks, gesturing with his left hand to his right shoulder blade as he turns around and pulls his t-shirt over his head.

Casually, he drops the shirt to the floor, and as it falls, Jessica’s pulse begins to rise. Matt turns back around to face her and edges one last step toward her, stopping just short of arms-length apart.

He slides a finger under the waistband of his pajama pants and lowers them just far enough to expose his own left hip. “Or what about here? Then we can really match.”

Finally losing the battle against her will, Jessica scoffs at him as a tiny smirk breaks across her scowling face. “Idiot,” she says, though with decidedly less acid in her voice than a few moments ago.

“But I’m your idiot,” he says, as he moves slowly back into her space, allowing her the chance to turn away. When she doesn’t, he settles his hands around her waist and leans his forehead forward to touch hers, ever so gently.

“You’d better be,” she huffs with an exaggerated pout. But then she softens, and he watches, perplexed and absolutely elated, as she curls into him, resting her head on his right shoulder and tracing mindless patterns over the planes of his chest.

A sun-bright grin starts to break across his face, but he turns and presses a soft kiss into her hair to keep it from blinding her. This is a rare display of vulnerability from her and he doesn’t want to spook her or ruin the moment. Instead he responds in a tone with which he assumes she’ll be more comfortable.

“The infamous Jessica Jones showing some amount of affection?! What will people say if they find out?”

She pushes back far enough to give him a look, but it lacks the full threat of which she is capable. “You better not go around ruining my image, Murdock. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

She leans back against his chest, one hand wrapped around his neck while the other settles over his heart, beating steadily - if a little more rapidly at her close proximity.

Matt wouldn’t be able to stifle the magnitude of his smile this time, even if he tried. So he doesn’t.

“Your secret’s safe with me, Jones. All of them.” His hand returns to her hip and ever so lightly traces the outline of her tattoo as he speaks. “I promise.”

A beat passes as the tension between them swells, and Matt listens as Jessica’s heart once again begins to race. And then she’s surging forward, pressing her lips to his, and wrapping her arms around him with a resolution that makes Matt’s blood sing. But not just in a physical way.

Because the way she is reaching for him now feels different. More sure. More comfortable. Like he’s passed some kind of a test, or made it through some trial and proved his worth. Like he’s earned another clue to help him solve the puzzle that is Jessica Jones. He understands that as of this moment, he has been let into her world in a way that few (if any) ever have. And he vows never to betray the trust or the gift she has given him in sharing these secret parts of herself with him.

He pulls her in like a lifeline and kisses her right back, sure hands settling at the small of her back and the base of her throat like anchor points, holding her to him. In doing so, he hopes that he has successfully communicated his promise to her. And if the look she gives him as she takes his hand and turns back to his bedroom after they part for breath - chests heaving in tandem - is any indication, he’s guessing she’s got some idea.

—

By the time they actually make it to the kitchen to start working on breakfast, it’s closer to noon than to a respectable breakfast hour, but Matt can’t honestly say he minds. In fact, he thinks that by being with Jessica, he may come to develop a new appreciation for the existence of brunch.

Chapter Text

The night he decides to stand his ground takes her by surprise, though later, as she reflects on it, she guesses that they’ve been building to this for a while now and he was well within his right to do so (even if she’s loathe to admit it). 

The call he makes to her earlier that afternoon to invite her along to help him with his vigilante-ing is vague enough that it gives her the impression that the whole gang will be joining them in whatever do-good actions they’ll be enforcing; so, when she shows up and sees only him on the warehouse rooftop, dressed and ready for action, she’s immediately suspicious. And that suspicion comes out in her voice, making her tone pointed, maybe even a little accusatory.

“What the hell is this?” she says, gesturing to the empty space around him.

“Well, hello to you too. But what are you talking about?” he asks, face distorting in confusion. 

She fights back a snarl because she already has a bad feeling about the direction the conversation is heading, but she really hopes she’s reading him wrong. “Don’t act like an asshole. Where is everyone else?”

“It’s just us tonight,” he says, adjusting his gloves and helmet, as though he can’t wait another minute to bust down the doors and start kicking asses.

“‘Just us’? Up against an arms’ dealer and eight of his most well-armed buddies. But you didn’t think to call anyone else? Even when you took a round in the stomach last time you barged ahead and tried to handle something like this solo, and I chewed your ass to Brooklyn and back for it?”

“Jess, look—“ He has his hands up in a placating gesture, one that she can’t help but notice puts extra space between them. But that does nothing to cool the fury building in her stomach. If anything, it stokes the flame.

She stomps into his personal space and bats his hands away before using a strong finger to poke him in the chest of his suit.

“What the fuck is your problem, Matt? This is exactly the kind of thing I was on you to ask the team for help with.”

“And I did. I called you .” He sounds genuinely baffled as he points this out to her and for reasons that she can’t articulate, it causes her blood to boil. 

“Yeah, and I’m fucking ecstatic . But that’s not what I meant, and you know it,” she snarks as she rolls her eyes at him.

“Jess, it’s not the first time I’ve been up against these guys. I can handle it. No, let me rephrase— we can handle it.”

“That’s not the point. It’s an unnecessary risk when we have a guy that’s literally bulletproof not even a borough away who would be all too happy to help us, I’m sure—”

“Yeah, but he was busy. It doesn’t matter anyway though, because you and I can handl—“

She barely even pauses enough to let him speak, let alone registers his words before cutting him off; she’s too busy digging her heels in. “You say that like we’re actually going to go through with this plan."

“Because we are. Or at least … I am,” he says with a shrug. “I told you, I’ve taken this guy down before, guns and all, and he’s really not as dangerous as you seem to think—”

“Right. So was that before or after you nearly got yourself killed under a collapsing building?”

She can’t see his eyes, but she can tell his face has fallen by the pout of his mouth and the way his whole posture shrinks, like she’s punched him in the gut. “Jess. Come on. What does that have to do with this?”

At the sight of him, Jessica notices prickles of guilt that begin to gnaw at her stomach, but his words continue to fan the flames of anger, burning the guilt away. “Are you kidding? It has everything to do with this.”

“But I’m not being reckless. I’ve got a plan and I have you to help me. Plus, I’m in a much better head-space than I was last time. I could have already handled this on my own, but I was trying to show you I was making an effort by asking you to come with me.” He actually has the audacity to let incredulity slip into his voice. She nearly pops a blood vessel at the sound.

Jessica’s hands reflexively begin to ball into fists at her sides. Because he still just isn’t getting it . “Are you deliberately misunderstanding me at this point? Because, honestly, it’s kind of amazing if you aren’t.”

Matt puts a hand on his hip while rubbing the back of his neck with the other. “I don’t know what to tell you. I heard you and I took what you said to heart. I’ve been involving the team more often, and I’ve been making a conscious effort to be less reckless with my own safety. But I know what I’m doing. I was a vigilante long before I met you or the others, and I got along just fine—“

She doesn’t even try to stifle her scoff. “Judging by the patchwork of scars all over your body, that’s debatable at best, if not a full-fledged lie—“

Instinctively, she flinches as he interrupts her, voice raised and hands splayed out and pleading before him. 

“Jess, please. What do you want me to do? Hang up the mask altogether? Because that’s what I’m really hearing you say. But I-I can’t do that ... I won’t. This is a part of who I am, and I won’t give it up. Not even for you. No matter how much I … care about you.”

Jessica blinks at him, her fight, flight, or freeze response engaging as the hair on her arms stands on end. She sucks in a shaky breath as he continues, voice low and raw, like he’s struggling to get the words out.

“I know you don’t like ultimatums, Jess. I don’t either, but I’m tired of this … ” he sighs heavily as he gestures between them, “ … this argument. I don’t want to fight about this anymore.” A red-hot flare of anxiety goes off in Jessica’s stomach as his voice trails off to a whisper. The words are nearly lost to the light breeze picking up on the rooftop. 

But she hears him anyway, and her heart plummets to her feet. And suddenly her tongue, which moments before was lithe and fiery is now leaden and stuck in her mouth. A tense and silent beat passes as she struggles to remember how to breathe. Before she can, though, he continues.

“So I guess it’s your turn to decide what this relationship really means to you. Because if we’re gonna be together, I need you to believe that I’m trying. And I need you to trust me with this.”

Jessica stands completely still for a beat— freeze the survival response winning out for the moment— save for her trembling lip as the rage and heartbreak warring in her chest threaten to break through the mask of her face. Her breathing is an exaggerated rhythm of shuddering inhales and harsh exhales while she tries to quiet her rushing thoughts, and just as she thinks the heartbreak is about to win, one hot tear slides down her cheek. But as soon as she feels it, she wipes it away with an angry hand and that’s all it takes for the rage to win out.

It’s a quiet rage, though. A focused, white-hot kind like a laser shooting from her eyes and her mouth, all but immolating the world before her. She looks directly at him and dares him to cower from her gaze. 

“Don’t act like that’s not a big ask, Matt. It’s fucking huge and you know it. So forgive me if I can’t find it in me to watch you walk headfirst into your grave— again — for the ‘greater good’.” 

He doesn’t cower, doesn’t even flinch at the caustic tone she uses. All he does is swallow and drop his head to the ground silently as she finishes. 

She lets a tense beat hang in the air between them, waiting, giving him one last chance (and praying to a god she doesn’t even believe in for him to ask her, beg her to stay). But when he still says nothing, she rolls her shoulders and adjusts her jacket, then scoffs. 

“Well, good fucking luck, Daredevil. I hope you don’t get shot,” she spits at him, as she turns on her heel and bounds off toward the edge of the rooftop, jumping to the next building over. 

When she hears him call out her name, voice raw and desperate, she can’t help another tear from rolling down her cheek.

“Jess, hey, come on. Please? Jess? Come back, Jess. Jess?” 

But with another few bounding leaps, she loses the sound in the ambient noises of the city.

“Dammit, Jess, don’t … Jess! Please… Jess… Jess…”

——

Jessica waits until she’s jumped a few more blocks over (Matt’s super senses be damned) before she yanks her phone out of her pocket and dials Trish.

“Hey Jess. What’s up?”

“You still got my whiskey of choice on hand at your apartment?”

“Yes … but do I want to know why you’re asking?” Trish asks with palpable hesitation.

She sighs, eyes closing as she replays the last thirty minutes in her head. “Well, I think Matt and I might have just broken up, so—“

“Oh my god! Jess, what happened?!”

“Look, I’m already on the way. I’ll tell you when I get there. But I’ll need booze first. Lots of it.”

“Yeah, I’ll have it ready for you.”

“Great. I’ll be there in like, ten minutes.”

“Are you alright?”

“… No. But that’s why I’m inviting myself over. ‘Engaging my support system’ or whatever the fuck. Be proud, or something.”

“Jess, where are you? I could come pick yo—“

“And Trish?”

Jessica would almost swear she can feel the reverberations of the sigh Trish gives travel through the phone. “... Yeah?”

“Leave your balcony door unlocked.”

“... Right.”

—

As soon as Jessica gets to Trish’s apartment, she makes a beeline for the counter, where an unopened bottle of Jim Bean waits for her next to a glass tumbler. She bypasses the tumbler and cracks opens the cap, swigging generously from the bottle. 

Trish watches from the end of the counter in concerned bafflement. “Well, hello to you too.”

Bringing the back of her hand up to wipe her mouth, Jessica sighs. “Hi. Whatever. Sorry. It’s been a pretty fucking shitty night, okay?”

“So I heard. What exactly happened?”

Jessica takes another swig, then leans forward on the counter with her elbows, picking at the label on the bottle.

“Matt called me earlier and said he had a job he wanted to do tonight— an arms dealer he wanted to put out of business— and he was requesting back-up. So I show up at the spot, but it’s just him and me there. No Danny, no Luke.”

Trish nods at Jessica, encouraging her to continue. “Uh huh. So?”

“So, I immediately get pissed because I thought all four of us were going to be taking this operation down, but apparently he wants to do it with just the two of us.”

Trish narrows her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest, leaning a hip against the counter. “And you were pissed because…” 

“Because this is the same kind of bullshit I’ve been warning him not to do, since the last time he tried, he got shot in the fucking stomach. So I remind him of that, and then he acts all confused about why I’m mad, saying he called me for help and asking me what more I wanted him to do.”

Trish hums. “So how did you respond to that?”

“I told him he was missing the fucking point and that he still wasn’t taking his safety seriously enough. And I reminded him of his genius plan at Midland Circle.”

“I’m guessing that went over well,” Trish says with a flat voice.

“Like a fucking lead balloon. And then he got all pissy and hurt and basically told me I was being unfair and that what I was really asking was for him to quit being Daredevil.”

Trish looks up at Jess, her eyes as big as dinner plates. “Wow.”

“Yeah . And then … he said that he couldn’t do that, no matter how much he might care about me.” Jessica stares into the distance for a moment after she speaks, then chugs at least a shot and half’s worth of whiskey in one swallow.

Trish sighs, concern on her face. “What did you do when he said that?”

“Nothing. I was shocked. And so fucking angry I could barely see straight. So then he gave me some bullshit ultimatum that I either learn to trust him as Daredevil or we’re done because he couldn’t stand to have this fight anymore.”

Carefully edging a little closer along the counter, Trish’s voice is very quiet when she speaks. “And what did you say?”

“I told him that it was too big an ask and he knew it. Then I told him not to get shot. And I was bitchy about it. Then I left.”

“Oh god.”

“Yeah, I know. What a dick move, right? I mean, you think you know a person—“

“What, Jess… you can’t be serious.”

With an appalled scoff, Jessica turns a deadly glare on Trish that communicates the fact that she is very serious. 

But Trish is unfazed. “Don’t you think he has a point?”

At this, Jessica turns from leaning on the counter to face Trish directly, mirroring her pose with her arms crossed over her chest. “No. I don’t.”

Trish uncrosses her arms and steeples her hands together, as if searching carefully for the exact words to use.

“Jess, you know I’m the first one in your corner. Always. But I don’t think he’s in the wrong here. I’m just saying—“

Jessica interrupts Trish with a wounded look. “How could you… ? Have you forgotten what he did? How reckless he was?”

“You mean what he did months ago when he almost died? And after which he has been making a serious effort to be less reckless? At your insistence?”

“Yeah, until tonight ,” Jessica counters with a pointed look and biting tone to match.

“So, what would you have wanted him to do differently? He already called you,” Trish says as she leans one hand on the counter and places the other on her hip. 

Jessica pauses and glares at her, not liking where she thinks the conversation might be headed. “Y-yeah. Well ... he could have called the rest of the team. Or at least Danny, since Luke was busy-“

A sudden shock runs through Trish and her jaw drops. Eyes wide, she gasps and crosses down the counter to Jessica. “Wait, how do you know that?”

Jessica drops her arms flatly to her sides. “Well, Matt said—“ 

“What was that?!” Trish interrupts Jessica, urgency on her face and in her voice that Jessica can’t place.

“Jesus, what ? Why are you freaking out?” Jessica says as she turns to take another drink of whiskey.

“Jess, are you hearing yourself? Matt called Luke. In addition to calling you. He asked for help, but apparently Luke was busy. So who knows? Maybe he called Danny too, but they were both busy. But just because Luke couldn’t come doesn’t mean you should be punishing Matt for still wanting to be Daredevil. Don’t you think he’s more than paid his penance at this point?”

The flame of anger in Jessica’s stomach that had been slowly guttering and dying as she put more distance between herself and Matt now flares to life again, blazing bright. She chugs two shots’ worth of whiskey and slams the bottle down as hard as she dares without breaking it against Trish’s expensive marble countertop.

“Not if he’s going to continue to put himself in the same needlessly life-threatening situations over and over again.”

Trish shakes her head and seems to deflate, giving a resigned shrug. 

“Then is Matt right? Do you want him to quit? Because that isn’t fair. You knew being Daredevil was important to him going in. And his desire to save the world is actually part of what you love about him, whether or not you’re willing to admit it.”

Jessica pushes off of the counter and starts pacing, running nervous hands through her hair. “Well I don’t love it enough to sit around and wait for him to die because of it. Again ,” she snarls. 

Trish’s entire demeanor changes at that. She sighs, melancholy in her voice. “Is that really what this is about?”

Instead of answering her, Jessica returns to the counter and slams another shot.

But Trish correctly (and annoyingly) interprets her silence as confirmation. Trish creeps closer, voice soft and low, as if in an effort not to spook her. “Have you considered trying to explain what it is you’re afraid will happen?”

Jessica snaps her head over at Trish. “I’m not afraid. Why the hell would you think I’m afraid?”

Trish crosses her arms again and fixes Jessica with an arch look. “Hmm. Of course not. So you’d feel perfectly comfortable explaining to him why you completely lost your shit tonight? ‘Cause you know, some people actually share their thoughts and feelings with those they care about.”

“Yeah, and some people walk on burning hot coals for fun, but that doesn’t mean I plan to do that,” Jessica says with a sneer as she takes another drink of whiskey. She feels Trish’s gaze on her but ignores it, staring blankly out into space as a heavy silence falls. 

Eventually, Trish shakes her head and rubs her eyes before turning to Jessica with a solemn look on her face.

“You are standing on a precipice right now. Depending on how you choose to handle this, you could lose him. For good. You do understand that, don’t you?”

“Better now than when he’s lying dead under a pile of rubble somewhere because he just couldn’t quit being the hero,” Jessica spits, throwing back one last shot.

“... Right. Because if you leave him now it hurts less or protects you from pain in the future somehow?” Trish poses it as a question, but uses a tone that sounds like she’s not really asking. And Jessica doesn’t like the air of judgement she hears instead.

“At least it gives me the fucking choice.

“So you’re telling me, honestly and truly, this is what you want? This is the ‘choice’ you want to make? To walk away from the one person who you’ve ever really cared about— and who cared about you— because you’re scared?”

This is the last straw. Jessica has let Trish say and get away with a lot tonight (and in general, lately) but this is a bridge too far. Her hands curl reflexively into fists at her sides and she turns on her heel, acidic words already forming on her tongue. 

“Fuck you! You’re one to fucking talk about being scared in relationships—“

But Trish seems to have prepared for this storm, and doesn’t so much as flinch against Jessica’s words. “Which is why I still go to therapy, Jess. To own my shit. And to continue to work through it. Maybe you should try that sometime. But that’s beside the point and I won’t let you derail the conversation by trying to change the focus to me. Are you seriously okay with him walking out of your life like this? Because you might not be able to fix it later if you’re not.”

Just like that, all the fight goes out of Jessica. Because for the first time all night she starts to seriously consider the possibility of losing Matt. And where anger had been raging in her stomach moments before, now only an endless, horrifying black hole of pain and doubt and terror remain. 

“...F-fuck! I don’t know,” she sputters, anxious hands back in her hair.

“Well, I think you should take some time to figure that out. So you can be sure.”

Forcing a deep, slow breath, Jessica closes her eyes and leans against the counter while she regains her composure. “Fine. Point taken.”

She pushes off the counter and reaches for the bottle of Jim Bean, but Trish catches her wrist and gives her a meaningful look. 

“Some clarity of thought might help you too.”

Jessica shoots her an irritated glare. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Trish closes her eyes and sighs, dropping her hand from Jessica’s wrist. “Jess, do what you want, but I’m just trying to help. You two have a good thing going here, and I don’t think it’s too late to fix it. Not yet.”

With a derisive scoff, Jessica snatches the bottle by the neck and puts it in her messenger bag. “Gee thanks, Dr . Walker . Be sure to send me a bill for all of this fan-fucking-tastic advice.”

“You couldn’t afford me,” Trish deadpans as Jessica turns and stalks to the door of the apartment. Jessica scoffs and flips her off over her shoulder for good measure. But as she opens the door to leave, she catches Trish’s eyes one last time and the hope and encouragement she sees there gives her a modicum of comfort for what she has to do.

---

The whiskey bottle clinks and sloshes inside of Jessica’s bag with every movement she makes, but she doesn’t reach for it as she walks. After fuming for a few blocks about Trish’s insight and inability to let her get away with shit, Jessica’s anger recedes and she begrudgingly admits to herself that Trish might have been right— she needs to be sober if she has any hope of making a decision she’s not going to regret for the rest of her already miserable life. Or at the very least, she needs to not be drunk. 

Having gotten lost in her thoughts, she stops walking and looks around to find she’s gone on autopilot, walking mindlessly in the city she knows as well as her own name. But her feet have not been steering her home. Instead, they’ve been taking her on the increasingly familiar route to Matt’s apartment. And that has to be indicative of … something, even though she’s not sure quite what yet. 

She pulls out her phone and sees that it’s 10:39 pm, meaning that he’s likely still out and about Daredeviling … assuming things went fine with the arms dealer and he’s not bleeding out in an alley somewhere. She blocks that thought and decides to knock to see if he’s home, and if he doesn’t answer, she’ll wait for him on the rooftop. She’s honestly hoping he isn’t, as it will give her some time to think. 

When she gets to his place, she jogs inside and up the stairs and knocks as she planned to, and much to her relief she gets no response. So she jogs back down the stairs, then walks around to the alley and jumps up to the roof to wait him out and to do some serious processing. Finding a vent to rest against, Jessica plops down, one leg up and the other splayed out on the rooftop, as she grabs the whiskey from her messenger bag. She unscrews the cap and takes a sip, but she’s mindful not to take too much. She doesn’t want to get drunk. She just needs to take a little of the edge off. 

And then she waits. She waits and she thinks. She thinks and she waits. And occasionally she drinks. But mostly she forces herself to really consider how she’s going to feel if she wakes up tomorrow knowing she can’t call or text or touch or kiss or see Matt ever again. And when she can barely stand to entertain the thought, that’s telling in and of itself. 

A part of her tries to argue that she knows what it feels like because she’s done it already— when she thought he was dead after Midland Circle— and though it tore her to pieces, it’s better than getting closer and closer to him until the point where he might actually die (whether from his own pride and heroics or due to the inevitability of the human condition). But then she pictures his smile, the smirking one that’s her favorite, that spreads across his face like a sunset and sets off sparks in her stomach. And she imagines his voice, soft and low like it gets when it’s just the two of them, like he knows mysteries she can only imagine. And then she remembers the warmth of his embrace, and how it makes her feel safer and more secure than she’s felt in years, as if the mooring that she thought she had lost, he helped her to regain. And tears start streaming down her face. Because she’s made a mistake. A big one. Maybe the biggest of her life, and she has plenty with which to compare. One she’s praying to any and all deities who will listen that she can fix before it’s too late. 

Because she knows in this moment that she’d rather spend whatever time is given to her— a month, a week, a day— with him than live another hour without him. In spite of how much she knows it will one day hurt when, for whatever reason, they aren’t together, she doesn’t want to be the reason they aren’t together now. 

And Trish was right. She’s being unfair. Matt has been trying and she hasn’t wanted to see it because she’s been so afraid . Afraid of being honest about her true feelings. Afraid of losing the only successful and healthy relationship she’s ever had. Afraid to upset the carefully constructed balance she has achieved in her life. But she has to afford him the trust he’s asking for. The trust he deserves. Daredevil is a part of him and she loves that he is so idealistic and cares so much about helping others, even if it sometimes makes her sick with worry. But when she takes a step back, that worry seems a small price to pay in exchange for all that she gets in return. 

A thud at the other end of the rooftop breaks her out of her thoughts and she startles, her heart racing. She looks up to see Matt has landed on the building and is standing from a crouch. She forces herself to take a deep breath because that means it’s finally showtime. 

“Gotta be honest— I really hoped you’d be here. Especially when you weren’t home,” he says, voice neutral and calm. But his careful pace belies his anxiety as he slowly moves across the rooftop towards her. 

Jessica stands and adjusts her jacket as she does. “You trying to stalk me, Murdock?” she asks, her voice a more tame and only slightly forced version of the typical teasing drawl she’d use in a situation like this.

But he doesn’t tease back. His tone is as earnest as the expression on his face as he removes his helmet. “Jess, I wanted to apolog—“

“Why?” she cuts him off with an even tone and a shrug. “I think we both know I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

Matt blinks a few times at her, but otherwise hides his surprise at her sudden self-awareness. He crosses a few steps closer to lean against a vent jutting out of the rooftop floor as he puts down his helmet and begins pulling off his gloves. 

“Yeah, okay. I’m listening.”

A flush rises on Jessica’s cheeks because she hates being put on the spot. But she knows she needs to do this. So she puts her hands in her pockets and looks down at her shoes for a moment while she practices the words she plans to say in her head. Matt is patient all the while, giving her a curious, almost baffled expression.

“You were right,” she finally sighs, the words stiff and stilted in her mouth. But she forces herself to continue. “I was being unfair and I wasn’t acknowledging the efforts you were making. And … I’m sorry.”

Jessica glances up to check Matt’s expression to see how he’s responding, and she’s surprised when he’s basically beaming at her. 

“Wow, Jess. I appre—”

“Wait,” she says, holding her hand up to halt him, afraid to lose her momentum if she stops now. “I’m not done, and I’m only gonna say this once.”

Matt flattens his lips to swallow a chuckle and gives a small nod for her to continue. 

Her hands don’t return to her pockets as she prepares to speak again, but her gaze does return to her shoes. She doesn’t think he’ll mind. It takes a little longer to work up the courage to open her mouth this time, because these are harder words to say. So much harder. But she’s come this far. She takes a deep and slow breath hoping it will give her some strength. 

“I know you don’t want to have this argument anymore, and honestly I don’t either. So, I know I need to trust you with your vigilante bullshit. I never really meant for you to give up Daredevil. It’s just …” She trails off, emotion swelling in her chest and closing up her throat. 

Matt gives her a sad smile as he takes a step in her direction. “Jess—“

But she blows out a long exhale and flexes her hands a few times as the feeling passes and she cuts him off, eager to keep her momentum. “Look, I’m not trying to beat a dead horse here, but in addition to the handful of minor injuries you’ve sustained since, you almost died last year, Matt. And you disappeared for months.”

Chagrined, he rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I know—“

“But it’s more than that,” she says as she continues to talk over him, refusing to stop until she’s done and the weight of her confession has lifted. “I almost lost you then, and you weren’t even mine to lose. You were just some blind but surprisingly coordinated asshole in fetish gear who had managed to worm his way into my head over a period of several crisis-fueled days. But now? If it happens again … I don’t know what I’d do. And I don’t want to know. Because I don’t honestly know if I could handle it. I just … can’t. Not again. Do you get me? I can’t ."

The other words she can’t say, those humongous and terrifying three words that underline this whole argument hang in the air between them. She spares a passing thought of gratitude that he can’t truly see her, because she’s sure they’re written all over her face. But she’s probably just fooling herself. Even if he isn’t sighted, he can likely read all the other signs that give her away, if he isn’t just reading her mind (and there are times she’s still half convinced he can).

An excruciating beat passes and Jessica starts to give serious thought to all of the different ways she could escape the rooftop, how quickly she could snatch her messenger bag and whiskey before breaking into a run, or whether she should leave it all and circle back later. But after a few seconds that feel like eons, Matt crosses to her, close enough that he could reach out and touch her, though he doesn’t. Not yet. 

“I understand, Jess. Very well. Because I also had a similar realization after you took off tonight and left me standing alone at that warehouse. And I can’t lose you either. I won’t.” Matt reaches out and takes her hands, which she reluctantly gives him, a guarded look on her face.

“Unfortunately, I can’t promise you that nothing will ever happen, or that I’ll always be safe or that I won’t ever make a mistake or an error in judgment ever again.”

Jessica rolls her eyes and scoffs at him as she pulls from his grasp, but he gives her the slightest bit of resistance with his right hand and holds it out to her for a moment as she pulls away. 

“ … But I can promise you that I love you. And if that’s not enough proof that I am fully committed to keeping myself as safe as I can for as long as God will allow me to walk this earth? Well, at this point, I’m out of ideas.”

Her heart starts beating in triple time at his confession, and she is suddenly certain that he must have understood what she was not explicitly saying earlier. But for the first time in her adult life she allows herself to truly believe that it might not be a bad thing. To love. To be loved. To be vulnerable and invested in another person, even if losing that person one day would cause an incredible amount of pain. She’s already survived a lot of pain in her life, so she could probably handle it. Maybe it’s time to fully embrace the good she could experience by admitting her feelings, in spite of the what future pain may or may not be a product of such good.

“Typical lawyer. Always got to throw yourself on the mercy of the court and make an impassioned speech.”

“Is it working?”

She crosses the distance between them in one heartbeat, wraps her hands around his head and pulls him in for a fiery kiss in the next.

“Does that answer your question?” she asks flatly after finally releasing him as they both surface for air. 

“It lacks a certain eloquence, but it’ll do,” he says as he smirks at her. 

She kisses him again, hard, before he can say anything else. What need does she have for eloquence if she has him? And for now, she is content to know that she will have him as long as she can, whatever length of time that might be.