Chapter Text
Matt's eyes open seemingly only a few seconds after he had closed them. They move in his sockets even though there's no benefit to it. Tugging on muscle around his brow bone, which in turn pulls on the next part, like a thick rope wrapped all the way around his skull.
He manages to massage away some of the sensation with the heel of his palm, tuning in and out as he does it.
There's an indistinct buzz, a gentle chatter of activity in his city— gentle, at least by last night's standards. An orchestra warming up before a show — a predictable kind of chaos.
It's beautiful. Calm.
He breathes.
But Matt's still slow on the uptake. It's a minute or two before he realises why everything is so miss-shaped. Why the sheets are rougher than his own or why his breath carries a different weight in the much smaller room. There's a residual scent of smoke clinging to his suit, and contrastingly cool zing of mint — Karen's toothpaste.
Her trip to the bathroom – her one-legged hop-turned-stumble — he remembers. The reflexive thhapp of her hand against a tile.
She'd told him not to listen in on her, and yet he'd done exactly that.
She'd slept on the couch of course, true to her word, evident by the lack of heat at his side. He shouldn't have expected anything different, but selfishly, he still feels it like a loss.
As Matt shifts up onto both his elbows and then straightens an arm, his sternum cracks . A dull pop that rings through him — it feels good. A tiny surge of endorphins. He does the same with each shoulder, pressing his fingers to the joint and then rotating carefully. After that, his neck — lifting his chin in an arc until he feels the muscle fizz pleasantly at the stretch.
Matt's been listening, but so far, there's been no indicator of time.
Above, there's the pitter-patter of a small creature on the roof – a cat, that Matt suspects is hunting the pigeons that are roosting on the chimney stack.
It's earlish then. Still dark out. The cat's center shifts to become low to the ground, crouching before it pounces, a flurry of feathers and the beat of the birds wings. But it misses its target. It's tail swoops, the tip, flicking in annoyance, maybe, Matt doesn't know cat body language too well. It'll try again on the next rooftop over.
And Karen's in the bathroom. Again. He's aware of her. Mint. Again. His attention is small and condensed towards her steady beat. When the bathroom door opens, steam and warm air bellows out into the comparatively cool space in the hall. Karen is wet, all over wet, her hair too, her feet. They make their way on the hard floor and halt sharply at the doorway.
There's a click in her throat, a tiny, unexpected gasp.
"You're awake." He's homing in way too much already — her skin breathes a new type of scent now, underneath the modest covering of her towel.
"Karen. Hey. Good morning." Matt rubs his hand over the breadth of his neck, his thighs brace, he tilts forward. He's about to say something about leaving before it gets awkward, but before he can even begin, Karen is moving towards him and reaching out.
"You're okay?"
"Oh yeah. Yeah I'm fine."
"You slept?"
Matt nods. "Actually pretty well."
"You needed it," she says, "when exactly was the last time you got more than 4 hours?"
Matt honestly doesn't know the answer to that. "Today?"
Karen pretends to be unimpressed. "Help yourself to a shower," she offers as she clutches tightly at the section of her towel tucked in at her breast. 'If you want."
Is that a hint? Because it feels like a hint. And now that he's paying attention he can definitely pick out a whiff of own scent. Sour. Mmm. Slept-in clothes. At this point he's probably pushing 'earthy manly smell' to its upper limits.
"I can call Foggy." Karen's brain is ticking. Winding up. Solution, solution, solution. "Get him to pick some clothes up for you. Your cane. Drop them off here."
"Are you sure he's in a fit state?"
Karen remembers the day and then considers his point. "It's possible he'll be a little grouchy."
"Grouchy?"
"Mmmkay, maybe a lot grouchy, then."
Matt smiles.
"I'll call him in an hour. That gives him enough time."
"Right." The plan is agreed before he can think about why it's a bad idea.
"In the meantime, you can…." her head swivels, left and right, frantically before she locates the garment in question. "This! You can wear this?" It's something thick, fluffy, full of air — Matt would guess it's reasonably soft too. His smile becomes a tight line across his face.
"Is that — "
"It's my bathrobe. My dressing gown, whatever. I promise it's not pink or anything."
That fact that the colour is Karen's only concern is laughable.
"It's blue." She holds it out to him and Matt takes it without argument. Yet another thing that smells deeply of Karen.
"I'm not above wearing pink you know."
She laughs and it lightens her step, the soles of her feet, springy. "Don't tell Foggy that. He lives to exploit your sock drawer." She throws a towel – a clean one, from where it's hanging on the radiator to dry. His reactions are slow and he only narrowly manages to catch it. "Sorry I thought you'd be quicker than that." He's happy she's smiling but it's not exactly a great show of his prowess.
"It's early. How fast are your reflexes in the morning?"
"Dunno," her body moves in an s shape. "Never really tested it out."
Matt finds himself struggling to reign in a grin as he stands, debating on whether he should throw it right back at her. He decides that he would have, had it not been for precarious nature of her outfit. Instead he drapes the towel over his arm and stretches, his quads and hamstrings letting out a yawn of sorts — or at least, it's satisfying in a similar way. "Second door to the left." Karen indicates towards the bathroom. "But you knew that right?"
Matt nods. "Thanks, Karen."
~
Scent, Matt finds, is like a hardwired connection to memory.
Karen's bathroom is full of them, a treasure trove of bitter nostalgia.
Maybe that's why he takes a few liberties here and there with her soap, her shampoo, using it sparingly — It's pungent, but he emerges smelling better, refreshed, and surprisingly hungry.
Karen is cooking.
Butter, melting in a hot pan, and whisked eggs, fresh bread and coffee.
"Smells good in here."
He feels intrusive wandering into her kitchen, half dressed and expectant to be fed. But Karen doesn't turn and that somehow makes it easier. She's busy cracking the last two eggs into the glass bowl and she sounds occupied.
"We've got an hour to kill," she says flatly, "so we may as well eat." Her voice has a cool, gritty tone to it. Pitiless, she's not cooking because she's babying him – she's suffering from an acute case of Franklinnelson-atitis. That's a hangover, for short. "This isn't room service, by the way. Don't get c—" Karen pivots on her heel and catches sight of him over her shoulder and that's apparently all it takes for her to burst out laughing.
"What?" Matt hands splay out. "It's your dressing gown."
She's shaking her head, cool air, moving. Lavender.
"Did I say anything?" She doesn't have to. She's clearly brimming with joyess contempt at his misfortune.
Matt can take it though.
She turns away again, armed with her spatula. "How'd ya like your eggs, sweetie?"
The humour in her voice is crystal but Matt's face still heats into an almost-blush at the causal use of a pet name.
"I'm easy."
"Good," she replies, her voice, whip-sharp with a smile in it. "Cause you're getting scrambled."
They're already cooking in the pan. She seasons next, the crack of the pepper grinder, salt, a crisp, wet sound as she sucks a smidge of butter off the knuckle of her thumb.
Matt waits.
"So are these those virtuous eggs I've heard so much about?"
Matt remembers, of course, that delectable lasagna. Her grandmother's recipe. And he's pushing his luck, bringing that up, but he's pleased with himself when Karen beams, seemingly at his ability to recall what feels like another life. He's useless at a lot of things but remembering is not one of them.
"Fresh out of virtue I'm afraid. Cheap, cheerful and delicious, I can do, though."
Matt raises a brow. "Ah, so the full Page experience?"
And that comes out all wrong. The delicious part. There's a quiet, awkward, smack of her lips.
"Actually, that'll cost you about a dollar fifty," she dishes out a portion, it's slap-dash but it smells good. Not too much fat, or cream, she knows he hates that. "Comes with a free cardiac arrest though."
"I'll stick to the free trial version."
"Wise."
"And when it runs out I can just... use a different email address? Right? That's how it works?"
Karen's laugh has a hint of an eye roll in it. "If you're trying to imply that I'm good at finding legal loopholes into getting free stuff then you are absolutely correct, Matt."
He savours a mouthful of breakfast before he responds. "That's exactly it, I was implying that."
The hollow echo of a car door sends shockwaves through the air outside. It has something of an impoliteness to it. A taxi. There's a scuffle of shoes, a stumble, then a curse word or two in a foreign language, Romanian, maybe, Matt's not sure. The passenger turns back and pays in coins, most of them cascading down the metal door and onto the curb. New year's eve takes another victim, Matt supposes.
But Karen brings him back and he lands softly. "What about you anyway?" She rests her chin on her knuckles. "You feeling better?"
"Ah, yeah. Yeah I think," Matt answers. "Much better."
"Good."
"I should say thanks, for uh.."
"It's okay."
"No, it's not Karen."
"Matt…" her hand is on his wrist. It's a brief touch but it's warm and genuine. There's not that much of that between the two of them anymore. Matt misses it. "You needed help and you came to me. I'm not sure why but, I'm glad you did."
And Matt is grateful. He is. After considering, he says: "Well then will you at least let me buy you breakfast. Somewhere you don't have to make it yourself? Tomorrow?" He doesn't overthink it. Breakfast before work doesn't count as a date, it's too business-like.
"Sure. Leo's do a great poppy seed bagel. I'm up that way tomorrow."
"The coffee at Foxes is better. In fact, no. Everything from Foxes is better."
"Black Fox Cafe? You mean the one where you always get free stuff?"
Matt feels a sting of accusation in her tone. "I don't get free stuff..."
Karen shakes her head again. "You smile and that waitress practically throws a free shot of espresso at you."
"Ah, Maria," Matt recalls, a tiny bit cocksure.
"Yeah, Maria. Is she buying my breakfast?"
"I don't think she'd like that."
"No?"
"I'll tell her it's work meeting. Don't worry."
"It is a work meeting."
That's enough to jolt Matt back to earth with a thud. Had he just been flirting? He's pretty sure he was going in that direction. "Oh, I know," he clarifies, "I just mean, so y'know. So she doesn't get —"
"I get it. You wanna keep your free coffee options open."
"Exactly."
Karen shrugs with the metal prongs of her fork still between her lips.
He's reminded of the mug of coffee a few inches from his elbow. He takes a sip and Karen mirrors him, vapour taking a form around the features of her face, disappearing again when she exhales into the rim of her cup.
"You know I'm thinking about giving it up. Going decaf."
Matt can't even comprehend the thought of that. He would probably die without caffeine. "Decaffeination sounds a bit like something illegal doesn't it?" He retorts.
She chuckles. "Like some kind of surgical procedure?"
"Exactly. Can't be healthy."
"Yeah, well, I think I'm overdoing it. I keep getting headaches."
"And you're absolutely sure it's not the tequila?"
Karen eyes him. "I'm not always drunk, Matt."
"I know, I know. It's Foggy, he's a bad influence."
Matt listens to the way Karen thumbs her brow through her laughter, her palm, heavy on her neck, a twist, an over-coiled spring, something grinding near her shoulder.
"I don't think it's the caffeine." Matt can only tell if he really focuses and because he knows Karen well – her outline. He reaches out and allows himself to touch her once, lightly, with the pad of his thumb through her T-shirt at the point where the slope of her neck meets the end of her collarbone.
She sucks in a sharp hisshh through her teeth. A pointed glare, again, and then a delayed: "Ow."
"Am I right?"
"What are you a doctor now?"
"Definitely not a doctor." He brings his hand back to his mug of coffee. "You carry your laptop bag on that side."
"Yeah."
"And the way you sit at your desk."
She cricks her neck in response, testing. "Okay yeah."
Matt moistens his lips. "Can I uh?" His hands hover, waiting in answer, and Karen's still before she nods, leaning forward. Matt scoots off his stool a few inches so he can use both of his hands.
"I think, here," he spreads his fingers around the ball of her shoulder joint, his thumb pressed lightly into the store spot in her muscle. Karen feels the pressure, a slight exhale, prepared for the pain this time. She tilts her head away, elongating her neck, open, letting him in. "And here." His next touch is slightly further up, on the bare skin just passed the collar of her T-shirt. Karen's pulse quickens at the contact, he feels it, a symphony. He pinches the muscle, firmer this time, then pushes his thumb along it, follows the fibres, imagining splitting them apart gently and untangling the knots. When he finds another lump of tension, she lets out a small gasp, but then pushes into his hand.
" Shhhhi... "
"This okay?"
Another hiss. And then a sharp, stubborn, yep .
Matts fingers are careful, listening, they tip-toe upwards. To her neck. Karen's neck. The pulse there has a dangerously addictive quality to it. Deafening white-noise; like driving rain hitting concrete to the steady, unending music of her breathing.
He's sure he lingers there too long because he senses the movement of Karen's lips, a smile.
"A bit more up."
He complies gladly, following that ridged strip of tissue until it joins at the base of her skull. "Right here?"
"Mm-hmm."
He squeezes his thumb and forefinger together while he supports the rest of her steady with his other hand. Her cheek bone is pressed to his inside wrist, a heavy weight there. Matt folds his palm to cup the back of her nape and squeezes until she lulls forward. He's rewarded with a breathy sound that's way too much like a moan. Matt thinks she notices when his fingers slacken because his focus on the task is wavering — she orchestrates a movement; a needy, miniscule nudge that feels like a don't stop - like a more.
And having her this close. He can sense her better, the heat of her mouth paints a picture. The shape of her lips, plump and full. Matt remembers them. Sliding his mouth against them.
He's hard and he needs to think of something else.
A breath, then.
In and out.
Control.
When Karen finally speaks it's airy, like she's still in the middle of a day dream. Her guard is down as her heart rate is up. He takes comfort that she probably hasn't noticed.
"You have very, very magical fingers, Matt Murdock."
Matt is quietly smug at that. He shrugs. "It's been said."
The laugh that comes out of her is long and lazy but the heat from her cheeks is scolding, her pulse, accelerating even more now they are apart
And there's a draught on his thigh. A kiss of cool air where there shouldn't be. The last thing Matt expects is for Karen to plant her hand on it. "I should call Foggy. Get you some clothes." Her eyes brows shoot up and Matt flinches, suddenly bashful.
Karen's hand is on his thigh.
Even though it's not now — she had swiped it away in less than a second — the heat imprint is still there.
"That might be a good idea."
Karen gets up while the phone dials, using the time to dump their two plates haphazardly into the kitchen sink and then tip back the last of her coffee.
Matt sits quiet, stewing. Willing himself to calm down. And when Foggy answers it's more of sound then a word — a low, drawn out ugrhhhhhh with an inflection at the end.
"Karen…?…. Is this a butt dial? God, please tell me this is a butt dial."
"It's not a butt dial Foggy," she laughs and he sighs.
"I''mmm sorryyy. Please don't hang up."
"Is it Matt? Did his bat senses get all scadoodled again?"
Matt feels the heavy pull of Karen's stare. "It's uh… it's sort of Matt, yeah. And erm. Maybe, I guess?"
"What happened, did he call you?"
"Uhhhhh. No, actually," Karen puts a hand on her hip. It feels teacher-like. Suddenly, he's back at Clinton Church and she's morphed into the shape of one of the nuns. "He's here."
"Wait. He's with you?"
"I'm looking at him right now."
"Hi Foggy."
"Did you hear that? He said Hi."
"He said hi. Jesus. Are we sure that's normal for him? Are all his limbs intact? Do I need to call Claire?"
Always with the Claire thing.
"He's fine, Foggy. I mean... physically, at least," she makes another face but Matt loses track of it as she turns her back to him, washing a plate one-handedly while she talks. "I need you to fetch him some clothes though. Would you mind?"
"Wait wait wait, he's not wearing any clothes?" Matt gets a hit of some sort of background interference, it's faint but he's pretty sure it's Marci telling him to pipe down. His voice drops to a whisper. "That's a pretty important detail to omit, K. Did he turn up like that or is this your doing?"
Karen stifles a laugh. The sponge in her hand is dripping and soaking her wrist. "He's wearing clothes, Foggy, just not ones he can go out in. You remember that dressing gown you got me for my birthday?"
There's an inaudible crackle. A frequency coming from Foggy that apparently the electronic signal can't handle. "Don't let him leave. I'm coming over."
"I won't." Karen thanks him and hangs up.
"Twenty minutes," she says. "Then you're free to go." Karen settles back into the chair next to him and Matt smiles warmly, a thankful smile, and they sit for a few moments in relative silence.
Maybe Foggy will get delayed along the way.
He hopes.