Chapter Text
Foggy arrives in just under thirty minutes. Matt detects him easily, trundling out of a cab, his shape, as soft and as bright as a signal flare.
There's rain, now, to accompany his footsteps. Fat, heavy droplets slapping the pavement, enough to prompt the swift deployment of umbrellas and the hurried dashing of bodies into doorways. Karen is still, next to him. Content, listening to the resulting pulse carried by the wind beat on the window in the kitchen. She's unaware, blissfully so, of the myriad of events that are passing her by outside, sipping steadily on a glass of orange juice, adamant in her argument in its use as a hangover cure.
He hones in again on Foggy as he begins his journey up the stairs. A pause, before he even tackles the first step, and then a deep, lungful of air and a sigh. Long, drawn out, and exhausted. Each leg lift after that is a determined effort, and each breath is just short of catching deep enough to trigger a yawn which he eventually suppresses into the plump fabric of his hoodie sleeve. Matt warns Karen of his approach and she bounces to her feet, spouting how "that was fast." Matt tracks her too and follows her there, bare-footed.
"If you can smell tequila, it's me. And Matt, I bought your Friday socks. Cause it's Friday. You were wearing thursday socks on Tuesday and I didn't have the heart to tell you that you must have gotten all your labels mixed up. I fixed that. by the way."
"Thanks, Foggy."
Karen giggles and lands a swift hug, a kiss planted on his cheek without a second thought. "We still love you even if you stink."
Matt's not so sure.
There's another thank you before Karen takes the grocery bag containing Matt's clothes with her through into the kitchen.
Now all of Foggy's attention is on him. And at first he just sort of laughs, the kind of laugh that gets trapped in your throat like a bubble you have to swallow.
"I'd be lying if I said I didn't like it. And sex sells, remember. Have you considered being the poster boy for pain and suffering?"
Matt frowns. "Wait… " he pats his midriff, "these… these aren't my normal clothes?"
Karen grins somewhere in the near distance, her fingers muffling the sound of her lips spreading. Matt can feel her hum, her aura. Her hands rubbing at the backs of her arms.
"Very funny. I'd say it looks better on you but I'm more scared of Karen, honestly."
"Let's keep it that way," she twirls on the ball of her foot and shoots another smile over her shoulder. Matt imagines her skirt, if she were wearing one, flaring out with the circular flow of the air. She fades in the direction of the kitchen again. Cups laid out on the counter. She's making fresh coffee.
Alone now, without the lightness of her, Foggy's glare is more piercing. Or maybe it's just that his armour is more poorly suited to the scolding — fluffier.
"Well I don't see any damage to the paint work. Which lets be honest, is the important thing."
"Nothing like that. It just got loud out there last night. Fireworks. Crowds. You know how it is."
"Actually, I have no idea Matt. And you can thank Karen for the fact I'm currently too hungover to argue with you about it."
"What, so I'm just supposed to ignore —" he cuts himself off. His voice, coming out sharp. But Karen understood. He didn't even have to explain it to her. So why did he always have to explain it to Foggy?
"Have you given him a lecture yet?" Foggy's voice blooms, filling the hollow of Matt's ears, momentarily bleaching out all other sound. Maybe they are still sensitive after last night.
"Not yet," she replies, and it's so absentminded that Matt's almost certain he's managed to escape a lashing from her, stumbling in on her drunk having somehow softened her annoyance.
"Karen made me breakfast," Matt whispers cockily.
Foggy's resulting eye roll is almost audible. "Of course she did."
"Coffee, Foggy?" She interrupts, but Matt can tell by way Foggy hasn't come more than a few feet into the room that he doesn't plan on staying.
"I'd love to, but Marci gave me strict orders to bring back the goods. And by goods, I mean the delicious, pastry laden kind. Plus, if I'm quick, there might be something in it for me. You know?" Foggy's voice trails off into a purr. A dirty sound.
"Nice."
"Gross." Karen turns the corner with two aspirin dissolving in a glass of water. "You should stay hydrated. Especially if you're planning on.. uh.." she grins.
Matt laughs.
"Your concern for my loins is always appreciated, K." He swirls the liquid around and gulps it down, a droplet escaping from the corner of his mouth, a dry hacking sound in his throat at the bitter taste. Matt can taste it too. "Did Karen tell you about her new year's resolution?"
"You actually believe in those?"
"Foggy no." Matt notes the warmth in Karen's cheeks. Pin-prick blood vessels, radiating red. Whatever it is, he'd guess that she's embarrassed about telling him, which of course, only makes him more interested.
"Kickboxing classes!" Foggy punches the air in front of him with valour. "She's jealous of your moves, I think."
"I did not say that."
Matt grins. "I guess you won't be needing me anymore then?"
"We were drunk."
"You swore on the eel, Karen. The sacred eel. Remember? Plus I've messaged the Facebook page and everything." Foggy takes out his phone, a couple of clicks, a long flick, indicating a scroll.
"Do you not remember telling everyone who your favourite superhero is?" Karen's voice reads as mischievous. Changing the subject.
Matt cocks his head. "Me, I hope."
"Iron Fist."
Matt tsks. "Danny Rand. Really?"
"You know how it is Matt. If I start talking about you, I can't stop. I have alcohol-onset verbal diarrhea."
"No, he just gets all lovey dovey when he's drunk. Don't ya Foggy?" Karen leans her cheek on his shoulder and smiles.
"About me?"
"Of course about you. Doofus. Aren't I allowed to miss my asshole best friend occasionally when he's out getting his butt kicked?"
Matt feels a surge of affection that he doesn't quite know what to do with. "I don't always get my butt kicked."
"Just a trend. I've noticed. It's a nice butt, though. By all accounts. Kickable." Foggy sighs and his arms slap the side of his body defeatedly. "Can I get a hug now?"
Matt catches himself smiling and he nods, Foggy's palms thudding against his back before he eventually sinks into it. He smells like Josie's, still. And Jameson's, and three different kinds of aftershave diluted with sweat to varying degrees. "Try not to stumble on any illegal fireworks displays on the way home okay? I spend a disproportionate amount of my time worrying about the health of your ear drums."
Karen giggles again.
"You have my word."
"Alright."
Foggy leaves, his step, spriteler than it was before, and Matt, once again, focuses his attention on Karen.
She's back in the kitchen. He hears the washer dryer click on. A gush of water filling the drum and the slight tang of copper in the air. "I'm washing your suit."
"Oh. Uh. Thanks. You didn't have to do that."
"I know." She rinses out her glass from earlier at the sink and refills it with water. Matt clears his throat.
"So, uh...kickboxing, huh?"
Karen sighs. "Don't, Matt."
"What?"
"Just don't."
"I think it's a great idea." Karen doesn't respond straight away. She turns the tap on hot and let's the water ricochet off of the empty glass, a fine mist coating the hairs on her arms.
"I could teach you some stuff if you wanted. Give you a head start."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Why not?"
"Because you — I couldn't. It's embarrassing."
"Why is it embarrassing?" Matt pulls on one of the plates in the dish rack and makes himself useful, drying it with a towel.
"I'd be terrible. For starters."
"So. I'm your teacher."
Karen's hands are still for a moment before she resumes scrubbing. "Very modest, Matt."
"I'll let you punch me in the face. Call it anger management." The metal on metal chime of a fork hitting the inside of the sink makes him flinch but Karen doesn't seem to notice.
"I've fantasized about it, I'll admit. But. No. I couldn't actually punch you." She glances sideways, a quick check, up and down, as if to make absolutely sure that she wouldn't.
"Well, if you change —"
There's a hollow splooshing sound as Karen's hand exits the water. Matt senses the movement but not the motive and there's a delay in his reaction. The result is her wet fingers and a smattering of suds all over his chin.
Without a second thought, Matt moves towards a counter attack. But Karen reads him like a book. Swatting his hand away from the bubbles, her smile wide, her lungs, open. Breathless.
"I have a butter knife Matt and I will use it."
Matt backs off. His best serious face. Super serious. He pads his fingers around and feels for another plate on the drying rack, uses it as a shield. A decoy.
He listens. But it's mainly his own heart that he can hear. And Karen. Poised, and ready, her muscles tense, the picture of her, brighter.
He zeroes in on something else for his own good. Just to test his aim. A group of weary tourists, hungry in search of breakfast, brunch, whatever. It's never too early for pizza in New York City. Their roaring stomachs and their heads buried in their Google maps and their — "It says it's right there."
Their feet are like a rock in a river. Everything else moving around them.
Karen bites her lip. "Any new year's resolutions Matt? Or, are you above that?"
Matt has to take in a measured breath before he answers. "Would you believe me if I said I was thinking about being a bit less assholey?"
"Less assholey?" Karen chuckles. "I thought assholish-ness was your motif."
Matt feels like he's been punched.
"You've been hanging around Foggy too much, Miss Page." The last time he used that name, they'd been kissing each other. So when Karen shrinks back like a shadow it's almost sort of expected. "More specifically," Matt clarifies, "less of an asshole to you."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"And you do know that statistically, most people give up on their resolutions in the first week?"
"I like to think I can do better than that. Maybe two."
Karen grins and then her lips pucker, tight together. She points to his chest where the two sides of fabric cross over one another. "You know Foggy brought you clothes right? Or is there something you wanna tell me?"
He shrugs and sways so that the tassels at his waist swing slightly. "Maybe I'm enjoying it."
Karen's hand slips inside a glass before she rinses it and stands it on the draining board. "Well you look ridiculous." Her arm extends again, but slower this time. He anticipates it's path, air displaced around his cheek. She swipes her thumb across his chin and it catches on his lip, a slow, sticky drag, as she wipes the suds away.
Matt swallows. Karen snatches back and runs her damp hand over her hair.
"Karen…I.." A mistake, to even speak, Matt thinks.
"Sorry," she mumbles.
"For what?"
"You know what. You're listening to me, aren't you?" Matt steps back out of her space. She's right, he is listening, but he certainly didn't mean to make it obvious.
"I'm sorry Karen."
There's another noise. A dryness, Matt suspects, in her throat, sticking to her vocal chords. His too.
"I should, uh.." Matt turns. "I should change." He walks away before the heat singes deep enough to burn the skin.
*
The bathroom is much cooler. The wall of tile makes it harder to focus on where she is, and instead, makes it easier to focus on the echo of himself. Matt spends a minute or two catching his breath there. Pulling himself together. Not thinking about her. He takes out his clothes and steps into his boxers and his jeans, then he spreads a pea sized nodule of toothpaste over his teeth with his finger and moves it around. Rinse. Spit. Repeat. The burn of menthol makes his nostrils flare all the way down to his lungs, but it feels good. He feels clearer.
The shirt Foggy picked for him is an old one that hasn't worn in ages. There's a loose thread on the breast pocket but it's comfortably worn in and soft, stretched out in all the right places. He funnels his arms into it and aligns the button and hole at his collar before he notices that Karen is standing in the doorway.
"You're leaving?"
Matt braces his arms against the sink. "You've already done enough for me, Karen. I should get out of your hair now."
She bows her head. "I didn't mean to uh…" Her fingertips touch her chest, flicking over the elastic of her collar.
"It's okay, I get it."
"This morning's been nice."
Matt smiles. "Yeah. I thought you would have kicked me to the curb hours ago."
"You wish." She folds her arms protectively across her middle. "I get embarrassed around you sometimes. Still, now. Even. That's why I —"
"Karen…" Matt closes the space between them and takes the weight of her fingers in his hand, leaning his shoulder against the inside of the doorframe. "It doesn't work like that. I uh. I explained it badly. And you being uncomfortable, it's the last thing I want."
"I know." Matt loosens his grip on her hand but is surprised when instead, she squeezes back tighter. "Tell me," she says. "If you explained it badly. Explain it better."
Matt moistens his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. He's had no time to rehearse this in his head, like he does most things — he doesn't even know what he wants to say or what she wants to hear and he doesn't suppose it would matter if he did — he'd still fuck it up anyway. "Well. I guess I know some things about you. But only because I've learnt them."
"Like what?"
"Well like how I know when you're lying," he says, "when you're afraid. Little things like what it sounds like when you want to say something but you change your mind, and how your breathing gets faster when you're typing, or, listening to music." He moves his thumb lightly over her knuckles. "You wash your hair on a Tuesday. And a Friday. And that you usually wear it down. You tuck it behind your ears a lot when you're working. I know that because your fingers leave the scent of your shampoo everywhere. All around my office." Karen laughs, a tiny laugh that tastes of salt. Matt pauses. "And I know that when your heart beats fast." He breathes in. Shaky. And then out. "Like now. That it could mean a million different things. There are a lot of frequencies that sound the same and I get things wrong a lot more than you think." He gestures carefully at himself. "How do you think I end up like this?" He chuckles, forgetting that his shirt is open.
Karen's touch is like a bolt of electricity conducting her pulse. It thrums, deeply at her fingertip. She traces the scar that spans his chest to its point in the center, flattening her hand and holding it over his heart.
They've been here before. But somehow, it's different this time.
Tracking her this close, with her touching him, is like being inside of a hurricane. There's a stillness, but with a wind rush biting at his back, all around, the chaotic, noise of her body. She reaches up again and cups his cheek; the webbing of her thumb and finger catching on his ear lobe.
Underfoot, the 11.35 Train to Columbus Circle. Packed. A dropped luggage bag on the platform. A queue at the hotdog stand, the repetitive beep of a heavy goods vehicle reversing.
And Karen, kissing him.
"How about now?" She pulls back and Matt lingers, unsure, clinging on to the afterburn of her mouth.
"That helps." He bends forward again to rest his forehead on hers. His hands come up, his fingers, arched and gentle. He kisses her again.
Their lips realign. Better now, deeper. He slides his tongue into her mouth and she slides against him equally as eager. He nibbles at her lower lip and she snatches a breath between the movement that sounds like a whimper. They pull apart again.
She's clinging to him. He feels her weight shifting, their ankles, their knees clashing. "Are you still leaving?"
Matt smiles. "I'm finding it difficult."
"Then don't." She arches. He feels her nipples, pert, through her T-shirt pressed to his chest. And down, his mouth, at her shoulder, the taste of her skin. He smells himself there, his fingers. Where he'd touched her earlier. He kisses her there and she jumps at the contact. Higher, her neck. He lets his tongue slicken her skin, breathless by the time he reaches her jaw.
His name trembles along her lower lip. Her nails, trim and sharp over his obliques, dipping into the hem of his jeans already. They're standing here awkwardly when and just stone's throw away is a bed — he's aware. But he doesn't want to rush this, not with Karen.
Then he feels her touch on his hip, a slight pull of the fabric, and her hand on his cock.
She mmm's low, against his neck.
"God, Matt. Do something. Touch me."
He does what he knows what'll impress her most, what he's longed to do since the day he met her but couldn't.
He picks her up. She doesn't expect it. A surprised yelp as she spreads herself around him and he gets his hands on her ass. She's weightless and his muscles don't complain, already feeding on an amalgamation of oxygen-rich blood and adrenaline. He drops her on the bed a short moment later and gets on his knees, strips what remains of his shirt. Karen sits up and mouths his stomach, hot, wet kisses, her fingers fishing for the inside seam of his boxers. When she finds the elastic, she pushes over the curve of his ass, trying to spring him free. But Matt stills her, lifts her chin.
"Not yet." A light shove. Just enough to land her on her back, his arm long and extended down the middle of her. He feasts from the hollow of her rib cage, laps at the center of it, holds her broadly with his hands so as not to spill a drop.
Everywhere Matt's fingers go, he follows religiously with his mouth. Her hip bone, and then back up, stretching her out. She moans when he gets her pulse again and she reaches up with her lips, catching his ear lobe in her teeth. A dull scrape which she soothes with her mouth. Matt manoeuvres his thigh — his knee between her legs and he nuzzles them open. She snakes her hands down and spreads them over his ass, humming as she does it. Pulls herself, him on top of her, grinding. A solid for her to move against. He presses his hand under her jaw so she can't follow him down, teasing at the edge of her waistband, both of them, breathing hard, her, anticipating where he'll go next. He forces her to wait, lifting her to remove her sweats but leaving her underwear, the needy, wriggle of her hips coupled with her scent, making his mouth water.
Getting in, and close, he drags his mouth over her knee cap, her inner thigh, breathes her in, her pulse so fast now that it's an edgeless buzz, vibrating her entire body.Then he nestles himself against the mattress, his hips pressed down so he's not tempted to touch himself and he touches Karen through the lace of her underwear, rough on his lips, but warm, moving in slow circles, drawing blood towards his fingers. When he kisses her where the frayed edges of the fabric meet her skin she gasps and arches.
"Shhit. Matt. Shit."
"This okay?" He asks, and she nods. He peels at the crotch hem of her underwear, an upward lift and pull, like he's plucking at the strings of a harp. He shimmies them down her legs and finally he gets his tongue on her skin, but an inch to the right of where she really wants him. She squirms again.
First, his fingers. One, then two, skimming through her center, his thumb too, just south of her clit, using it to spread the slickness around. He listens closely to her breathing, the quiet hiss of her lungs, growing ragged, ragged with tension until he angles his wrist and slips a digit inside her. Matt reaches up with his free hand to catch her nipple and slinks down again to her hip before he pushes in another. Then when he lowers his mouth and adds his tongue, she rolls her hips and muffles a curse word into her palm.
Moving his fingers now, he works — puts the effort in. Curling them upwards, sliding in and out, spit soaking him down to his knuckles and dripping at his wrist.
Matt gets on his knees again. Needing to be closer, pulling his fingers out and moving them messily up her thigh, resting them in the hollow behind her knee and pushing so she's wider, spread wider. All his. She whines when he covers her with his mouth again, his tongue ridged, flicking from side to side, playing with her clit, his lips and his chin, glistening. She fists a chunk of his hair and he hums, hisses into her. The searing realness of pain, and sweetness of Karen. Alive. Matt feels alive.
He concentrates on the tightening of her muscles then, her breath coming in short, uneven, pants. And the moans. His name. He listens to the individual notes of it, barely ever finished; like a melody cut short of its highest note. And his tongue, thrums now, with the most delicious ache. His cock, too. When he feels her coming, Matt is consistent, and sloppy, and relentless. And Karen is quiet at first. Stuck, on a breath, until she releases it. An agonizingly beautiful sound.
He doesn't move straight away — it's rude, Matt thinks, to leave the table so soon after eating. He runs his hands over her legs, her soft muscles, he tests her sensitivity by kissing where he feels the nerve endings buzzing and she jumps at the contact and laughs. After a minute or two he elbows his way up the bed to lie alongside her, her arms slacked and loose and her head angled slightly off the edge. Matt brings his fingers up to her face and catches a piece of hair that's dried in a natural ringlet.
"Jesus. The neighbors." There's an adorably hushed sobbing sound mixed up in her throat.
"The neighbors?"
"Upstairs. Edna. She's like Fran, but.. worse I think. Always complaining."
Matt listens. "Ah. Yeah. She's uh, she's definitely awake now."
"Is she grumbling disapprovingly?"
"Could be a whiff of disapproval in there, yeah."
"Great." Karen's cheeks blare, pink and flushed. Her whole body, flushed, still. Desire pools in Matt's chest, even stronger now than it was before.
"Do you think she'll accept my charming smile as an apology?"
Karen bites her lip. "Um. Hmm. Maybe...but, probably not right now, Matt." Her thumb swipes over his chin, messy, with herself and Matt can't resist grinding a little against her outer thigh. She responds immediately, her pulse elevating again, her hand cups his face and slowly slides between them and inside his boxer shorts.
"We've started so we may as well annoy her some more." Karen's nails track tentatively through the hair on his lower stomach and then she twists to gently grip the shaft, her thumb gliding through the bead moisture collecting at the tip.
Matt groans. "Fuck."
"How does this feel?" Karen is breathing heavily — lustfully. "Sex, I mean. With your senses?" She moves her hand up. Down. Her palm, like satin. "I've always wondered."
Matt has to blink a few times at the question. "Uh. Um. Pretty amazing."
Karen pushes at his shoulder and he obediently rolls into his back. "You're more sensitive.. than normal?" She straddles his thighs, watching him.
"Yeah. But, I like to think I have everything under —" Matt tries not to think too much. But Karen is sitting on him, naked, now that she's removed her T-shirt and bra and he can't even finish a sentence.
"Control?"
"Yes."
Karen leans forward and stretches him up, like he did her, except that his arms don't straighten, they fall back, floppy, and waiting. Pathetic.
"Karen.."
Her palms spread over his sweat-covered biceps, his chest, his sternum. She pinches a nipple as she passes and Matt draws in a breath that makes his lip tremble on the exit. "I've thought about this a lot." She raises her hips and handles his cock, holding him delicately while she braces herself on his chest. He feels her entrance, hot and slick; him, sliding against it easily — her, tempting him. Keeping him waiting.
He should really put something on. But Karen's voice comes out airy sounding and desperate when she sits back half an inch and it takes all his will power not to push on her hips and slide right into her.
"You're on the pill?" He asks breathily, doubtful if he'll even last a minute with nothing on but wanting it all the same.
"Yes." She nods.
"Then I trust you. If you want to."
Karen nods again. "I want. Matt. I really want."
Matt won't argue. Not now. He brings his hands to her waist and she lowers herself onto him, inch by inch; he pushes into the quiet. Warm, silky, quiet. Without a thought, passing. Quiet, and loud all at once.
He pulls her down by the groove of her spine, feeling the bumps move, interconnecting bone, running his fingers along them. She tucks the arches of her feet under his thighs and rides him, slow at first, but then faster. With more intent, hungry for the feeling. Karen lifts up. All the way up, so he's almost out of her completely and then slides back against him. Clenching. Watching his face. He knows it. Two more of those and he'd be done. She'd never let him live it down. He stills her and searches for her hand to lace his fingers into — a silent kind of pleading, but finds her wrist instead. Kisses there. Then her forearm. The crook of her elbow, following the line until he's sitting up and she's in his lap, moving still, rocking. She's higher than he is and so they're misaligned. Trying to kiss but it's less of that now, more broken. She lands one on his brow, then an open mouthed drag to the bridge of his nose. He gets her jaw again, her collar bone– a bold line across her torso, angular, with painted edges.
Matt's hands are frantic, touching everywhere, slipping on wet skin, salt on his tongue as he licks between her breasts. She wraps her legs around his back, sticky, her shins all stuck to the sheets and he thrusts forward to meet her. Close. So close.
But not enough.
For once, Matt wants, what he wants. Moving fast, with his biceps taking all the weight and his legs folding, and unfolding, somehow, until Karen is on her back. She lands with her head hanging off the bed. Him, holding her — the blood rushing, the veins in her neck, like ropes for his fingers. He fucks her – makes love to her. Makes her scream. Loosens her bones, and he stares too long into the white space, in awe, of the sun, his mouth open; useless. A hollow space for her name.
"Karen."
Matt wakes for the second time — in a day. which, save for when he's unconscious, or injured, is unusual in itself. Karen isn't in bed with him. She's rummaging for something over by her bag, and her laptop is open and abandoned in the sheets beside him.
"Morning?"
She laughs. "Nuh-uh. Sleepy head. 2pm."
"Wow."
"Yeah."
"That's.. irregular." Matt touches her thigh as she sinks back into the mattress. She's wearing a long tshirt but with nothing on underneath. "Are you working on something?"
"Ah. I just had an idea about a lead. Had to strike while the iron was hot, you know." She smiles. "Plus, I didn't want to wake you. You looked cute."
"Thanks." Matt props himself up on one elbow.
"And your suits dry. By the way. No more blood stains."
He sighs and relaxes back. "When can you move in?"
She bops him on the nose with her finger. "I'm not that kind of woman, Matt."
"I know you're not," he says, reaching up and kissing the corner of her mouth, her face still stubbornly turned towards her screen.
"I know what you're doing."
"I'm not doing anything."
She huffs to cover up her smile and he lets the scent of her fill his nostrils, his lips teasing at the corner of her shoulder before he moves his hand over the plastic edge of her laptop screen. "Have you saved that?"
Karen clicks. A long click that seems to last for centuries. "I have now."
"Good." Matt smiles and he snaps it closed.