Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Matt starts with the basics.

He sits. He breathes.

In the warm familiarity of his apartment, his ribcage is a cavern, lifted, hollow. And his spine is a delicate stem, holding him up, swaying, stretching, curving to his neck, his chin, his shoulders loose, his lips parting.

Relax.

His calves, his ankle bones, his thighs; feather-light against the floor. His palms are up. He is present. 

Then the sounds, the layers. The layers and layers. He lets them all pass by. They are there, but they are unimportant.

In. Out.

In.

Out.

Forced. 

His nose twitches. He readjusts.

Everything should be nebulous now; neither here nor there, neither pleasant nor unpleasant. He's done it so many times before it's practically muscle memory, or it should be. Matt can bask, simply, usually, in the soft, unending decay of it. His city, breathing, in and out with him.

Not tonight.

Matt sighs. Futile. His head already throbs. A dull, measured tightening of the tissue around his eye sockets.

Tonight his city is different.

Tonight his city is charged particles. His city is simmering.

Times Square is less than a mile away and it brims with more than its usual cacophony of activity. It's thick and sooty, like a smoke that Matt can inhale; whole, sticky lungfuls of it. And there are no heartbeats, no footsteps to differentiate, only the collective static of millions merging into one, moving as one, stagnating as one, malignant and everywhere; leaching into the very fabric of him.

And of course Matt had promised and agreed, albeit dismissively, and shallowly, as he often does – when the promise is only for the benefit of himself, that he would at very least, wait until after midnight. Foggy especially, was insistent. 

But not moving at all is far worse, and crime doesn't stop just because the city decided to get loud.

He opens his eyes.

~

Matt waits in the shadows, barely there, with his back pressed to the alleyway wall and catches the robber mid-flight by the scruff of his hoodie. Fabric jars against his windpipe, the clunk of flexing cartilage, punctuated with a dry, wheezing sound before he woozes backwards in slow motion. Matt catches him again then, sparing him the impact of his deadweight body on the approaching ground and instead he twists to force him back up against the wall where he had just been standing. He squirms blindly for a moment, like an animal caught in a snare, instinctively rolling, thrashing, willing to escape without his skin if it will ensure his freedom.

"You." The man says when his eyes snap open; the edge of fear in his voice is satisfying, the acceptance, even more so. He goes limp, nothing more than a hunk of meat held under the press of Matt's heavy forearm.

"Drop it."

His clasped hand opens and the bag hits the ground with a weighty thud, the inside  consisting of mostly cash, two bottles of liquor – one now, the tang of scotch flaying hot at sensitive tissue.

The first punch is absolution, always the most deserved. The second is a punishment to himself, and the third too, for getting here just a little too late. He splits the man's lip open twice, a split on top of a split, one for each of the innocents – the store clerk, held up at knife point, and the elderly man with the heart condition who just came in to buy cigarettes. Their bitter pulses still ring in Matt's hears.

When the robber nearly chokes on a mouthful of his own blood, Matt thinks maybe he's had enough. So he sweeps the inside heel of the man's supporting leg and he concertinas to the floor, slumped at a right angle to the wall. 

"Happy new year, asshole."

~

Even the rain sounds different in Matt's ears tonight. It's light, sadly not enough to spoil the show, and Matt hears it played back to him twice before it even hits the ground, the hollow prrrr refracted off a million raincoats. He stands up high on a rooftop, thinking that maybe he can get above it, can see over it, through it, but the sound carries; the toneless boom of a mediocre ex-talent show singer, the smell of frying onions, the fast-food vender's spatula scraping at charred metal. Then around that, a halo of general busyness, bars, receipts printing, a waiter dropping a tray empty glasses in a busy restaurant. A unified gasp.

Matt loses track of time up to a point. His body does whatever it does; the sound of distress, of a drunken fight gone too far, of a young woman walking alone somewhere treacherous, heart beating fast, is too ingrained a sound or a feeling to miss — just muscle memory, Matt supposes. That is until the anticipation of the jostling crowd below chimes the time. The shuffle of their feet rough, like stone against sandpaper, the screams, the whistles, the numbers ticking down from twenty.

He shouldn't have gone out early. 

~

Matt makes three, rushed and ugly landings before the climax even hits. The rooftops are angled now, shifting, and the short drop from the ledge to the stairs outside Karen's window feels like a leap into the unknown. 

His boots hit solid and for a moment he is earthed before a tremor throws him sideways again, foot slipping off a metal edge, a step he's taken a thousand times before without fail, miscalculated. Then the squeak of rubber; a sharp spike centered in his chest as he falls. His hands reach for the iron railing in front of him but he clasps it to find that it is just atoms. Atoms and atoms, each of them quaking at the mercy of the sky.

As soon as he lets go, Matt's attention flares out again to something else, this time to the low booff and trill yap of dogs barking, peppered all over the city, their teeth bared upwards, whimpering, howling.

Then small, smaller.

Closer.

Karen, moving inside her apartment. Matt hears her unlock her phone and then discard it onto a hard surface. No texts, no calls. Promises kept. As she drifts into the kitchen, she changes— blurry, like a faint transmission signal, made up of waves and waves and circles where her limbs should be. A vague shape of a person. But she is loose and flowing, tired, but happy.

There's a tune. Matt knows it. Don't Stop Me Now by Queen; she hums it contentedly, an airless, throaty sound that Matt can feel buzzing in the window pane. Her voice crumbles around the high note in the chorus and she giggles.

The rim of a glass clips the metal of the faucet at the kitchen sink. Shaky hands, the good kind, deliciously clumsy and smiling to herself. One hand on the draining board seems to steady her and she gulps down the cool liquid hungrily.

Matt tracks her through to the bedroom, nearer to where he is and he can smell the intensity of her skin as her shape forms there; hear it as it rubs together where her thighs meet. She's wearing a dress with no tights and she's already kicked off her high heels, pausing to flex her achy toes in relief, curling them against the carpet like an ungraceful ballerina.

Then she is safe in her room for the night. Her muscles relax and Matt listens to the fibrous thriizzzp of the zipper of her dress unfurl at her midriff. 

If he waits any longer, he'll have to find somewhere else to go.

And so he makes the upwards drag the window deliberately loud, praying that he catches her attention quickly. The exact moment she hears him is obvious because she is silent and always ready — wary. Soft footsteps.

"Matt?" 

It's so good to hear her voice. So good that the relief of it catches him off guard. "Shit, Matt. What are you doing here? Are you hurt?"

She's cautious when she touches him; she always is – it's a pragmatic, calculated, pat down, a quick sweep over his chest and stomach – the bits that matter – as she rubs together her thumb and forefinger, checking for red.

"You're not bleeding?" 

"No," he manages, although he's lucky not to be; the amount of times he'd nearly fallen trying to get here. His shoulders shrug and then go limp.

Through two layers of old plasterboard and brick, Karen's neighbor is up late, knitting. Probably can't sleep – unsurprising, really – the tap of her needles is insect-like. There's milk over-boiling on the stove and smell of cocoa powder – and on the street below, two women are walking arm in arm, staggering, actually, and there's a flitter of hope in both their slurry voices; one of them rests her cheek on the others shoulder with affection. New year's resolutions, best friends, fuck men.

He's zoned out again. 

But Karen's voice is a soothing murmur when she repeats his name. She's close, and too loud, still. But soft, like a woollen blanket encompassing him. He can feel the individual threads of it, the high trebles and the muted mid tones, how they vibrate with worry.

Matt only gets a word or two beyond his lips before the shriek of a stray firework, then two, three, five more, renders him paralyzed again; the sound carving a sure path between his ears, like a blade, white hot, slicing him open and then searing him shut.

Familiarity. That's what he needs to anchor himself to. And there is some of that here; there are memories. Though, not all good ones.

Bookshelf to the right, desk, laptop, Karen's bed.

"You went out early didn't you?"

Matt had half expected her to be stern with him for breaking yet another promise but surprisingly her voice isn't stern at all. If anything, there's a hint of playfulness to it, it's spherical, rather than jagged. He's drawn to it like home.

"I'm sorry." Matt's hands splay out into the air and he tries to convey with his body what he can't seem to form on his tongue.

I'm fine, everything's fine.  

But that only makes Karen sigh. It's long and impatient and her breath is warm and tastes of hops and sugar cane. Citrus. Tequila. 

Matt would be willing to bet that's Foggy's influence. She's had fun tonight, then.

"No no no," she shakes her head, "you are not going to do this and then say you are fine. Sit down."

It's a command.

He collapses into soft linen, not silk, more cottony, but it's fragranced with her everyday scent; lavender, salt, chemical cherry – the lip balm on her night stand.

"Okay, be honest with me," she insists, "How bad is this?" She worries the skin at the inner corner of her thumb nail before planting her hands on her hips in show of defiance. "Do I need to call Claire?"

He'd really rather she didn't, although he might have gone there if he were closer, or not, she'd only give him an earful, and he's not sure he has the room for all that right now.

Karen at least, might feel sorry for him if he's lucky.

"No, Karen. It's okay. I'm sorry," he says it again, "I'm sorry. I didn't know where else to —"  His head is almost between his knees when Karen's hand rubs a gentle circle over his shoulder and then squeezes.

She finds another part of herself to bite, this time the flesh of her inside cheek, before she says, with a new confidence, "I'll get you some water."

Karen darts away and her brief absence from his side leaves him suddenly thread-bare and open.

She is land — and he is on choppy seas.

More fireworks rattle the skies in the distance in every direction. Matt tastes grey. Grey like ashes, grey like nothing at all. 

There's a siren; one of many. A fire in a dumpster two blocks away, a commotion on the late night subway train, a couple having sex in an apartment across the street, brutish wet, repugnant sounds. 

"Hey… Matt? Here, drink," Karen's back like she never went away, kneeling in front of him with one hand bleeding warmth through the fabric of his pants and the other wrapped around a glass of water. He takes it from her and she slumps heavy on the mattress beside him, closing her eyes briefly and swaying. "You can stay here," she says, hushed. "Sleep in my bed. I'll uh," she swallows dryly, "I'll take the couch."

This is a little too familiar now.

"I can't do that Karen." 

"Sure you can. You climbed through my window, Matthew . Like a burglar, and I didn't even flinch. You really think sleeping on the couch is weird to me?" There's humour in her voice and he's glad. He allows an impression of a smile to form at his lips.

"I'll admit, you have a point."

She sighs again, rocking her palm and massaging it gently into her eye socket, forgetting that she's wearing makeup. There's a smudge now, a transfer, on the ball of her thumb. "I always have a point Matt." She peels the empty glass from his hand then reaches up to press the backs of her fingers to his forehead. " And you're burning up. Is that – is that part of this whole deal?" Her panicked tone from before has since evolved into the frequency of at best: mild inconvenience. It's almost laughable.

She is right though, he is sweating, even through the moisture wicking material of his suit.

The mattress reforms as her weight disperses and she turns into ribbons of smoke wrapped around a solid form — once again, he loses her briefly, before she reappears as chunks of heat, holding onto a damp washcloth that's markedly cool in comparison to her body.

And this time, Matt does smile. She presses the soaked fabric to his face, into his hairline and down past his ears to his jaw. When she reaches for the other side, her face is close enough to his that he can taste her pulse, not just hear it — but taste it. 

He blinks slow and she moves even slower. He listens to her lungs fill.  

There's another whistle-fizz outside followed by a dozen or so more, judging by the sound and the direction of the wind they're coming from the direction of Central Park. Karen hears them too, turning towards the window and frowning; wishing them away, maybe? But it's better now, he doesn't shy or curl his fingers into his temple, he's calmer.

Her caress wants nothing from him and he takes nothing in return. 

"You missed Foggy's dancing."

She smiles as she says it; remembering.

Matt raises a brow. "Oh?"

"Uh-huh. It was… " she chuckles, "it was so bad Matt." The cloth is warm now with his body heat, but it's pleasant, the dampness is soothing. Even still, he wishes the cloth wasn't there, he wishes it was just Karen.

"And were you dancing?"

"Was I dancing?" She makes a face, a short, sharp puff of air through her nostrils.

"No."

"Admit it, you were," he teases carefully.

"Umm," she considers, "umm…" again, "okay, maybe a little bit."

"I knew it. No one escapes the Nelson moves. Not even me." 

She scoffs. "When did he have you dancing?" 

"Well, I could tell you, Karen, but if I did I would have to kill you." 

Karen's arm loops around to his opposite shoulder and she buries her face into the back of the side nearest to where she is sitting – he gets a read of her face there. The point of her nose, her cheek bone, her smile, imprinted into the flesh of his back. "You'd break your moral code just to keep your dirty secret safe?"

Matt doesn't hesitate. "I would."

Karen laughs and then shrugs. "Well, I think that's a crying shame. I bet you're a good dancer."

It's Matt's turn to chuckle sceptically. "Ha. Ah no."

"But you're a boxer." She says, "Boxers dance. Sort of. With their feet like — " the air around Karen's fingers creates little waveforms that indicate the miniscule action of walking, or dancing. "Coordination? Yes?" 

Matt shakes his head and then nods slowly. It's a motion he knows sits right between patronising and flirtatious. He hedges his bets on the latter. "If you say so, but I'm not showing you."

"Fine, okay whatever."

Karen gets up, then folds to her knees in front of him.

"What are you doing?"

She pulls at the bow he's tied on his laces. "I'm taking off your boots. You're not sleeping in my bed with your boots on."

Matt thinks that's fair. Matt also thinks he's staying, definitely staying — she's making him stay. 

"Y'know, Foggy always said you hated New year's eve but I just thought… I don't know."

Karen is a problem solver, and Matt knows that's frustration in her voice. But right now he's just trying his hardest not to groan at the sensation as the stiff leather of his boot comes away from his ankle.

"Crowds and loud noises. Not really my thing." 

"Why did you go out then, if you knew this would happen?" 

"Someone—"

Karen stops him by holding up a finger, a quick decisive swipe through the air in front of his lips. "Someone needed your help. I know, I know."

"Yeah. There was a robbery on —" Matt can feel Karen glaring at him and now he's sure that he's missed the point of something.

"Did you come to me because I was closest or because you wanted to come to me?" Karen sits half-cross legged on the floor, her dress is just long and loose enough that she's still covered by the fabric even with her legs apart. Matt detects a tinge heat in her tone.

"You weren't closest."

She purses her lips.

"How did you know I'd be in?"

Matt makes soft fists with his hands, not because he's angry, but because he's thinking. He's sweating again too. "I didn't," he answers flatly, "I guess I hoped."

There's a pause that nestles itself between the two of them; Matt isn't sure if it's a drop in pressure, or a rise in one. Either way, air shifts. Karen bows her head then tugs self consciously at her dress, flattening it as she stands. 

"I'm gonna use the bathroom. I'd appreciate it if you didn't listen to me peeing."

Matt suppresses one last laugh and nods seriously. Very seriously.

"Consider it done."

She turns on her heel and walks towards the bathroom, softening but not fading; he can see her well. She burns bright to all of his senses.

He leans back into the pillows and closes his eyes.

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.

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.