Chapter Text
"It is better, I think, to grab at the stars than to sit, flustered because you know you cannot reach them."
- R.A. Salvatore, Sojourn
~
Matt first detects her presence when she's still a little more than half a block away.
It's easy to pick up on her specific gait, the laser-focused way in which her feet hit the pavement and the sound that her bag makes when it bumps rhythmically against the seam at her thigh.
The closer she gets, the more Matt's world seems to shift. Every tangible sound and sensation has to be recalculated — reassessed, because not even she, as bright as she is, can illuminate the darkest corners of Hell's Kitchen.
He had been trying though. They hadn't exactly discussed it, but it was more or less written in dust of their last attempt at whatever it is that they had, that he had to stop doing that thing that he does, and that if he couldn't control his need to protect her, then the least he could do was be slightly less of a dick about it.
But that was easier said than done.
A homeless man in a shop doorway nods a quiet "evening," as she passes by and Matt flinches in his seat instinctively. She stops, only for a moment to fumble with her bag before tossing a coin into his flat cap. "God bless you ma'am, God bless you," and as the voice rustles and fades, Matt can't help but hyper-analyse the tone of it.
Harmless.
She walks on none the wiser of his sensory intrusion and he begins the more iminnant task of worrying about himself, how he'll act around her. He wonders if, even with time and distance and distractions, she'll be able to read just as much about him as she usually does.
Tonight is special because it's a rarity. A chip, in the impenetrable armour of their routine. Things were different now that their flow of clients was more than just a modest trickle of pro bono cases, and despite what their namesake would have people believe, it wasn't often they found time for the three of them to get together outside of the office.
When their busy lives did somehow align, beer was obviously the only conceivable way to celebrate.
A handful of footsteps later, Foggy comes back into Matt's field of view. He's been drifting around in the entrance way for the past ten minutes listening to an ex-army veteran talk about how long it takes to fry an egg on the hood of a 1986 Toyota. The conversation halts when he barrels through the door with Karen following close behind him. The wind kicks up her hair and fills the room with what Matt imagines the colour purple might smell like before she curls it back into submission with a twist of her fingers.
"Matt, buddy, I don't wanna alarm you but I found this one loitering around outside." Foggy uses his thumb to gesture leeringly over his shoulder in her direction.
Karen laughs. Matt greets her with a smile that he hopes doesn't read as one of a man who's been tracking for her the entirety of her journey here.
"It can't be." Matt puts on his best pretend surprise face. "Karen?"
"Karen? Who's Karen? Don't you mean K-Page-reporter-extrodoarire?"
"Foggy, c'mon."
"And she's actually here! Gracing us with her presence!" Foggy turns sharply, "Matt, is it Christmas? It feels kinda like Christmas. Someone get me the tequila, stat!"
"Tequila at Christmas?"
"What's wrong that?"
Karen diverts her eyes towards the ceiling so violently that Matt can practically hear the sound it makes. "Everything, Foggy."
Matt pulls out the chair next to him. "Where'd you find her anyway? Was she harassing the locals again?"
"I think that's like her job, right? Harassing people?"
Karen sits down, close enough to brush up against Matt's knee. "Well I'm not the only one," she says and although Matt feels suddenly singled out, that sweet, flirty, tang to her voice is nice to hear flowing in his direction.
"Weird. I have no idea what you're talking about." He turns to his left, "Foggy? Do you?"
"Hey man don't get me involved. I'm just here to get drinks and break up fights, alright? ."
"Good plan."
Karen smiles. Matt lifts his beer to his lips and she intercepts it, drawing it up to her mouth for a long, cool gulg that he tracks all the way to the center of her chest.
"You're welcome I guess?"
"Well we're obviously celebrating."
"That's your defense?"
"But I'm right aren't I?"
"You might be," Matt admits, "I mean Foggy did kinda kick ass in court today."
"Kicked ass, huh?"
Karen turns to welcome both him and the freshly opened beer he's carrying as he passes it over to her. "Karen, what have I told you about stealing the man's drink?"
"I know, I know, I'm sorry. It's just it tastes soooo much better when it's someone else's." Karen's voice is laced with mischief when she finally hands it back to him. There's a delicate heat imprint from her fingers on the bottle neck and he can taste her, honeyed, on the rim of the glass. "So c'mon, tell me how it went," she presses, "Ass-kicking sounds exciting. Are you sure I haven't been leaving you two alone a little too much?"
Matt chuckles. Foggy finds the table with the points of his elbows causing it to rock loose against the chorus of old, rusty screws. "Are you kidding? It was all me," he points to himself, "I kicked ass. No, kicked asses , actually. That's plural, by the way. Some might even say –"
"— that modesty isn't really his strong point?" Matt butts in.
"Well, mine neither," Karen gives Foggy's arm an encouraging nudge, prompting his finger to whip through the air a fraction too fast for his beer which spills some of its contents into the sticky hollow of his palm.
"Well in that case… to winning!" he declares. "The only thing that matters!" He raises his drink even higher.
"You know I can't toast that."
"Lame!"
"How about… to justice?" Matt suggests instead as Karen's glass connects to his with an elegant clink.
"To justice, winning. Then everyone's happy."
"Ahhh, you mean, prevailing?"
"I like that," Matt says. "Has a nice ring."
"And truth," she adds. "Truth prevailing. Which is my job of course." Her glass is already half way empty by the time Matt's even touches his lips. He raises a concerned brow in Foggy's direction.
"I know buddy, I have a headache just watching her."
Karen laughs. "C'mon guys! It's been weeks since the three of us got together like this. I'm just enjoying the moment, okay? You should too."
"..She's right y'know." Matt knocks back a final swig in solidarity, slouching, before loosening his tie. Karen smiles at him, it's soft. Rounded at the edges.
Foggy sighs. A fistful of his glass thumps the table. "God, I hate it when she's right."
Matt doesn't know why he's not used to that by now. He pats him on the back in sympathy as he stands to gradually pick his way over to the bar.
"I'll get this one," he says, gauging her as he moves, and at this distance, things aren't quite so fuzzy with her – so intimate. He can pick up on when her gaze flits for a moment to land on him; up and down – lingering , and then the relative coolness that's left behind when it quickly darts away again.
He pretends not to notice.
When he's moved a safe enough distance away she and Foggy find conversation without him. He cracks a joke and she snort-laughs, reaching across and dumping her forehead into his hands. Matt tries not to intrude, instead he zooms out, nurtures the moment. Reminiscing, he supposes, about something old and warm and much-cherished –like a softly woven blanket made of sound.
Slipping a bill over the bar, he smiles warmly. "Same again please Josie," and she takes it with a slow eye roll and a papery thin curl of her upper lip which Matt knows is as much of a smile as anyone ever gets.
Balancing the three drinks between his knuckles, he returns to the table.
"Foggy says you're losing your touch," is apparently Karen's thanks when she takes her respective beer.
"My touch?"
"With the ladies," she clarifies. The slight slur in her voice indicates the alcohol might already be loosening her tongue, which unsurprisingly only makes her more endearing to listen to.
"Okay listen, all I'm just saying is," Foggy leans back and crosses his arms, stiff and business-like. "There's been a criminal lack of baked goods at the office lately–"
"Criminal?" Karen chuckles. "Really?"
"Yes, criminal Karen. And this isn't the time for jokes. Specifically, I might add, baked goods made by women– wait, no," he pauses and addresses the empty space behind him, "men too, I mean maybe? Who can blame them... anyway, what I'm trying to say is, Matt's radar is all out of whack."
"Ohhh," she interrupts at the realisation. "You mean Matt's hotgirl radar?"
He sighs. "I don't have a h—"
"Yes you do."
"You kind of do though.." she teases.
This is bullying. Matt's being bullied.
Foggy offers a wobbly, half-whispered, sort-of-apology in his left ear. "It's the Spandex thing. They can sense it."
Karen snickers and Matt's voice comes out low as he tries to preserve what little might be left of his dignity. "Technically, it's not Spandex."
"There's your problem!"
Karen bursts into laughter, rushing to stifle it with her finger tips. "Matt, I think what Foggy is actually trying to say is…."
"Oh no, I get it, Karen." Matts not done. "There's just not enough pie to go around."
Foggy shakes his head. "Smooth Matt. Lovely image." And great now he's blushing. "But if we're talking about actual pie," Foggy continues, "and not... whatever it is you're talking about, then you're right, and quite frankly it's a travesty."
"Yes, but that has less to do with my— um," Matt changes tact, "with me, and more to do with the fact people are finally paying us with actual money."
"He does have a point there, Foggy."
"I mean that could be it - could be . But I like my theory better. Speaking of income, if Karen wasn't blowing all of hers on her designer sneaker addiction maybe I'd be able to afford a haircut."
"It's not an addiction if it's useful, Foggy," she counters, circling her ankles under the table.
"Good, practical footwear is essential for uh.." Matt gestures towards her unhelpfully, "walking?" he offers.
"Walking. Exactly. Thank you, Matt," she leans her weight in and slides her hand up over his shirt which gathers at his bicep. His skin fizzes at the touch. "Besides, you don't see me pulling you over all your ' business' meetings with Marci, do you?"
"Oh she's got you now Fogs."
"I literally have no idea what you're talking about."
"Oh you don't? — well remind again me of exactly how much you spent at Frenny's Fine dining last week?" Karen's tongue is lawyer-sharp. Foggy's mouth drops open in a typically melodramatic fashion before it snaps shut again.
"You have no evidence, Page."
"Evidence?" Karen swings her beer around and uses it as a tool to cross examine. "You forget I'm the only one here with any kind of accounting experience."
And it's at that point, Foggy already knows he's beat. "I have a well documented phobia of spreadsheets, Karen. Matt'll back me up."
"It's true," Matt says. "Ever since college."
And it's impossible for her to hold it in this time. She bursts out laughing that way he honestly hasn't heard her laugh in months. Her forearm comes up hard enough to wrinkle her nose and compressed air in her throat spills outwards.
It's an joyful, uncontrollable sound, and when it tapers off, she's breathless.
"So you don't deny it —" she continues her attack.
"No," he says, "I mean yes! No, wait, no, objection!" Foggy yells, "badgering the witness!"
"Overruled," Matt says, grinning.
"Dammit! You never told me we had three lawyers in this firm?"
"Well I learn from the best."
"Flattery will get you nowhere in this business Page. Not with me anyway — Matt's a soft touch. Personally, I liked you much better when you were just an office manager. Less attitude."
"So you keep saying." Karen grins and Foggy fumbles out of his seat, defeated.
"Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta go shoot the rabbit. Maybe I'll get some respite from this abuse while I'm there," he points an accusing finger loftily at Karen. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone. Like.. I don't know..start a business together or something.."
"Can't promise, sorry."
"Me neither." Matt smiles.
As the laughter subsides with Foggy's absence, a crater of silence that may as well be the size of Manhattan opens up in his wake. Matt hears Karen swallow hoarsely, and he finds — quite annoyingly considering her previous statement regarding him and women, that he has absolutely no idea what to say.
In his mind, there's nothing but a whirring blur of useless smalltalk.
"He seems happy." Karen speaks first after what seems like an eternity.
"Foggy?" he says, "yeah. Yeah, he is, I think."
"And what about you, Matt?" She wets her lips, taking another sip of her drink. "How are you doing?"
Inquisitively, he moves towards the shape of the question, wondering like he always does with Karen, what the real meaning of it is. "Yeah," he nods. "Yeah good. We've been—"
"I wasn't talking about work, Matt."
Of course she wasn't. But he feels fragile in front of her, especially here, and at first, the answer is the same. "Oh. Erm. Good. I'm good," before he settles on a marginally more insightful reply of: "better."
"I'm glad to hear it," she says. He doesn't really know what that means except that when her hand ventures up to rest on the crook of his shirted forearm, she's sincere about it.
And her touch. Her touch feels good. He knows that too.
"Did you find who you were looking for last night?" she asks.
He frowns. There's a delay between his brain and his tongue.
"The Stevens case? I mean I assume that's how you convinced that witness to testify? That that part was uh…" she drops her voice down to a whisper, "extra curricular…"
Matt shifts in his seat. "Ah."
"Ah." She smiles.
"Do me a favour and–"
"—don't tell Foggy? Yeah I figured that."
"It's not that I don't want him to know the truth Karen, it's just he and I, we've..erm… we've been having talks lately about.." Matt runs his hand through his hair. "About my persuasiveness." Or at least that's one way to put it – another way would be hard-line conversations on an almost nightly basis about how Matt took it too far; or about how his knuckles shouldn't have to get bloody for the sake of every case they take. Course, it's not like Karen hasn't been on that particular end of things before, and so he half expects her to agree. To condemn. But instead she suppresses a tiny laugh that Matt finds strangely comforting.
"I see," she nods. "And you're telling me this because… I'm just..so much more understanding, right?"
Matt purses his lips. "Well, actually...yes." The break between their up until now, back and forth conversation lengthens and he can't seem get a read on whether she's flattered, or insulted. "Anyway, how are you?" he asks, "I feel like we never really — erm.."
"— like we never see eachother anymore?"
He chuckles. "I shouldn't complain."
"No, you shouldn't," she quips back a little icily. "But you're right…" She picks as she thinks, her nail scratching absentmindedly at the corner of the label of her beer until it starts to peel away from the glass. It's a sound that would probably irritate him if it was anyone else, but with her it's reassuring. A hint of apprehension, maybe? If so, then she's not the only one.
"I think it's better this way," she says after a moment, "don't you?" Matt hones his focus in on her to the point that it's nearly deafening. "Makes you appreciate it more, you know, when we do get together."
Was that a question? Matt's not sure. Because he wants to say no. No, I miss you. No, but you're right and I don't deserve your time, and God, if he's lucky to even get this.
"You're meant to say, no Karen, I miss you."
"Sorry." Now he feels stupid. "Erm. No, Karen, I... miss you?"
"Yeah no, it doesn't work if you don't mean it."
Matt smiles. "That's because you should be thankful that you're not spending every waking hour in that sweaty office with a pair of idiots like us."
"Idiots is a little harsh," and softly, she presses her lips together. Underneath that, there's an obvious smile. Matt tries to coax it out of her but just ends up smiling himself. It feels silly and awkward – warm and inviting, and in a second it's gone again as quickly as it came, so close, and she's back to flicking her nail and thinking.
"You know, I met this pretty special guy downtown today."
And what a way to punch a man in the gut without even touching him.
"You did?"
"Mm-hm." She nods.
"Should I be worried? —" Shit. "Not about— I mean just…"
"About if he's good enough for me, you mean?"
"No." Matt wants to die. "Yes. I guess. Sort of."
"Well, don't worry, he is." She sounds full of confidence, which he loves, but also it's crushing. "He's super sweet," Karen's hand moves up to caress a small strand of her hair, romantically twizzling it around her finger. "Handsome…" she flicks her eyes towards him.
Matt squares out his back against his chair. Sits a little taller. "Sounds like he might be too good to be true."
Karen bites her lip and Matt can't sense exactly why, but he's sure she's laughing at him somehow. "He might be."
And that's it? That's all she's going to say?
"Well.." Matt treads cautiously, "does this special guy have a name?"
"Mm. Sort of."
"Sort of?"
"He does, but uh, it's a weird one."
Matt waits.
"Maximus," she says. "It's Maximus."
"Maximus?" How ridiculous. "That is a weird name…" he trails off.
"So judgy, Matt."
"I'm not judging –" he clears his throat seriously; cocks his head sideways. "I'm just saying that I... might have to pay this Maximus guy a visit, that's all."
And of course he'd been joking. Clear as day.
Clearly, obviously, joking.
But suddenly Karen's heart beats in a way that's much more than just the steady background thrum that hes used to. Now it's more of a flutter. Busy. Excited.
"So you do care?" she asks, and if Matt's honest, a scolding hot iron straight into his side, would probably have been less of a shock to his system.
"I...erm...well. Of course I—" Matt notices how her eyelids sit heavily and her lips part, her hands, stilled, now. Everything about her body language screams tuned in. Flirtatious. And it's only that that gives him the confidence to say it. "You know I do, Karen."
There.
Karen swallows hard. Then she turns away and tips her chin towards the ceiling.
Regret.
"I might have lied to you a little bit," she says.
Matt is confused.
"Maximus isn't.. um," she stutters, "Maximus is... He's actually, not exactly.. human."
Oh.
"You remember Mrs Sampson?"
Matt twitches. "Yes."
"Well Maximus is her four year old pedigree Afghan Hound."
A dog. Maximus is a dog.
"I probably should have said."
But it's too late for that. Blood is already rushing to Matt's face. He considers a myriad of things during the few seconds that he sits there. Prayer is one of them. Blowing his secret identity and running, is another. Disintegrating into dust, maybe? If that's an option.
"Well that's kind of embarrassing…"
"I'm sorry," she sort of laughs and it makes him feel marginally better. "I really am, Matt, I didn't think you would..." she lays a hand on his knee and rests it there.
Deliberately.
She deliberately rests it there.
"I hope you two are playing nice."
Anddd it's gone.
"Why wouldn't we be?" she replies as Foggy rejoins them at the table.
Matt clears his throat. "Right? Why wouldn't we?"
~
It's raining when they leave.
To everyone else, it's the kind of rain that sounds like it's crackling when it hits the pavement, but to Matt, it's an endless hush of white noise that engulfs his city, and he can tell by the way that noise stretches on; far beyond the limits of his auditory horizon, that it'll be here long after his nightly trials are over.
Foggy certainly doesn't seem to mind though. Matt finds him outside, doing a terrible job of sheltering from the downpour as he awaits a cab. He's either too drunk or too careless to notice that his shirt is getting soaked by the stream of water that's spilling off the edge of the awning.
"I should probably get going. Marci and I have a thing."
"Movie night?" Matt asks.
"The Notebook. You heard of it? Nevermind, you haven't heard of it."
Matt chuckles. "It's a chick flick. Or so I hear, which means you'll love it."
He sighs again, even more wistfully than before. "You're right but don't tell anyone. I have my masculinity to uphold."
"Sounds painful."
"It's weight I have to bare."
That's when Karen joins them, still grappling with her purse and wrangling her hoodie. "I swear Josie just gets meaner," she says.
A cab rolls up to the curbside and Foggy darts out to catch it. "Confidence is key Karen. She can smell fear!" His shape rapidly evaporates once he's out of the rain, eventually fading completely as he speeds away and for the second time tonight, it's just the two of them alone.
Jazz music flitters through the air from a few blocks away — a basement bar with the door left wide open, but the drum of the rain above them steals the show, splattering their shoes and transforming their quick goodbyes into something longer. Something lingering.
They've been here before. This exact moment, Matt remembers, but in much simpler times.
"It's getting colder," she says, contemplatively.
Matt doesn't know how long they've been standing there in silence but he knows theres goosebumps forming on her arms and it wouldn't be so strange for him to offer her his jacket, or an arm around her shoulder. As a friend. Would it?
"Change is coming," he replies a little solemnly.
"Don't you like the fall?"
He considers for a moment, if he does in fact like the fall, ignoring the obvious conversation killer of darker nights and a noticeable spike in crime. "I guess I just don't like it when things end."
Karen looks at him. He senses it. A steady heat from her gaze drawing blood up to the surface. "I was thinking more; pumpkin spice, candy apples that sort of thing," she chuckles, "but okay."
God, he really does need to loosen up.
"Those things are good too."
He supposes she's moving in closer to him for body heat – snaking her arm in from behind and linking it through. Yeah, he thinks that's probably it.
But when she relaxes a bit more and rests her temple on his shoulder, for a moment, he forgets to breathe.
"Karen.."
And he almost says it. The words form a shape without sound on the tip of his tongue.
Should I walk you home? Can I walk you home? Will you let me?
But she beats him to it.
"— Matt," she says, and it's small, her voice all wrapped up in a ball at the back of her throat like she's been nursing it there. "Can we talk?"
On the outside, he's calm, but on the inside his stomach is filling to the pit with dread.
"Sure."
"At your place?" Her fingers curl reassuringly into the fabric at his elbow.
"Yeah." He nods.
"I have an umbrella?" He hears a click as she removes it from her bag. "We can share?"
"I'd love to," he says.
And they walk.