He found her at the cemetery. Well, across the street from the cemetery, just as Malcolm had alluded she would be. She was leaning against the burnt out wood of the closed bodega, her arms crossed, black hair blowing across her face

At least her thought her arms were crossed and her hair was black. He couldn't be sure, but when he looked at her, or more accurately sensed her, she seemed closed, rigid, and dark. His impressionist painting of her was one of black flame, a flame impossible to put out.

"Jesus," she growled once he came into view. "What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighbourhood," he joked, finding his place beside her. Using his strong hip, Matt pushed her aside a bit, making space for them both to lean.

"Look, I know I bailed, but..." she reluctantly began; her words so soft the wind nearly took them before he could be sure what she said.

Matt smiled. "You don't have to apologize."

She scoffed, redirecting what he had thought would be a heartfelt expression of her feelings into indignation. "I wasn't going to. I was going to say, I know I bailed, but you deserved it."

He sighed, but not out of frustration. Instead he sighed because he knew she was right. After a moment of silence, staring at the cemetery that housed his empty coffin, he said, "You know, this isn't easy for me either."

"Well, maybe you should have shown up bruised and bloodied, heart in your hands, instead of clean shaven with a fucking suit and I'd believe it was hard for you."

"As a blind man, appearances aren't the first thing I think about, Jessica. The suit is comfortable. It blends in and-"

"And it probably chaffs less than that red number you wear," she said sarcastically.

"You'd be surprised," he replied, pulling on the collar of his crisp white shirt.

Jessica eased beside him, her stiff hip softening into his own, her crossed arms falling at her sides. Matt was sure she was smiling and he liked it. He liked it so much, he knew it was time to tell her the truth.

"I found my mother. Or, more accurately, she found me. She nursed me back to health. I've been retraining and refocusing. I've been trying to find a way to really heal. A part of me thought I'd never come back here again. That maybe I shouldn't because this city can be hard to handle, but-"

"But we're in danger," she interjected, breaking into his confession in a way a priest never would.

"Yes," he said, ashamed. "Everything I tried to prevent by stopping Elektra is coming to the surface. Foggy and Karen might have created a cover for my death, but my enemies, the Daredevil's enemies weren't fooled. Some have figured out that Matt Murdock is the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and now everything's…"

"Fucked?" she asked.

Matt chuckled. "Yeah. Everything's fucked."

"I missed you," she suddenly said. It felt foreign to him, hearing someone as strong as her saying something so emotional, something so raw. He loved it.

"I missed you too."

In an instant her emotions were replaced by cool indifference. "But I don't want to go to war again, Murdock. If someone comes for me I'll take them on, but I can't fight armies of mystical fanatics or resurrected assassins. I just don't think I have it in me. I didn't have it in me then either."

"I doesn't matter, Jessica. I don't want you to do that," Matt told her. "I don't want you to fight at all. Just take your friends and skip town for a bit. I'll get to the bottom of this, find out who knows about me and-"

"And kill them?" she asked.

"Maybe."

She snorted. "You're not the killing kind."

"You'd be surprised what I'm capable of when it comes to protecting the people I love."

"Well, as close as I'm sure you and Danny have gotten during your brief time back home, I wouldn't call it love," she joked. "And I don't know if you noticed, but Claire loves someone else now."

"And you?"

"Someone once told me that I'm not capable of it. He was wrong about a lot of things, but on that count he was probably right."

"Jessica…" Matt began, but he stopped himself from continuing, wondering if she could hear the pity in his voice. And why should he pity her? So she didn't have a man in her life, so she wasn't like Colleen or Claire… did that matter? She was strong and smart and capable of more than any woman he had known. He resolved that there was no place for pity with her.

But he knew it was too late, he'd already let her hear it and now she was preparing to walk away. He could feel her body itching next to him, the molecules within her firing as she kicked herself off the wall and strode into the darkness.

"I gotta go, counselor."

"Out of town?" he called after her hopefully.

Jessica turned back to face him. "Are Luke and Danny really leaving?"

Matt shook his head no. "Turns out your little speech earlier may have changed their minds."

Jessica let out a hearty laugh and continued on course. Matt followed as she made her way down the middle of a quiet New York street.

"They said they have things here, people. They said they can't leave," Matt told her.

"And that you've been known to be a liar?" Jessica questioned.

"No. That didn't come up."

"But you know they were thinking it, right?" Jessica said as she walked faster into the night. Matt quickened his pace to stay just behind her. "You used your super powers or whatever to figure out they didn't trust you and so you came for me?"

"I used my abilities to determine they had more to gain by staying and that if push came to shove they would fight alongside me again… even if that's not what I want."

"Hm, I guess I was wrong," she told him, crossing into the yellow glow of the lamp post above them. "They really do love you."

As she stood before him bathed in artificial light, Matt could once again see her outline. It was softening. She was softening. All it took was 10 minutes and some not so small talk. The wind whipped up her hair again, this time casting it against the electrical hum of the streetlight. Her strands cascading out before him like the cresting rays of the sun.

She was beautiful. He was sure.

The screech of off brand tires less than one block away broke his attention. A van, big and boxy, carrying six men, each holding a loaded gun, was barrelling down the street. They were on a collision course with Jessica.

"Move!" he screamed to her, but it was too late. The van crashed into her side, propelling her into the air like a rocket. She hit the asphalt more than 30 feet away, her body rolling, her bones cracking.

"Jessica!" Matt cried, as the men from the van leaped out, it's front end severely damaged by a Jessica Jones shaped dent.

Before he could react, a second van screeched into earshot, coming from the opposite direction. Matt knew there was nothing he could do as it targeted Jessica lying on the pavement. In seconds it was on her, rolling her under it's tires with a series of terrifying thuds.

Matt rushed towards her, but the six men from the first van flanked him; their guns drawn, their knives sharpened and ready. Looking to Jessica, he could hear her writhing on the pavement, hear her body ache, but he didn't have the means to be by her side. He was fighting. He was exposed.

These men knew him as Matt Murdock. He was wearing a business suit and glasses. He was blind. There was no mask, no armour, no weapons but his own hands.

The flight came fast, a flurry of fists. They attacked in waves, three or four at a time rather than one on one. As Matt knocked them down, more took their place. Suddenly the six became 12. The second van had unloaded its deadly cargo.

In the distance, passed the repeated echoes of each kick, the swish of each knife almost cutting too close, Matt listened for Jessica. He heard nothing.

Another punch. Another kick. Matt fought hard, but he couldn't stop them all from connecting. A broken finger. A slashed arm. Bruised hands and face and legs and lungs.

"Jessica!" he screamed again, but there was no reply. At least not a verbal one. But finally he could hear her, feel her, being dragged into the second van. Her boots were scraping on the street. Her scent was diminishing as she was pulled further and further away.

Matt pushed his way through the hoard of assailants, slamming one after another to the ground. He reached the van as it peeled from the asphalt, its tires burning on a path out of danger. The back doors crashed closed as it turned the corner, an unconscious Jessica Jones trapped inside.

"Jessica!"