"We need to get off the street." Jessica Jones said, a black leather jacket snugly tucked around her thin frame, a dirty and bloodstained scarf hanging from her neck. Walking through Hell's Kitchen after midnight, braving the cold, the scarf felt like a badge of honour. Or a sign that read: don't fuck with me.
Matt Murdock followed as close as his feet would allow. His hand was latched around her arm. It appeared to anyone who happened to look their way that they were a couple walking home after a night of revelry at one of the many dive bars that littered the neighbourhood. In reality, Matt was just trying to keep up as Jessica stomped ahead, putting as much distance between them and their rooftop refuge.
Matt hadn't wanted to stay. He had been unconscious when Jessica had carried him there, and as much as he trusted her he couldn't trust that they had not been followed. They had needed to find somewhere safe and warm and dry.
"Dry?" Jessica had asked him as they descended the stairs to the street.
Matt could feel the air around them changing. He knew it was going to rain.
"God, you're weird," she had muttered under her breath.
Now they were walking, almost running, with no real destination in mind.
"We need to get off the street," Jessica said again, waiting for Matt to suggest somewhere, anywhere that they could go.
She had revealed they couldn't go to her place - it had already been trashed. "If they're looking for us they'll go to all the places connected to us," she had told him. Matt knew that meant he couldn't turn to Foggy for help.
Or Karen. Matt had yet to tell her he was alive. She had a new apartment, nicer, safer than her old one. And it was free of bullet holes - or at least Foggy told him it was. Matt had visited it his third night back from the dead. He sat outside, one rooftop away, and listened to her wash her dishes while humming. Then he heard her get a call on her cell, a call from Frank Castle. He knew then that things had changed while he was away. And so when they rattled off the friends and family they couldn't turn to, Matt hadn't even mentioned her name.
"Let's just stop up ahead," Matt said, feeling the first drops of rain hit his skin. He was without his glasses, his cane, or even a jacket. He was shivering, but pretending the cold didn't matter.
Jessica saw the blinking crimson light of an open sign hanging over the sidewalk. Against her better judgment, the judgment that told her to run and hide and maybe even cry at the thought of an army of Kilgraves preparing an attack on New York, Jessica hurried underneath the sign and stepped inside a 24 hour diner. She needed a drink.
Pulled into the doors just behind her, a bell chiming their arrival, Matt read her mind. "I don't think they're going to have booze."
Jessica chuckled. "It's okay. I brought my own." She removed a flask from her jacket pocket, shaking it so Matt could hear the golden liquid sloshing about inside. "Thanks, by the way."
It figured Jessica would raid his liquor cabinet. She didn't bring any weapons or grab his jacket during their flight from Fisk, but she made sure her whiskey rations were well stocked.
"Sit anywhere you like," the waitress called from behind the counter. She was absently reading the paper, flipping through the pages, creating a rhythm Matt could follow, a soft vibration that let him take in the room.
Releasing himself from Jessica's arm he took the lead, finding a booth away from the window and sliding into it's torn and dirtied seat.
"Coffee," Jessica said, finding her place across from Matt, turning her body to face the door. She knew stopping was necessary, but she also knew there were no guarantees of their safety, or that of the waitress and unseen cook.
But within a few minutes, they were drinking coffee, his black, hers spiked, trying to collect their thoughts - trying to figure out what to do next.
"I just don't understand why they would want you," Matt finally said, resigned to the knowledge that his intellect couldn't figure this one out; there was no closing argument to make.
"I don't care," Jessica told him, slurping back another gulp of whiskey tinged coffee, her head resting on the sticky diner wall, boots firmly placed on the booth seat.
"You're the one who remembered it," Matt said incredulously. "You're the one he wants. How can you not care?"
"Because I'm working one problem at a time, Murdock. I don't know what it takes to be a lawyer, but as an investigator you can't see the whole picture until you gather the evidence. Right now, we have no new clues." she sighed. "Which means we're both just thinking in circles."
"I would rather talk this out than do nothing."
"I'm not doing nothing. I'm drinking," she remarked.
Ignoring her, Matt wondered aloud, "Maybe we could go to a hotel?"
Jessica scoffed. "Man, you're green. They know us, counselor. And from what I've read in the papers, this Fisk guy is connected. Without fake ID's and maybe a damn wig, we're not getting into any hotel without being spotted."
"I know. You're right," he told her. Jessica loved being right.
"No one knew he was out. I mean, he's supposed to be in Riker's, right?"
Matt nodded in agreement.
"But I didn't see a headline about his escape or release. Did you?"
"Well, we've been busy," he reminded her, taking a sip of his coffee, wishing it was stronger.
"You can hear, like, everything. Don't you think your Spidey Senses would have picked up some asshole watching Channel 5 if they were reporting on Fisk's escape?"
"Don't call them that?" Matt pleaded, annoyed. But he knew the request would go unanswered. Mocking him and his abilities seemed to be a coping mechanism. The snark was like a shield, something she could hold up or, in a pinch, throw in someone's face in order to knock them back.
Matt had always been weary of explaining the inner workings of his power. Partially because it exposed him, but mainly because it sounded ridiculous. Jessica never asked what he could do or how he could do it, but she also never missed an opportunity to poke fun.
"You have to know someone who can help us," she finally said.
"Me?"
"I know two fucking people. Trish and Malcolm. One has a penthouse with plenty of room, but is basically famous and therefore easy to find. The other lives in a shoebox that's just down the hall from my ransacked office. So, I think it's fair to say Fisk and his lackeys know about both of them."
"You said it yourself earlier today-" Matt began.
"Yesterday," Jessica reminded him.
Fuck. Yesterday.
When had they last slept? It was now 1:28 AM. Only three days since he had revealed his return to Claire and Luke and Danny… revealed his fears to Jessica. It felt like three weeks, or perhaps months.
"You said yesterday that I can't be seen with people I know. It only draws attention to the fact that I've returned. And you just said five minutes ago that we can't go places we might be connected to."
Jessica laughed, nearly spitting out the last swallow of alcohol - had that happened, she really would have been pissed. "First, I said that bit about drawing attention to yourself before they attacked us at your loft. Your loft. Fisk obviously knows you're back. The cat is definitely out of the bag on that one. And second, I'm not suggesting we seek shelter with that stupidly named lawyer you know or the blonde you're obviously sleeping with."
Before Matt could respond, she reached across the table and grabbed his coffee cup. Without word, she gulped it down.
"But you grew up here. You know people," she continued.
"So do you," he said, taking his cup back, feeling it's emptiness.
"Most of the people I know I've punched in the face. I'd say with a history like that, they're probably not inclined to give us shelter for the night."
Matt smiled, knowing, evening without having seen it first hand, that her statement was true. He couldn't help but imagine her punching her way through New York. It dawned on him that like Kilgrave, and even Fisk, she could have used her abilities to garner power and control and respect. While she couldn't coerce those around her to do her bidding or buy an army with an unlimited supply of money, strength - unbelievable strength - could be used to induce fear. And people who were afraid usually did anything asked of them.
That she had never done so, that she had never thought of giving in to the darkness he could only assume Kilgrave left in his wake, made him admire her in a way that felt foreign.
Matt loved Foggy, loved Karen, hell, he even loved Claire. People who were better than they had any right to be. People who worked hard for those who had less and did so without the aid of a suit or super power.
But what he felt for Jessica was different. Reverence, perhaps. She had been beaten and broken down, stripped of herself and cobbled back together bit by bit, and yet the power in her punch was reserved for those who deserved it. She didn't threaten people into giving her nice things, or even a free drink at the bar, she threatened those who threatened others. She did good, whether she wanted to admit it or not.
And now she needed him to help her, protect her, even if only for one night. Matt could not refuse that offer.
"I know where we can go," he finally told her.
"Then let's go," she replied. He heard her rummaging around in her pockets, ostensibly looking for money to pay, but she didn't find any. "Don't forget to tip," she said before slipping out of the booth toward the bathroom.
Fishing a ten dollar bill from his back pocket and laying it on the table, he was suddenly overcome with a feeling of unease. The sidewalk outside was covered in a slick layer of rain; a steady stream had been falling since they sat down. Matt could hear the barely formed puddles part as heavy boots stepped in them, trudging their way to the front door.
Quickly and quietly, he moved from the booth to the back, following the sound of Jessica's finally relaxed heartbeat. He was about to disrupt it again.
"They're here," he told her, as she open the bathroom door. Without thinking, she took hold of his hand and ran to the kitchen. The cook was sleeping in the corner, sitting upright in a rickety chair, his feet propped on a milk crate. Jessica maneuvered around him as his light snoring perked Matt's ears.
Using a fraction of her force, Jessica kicked the back door open, rust cracking, the chain lock breaking. Her hand still intertwined in Matt's, she led a mad dash through the back alleyway and out into the darkened morning.
"They're following us!" Matt shouted to her, his voice shaking, his breathing laboured as he ran behind her.
Jessica was aware that no one knew Hell's Kitchen better than Matt Murdock. Even without the full use of his eyes, he knew every corner, every alley. That knowledge is what led her to rely on him when it came to a hideout. She was sure he had a favourite perch somewhere, an abandoned training facility, or even an old love nest they could catch a few hours of sleep in. And even though she hadn't seen their would-be attackers, she begrudgingly trusted that only Matt could get them to safety.
Through the repeated chorus of rain, she yelled, "You lead!"
Moving ahead of her, listening to droplets pat, pat, pat the alleyway, allowing them to illuminate the world around him, Matt hurriedly ran on. With Jessica in tow he didn't want to go too fast or use the moves that had become a signature of his - the moves Jessica had once captured on her camera. Instead, he ran at a pace he felt she could match - he ran until the diner was a memory.
As the rain slowed, Matt reached their destination. He stopped, allowing Jessica to catch her breath, as the smell of whiskey escaped her pores.
"Here?" she asked, panting. Looking up, taking in the double spires above her, Jessica muttered, "This is a bad idea."
Matt walked around the side of the building, along a barely used path, his hands grazing the wet brick on either side. As the walkway opened it revealed a small house, darkened and still. Matt knocked on its door, a light almost immediately clicked on inside.
Jessica pushed her soaked hair out of her face, her body heavy with rain water, her breathing still hard and tired. She watched as Matt knocked again.
From behind the wooden door they both heard a man say, "Who is it?"
"It's Matt Murdock," Matt replied. "And I need your help Father Lantom."