His hands found her waist. Hers wrapped around his neck. They came together, naked skin glistening with sweat. Hurriedly his hands ran over her ass, lifting her in the air. She instinctively wrapped her legs around him, her thighs tightening against his middle, her head thrown back.

He grabbed a handful of her wild black hair as he thrust her against the wall. She matched in kind, her long fingers running through his dark strands, massaging his scalp. As they fumbled over one another touching every bare spot, their mouths found target after target.

First his on her neck. Then hers on his earlobe. Kissing, sucking, biting - they forced moans out of each other, deep and raw. As she moved to kiss him on the lips, her own already slick and wet, he cupped her face, squeezing hard.

"Tell me you love me," he commanded, his voice low yet rhythmic.

"I love you," she said without hesitation.

"Tell me you will never leave me."

"I will never leave you."

"Now tell me you'll do anything for me."

She faltered, stumbling on her reply.

"Tell me!" Kilgrave shouted, his hand moving from her face to her neck. "Tell me."

XXXXXXX

Jessica Jones woke up, her heart racing, her head spinning, her body covered in a thin layer of sweat. She was panting, her arms momentarily flailing as if to strike the man who had his fingers around her throat. But it was just a nightmare. The same nightmare she'd been having for almost two years. There was no fighting a figment of her imagination, no matter how real and alive he now seemed to be.

XXXXXXX

"Your friend is awake," Father Lantom remarked nonchalantly, not hearing what Matt Murdock heard, not understanding that she was afraid rather than restless.

Jessica was sleeping in the rectory bedroom. It was small, dark, and devoid of distraction. And it was just on the other side of a thin sheet of drywall. Matt knew that once her breathing steadied there would be nothing to stop her listening to every word they were saying.

"More coffee," Father Lantom offered, crossing to the small kitchen less than five feet away.

Matt had been sitting with him for the last three hours. He had convinced Jessica to sleep while he took watch. She had protested, mildly, but even if he had wanted to Matt could not sleep. He suspected he wouldn't sleep for some time to come.

As Father Lantom poured another helping of lukewarm coffee into Matt's mug he sighed.

"I'm sorry," Matt replied, guilt washing over him like the good Catholic he was.

"Matthew, there is nothing to apologize for."

Matt knew he meant it, but it was still hard for the Devil of Hell's Kitchen to hear, let alone believe.

"Where will you go after you leave here?" Father Lantom asked, finding his place in the chair opposite Matt. It was a question he had asked earlier that morning, but Matt had shrugged it off and Lantom didn't press. But as the sunlight began to bleed into the front window they both knew it was time to formulate a plan.

"Perhaps you should leave the city," Father Lantom suggested, but they both knew Matt could not leave. Even his own death hadn't kept him away for long.

"I have to stay," Matt told him resolutely.

"And your friend?"

Matt chuckled. "She would never leave. She's not a quitter."

"Even if it meant her life?"

"Especially then, Father."

Father Lantom leaned back, thinking. "I suspect, Matthew, that you didn't just come here for shelter. Perhaps you need religious guidance; maybe permission to do the things we both know you're thinking about doing. But that kind of permission doesn't exist."

"I know," Matt replied. "That's why I haven't told you what will need to be done, Father. I don't want to burden you with the knowledge of things to come. Things I know you cannot condone."

"Murder?" Father Lantom asked.

"Maybe," Matt said reluctantly.

"Matthew, it's human nature to seek the approval of God. At least in my line of work. And while I don't think he would approve of either of us right now - of what, I think, we both know could happen - I will say that what you have given this community is immeasurable. He would approve of that."

"But nothing has changed," Matt replied, defeat dripping from his voice.

"You've given people courage and hope. That is not nothing."

"And Wilson Fisk is back out on the streets. This time stronger than ever."

Father Lantom leaned back in his chair as if physically overcome by the moral quandary.

Matt filled the silence. "I think you remember a time I came to you seeking forgiveness-"

"For transgressions you had yet to commit," Father Lantom interjected. Matt knew he remembered; how could he not?

"Well, this isn't like that. I don't think forgiveness is in the cards for me."

"I think someone's reading the Bible too literally," Father Lantom said, taking a sip from his own coffee mug.

"Father?" Matt questioned, confused.

"Matthew, those words were written long before you or I were born, before places like Hell's Kitchen were created."

"But not before vigilantes," Matt said assuredly.

Father Lantom couldn't help but let out a clipped laugh. "Maybe, but something tells me they didn't wear red leather or do high kicks."

"It's a protective armor and I do martial arts," Matt grumbled. Father Lantom ignored his whispered protestations.

"All I mean to say, Matthew, is that things are not as black and white as the Bible would have you believe. I know you know that. Sometimes David does not beat Goliath. Sometimes good men are beaten down."

"Are you saying that if I confide in you what I am prepared to do, you will condone those actions?" Matt asked.

"No. I've never pretended to condone violence. And I certainly will not condone murder. All I will say is that good men are often forced to do things that seem foreign to their nature."

"This is not foreign to me anymore, Father," Matt interjected.

"Perhaps, but what about your friend?"

"What about me?" Jessica said. She was suddenly standing in the small doorway, her hair matted, her shirt wrinkled, her eyes heavy with a longing for sleep.

"Jessica," Matt started, but she cut him off.

"I go to sleep for five minutes and miss all the good stuff," she scoffed, reaching down and taking Father Lantom's coffee cup in hand. She sniffed it, disappointed it was just plain coffee, before sipping some back. "Now, it was kind of muffled through the wall, but it sounded like you were telling Matt he may have to kill someone."

"No, Miss Jones. From what he's told me about this man…"

"Fisk," Matt reminded him.

"I meant the other man," Father Lantom said. Jessica refused to utter his name. "From what I have been told about him, his power, and where it lies now, I feel as if you are the one who will do the killing."

They stood silent for a moment. Jessica was taking it all in. A priest telling Matt Murdock, the blind saviour of Hell's Kitchen, that no matter what he did, no matter how many transgressions he had in his ledger of good and evil, he wouldn't be the one to stop Wilson Fisk. It would be her.

How could this Father know that? Perhaps because he knew there was only person in that room who had taken a life and it wasn't Matt.

"Jessica, you are not killing Fisk. Or Fisk as Kilgrave. Or anyone," Matt told her. He was mad at Father Lantom, mad that their refuge had turned into a character study of them both. "I was very clear, Father, about what I have to."

"Maybe is what you said," Father Lantom reminded him. "And you haven't done it yet, Matthew. You've been prowling the streets at night, taking out rapists and muggers and killers and not one has died by your hand. I'm sorry, but I don't think you can start now."

Jessica ignored him. "I heard you tell Matt that things are not black and white."

Father Lantom nodded.

"So you understand what must be done to men who can control other people's minds; men who torture and kill?"

"I understand the urge," he told her.

"And we both know Matt understands it," she continued, knowing the whole conversation was making Matt quake. "So maybe he will give in to his dark side. Maybe it will be him and not me. You can't know!"

The nightmare had rattled her; they almost always did. But she couldn't shake the feeling that this priest was telling her Matt was better than her, more pious, more precious, more collected and, therefore, more deserving of forgiveness. She couldn't help but feel Father Lantom was taking a swipe at her core, cutting deep into the centre she let so few people see.

She would kill Fisk, not because she had to, not because justice needed to be done, but because she wouldn't be able to stop herself? That couldn't be true, could it?She hated the thought and shook her head trying to force it loose.

But Matt knew that wasn't what Father Lantom was suggesting. Matt knew Jessica was the stronger of the two.

"No, Miss Jones. I believe you will kill because you won't be able to stand watching Matthew do it."

The chiming of Jessica's cellphone cut through the tension. The caller ID display said: Trish.

Jessica swiped left to ignore. But within seconds it began to ring again. Reluctantly, Jessica answered. It was 5AM. She was standing in the living room of a priest with a man who came back from the dead only days before. She was trying to wrap her head around the idea that her enemy was now Matt's enemy, literally. And her back was still slick with sweat.

Fuck, Trish. Bad timing, or what?

"Yeah?" Jessica snapped into the phone.

Silence.

"Seriously Trish? This is the worst time to ass dial me."

As Jessica moved her thumb over the red phone icon ready to disconnect, Matt waved his hand about, "Wait, wait, wait."

"What?" Jessica asked, but Matt was already silencing her, grabbing the cellphone from her hands.

Placing it to his ear, Matt listened to the heavy breathing on the other end.

"She's not alone," Matt said.

Without question, Jessica stomped to Father Lantom's door, forcefully whipping it open, causing it to shake violently in it's frame. Matt followed, the cellphone still in his hand.

"Jessica, wait," he whispered, afraid his voice would be heard by those on the other end of the call. It sounded to him as if Trish was breathing hard, perhaps fearfully. The vibrations that surrounded it led him to believe she was in a vehicle, maybe locked in a trunk or stuffed down to the floorboard. He could only imagine her secretly calling Jessica, trying to signal her, trying to get help.

Before he could hear more the call was cut short. He grabbed Jessica's arm mid stride to tell her so, but she turned back and pushed him hard knocking him to the ground.

"When I kill Fisk, it will be because of this!" she screamed. "You got it?"

Matt nodded, collecting himself, but careful not to stand, not to anger her further.

"You come back and you fuck everything up, Murdock! And now I'm four days without sleep, four hours without booze, standing in the yard of a fucking priest who is telling me, what? Huh? What? That I'm a killer? That I'm a killer because you mean something to me?" she was snarling at him, the power in her body nearly making the ground shake beneath her boot clad feet. "Because you don't."

Matt understood why she was upset - more than upset. Father Lantom was reminding her that she cared about more than herself, cared about Matt and his conscience, cared about how he would sleep at night if he did the things she had once had to do.

"I'm going to rescue Trish," she said, her skin crawling as she replayed her nightmare, but with Trish in the role of helpless victim. Jessica couldn't stand to think of what may be happening to her, or how many bones she would have to break to make it stop. As Matt made a move to finally stand and join her, Jessica barked, "And I'm going alone!"

"Jessica…" he began, but she was already running from the backyard, her cellphone still clutched in his hand.

Matt hated knowing Father Lantom was right, but he couldn't kill. And he wasn't sure he would be able to stop Jessica Jones from doing whatever it was she wanted or needed to do.