15436/Echoes of Redemption: Elektra's Plea

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Echoes of Redemption: Elektra's Plea
Date of Scene: 06 August 2023
Location: Matt Murdock's Apartment
Synopsis: Matt Murdock returns home to find Elektra sitting in his darkened apartment, waiting to ask him a favor. A broken glass and a few stitches later, the find themselves rekindling old feelings.
Cast of Characters: Elektra, Daredevil

Elektra has posed:
The sky was a wash of tumultuous clouds, rain lashing at the windows of Matt Murdock's apartment, the boom of thunder echoing through the stark rooms. A low rumble of distant traffic and the erratic cadence of the rain were the only sounds permeating the silence.

Inside, the apartment was shrouded in darkness, save for the city's reflected glow seeping through the window, painting fleeting shadows across the room. In the corner, a figure waited, the faintest trace of her perfume mingled with the smoky essence of scotch filling the room, lingering like an unspoken word.

The door opened with a creak, and the sounds of the storm grew louder for a moment. In walked Matt, immediately sensing the presence in his apartment. He didn't need to see to know who was there; the scent was unmistakable.
Elektra has posed:
Matt Murdock had been at the office, dictating a few forms and listening to some of the practice rounds of cross-examination he'd been working on with a client. She was on the verge of being kicked out of her rent-controlled apartment and the landlord's sweepers had assaulted her and her teenage son with vicious attacks. Daredevil had helped with this part. Now Matt was helping on the legal end.

He's tired for now, figuring he'll grab a couple of hours before hitting the rooftops when he catches her scent. His hand lingers on the doorknob for a moment before opening it quietly. Matt steps inside, sets his briefcase down byh the door and starts to loosen his tie.

"I always did like that perfume," he says. "A lot of good memories with that scent in my nose."
Elektra has posed:
It was hard to hide much from Matthew, but at least the flutter of her heart when she saw him was no longer an issue. Whatever she was, it wasn't 'alive' by any definition a doctor would give. Presumably. She hadn't exactly had any reason to have that tested.

It was the little things, now. The way her mouth moved and the sound of her tongue subconsciously dragging across her lips. The way her breathing hitched for a barely noticeable fraction of a second. The barely touched two-fingers of whisky shifting in her glass when her wrist twisted ever-so-slightly, stopping herself from rising to greet him.

Little tells. Tells that no one else on the planet would recognize, much less understand.

"The more things change..."

That familiar, exotic accent rises from the corner of the room. Smooth, like the whisky was holding. Confident. Strong. Yet so absolutely feminine.

There's another strike of lightning and subsequent crack of thunder, filling the air in the room with the same sort of stormy tension as the aura that surrounds Elektra.

"I need your help." No pleasantries, but a confession, rare and almost unheard of.

How long had it been since she'd last reached out to him? Months? And she'd been just as terse as she was now, anxious to leave his presence as quickly as she could. Anxious to stop feeling what she felt every time she was in the same room with him.
Elektra has posed:
Matt Murdock notices all of those things, of course. He's always noticed her, how could he do anything else? She was perfection, in so many ways. Her body, her face, her hair, her fingers. The way her tongue flicked against the back of her teeth when she was thoughtful. The way she'd drum her nails on her thigh, making a noise only he could hear, that soft pat of nail on flesh.

rIf he's not careful, he'll be almost mesmerized by her, drunk on her. He always wondered, if he had eyes like an ordinary man, would seeing her be too much, too overwhelming?

Nah. He could handle her. Even when she was sharp enough to cut and leave him bleeding. It was worth it. Not that he could anything like that right now. They were still...something. Neither of them knew what, quite yet.

"Must be something legal, then. If it were something violent, there's no one better at it than you," he says. "Although I do hold my own on occasion."

He approaches and moves to sit in the worn leather chair he keeps, slightly across from her, a bit on a diagonal. Five, maybe six feet away.

"Tell me."
Elektra has posed:
/If it were something violent, there's no one better at it than you./

"You always flatter me so..."

The smile can be heard in her voice, but there's that distant, haughty, vaguely dismissive edge to her voice. Ice.

It had been long enough that he was sure to have put it together. At least his own version of it. She was keeping him at arm's length. She was keeping The Hand at arm's length. She was keeping Black Sky at arm's length. She was keeping the entire world and everything in it at arm's length.

Being cold and detached is how she survived it. Being cold and detached is how she'd always survived everything.

...No, not everything. There was a time when she'd been sure that Matthew was the piece that had always been missing from her life. It had never been sunshine and rainbows like it was for some women. It was raw, primal, fierce, and passionate. It was the kind of love that grabbed her by the throat and demanded her attention. It was the only kind of love she would ever be able to accept or respect. And even now, as she watches him cross through the dimly lit space towards her, it clawed at her motionless heart with animalistic fury.

"Modesty, Matthew? You and I both know what you're capable of..."

There's a shift of fabric between her thighs as her leg recross, right-over-left. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it was possible that she was still talking about violence, and Elektra Natchios had no idea where that little movement would draw his attention.

She doesn't linger there, though. She allowed herself a single, flirtatious remark for old times' sake, and then she moves past it.

"There's a child."

Not hers. It had been a few months, but it hadn't been /that/ long.

"The kid is twelve. The child of two of my company's employees. They're good people, hard-working," she continued, the clink of the glass punctuating her words. "But they've fallen prey to that new drug, 'Eclipse'. Their son is now an orphan, trapped in a system that does not care for him."

She took a deep breath, her dark eyes staring into the half-filled glass, a sigh barely audible over the patter of the rain. "I've tried the legal routes, pushed as many buttons as I could at Hellas International. But there's only so much a corporate entity can do. This child... He needs more than money or a well-worded press release. He needs someone who understands the system, someone who can fight for him where the corporate lawyers can't... or won't."

"I need you, Matthew," she finally said, the words dropping into the room like stones into a pond. "Not Daredevil, not the vigilante or the superhero. I need Matthew Murdock, the lawyer who has a soft spot for lost causes and can navigate the intricacies of this city's child welfare system. I need you to help me fight for this child. Will you?"

The storm outside raged on, its fury a perfect counterpoint to the tense silence.
Elektra has posed:
Matt Murdock was never any good at that. Keeping distance. Being dispassionate. He got chided for it in law school. One professor told him he'd burn out by thirty, wearing his heart on his sleeve, caring about his clients, his case. Trying to make a difference. Law isn't for crusaders, that professor told him. It's a functionary job, just being a cog in the great machine of the justice system. You rattle too many things, it'll all start to break down. And take you with it.

Matt did find one thing he didn't care about: that professor's opinion. He ended up dropping that class. He didn't care about corporate law anyway.

"Sometimes I wish I wasn't capable of so much," he says softly. "The blood doesn't wash as easily off my hands as it does yours, Elektra," he says. Saying her name aloud makes his own heart race. He can't help it. Too much history. He cares about her, even if she doesn't care about him anymore. But he thinks she does, deep down. He doesn't blame her for trying to hide it. They'd hurt one another so much, near the end there. Before she died.

He listens to her story and steeples his fingers together, fingerpad to fingerpad, thoughtful in front of his face. He still has his sunglasses on, not that she needs to see his eyes. He needs a haircut, shaggy bangs hanging down across his forehead, sideburns creeping down in front of his ears. He's been too busy to care.

"Yeah. Yeah, I can help," he says. He gets up and walks over to his briefcase. "All I really need is his name and the borough where he was taken in. I do know the system, very well. I wasn't in it very long. But I've learned a lot since then."

He had been fourteen when his father died. His time in the foster system had been relatively uneventful, other than the sneaking out at night to train with a blind ninja in his underground lair. Normal kid stuff.

"Is that really all you need? I do have a bottle of wine in the fridge. Might not be to your standard, but it'll get the job done."
Elektra has posed:
"No, you don't. You're good at what you do. What you're capable of is necessary, and you know it. You wish it bothered you less. You always have."

Maybe she knew him. Maybe she still just thought she knew him. There's a moment of near silence, though, as she blows out a long, soft breath.

"But you'll never be like me." She was so cold her voice lowered the temperature in the room, but just in that moment, there was a noticeable fissure in that wall of ice. "And I'm thankful for that."

Pain. Not just pain... agony. A woman that wore a crown of thorns everywhere she went. The Hand wanted to kill her. LexCorp wanted to take her company. Black Sky wanted to reclaim control of her body. And she was alone in her ivory tower atop Hellas International. Utterly and profoundly alone.

She listened to the rhythm of Matt's words, the solid comfort they offered despite the storm raging outside. The faint smile that curved her lips was more out of relief than amusement. "Thank you," she said, her voice softer, vulnerable even. It was a tone that she rarely allowed herself, especially in his presence.

She provided the name of the child and the borough as requested, her tone business-like once again. As the silence settled back into the room, Elektra rose from her seat, and the shadows seemed to gather around her. She strode towards him, stopping and setting her glass on the counter beside him.

It's a silent offering to share, an olive branch, and a stark reminder of old times.

"Macallan Sherry Oak. I brought you a bottle, but I might have helped myself to a glass while I was waiting."

The 18 year old scotch was four-hundred dollars a bottle. It was one of her favorites.

Elektra has posed:
Matt sits on the arm of his comfy chair and smiles broadly. "Well, I'm not fool enough to turn down that offer. You always did spoil me a bit. It felt weird when I had all that money. I'm just not a money guy. Even as a lawyer, I'm still a blue collar guy at heart. Guess it comes from my dad," he says.

He goes to the kitchen and gets a couple of tumblers out, the only real glass glasses he owns. "I might have a few ice cubes in the trays. I don't remember when I filled them, though. Hell's Kitchen tap water isn't a great addition, even frozen. With my taste buds, it's always an adventure."

"But I like things that aren't good for me sometimes, don't I? Sometimes I even love them," he says.

He sets down the glasses to allow her to pour, now closer than he's been since he came in. Close enough to touch, but he doesn't, taking his glass when it's full and clinking it gently against hers. "To times gone by. Cheers."
Elektra has posed:
Hell's Kitchen ice cubes are mentioned, and a note of humor enters Elektra's voice. "Even I'm not that brave."

/Sometimes I even love them./

If she'd been prepared for it, she could have tucked her arms and taken it as a glancing blow instead of it knocking the wind out of her.

There's silence -- not even the sounds of her breathing -- as she uncorked and poured the glasses, just a few fingers worth in each one. She didn't need to get drunk, especially with those kinds of sucker punches being thrown around.

/To times gone by./

"Cheers," might have been what she said, but the word was so quiet it was practically inaudible. And if one listened very, very closely? They could almost hear the sound of her very still heart breaking.

She lifts that glass to her lips and tilts it up. She swallows once. Twice. And then she sets the empty glass back on the counter, a little harder than was absolutely necessary, and she lifts the bottle again, pouring herself another glass.

She clears her throat gently so she doesn't rasp through the burn when she speaks.

"I know this is approaching ancient history, but I appreciate everything you did for me. Before..." I died. But she had a hard time saying that to him. "And after. Most people wouldn't have given me the accounts back at all, much less with everything I left you. You'd never have had to work again. You could have lived anywhere you wanted, done anything you wanted."
Elektra has posed:
Matt Murdock takes a sip and lets the burn flow through him. He liked the bottle too much, too, had to watch himself with it. But he wasn't a teetotaler. Going fully dry just wasn't in the cards for him. That was okay. Self-control, discipline - he was mostly good at that stuff. Except where Elektra was concerned, of course.

He listens to her words and smiles gently, "You don't owe me anything, Elektra. I did do what I want, settled where I want. Did what I want. Except for the part where I lost you. The money, the company, they were yours. They belonged to you, even when I was taking care of them. I didn't know what to do with them when I had them, I just...tried to do good. As best I could. Never knowing you'd come back. It's still a miracle that you did. I don't like miracles, generally. They usually come with strings."

"I didn't do any of it as a favor. I did it because of the love that we shared and the life that we lived together, however brief, however...broken it became," he says. "How broken we became."

"I do miss your heartbeat, still. I guess I always will. But I'll always be grateful the rest of you came back. Even if...even if you return to being an assassin...even if you can't stand the sight of me...I'll still be grateful that you're in the world, Elektra. Selfish of me, maybe. But I'm an only child, I'm allowed."
Elektra has posed:
Black Sky.

She didn't come back. It came back, using her body as the finely honed weapon it really was. She slaughtered mercilessly, claimed lives as easily as most people claimed a breath. She'd never been ashamed that she was an assassin, but coming back as Black Sky was something else entirely.

She had been a monster.

She could feel it in there, still, just waiting for her to allow it back to the forefront of her mind.

It wasn't that she had been a monster. She still was a monster.

The blows kept coming. A miracle she came back -- with strings. The love they shared. How broken they were. Her heartbeat.

And she stood there taking them. One after another, blow after blow, until she was literally stick to her stomach. Being in the same room with him was agony. Coming here to ask for his help was almost a last resort.

"Even if I can't stand the /sight/ of you?"

It's a dangerous whisper suddenly filled with venom. She straightened, facing him directly, and her weight shifted threateningly forward.

"How fucking dare you? You know as well as anyone what I came back as, and it is all I can do to stay away from you. You have no idea how hard it is for me to come here tonight and ask you, of all people, for /another/ favor. And then you stand there, telling me about how I came back with strings.. about my missing heartbeat. About how you used to love--"

Her voice cracks, and then so does the glass in her hand. It shatters, sending glass pieces skittering across the counter, and suddenly the smell of blood mixes with the alcohol and perfume.

"God damnit."

Her breath his hard through her nostrils. She drops the base of the broken glass onto the countertop, expensive scotch spreading out across its surface even as her palm drips blood into the mixture, and she brushes past him on her way to the sink.
Elektra has posed:
Matt Murdock shakes his head, "No, no, I didn't...I didn't mean it that way," he says. He realizes he's mispoken. Selfish. Again, an only child and so he was only talking about his own feelings, his own worries, his own wishes. Damn, damn, damn, Murdock.

"I only meant...that I missed you. And I meant that I understand you need to protect yourself. From me. From what we had, what we are. I only meant I think of you fifty times a day and that's never stopped being true since the day I met you."

"I'm sorry the sight of me hurts you. Maybe being blind, all I can feel when you're near is that...you're here. I miss your heartbeat only because it was part of you, because I knew its rhythm and would hear it speed up, sometimes, when you looked at me then."

He steps to a cabinet in the kitchen and pulls out some bandages and iodine and neosporin, laying a bed of paper towels on the counter. "Bring it here, I'll pick out the glass," he says softly.

"I'm saying you don't need favors with me. You need me, I'm there. Always. For anything. What happened was my fault. I should have noticed things, with my vaunted senses. I should have helped you, not judged you. So self-righteous - Matt Murdock, savior of Hell's Kitchen. I'm a bleeding heart, alright, but it's bled for you more than anyone. Still does. Doesn't mean you have to do anything about it. You do what you need to do. I just want to help. However I can. C'mon, don't bleed for pride, you know I'll find every piece. We've stitched each other up enough."
Elektra has posed:
Elektra's running water over her hand as she listens, biting her tongue to keep herself from cutting him off.

/What we are./

That stole her breath, again. Present tense.

"The sight of you doesn't hurt me, Matthew." Her voice hardens again, and she cuts off the water, shaking the excess off of her hand. The worst thing she could do was towel dry it. There were still glass pieces in the cuts, and it would just grind them in more.

Part of her wanted that. Part of her wanted to pick up the glass and squeeze it again, just to punish herself for allowing this conversation.

"I look forward to seeing you more than anything else in my life, but the longer I'm around you, the harder it is for me to leave without allowing it to turn into a scene."

Like this.

"You deserve better. You deserve to hear her heart skip a beat when she sees you. You deserve someone that's alive, Matthew."

With a reluctant sigh, she stepped back over to the counter next to him and laid her hand on the paper towels. To some, it might make no sense at all to allow a blind man to clean her cuts, but Elektra didn't even hesitate.

Except that it did bring her very nearly up against him, and that proximity made her skin warm in anticipation of his touch. One might wonder how she did things like warm suddenly like that, or bleed, or even breathe without a beating heart. Magic was as close as she could guess. Nothing about her existence made sense, anymore.

"I'm not protecting myself from you. I'm protecting you from me."
Elektra has posed:
A blind man getting the glass out of your flesh and doing it with a needle as his main tool, no less. He's delicate, though, precise. Between his radar sense and having been in this position many times before, he could produce a three dimensional map in his mind of every inch of her skin. Hands included.

Needle picks out the shards of glass then, after, dipped in alcohol and used to stitch up anything that needs stitching. That's what the thread if for. "I go through yards of this stuff, I swear. I go through too many windows. But the latches are so fussy and it feels kind of cool," he admits.

"I'm a big boy, Elektra, I can decide what I want for myself. I heard a lot about deserves growing up. I'm a Catholic after all. Got one priest telling me everyone deserves love and then a nun in the other ear telling me everybody deserves to burn in hell. That's about when I started realizing that I was going to have to make my mind up for myself - nobody could tell me what was right. You and me. We're right. At least, I think we are. You're allowed your own opinion."

He has a saucer laid out where he drops each of the bloody bits of glass, "I'm afraid I'm restricting you to plastic or styrofoam cups when you come over from now on. Now I only have one glass."

Teasing, playing, sense-memory and old habit making things seem more familiar, less strange.

"Tell me about this drug. To take your mind off the pain." Which pain would that be?
Elektra has posed:
It was so... domestic probably wasn't the right word, but 'normal' at least. Comfortable. Routine. Even if it was the /old/ routine.

There were flinches when the needle passed through her skin, but otherwise Elektra just stood there and let him do whatever he wanted to her hand. There was tough, and then there was Elektra. She didn't show pain unless it was practically crippling... or it was to Matt. It was almost as if she'd been the Fist of The Hand or something.

/You and me. We're right./

She doesn't say anything. Not right away. She hadn't come over here to be doted on by her ex-friend, much less to have /this/ conversation.

Nevertheless, her lips curl up slightly at the corners. "Fine, I'll buy you a replacement." She leans a little, keeping her hand still, and her shoulder ever-so-slightly rests against his. "But only one. Apparently I was spoiling you, before."

She sighs softly, still leaning a little on him as he works.

"Before we get to that... I need to say this. /You/ are what helped me find myself again when I was consumed by Black Sky. I focused on how I strongly I feel about you, and it helped ground me. No matter what happens between us, I will never feel as strongly for anyone as I do for you. I don't know if that's enough to make us /right./ But you aren't the only one that's struggling with being apart."
Daredevil has posed:
Matt Murdock keeps up his work neatly and efficiently. He knows he doesn't have to be too precious with worrying about Elektra being hurt. The woman can take more pain than anyone he's ever seen - maybe Captain America or Wolverine, but otherwise, that's it, and she smells a lot better than either of those guys.

"I don't know what right is or what it would look like. As much as I've talked about the past tonight, you and I have to deal with each other as we are now. How we fit, what we want, what we need from each other. But I want you to know that the one option I don't want is the one where we just stay away from one another. I've lived life without you in it. I found it wanting. I prefer it when you're around."

He finally finishes with the glass, taking the saucer over and carefully dumping the shards into the trash can, tapping it on the side before rinsing it off in the sink, sending any remaining little bits down the drain. He leans his lower back against the countertop, arms crossed over his chest. "Whatever we are, we're messy and we're gonna cut each other now and then. But I'm okay with that. But you're right. That's not what you came for. Might have been unfair of me. But I've lost you before and it taught me that I should say what I need to say to you, every chance I get. You never know."
Elektra has posed:
Elektra's silence is deafening in the wake of his admission, the shadows cast by the dim light enveloping her in an eerie stillness. Her profile, usually so sharp and composed, softens under the weight of his words.

"I never intended for my absence to hurt you," she finally says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought... distance was what you needed. To heal. To move on."

A beat passes before she turns to look at him, their proximity making the air between them feel charged, heavy with shared history and unspoken sentiments. Her eyes meet his behind the tinted lenses of his glasses - an opaque barrier that never managed to hide the intensity behind them.

"I can't promise perfection," she continues, her words laced with a sincerity seldom heard from the hardened warrior. "I can't promise that I won't won't hurt you again, even if I don't /want/ to. I...I'm not wired for domesticity or normalcy. But I'll be there. For you. With you. If that's where you want me."

A rare vulnerability seeps into her voice, hinting at the depth of her feelings for him. She wiped the blood that hadn't dried on a paper towel and, after a long moment, she stepped closer. Her heels clicked on the kitchen floor, and her perfume floated ever closer until she was standing just in front of him. She reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead, the gesture surprisingly gentle coming from the woman known for her lethal precision.

"Thank you. For tending to my wounds. Again."

His confession resonated with her, echoing her own turmoil of emotions. Elektra Natchios was many things: a fighter, a survivor, a complex enigma. But above all, she was a woman in love with a man whose life was as entangled with shadows and danger as hers. And as they stood there, in his apartment, stitched and patched up, their relationship wasn't any different from their lives - stitched together by shared experiences, holding on despite the cuts and scrapes.
Daredevil has posed:
Matt takes her hand, the injured one, very gently and lifts it up. He bends his head to kiss her knuckles softly, "My dad used to do that when I'd bust myself on something. Said it helped healing," he says. Although the tone of his lips on Elektra's skin likely carries a very different message than that long ago comfort from a gruff father.

"I am always happy to tend to you. I know you didn't want anything that happened. You were a victim, Elektra. That's a hard thing for people like us to swallow. We're fighters, we don't like admitting that. But what happened was out of your control. You were stolen, stolen by evil. That doesn't make -you- evil, no matter what you've done. I don't want you to be perfect. I want you to be you. I want you to be Elektra. And you get to decide who that is. Not me. And certainly not the god damn Hand."

He goes to the cabinet and gets out some red Solo cups, "Well, guess we're gonna go the cheap route with the wine," he says, reaching in and pulling the bottle out of the fridge, "Be glad it didn't come in a box. I guess that's one thing that brief period of being wealthy did - I got to eat and drink a little better. Now I'm spoiled," he says.

"Everything's going to be okay. That includes your young friend. I won't let anything happen to him."
Elektra has posed:
A shiver races up Elektra's spine as Matt's lips touch her skin. His gentle kiss is such a stark contrast to the normally harsh environment they often find themselves in, but it's a reminder of the tenderness that exists between them. Despite everything, despite their chaotic, dangerous lives, there is room for softness. For love.

"I'm sorry I never got the opportunity to meet him," she murmurs, her fingers curling into his as he holds her hand. They'd both lost their fathers at around the same age, and that loss had shaped them both. The corners of her lips twitch upwards, the beginnings of a smile playing on her face. It's a rare sight, this softer side of Elektra, but it's one that's slowly becoming more frequent... again... in Matt's presence.

She lets out a small chuckle at his words about her being a victim, shaking her head lightly. "I never did like that word," she admits. "But you're right. The Hand... they took something from me. But they didn't take everything. They may have taken my heart beat, but they didn't take my heart. They couldn't take you."

/I want you to be Elektra./

Those words fill her with an odd sense of relief, as if she's been carrying a weight that she didn't even realize was there until it was lifted. "I'm still figuring out who Elektra is, now," she confesses. "/Nothing/ has been the same. I couldn't take refuge in my old, familiar bastions. Taking contracts. Revenge. There is only one fixture in my life that wouldn't lead me right back down the same path I'd walked before... back to being an assassin. Back to the Hand. And I've been so tempted by both, Matthew -- part of me wants this so much, but the other part is... much, much darker."

The sight of the red Solo cups makes her laugh, a sound that's pure and unguarded, echoing softly in the apartment. "Oh, Matthew, you're truly spoiling me with your fine dining."

She nods at his words. "I know," she says softly. She trusted him to take care of the boy, but there was more than just that in her voice. She trusted him to take care of her, too.

She moves closer to him, her fingers brushing against his as she takes one of the cups. "To finding ourselves," she raises her cup in a toast, "and to our messy, complicated, perfectly imperfect lives."
Daredevil has posed:
The taste of her skin lingers on his lips. How could it not? She tastes the same, that much is clear. No residue of death or demon or anything, just the smooth skin of the woman he's loved since he started figuring out what love even was.

"I'm still figuring out who Matt Murdock is, too. I've made this dual life for myself and they're both fulfilling in their own ways. But they don't fit together easily. Being Daredevil breaks every rule of my profession, but I don't think I can live without it. I can't just be him either. For one, I need to eat and be able to pay for the lovely manse in which I'm currently ensconsed," he says, gesturing to his run-down apartment, "And because it lets me do good in ways that don't involve busting my knuckles on somebody's face. Burning candles at both ends, I'm bound to run out of wick eventually," he says.

With their drinks poured, he sits again, this time on the sofa and gestures for her to sit next to him. He returns the clink of plastic cup as she sits. "Salud.," he says. "Maybe working with the Defenders might help, too? We're ragtag as all hell, but we do manage to get things done when we can keep ourselves from bickering."
Elektra has posed:
Elektra eases into the cushion of the sofa beside him, her posture a touch more relaxed than one would expect from someone of her background. She drapes one leg languidly over the other, the toe of one shoe coming to rest on his shin -- a familiar point of contact.

"You and your dualities," she teases softly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I've had to learn a bit more about them recently than I used to care about, in the past. Executive by day, whatever it is that I am night. Maybe that's part of the attraction -- the thrill of contradictions."

She takes a sip from her cup, her gaze wandering the room, absorbing the familiarity of it. There's something comforting about being in this space again, even if so much has changed.

"The Defenders...," she sighs, casting him a sidelong glance. "Part of me wants to help more, but there's baggage there, too. History. I'm not sure how well I'm actually received. And there's always the risk of endangering them with the ghosts from my past."

Silence hangs between them for a moment, but it's not uncomfortable. It's reflective. "But maybe it's worth giving it more of my time. A chance to redefine myself, to be a part of something bigger. To be more than just an assassin. It's at least worthy of consideration. After all, this evening already has me questioning where I want to spend my nights."

And even as she sits there, so close to him, there are once more so many tells that only she would know -- the curve of her body, the slightly ragged edge to her voice and her breathing, even just the way she lingered in the pauses... her posture openly provocative. Daring him without taking any liberties, herself. It was her way. Their games of cat and mouse. Baiting him, sometimes begging him to get her... even if she never intended to be easy prey.
Daredevil has posed:
Matt Murdock reads her very well. She's his favorite book, after all, the one that he spent so much of his college life trying to study, every chance he got. The dorms, the quad, the library, the park. Rooftops, late at night, climbing the sides of buildings. The rush of adventure leaping off the same buildings, as they got to know one another better.

"No rush," he says softly. "When you feel up to it. As for attitudes, you've never had a problem handling bad attitudes. And most of us have needed forgiveness at one point or another. You're right about the dualities. Maybe it's a Catholic thing. All that heaven and hell. Of course, you were always both for me," he says.

Matt's hand reaches out and very gently brushes over one of her knees. He shifts closer, infinitesimally, just a few inches here and there, but she can feel it, his presence, the warmth of him as they both take sips of the wine and he finally sets his cup down and will set hers next to it as well.

"At the risk of getting stabbed, I'm going to try to kiss you now. Not that stabbing would stop me at this point." Then he'll lean in, measuring, angling, getting just right as he gets near to lips so red he can almost feel it, even without his sight, until his mouth gently melts against hers, starting almost chaste (HA) and then becoming more heated.
Elektra has posed:
The tension in the room is palpable, even suffocating. Matt can feel the rush of her breath, the almost magnetic pull between them. Every time they find themselves together, it's as if the world collapses to just the two of them. Their history, their passion, the raw emotion they evoke from one another -- it's hard to ignore, even harder to resist. It's why she so often rushed out of their meetings. She knew if she didn't, she'd be helpless against the one thing she couldn't control... her feelings for him.

His words, meant to be playful, earn a breathy chuckle from Elektra, her dark eyes shimmering with a teasing glint. "Always so dramatic, Matthew. But it's good to know you're still willing to take risks for me," she murmurs. Her eyes drift closed as she feels his face draw near, anticipation thrumming in the air.

The first touch of his lips is soft, tentative. A question, a reassurance. But as they press further, the gentleness gives way to a deeper, more urgent need, born of past memories and a longing that never truly faded. Their kisses have always spoken a language of their own, and tonight is no different. Every nuance, every shift, tells a story of longing and loss, of rekindled feelings and hope for a future yet to be written.

Elektra's fingers snake up into his hair, anchoring him to her as the intensity of the kiss deepens. Years of tumultuous history, of love and anger, passion and pain, come crashing to the forefront. But in this moment, none of that matters. All that exists is the feel of his lips against hers, the taste of the wine on his tongue, the heat of his body pressed against her own.

When they finally part, she's left breathless, a heady silence lingering in the air. Elektra leans her forehead against his, a soft smile touching her lips. "You always were a risk-taker," she whispers, her voice husky. "But I've always admired that about you. It's what makes you... you."

In the next moment, she's astride him, a blur of movement that has her straddling his lap and gazing down through the darkness at his face. Her hands find his cheeks, holding him tenderly, but the familiar tension that tautens every muscle in her body is unambiguous. She may have her moments of gentleness, of genuine, feminine warmth, but she had not been, and would never be, a passive lover.

"I hope you don't intend to call every shot, though. There are so many more pleasant things your lips could be doing..."

There's another flash of lightning outside, and thunder rumbles through the walls, vibrating the floors. Even as it does, Elektra leans down to claim his mouth with her own, hands on his shoulders pressing him down into the couch with more force than was absolutely necessary.

She may not have come over with the intention to stay, but now it didn't seem as if she had any intention of leaving any time soon.