2828/Old Habits Die Hard

Old Habits Die Hard
Date of Scene:	13 October 2017
Location:	New York City
Synopsis:	Elektra drops in on her old flame Matt, to expected results.
Cast of Characters:	Daredevil, Elektra

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Daredevil has posed:
    Matt Murdock has no free time. He has hours borrowed from one column and posted in another, but always... always it must be paid back. If he spends a few hours at Josie's, sharing a beer with a friend and trying to wrangle his thoughts, then it means he's neglected something else. For him it often comes from the law firm despite his best wishes. Long nights are then spent there and often cut short when he must don his armor and set foot upon the rooftops of the city.
    Yet when that happens, he neglects other times. Such as his training. It is not enough for him to simply be out there every night. He must focus internally, hone himself, his body, and make sure he is in the top of his form lest he lose a step, lest he face an opponent who is his better from more practice or a power or some sort of gift. The only thing he can do is train more...
    And so that is what he does tonight, after a rough patrol across the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen. An angry bruise mars the corner of his face even as he stands in his apartment, wearing naught save a pair of sweat pants and a black t-shirt that hugs the contours of his form. His hands are held up as he adopts a traditional boxer's stance and he begins to run through a series of strikes, fists /thumping/ hard into the sides of the practice dummy, the flesh coloured mannequin bouncing and jouncing with each impact even as he begins to bring his knee into motion, striking hard with each lift of his legs, body twisting, tensing, striking.
    It doesn't take long for him to build up a sweat, launching himself fully at his target as he twists the other way, fists coming around in any number of combinations until short sharp grunts come from him with each punch.

Elektra has posed:
    As was so often, and more often of late, she was bored. There just weren't the challenges there once were. Even her usual distractions of choice were leaving her yawning. Figuratively. You got cocky, you got dead. But it didn't change the fact that she was circling around the fact that her life had been a flat, dull thing for some time now.
    Elektra could even pinpoint the moment when it had happened - a cerrtain Matt Murdock turning his back and walking away. And while she'd vowed she'd never let someone in like that, she had, and now she was paying the consequences. The ennui that had crept in after the whirlwind spate of trying to erase him from her life wasn't so much surprising as expected. The fact that she couldn't shake it was.
    Which is how she had found herself this evening, using less than orthodox methods to gain entry to Matt's apartment, remaining a stillness in the shadows, watching him. Waiting for the recognition she knew would come. For the moment, enjoying a view unsullied by past emotions and arguments between them. Just the sheer language of body in motion. Strength. Control. Power. Things she understood intimately.

Daredevil has posed:
    She knows the man, knows the way he can sense the whisper of a dove's flight from so far off. Can catch the scent of the morning dew even as it forms in the small hours of the night. Can even detect that faint shift of warmth when a person's thoughts are tinged with embarrassment. It all paints a picture without color for him, how this man sees the world. And when she slips into place to watch, to observe... he lets her.
    The dull mannequin continues to be struck heavily, bouncing back against the force of each impact. In movement he is grace, precision. There is no wasted movement. Each turn, each forward shift of momentum slips into another attack. A punch into the throat of the target turns into him grasping the shoulder and /pulling/ his imaginary opponent into his knee as he leaps forwards. Then he drops down, taut leg pressing hard to support him and fire his following kick firmly into the abdomen into the mannequin...
    And yet she is allowed to be there. In silence. Unchallenged. For the span of several minutes, perhaps ten unless she breaks the silence. And if so, it's only then when he drops back from the training, lowering his head and catching his breath as he reaches to the side towards the window sill nearby, taking up a towel and using it to wipe his brow.
    "Elektra." He finally says, greeting, accusation, combined.

Elektra has posed:
    She waits. She owns moments like this. Has spent more time in shadows, pressed against walls and other things, driving all instinct down, until past the fact that she is flesh, she is one with them. Countless eternities of biding her time and waiting for the right moment.
    Which might have been her mistake with him.
    She's good at control. Heartrate and breathing kept to tightly controlled parameters. If there's some reaction from her, few, if any can gauge it. He might be one of those. She knew he'd know she was there. That was never the point. He was always meant to know she was there. It was how far he'd let her go, how far she'd let him, before either broke the silence and the uncertainty of a truce between them.
    His speaking her name was the opening volley of the inevitable. How they would fight was the only unknown. The resolution? There had never been a way for her to determine that. She'd thought she'd known him once. She was wrong.
    Still, she steps away from the shadows, and gives him a smile. It's not filled with warmth, but neither is it chill. Cautious, certainly. Veiled, without a doubt. She says his name slowly, letting it roll across her tongue.
    "Matthew."
    She'd missed this.

Daredevil has posed:
    That towel is thrown away once he'd dabbed at his brow. And there he'll stand there in that area of the hard wood floor that he has separated off from the rest of the apartment, the place where he trains when he does not wish to go out. Almost like a line being drawn in the sand. Yet as she offers him that single word of his name, his brow will knit... furrowing with anxiety or perhaps annoyance.
    "What is it you want?" He says as he crosses his arms over his chest. Body language closed off, expression held in check. Those crimson glasses of his casting her reflection back upon her as well as the faint glow of the end table lamp that glows just behind her. His head tilts to the side, and she knows on some level he is listening to her, hearing that pace of her heart, nostrils flaring faintly as he takes in the scent of this woman whom he used to claim to love.
    A step is taken to the sight, the wooden floor creaking faintly in complaint. "Business or pleasure?" But then something seems to occur to him as he turns away slightly, placing splayed fingertips upon the glass of the window. But then shifts his attention back to her.

Elektra has posed:
    He's watched. She patient for the moment, despite the inner urge to break this nascent thing with something - anything - to carry it past these moments. She didn't want to burn the bridge she was building, but neither did she wish to hover at the edge of this precipice and wait. Only instinct and training kept her still, her tones carefully modulated. It was a thing she might hate herself for later, but she's learned from this particular mistake; the cuts he'd left were still scabs she picked.
    "What is it I've always wanted?" That comes with a soft chuckle, Elektra making light of the thing. Turning it from truth to amusement. Or perhaps amusement to truth. She's always walked a thin line with him on that. Too much thrust? Too much parry? It would all fall away, and then where would she be?
    "A little of both," she admits, finally, moving closer. Closing the space between them to define the limits of the mat they would spar upon, even if it were only verbally. "I missed you."

Daredevil has posed:
    A grunt comes from him, since he knows what business she's in so her presence in New York could be anything. Usually he'd just perhaps read about a mysterious death in the newspaper and then she'd be gone. But she didn't usually approach him, they had kept out of each other's way for the last few months. Only now something is different.
    His head tilts to the side, back to her. "I figured you would be in Japan." He says to her, then steps past, turning is shoulder just enough to move clear of her, though there's a moment where they touch very faintly. He moves away from her, giving his back to her though even now they are both aware of the other, both so very wary.
    "Dealing with what has been happening with your clan." The Hand? Yes he knows of them, perhaps the first time he's acknowledged as much. Though she may well be aware of what has passed in Hell's Kitchen these last few months. as well. Yet he does not let on anything further. He gestures absently with one hand then, attempting some concession to being a good host. "Something to drink?"
    He stops at the island in that loft that separates the kitchen from the rest of the area, picking up a bottle of water and offering it with a gesture.

Elektra has posed:
    She tenses when he brushes by, but only for the moment when they touch. It's unclear why. Perhaps in a desire to linger met with strict need to not allow such a thing. Or perhaps to keep from drawing away, to keep this meeting pristine. Without certain observances.
    "I was in Japan, she admits, turning to follow him, taking the water when offered. She even thanks him for it, dextrous fingers opening the bottle, the cap put upon the island. She doesn't drink yet, though. "There are less of them than there once were. Others have gone into deep hiding. I've decided to let them think I've given up. In the meantime, they aren't the only business I hold. And you? You are well?"
    She asks this like she hasn't already hired the best money can buy to look into him and Foggy Nelson and their little firm. As though this little re-entry into his life weren't a calculated thing.

Daredevil has posed:
    For a time those reflective lenses do nothing more than just cast her image back to her as he gauges her, listening to the pace of her heart. She knows who he is, what he can do. And with her training can mask her signature, can hide her intentions. But that doesn't stop him from trying.
    It's only then that he lifts his own bottle of water and spritzes some into his mouth, setting the bottle aside once he's taken a few swallows. He keeps the island between them, leaning against it somewhat, one and splay-fingered as if holding himself at bay. There's still a faint sheen of exertion to his brow, a small beadlet of sweat trickling down the side of his neck even as he tilts his head slightly as he looks at her. Then a small nod is given. "Well."
    A pause, then he adds, "It's good to hear your voice again. If I don't think about it too much I could almost imagine you were here without some other agenda."

Elektra has posed:
    So that was it, then, the boundaries of this thing. Six feet by four feet, one on either side of the island, keeping the past at bay while it howled around them in this space they once had shared memories in. Her fingertips idly touch upon the edge of the cap of the water bottle, nothing more than an anchor. A reminder that things had changed.
    "You never did trust me, did you?" It wasn't so much a question as a statement of fact. Of course she had much to not trust about her. Even now, what she was, what he was reading, was as calculated as she could make it about herself. She'd argue it was protection, but the truth was, she was so many layers of lie and facade, that she didn't always know anymore.
    "I see the firm is still surviving." Her eyes drift over him, but come to rest upon that bead of moisture, watching its slow trickle along his flesh, and she swallows, the thing something of a betrayal of the carefully honed image she is projecting. For that moment, her lips too dry, and her pulse a sudden skip of beat that is quickly schooled back into submission. But there is that moment.

Daredevil has posed:
    "I did, once." Matt says with a small smile, lightly offered as he keeps his attention upon her. Though at times he'll turn his head subtly to the side, listening to the world around them, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. But there is nothing. No others climbing upon the rooftop, or up the fire escape, no blade-wielding maniacs seeking to destroy him at her behest. But then why does he still feel so on edge. So ill at ease. Beyond the old feelings she brings to the fore.
    "I still do somewhat, Elektra. It's just..." He turns and steps away, moving from her. It's as if he can't be at ease with her. Can't be at rest. Which may, in some ways, be what was difficult between them before. "It's just that you are willing to go farther than I am. And I can't trust you won't try to push me towards it."
    There is the core of things, and also the decisions they each have made about their lives. But then she succeeds at distracting him even as he steps back upon that wooden floor where the training dummy remains. "But yes. The firm is going well. Mostly." It always was hard to lie to her. But then he places a shoulder into the side of that practice dummy and starts to push it out of the way.

Elektra has posed:
    He's watched as he moves away, redefining the space of them. Taking things back to his pracice area. Except she doesn't follow. She merely turns, letting her back rest against the island. Letting him define what he needs. She'd played it too fast before. Letting herself get caught up in everything he'd brought to bear in her. That small little matter of falling for him. Loving when she'd declared she never would again. That way lying madness and pain; things she couldn't afford. Still..
    "And if I said you were wrong?" Her lips flutter over a smile, a thing caught between practiced precision and the memory of real. "You are what you are. I made a mistake. I've come to regret that."
    His lie about the firm noted, the smile deepening as he moves to correct himself. he was what he was. It really had been her mistake.. and ultimately, what she had loved about him.

Daredevil has posed:
    "Well, that's good." But then his lip twists into a sardonic smirk as he finishes shoving that dummy out of the way. He holds his distance from her, facing her directly. As if this was the arena they had chosen, this was the distance between them, and this is where he stood. She would have to come to him if she wanted more from him, to engage in some way. Though he offers her a comment, "I would say that I am glad you've reflected on things..."
    Then his brow knits and he adds quietly, "But you killed that man. You should turn yourself in." And perhaps she has killed more since. But that is the barrier between them. At least intellectually. Though even at this distance he can't help but listen to the steady pace of her heart, and feel the subtle twinge of nostalgia.
    But as he finishes saying that he knows that that is the insurmountable thing between them, the obstacle that drove them apart. And his own morality... won't let him drift from such a thought.

Elektra has posed:
    There's a soft murmur of laughter from Elektra when he says she should turn herself in. She now takes a sip of the water he has given her. In others it would be a pause. From her? It's a statement.
    "We've been over this, Matthew. What would you have me do? Turn into you?"
    The boundaries he's marked are noted. As is the challange of his stance. It was always like that between them on some levels: the push/pull of the thing. Even when they'd met. They'd only just changed the stakes as their relationship had grown. "It's all the same dirt, Matthew. You bruise and break bones and turn people in, only for them to be released and wreak sorrows once again. Do you ever think of your place in that little paradigm? That you could have stopped all the things that come after by merely ending it when you could have? How is that any less dirty than what I do?"

Daredevil has posed:
    "If we both know the steps of this dance so well, then there's no need to step out on the floor." He says that calmly, as if trying to head off the situation before it comes to a head. But in some ways he seems resigned to it as well. But then in answer to her question about turning into him, his lip curls and he gestures with the uncurling of one hand, head turning just so to the side. "Now would that be such a terrible fate?"
    He takes a step to the side, one hand at his side closing faintly into a fist then opening. "But what I do makes a difference, Elektra. I'm sorry you can't see that." There's a pause, then he adds pointedly as he asks, "So now, tell me. Why are you here?"
    And as he says that he simply turns his hips to the side, just enough as one hand remains low and open, ready for her should she lash out, but trying not to show such readiness so easily.

Elektra has posed:
    "No, not a terrible fate, just a mundane one." Her water bottle is put down and she paces slowly towards him, body a lithe movement over the floor. His stance noted with a delicate lift of brow. "You make a difference, Matthew. I just don't think that's the difference I'm meant to make. Why can't you accept that?"
    Her steps become more wary as she closes the distance between them, gauging how he stands, whether it is invitation or challenge. "You can't be serious?" Though he well might be. "And I told you. I missed you." Which isn't all the truth. It's merely enough of it. And the impetous for things barely set in motion, but planned.

Daredevil has posed:
    With the way he stands it could be either, the way he holds himself there, at the ready, calm. She's seen him match himself against other masters, and they both are so well-trained they would both be qualified so. And between two artists it is possible to read each other's energy... and when she looks at him she will see it. The defiance, the threat, the stalwart resistance.
    But what is more she can see that part of him hopes she will leave, depart with nothing further between them. Even though there is a whisper in the back of his mind that hopes she does not. "Well." He begins, then he says quietly. "Now you've seen me."
    From that she can draw what conclusions she wishes.

Elektra has posed:
    So it's that, then, she decides. Walk or engage.
    He gets no warning; not that he needs any. One moment she's a pause away, regarding him, the next she's fluid motion, body an easy flip into the space between them, ending in a smooth spin that has her looking to sweep away his legs from beneath him with her own. The woman tucked down, center of gravity low, ready to deliver further blows when he blocks and engages. Fully expecting him to block not just the sweep, but the blows. It wasn't words, but it was a language they both understood.

Daredevil has posed:
    Even as her leg slices across the ground, trying to rob him of his balance, he's backing up a step, letting her advance. No counters are thrown yet, no punches nor kicks. Instead he twists to the side around her next few strikes, the blur of her fist lashing out and forwards, meeting the firmness of his forearm as he makes the needed block. The floor creaks under his bare feet as he takes a step back, two, giving her room as he settles fully into stance.
    With his hips turned to the side and one hand held open and towards her, the other is closed into a fist next to his hip as he holds himself at the ready. Yet he has not struck back yet, he still holds himself ready... because perhaps, in some way, he can sense that she is not truly seeking to defeat him, to take his life. That this... is perhaps a desire for a connection. Any connection. Even violence.

Elektra has posed:
    He sees it before she does. The lack of anything but defensive blocks a frustration that has her sending blows far longer than she might have if he'd merely complied. Risen to her will and made this a true match. A thing they could have spoken through, instead of this blunted act of.. Elektra wasn't sure what it was. Only that it was leaving her emptier with each blow he merely blocked. Every strike he didn't take a thing that marked her just the same. Knowing intimately each place upon her body where she should have felt him. Where fist and foot should have landed.
    There's a rise of anger within her, a thin whipcord of frustration as she can't make him bend. "Fight, damn you," the words a hiss between them. She, herself, paused, drawn ready to defend. Her body all lines and motions in waiting.

Daredevil has posed:
    "I never wanted to hurt you, Elektra." And that is all he says, all the explanation he perhaps needs to give. For even then, even as they had stood over the bodies of the fallen, even as he realized that their future was not one they would share together. He had never wished for these feelings, this melange of hatred and love that tormented them both. But those words hang there between them, even in the quiet of the night.
    Then, slowly, he straightens up to his full height. And drops his guard. And he stands there, head turned faintly to the side, those glasses casting her image back upon herself. Forcing her to look a herself in this small moment between them.

Elektra has posed:
    It's a close thing. That whipcord of frustration defining her for longer moments than she's comfortable with. He'd always been able to get a rise out of her, and it seemed that time had not lessened that effect. Perhaps had only exacerbated it.
    It would have felt wonderful to hit him. To make full and furious contact with his flesh. Even as she stands there, reading from his body language that he will let her, she can picture how it will be. The full force of her thrown behind a blow that will leave it's mark like the bruise already purpling his cheek. He'd let her.
    He'd.. let her.
    And that's when she knows she can't, hands dropping away. The tenseness of her body forcibly school back into submission until she's nothing more than a woman (a deadly one at that) standing close enough to him that the blow he could have taken is also one he could give. They aren't but a step away from one another.
    "And we both know that would be the end. I'd be nothing but what you already think of me. You wanted me to."
    She reaches up, her palm gently craddling his jaw. Thumb brushing along his cheekbone. "Was I so terrible, then, that you'd ask that of me?"

Daredevil has posed:
    Mirroring that touch, she'll feel his fingertips light upon her cheek, just a small caress as he extends of himself, senses her, her heartbeat, the feeling of her fingertips upon his warm flesh. But then he shakes his head, "You were never terrible, Elektra." A grudging smile, just gently offered as he then lowers his hand.
    And then he walks away, moving towards the other end of his apartment, his back to her. His brow knits and in some ways this is the hardest part of the evening when he tilts his head to the side and ten tells her quietly, "Please leave." For a moment he seems about to add more. Perhaps a reason, a statement, further explanation. But now, all the rest of it is superfluous. Those two words are all he can take on at the moment.
    And then he moves away once again.

Elektra has posed:
    Her eyes close at the touch. It's as vulnerable as she knows how to be, other than to break apart and be... Except that was a person she'd stopped being long ago. Long before she'd even met him or let him in as far as she had. She sometimes wondered if he'd seen that woman, that person, would he have turned her away like he had. Only she isn't sure how to be her anymore. The closest she could come were glimpses, and she'd given him those. Had hoped they'd be enough. Even now, eyes closed, with her head a slight lean and a pressure against his palm, they weren't enough.
    By the time she opens her eyes, he has moved away. He doesn't see the hurt in the blue of them - hurt he's put there.
    She doesn't even turn his way again. Doesn't look as he asks her to leave. Makes no move to read him. Doesn't see the hesitation that isn't followed up upon.
    Elektra leaves the way she came. Silent and hidden. A figure of shadows. And if she hunts tonight, perhaps she can be forgiven. That she hunts those who need hunting, is a thing that seeks to soothe the storm of her soul. The confusion she can't quell. That she stops before each kill and tries.. tries to see his way - a nod to the man she wants but can't have. And when morning comes, she is no happier than when she left his place, but her plan is solidified now. She knows what she's going to do next.