[Karen recognizes that calm readiness that draws over him like a veil. That easy confidence of 'this is something I know how to do.' And she hasn't done a background search on him but she knows that he's seen some serious shit when deployed. It's all there, in between the lines. The things he can't and won't say.
She hates the thought that she might be the one to disrupt his peace at home. This should be the time that he doesn't have to worry about - about watching the exit points, or figuring out who poses a threat. When she finally meets his eyes, its just all over his face. He's nodding his head at her, and she gives her own a quick shake.]
Levi, I -
[She turns in towards him. Her free hand moves like she's going to touch his arm again, but she thinks better of it. Lets her knee lean in against him instead, like an echo of that late night in the pizza parlor.
Her eyes search his for a moment, at a loss for words. She's never had much of a poker face, and her fear is still there. And gratitude. She appreciates that he wants to help. But.]
I don't want to be the one that gets you involved in shit like this when you're not on active duty. I'd never forgive myself if I got you hurt. I can handle this.
[And laying underneath all of that is a scaffolding of iron determination. Karen's stubborn, and motivated, and willing to go more than an extra mile in everything that she does. Sure, she's scared. But she can do anything scared. Maybe her hands will shake. But that's never stopped her before. So many people have already gotten hurt because of her. This kind of thing - this is why she has so many connections and an empty fridge. People might know her. But it's a lot harder for her to let someone in close enough really know her.]
[ Fear. Gratitude. She appreciates that he wants to help, and he can see that. But.
This time, he's the one who reaches for her. A steadying hand at the round of her shoulder, the broad span of his palm a weight that stays there. Still standing, leaning against the bar, he holds her gaze for a moment and looks at her — not in the lights of some stupid restaurant at 3 AM with awful beer, not fleetingly across the table, hiding a smile in the curl of his palm — but really looks. Like some part of him's trying to put these small pieces together, or like some part of him understands something he didn't before.
The jukebox plays some rock and roll song about love. Going the distance. Taking a chance on some night that might never happen again. Somebody from the group he's with yells his name, and it goes unanswered. ]
Hey. [ He nods, again. I hear you. I understand you. ] You're not getting me involved, Karen. I'm choosing to stay.
[ In the reflection, somebody bumps into the guy who followed her in. Shoulder-checks him, and the guy ignores it completely, the entirety of his focus circling like a shark. ]
Lay it out for me. What do you want to do?
[ Methodical. It's not delivered like it's needling or challenging, but plainly — the tone of someone who's signed up for something, and is willing to see it all through. Beginning to end. Levi's been retired from the Marines for going on four years, has officially killed north of 180 people and unofficially killed more than 200. The last shot he took was in Poland, where he'd sat patiently in a hole in a hill for over 18 hours, sleeping ten minutes at a time until he pulled that trigger from over 3000 meters away.
Quietly, ]
I'm not letting you get hurt, either. That isn't an option for me.
Some of that - tense, nervous energy seems to drain from her for a moment. She's studying his face, listening to what he's saying. The way he's saying it. The way his hand rests on her shoulder, calm and steady.
Damn it, Levi. How much of her life has she spent waiting for people to give a shit about her on purpose? For just a second she can see her world inverted. See her younger self trapped in her flipped car. Screaming when she sees her brother in the passenger seat, just - gone. Just horribly still. She can see her father sending her away, talking in that methodical distant voice. Telling her she shouldn't show her face at the funeral. Sometimes she can still feel where the long healed scrapes were if she closes her eyes.
She remembers too the time Poindexter had been hunting her. How she'd called her dad. Begged to come home. Told him how terribly wrong things had gone. Listened when he said that's what you do, Karen.
Everything in her life circles that horrible night out in the back woods of Vermont.
She lifts her hand, letting it rest over where his is curled on her shoulder. Her head turns, cheek leaning on her own arm for a moment as she tries to sort out her thoughts. The man watching her is getting impatient. She can feel it ticking away like a countdown. Her priority is always not letting other people get hurt. She turns back to look at him with a sad smile when he says letting her get hurt isn't an option. She doesn't deserve that kind of consideration. They're going to have to have a...very uncomfortable talk after this.
Blowing out a breath, she pats her hand against his and then lets it drop.]
The back door. I can't let him hurt anyone in here. I have a friend at the local precinct I can call to come pick him up if I can knock him out.
[ He waits. It's no longer than a few seconds, but he waits — the hand at her shoulder, his fingers curling just-so there, the light weight against a trigger before anything gets pulled; her own hand, warm against his, as something complicated slips over her features. Levi thinks, wildly, as his awareness tracks a subtle movement in his peripheral, of that T.S Eliot poem. Not known, because not looked for / But heard, half-heard in the stillness / between two waves of the sea. ]
Okay.
[ Like that's all that needs to happen. Her to say how far, and he'll follow all the way. ]
Come on.
[ Laughter. The clink of Slainte! from a table as they pass it. Levi's hand hovers near the middle of Karen's back but never does make contact. They pick through the crowd and his pace matches hers exactly, always half a step behind, his chest never too far from her spine. They pass another table and someone says his name again, a questioning Levi?— that peters out into the din of the bar, the rustle of music as they move by.
When you enter the middle of someone else's sights, you can tell. There's a physical feeling associated with the absence of safety. An awareness. Even animals have it. Self-protection, or a sense of wrongness, or a sense of urgency.
The guy who followed Karen in is on their heels, weaving through bodies, his hand reaching for the waistband as the back door opens with a bang—
Cold air. They get three steps into the night before Levi turns, just in time to meet the guy face to face, and and gets clocked hard. Levi crumples, palms bracing against gravel, split skin and bleeding from his brow from the butt of the guy's gun.
And then the thug's pointing the barrel. He's yelling something, threatening: Who the fuck is this guy, huh? You think this motherfucker's going to save you, princess?
The thug pulls the trigger. Not at Levi, not at Karen; the shot goes wide as Levi surges upwards, knocking the thug's arm, intent on disarming him— ]
[Karen draws a breath and nods her head. Part of her already regrets this, in the way she always hates it when someone else gets caught up in the hard parts of her life. He can take care of himself, and she knows that, but that doesn't change anything about the worry she can already feel gnawing a hole in her gut.
But still. There's only one way out of this. She can't let this guy stay in this bar, getting progressively angrier. So she tugs the hat back on as she slips off the stool, shrugs into her coat as they walk. Lets her purse hang off the crook of her arm. She feels hyper aware of everything around her - the unknowing crowd, the way he's moving half a pace behind her, the asshole that's been tracking her just a few feet behind. And she swears she hears someone call his name, but they're out the door before she can fully make note of it.
The air hits her face, soberingly cold. She wishes this was just one of those nights where she had one too many. She only gets a few steps away from the door before she's turning, drawn by the feeling of motion behind her.
Levi goes down and Karen's heart rate picks up.]
Shit, shit, fuck -
[Her free hand is diving back into her bag, her eyes fixed ahead of her. Her fingers find purchase on her gun and she lets the purse drop. Her hands are shaking, but she feels a spike of irritation and adrenaline as the guy taunts her. People are always making the mistake of underestimating her. Still, she flinches and lets out a surprised sound as Levi knocks the other guy's arm out of the way just in time for his shot to go wild.
Karen lifts her arms and holds her gun level. She exhales a long, quavery breath but her hands are steady now. The thug is scuffling with Levi, but his focus is drawn by the sound of her taking the safety off. He scoffs. Come on, blondie, do you even know how to use that thing?
She doesn't answer, but her jaw is tight and her eyes are blazing as she watches him get a better handle on the grip of his gun.
For just a second, she's picturing - a dozen things at once, really. Sitting up in the hunting blind with her dad and brother, learning how to use a BB gun. Drinking with her shitty ex boyfriend and taking shots at glass bottles and ceramic figures out in the dark. The fire flickering behind that same ex when she shot him in the shoulder to get him to lay off beating her brother. Grabbing Wesley's gun off the table and unloading the clip into his chest.
She's never been formally trained. But she can shatter a mason jar in the dark while her head is swimming with whiskey. And she can damn well defend herself and someone that she cares about when she has to.
So she takes aim and squeezes the trigger. And just a second later, the thug lets out a cry of pain as her bullet sinks directly into his kneecap.]
[ Blood pulses between his ears. The cut above his brow still bleeds, sluggish but messy. Everything throws itself into some kind of slow-motion hyperawareness, like it always does for Levi: the regular rhythm of his own heart, and the slow, even breaths of his lungs; the shrill sliver of ringing in his ears when the second gun goes off.
Distantly: the thought that it's Karen Page behind him, pulling that trigger. It says something, when you go through with a decision like that. Knowing that there's a direct line from you to the maim of another human being, self-defense or otherwise.
Some people wear that easier than others.
There's a shift, suddenly, in the efficiency of his decision-making. Levi kicks out the thug's knee, the very same one that's been shattered by the trajectory of a bullet. Something snaps — twists out of place in a way that it's distinctly not meant to. The thug waves his arm and another shot goes wide, an instinctive trigger-pull out of throbbing pain and sharpened anger, and this time it's a fluid movement, Levi disarming him.
Shoulders square. The gun choked tight, barrel pointed directly at center mass. Finger tense on the trigger.
He strikes out with a rough snap to his temple. The thug goes down, a crumpled heap of unconscious limbs. The next motions seem rote: Levi quickly ejects the bullet in the chamber, takes out the clip; disassembles it one step further, then throws the pieces away. Gunmetal clattering against loose gravel, the dull clang as something slides underneath a dumpster. Not easy to find, but. The evidence is there, if the authorities need to look for it.
Inhale. Exhale. Levi rubs a knuckle into his left eye. Grimaces, when it comes away bloody, as he turns to finally fix his attention on her. Clocks her hands, the set of her shoulders. The responding expression on his own face, careful and calm and neutral, like nothing just happened at all. ]
[Karen maintains the same ready stance, keeping her gun level, her shoulders set with determination. Even though she winces when Levi crushes what's left of this guy's kneecap. She doesn't pull her gaze from the unconscious assailant until Levi says her name. Her eyes flicker over to him, and she immediately lowers the gun, putting the safety back on.
Her hands are trembling again as she takes in the blood seeping down his brow. One hand comes up, the back of it covering her mouth as she takes a second to wrangle something that resembles having a handle on her shit. This isn't something she wears easily. She just - wears it. Because the only life that makes sense to her, the one where she investigates crime and corruption, comes with danger. Not every day. Not even every week. But she's good at what she does - eerily good at it, if you ask any of the people that she works with. And if you spend all your time clearing out hornets nests, every so often the hornets are going to try to sting.]
Yeah. Um, hang on.
[She bends to put her gun back in her purse, takes her phone out. She's pulling her hat off with her other hand, her eyes scanning the alley. She finds a little pile of snow and ice that doesn't look overtly grimy and grabs it, flipping her hat inside out around it. Moving quickly across the alley, she hands it over to him and makes a gesture towards his head. Her expression is all sadness and regret. Trying to apologize without actually saying it because she suspects he won't accept it.
Standing there by the crumpled figure, she dials Brett's number. It takes exactly a ring and a half for him to answer, and she chokes out a half laugh at his greeting.]
Come on, like you wouldn't be pissed off if I called you at this hour to talk about bar trivia. No, uh, do you remember the case I've been working on? Yeah. Mancini just followed me out of the office. I just had to shoot him in the knee out behind the old Double Down bar to get him off my trail. No, he's unconscious. [A beat.] No, I'm not stupid. I didn't call him. [Her eyes flick to Levi for just a moment while she listens.] Yeah, I'm fine. I'll wait here until you can get here. Thanks, Brett.
[She finally hangs up and shoves the phone into her pocket, then runs both of her hands back through her hair. Her fingers lace together behind her neck as she looks back at him.]
Thank you.
[It's quiet and sincere. And there's just an edge of acknowledgment in it, like she knows he's going to have questions. But first.]
Brett's a good guy. But if you need to make it so you weren't here for what just happened, that's okay.
[ A splinter of something — not amused, but parallel to it, a not-quite full smile of If this is an apology, I'm not taking it — works itself into the squint of his left eye. He takes the makeshift icepack from her anyway, the turn of his fingers wrapping lightly over her wrist in a fleeting push of contact. There, then gone again. A responding touchstone, to make sure she's holding together.
The entire time Karen is on the phone, Levi stares at the thug's body. The bloom of red over the denim at his knee. Levi tries, bizarrely, to think of the last time he did any of this: some fight in the alleyway of a bar. Some gun fired in the back streets. The last time he had a personal stake in anything.
He glances back to meet her gaze, when the call's over. He's already partly shaking his head. ]
I've been retired for four years. [ Snow, melted, dampens some of the hair at his temple. A bead of water trails from his brow and down the entire length of his jaw. ] My record's clean. I won't get dinged for it.
[ But it's considerate — and telling, he thinks — of her, to ask.
It's a short wait. When the sirens come, Levi squares up, answering — Brett, that's his name — in short, to the point replies. Openly and methodically reveals details to them both: his name, his age, his birthdate. That he was here with a group from his Intro to Creative Writing class, that he knows Karen through equal parts history and circumstance, a drop of hesitance before he admits We're friends. That he's currently unemployed, previously worked as an independent military contractor; prior to that, he was a scout sniper with the USMC, honorably discharged. He has a California license and a valid NY carry permit, even though he isn't armed. Yes, he does have a permanent address; yes, he is a frequent traveler; no, he doesn't have plans on leaving town soon. And a business card to hand over, too, something sleek and black and embossed with only a name and a number: his lawyer, in-house at some up and coming pharmaceutical company, in case anybody has questions.
Levi waits for Karen out front. Hands lax at his sides, in some quiet conversation with J.D. — the one who'd called Levi's name, earlier — a heavy English accent occasionally audible over the small crowd of annoyed patrons and curious passers-by. It's another day that ends in Y, so it's not like the bar will be unavailable for longer than the next fifteen, twenty minutes. Levi shakes J.D's hand briefly, excuses himself the minute he spots Karen, her hat (sans snow) hanging from his grip. ]
Hey. [ And, ] We should have a conversation.
[ He nods, lightly, down the street. A non-verbal offer to walk her to her stop, or to a taxi, or home. ]
[Karen catches that look on his face and gives him a return look that seems to pointedly say no surprise there. She lets her fingertips brush the edge of his sleeve as he touches her wrist briefly. She'll be fine. Unfortunately, something like this won't even crack the list of top ten worst situations she's gotten herself involved in.
Some of the tension is gone from her shoulders when she hangs up. Knowing that law enforcement that she can actually trust is on the way means that the worst of this shit is officially over. For now, at least. Her eyes stay trained on him as he denies her offer to clear out of there. There's an itch somewhere in the back of her brain to reach out and swipe that bead of water off his jaw, but she ignores it.]
As long as you're sure. If you need testimony for anything, just let me know.
[One of the perks of working in a law office. She can get him a signed affidavit by morning if there's a chance any smoke will blow his way from this. Part of her suspects that if he has any issues, it won't be from anything legal. Hopefully he knocked that guy on the head hard enough that he won't remember what Levi's face looks like.
Since she can only be who she is, she listens as he talks to Brett. One of her brows arches when he hesitates before saying we're friends, but she doesn't say anything. Yet. Her eyes track that business card as it goes from one hand to the other.
Brett dismisses Levi before he walks through what happened with Karen. And it starts off with him staring her down for a long moment. A moment that he follows up by saying, "if he starts running around at night calling himself The Meat Tenderizer to beat up criminals, I'm holding you personally responsible."
Karen wants to laugh. She almost laughs. But she just makes a futile gesture as she shakes her head.]
I'll turn him over to you myself if that happens, okay?
[Not really. And they both know it. Her friendship with Brett is based on a lot of polite fictions around what she does and doesn't know about some of the vigilantes that operate in New York. About how well she knows them. About how some of them have escaped being caught on more than one occasion when she's been around.
It doesn't take long for her to walk him through the events of the night. She promises to bring the rest of her research by the precinct in the morning. She even promises to stay out of trouble for the rest of the night, even though they both know if something bad happens and she can do something about it that she'll be there in a heartbeat.
When she spots Levi she offers him a self-deprecating sort of smile.]
Yeah.
[They clearly have more to talk about than literature and art history.]
Um, I've got a pretty good first aid kit at my place. It's not too far a walk from here.
[She turns so they can head down the sidewalk in the right direction. Her purse feels heavier on the crook of her arm than it did earlier. She takes a quick glance at him.]
I won't take it personally if you want to lose my number after that.
[ He falls into step. It's some mimic of how he moved with her in the bar, only half a step in-front and on the outside, closest to the road. The gash above his brow has stopped bleeding, but there's still a smear of dark blood near the hard spike of his lashes and the socket of his eye.
And he looks— a little surprised, too, when she tells him that. Levi huffs a quiet laugh. ]
"Talk cheesy to me" was a lot worse than this, Karen.
[ He's still around, isn't he?
They pass a couple other people on the street — three girls, laughing with their heads thrown back, huddled together for a selfie around a streetlight; an elderly couple in heavy coats and beanies, walking their dog. Levi doesn't stiffen around them, but the net of his attention widens. Occasionally, he glances upwards: towards rooftops, or the sudden closing of curtains that cuts off the light in an apartment window. The rise of vigilantism isn't something he's altogether kept up with. International missions, and all. The fate of a neighborhood or a major metropolitan city are for different players. Maybe he should've looked into that, before settling on staying here.
In the swell of silence, Levi doesn't seem in a hurry to fill it. There are a couple of false starts, maybe. He glances sidelong at her twice, maybe to finally ask her if she's okay, or to lay out the thread of something he's thinking about — it doesn't take a genius to read that on him, that part of his mind is elsewhere, retreating inward to puzzle out what just happened. Names like Mancini. It takes Levi a moment to work up to it, nothing but the little slivers of New York lighting up around them and the steady rhythm of their footsteps for company.
Eventually, ]
Based on the fact that you're on a first-name basis with a cop, and that we're not in a hospital, I'd say this isn't the first time something happened to you.
[ Partly a guess, partly an assumption. Levi lays out the facts bare, or as bare as he can see them. They stop, briefly, at a red light and crimson color reflects off the metal frame of a passing taxi. His head turns as he idly tracks it. ]
I thought you said you were a reporter.
[ There's nothing in his tone that suggests he holds it against her. He glances back with a smile that wears a little tightly, but underscores that message, too: I'm choosing to stay. And he chose. No harm, no foul. ]
[It's a joke, but it's not really funny. She knows it's not going to land even before she makes it, and one shoulder lifts in a shrug. Sometimes trying to lighten the mood means taking a swing knowing that it'll miss. Besides, saying 'you might have a more fucked up definition of worse than I do' feels a little too on the nose for the moment.]
You, uh, hesitated before. When you told Brett we were friends. I just wanted to make sure you know I'm not in the habit of making people stick around when they realize what a shit show my life can be.
[How could she? Most people are too sane to sign up for any real proximity to the kind of work that she does. And she can't hold it against them. Wouldn't hold it against Levi, even. She'll be sad about it, because she genuinely enjoys his company. But she can especially understand how he might want a break from the stress and the tension when he's not on an active mission.
Even though part of her wants to just - fill the silence - she can tell that he's thinking through something. So she lets it be. Watches with a half smile as they pass that older couple with their dog. The little slices of normalcy like this should be jarring after the violence of the last hour. But it's just a nice reminder. Life goes on. Other people have a quiet night. They get to have that because she puts in the time to get people like Mancini off the street.]
My car's parked outside my building. I can take you to the ER if you want. You just have "I'll handle it myself" vibes.
[She offers a wry little smile and a half shrug. The glow from the red light turns her blue eyes to darker pools as she stares up at it, and carves out her cheekbones in starker relief. It reminds her of Matt, and for a split second, she considers telling Levi that there's not likely to be much danger from the rooftops. Even though that opens up a completely different conversation.
Her hands slide into her pockets as they resume walking. Her apartment's just a few blocks ahead now.]
I am. You can look up my byline in The Bulletin. All of my articles are online. I just also work as a PI for my law firm. Nelson, Murdock and Page.
[It's a fairly sizable omission. And she knows it. She meets that little smile with an apologetic look.]
I try to keep people out of it. I don't like it when people get hurt because of me.
[Which is, perhaps, the understatement of the year. She indicates her building with a nod and leads them inside. It's an old brick building, but it's clearly well tended to by the people that live there. The elevator is out of commission so she leads them up the three flights to her apartment. Unlocks the knob and the deadbolt to let him in and re-locks it behind them as she flips the lights on. Her apartment is small. All the furniture is second hand, but it has that same well maintained and lived in look as the rest of the building. There's books on shelves and more on the coffee table, along side a tablet and a stack of files and paper. There's a few framed photos, mostly of Matt and Foggy, a couple with her in it. One of her family, deliberately tucked on a shelf that's not at eye level.]
[ I'll handle it myself vibes. Which is, perhaps, the second runner-up of understatements of the year.
He absorbs all her sentences with a nod or a soft hum. Quiet responses, to let her know that he's listening, but there's a haze of thoughtful neutrality that clouds most of it. Not because those small gestures aren't genuine, or because they're a lie. The red light changes to green and they make their way to her apartment and Levi's body moves along on autopilot, looking at her profile every so often.
She's a reporter, who also works for a — her — law firm, as a PI. She's often in danger. She carries a gun, and she knows better than to hesitate while using it, and she doesn't like it when people get hurt. He knows, now, what she looks like when she's terrified. And she likes pizza, and she's not picky about her beer, and she can make a bored college kid laugh at 3 AM just by saying something, and Levi can tell whenever she means a smile, because it brightens the blue in her eyes.
Up three flights of stairs to her small apartment, Levi tips his chin into a short nod when she briefly leaves, carefully setting down her beanie — folded neatly in half, regrettably darkened, just a little, on the side with his blood — onto her coffee table. Hands in his pockets, he glances around the things that Karen calls home. Out her window, too. He lingers near a few photos, glances over at that one that's not quite at eye level, but where he hovers most is at her bookshelves. Half bent at the waist, softly mouthing the words along as he reads the spines.
The black journal in his back pocket, half-crumpled and dog-eared, gets tossed onto the coffee table before he sits down. It's a pretty good couch; soft, sturdy, and he moves along to make room for her when she comes back. Just as promised, with that first aid kit in tow.
For the most part, he lets her work on him in silence. He doesn't need it, but Levi doesn't argue, either. Head wounds bleed a lot, and nothing hurts, and he punctures the quiet first: ]
I hesitated when I was talking to Brett because I wasn't sure if you'd appreciate the association. That's all it was. [ He tries to keep still, under her attention, but his mouth takes on a funny line anyway, wry and self-deprecating and sincere and a little embarrassed, somehow, all at the same time. The association with me, he means. Being my friend.
Rusty at it. Like he wasn't sure, if he could call her that outloud. ]
I think I'm actually pretty bad at it.
[ "It." Whatever that means. He blinks in steady, measured beats, and his breathing stays even. The sentence hangs in the air and Levi looks into the blue shine of her eyes again. Dimmer, now, with overhead lighting. ]
How long have you been doing this? [ He's not talking about the first aid, either. ]
[Karen shrugs her coat off, hangs it up on a hook as she makes her way down to the hall closet. Takes a minute to draw a deep, steadying breath as she gets out the first aid kit and an old washcloth. She takes a detour into the bathroom so she can get the cloth damp with warm water.
She has a lot of books. Most of them are from second hand shops, but there's a few that look like they've been following her around for years. There's a lot of classic literature. A smattering of mystery novels and biographies, books about the elements of journalism, a few handbooks and manuals on investigation techniques. The ones on her coffee table are a mix of reference volumes and art books.
When she rejoins him in the living room, she sits on the cushion sideways, facing him with one leg tucked under her. The kit is set up on a clear corner of the table and she props it open. It's a fairly robust first aid kit. She makes a vague gesture, like asking silently asking for permission, before she starts to carefully clean around the wound. She uses the cloth first, clearing away the worst of the blood, then gets the edges of it with a sterile alcohol pad.
She's quiet and focused, the fingertips on her free hand just resting lightly along his hairline as she works. Her eyes flick down to meet his as she sets the sterile pad aside. There's clear surprise reflecting on her face for just a moment, but it lapses to thoughtful again.]
You're the most normal person I've met in years.
[It's all self-deprecating, but the corner of her mouth curves up in a small smile.]
You're better at it thank you think you are.
[Sure, he's quiet. And it's pretty clear that his secrets have secrets. But so do hers. She likes the quiet. It's a stark contrast to most of the people she knows. There's a stillness to him. He's good company, and he tries his hand at bad jokes, and he's game to meet up at weird places at inconvenient times just for the hell of it. He's also apparently game for helping her evade a criminal maniac, which is...unexpected.
She finds the steri-strips in her kit and works carefully to apply them along the wound.]
It's only been a few minutes.
[She's just joking, and one shoulder lifts in a shrug. With the steri-strips in place, she finally sits back so she can look at him properly. Lets her elbow lean on the back of her couch so she can prop her head up on her hand. Her shin is resting lightly against the outside of his leg.]
I've been with the law firm and the paper for a while. Just under ten years now. But I've always been good at getting in trouble.
[There's something dark in that twist of humor. But she manages a smile through it anyway.]
How about you? What was up with that business card?
[ Her hand at his hairline, and the hard spike of his lashes jump at first brush. Tension, and then the slow, staggered release of it — just like what happened in their little slice of 3 AM, private and subtle and internal. It culminates in nothing but a small exhale, audible only because of their close proximity, and it's not until that last steri-strip gets applied that Levi's hand reaches upward, lightly touching the bump of his own brow. Just making sure, and then leans back, too.
Hands in his lap. The back of his head against her couch, tipped just enough in her direction to see her fully. Her shin rests lightly against the outside of his leg, and his stays there. A light anchor of contact. Her silent mirror.
You're better at it than you think you are.
Levi's mouth hooks upward in the same kind, smiling through it anyway. ]
I've worked for a lot of different people.
[ He says, after a beat. There's a moment, brief and distant, where Levi looks down into his lap. Another exhale, this time one that sounds like a laugh, stripmined of anything that really makes it amused or funny or real. ] It's the in-house lawyer at a Constellis subsidiary. In the last four years, they've reached out to me nine times, including back in March. [ Poland. The last job. France, in the lie. ] They owed me one.
[ And have offered about a dozen opportunities at a more permanent position. They would've let him live in some swanky place in Manhattan if he'd never found another place. Another beat, and then Levi adds, slowly, ]
I've been talking to their corporate shrink.
[ The line of his mouth twists, brows raising up into a slightly limited version, thanks to Karen's excellent work, of— something rueful. A little wry. You're the most normal person I've met in years. He pitches forward so that his elbows are resting on his knees, blunt fingers loosely knit together. He looks, solidly, over her. ]
Anybody looking at you wouldn't think that you fought for your life tonight. And you know your way around a first aid kit. [ It's not an accusation or a tug at a thread. Like most things, it's an observation. Fact. Another tally in that question that he's been turning over in the time between the dive and her apartment, that he keeps returning to, wants to return to, like some strange burr in the skin: Who the hell are you, Karen Page? ]
[Karen pauses when she feels him tense like that, her fingers still along his hairline. She knows better to say anything about it, but she doesn't start to clean the blood until he relaxes. Karen is unthinkingly tactile - she touches arms, hugs, squeezes shoulders, gestures when she talks. But she can respect when other people struggle with it. Though part of her wonders what it is. Just...not being used to it. Or getting too used to the inherent violence in his line of work.
Once finished, she watches as he leans his head back. He seems more comfortable now that the work of cleaning up and bandaging the wound is done.
Even though she can - and will - ask a million and one questions on any given topic, she's figured out enough by now that giving him time to answer will get to the same conclusion. So she just nods her head a little as he begins to speak. Her gaze sharpens a little at the words Constellis subsidiary. It's not a name that she recognizes, but she's naturally inclined to be suspicious of any company that uses subsidiaries. But that's just from the amount of time she spends rifling through shell companies, looking for where the dirty money leads.]
Do you feel good about the work you do for them?
[It's the most pressing question, as far as she's concerned. The details don't matter. Whether he feels good about it does. And his follow up about the corporate shrink is met with a reassuring smile.]
Hey, I'm glad to hear that. I hope it's going well.
[She's thought about seeing a therapist a few times. But she's pretty sure that if she starts to open any one of the boxes she keeps her shit packed in that the whole pile will come tumbling down. It doesn't surprise her when he turns the topic back to her, though she does make a face for just a moment, wrinkling her nose at him.]
God, it's going to sound terrible when I tell you that I was thinking earlier that it doesn't even crack the top ten list of worst nights I've had. There's other nights I've - you know, cried in the shower. I might still freak out about it when you leave.
[Having someone there, something to focus on, is definitely helping her to compartmentalize it. She glances over at her first aid kit before she looks back at him.]
[ His thumb crosses over some old scar at his opposing knuckle. The larger joint, just above the base of his wrist. Where Karen is unthinkingly tactile, Levi's restraint and motion: contained, rarely seeming to waste movement unless it's some extension of thoughtfulness, a physical bid at buying himself some time.
Being reached for is all kinds of new. ]
You do have an unreasonable number of friends.
[ He allows, sensibly. It's not, he knows, likely to be more professors and lawyers. He runs a hand over his jaw, and underneath that, the curve to his mouth widens. Because it's— a little easier to sink into this, into the low bend of his spine as he sits on her couch, and looks at her bookshelves, and that hell of a first aid kit that she has. Having someone there. Something to focus on. Her uncanny fucking ability to pull out a question that nobody's ever asked him before, that he desperately wants to both reveal and turn away from at the same time.
Levi laughs, a bit. Shit. Not even in the top ten. It's a broader sound, not just an exhale or a hidden huff. ]
I think you might know what I'm talking about, [ he starts. His expression flickers, dims, but the lightness, some subtle trace of amusement at her wrinkled nose, it's all still there. ] When you do something long enough, it stops being as easy to... [ He leans back. The couch dips, a little, as he shifts his weight. ] I don't know.
[ Compartmentalize? Recover, sleep? Unpack it all by yourself? Not cry in the shower? All of the above?
Levi's hand rests, briefly, around her shin. His head turned to face her, cheek pressed against the couch's fabric. A singular, gentle squeeze of his palm, and then it falls away. ]
This isn't a competition, [ he tells her, with a quiet, clear faux-seriousness. ] but this doesn't even crack my top twenty.
Maybe. Not a lot of people I'd have come over, though.
[It's an important distinction, not a nitpicky one. Karen is friendly, and compassionate. She's been known to buy coffee for strangers, to stop and talk to people about whatever petition they're carrying. The bustle and flow of city life is comfortable for her, because she likes being caught up in a swirl of people. There's a thousand stories to learn.
And because it's easy to get lost in.
It's harder for her to let people into her private life. Because it's dangerous. And because she relishes having this quiet oasis. If he were a stranger that got injured, she would have hailed a cab and taken him to the ER. Would have stayed there with him all night. But he's someone she's comfortable letting in to this part of her life. Even though she regrets that she got him caught up in something that got him hurt.
He's evading answering that question of hers head on. But she can tell that he's thinking about it, or maybe just thinking about that evening's events in general. She watches his face as he hesitates through a half formed thought. There's only a moment's pause before she chimes in,] normal things are the things that start to feel weird after a while.
[It just tends to - snowball. Everything, everywhere, all the time. Threats. Danger. Conspiracies. Karen's not sure that there's a foolproof way to hold on to your sanity. But she knows she's in better shape than she was before she met Matt and Foggy. And not just because they bailed her out of being framed for murder.
Yeah. Definitely doesn't crack her top ten.
She can't help but chuckle a little as her mouth curves into a rueful, understanding little smile. Her hand shifts slowly so she can rest it on his forearm after he gently squeezes her shin. Carefully continuing the moment of connection.]
Want a whiskey?
[Look, it's a shit idea with a head wound. But she's pretty sure they've both earned indulging in a shit idea to get through the rest of the conversation.]
[ This time, he doesn't jolt. Like all Levi really needs isn't so much warning but enough time to sight it happening at all, and then a second more than that to process it. He wears his fearlessness differently than she does. Tucked away at his center, a reserve to draw from, a battery rather than fuel that spurs him into motion.
A pause. Surprise, and then he cracks a slow-drawn smile. ]
That's... not a bad idea.
[ Medically, maybe, it is very much a bad idea.
It's how they end up still there, an hour or so later. He stays on the couch — from there, he still has a near-direct line of sight to her bathroom, the window, her front door — and his hand isn't on her ankle. But her legs are in his lap, and his free hand rests there on his thigh, palm-up. Relaxed. The curl of his fingers lays against the bump of her anklebone, a touchstone of contact that, at first glance, doesn't resemble much of anything.
They've taken a few detours in the conversation. Some comment about Moby Dick, how much Levi hated reading it at first, but he grew to like it. Art at the MOMA, which he still hasn't been to since he got back to New York. A brief story about camping in Oregon, eight or nine years old, and he's never had another smore since.
Pedestrian. Safe. No bloodshed and bullets and kneecaps. Nothing more about the psychiatrist he sees every week, how he failed that first eval, and the only reason he's still seeing him is that his employees desperately want him to pass the next one so they can put him to work. If he wanted to take another job, all it would take is looking for any other private military company, shop around until some other medical professional gave him the okay. He's taking classes instead.
Levi's other arm is on the back of the couch. It's the same hand that nurses his whiskey, neat, still on his first glass. It hangs loosely from his grip. For the most part, he's happiest to listen. ]
You've never wanted more normal?
[ —until a lull that he fills. The hand holding his glass lifts upward, gestures lightly around Karen's apartment. He's stopped glancing toward her window so frequently. Checking that everything is still secure and squared away. At ease. ]
Oh, no, it's definitely a bad idea. But not the worst idea of the night, so I'm pretty sure that cancels it out.
[She's clearly joking. A glimmer of amusement in her eyes as she gets off of the couch and crosses the space into the kitchen. The two tumblers are from different sets, and she pours a more than healthy measure of whiskey into both. It's not a fancy label, but it's not bottom shelf either. Karen usually has a beer when left to her own devices, but she keeps the whiskey for company and special occasions. And sometimes for processing fucked up situations.
Karen hands off his glass and gets comfortable back on the couch. It's easy to get lost, wandering through a conversation about books and art. Usually, after a tense encounter like that one in the alley, it takes her a good portion of the night to reorient herself as her body vents the adrenaline that carried her through. But she's stubborn, and more often than not, she insists that she's fine to go home on her own. Maybe there's something to be said for having someone around to talk to.
Her legs end up in his lap at some point, her glass resting on her thigh in between sips. She can feel the light press of his knuckles against her anklebone. She's pretty sure that's his version of letting himself rest his hand on her leg. She marvels at the novelty of a comfortable silence in that hushed moment before he speaks up again. Nearly laughs at the suggestion.]
I like dogs. But I'm out of the apartment for, you know, twelve to sixteen hours on a fairly regular basis. I'd feel bad if I had a dog that I just kept shipping off to other people to take care of.
[She considers the question itself for a moment, thoughtfully studying his profile.]
Doing what I do for work is the only way life makes sense for me. I really ran wild when I was younger. People got hurt. This isn't atonement, because there's no atoning for the things I've done, but it feels - more right, I guess, then anything else. I like knowing I'm making a measurable difference in the world. But I like the, uh, little slices of normal that come along too. [She offers a small smile, lifts her glass up in a joking toast, and then continues,] what about you? Is that why you're taking classes?
[ Doing what I do for work is the only way life makes sense for me.
This isn't atonement, because there's no atoning for the things I've done, but—
Levi hums. The fingers at her anklebone twitch. There's a pinch to the line of his mouth that suggests that if both his brows were fully functional, there'd be a complicated tension between their furrow, too. It's an agreeing noise, in part — some quiet affirmation. The understanding involved, when people get hurt.
There's a taste in the back of his teeth. Like copper and whiskey and cheap beer. Levi looks down in his glass and watches the way the dim light refracts through it, paints the inside of his wrist rusted and amberlike.
Like most of her questions, it doesn't have an easy answer. Levi offers the simplest version of it that he can: ]
Yeah. I've been— looking for some normal. [ Maybe that was the obvious part, when he'd said he was regularly seeing a therapist. Life skills. Trying to balance whatever's going on in his head. He clears his throat and looks down into his lap and t's not shame that he wears so much as it is the awkward awareness, distinct and sharp, that he's never had to say that outloud before.
Like when you were a kid, and you had a new tooth grow in. How it felt strange and odd and you couldn't stop fucking touching it. Knowing it was natural but suspicious, all the same, of the ruptured emergence into your life. His arm draped over the back of the couch hunches, shoulder lifting into a shrug. ] I'm good at what I do, just like you. Most days I like my job. Every time I'm out there, I think about everything my dad taught me.
[ There's a but hanging off the end of his sentence. Levi doesn't say it. A low laugh, instead, and he catches her eye with a wry smile. ]
My writing professor says I have a "listener's mind". I don't know how normal that is.
[Karen studies him as he turns over that answer. The way his head bows a bit, so he can look down. Part of her suspects what he's really doing is looking inward. Because it doesn't read like embarrassment, exactly. More like - the uncomfortable weight of something real and true.]
And instead you found a professional magnet for trouble.
[It's one of those jokes that's not really a joke. But it feels like the right way to provide some counterbalance to what he's feeling. It's a statement that rings true. She could find a way to get in trouble in a locked, empty room. When he continues, she can't help but smile a little. She can practically taste that unspoken but. Washes it down with the last splash of whiskey in her glass.
She wonders what his dad taught him. Whether he remembers the lessons fondly, if they're all - sepia toned and warm in his memory. Part of her suspects that might not be the case. But she can't tell whether that's a real hunch, or just her own perception being colored by her complicated relationship with her father. Every single memory marked by the loss of her brother and mother. Every moment superimposed over the last time she saw him, grieving and disappointed, across the table in the empty diner.
Her eyes meet his, and the corner of her mouth ticks up in a little smile. She leans to the side to put her glass down on the coffee table. Then shifts back, leaning more in towards him, with her side against the back of the couch. It lines his arm up with her shoulders.]
I can see that. I don't know that I'd call it normal or abnormal. It's definitely a skill. Not one that everyone has. You seem like you take in - all the context and secondary meanings, too. Not just the surface communication.
[She considers her phrasing for just a moment. Words have meaning. A weight of their own. She tries to wield them carefully.]
You know, it's nice that you can read between the lines. And I think you like doing it. But your stories and opinions aren't less worth listening to just because you're good at it. Or maybe just - more comfortable with it?
[ It is, Levi thinks, an exceptionally kind thing to say.
Here. At the end of a night that started with terror, and violence, and someone who wanted to hunt her through a crowd. Levi's blood is probably going to permanently stain through her hat. His head throbs, finally. Distantly. He's had less than six ounces of whiskey — he knows what that looks like, down to the swallow — but that probably can't have helped. He can't remember the last time he told anyone about his dad. He can't remember the last time he drank like this in someone's apartment.
The way his arm is splayed on the back of the couch, it lines up with her shoulders. The ends of her hair fall a little haphazardly over his knuckles. It wouldn't be that difficult, to reach out and tuck it behind her ear. ]
Is that what you think?
[ It's not a challenge. Just a softly lobbed echo, with a thread of real, transparent gratitude inside of it. There's a boyishness to his smile, too. Suddenly and fleetingly, it lights over the neutral distance he always seems to carry. ]
Well. [ A low inhale. Levi's chest expands with the breath. He straightens, putting his own glass down next to hers. When he returns, he's a mirror: his side against the back of the couch, arms lax. Their spines two companionable parentheses, bending inward. ] My poetry is really, really terrible, so I don't know about that.
[ Not a rhyme in sight, even. He continues quietly, ]
But you're not trouble. You "dare disturb the universe." [ T.S Eliot. One of the greats. He's mangling the quote, a little bit, but she'll probably understand it. ] The truth is important. I don't know what you were working on tonight, but I know it'll be worth it.
[That's not challenging either. Maybe just a little understanding. Like she gets how it feels, to doubt what other people might see in you. That quick, unthinking smile of his prompts her own lips to curl in a warm, answering smile. He looks a little lighter than he usually does when he smiles like that.
His confession about his poetry prompts a snort of disbelieving laughter and she makes a dismissive gesture with one of her hands.]
No, come on. Writing anything takes courage. Putting all your inner thoughts and feelings out there for other people to - to analyze and comment on? Maybe you're still - finding your voice, or whatever. But give yourself some credit for writing it.
[It's another heartfelt statement. Her writing is in a completely different field, but a lot of her articles are extremely personal. She writes passionately and extensively about the crime and corruption in the city, and every story is framed by threads of the good that people do out there every single day. Some of her articles are just her directly addressing some politician or CEO, excoriating them publicly, laying out each and every misdeed. Highlighting numerous other instances that people have done and continue to do better.
It does mean she gets a lot of angry mail. A lot of weird mail too. But her editor sort of thrives on it. He screens out the worst of it, only sharing some that might be worth printed replies.
Her head tips a little at his comment, and she smiles again after a moment when she half-recognizes the quote.] You're sweet to say that. [And there's that root of her understanding the doubt of what others can see in people. Her expression turns thoughtful, looking off into her apartment for a moment as she considers the events of the evening.] I don't know. I hope so. It's hard for me to look at someone else bleeding and think that it was worth it.
[There's just a moment of hesitation before she turns to look back at him so she can ask,] will you stay here tonight? I can make up the couch. It's, uh...I like the idea of having someone around tonight, I guess. Having you around.
Just a beat of it. The silence widens. Outside, some distant siren shrieks by. Levi releases a small breath and nods and ignores the way the words Having you around. hook, neatly, into the space behind his ribs. ]
Yeah. [ Warmly, if at a delay. As if it's the simplest answer in the world. As if he sleeps, as if he's used to sharing someone else's space. ] Of course.
[ It'll be an easy night, he tells himself. The whiskey will help him sleep. He'll wake up, early, and he'll thumb through one of her books to pass the time, and he'll keep an eye on the door. He won't dream about cold winters and warm seas and Belize, and it'll be fine, and this is the way people show up for each other in the world.
Normal. Safe. Not being alone.
He shoots her a small smile, then makes a short gesture. Around them, her place, the couch he's more than happy to sleep on. He's certainly slept on worse. His expression twisting into something amused as his eyes narrow, like he's just remembered something: ]
You don't sleepwalk, do you?
[ As far as deflections go, it's neater than some of the other ones he's tried before. Levi studies her face for a second. And maybe he finds what he's looking for, then, because he stands, tipping his head down her hallway. ]
[Karen smiles, and her gratitude is clear in it. Her hand moves - slowly again - to curl over his forearm and give it a quick squeeze to punctuate the sentiment. This isn't usually something she'd think to ask of someone. She'll burn every resource and connection she has to the ground to assist one of their clients, or for a person in need. But for herself? Asking for help is hard. Asking for anything is hard.
Levi's answer stands in stark contrast to the time she'd asked her father to be there for her. When Poindexter had been hunting her across the city at Fisk's behest. It had felt like nowhere in the city was safe. She'd called. Told him that she was thinking about visiting home only for him to sigh that it wasn't a good time. Had hopelessly half explained that everything had gotten all messed up.
Sometimes she can still hear his voice down the line, echoing in her head. That's what you do, Karen.
There's a lot of reasons she hasn't seen her father since she was 19. That's the primary reason why she'll do her damnedest to never have to see him again.
Her hand falls away from his arm, and his narrow-eyed question is met with a chuckle.]
Not that I know of. Thankfully.
[It's likely she'd never sleep again if she stood the risk of waking up somewhere else every time she laid down. She gives her head a nod when he indicates the bathroom.]
Yeah. There's an unopened toothbrush under the sink if you want one for the morning. I'll get the stuff for the couch.
[She gets up while he goes to the bathroom, brings their glasses to the kitchen. Down the hall and into her bedroom, she gets one of her pillows off the bed and changes the pillow case for a fresh one. Returns to the living room with her arms full. She carefully tucks a bottom sheet over the seat cushions, then sets the pillow up by the arm he'd been sitting near earlier. The blanket she leaves folded at the other end. When he returns to the living room, she offers,] feel free to grab a book if you want something to read.
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She hates the thought that she might be the one to disrupt his peace at home. This should be the time that he doesn't have to worry about - about watching the exit points, or figuring out who poses a threat. When she finally meets his eyes, its just all over his face. He's nodding his head at her, and she gives her own a quick shake.]
Levi, I -
[She turns in towards him. Her free hand moves like she's going to touch his arm again, but she thinks better of it. Lets her knee lean in against him instead, like an echo of that late night in the pizza parlor.
Her eyes search his for a moment, at a loss for words. She's never had much of a poker face, and her fear is still there. And gratitude. She appreciates that he wants to help. But.]
I don't want to be the one that gets you involved in shit like this when you're not on active duty. I'd never forgive myself if I got you hurt. I can handle this.
[And laying underneath all of that is a scaffolding of iron determination. Karen's stubborn, and motivated, and willing to go more than an extra mile in everything that she does. Sure, she's scared. But she can do anything scared. Maybe her hands will shake. But that's never stopped her before. So many people have already gotten hurt because of her. This kind of thing - this is why she has so many connections and an empty fridge. People might know her. But it's a lot harder for her to let someone in close enough really know her.]
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This time, he's the one who reaches for her. A steadying hand at the round of her shoulder, the broad span of his palm a weight that stays there. Still standing, leaning against the bar, he holds her gaze for a moment and looks at her — not in the lights of some stupid restaurant at 3 AM with awful beer, not fleetingly across the table, hiding a smile in the curl of his palm — but really looks. Like some part of him's trying to put these small pieces together, or like some part of him understands something he didn't before.
The jukebox plays some rock and roll song about love. Going the distance. Taking a chance on some night that might never happen again. Somebody from the group he's with yells his name, and it goes unanswered. ]
Hey. [ He nods, again. I hear you. I understand you. ] You're not getting me involved, Karen. I'm choosing to stay.
[ In the reflection, somebody bumps into the guy who followed her in. Shoulder-checks him, and the guy ignores it completely, the entirety of his focus circling like a shark. ]
Lay it out for me. What do you want to do?
[ Methodical. It's not delivered like it's needling or challenging, but plainly — the tone of someone who's signed up for something, and is willing to see it all through. Beginning to end. Levi's been retired from the Marines for going on four years, has officially killed north of 180 people and unofficially killed more than 200. The last shot he took was in Poland, where he'd sat patiently in a hole in a hill for over 18 hours, sleeping ten minutes at a time until he pulled that trigger from over 3000 meters away.
Quietly, ]
I'm not letting you get hurt, either. That isn't an option for me.
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Some of that - tense, nervous energy seems to drain from her for a moment. She's studying his face, listening to what he's saying. The way he's saying it. The way his hand rests on her shoulder, calm and steady.
Damn it, Levi. How much of her life has she spent waiting for people to give a shit about her on purpose? For just a second she can see her world inverted. See her younger self trapped in her flipped car. Screaming when she sees her brother in the passenger seat, just - gone. Just horribly still. She can see her father sending her away, talking in that methodical distant voice. Telling her she shouldn't show her face at the funeral. Sometimes she can still feel where the long healed scrapes were if she closes her eyes.
She remembers too the time Poindexter had been hunting her. How she'd called her dad. Begged to come home. Told him how terribly wrong things had gone. Listened when he said that's what you do, Karen.
Everything in her life circles that horrible night out in the back woods of Vermont.
She lifts her hand, letting it rest over where his is curled on her shoulder. Her head turns, cheek leaning on her own arm for a moment as she tries to sort out her thoughts. The man watching her is getting impatient. She can feel it ticking away like a countdown. Her priority is always not letting other people get hurt. She turns back to look at him with a sad smile when he says letting her get hurt isn't an option. She doesn't deserve that kind of consideration. They're going to have to have a...very uncomfortable talk after this.
Blowing out a breath, she pats her hand against his and then lets it drop.]
The back door. I can't let him hurt anyone in here. I have a friend at the local precinct I can call to come pick him up if I can knock him out.
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Okay.
[ Like that's all that needs to happen. Her to say how far, and he'll follow all the way. ]
Come on.
[ Laughter. The clink of Slainte! from a table as they pass it. Levi's hand hovers near the middle of Karen's back but never does make contact. They pick through the crowd and his pace matches hers exactly, always half a step behind, his chest never too far from her spine. They pass another table and someone says his name again, a questioning Levi?— that peters out into the din of the bar, the rustle of music as they move by.
When you enter the middle of someone else's sights, you can tell. There's a physical feeling associated with the absence of safety. An awareness. Even animals have it. Self-protection, or a sense of wrongness, or a sense of urgency.
The guy who followed Karen in is on their heels, weaving through bodies, his hand reaching for the waistband as the back door opens with a bang—
Cold air. They get three steps into the night before Levi turns, just in time to meet the guy face to face, and and gets clocked hard. Levi crumples, palms bracing against gravel, split skin and bleeding from his brow from the butt of the guy's gun.
And then the thug's pointing the barrel. He's yelling something, threatening: Who the fuck is this guy, huh? You think this motherfucker's going to save you, princess?
The thug pulls the trigger. Not at Levi, not at Karen; the shot goes wide as Levi surges upwards, knocking the thug's arm, intent on disarming him— ]
no subject
But still. There's only one way out of this. She can't let this guy stay in this bar, getting progressively angrier. So she tugs the hat back on as she slips off the stool, shrugs into her coat as they walk. Lets her purse hang off the crook of her arm. She feels hyper aware of everything around her - the unknowing crowd, the way he's moving half a pace behind her, the asshole that's been tracking her just a few feet behind. And she swears she hears someone call his name, but they're out the door before she can fully make note of it.
The air hits her face, soberingly cold. She wishes this was just one of those nights where she had one too many. She only gets a few steps away from the door before she's turning, drawn by the feeling of motion behind her.
Levi goes down and Karen's heart rate picks up.]
Shit, shit, fuck -
[Her free hand is diving back into her bag, her eyes fixed ahead of her. Her fingers find purchase on her gun and she lets the purse drop. Her hands are shaking, but she feels a spike of irritation and adrenaline as the guy taunts her. People are always making the mistake of underestimating her. Still, she flinches and lets out a surprised sound as Levi knocks the other guy's arm out of the way just in time for his shot to go wild.
Karen lifts her arms and holds her gun level. She exhales a long, quavery breath but her hands are steady now. The thug is scuffling with Levi, but his focus is drawn by the sound of her taking the safety off. He scoffs. Come on, blondie, do you even know how to use that thing?
She doesn't answer, but her jaw is tight and her eyes are blazing as she watches him get a better handle on the grip of his gun.
For just a second, she's picturing - a dozen things at once, really. Sitting up in the hunting blind with her dad and brother, learning how to use a BB gun. Drinking with her shitty ex boyfriend and taking shots at glass bottles and ceramic figures out in the dark. The fire flickering behind that same ex when she shot him in the shoulder to get him to lay off beating her brother. Grabbing Wesley's gun off the table and unloading the clip into his chest.
She's never been formally trained. But she can shatter a mason jar in the dark while her head is swimming with whiskey. And she can damn well defend herself and someone that she cares about when she has to.
So she takes aim and squeezes the trigger. And just a second later, the thug lets out a cry of pain as her bullet sinks directly into his kneecap.]
no subject
Distantly: the thought that it's Karen Page behind him, pulling that trigger. It says something, when you go through with a decision like that. Knowing that there's a direct line from you to the maim of another human being, self-defense or otherwise.
Some people wear that easier than others.
There's a shift, suddenly, in the efficiency of his decision-making. Levi kicks out the thug's knee, the very same one that's been shattered by the trajectory of a bullet. Something snaps — twists out of place in a way that it's distinctly not meant to. The thug waves his arm and another shot goes wide, an instinctive trigger-pull out of throbbing pain and sharpened anger, and this time it's a fluid movement, Levi disarming him.
Shoulders square. The gun choked tight, barrel pointed directly at center mass. Finger tense on the trigger.
He strikes out with a rough snap to his temple. The thug goes down, a crumpled heap of unconscious limbs. The next motions seem rote: Levi quickly ejects the bullet in the chamber, takes out the clip; disassembles it one step further, then throws the pieces away. Gunmetal clattering against loose gravel, the dull clang as something slides underneath a dumpster. Not easy to find, but. The evidence is there, if the authorities need to look for it.
Inhale. Exhale. Levi rubs a knuckle into his left eye. Grimaces, when it comes away bloody, as he turns to finally fix his attention on her. Clocks her hands, the set of her shoulders. The responding expression on his own face, careful and calm and neutral, like nothing just happened at all. ]
Karen.
[ A flinty beat. ]
You should call your friend.
no subject
Her hands are trembling again as she takes in the blood seeping down his brow. One hand comes up, the back of it covering her mouth as she takes a second to wrangle something that resembles having a handle on her shit. This isn't something she wears easily. She just - wears it. Because the only life that makes sense to her, the one where she investigates crime and corruption, comes with danger. Not every day. Not even every week. But she's good at what she does - eerily good at it, if you ask any of the people that she works with. And if you spend all your time clearing out hornets nests, every so often the hornets are going to try to sting.]
Yeah. Um, hang on.
[She bends to put her gun back in her purse, takes her phone out. She's pulling her hat off with her other hand, her eyes scanning the alley. She finds a little pile of snow and ice that doesn't look overtly grimy and grabs it, flipping her hat inside out around it. Moving quickly across the alley, she hands it over to him and makes a gesture towards his head. Her expression is all sadness and regret. Trying to apologize without actually saying it because she suspects he won't accept it.
Standing there by the crumpled figure, she dials Brett's number. It takes exactly a ring and a half for him to answer, and she chokes out a half laugh at his greeting.]
Come on, like you wouldn't be pissed off if I called you at this hour to talk about bar trivia. No, uh, do you remember the case I've been working on? Yeah. Mancini just followed me out of the office. I just had to shoot him in the knee out behind the old Double Down bar to get him off my trail. No, he's unconscious. [A beat.] No, I'm not stupid. I didn't call him. [Her eyes flick to Levi for just a moment while she listens.] Yeah, I'm fine. I'll wait here until you can get here. Thanks, Brett.
[She finally hangs up and shoves the phone into her pocket, then runs both of her hands back through her hair. Her fingers lace together behind her neck as she looks back at him.]
Thank you.
[It's quiet and sincere. And there's just an edge of acknowledgment in it, like she knows he's going to have questions. But first.]
Brett's a good guy. But if you need to make it so you weren't here for what just happened, that's okay.
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The entire time Karen is on the phone, Levi stares at the thug's body. The bloom of red over the denim at his knee. Levi tries, bizarrely, to think of the last time he did any of this: some fight in the alleyway of a bar. Some gun fired in the back streets. The last time he had a personal stake in anything.
He glances back to meet her gaze, when the call's over. He's already partly shaking his head. ]
I've been retired for four years. [ Snow, melted, dampens some of the hair at his temple. A bead of water trails from his brow and down the entire length of his jaw. ] My record's clean. I won't get dinged for it.
[ But it's considerate — and telling, he thinks — of her, to ask.
It's a short wait. When the sirens come, Levi squares up, answering — Brett, that's his name — in short, to the point replies. Openly and methodically reveals details to them both: his name, his age, his birthdate. That he was here with a group from his Intro to Creative Writing class, that he knows Karen through equal parts history and circumstance, a drop of hesitance before he admits We're friends. That he's currently unemployed, previously worked as an independent military contractor; prior to that, he was a scout sniper with the USMC, honorably discharged. He has a California license and a valid NY carry permit, even though he isn't armed. Yes, he does have a permanent address; yes, he is a frequent traveler; no, he doesn't have plans on leaving town soon. And a business card to hand over, too, something sleek and black and embossed with only a name and a number: his lawyer, in-house at some up and coming pharmaceutical company, in case anybody has questions.
Levi waits for Karen out front. Hands lax at his sides, in some quiet conversation with J.D. — the one who'd called Levi's name, earlier — a heavy English accent occasionally audible over the small crowd of annoyed patrons and curious passers-by. It's another day that ends in Y, so it's not like the bar will be unavailable for longer than the next fifteen, twenty minutes. Levi shakes J.D's hand briefly, excuses himself the minute he spots Karen, her hat (sans snow) hanging from his grip. ]
Hey. [ And, ] We should have a conversation.
[ He nods, lightly, down the street. A non-verbal offer to walk her to her stop, or to a taxi, or home. ]
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Some of the tension is gone from her shoulders when she hangs up. Knowing that law enforcement that she can actually trust is on the way means that the worst of this shit is officially over. For now, at least. Her eyes stay trained on him as he denies her offer to clear out of there. There's an itch somewhere in the back of her brain to reach out and swipe that bead of water off his jaw, but she ignores it.]
As long as you're sure. If you need testimony for anything, just let me know.
[One of the perks of working in a law office. She can get him a signed affidavit by morning if there's a chance any smoke will blow his way from this. Part of her suspects that if he has any issues, it won't be from anything legal. Hopefully he knocked that guy on the head hard enough that he won't remember what Levi's face looks like.
Since she can only be who she is, she listens as he talks to Brett. One of her brows arches when he hesitates before saying we're friends, but she doesn't say anything. Yet. Her eyes track that business card as it goes from one hand to the other.
Brett dismisses Levi before he walks through what happened with Karen. And it starts off with him staring her down for a long moment. A moment that he follows up by saying, "if he starts running around at night calling himself The Meat Tenderizer to beat up criminals, I'm holding you personally responsible."
Karen wants to laugh. She almost laughs. But she just makes a futile gesture as she shakes her head.]
I'll turn him over to you myself if that happens, okay?
[Not really. And they both know it. Her friendship with Brett is based on a lot of polite fictions around what she does and doesn't know about some of the vigilantes that operate in New York. About how well she knows them. About how some of them have escaped being caught on more than one occasion when she's been around.
It doesn't take long for her to walk him through the events of the night. She promises to bring the rest of her research by the precinct in the morning. She even promises to stay out of trouble for the rest of the night, even though they both know if something bad happens and she can do something about it that she'll be there in a heartbeat.
When she spots Levi she offers him a self-deprecating sort of smile.]
Yeah.
[They clearly have more to talk about than literature and art history.]
Um, I've got a pretty good first aid kit at my place. It's not too far a walk from here.
[She turns so they can head down the sidewalk in the right direction. Her purse feels heavier on the crook of her arm than it did earlier. She takes a quick glance at him.]
I won't take it personally if you want to lose my number after that.
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And he looks— a little surprised, too, when she tells him that. Levi huffs a quiet laugh. ]
"Talk cheesy to me" was a lot worse than this, Karen.
[ He's still around, isn't he?
They pass a couple other people on the street — three girls, laughing with their heads thrown back, huddled together for a selfie around a streetlight; an elderly couple in heavy coats and beanies, walking their dog. Levi doesn't stiffen around them, but the net of his attention widens. Occasionally, he glances upwards: towards rooftops, or the sudden closing of curtains that cuts off the light in an apartment window. The rise of vigilantism isn't something he's altogether kept up with. International missions, and all. The fate of a neighborhood or a major metropolitan city are for different players. Maybe he should've looked into that, before settling on staying here.
In the swell of silence, Levi doesn't seem in a hurry to fill it. There are a couple of false starts, maybe. He glances sidelong at her twice, maybe to finally ask her if she's okay, or to lay out the thread of something he's thinking about — it doesn't take a genius to read that on him, that part of his mind is elsewhere, retreating inward to puzzle out what just happened. Names like Mancini. It takes Levi a moment to work up to it, nothing but the little slivers of New York lighting up around them and the steady rhythm of their footsteps for company.
Eventually, ]
Based on the fact that you're on a first-name basis with a cop, and that we're not in a hospital, I'd say this isn't the first time something happened to you.
[ Partly a guess, partly an assumption. Levi lays out the facts bare, or as bare as he can see them. They stop, briefly, at a red light and crimson color reflects off the metal frame of a passing taxi. His head turns as he idly tracks it. ]
I thought you said you were a reporter.
[ There's nothing in his tone that suggests he holds it against her. He glances back with a smile that wears a little tightly, but underscores that message, too: I'm choosing to stay. And he chose. No harm, no foul. ]
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[It's a joke, but it's not really funny. She knows it's not going to land even before she makes it, and one shoulder lifts in a shrug. Sometimes trying to lighten the mood means taking a swing knowing that it'll miss. Besides, saying 'you might have a more fucked up definition of worse than I do' feels a little too on the nose for the moment.]
You, uh, hesitated before. When you told Brett we were friends. I just wanted to make sure you know I'm not in the habit of making people stick around when they realize what a shit show my life can be.
[How could she? Most people are too sane to sign up for any real proximity to the kind of work that she does. And she can't hold it against them. Wouldn't hold it against Levi, even. She'll be sad about it, because she genuinely enjoys his company. But she can especially understand how he might want a break from the stress and the tension when he's not on an active mission.
Even though part of her wants to just - fill the silence - she can tell that he's thinking through something. So she lets it be. Watches with a half smile as they pass that older couple with their dog. The little slices of normalcy like this should be jarring after the violence of the last hour. But it's just a nice reminder. Life goes on. Other people have a quiet night. They get to have that because she puts in the time to get people like Mancini off the street.]
My car's parked outside my building. I can take you to the ER if you want. You just have "I'll handle it myself" vibes.
[She offers a wry little smile and a half shrug. The glow from the red light turns her blue eyes to darker pools as she stares up at it, and carves out her cheekbones in starker relief. It reminds her of Matt, and for a split second, she considers telling Levi that there's not likely to be much danger from the rooftops. Even though that opens up a completely different conversation.
Her hands slide into her pockets as they resume walking. Her apartment's just a few blocks ahead now.]
I am. You can look up my byline in The Bulletin. All of my articles are online. I just also work as a PI for my law firm. Nelson, Murdock and Page.
[It's a fairly sizable omission. And she knows it. She meets that little smile with an apologetic look.]
I try to keep people out of it. I don't like it when people get hurt because of me.
[Which is, perhaps, the understatement of the year. She indicates her building with a nod and leads them inside. It's an old brick building, but it's clearly well tended to by the people that live there. The elevator is out of commission so she leads them up the three flights to her apartment. Unlocks the knob and the deadbolt to let him in and re-locks it behind them as she flips the lights on. Her apartment is small. All the furniture is second hand, but it has that same well maintained and lived in look as the rest of the building. There's books on shelves and more on the coffee table, along side a tablet and a stack of files and paper. There's a few framed photos, mostly of Matt and Foggy, a couple with her in it. One of her family, deliberately tucked on a shelf that's not at eye level.]
Grab a seat. I'll get my first aid kit.
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He absorbs all her sentences with a nod or a soft hum. Quiet responses, to let her know that he's listening, but there's a haze of thoughtful neutrality that clouds most of it. Not because those small gestures aren't genuine, or because they're a lie. The red light changes to green and they make their way to her apartment and Levi's body moves along on autopilot, looking at her profile every so often.
She's a reporter, who also works for a — her — law firm, as a PI. She's often in danger. She carries a gun, and she knows better than to hesitate while using it, and she doesn't like it when people get hurt. He knows, now, what she looks like when she's terrified. And she likes pizza, and she's not picky about her beer, and she can make a bored college kid laugh at 3 AM just by saying something, and Levi can tell whenever she means a smile, because it brightens the blue in her eyes.
Up three flights of stairs to her small apartment, Levi tips his chin into a short nod when she briefly leaves, carefully setting down her beanie — folded neatly in half, regrettably darkened, just a little, on the side with his blood — onto her coffee table. Hands in his pockets, he glances around the things that Karen calls home. Out her window, too. He lingers near a few photos, glances over at that one that's not quite at eye level, but where he hovers most is at her bookshelves. Half bent at the waist, softly mouthing the words along as he reads the spines.
The black journal in his back pocket, half-crumpled and dog-eared, gets tossed onto the coffee table before he sits down. It's a pretty good couch; soft, sturdy, and he moves along to make room for her when she comes back. Just as promised, with that first aid kit in tow.
For the most part, he lets her work on him in silence. He doesn't need it, but Levi doesn't argue, either. Head wounds bleed a lot, and nothing hurts, and he punctures the quiet first: ]
I hesitated when I was talking to Brett because I wasn't sure if you'd appreciate the association. That's all it was. [ He tries to keep still, under her attention, but his mouth takes on a funny line anyway, wry and self-deprecating and sincere and a little embarrassed, somehow, all at the same time. The association with me, he means. Being my friend.
Rusty at it. Like he wasn't sure, if he could call her that outloud. ]
I think I'm actually pretty bad at it.
[ "It." Whatever that means. He blinks in steady, measured beats, and his breathing stays even. The sentence hangs in the air and Levi looks into the blue shine of her eyes again. Dimmer, now, with overhead lighting. ]
How long have you been doing this? [ He's not talking about the first aid, either. ]
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She has a lot of books. Most of them are from second hand shops, but there's a few that look like they've been following her around for years. There's a lot of classic literature. A smattering of mystery novels and biographies, books about the elements of journalism, a few handbooks and manuals on investigation techniques. The ones on her coffee table are a mix of reference volumes and art books.
When she rejoins him in the living room, she sits on the cushion sideways, facing him with one leg tucked under her. The kit is set up on a clear corner of the table and she props it open. It's a fairly robust first aid kit. She makes a vague gesture, like asking silently asking for permission, before she starts to carefully clean around the wound. She uses the cloth first, clearing away the worst of the blood, then gets the edges of it with a sterile alcohol pad.
She's quiet and focused, the fingertips on her free hand just resting lightly along his hairline as she works. Her eyes flick down to meet his as she sets the sterile pad aside. There's clear surprise reflecting on her face for just a moment, but it lapses to thoughtful again.]
You're the most normal person I've met in years.
[It's all self-deprecating, but the corner of her mouth curves up in a small smile.]
You're better at it thank you think you are.
[Sure, he's quiet. And it's pretty clear that his secrets have secrets. But so do hers. She likes the quiet. It's a stark contrast to most of the people she knows. There's a stillness to him. He's good company, and he tries his hand at bad jokes, and he's game to meet up at weird places at inconvenient times just for the hell of it. He's also apparently game for helping her evade a criminal maniac, which is...unexpected.
She finds the steri-strips in her kit and works carefully to apply them along the wound.]
It's only been a few minutes.
[She's just joking, and one shoulder lifts in a shrug. With the steri-strips in place, she finally sits back so she can look at him properly. Lets her elbow lean on the back of her couch so she can prop her head up on her hand. Her shin is resting lightly against the outside of his leg.]
I've been with the law firm and the paper for a while. Just under ten years now. But I've always been good at getting in trouble.
[There's something dark in that twist of humor. But she manages a smile through it anyway.]
How about you? What was up with that business card?
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Hands in his lap. The back of his head against her couch, tipped just enough in her direction to see her fully. Her shin rests lightly against the outside of his leg, and his stays there. A light anchor of contact. Her silent mirror.
You're better at it than you think you are.
Levi's mouth hooks upward in the same kind, smiling through it anyway. ]
I've worked for a lot of different people.
[ He says, after a beat. There's a moment, brief and distant, where Levi looks down into his lap. Another exhale, this time one that sounds like a laugh, stripmined of anything that really makes it amused or funny or real. ] It's the in-house lawyer at a Constellis subsidiary. In the last four years, they've reached out to me nine times, including back in March. [ Poland. The last job. France, in the lie. ] They owed me one.
[ And have offered about a dozen opportunities at a more permanent position. They would've let him live in some swanky place in Manhattan if he'd never found another place. Another beat, and then Levi adds, slowly, ]
I've been talking to their corporate shrink.
[ The line of his mouth twists, brows raising up into a slightly limited version, thanks to Karen's excellent work, of— something rueful. A little wry. You're the most normal person I've met in years. He pitches forward so that his elbows are resting on his knees, blunt fingers loosely knit together. He looks, solidly, over her. ]
Anybody looking at you wouldn't think that you fought for your life tonight. And you know your way around a first aid kit. [ It's not an accusation or a tug at a thread. Like most things, it's an observation. Fact. Another tally in that question that he's been turning over in the time between the dive and her apartment, that he keeps returning to, wants to return to, like some strange burr in the skin: Who the hell are you, Karen Page? ]
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Once finished, she watches as he leans his head back. He seems more comfortable now that the work of cleaning up and bandaging the wound is done.
Even though she can - and will - ask a million and one questions on any given topic, she's figured out enough by now that giving him time to answer will get to the same conclusion. So she just nods her head a little as he begins to speak. Her gaze sharpens a little at the words Constellis subsidiary. It's not a name that she recognizes, but she's naturally inclined to be suspicious of any company that uses subsidiaries. But that's just from the amount of time she spends rifling through shell companies, looking for where the dirty money leads.]
Do you feel good about the work you do for them?
[It's the most pressing question, as far as she's concerned. The details don't matter. Whether he feels good about it does. And his follow up about the corporate shrink is met with a reassuring smile.]
Hey, I'm glad to hear that. I hope it's going well.
[She's thought about seeing a therapist a few times. But she's pretty sure that if she starts to open any one of the boxes she keeps her shit packed in that the whole pile will come tumbling down. It doesn't surprise her when he turns the topic back to her, though she does make a face for just a moment, wrinkling her nose at him.]
God, it's going to sound terrible when I tell you that I was thinking earlier that it doesn't even crack the top ten list of worst nights I've had. There's other nights I've - you know, cried in the shower. I might still freak out about it when you leave.
[Having someone there, something to focus on, is definitely helping her to compartmentalize it. She glances over at her first aid kit before she looks back at him.]
I have some friends that need it sometimes.
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Being reached for is all kinds of new. ]
You do have an unreasonable number of friends.
[ He allows, sensibly. It's not, he knows, likely to be more professors and lawyers. He runs a hand over his jaw, and underneath that, the curve to his mouth widens. Because it's— a little easier to sink into this, into the low bend of his spine as he sits on her couch, and looks at her bookshelves, and that hell of a first aid kit that she has. Having someone there. Something to focus on. Her uncanny fucking ability to pull out a question that nobody's ever asked him before, that he desperately wants to both reveal and turn away from at the same time.
Levi laughs, a bit. Shit. Not even in the top ten. It's a broader sound, not just an exhale or a hidden huff. ]
I think you might know what I'm talking about, [ he starts. His expression flickers, dims, but the lightness, some subtle trace of amusement at her wrinkled nose, it's all still there. ] When you do something long enough, it stops being as easy to... [ He leans back. The couch dips, a little, as he shifts his weight. ] I don't know.
[ Compartmentalize? Recover, sleep? Unpack it all by yourself? Not cry in the shower? All of the above?
Levi's hand rests, briefly, around her shin. His head turned to face her, cheek pressed against the couch's fabric. A singular, gentle squeeze of his palm, and then it falls away. ]
This isn't a competition, [ he tells her, with a quiet, clear faux-seriousness. ] but this doesn't even crack my top twenty.
[ Two terrible-sounding peas in a pod. ]
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[It's an important distinction, not a nitpicky one. Karen is friendly, and compassionate. She's been known to buy coffee for strangers, to stop and talk to people about whatever petition they're carrying. The bustle and flow of city life is comfortable for her, because she likes being caught up in a swirl of people. There's a thousand stories to learn.
And because it's easy to get lost in.
It's harder for her to let people into her private life. Because it's dangerous. And because she relishes having this quiet oasis. If he were a stranger that got injured, she would have hailed a cab and taken him to the ER. Would have stayed there with him all night. But he's someone she's comfortable letting in to this part of her life. Even though she regrets that she got him caught up in something that got him hurt.
He's evading answering that question of hers head on. But she can tell that he's thinking about it, or maybe just thinking about that evening's events in general. She watches his face as he hesitates through a half formed thought. There's only a moment's pause before she chimes in,] normal things are the things that start to feel weird after a while.
[It just tends to - snowball. Everything, everywhere, all the time. Threats. Danger. Conspiracies. Karen's not sure that there's a foolproof way to hold on to your sanity. But she knows she's in better shape than she was before she met Matt and Foggy. And not just because they bailed her out of being framed for murder.
Yeah. Definitely doesn't crack her top ten.
She can't help but chuckle a little as her mouth curves into a rueful, understanding little smile. Her hand shifts slowly so she can rest it on his forearm after he gently squeezes her shin. Carefully continuing the moment of connection.]
Want a whiskey?
[Look, it's a shit idea with a head wound. But she's pretty sure they've both earned indulging in a shit idea to get through the rest of the conversation.]
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A pause. Surprise, and then he cracks a slow-drawn smile. ]
That's... not a bad idea.
[ Medically, maybe, it is very much a bad idea.
It's how they end up still there, an hour or so later. He stays on the couch — from there, he still has a near-direct line of sight to her bathroom, the window, her front door — and his hand isn't on her ankle. But her legs are in his lap, and his free hand rests there on his thigh, palm-up. Relaxed. The curl of his fingers lays against the bump of her anklebone, a touchstone of contact that, at first glance, doesn't resemble much of anything.
They've taken a few detours in the conversation. Some comment about Moby Dick, how much Levi hated reading it at first, but he grew to like it. Art at the MOMA, which he still hasn't been to since he got back to New York. A brief story about camping in Oregon, eight or nine years old, and he's never had another smore since.
Pedestrian. Safe. No bloodshed and bullets and kneecaps. Nothing more about the psychiatrist he sees every week, how he failed that first eval, and the only reason he's still seeing him is that his employees desperately want him to pass the next one so they can put him to work. If he wanted to take another job, all it would take is looking for any other private military company, shop around until some other medical professional gave him the okay. He's taking classes instead.
Levi's other arm is on the back of the couch. It's the same hand that nurses his whiskey, neat, still on his first glass. It hangs loosely from his grip. For the most part, he's happiest to listen. ]
You've never wanted more normal?
[ —until a lull that he fills. The hand holding his glass lifts upward, gestures lightly around Karen's apartment. He's stopped glancing toward her window so frequently. Checking that everything is still secure and squared away. At ease. ]
You could get away with getting a dog.
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[She's clearly joking. A glimmer of amusement in her eyes as she gets off of the couch and crosses the space into the kitchen. The two tumblers are from different sets, and she pours a more than healthy measure of whiskey into both. It's not a fancy label, but it's not bottom shelf either. Karen usually has a beer when left to her own devices, but she keeps the whiskey for company and special occasions. And sometimes for processing fucked up situations.
Karen hands off his glass and gets comfortable back on the couch. It's easy to get lost, wandering through a conversation about books and art. Usually, after a tense encounter like that one in the alley, it takes her a good portion of the night to reorient herself as her body vents the adrenaline that carried her through. But she's stubborn, and more often than not, she insists that she's fine to go home on her own. Maybe there's something to be said for having someone around to talk to.
Her legs end up in his lap at some point, her glass resting on her thigh in between sips. She can feel the light press of his knuckles against her anklebone. She's pretty sure that's his version of letting himself rest his hand on her leg. She marvels at the novelty of a comfortable silence in that hushed moment before he speaks up again. Nearly laughs at the suggestion.]
I like dogs. But I'm out of the apartment for, you know, twelve to sixteen hours on a fairly regular basis. I'd feel bad if I had a dog that I just kept shipping off to other people to take care of.
[She considers the question itself for a moment, thoughtfully studying his profile.]
Doing what I do for work is the only way life makes sense for me. I really ran wild when I was younger. People got hurt. This isn't atonement, because there's no atoning for the things I've done, but it feels - more right, I guess, then anything else. I like knowing I'm making a measurable difference in the world. But I like the, uh, little slices of normal that come along too. [She offers a small smile, lifts her glass up in a joking toast, and then continues,] what about you? Is that why you're taking classes?
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This isn't atonement, because there's no atoning for the things I've done, but—
Levi hums. The fingers at her anklebone twitch. There's a pinch to the line of his mouth that suggests that if both his brows were fully functional, there'd be a complicated tension between their furrow, too. It's an agreeing noise, in part — some quiet affirmation. The understanding involved, when people get hurt.
There's a taste in the back of his teeth. Like copper and whiskey and cheap beer. Levi looks down in his glass and watches the way the dim light refracts through it, paints the inside of his wrist rusted and amberlike.
Like most of her questions, it doesn't have an easy answer. Levi offers the simplest version of it that he can: ]
Yeah. I've been— looking for some normal. [ Maybe that was the obvious part, when he'd said he was regularly seeing a therapist. Life skills. Trying to balance whatever's going on in his head. He clears his throat and looks down into his lap and t's not shame that he wears so much as it is the awkward awareness, distinct and sharp, that he's never had to say that outloud before.
Like when you were a kid, and you had a new tooth grow in. How it felt strange and odd and you couldn't stop fucking touching it. Knowing it was natural but suspicious, all the same, of the ruptured emergence into your life. His arm draped over the back of the couch hunches, shoulder lifting into a shrug. ] I'm good at what I do, just like you. Most days I like my job. Every time I'm out there, I think about everything my dad taught me.
[ There's a but hanging off the end of his sentence. Levi doesn't say it. A low laugh, instead, and he catches her eye with a wry smile. ]
My writing professor says I have a "listener's mind". I don't know how normal that is.
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And instead you found a professional magnet for trouble.
[It's one of those jokes that's not really a joke. But it feels like the right way to provide some counterbalance to what he's feeling. It's a statement that rings true. She could find a way to get in trouble in a locked, empty room. When he continues, she can't help but smile a little. She can practically taste that unspoken but. Washes it down with the last splash of whiskey in her glass.
She wonders what his dad taught him. Whether he remembers the lessons fondly, if they're all - sepia toned and warm in his memory. Part of her suspects that might not be the case. But she can't tell whether that's a real hunch, or just her own perception being colored by her complicated relationship with her father. Every single memory marked by the loss of her brother and mother. Every moment superimposed over the last time she saw him, grieving and disappointed, across the table in the empty diner.
Her eyes meet his, and the corner of her mouth ticks up in a little smile. She leans to the side to put her glass down on the coffee table. Then shifts back, leaning more in towards him, with her side against the back of the couch. It lines his arm up with her shoulders.]
I can see that. I don't know that I'd call it normal or abnormal. It's definitely a skill. Not one that everyone has. You seem like you take in - all the context and secondary meanings, too. Not just the surface communication.
[She considers her phrasing for just a moment. Words have meaning. A weight of their own. She tries to wield them carefully.]
You know, it's nice that you can read between the lines. And I think you like doing it. But your stories and opinions aren't less worth listening to just because you're good at it. Or maybe just - more comfortable with it?
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Here. At the end of a night that started with terror, and violence, and someone who wanted to hunt her through a crowd. Levi's blood is probably going to permanently stain through her hat. His head throbs, finally. Distantly. He's had less than six ounces of whiskey — he knows what that looks like, down to the swallow — but that probably can't have helped. He can't remember the last time he told anyone about his dad. He can't remember the last time he drank like this in someone's apartment.
The way his arm is splayed on the back of the couch, it lines up with her shoulders. The ends of her hair fall a little haphazardly over his knuckles. It wouldn't be that difficult, to reach out and tuck it behind her ear. ]
Is that what you think?
[ It's not a challenge. Just a softly lobbed echo, with a thread of real, transparent gratitude inside of it. There's a boyishness to his smile, too. Suddenly and fleetingly, it lights over the neutral distance he always seems to carry. ]
Well. [ A low inhale. Levi's chest expands with the breath. He straightens, putting his own glass down next to hers. When he returns, he's a mirror: his side against the back of the couch, arms lax. Their spines two companionable parentheses, bending inward. ] My poetry is really, really terrible, so I don't know about that.
[ Not a rhyme in sight, even. He continues quietly, ]
But you're not trouble. You "dare disturb the universe." [ T.S Eliot. One of the greats. He's mangling the quote, a little bit, but she'll probably understand it. ] The truth is important. I don't know what you were working on tonight, but I know it'll be worth it.
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[That's not challenging either. Maybe just a little understanding. Like she gets how it feels, to doubt what other people might see in you. That quick, unthinking smile of his prompts her own lips to curl in a warm, answering smile. He looks a little lighter than he usually does when he smiles like that.
His confession about his poetry prompts a snort of disbelieving laughter and she makes a dismissive gesture with one of her hands.]
No, come on. Writing anything takes courage. Putting all your inner thoughts and feelings out there for other people to - to analyze and comment on? Maybe you're still - finding your voice, or whatever. But give yourself some credit for writing it.
[It's another heartfelt statement. Her writing is in a completely different field, but a lot of her articles are extremely personal. She writes passionately and extensively about the crime and corruption in the city, and every story is framed by threads of the good that people do out there every single day. Some of her articles are just her directly addressing some politician or CEO, excoriating them publicly, laying out each and every misdeed. Highlighting numerous other instances that people have done and continue to do better.
It does mean she gets a lot of angry mail. A lot of weird mail too. But her editor sort of thrives on it. He screens out the worst of it, only sharing some that might be worth printed replies.
Her head tips a little at his comment, and she smiles again after a moment when she half-recognizes the quote.] You're sweet to say that. [And there's that root of her understanding the doubt of what others can see in people. Her expression turns thoughtful, looking off into her apartment for a moment as she considers the events of the evening.] I don't know. I hope so. It's hard for me to look at someone else bleeding and think that it was worth it.
[There's just a moment of hesitation before she turns to look back at him so she can ask,] will you stay here tonight? I can make up the couch. It's, uh...I like the idea of having someone around tonight, I guess. Having you around.
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Just a beat of it. The silence widens. Outside, some distant siren shrieks by. Levi releases a small breath and nods and ignores the way the words Having you around. hook, neatly, into the space behind his ribs. ]
Yeah. [ Warmly, if at a delay. As if it's the simplest answer in the world. As if he sleeps, as if he's used to sharing someone else's space. ] Of course.
[ It'll be an easy night, he tells himself. The whiskey will help him sleep. He'll wake up, early, and he'll thumb through one of her books to pass the time, and he'll keep an eye on the door. He won't dream about cold winters and warm seas and Belize, and it'll be fine, and this is the way people show up for each other in the world.
Normal. Safe. Not being alone.
He shoots her a small smile, then makes a short gesture. Around them, her place, the couch he's more than happy to sleep on. He's certainly slept on worse. His expression twisting into something amused as his eyes narrow, like he's just remembered something: ]
You don't sleepwalk, do you?
[ As far as deflections go, it's neater than some of the other ones he's tried before. Levi studies her face for a second. And maybe he finds what he's looking for, then, because he stands, tipping his head down her hallway. ]
Bathroom's through there?
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Levi's answer stands in stark contrast to the time she'd asked her father to be there for her. When Poindexter had been hunting her across the city at Fisk's behest. It had felt like nowhere in the city was safe. She'd called. Told him that she was thinking about visiting home only for him to sigh that it wasn't a good time. Had hopelessly half explained that everything had gotten all messed up.
Sometimes she can still hear his voice down the line, echoing in her head. That's what you do, Karen.
There's a lot of reasons she hasn't seen her father since she was 19. That's the primary reason why she'll do her damnedest to never have to see him again.
Her hand falls away from his arm, and his narrow-eyed question is met with a chuckle.]
Not that I know of. Thankfully.
[It's likely she'd never sleep again if she stood the risk of waking up somewhere else every time she laid down. She gives her head a nod when he indicates the bathroom.]
Yeah. There's an unopened toothbrush under the sink if you want one for the morning. I'll get the stuff for the couch.
[She gets up while he goes to the bathroom, brings their glasses to the kitchen. Down the hall and into her bedroom, she gets one of her pillows off the bed and changes the pillow case for a fresh one. Returns to the living room with her arms full. She carefully tucks a bottom sheet over the seat cushions, then sets the pillow up by the arm he'd been sitting near earlier. The blanket she leaves folded at the other end. When he returns to the living room, she offers,] feel free to grab a book if you want something to read.
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