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.
[ For the offer for a book. Levi returns a smile, even though the muscle over his brow twinges taut whenever he does. And there's a moment, then, where something almost self-conscious seeps into him, as if— he's not entirely sure what to do, next. The couch, made, and their night coming to a close. Levi looks like he wants to say something, but his mouth never opens — instead, he exhales a laugh. Like he knows how it looks, that he was going to say something and then couldn't figure out what to say, and there's a companionable note in that. Like a Forget it, it wasn't that important. ]
Goodnight, Karen.
[ A little formal. Polite. But that is what people say to each other.
The small light gets left on. Levi reads the first few chapters of Karen's copy of Moby Dick by its soft, yellow glow. Eventually, a little past midnight, he closes the book, lies down, and goes to sleep.
It's the middle of the night when there's a noise from her kitchen.
A desperate inhale. The sound of shattering glass. Harsh exhales that go on, and on, and on. A softly muttered Shit and then footsteps, urgent, and the intentionally quiet click of the bathroom door closing shut. Inside, there's movement: the sound of taps squealing open, and then a recognizable pattern of breathing that everyone uses to calm a racing heart.
In the living room: just that same, yellow light. Only the rumpled blanket on the couch, the quarter-zip Levi was wearing last night, and broken shards on the kitchen floor; the water from his glass, spilt when he'd gotten up for it and somehow knocked it from the counter.
The dreams are always worse in winter. In the dark of the bathroom, down to just a black tank and his jeans, Levi grips the edges of the sink and closes his eyes so tightly he sees spots.
[Karen takes in that look on his face and can't help but smile a little. One shoulder lifts in a shrug as if to say yeah, I get it. Sometimes it's hard to find the right words. Even more so when you're actively reaching for them. She gets up from the arm of the couch.]
Night, Levi.
[She makes a detour down the hall to the bathroom before finally retiring to her bedroom. It feels odd to know someone is sleeping in her living room. Well, someone other than Matt or Foggy. Or Marci, that one time she'd had a few too many at Josie's and crashed on her couch. Odd in a nice way, maybe. That her inner circle is expanding a little.
She hasn't always been a light sleeper, but she's certainly turned into one in the past few years. The sound of glass shattering in the kitchen is what wakes her up, her heart in the throat. Her gun is still out in her handbag by the door, but she moves over to her dresser. It takes moment of fumbling, and hard listening to the sounds in her apartment, but she finds her pepper spray there in the top drawer.
And then - stops for a moment. The steps in the hall. The careful, quiet closing of the bathroom door. The water running. Taking a slow breath to steady herself, she knows that's not what someone would do if they were breaking in to her apartment. They'd still be out there, scuffling with Levi in the living room.
Leaving the pepper spray behind, she opens her door slowly, and moves quietly, carefully into the hall. She can hear the way he's breathing in there and she winces in sympathy. God, she'd hate it if someone saw her wake up like that. But she can't just - leave him in there alone. Her lips press together for a moment, and then she says through the door, her voice low and even.]
Hey, Levi.
[There's just a moment's pause before she continues. Letting him adjust to the sound of her voice on the other side of the door.]
I was just thinking about making some hot chocolate if you want some. I could come sit in there with you for a minute too if you'd like.
[Look, she clearly wasn't just laying awake in bed thinking about cocoa. But both offers are sincere, her voice quiet and free of judgment.]
[ Some 24 hours this is shaping up to be. Some friend he is.
The door isn't locked. But it does stay closed. On the other side of it, the taps keep running, and it takes more than a few lungfuls of air for him to register that there's her voice coming from the hallway. That she's up. Awake. Saying Hey, Levi.
The aftermath is always like this. He closes his eyes and he's back there, if only for a little while, on a boat that gently rocks with the waves. The film of his memory superimposed over flinty fragments of a fictional nightmare: a graveyard with unmarked headstones. Bone-white hands, reaching up from the dirt. Staring into a pit of inky darkness, a flash of bright hair, the round of blue eyes.
Levi leans forward and breathes deep and his forehead tips to lightly thunk against her mirror. The coolness of the glass helps, but only for a bit. ]
Yeah.
[ Rough. Distracted. Unclear, really, if it's an affirmative to hot chocolate or company, or if he even registered her words at all. The taps squeal again as the water stops running. Water beads down the thick column of his throat and Levi stares into the sink, at the random way rivulets run down the porcelain, and huffs out a laugh that isn't very funny. It feels like his body is remembering, all at once, that he's been tired for the last twenty years. ]
I broke your glass in the kitchen.
[ Abruptly. As if he just remembered. ]
I'll be out there in a minute.
[ No, he won't. It'll take a lot longer than that. But it's a valiant effort that strengthens his voice all the same. ]
[Karen can recognize what the tone of his voice means, even through the shut door. It's an almost reflexive response, the sound of someone still trying to get a handle on their shit. So she just leans against the wall, waiting. Looking down at a little scuff mark on the baseboard that she can just barely make out in the dim light. There's not really a lot on her mind, now that she's come down from waking up in the clutches of fight-or-flight. She's pretty sure she has everything she needs to make a really good hot chocolate. No marshmallows, but that's not a critical ingredient.
The water stops running. When his voice sounds a few moments later, she looks back up at the door.]
That's fine. I'll take care of it. Take your time.
[It's just a glass. A lot worse has happened tonight than just a broken glass.
She goes back into her bedroom and slides her feet into her slippers. Shrugs a lightweight cardigan on over the sweatpants and tee she'd been sleeping in. After just a moment's consideration, she grabs a claw clip off the top of her dresser and twists her sleep tousled hair out of the way as she moves back out into the kitchen.
The overhead light in the kitchen goes on just long enough for her to clean the glass up on auto-pilot. She's still half listening to the bathroom. Not that she expects him to ask for anything, but it's the best she can do right now. Once that's done, she turns the light back off and flips on the one over the stove.
This part is easy too. She can remember her mother making hot cocoa like this. Sauce pan on the stove, milk and a splash of half and half. While that's heating up, she finds her bag of chocolate chips. Sets a couple of mugs up on the kitchen island by the two seats there.
She's just starting to pour the chocolate chips in, stirring with a wooden spoon so it can melt, when she hears the bathroom door open. Listens to the pace of his footsteps in the hall. Looking up, she offers him a quick smile.]
Hey, can you grab me the shaker of sea salt off the island? I need just a pinch of it for this.
[Easy. Normal. She's not upset, and she's not going to come right out the gate with questions. She's just letting him know that she's still here.]
[ The problem with being alone is that you get used to it. The problem with not being alone is that you desperately want it.
It feels longer than it actually is. The seconds stretch, his sense of time turning syrupy and elastic. In California, there was a routine to this: the vast expanse of crippling solitude that was never far, driving out in the middle of the night and to watch the ocean and sunrise turn everything from dark to startling-blue. A place to stare, blankly, until he could slowly, over the hours, recompartmentalize everything that was wrong. Pack his secrets back up. Dig two graves and bury the truth in the back of his mind, deeper and deeper down.
Levi grips the edges of the sink. The muscles in his back shift, adjust. His breathing catches up, evens out, and he runs a palm over his face, digs the heel of his hand into his eye. Draws in a breath that's a little wet and shaky.
He should leave. He should probably leave.
By the time he enters the kitchen, Levi's mostly pieced himself together. There's an awkwardness that traces the line of his shoulders. He still wears it when Karen talks to him and his response, automatically, is to follow it through, hefting the small weight of the shaker (real, in his hand; glass, smooth; nowhere else but here, real, in her kitchen) before offering it. It's not robotic so much as it is — easy. Normal. A handrail in the dark.
Levi leans back against the island. The hard edge of it digs into his side. Arms cross over his chest and he says, quietly, ]
I'm sorry about waking you up.
[ And now keeping her up. The line of his mouth twists. ]
[Karen thanks him for the salt shaker. Adds just a pinch of it to the hot cocoa, just enough to enhance the flavor of the chocolate. She's watching him out of the corner of her eye, taking in his posture. Listening to his tone of voice. It's all normal, but in that way she recognizes of acting normal because the alternative is too much to bear. There's times she's felt like that, and she can recall them all too vividly. Crying in the shower. Watching her blood swirl down the drain. Staring at her father as he neutrally explains that she can't come to her brother's funeral service. That she can't stay in town at all.
Her head turns a little, enough so she can look at him with a quick smile.]
It's okay. It's just a glass.
[She gives the cocoa few more stirs, then turns the heat off. Moves the pan onto the back burner so it can cool for a minute before she pours it.
Turning, she looks at Levi head on. His arms are crossed in a way that looks - protective. Her lips press together, her brow furrowing. She can't imagine what it feels like to have someone else catch you in the throes of a nightmare. She's had some before herself. Thankfully never when anyone else has been around. Probably she would have been out the door in her pajamas and bare feet inside of fifteen seconds of waking if their roles were reversed.
After a moment, she takes a step closer to him. Her hands move the same way they did earlier. Slowly. One rests on his forearm.]
My mother used to make hot cocoa like that for my brother and I, uh, on the first snow day of the year. We used to call it chocolate soup. We'd start begging her for it the second we could smell snow in the air.
[Her mouth quirks into a nostalgic smile. Her other hand comes up to rest on his shoulder.]
She died when I was 16. My brother died when I was 19. I think what happened with them is what - set me on the path that I'm on now. And I know my life experiences are a lot different than yours. But if you ever want to talk, I'll listen. And if you want a hug...
[One shoulder lifts in a shrug as she trails off for a moment.]
[ Her hand rests on his forearm. Light as anything. Snow days, and chocolate soup, and his brain processes thoughts in a way that's both forwards and backwards in time: the way Karen's mouth quirks, the mention of her brother and having seen one of those framed pictures she has up; a memory of camping in the middle of winter when Levi was nine or ten, his dad laughing, firm but patient when he'd said if you want to light a fire, son, all you need to do is—
Her other hand comes to rest on his shoulder. The muscle of his bicep twitches, but it doesn't tense. It's the middle of the night, and it smells like chocolate and sugar. Without wholly being aware of it, his arms have uncrossed. Without wholly being aware of it, the wry hook of Levi's smile has widened, too. The urge to laugh a little surfaces somewhere inside his chest, not because he wants to be cruel, not because anything is funny, but because he feels desperately fucking shy, suddenly, and he's never known what to do with that.
Slowly, with the same amount of caution and forewarning, he gently, minutely, shifts forward. The thick column of his spine bowing until his head is close to hers, and then further, until his forehead rests lightly against her shoulder, at the spot above her clavicles. His palm flat over her side, fingers wrapping around the soft bend of her ribcage.
A hug. Levi exhales a deep, shuddering breath.
And then he— laughs. Low, quiet, but real, a steady stream of it, enough to make his shoulders shake. ]
Chocolate soup?
[ Which is nonsensical. It's not even funny. But he says it anyway, and he tries his best to make it sound like Thank you. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
[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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
[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.
no subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
[ For the offer for a book. Levi returns a smile, even though the muscle over his brow twinges taut whenever he does. And there's a moment, then, where something almost self-conscious seeps into him, as if— he's not entirely sure what to do, next. The couch, made, and their night coming to a close. Levi looks like he wants to say something, but his mouth never opens — instead, he exhales a laugh. Like he knows how it looks, that he was going to say something and then couldn't figure out what to say, and there's a companionable note in that. Like a Forget it, it wasn't that important. ]
Goodnight, Karen.
[ A little formal. Polite. But that is what people say to each other.
The small light gets left on. Levi reads the first few chapters of Karen's copy of Moby Dick by its soft, yellow glow. Eventually, a little past midnight, he closes the book, lies down, and goes to sleep.
It's the middle of the night when there's a noise from her kitchen.
A desperate inhale. The sound of shattering glass. Harsh exhales that go on, and on, and on. A softly muttered Shit and then footsteps, urgent, and the intentionally quiet click of the bathroom door closing shut. Inside, there's movement: the sound of taps squealing open, and then a recognizable pattern of breathing that everyone uses to calm a racing heart.
In the living room: just that same, yellow light. Only the rumpled blanket on the couch, the quarter-zip Levi was wearing last night, and broken shards on the kitchen floor; the water from his glass, spilt when he'd gotten up for it and somehow knocked it from the counter.
The dreams are always worse in winter. In the dark of the bathroom, down to just a black tank and his jeans, Levi grips the edges of the sink and closes his eyes so tightly he sees spots.
Ah, fuck. ]
no subject
Night, Levi.
[She makes a detour down the hall to the bathroom before finally retiring to her bedroom. It feels odd to know someone is sleeping in her living room. Well, someone other than Matt or Foggy. Or Marci, that one time she'd had a few too many at Josie's and crashed on her couch. Odd in a nice way, maybe. That her inner circle is expanding a little.
She hasn't always been a light sleeper, but she's certainly turned into one in the past few years. The sound of glass shattering in the kitchen is what wakes her up, her heart in the throat. Her gun is still out in her handbag by the door, but she moves over to her dresser. It takes moment of fumbling, and hard listening to the sounds in her apartment, but she finds her pepper spray there in the top drawer.
And then - stops for a moment. The steps in the hall. The careful, quiet closing of the bathroom door. The water running. Taking a slow breath to steady herself, she knows that's not what someone would do if they were breaking in to her apartment. They'd still be out there, scuffling with Levi in the living room.
Leaving the pepper spray behind, she opens her door slowly, and moves quietly, carefully into the hall. She can hear the way he's breathing in there and she winces in sympathy. God, she'd hate it if someone saw her wake up like that. But she can't just - leave him in there alone. Her lips press together for a moment, and then she says through the door, her voice low and even.]
Hey, Levi.
[There's just a moment's pause before she continues. Letting him adjust to the sound of her voice on the other side of the door.]
I was just thinking about making some hot chocolate if you want some. I could come sit in there with you for a minute too if you'd like.
[Look, she clearly wasn't just laying awake in bed thinking about cocoa. But both offers are sincere, her voice quiet and free of judgment.]
no subject
The door isn't locked. But it does stay closed. On the other side of it, the taps keep running, and it takes more than a few lungfuls of air for him to register that there's her voice coming from the hallway. That she's up. Awake. Saying Hey, Levi.
The aftermath is always like this. He closes his eyes and he's back there, if only for a little while, on a boat that gently rocks with the waves. The film of his memory superimposed over flinty fragments of a fictional nightmare: a graveyard with unmarked headstones. Bone-white hands, reaching up from the dirt. Staring into a pit of inky darkness, a flash of bright hair, the round of blue eyes.
Levi leans forward and breathes deep and his forehead tips to lightly thunk against her mirror. The coolness of the glass helps, but only for a bit. ]
Yeah.
[ Rough. Distracted. Unclear, really, if it's an affirmative to hot chocolate or company, or if he even registered her words at all. The taps squeal again as the water stops running. Water beads down the thick column of his throat and Levi stares into the sink, at the random way rivulets run down the porcelain, and huffs out a laugh that isn't very funny. It feels like his body is remembering, all at once, that he's been tired for the last twenty years. ]
I broke your glass in the kitchen.
[ Abruptly. As if he just remembered. ]
I'll be out there in a minute.
[ No, he won't. It'll take a lot longer than that. But it's a valiant effort that strengthens his voice all the same. ]
no subject
The water stops running. When his voice sounds a few moments later, she looks back up at the door.]
That's fine. I'll take care of it. Take your time.
[It's just a glass. A lot worse has happened tonight than just a broken glass.
She goes back into her bedroom and slides her feet into her slippers. Shrugs a lightweight cardigan on over the sweatpants and tee she'd been sleeping in. After just a moment's consideration, she grabs a claw clip off the top of her dresser and twists her sleep tousled hair out of the way as she moves back out into the kitchen.
The overhead light in the kitchen goes on just long enough for her to clean the glass up on auto-pilot. She's still half listening to the bathroom. Not that she expects him to ask for anything, but it's the best she can do right now. Once that's done, she turns the light back off and flips on the one over the stove.
This part is easy too. She can remember her mother making hot cocoa like this. Sauce pan on the stove, milk and a splash of half and half. While that's heating up, she finds her bag of chocolate chips. Sets a couple of mugs up on the kitchen island by the two seats there.
She's just starting to pour the chocolate chips in, stirring with a wooden spoon so it can melt, when she hears the bathroom door open. Listens to the pace of his footsteps in the hall. Looking up, she offers him a quick smile.]
Hey, can you grab me the shaker of sea salt off the island? I need just a pinch of it for this.
[Easy. Normal. She's not upset, and she's not going to come right out the gate with questions. She's just letting him know that she's still here.]
no subject
It feels longer than it actually is. The seconds stretch, his sense of time turning syrupy and elastic. In California, there was a routine to this: the vast expanse of crippling solitude that was never far, driving out in the middle of the night and to watch the ocean and sunrise turn everything from dark to startling-blue. A place to stare, blankly, until he could slowly, over the hours, recompartmentalize everything that was wrong. Pack his secrets back up. Dig two graves and bury the truth in the back of his mind, deeper and deeper down.
Levi grips the edges of the sink. The muscles in his back shift, adjust. His breathing catches up, evens out, and he runs a palm over his face, digs the heel of his hand into his eye. Draws in a breath that's a little wet and shaky.
He should leave. He should probably leave.
By the time he enters the kitchen, Levi's mostly pieced himself together. There's an awkwardness that traces the line of his shoulders. He still wears it when Karen talks to him and his response, automatically, is to follow it through, hefting the small weight of the shaker (real, in his hand; glass, smooth; nowhere else but here, real, in her kitchen) before offering it. It's not robotic so much as it is — easy. Normal. A handrail in the dark.
Levi leans back against the island. The hard edge of it digs into his side. Arms cross over his chest and he says, quietly, ]
I'm sorry about waking you up.
[ And now keeping her up. The line of his mouth twists. ]
I'll get you a new glass to replace it.
no subject
Her head turns a little, enough so she can look at him with a quick smile.]
It's okay. It's just a glass.
[She gives the cocoa few more stirs, then turns the heat off. Moves the pan onto the back burner so it can cool for a minute before she pours it.
Turning, she looks at Levi head on. His arms are crossed in a way that looks - protective. Her lips press together, her brow furrowing. She can't imagine what it feels like to have someone else catch you in the throes of a nightmare. She's had some before herself. Thankfully never when anyone else has been around. Probably she would have been out the door in her pajamas and bare feet inside of fifteen seconds of waking if their roles were reversed.
After a moment, she takes a step closer to him. Her hands move the same way they did earlier. Slowly. One rests on his forearm.]
My mother used to make hot cocoa like that for my brother and I, uh, on the first snow day of the year. We used to call it chocolate soup. We'd start begging her for it the second we could smell snow in the air.
[Her mouth quirks into a nostalgic smile. Her other hand comes up to rest on his shoulder.]
She died when I was 16. My brother died when I was 19. I think what happened with them is what - set me on the path that I'm on now. And I know my life experiences are a lot different than yours. But if you ever want to talk, I'll listen. And if you want a hug...
[One shoulder lifts in a shrug as she trails off for a moment.]
Maybe just nod a little bit.
no subject
Her other hand comes to rest on his shoulder. The muscle of his bicep twitches, but it doesn't tense. It's the middle of the night, and it smells like chocolate and sugar. Without wholly being aware of it, his arms have uncrossed. Without wholly being aware of it, the wry hook of Levi's smile has widened, too. The urge to laugh a little surfaces somewhere inside his chest, not because he wants to be cruel, not because anything is funny, but because he feels desperately fucking shy, suddenly, and he's never known what to do with that.
Slowly, with the same amount of caution and forewarning, he gently, minutely, shifts forward. The thick column of his spine bowing until his head is close to hers, and then further, until his forehead rests lightly against her shoulder, at the spot above her clavicles. His palm flat over her side, fingers wrapping around the soft bend of her ribcage.
A hug. Levi exhales a deep, shuddering breath.
And then he— laughs. Low, quiet, but real, a steady stream of it, enough to make his shoulders shake. ]
Chocolate soup?
[ Which is nonsensical. It's not even funny. But he says it anyway, and he tries his best to make it sound like Thank you. ]