aheroliveshere | [for man_without

He invokes the word 'surgeon' and she grins. He certainly doesn't think small.

"So you never intended to join some huge law firm and make millions of dollars? You always wanted to come back to the neighborhood?"

It's strange, but then, she's always had the sense he's tied to this place by something deeper. Something that even he doesn't really full understand.

Making fistfuls of money was never the goal, but neither was settling for anything less than the best he could achieve.

"No. To be honest nothing would make me unhappier." Interning for Landman and Zack had been great for experience and to see how those types of firms worked, but it had also been the hardest, most depressing phase to becoming a lawyer he'd had to go through.

"Everything I've done to this point has been about my city."

She takes a sip of beer, her fingertips just barely resting on his.

"So I'm curious. Where do you see yourself, ten years from now?"

He cants his head slightly to the side, perplexed by what seems the obvious answer.

"Here." He chuckles and adds, "Hopefully with a practice that isn't just hanging on by its fingertips."

"What about the bench? Ever considered becoming a judge?"

He considers the idea a moment, then dismisses it the next.

"I don't think I can accomplish the things I want to from a position like that. Judges... not to discount anything they do, but by the time a case reaches them for decision the defense has rested. It isn't so much helping people as it is managing what becomes of them."

It's too late to save a person, or to stop them, when it comes time for delivering verdicts. And past that point it leaves the hands of the law altogether.

She frowns a little. She doesn't understand the ins and outs the way he does, but she was always under the impression that judges had more power just in presiding over a case.

"I think I get it. But I also think, sometimes you just like -- tilting at windmills."

"Do I?" he asks, amused.

He gets that there is some confusion and tries to explain.

"As a lawyer I build and present a client's case, telling their side of the story, giving them a voice in court. I'm on their side.

"But a judge should be unbiased. All I could do is evaluate what's given to me; regardless of if it's the truth or the full story."

He'd be hamstrung, and a man as... hands on as Matt is couldn't stand for that for very long.

"Judges should be unbiased, but they rarely are. Not entirely. They have to follow the law, but just like lawyers, they get to interpret it." Being the one who keeps things fair seems like a huge responsibility to her. And she's seen judges make decisions that change people's lives.

"But I understand your point. You like to be the one telling the story, not just listening to it."

A waiter appears with their food and Karen sits back. "This is us," she murmurs.

Matt pulls his hands from the table so his dish can be set down.

He thanks the waitress and the food smells wonderful, but before he starts in he asks Karen, "What about you? Where will you be in ten years?"

"Me? Oh jeez, um."

She carefully unrolls the silver from her napkin, tucks the napkin in her lap.

"Well, when I moved to the City, I had no plans other than find a job and don't starve to death. And I found a good job, or so I thought, so I thought about going back to school. Those plans have gone out the window now. So today, I have no idea where I'm going to be in ten years. I'm -- kinda winging it these days."

It's not entirely true. The way she throws herself into the work, she does want to make a difference, and that much is obvious to anyone that's been paying attention. She doesn't know how to give less than her all at anything.

Matt listens, head tilted and studying her, then asks, "What were you going to school for?"

Matt has noticed a lot about her. She's independent, and determined, and fearless in her own way. It scares him sometimes, worrying about her and what she may be getting herself into, but she also inspires him, too.

Like him, she doesn't back down from a fight.

He can hear the nervous smile in her voice. He's not the only one that isn't used to talking about himself. "Journalism, actually. I wrote for the school paper when I was in high school, and I've always loved those non-fiction books you read about true crime and that sort of thing."

She serves herself some rice and a little bit of the curry, tasting it and making soft little sounds of enjoyment in the back of her throat. Too quiet for someone to normally here, but for Matt, easily discernible even in the chatter of the restaurant.

He considers that a moment then nods to himself. Journalism is something he could picture her doing.

The smells of the food is overwhelming, and hearing her enjoyment he has to give it a try.

"Good?" he asks, carefully feeling out the dishes and serving handles so he can add to his plate.

"You know, Karen, if you wanted to go back to school I think Foggy and I could survive while you enrolled in part-time classes or something... "

"Yes, it really is." She takes a drink of beer to wash down the heat, feeling the flush in her cheeks already rising. That and the alcohol begin to do their work, and she's feeling a lot more relaxed now.

"Thanks, but, I think I'm a little bit passed that point. I couldn't afford it anyway. Besides, you guys would die without someone to work the coffee machine."

He's careful as he samples the curry, because all joking aside he does have a sensitive palette, but while it is spicy it isn't overwhelming and he nods in approval.

Giving a light chuckle and a partial shrug he replies, "You do seem to be the only one that can tame it." Foggy had gone so far as to suggesting they get a priest to exorcise the thing.

"Really, though, if it's something you decide to do later, and there's anything we can do to help... " he just hates the idea that they're somehow holding her back.

"Thanks. I'll let you know if I change my mind."

She watches him as he eats, comfortable in a moment of silence. That's a rare thing for her. Being comfortable with someone when she's not running her mouth off. Under the table, she shifts a leg to rest against his. (What? They're on a date! She's allowed.)

"How is it?"

"Alright," he agrees, then tucks into his food.

He quirks a smile at the brush of her leg and nods, "It's good." And he's very obviously referring to more than just the food.

"You were right about-- " The rapid urgent tune of breaking news plays on the television over the bar, and Matt is prepared to ignore it up until the news anchor announces the story.

'A hostage situation has developed in Hell's Kitchen. Six armed men... '

Working his throat Matt sets down his fork.

"I'm sorry, would you excuse me for a minute?" he asks, already pushing back in his seat.

It's like being on one of those whiplash carnival rides with him. One moment, there's a warm flush in her chest and the next, cold lead in the pit of her stomach.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, I just need to go to the restroom," he says, flashing her an easy smile while he grabs his cane.

"I'll be right back." Somehow he doesn't frown at the lie even though there's a twist in his gut that comes with it.

Tucking in his chair he steps away from the table.

"Oh, okay."

She feels the change in him like a shift in the weather. A warm summer's day just grew dark under thick storm clouds. She watches as he makes his way to the back of the restaurant, every step carrying him farther and farther from her.

She cuts a glance back to where the restrooms are, up by the front. Slowly, she sets her utensils down and folds her napkins.

"Well, fuck."

Ten minutes later, Connie brings her a to-go box and she pays the check. Which isn't even the worst part, she was planning on paying the check ahead of time. She was the one who asked him out, after all.

She takes the walk home with a measured pace, trying to think about what she'd said or done that might have made him abandon ship like that. She checks her phone for some kind of text or message. Something. Nothing.

Three hours later, she's on her third beer in front of the television, not even paying attention to the evening news update. The anchor was droning on about the Devil of Hell's Kitchen ending a hostage situation. She pitches her phone onto the coffee table and debates finally going to bed.

He never intended to just walk out on her without any word. He had to leave and give an excuse, yes, but before he can snag a waiter to deliver the message the scene on the television erupts and there's no time to do anything but rush out of the back door.

He's running as soon as he's out in the alley, and when he hits the scene he's masked and crashing in through a window even as the police are falling back to a safe distance.

The fight is messy, bullets fly but they're aimed at him instead of the hostages, which is what he wants. Even if taking a small graze to the shoulder is no fun.

By the time it's finished he's breathing hard and bruised in a few places, but a quick reading of heartbeats tells him that everyone is accounted for.

He leaves just as the cops storm in.

He should go home, get cleaned up, but now that the situation is over and people are safe all he can think about is Karen.

Part of him wants to leave it until Monday, apologize then, but the rest of him knows that he can't do that. There's every chance that tonight torpedoed any chance at a relationship they had, but he won't just let it lie like that. Karen deserves better.

And so he does a quick clean up job and a change of clothing. Some band-aids and a bandage thrown over his shoulder until he can get to it later. A quick comb by running fingers through his hair, and hopefully the bruise at the back of his jaw is either fainter than it feels, or is hidden by his ear.

At her door he stands a long full minute outside before finally knocking.

She hears the knock and her heart skips a beat. There's no way he'd come here. No way in hell. So who is it at her door this late? Matt can hear her hesitating, can hear the peephole being opened. Her heart rate spikes. It takes her a moment to undo all the locks. She opens the door without saying anything and retreats back to the kitchen. She's breathing shallow and gritting her teeth.

He straightens when the door opens, lips parting to speak but waiting to see if she's going to say something first.

When she walks away without a word his chest tightens on the inside.

Bravely moving forward he shuts the door behind himself with a quiet click and follows her. The scent of jasmine still clings to her skin and trails in her wake.

When she enters the kitchen he stops on the other side of the threshold, giving her space, trying to come up with something to say.

A long moment passes, and then another and finally he says, "Karen, I'm sorry."

She moves to the refrigerator, pulls out two beers, uses the church key on a chain to pop the caps off. She takes a long pull off her own, holding the other where it rests on the counter.

She thought she was over the being angry part. She hates feeling like this, like she wants to hit him. Like she wants to hurt him the same way he hurt her. She wants to yell and throw things and just make it really clear just what a shitty thing he did.

But he's not stupid. He's here, trying to do -- something. She stares at him, trying to puzzle out if this is one of those 'please forgive me for hurting you' apologies or if it's the other kind. The 'please make me feel better' apologies. In which case, he can seriously go fuck himself.

Eventually, she holds the beer out to him so it thunks him in the chest, and waits for him to take it.

[for man_without_fear]

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