Fern

Chapter One: Murdock & McDuffie

There was a soft electric hum echoing off the white marble floors; the hustle and bustle of the day had ended long ago, leaving only the quiet, slow ticking of the wall clock interrupted by the infrequent clicking of your keyboard. You’d been at this for hours, writing two sentences, reading them and deleting one. You groan, throwing your head back against the soft headboard of your chair. You rub your forehead, staring down at your almost-finished closing statement.

“This sounded so much better in my head,” you mumble, placing your face between your palms. You’d written multiple court statements before, too many to count at law school and at least a hundred mock-up ones during your bar course. Sure, you’d written a handful of statements in the seven months you’d been doing your pupillage at Murdock & McDuffie, but you'd never led your own cases, especially in court. Kirsten gave you a simple case to start, a minor thievery case.

You’d been assigned to work beside Matt, who would supervise but not interfere. He had offered to stay late with you, saying he had his own cases to work on. You’d declined at first, worrying your bottom lip as your heart pattered against your ribcage, but he’d insisted.

Matt rolls his chair beside you. “Read it to me,” he orders, crossing his arms across his broad chest. He’s wearing that same smile he always does, as though he’s somehow aware of how painfully handsome he is.

You readjust on your chair awkwardly, taking a heavy breath in. “The evidence shows that Leroy Bradford has been spat out by the same system that promises to uphold justice. There are certain facts in this case that are not in dispute: Mr Bradford stole. However, his lawlessness will not change if the state of New York punishes where it can rehabilitate. We ask that Mr Bradford-” you trail off, unsure how to continue.

Matt nods, his lips stretched in a proud smile. You can smell his citrus cologne at this distance; the scent’s been worn through the day, mingled with his sweat, which makes it even more intoxicating. “I mean, you have the facts down great,” he starts, reaching up to scratch his neatly trimmed beard. “But I think you’ll have better luck trying to get him the 10 days in jail.”

You furrow your eyebrows, shaking your head. “Mr Bradford did what he had to survive; the legal system is meant to be in place to protect him, Matt.”

“I’m not fighting you on that,” he justifies, chest widening as he defends himself. “This is your first case; you can’t expect to rework the entire court.”

“It wouldn’t matter if this was my last case; if our client is put back in jail, we’ll just be doing this song and dance again in a year- if he doesn’t die in that time, that is.”

Matt opens his mouth to argue again, slowly closing it with a smile. He readjusts on his seat, and you watch how tight his shirt is against his arms. He’d long abandoned his blazer earlier in the night, to which you’d practically had to tear your gaze away. “You’re a lot like how I was when I started,” he laughs.

“An amazing attorney?”

“A hard-ass.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes as though he could somehow see it. “Ah, so nothing’s changed in your sixty years of practising.”

He scoffs in mock-offence. “How old do you think I am, young woman?”

“You’re just so good at your job I assumed you must’ve been around when the first constitution was signed,” you watch the way his under-eyes crease; you can see his dark brown eyes jutting left to right beneath his red glasses.

“You better be careful, I can write you up for workplace discrimination,” he jokes, tilting his head towards you. You smile, closing your laptop lid; you’re too tired to even think about finishing it tonight. Anyways, the court date wasn’t set until another four days.

“You have no jurisdiction,” you cross your leg over the other to face him fully; your pant leg grazes his, and your heart flips. “Kirsten’s my supervisor and she likes me a lot more than she likes you.”

“Hearsay.”

You smirk, squeezing your hand tight. You were certain he’d been flirting with you for the last handful of months, but any time you tried to pursue further, he’d politely shut you down. Yet, the next week he would go right back to crowding your space. At first you thought that maybe it was just his personality, and it was, at least half of it was. But you saw how he acted with Kirsten- that same flirty inflection, same handsome smirk, but that’s where it ended.

You weren’t stupid; you knew why he kept you at arm’s length. Close enough to touch, to tease, but far enough to feel as though he was doing the morally right thing. Catholics.

You were half his age. An adult? yes. Capable of making your own decisions? Absolutely. Matt knew this, of course; you knew he was aware of it, but he was still your mentor, partly your supervisor. In five months that would no longer be the case, but he’d still be your superior. Unsurprising for a lawyer to be as hypervigilant as he is.

“Other than a hard-ass,” you start, reaching over to take a sip from the cold dregs of your fourth cup of coffee of the day. “What were you like at law school?”

You watch his tongue dart from his mouth, wetting his top lip in a slick streak your eyes follow. “I was less focused on school than I should’ve been,” he says hesitantly. “Spent far too much time enjoying the ‘college experience’, I’m sure you know the type.”

You can imagine a young Matt Murdock with some outdated long hair, breaking women’s hearts left and right. You imagine being the same age, sitting beside each other in class. You think about him leaning over to whisper some stupid joke to make fun of whatever the professor said. You like to think you’d be able to resist how charming that stupid smile was- but if present-day Matt was anything to go by, you know you’d end up another heartbroken girl.

“I usually tried to stay away from the type,” you confess, feeling strangely shy under Matt’s faux-gaze. “Too focused on getting into the prestigious position I’m in now.” That was semi-true at least; you’d gone on one or two dates at college. The romance was always short-lived, ending with a kiss at the door. You’d never followed up more than that, engrossing yourself further and further into your studies until your date’s pretty face became a ghosted contact. Maybe young-Matt would’ve been your heartbroken boy.

Now, having exactly what you wanted, you realise how much you sacrificed.

“Not that I’m entirely interested in dating nowadays,” you lie, heart stuttering as you look Matt down, gaze catching on his white scars that scatter his arms. You bite your lips to resist asking, terrified of breaking the moment between you.

“You don’t sound particularly convinced,” he says, stopping your breath in its tracks. You awkwardly scratch the back of your head, unsure how to say ‘I’m actually interested in a hot, blind, lawyer double my age’ without him acting as though he isn’t completely aware of this fact.

You look down at your hands, lightly picking at the sides of your nails- peeling off the chrome nail polish you’d painstakingly applied last night. “I would be lying if I said there wasn’t someone in my life.”

“Someone you’re dating or-” he asks hesitantly. He’s stock still in front of you, as though you’d shut down the topic if he moved too quickly.

“No, not dating,” you interject, shaking your head. You tuck a fallen piece of hair behind your ear and try to meet his gaze again. “I think he wants something too, but whenever I try to do something about it, he just..” You drift off, gesturing noncommittally, hoping Matt will still get what you’re trying to say.

“How do you know he’s interested?”

You fight the urge to grip his shoulders and yell ‘Because I’m talking to him’, instead opting to roll your eyes. “I guess I don’t know,” you admit. “I know I find him handsome, and funny, if not a little arrogant.”

Matt smiles at that, finally moving and leaning further back, arms uncrossing from his chest to rest on his thighs. “I understand.”

“Do you?” You retort, warmth flooding your cheeks in a small smile. You watch as Matt shifts uncomfortably in his seat, as though he could feel the heat of your gaze. You feel like a child talking back and forth like this; if Matt’s so much older than you, maybe he should be the one to address you head-on.

“And you understand it would be bordering on unethical if the,” he looks up for a moment, struggling to find the right words. “Receiving party,” he lands on, uncertain with his choice of words. “Were to reciprocate.”

You lift your eyebrows, stifling a small laugh at his avoidance. It escapes regardless, and you bring up a hand to cover it. Matt smiles in response, realising how stupid he must sound. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“And you’re aware the age gap complicates things even more.”

“Matt,” you warn, growing tired of the little game you accidentally started. “You know I’m a grown woman.”

“I’m frustratingly aware,” he all but growls, leaning forward, his face inches away from yours. You watch all the reasons he told himself to stay away from you melt before you. Now replaced by burning hot want. It’s as though even if he told himself again, he wouldn’t listen to reason. His hand reaches up to your face, warmth pooling beneath every place his fingers caress. His callous thumb slowly glides against your bottom lip. You watch as his own pulse thumps against you, loud and quickening, the same as your own heartbeat. You see his mouth move, but you can’t hear anything other than your thudding blood rush in your ears.

Finally, his soft lips meet yours. You sigh into his mouth, fingers reaching up to snake around the back of his neck. You want more. The scratch of his beard sends a tingle down your spine as you push into him further, deepening the kiss. His tongue slides against yours and you fight the urge to moan around it. Matt's hand moves from your face to wrap around your waist. You feel your muscles ache from the way you're tangled around each other. You’re still sat on the very edge of your chair, feet planted firmly down to stop the wheels from pushing you away.

Begrudgingly, you let him pull away, still close enough that his warm, stale-coffee breath mingles with yours. You peel your eyes away from his spit-ridden lips, denying yourself the pleasure of kissing him again.

“Matt,” you mutter, confliction whirling around in the depths of your stomach. Although you imagine its no where near the amount he must feel. You watch as he pulls back, standing up in one swift motion.

“Sorry that was,” he grabs his blazer from the back of his chair, placing a sizable distance between you. Unprofessional, you think. “Can I walk you home?” He asks, changing the subject. 

You shake your head, disoriented, packing your laptop away as you explain. “I, uh, live in Hell’s Kitchen. I have to drive home.” You reach for your phone on your desk and extend it out before embarrassingly pulling it back. “I can give you my number, though, if you’d like?” you ask; you couldn’t believe you kissed before you had moved from emails only.

Matt pulls his phone out from his back pocket; it’s an older phone, one with push-buttons. You think it must be easier for him to feel what he’s pressing that way. It looks like a newer model; the screen still takes up half the phone space. He unlocks it and hands it to you; the speaker quietly tells you each thing you press as you enter your phone number. You smile as you hand it back to him. You decide to keep all the phone calls in his history to someone under the contact ‘K.P’ to yourself.