#devilsdare01

It’s late when they get back to his apartment, only the moon shining down in witness, and she can’t help but be reminded of how they were, can’t help but think of Fogwell’s all those years ago, the tinkle and crunch of broken glass and the lingering smell of old sweat and the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. She hasn’t felt like this since college, stupid and giddy and alive in ways that only he can make her feel. 

Elektra leans against the doorframe, peeling off her gloves with a breathless little laugh. Now that the adrenaline’s somewhat worn off, the thrill subsiding, she registers blood drying tacky on her arm, the cut deeper than she’d originally thought. She doesn’t say see, this is what your respect for human life gets you, doesn’t say anything about it at all. It’s worth it, all of it. More than worth it to walk through his world, to fight by his side.

He’s more practiced with violence than she remembers, purpose and belief to balance the heat of all that rage. Maybe that got her heart racing more than the fight itself, and if he noticed she doesn’t even think she minds.

“See? I told you it would be fun.” She’s not sure if she hopes he’ll deny it and continue their game, or admit it and call truce at least for the night--or what’s left of it. 

“Will Graham. I’m with the Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Will flashes his badge, offers a tight smile--polite but not much more than that--as his eyes drift around the office. 

He doesn’t have any more respect for defense lawyers than he does for local law enforcement, certainly doesn’t think they’ll be of any help, but Jack was adamant that these--Nelson and Murdock--are some of the good ones, having built something of a reputation for themselves as defenders of the innocent. The Nelson half looks nervous, almost like he’s keeping a secret--maybe he just doesn’t like law enforcement. Murdock is familiar in a way that he can’t quite put his finger on--familiar from somewhere other than the Punisher case, he thinks, but his memory hasn’t been as sharp as usual since Daredevil slammed his head into the pavement last week. Still, he lets his eyes linger an extra fraction of a moment, appraising. 

This is going to be another dead end--they’ve hit nothing but walls since arriving here, and the whole of Hell’s Kitchen feels on palpable edge, waiting helplessly for another body to drop. 

There’s such a distinct lack of evidence that even Jack’s beginning to suspect the killer might have help on the inside. He’s heard more than one officer half-joking about putting a round in this son of a bitch’s head--which Will has every intention of doing, all warnings be damned.