ANGEL LIKED TO WATCH HIM. There was a grace to Matt Murdock's stride, as if he were completely sure of every one of his steps every time he bothered to take one. She'd been watching him all day, and she'd decided early on that it was not a bad way to waste a Saturday, nor was it a bad way to avoid the debris of her quickly crumbling life—debris that would send them both to a painful death under its weight if given the chance.
That would be a problem for another day, though. She would much rather talk about being buried alive on a Monday. She would much rather watch the man she'd almost tried to kill eat the breakfast that he'd made for them both. He'd become more malleable when he accepted that she wouldn't hurt him and when he realized that he needed information.
"Don't stare," Matt told her while sliding the remainders of his food across his plate. "It's rude."
She did it anyway, her own food forgotten. "You've got a lot of scars."
"So do you."
His knowledge of her scars shouldn't have come as a surprise but for some reason it had. "You're quite the conversationalist," she said sarcastically.
He leaned back in his chair, his face void of any emotions at all. "This isn't a conversation. This is you giving me information and nothing more."
"You should ask me something then." Angel leaned forward, the old t-shirt she wore tickling the tops of her thighs. She wanted a reaction out of him. She wanted the man whose hands had been tools of reverence over her skin—shattering her and restoring her, only to repeat the cycle over and over again. She wanted the man who had smiled at her with what could only be described as relief. She wanted. She wanted. She wanted. "Make it good, Matt."
And the Devil of Hell's Kitchen would give her nothing, apparently. "Where can I find your employers?"
"Don't waste your time," she murmured, opting for silence afterward.
He noticed, his hand tightening around his fork. "That's not how this is going to work."
"I mean it," she stressed. "They gave me ten days to get the job done. It's been four."
"Good. That's great," he murmured. He let out a hollow laugh. "You're efficient. Why does that matter?"
"It matters because you have time." He gave her a look that prompted her to say more. "You can run."
Matt's face was blank then. "That's not how this is going to work," he repeated. "You said that you would tell me everything you know."
Angel sighed. "I never said I know much."
"Well, you implied that you do." She made a noise of negation, and he gritted his teeth and placed his fork onto the table with a small clatter. "You spared me for a reason. Just tell me something that'll matter."
She watched him because it seemed that was what she was best at. "Ten days, Matt. There is a good chance that they'll send someone else—someone for us both." If they were smart, they would. She placed the heels of her feet on the seat of the chair and hugged her knees to her chest. Her eyes grazed over a thin line of raised skin on her knee. "I'm not afraid of death, but I'm not opposed to running. I'm not opposed to becoming someone else."
She'd done it time and time before. Angel had never meant anything in the first place. That person—who ever she was— didn't really exist. Angel was a shield made to protect a woman who could not face half of the things she'd done—who would certainly die if she had to. Angel could be broken down and remade into someone other.
And Celine—who was very real and very much in need of protection—would be able to survive another day.
"That isn't living," Matt said, tilting his head a bit to the side and dissecting her with his unseeing eyes. It was under his gaze that she'd felt the most scrutiny—like he could see beyond who she pretended to be. Like he could see the life she'd created for herself for what it truly was: a cage.
"I've made my bed," she replied, her voice quiet. The problem was that she'd helped make his too, and he hadn't asked for that nor had he done something to deserve it.
It was silent between them then. The active buzz of Hell's Kitchen was the only noise that filled the room. It was a moment of peace.
The last one that she would know for a very long time.
She tried to cling to it. The blood on her hands, however, was never ending, and it hindered her in a way that made it impossible for her to hold onto simple things like peace. It was a fruitless effort.
She'd made her bed, and she hadn't bothered to leave room for peace.
Matt's voice pierced through her thoughts with such precision that she was dragged back into their situation. "Who hired you?" His voice was a mere murmur. His hands had settled into his lap, over his pajamas, and he simply looked tired.
Angel's heart quickened. She wasn't good at this.
"She was efficient," Angel said at last. "Her money was good. She had a timeline I could work on. I don't know her name. These people like to stay anonymous. I have a shitty picture of her, but that won't do you any good."
Matt made a displeased face. "Describe her."
Angel ran her tongue over her teeth, and swallowed hard. "A red head. Tall. Half of her face was painted white." The woman had an unsettling look about her, but Angel hadn't been forced to interact with her for long. Most people who wanted other people dead tended to have the same air, and for a long time, Angel had breathed it in with satisfaction and greed.
Something in Matt tensed, and he suddenly looked like he was going to be sick. "Which side? Which side of her face?"
"My left, your right."
Matt ran a hand through his hair, the movement jerky and rough. She hadn't thought him capable of it. He staggered to his feet, and leaned over to grip the edge of his chair as if he regretted standing.
His knuckles were white over the wood. "Jesus."
Perhaps it was time for prayer.
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