You say that like I have every reason to convince you.

( to what? stay cooped up with a reporter attracting all the wrong sorts of attention?

always so quickly how they waver between softness and that deafening, erring caution; short-clipped tones to those low little drawls of his voice, some sort of jab or attempt at humor to balm the thought of neither of them finding their way out. the thought that that thing called relief was a far off friend, something they could only ever recognize as foreign.

so maybe neither of them deserve to draw each other into one another's shit, maybe she's got more than enough to handle than a prior wanted vigilante sitting on her couch, and he's got more than enough to handle than entertaining a space that's no safer than right at fisk's door. if there's one thing they're both considerably good at, it's getting what they want, information, company and a lack thereof, and it's exactly why she'll shrug off his mentioning of sleep; work; deadlines; something. )

Those'll still be there by morning, too. ( an uneven break of a smile—almost sad—brows risen with a quick, suggestive glance toward the pile of manilla folders scattered across that small kitchen table. ) Come on, ( a light nudge of his leg with her knuckles. )

For one night the assholes can do without having our full attention.