Summary: Elektra takes a job that brings her closer to home than she'd like.  Matt/Elektra
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Characters are property of Marvel Comics.

Notes: Takes canon from the comics, especially Elektra: Assassin and the Daredevil series.  Not the movie.  I don't know how I came to write Matt/Elektra.  It just happened.
Feedback: yes please.  elizabeth_barr@yahoo.com.au
 
 
 
 

The job.  The job.  Think of the job.  They think it's all about the money, but that's them.  They want things, and they hire me to achieve their goals.

The money is … irrelevant.  I know money: pretty dresses, Mama's jewellery, Poppa's sleek cars.

It fades into the background.

The job.  Think of the job.  Purpose.

Adrenaline.

And afterwards—

Don't think about afterwards, sweat and sleepless nights, endless training, empty meditation and the wait for the next job.

Don't think about afterwards.  Don't think about before.  Exist in the now. Sensei always said—

but I will not think of the past, even here in New York—

I will not think of these things.

Think of the man, the rabbit man.  He looks like prey, but he found me.  Everyone has someone they would like to see dead.

Most people never find me.

Most people never even hear my name.

He doesn't know my real name.  Surely even the stones would know it here, these streets on which my heart's blood spilled; they could carry it back to—

Do not think of the past.

He says, "I have a problem."

My silence scares him.

He says, "A man."

It almost always is.

"You … you can help me.  Yes?"

I lick my lips.  "For a price."

At a cost.  At any cost.

(Don't think about afterwards.)

"I can meet your fee.  Money is not a problem."

The air is cool.  He draws his coat around himself.  His nails are bitten.

He draws a folder from an inner pocket.

"Tuesday.  Three o'clock.  Bring the money in a briefcase.  We won't speak."

He slinks away, disappearing into the crowd, and I am employed.  Again.

Think about the job.

My room overlooks the city.  It is beautiful and expensive.

(Your tastes haven't changed since college.)

(Don't think about the past.)

I meditate.  I contemplate the lights of the city.

This is not introspection.

I train.  I hate light, healthy meals.  I do not consume alcohol.

I sleep little.

It was a mistake to come to New York.

I am here for the job.  Nothing else.  I do not linger outside the courthouse.  I do not visit his home.

I do not play games with myself.

I do not play games.

I stay inside at night.

Days pass.  I meet the rabbit man.  I accept his money, I walk away, I don't look back.

The job is done in daylight, in the Hamptons, away from the city.  His neck snaps; no weapons but my own hands.  No fingerprints.  Nothing to lead to me.

And who would suspect a dead woman?

 I should leave.  Return to Europe.  Retreat and wait for the next job.

But this one isn't finished.

They arrest the rabbit man.  He talks of his rights.  Americans love their rights.  Eventually, he talks of a woman assassin, but he doesn't know my name.  My real name.  I will retire that alias; another dead woman, of sorts.

The case comes to Matt's attention.  He begins to make enquiries in his own time.

Entering the jail is simple.  The rabbity man dies quickly, and I leave my sai in his body.  Two guards are killed with guns, and the newspapers talk of a woman who died years ago.

They talk of a copycat.  A skilled, careless copycat.

I should leave.  The job is over, and I can't sleep.

This city isn't safe.

I book my ticket, but I linger.  One day more.  Half a day.  A few hours.

I do not pass him on the street, let him smell my perfume, let him wonder, remember—

I visit the museums; I wander through shops.

I leave, again, and promise – again – never to return.

I close my eyes as the plane taxis, and think of the next job.
 
 

end
 

Notes: Contemplation of the difference between a price and a cost is straight from Shards of Honour by Lois McMaster Bujold.  Because I have no ideas of my own.