A Girl Like You
Disclaimer: Characters of Elektra/McCabe belong to Marvel and their affiliates. Dawn Summers belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and their affiliates. No profit is being made.
FFA: Dawn/McCabe (Elektra)
“I’ve met girls like you.” She raised a speculative brow and he chuckled in self deprecation. “Well, just one really.”
Dawn Summers reminded him of E. The careful cast of her eyes, the contained way she moved and how like Elektra, she didn’t seem to be encumbered with unnecessary scruples.
Maybe that particular shared attribute was the result of being damaged little girls who’ve seen too much and grown up too fast. Either way, McCabe didn’t dwell on it.
She stood by the window, long honey brown hair spilling in a curtain framing a pale face, dressed as usual in jeans and a t-shirt looking nothing more like a college kid.
He stepped into the softly lit room, laid the bag on the table. She glanced at it perfunctorily.
He nodded, watching her carefully. Noting the blue shadows under her eyes, the paleness of her lips.
“You look a little worn.”
She closed her eyes and expelled a weary breath. Flexed her hands dismissively.
McCabe didn’t really see what that had to do with anything but he followed her eyes to the little pile of photographs on the sofa. The picture on top was of a group of people on the steps of an old castle, huddling to fit into the picture and laughing. A much younger Dawn, delighted smile on her face, stood between a man with an eye patch and a petite blond who shared the same lustrous smile. He looked back at Dawn to see her watching him with distant eyes.
“Ok then. I will call you with the next job.” He frowned watching her looking lost. “Try to rest.”
She seemed not to hear him and he stepped closer. “Dawn?”
She raised her eyes, took a second to focus. Tilted her head to the side, blinked the ghosts from her eyes.
“Have a drink with me McCabe.”
Not waiting for his reply, she headed to the bar, bare feet not making a sound on the wooden floor. She reached for glasses and a bottle and threw a quick glance over her shoulder. “Sit.”
And like an obedient schoolboy he sat down on the sofa, next to the pile of pictures.
She put his glass in front of him, set the bottle beside the money bag and for a second he watched the amber liquid swirl and catch the light. He took a sip and closed his eyes to savour.
“Didn’t figure you for a Scotch girl.” He let the liquid burn his throat, hummed with pleasure.
She folded herself into the armchair facing him, smile wistful, and eyes distant.
“I used to live in Scotland.” Her eyes darted to the pile of photos, focused on McCabe, blinked. “Got to like it.”
He nodded. Raised his glass watching the drink slide against the glass.
“Are we drinking to something in particular?”
Her face hardened and he was sorry he asked.
She raised her glass and he didn’t ask to clarify, because he was certain the answer would make less sense. He watched her empty her glass in one harsh swallow and set it on the table. The liquor seemed to put some colour in her cheeks. She reached for the bottle and poured herself another glass.
“I’m going to tell you a story McCabe.” She watched him down his glass and poured a refill. “About all the brave children and all the dead ones too.”