Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps - CHAPTER 4 (My Funny Valentine)
Noir!Jake Lockley x WOC Lounge Singer!Reader
written in collaboration with + header by @mrs-lockley
chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 3 chapter 5
cross-posted to ao3
tags: late 1940s Noir AU, Reader is WOC coded but with no physical description besides being slightly taller than Jake while wearing heels, no use of Y/N, mentions of injury/fixing it (stitches), brief songfic portion (c'mon you knew it was coming)
wc: 3.4k
fic summary: Of all the gin joints in all the world, Jake Lockley walks into yours. Unfortunately for him, it's not quite the start of a beautiful friendship.
chapter summary: patching things up.
__________
“He doesn’t look like he’d be this heavy.”
It’s hard to keep your voice down while hauling a grown man up the narrow stairs of your apartment. Bloodied and fazed, Jake dangles between you and Matt as you prop him on your shoulders. He’d barely registered how you both rushed to his side when you found him moments ago. Collapsing next to your building, of all places… somebody had to be looking out for this guy.
“Dead weight’s funny like that,” Matt huffs, bearing his share of the burden a bit easier but still straining beside you. He feels your body tense up and quickly adds, “Sorry– poor choice of words.”
“No kidding.”
Eventually you make it to your floor. Jake’s conscious, but too weary to hold himself up. Matt helps you keep him upright as you stumble down the hallway like some twisted version of The Wizard of Oz.
As quiet as you’ve tried to be, you’re a cumbersome entourage. So it doesn’t surprise you to hear one door, then another creak open on either side of the hallway.
You can’t help but freeze like a deer in headlights. On one side, you’re pinned by the gaze of Leah Mendoza, bathrobe and silk headscarf broadcasting that you’ve interrupted the highest quality of beauty sleep. Across the hall, Caroline Ngo’s sweet face peers from behind the door of her parents’ apartment. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of you holding up a bloodied stranger.
“Caroline, go back to bed.” Leah is hardly older than you, but a stern word from her is as good as any mother’s. At her command the younger girl obediently ducks back into her apartment, and you feel yourself shrink under your neighbor’s stare. You’re sure you won’t hear the end of this.
But you don’t have time to worry about your inevitable lecture. You keep walking toward your apartment at the end of the hall. You fumble with your keys when you pause outside the door. Jake’s weary head lolls toward you. “Easy, cabbie,” you whisper. Your arms are burning from holding him up, but you can’t help but feel bad for him as his sweat-slicked hair brushes your cheek in his exhaustion.
The three of you tumble into your apartment and move to the couch, laying Jake down as gently as possible. You turn on a couple of lamps and leave Matt to get Jake adjusted as you go to the kitchen.
“Probably has some bruised ribs, from the way he’s breathing.” Matt kneels beside Jake and helps him out of his coat to open his shirt, gingerly running a hand over his torso. He’d clearly been in a fight; the warm swelling of assorted bruises and cuts makes it obvious. He grazes his fingers over Jake’s heated forehead, stopping at the gash above his eye. “He’ll need stitches to hold him over.”
“I’m on it.”
His vision is still slightly blurred, but after a few minutes Jake watches you approach, apron fitted over your evening gown and carrying a medium-sized box under a steaming bowl of water. You pull a chair over to the couch and sit as Matt gives you space, moving to the window. You watch as he tunes back in to the sounds of the city, listening for any lingering trouble.
You get to work with near-mechanical efficiency. Collecting supplies from the box, you dip your equipment into the water after wringing out the hand towel you had soaking in the bowl. “This might sting.”
“Ah, I can take it,” Jake says hoarsely. He tries to sit up, but winces and stops himself.
You press the cloth to his forehead, urging him back down. The wound above his eye seems to have stopped bleeding, but there’s deep purple swelling surrounding it. Once it’s clean, you pat his face dry. His good eye follows your every movement.
As you prepare to work on his face, you can see Jake’s body relax. “I’m going to stitch you up,” you warn him as you thread the needle. “You’re lucky you didn’t lose this eye… nasty head wound you’ve got here.”
“Oh, is that what this is?” Jake strains to touch his temple. “ Well, I’ll be.”
You move his hand. “Be serious.”
“As a heart attack.” He obediently takes a deep breath, eyes screwed shut as you get to work.
As unpleasant as the procedure feels, his exhaustion trumps the pain. You make quick work of it, your hands and gaze steady. “Do I want to know how you’re so good at this?” he grunts.
You tie off the stitch and sigh. “I used to do the same thing for Matthew.”
It takes him a moment to process what you’ve said. “You mean–”
“–I’ve spent my fair share of late nights patching him up after God-knows-what happened in some alleyway? Yeah,” you chuckle mirthlessly. “It’s like you boys crave punishment, I’ll never understand it.”
Jake winces as you snip the excess thread. “Didn’t know the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen had introduced himself to you, angel.”
“‘Introduced,’ ‘fell onto my fire escape,’ you get the picture.” Before you can stand, Matt is already at your side with a fresh towel and hot water. You offer him a tired smile. “It's how we became friends.”
“Almost more than that for a time,” he smirks. He ducks back to the window when your face heats as you clean Jake’s stitches.
Jake huffs a laugh, glancing between the two of you. “Murdock, you sly dog.”
You lean back, dismissively wiping your hands on your apron. “Oh, can it. Nothing happened.” Standing up, you gather the rags and water and leave the room.
“Forgive me if I have a hard time believing that, Songbird,” he hoarsely calls after you.
“No, she’s right,” Matt seconds. When the sound of running water floats in from the kitchen, he moves to the couch and leans in, voice low. “She didn’t want to get involved with someone putting their life on the line.”
Jake lets the weight of his confession wash over him. This wasn’t just Matt’s way of saying you were the one that got away.
When you return, you glance between the two of them. “Well, if history is repeating itself… you’ll have to sleep this off here.” You offer a cold shoulder as you collect a spare blanket and throw pillow from the corner.
Matt catches your arm as you pass. “Hey–”
“You should go, you have court in the morning.” Your voice is flat as you brush him off to keep working.
Jake’s head is still throbbing, but he’s grateful for your touch (albeit less than gentle) as you raise his head to place the extra pillow beneath it. You mutter an apology as you drape the blanket over his exposed torso. Given the look on your face, he figures he shouldn’t poke fun at your rushed attention.
He watches you escort Matt to the door. Murdock doesn’t seem too keen to depart.
“You shouldn’t be by yourself tonight,” he urges you. “I can make my way to the courthouse with plenty of time–”
“–Matthew, go, it’ll be fine.” Your tone has warmed a bit, but you maintain the space between you.
He hesitates at the door, no doubt listening to Jake’s ragged breathing on top of every other sound outside your apartment. It’s a wonder he stays sane, you often think.
You cast a glance to your battered houseguest, who pretends not to listen. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? For us to spend more time together?” You close the distance to grasp his hand. “Really. Go home.”
Whatever argument Matt was prepared to make, he chokes down. It’s clear you’re not changing your mind.
“If there’s any trouble–”
“–What, you think I can make him any worse than this? Give me some credit, Matty.”
“–If there’s any trouble, just say the word.” One hand tenses around the doorframe, the tilt of his head confirming he’s still on high alert. “I’ll come right back.”
Your expression softens. “You always do.” A quick kiss to his cheek and a gentle nudge toward the hallway serves as your goodbye.
Closing the door behind you, you take a breath to steady your nerves. You were joking before, but if Jake Lockley somehow dies on your sofa, you’re not sure you’d have the stomach to stand trial.
The silence of your apartment is only broken by Jake’s groans of discomfort as he adjusts positions. You rush to his side.
“Are you okay?” You try not to sound as panicked as you feel. Without Matt and the rush of adrenaline, your anxiety spikes tenfold.
Jake’s good eye goes wide. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. Sorry.” He settles back into the couch. “Just trying to get comfortable.”
“Let me help you,” you say quickly, desperate to do something with your hands besides wring them. You kneel and adjust the pillows by his head, careful not to jostle him this time.
His entire body is begging to sleep for a week. But despite his headache, he takes in the sight of you as you fuss over him, fixing his blanket more times than necessary.
“Don’t think I’m going anywhere, doll.” He tries to laugh but this time only manages to cough. Matt was probably right about his ribs.
You remove your hands from the blanket. “Sorry.”
Silence again. You examine his face: it’s like looking at a stranger. The bruises and cuts are one thing, but there’s a profound heaviness in every feature you’ve never seen before. When he’s this quiet, you hardly recognize him.
“You must think I'm an idiot.”
His gruff voice snaps you back from your thoughts. He’d been staring at you, too, watching your face fall as you’d looked at him.
You shake off the shock of his statement. “No… no, I don't think you're an idiot. Reckless, maybe, but not an idiot.”
His brow raises. “You know, I think that’s the kindest thing you’ve said to me since we met.”
You open your mouth to protest, but stay quiet. Because he’s right.
“...You think I hate you, don't you?”
“Don't you?” He presses. “Sorry to say it, doll, but I’m almost surprised you didn’t leave me out in the cold.”
You get the feeling that he’s joking, but with your track record, it’s not an unearned jab.
“I… feel a lot of things. But not hatred.” You smooth the front of your dress to distract yourself. “Right now, for example, I’m feeling generous.”
Jake cracks a small smile. “Yeah? Is letting me bleed out on your furniture your act of kindness for the year, morena?”
Your brow creases slightly as you lower yourself to sit on the floor. “I'm serious. You can ask me for anything. Within reason, I mean.”
Jake finds himself biting back another line for your sake. You've done so much already; even if you’d stitched up a hundred head wounds before his, he can’t imagine you were unaffected by what you saw tonight. You look about as tired as he feels.
This has been an evening of firsts for you both; it’s not the most high-stakes difference, but the thought crosses both of your minds: it’s the first night you haven’t put on a show for each other.
“Would you sing to me?”
You tilt your head. “Now? Really?”
Jake's smile grows. “What, too unreasonable?”
“No, it's just… you've heard me sing a dozen times.” You shrug. “Sure you want to waste your favor?”
You're not sure how he can look so worn out and still have a glimmer in his eye. But he does, and it brightens as he doubles down. “But I've never missed your grand finale. Seems like I owe you one, too.”
“...alright.” Your voice is soft as you agree. Jake settles into the cushions, eyes closed with a smug half-smile resting on his face.
You adjust yourself and take a deep breath. Trading a spotlight for your living room lamp shouldn’t be so nerve wracking, and yet–
Jake grunts, interrupting your thoughts again as he shifts against the couch. Without thinking, you place a hand on his arm.
“We finished with some ‘Babes in Arms’ tonight,” you preface. “So here’s your finale.” With another breath, you start to sing– just low enough for the two of you to hear.
“You’re my funny Valentine… sweet, comic Valentine… you make me smile with my heart.”
You can feel Jake relax even further as you continue. “Your looks are laughable… unphotographable… yet you’re my favorite work of art.”
With every line, you’re more grateful that he wasn’t present tonight, cutting up with his usual antics while you were onstage. “Is your figure less than Greek? Is your mouth a little weak? When you open it to speak, are you smart?”
…and yet, looking at him now, wounded and weary, you get the nagging feeling that if last week was your final exchange, you’d miss him. Him, of all people. “But don’t change a hair for me… not if you care for me.”
The gentle rise and fall of his chest lets you know he’s already long gone. With his brow smoothed and that cocky smile melted away, you feel like you’re seeing Jake for the first time. At his worst, maybe, but like he has nothing to hide.
“Stay, little Valentine, stay…”
Your exhaustion hits you all at once. You prop your head on your hand, leaning onto the bit of cushion Jake doesn’t occupy. You can barely hear yourself as you finish.
“...each day is Valentine’s Day.”
__________
You don’t remember falling asleep.
All you know is that your body aches twice as much as it would have if you’d slept in a real bed. Instead, you realize before you even open your eyes, you dozed off while sitting on the floor, legs and back at an awkward angle.
You move to sit up, but feel some resistance. You’re pinned by a blanket-covered arm draped across your shoulders. Eyes now startled open, you remember whose it is.
Jake’s still asleep, unbothered by your jolt of discovery. His brow is tense, likely because of the angle he himself ended up in, but he’s otherwise the picture of peace.
The sun hasn’t risen and the apartment is cold; it’s just you and him huddled in the lamplit space. Part of you wants to close your eyes and lean back in, but the rest of you screams that if you don’t get any blood flow to your legs, the only lounge you should look forward to this evening is a chaise.
You push yourself off the cushion, careful to move Jake’s arm back by his side. The sudden pressure makes him jump.
“Shit, what the—” he hisses, opening his eyes to see you, still at eye level. “Sorry,” he murmurs, distracted from the pain by the sight of you still at his makeshift bedside.
“No, I’m sorry.” You finish detangling yourself from the blanket and stumble upright. You consider thanking him for keeping you from freezing, but quickly change the subject instead. “I don’t mean to hurry you, but if you want to freshen up, my bathroom’s just through there.”
Jake stifles a groan as he pushes himself up off the couch. “No, I should get going soon. But I’d love to wash off the rest of this–” He almost says “blood,” but given how your face falls, he should move on. “I’d love to freshen up.”
As Jake busies himself in the bathroom, you head to your closet. You don’t feel like changing, although you suspect there’s some unfortunate stains that made their way onto your skirt. Instead, you grab a pair of socks and a buttoned shirt, draping the latter on the bathroom door. You hear Jake humming as you walk back to the couch.
When he opens the door, Jake sees the shirt. He doesn’t have to ask to know it’s one of Matt’s. He swaps his stained shirt for the clean one in the kitchen. Meaning you get an eyeful of just how bruised his torso really is.
You finish putting on your socks (this place is freezing) and stand at the edge of the kitchen. “You look better.”
“I feel better,” Jake chimes, slowly buttoning up his shirt. While you're relieved he looks rested, face and hair glistening from their quick wash, his bruises hurt to look at. You can only imagine how sore he must still be.
“Do you need something to eat?” You move to your cupboard, wincing when you notice how threadbare it is. “I can offer you… black coffee, or what used to be a loaf of bread.”
Jake chuckles, shaking his head. “You've done enough, I'm grateful. Think I'll head home and sleep the rest of this off.”
You turn back to him, stepping closer. With the excess blood and dirt washed from his face, you can see his color slowly returning. The skin by his eye remains discolored but less swollen, showing a glimmer of the brown eye still forced closed beneath his stitches. His wet hair reveals its true texture, with dark curls falling onto his face. You brush a hand across his forehead, pushing the damp hair away from his injured eye. You miss how his breath catches as you tut over him.
“It's just like Maurie's, I don't know how you boys handle all this hair…”
His eyes flutter shut for a moment. “You prefer your men coiffed and clean-shaven, then?”
“I didn't say that.” You pull your hand away, but stay just as close. “You're sure you don't need anything else? Do you want help walking home? I can call Matthew.”
"Nah, it's alright. Just gonna pick up my cab and head to my place."
"You should see a doctor, get real stitches so they don’t scar–"
"I'm promise you, I'm–"
"–or you could start bleeding again, I don't want–"
“Hey.” His hand goes to cradle your face, silencing you.
Neither of you speak for a moment, all your attention on where palm meets cheek. Jake clears his throat, not moving his hand. "I'll take care of it. Look, if I'm worse for wear the next time I see you, you can kick my tail to kingdom come." His thumb lightly traces the worry line beneath it. "Deal?"
You nod, finding it hard to swallow your next argument. "...okay."
Another moment passes. The corners of your mouth threaten to turn up. “So when should we expect to have your table ready?”
“Oh, it’s my table now, is it?” Jake laughs, a labored sound, but he smiles through the discomfort.
You brush his hand away. “Come off it, you know what I meant.”
“I know,” he sighs, still smiling. He steps away, tugging on his coat. “But where's the fun in telling you? Rather let it be a surprise, keep you on your toes.”
You search for something, anything to say in response, but watching him struggle to put his coat on, face still cut and bruised, your usual wit fails you.
Your silence doesn't go unnoticed. Once he’s dressed, Jake steps over to you again, this time holding his hand out to you. “Until next time, morena.”
Slowly, you extend your hand to clasp his. It’s warm, like the way he’s looking at you now. You squeeze it lightly. “Until next time.”
Before you can let go, he bends down, bringing your hand to his lips. They’re dry as they brush against it, but you feel your skin burn all the same. With a signature wink and a smile, he lets go. When the door closes behind him, you’re left with the receding sound of his footsteps, your skin blazing from his touch, and the drum of your own heart racing in your chest.
__________
When Jake reaches the street, he ducks into an alley. By now the sun has almost completely risen, but the faint shape of the moon remains unusually visible over the city.
Jake closes his eyes. In an instant, his clothes transform: the borrowed shirt and bloodstained trousers fade away, replaced with a blindingly white suit. It’s more dapper than anything Jake would wear himself, but Khonshu isn't the type to keep personal tastes in mind.
A white mask rises from the collar of the suit, wrapping around his head and face. Immediately Jake feels the pressure behind his eyes alleviate, and he can think clearly for the first time in hours.
He opens his eyes– now glowing like the moon– and stares at the sky.
We need to talk, you boneheaded bastard.
__________
A/N: holy fuck this was a marathon. but worth it imo! this has the most scenes i wanted from my og concept (a oneshot, if you can believe it); love seeing how things come together within a new story. this has been a blast an a half to work on, for the story but also bc y'all's feedback has been so fun. thank you for your hype and support through all this!!!
shoutout to @mrs-lockley for always being a willing collaborator + hypewoman + reminding me that the superpowered blind character is still fucking BLIND
also ty @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch for your help re: beating that guy up. kisses to u
as always, tysm for reading <3
tag list: @mercurysjoy, @importantnightwerewolf, @cupidysm, @queerponcho, @nerdieforpedro, @fandxmslxt69, @shadystarlightgentlemen, @lunar-ghoulie, @casa-boiardi (lmk if you'd like to be added to/removed from this wee tag list)
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