trustinthedevil | (no subject)

(no subject)

Who:

brutalize
What: Following this.

So Matt could probably figure it all out himself. It's not too hard to decipher food cartons, really, and he's adept enough to not kill himself or burn down his place. But there's been all that sutff in the news about the latest Avengers snafu and treaties about governing costumed teams and Matt's unsettled by it. Sure he's nowhere near Avenger level (thankfully), but this means it's only a matter of time before they want to write treaties concerning all of them. And Matt's not sure how he feels about that. He's all for the law, he's all for accountability as hypocritical as that seems. But this is something he wants to stay out of.

Best not to think about it.

He's almost certain Frank is on the way. It'll offer a decent distraction, even if that distraction is Frank taking the piss out of him for that awful misfired message. There will be food, though, and Matt's all for that. ... And apparently a dog, too, because he hears the patter of paws and a chain jingling, accompanying heavy boots. Matt moves to unlock the door before they reach it.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Frank raises an eyebrow at the man in the doorway, but doesn't comment on the oddity of his preemptive greeting. The weirdness is just all part of the Red package, as far as he's concerned.

The dog, meanwhile, sniffs quite happily around Matt's feet, nudging at his toes with a cool, wet nose. Frank grunts at both of them and makes his way past Matt into the apartment.

"He was getting antsy holed up in my—" hovel? shithole? gun fetish dungeon?? "—apartment." The clear intent of so shut up, follows his halfassed excuse for the added company (which wasn't actually demanded.) Once it's obvious that the dog is desperate to explore, Frank reaches down and unhooks his leash. "No furniture," he says like the dog will actually listen and stay off any of it, before moving right along to the kitchen like he owns the place.

You brought this upon yourself, Matt.

"Did I give off the impression that I was mad he's here?"

Because it's the opposite. Matt's like most other humans in that regard - dogs make him happy on the inside. And he's partially invested in this one anyway. With a snort, Matt follows both Frank and dog inside, letting the door click closed. He isn't sure who to go after, but opts for the dog, plunking himself down on the floor to accept all the dog snuffles that come his way.

"You can sit on my furniture," Matt tells the dog, patting him on the head. "It's not very nice furniture." Then, louder, to the pushy man stomping in the kitchen, "Does he have a name yet? I feel bad just thinking of him as Dog."

Edited 2016-05-07 05:19 (UTC)

Frank pointedly ignores that, shooting Matt a Look for overruling his furniture command, but decides to let it go so he doesn't become the bad guy here. He will not let the devil win his dog over without a goddamn fight, okay.

He huffs, pulling open the refrigerator and trying to figure out what he'll be able to make with what Matt has left from his grocery run the week before. Turns out, most of it's still in there. Damnit, Red.

"Devildog," he answers, after only a split second of hesitation, and true to form the dog perks up and pants in the general direction of the kitchen, even though he has to stand on one of Matt's legs and look over his shoulder to get a clear view. Frank pokes his head out from behind the fridge door with something that might sound suspiciously like a smile and says, "Oorah!" Judging by the reaction of the excitable dog in Matt's lap, it's not an uncommon exclamation following his name. The big, happy, slobbery pitbull immediately lets out a noisy half-bark half-howl that sounds suspiciously like "aoouruhhh" in return.

And yes, Frank is immeasurably proud of himself for teaching him that.

He also realizes how it must sound to Daredevil, so he quickly adds, "it's a Marine thing."

Matt's eyebrows go up. He's momentarily put off by the bark, which, while probably delightful, is loud against Matt's hearing an in close proximity to his ear. He pats the dog on its flank to nudge him away gently and rubs at his ear.

"Sure. A Marine thing." Matt actually believes Frank. There's no way the Devil of Hell's Kitchen would inspire a name, but Matt's not letting Frank live it down. "I, for one, am flattered you'd name your dog after me."

Matt stands and wanders into the kitchen. The fridge is open, creating a cool circulation of air around it. He avoids the open door and Frank with a relative amount of ease and leans against the counter, arms crossed.

"Watch the news lately?"

Frank huffs again, Matt really brings it out in him, and throws the devil a look over his shoulder as he grabs the eggs and milk, a green onion and a tomato. So he wants to play ball, huh? "Thought about going with velvet and handcuffs, but that was a goddamn mouthful." Bring it on, motherfucker!

The question makes him hum thoughtfully even as he nudges the fridge door closed with his boot and carries all his stuff over to the counter next to the stove. "Pan? Knife?"

He really should have gotten some spices while he was at the store. Oh well, Matt's ass can deal with a bland omelette. "The Avengers bullshitting around again?" What a generous take on the whole situation, Frank.

Now it's Matt's turn to huff. But even in the dimness of the apartment (even in the daytime, it's still sort of gloomy), Matt's cheeks obviously turn red. But only for a moment. He's not saying shit about it. Matt's not stupid enough to dig himself a deeper hole. Instead, he opens a drawer with knives carefully organized - to avoid disaster. Matt's had one or two too many accidentally cuts reaching into a cluttered utensil drawer, thank you. Next is a cupboard by the stove with a bleak assortment of pots and pans.

"That's what I was getting at, yes." Frank took the words out of Matt's mouth. "I don't know what's going on with them. Some of them got arrested, I heard. I never thought I'd be around for that to happen." Okay, so he said he wouldn't think about it, but he can't help it. It's a ticking time bomb. New York alone is full of people in masks, people with enhanced abilities. Hell, Hell's Kitchen has two already that people know of. And vigilantism isn't exactly encouraged within the scope of the law, either. "They really screwed it up for the rest of us."

Frank smirks to himself but lets it go easily enough. If he hammers it home now too hard it'll lose all its effectiveness later, after all. Pure tactics, that.

He grabs one of the skillets and starts setting everything up so he can cook the damn meal, finding himself letting out a quiet snort. It's good that Matt's here, talking, because if he wasn't then Frank would be stuck thinking about how his kids had liked their omelettes. Lisa had hated tomatoes, and Frank Jr hated onions, but he and Maria had liked them both together. With garlic and basil and a little bit of pepper, but the only thing Red has sitting around is the pepper so that'll have to do.

Instead of all that he thinks about a bunch of colorful idiots getting civilians killed in Nigeria. When the thinking, feeling human (or human-ish) operatives are about as fucking precise as the drone strikes all over Pakistan even with their bullshit made-up superpowers, Frank doesn't know that they shouldn't be shitkicked by the government for a few years. Besides, he'd listened to the news and heard the summarized versions of the Sokovia Accords, they'd sounded reasonable enough.

"Was probably just a matter of time, after that SHIELD shitshow," he reasons. There's always been a friendly (well, "friendly") rivalry between all branches of the US Military, but one thing they could form a united front over was a hilarious mess of James Bond wannabees over at SHIELD dedicated to the fight against nothing in particular, even during the height of the three wars that the US was simultaneously entrenched in. But still no one had really expected fucking Nazis. "Yeah. How long do you think it'll be before some fuck climbs down out of that tower and decides to try and stop us from doing actual work down here?"

Matt runs a hand over his face. He thinks for a brief moment that he needs to shave, but then he sighs and shrugs. The whole situation is exasperating.

"They kept tabs on all of us," Matt points out. If not SHIELD, then Hydra, but the point remains that when the files flooded the internet's public domain, it was evident that they knew where superpowered humans and otherwise were. Matt's just glad that most of those were names that accompanied costumes. His own secret identity is everything, he's not giving that up to everyone so easily. "If this didn't happen, they still would've come looking anyway."

Screw it. Matt's going to tell anyone who comes to sign him up for anything to fuck off, though possibly he'll be somewhat more polite than that. He turns to face Frank, listening to the sound of the knife. His eyes are watering so Matt assumes onions are on the menu.

"What are you doing?"

Well, that's the government for you. Frank scrapes the onion to the side and starts chopping the tomato as the pan heats up on the stove. He's planning to start with eggs, fast and easy, and while Red is eating he can prep most of the other shit in the fridge and throw it into containers to freeze as almost-finished meals so Matt, an apparently perpetually useless bachelor, can simply get them out and put them in the oven later.

He and Maria used to do it every Sunday while he was between deployments so they wouldn't have to waste time cooking during the weekdays. In the kitchen after mass was the only time either of them were louder and more horrible at singing than while taking long trips in the car. Lisa always pretended to hate it, but Frankie would sing along as best he was able without knowing any of their cheesy old songs.

"Cooking, Red. You've heard of that, yeah?" Ah, he makes himself laugh, that's what really matters. He cracks a couple eggs over the side of the pan after greasing it quick, scrambling them with a spatula snatched from one of Matt's drawers. "What are you going to do when they come knocking?"

Frank knows what he's going to do, which is disappear. But Matt's got himself settled in, with a job and a secret id and an unused kitchen, and everything.

"Thanks, Frank. I got that."

But Matt laughs, too, wiping the onion tears from his eyes. He hears the crack of the eggs and feels around, until he finds a pile of chopped somethings that are not onions. One piece promptly gets popped into his mouth. Mm, tomatoes. Matt is glad Frank is using these because Matt may have thought they were large plums and bitten into one.

"I'm going to tell them thanks, but I'm not interested. Everything I need is here, in Hell's Kitchen. And I'll keep it that way."

"It may surprise you to learn that the government ain't likely to play ball like that," though the Sokovia Accords weren't meant to put the Avengers under US control, exactly, he sure as hell figures that the US citizens they decide fall under its jurisdiction won't be allowed to politely opt out. Especially not if they arrested a bunch of card-carrying already-Avengers for that shit just last week in some giant slap-fight at an airport where they destroyed a bunch of commercial jets just for, as far as Frank can tell from the news reports, shits and giggles.

Christ.

Also next time Matt goes for a piece of tomato, Frank will take aim for his knuckles with the back of the spatula. Take that, Mr. Greedy Fingers.

"You're gonna have to get better at hiding your shit if you don't want them on your doorstep someday."

Joke's on you, Frank. Matt's senses kick in and he draws back his hand - plus a tomato - and the spatula just hits the cutting board. He chews his prize thoughtfully.

"I'm a vigilante. Everything I do is already illegal, and I know that very, very well." Matt does what he can. If he ever gets caught to the point where there's a trial, he's already practicing loopholes and defenses. "They can come after the Devil all the want, but I'm not signing. I'll keep operating illegally. It's not really a change."

"God, fucking—" Frank has to shuffle the tomatoes back into an orderly pile after the spatula wings off the cutting board and sends them lurching all over the place, and he turns to squint at Matt's smug little face.

He shakes his head, though, and goes back to poking the eggs around the edges as they start to solidify in the pan. Let Matt live in his fantasy land, he thinks. He ain't gonna come running to bail him out when his cunning plan of it'll be fine doesn't work out. (Who is he kidding, of course he'll come running.)

"How do you do that shit, anyway? Without seeing." He drops the onions into the middle of the forming omelette.

Matt even manages to catch one or two of the tomato pieces. Most of that is sheer luck, but he likes to show off. It makes him even more smug.

"Hmm." A hum and a shrug. "When I lost my sight, my other senses were enhanced. I don't know if it's from the same stuff that blinded me. Everything is heightened so, I don't know, sometimes it feels like I see more than people who have their sight." Matt laughs again. He looks almost embarrassed to be talking about, because it's just an odd thing to discuss. Despite there being gods flying around and super soldiers, Matt still thinks some people might find it weird.

"I trained in martial arts. I have a high proximity sense, and - don't laugh - it's like echo location. It's easy to fight and move if I know what to listen for. But they're sensitive, too. If things are too loud or ... Smells are too strong, it unbalances me. And I'm useless in extreme weather."

Frank hums thoughtfully, filing that away for later use. It's actually impressive. Certainly useful. Fucking annoying when it's being used to get in his way, sure, but—maybe they don't. You know. Always have to be at each other's throats.

They're doing pretty alright here. Frank for one isn't going to stop what he does, he's not going to change, and he knows it. But it looks like a whole wave of pure shit is about to wash right into Red's life if he's not careful (and as far as Frank can tell he never is), so maybe it'll change him. (Maybe just this once, yeah, he'd already said.)

He doesn't know how to feel about that so he doesn't examine it very closely. "Who the hell trains a blind guy in martial arts?"

Matt can already imagine what Frank's face is going to look like, so he just decides to outwardly say it.

"Another blind guy."

He looks amused, but there's something bitter in the look. That's a whole other can of worms and a whole lot that Matt's not going to dump on Frank. Matt's good at internalizing anyway. He moves away from the counter to find the dog, who's still off exploring. The tingle of the collar gives it away pretty easily.

"Like I said. Enhanced senses."

"Don't tell me there's a whole mess of you motherfuckers running around."

Please don't tell him that. Just one of Matt is so much more than enough.

He finally folds the omelette over, searching for a plate to slide it onto and top with the remains of the tomato that Matt hasn't stolen off the cutting board. God. "Do you have ziploc bags around here somewhere? Big ones." Time to get started on phase 2 of the plot to make the devil's fridge less goddamn depressing.

"Never say never."

In a way, Matt wishes that the extent of his crime knowledge was just like Frank's. Gangs, corrupt cops, murderers and traffickers. Everything Matt knows now is unsettling. It's weird. But so are alien invasions. He shrugs at Frank's question as Devildog comes trotting over for pets.

"No clue. Have a look around." Which he knows Frank will do anyway. "Why did you join the Marines?"

Frank rolls his eyes, but starts opening and closing cabinets and drawers until he finds what he's looking for. He sets the whole box of ziploc gallon bags on the counter, before sliding the plate fairly loudly over onto the bar in front of one of the stools. Sorry Devildog, he's gonna steal the lawyer away now that he's finally started to pet you.

"Hey, up here," he says in case that wasn't hint enough, and then makes his way back to the fridge to start pulling more stuff out. "It was good money." He wrinkles his nose. "Well, not that good. But my dad was a Marine. Don't know. I'm not really a college-type." He was much better at killing than he would have been at studying, is what he's trying to say.

Let him finish petting the dog, Frank.

Matt moves over to the bar, feeling out a stool to sit on. The smell of food that isn't take out is better than Matt likes to admit, and he pokes at what's on the plate with his fork while he figures it out. Omelette. He had suspected, what with the eggs and tomatoes. He digs into it, listening.

"Never once thought about going? To school, I mean. You could've gotten a scholarship out of them."

Not that it's Matt business, but, honestly, they don't know much about each other. Matt knows slightly more, sure, but. Frank piques his curiosity. He's a lot more complex than Matt is.

"I thought about using my GI Bill, after I got home." He was set to start drawing his military pension when he got back, but he imagines he would have gotten bored being retired at his age. Or maybe Maria would have wanted to get a job, after staying at home and raising the kids for so many years, and he'd have gotten used to being a house-husband.

Pointless to fixate on that now. Dryly: "But they don't exactly let you file for it as a wanted felon."

Not that Frank would have. He's not going to move on, he knows that now, even if he hadn't been caught and his name had stayed clean. He'd taken out the Cartel and the Dogs of Hell, the Irish and Dutton and the Blacksmith. Even the DA is gone, not that he actually had anything to do with it, but none of that had given him any peace. He's just going to keep fighting until he's dead and it sticks, is all. What the hell is a career going to help with that?

"Now, why the fuck are you a lawyer?" Other than having some kind of weird fetish for protecting the lives of shitbags, that Frank already knows about.

In Matt's defense, it's only circumstance that he's ended up helping people that have less than desirable paths. It's not the vision he had when he and Foggy started the firm, but Matt's trying. As much good as it does.

The question makes him shrug. He can feel Frank's disapproval of it from across the kitchen, can hear it in his voice. Matt's been fine sharing all about his secret senses, opening the door to his apartment. This is harder for him.

"I sure as hell wasn't going to be a doctor," he says, a feeble attempt at a joke and avoidance as he crams his food into his mouth.

Frank snorts. He fills up Matt's largest pot with water, and sets it to start boiling on the stove. Even if Matt's deflection hadn't been as subtle as a neon sign in the middle of the night, Frank would have backed off. He's curious, not nosy—if he doesn't want to talk, then he doesn't want to talk.

"Can you imagine?" He shifts, not that his audience can see any of it to appreciate it, to Matt's Professional Lawyer posture, imitating his voice. "I'll be preforming your surgery today. Don't worry about it, I can smell where your liver is."

He smirks (thoroughly amused with himself), salting the water and then looking for the potatoes he'd bought. "What, don't think anyone would go for it?"

"Wait - sorry. Was that you trying to imitate me? Because I don't sound like that."

But Matt's grinning, trying not to give Frank too much satisfaction. Who would have thought that the Punisher could have a sense of humour?

"Anyway, for the record, you can smell disease on people if you're good enough at it. There have been studies. Change in body chemistry and stuff. So you can laugh all you want."

Frank ignores him, because he's fabulous at impressions and he can see that dorky grin, sir. He rinses the knife he'd used on the tomatoes in the sink and starts shucking the skins off of the potatoes and chopping them into small, uniform pieces.

"No shit?" He wonders for a second if Red is having him on, and then decides with all the crazy shit he can do, probably not. There's aliens. There's Norse gods and dead soldiers from the 40s come back to life. Why not eau de cancer? "What's that even smell like? Diseases."

"No idea. Not nice, I imagine." Matt knows what death smells like, he knows what dying smells like. But he's never had the pleasure of smelling illness. "I hear you can smell mental diseases, too. Anything's possible, right?"

Finished with his food, Matt slips from the stool and carries his plate around to the sink.

"Thanks, by the way, if I haven't already said it. For ... Feeding me."

Frank finds it hard to admit even to himself that he just missed, you know, helping. Being useful around a house. Fixing something that doesn't come out of a series of little bags and watching someone enjoy eating it. Being in a kitchen and thinking about something other than killing for more than a half hour.

Now all he's got is that dog, who looks up at him with those big, soft eyes, and he can't help but think of Matt every time.

"Yeah," he says, gruffly, dumping the potatoes into the water and glancing over his shoulder to Red at the sink. "You got shit you don't like to eat you should probably tell me now. I'm gonna throw everything in there together and freeze it so you can just thaw it later."

It's ... Well, it's nice. No one in Matt's recent years has given him this much, not by a long shot. It's funny it should be Frank of all people. Their history hasn't exactly pointed towards this but now that they're here, Matt likes it. He does his best to be independent, sure. He just can't deny how good it is to have someone take care of him. It makes him duck his head to hide a smile.

"I'll eat anything."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only