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.

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"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."

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