trustinthedevil | (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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"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."