trustinthedevil | (no subject)

(no subject)

Who:

brutalize
What: About a week after this.

Eventually, Matt had come to the decision that things aren't entirely ruined between him and Frank. They hadn't ever made any mention of never seeing one another again, at least, so Matt's sure that means something is salvageable. He thinks it'll smooth itself over though, and he's wrong. Their paths don't cross, there's no angry steps or dog in Matt's hall. It's ... Nothing. After a week of doing real work, Matt stops by Frank's on his way home from the office work-in-progress.

(It's not like it's hard to find Frank, after all. Matt's done it before.)

He knocks at the door and gets no answer. He calls Frank's name to no avail, as well. The only response is the whining and distressed barking of Devildog on the other side of the door. Frank's probably out, and yet - Matt feels uneasy. There's something in the desperation of the dog's noises that makes Matt feel uneasy. When he tries the door and finds it unlocked, that's even more worrying. Devildog's paws are on Matt's thighs and Matt pats him on the head absently. Wherever Frank is, he obviously didn't intend to stay away long. Frank wouldn't have left the dog behind alone.

Matt feels his way for a leash. The apartment, he discovers, is sad and unsettling. And scary, if Matt's being honest. How can a man go through so much trouble for him and then do none of it for himself? The guilt bubbles up. Matt finds the leash and hooks it on the dog's collar. He grabs some food, too, tucking the bag under his arm before walking back to his own apartment. The dog is fed and watered and Matt finds his black suit (the red one still smells like traces of the stink bomb).

"Be good," he says, which gets a bark of agreement. Then it's out into the dusk to try and find Frank. Hopefully alive.

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Frank sighs and sits down, more interested in the food than the bullet wound right now. "Should have bought coffee," he laments, before digging in. He hadn't really meant to spend so much time with Red over the past few weeks (certainly not enough to actually eat one of the meals he cooked.) It just sorta kept... happening. And after their latest fight, steering clear had taken more effort than he thought it would. He's getting attached, more than he should. He thought he was done with all of that.

When Matt comes back out with the clothes, Frank drops them into his own lap so he can pull them on after he's finished dealing with the mess that is his thigh right now. It looks uglier than it is, he knows, but it's still not going to be fun to try and clean up after he is done eating.

"Shit, Red," he protests gruffly, pulling up short of offering to clear out back to his own bed instead because he really, really doesn't feel like walking all the way to his apartment. He's not the type of guy to offer to do something if he isn't actually willing. "I can take the couch, it don't matter."

"From personal experience, the couch is a pretty awful place to recover. You'll feel better after a real sleep."

Matt smiles a bit, and his tone is friendly enough. But it's obvious that he's going to keep being insistent about it, and it's better if Frank just goes with it. He's not going to rescue someone and make them sleep on the couch.

"Anyway, I don't sleep much." He shrugs. His insomnia will keep him up and about. Matt goes to pour Frank out a glass of water and makes a note to seek out better coffee in the morning.

Frank grunts. He'll put up a fight over that later, probably, but for now he's done inhaling the stew and the water and he starts to dig through the first aid kit. He glances over to Matt after pulling out some of the butterfly bandages.

"There a reason for that?"

There are plenty of reasons to lose sleep. Somehow he gets the feeling that because I let murderers and shitbags live to see another day isn't going to be Matt's, even though it really ought to be.

"Probably."

Matt's not really gonna look too far into it. He takes Frank's glass and moves inti the kitchen, pouring him out another drink of water. Despite the dire circumstances, he likes this. He likes having someone around that he can pretend to worry about (Frank is so much more competent than he is himself). Too bad Frank's unlikely to stay for long.

"Do you need anything else?" he asks, setting the glass of water down.

Frank snorts in exasperation at the non-answer, but doesn't push. Instead he slaps a few of the bandages on where they're needed, swipes the bottle of rubbing alcohol, gets up and limps over to the sink. He turns the water on, cranking it as hot as it'll go. "Yeah, grab me that knife, huh? The big one. And turn on the stove." When the tap gets pleasantly warm, he grabs a clean hand towel out of one of the drawers and squirts soap on it, dampening it and then scrubbing the worst of the muck out of his wound. He leans heavily on the counter the whole time, gritting his teeth to keep from making any noise.

When he's about halfway done he glances over to make sure Matt has been doing what he asked. "Hold the flat of the blade over the fire. I need to cauterize this."

Oh, Matt knows exactly what Frank's intending to do, and the look on his face suggests he's one hundred percent happy he's blind and doesn't have to watch. Still, he dutifully follows instructions, if only because it keeps him from reaching out to squeeze Frank's arm while he pushes through the pain. When Matt can feel the heat radiating unpleasantly off the blade, he holds it out so Frank can take the bottom part of the handle.

"I'll be over here," he says, moving around to the couch. He doesn't really want to be in close proximity to the smell of searing flesh, thanks. And because the whole idea of it just really wigs him out even if he knows it's a neccessity.

Frank grabs the knife with one hand and the counter-top with the other, stopping only long enough to take in one deep breath before slapping the searing hot metal down on the open skin of his thigh before it has a chance to cool off too much. His head drops back and he lets out a grunt during the first press (two seconds), he slips a little further down the counter during the second (a three-count), and his reaction is limited to just a rapid heartbeat and quick, shallow breathing for the third (only one second and done.) He lets the knife drop onto the floor and follows it, sitting there for a few seconds—ostensibly for the purpose of inspecting his own handiwork, but mostly just to recover—before pulling himself back up to stand.

He drags himself haltingly back to the table where he left the clothes Matt grabbed for him, tugging on the shirt and soft, worn sweatpants. Devildog seems to realize the ordeal is over and finally approaches, nudging at Frank's hands with his cool, wet nose. That took more out of him than the shower and food put back in, so he's back to sounding terribly weary by the time he pads around the couch Matt is hiding in.

"This isn't some bullshit self-flagellation thing for you, is it?" Altar boy, and all, "taking the couch."

Matt's nose wrinkles at the smell, but what he's more focused on is Frank. He listens, growing concerned until he's ready to get up and go to him. But Frank's moving again, slow and tired, so Matt stays stretched out where he is. And lets out a slight laugh.

"No, this is me being a good host and a concerned -- friend." He supposes at this point he can say that. All things considered. "You'll sleep better in the bed. You need it."

Frank decides that's probably the truth, and he's too wiped to argue anyway, so he shrugs.

He makes his way to the second room, mutters a quick "no," when he sees Devildog eyeing the bed hopefully, and carefully lowers himself down onto it so as not to jostle his leg or any of the other cuts and contusions too badly. It's not easy, but once he's settled it definitely feels worth it.

"Shit, Red," he slurs, dropping one arm off the side of the bed to where the dog has curled up in a sad little lump on the floor, stroking behind his ears. He's never had silk sheets before, and if he wasn't so intent on living like he never came home from the war he'd actually consider buying some now. "This is nice."

That gets a laugh. Matt hums, amused, and gives a good stretch on the couch.

"I know," he agrees. Well. For everyone else, it's a luxury, but for Matt it's almost necessity. Textiles are one thing he'll spend the money on without balking much at the price. "Everything else itches or feels too rough."

He's glad that Frank gets to enjoy it for a bit. Matt is pretty sure Frank deserves it after all the shit he's gone through. God only knows what his bed is like at that scary excuse for an apartment.

One of Frank's eyes floats lazily back open and he squints at Matt through the weird, huge doorway that he didn't bother to slide closed. "'Everything,' like the couch?" he asks, pointedly, because it's not like he feels guilty but he still finds it a bit ridiculous. He's already wearing the man's pajamas after using his shower and sitting at his dinner table in a towel for a half hour, it's not like they've got much fragile masculinity or the illusion of distance left to protect from one another. "Just get in here, asshole, I don't give a shit. If I couldn't handle sleeping next to another man I'd have lasted less than a month in the Marines."

Matt opens his eyes. Not as if it makes a difference but it's an involuntary response. If he knew Frank's thoughts, it's be funny, because he's thinking them himself. And he's standing without really thinking about it, but there's a hesitation before he lets his feet move. It's good Frank's half passed out and has no super senses. He can't hear the uncalled for flutter in Matt's chest or know that Matt's stomach clenches.

His hand touches the edge of the bed so he can feel what side Frank is on. And he cracks a bit of a smile. "You know, calling a guy an asshole isn't a recommended way of getting someone to share a bed with you." Here Matt is, though. He pulls back the blankets and crawls in, head resting on his own pillow. Facing up. He's not sure if he should turn away or turn toward Frank, so he does neither.

"That busted up nose better not mean you're a snorer."

"Maybe it should be," Frank rumbles, sounding pleased with himself. An even mix of smug and sleepy. Devildog starts to lick at his fingers once they stop moving on his head, the silk sheets are way more comfortable than they have any right to be, and the company is, well. Not the worst is the way Frank might put it, but it's more than that. More than he can admit to himself yet, that's for sure. "Since apparently it works."

Of all the ways he expected his week to go after last time he stomped through the halls of this apartment building, ending up in Red's bed with a bullet in his leg and a smile on his face wasn't really one of them. He'll take it, though.

He huffs, eye finally slipping back closed, sleep tugging at the edges of his awareness. He doubts the distance between the bed and the couch would have provided Matt with any respite if he did snore, but he generously decides not to point that out. "Mm. I'm gonna let you go on that journey of discovery for yourself, Red." And just like that, he's gone.

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