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's been in this dank, dark room for two days now (not that he actually knows that, because it doesn't have a single fucking window), and it wasn't even because he'd let himself get trapped on purpose this time. He just got caught off-guard. Sloppy. Stupid. Fuck.

It's been long enough and he's been active enough that most of the sort of shitbags that Frank likes to run roughshod over realize he's not nearly as dead as optimistic newspaper headlines would have New Yorkers believe, and apparently someone put out a decent enough sum of money to get actual professional mercs into the city to take him out. There was a whole team, five of them, former military and actually pretty damn impressive; three of them are dead now, of course, but not before one put a bullet in his thigh and he wasn't too hard to corner after that.

He has no idea why he's still down here, or even still alive. If he had to guess, he'd say it's because there's something wrong with the promised payment. Or maybe they're just taking it real personal that he made ground beef out of their buddies. Either way, he's actually happy when the door finally screams open on its rusty hinges, because more than anything else, the waiting is driving him insane. He hasn't had human contact or anything to eat or drink since they dragged him down here and zip-tied him to a chair bolted to the floor. His whole body throbs unpleasantly every time he slips back into consciousness, and he's almost certain the bullet wound has gotten infected.

He isn't expecting the figure that steps into the dim light of the open doorway, given that it's neither of the two remaining mercs, but... just a guy, dressed all in black with a bandanna tied over his—wait. Wait. "Re--" he coughs, harshly, throat cracking from disuse and thirst. He licks his lips, and finds only dried blood there. His tongue feels thick and heavy. "Red?"

Finding Frank this time isn't as easy. Matt's been at it for hours by the time he gets a lead. The ensuing fight feels good, and not just because Matt's frustrated by this point, but because active guards must mean Frank's alive. Once Matt's laid the men flat, he finds the door, pausing to hear what's beyond it. Nothing but labored breathing and a steady, if not inspiring, heartbeat.

The smell hits him pretty bad. A rusted tinge of blood and a sickeningly sweet smell of mould. It leaves an acrid taste on Matt's tongue. He still smiles, though, the corner of his mouth turning up at Frank's recognition. Matt hates how relieved he is to hear that stupid voice.

"Can't get rid of me that easily." He moves, feeling down Frank's arm with his fingertips until he finds the rope binding Frank's hands together. When Matt hadn't found keys on either man, he'd grabbed a knife from one of their pockets on a hunch, and now he used it to slice through the braids. He can't imagine how raw Frank's wrists are. Or what state Frank is in at all. Okay, he can imagine, and it's not great. Matt hoists Frank's arm around his shoulders and helps him up. "Okay?"

"Fuck!" he chokes out, with feeling, as his leg peels off the chair for the first time in days, leaving behind dried blood and pus and god knows what else. He leans heavily against Matt, breathing hard, but he manages to keep down any other noises as they start to limp their way out. It's not the worst injury he's ever gotten (he has, after all, been shot in the head), but hell if it doesn't feel like it in the moment.

He's had a lot of time to think in the last two days—a lot of time—it's almost as bad as the hospital. There wasn't anything to plan, nothing to do with his hands, no one to watch. Just him and the awful things in his mind.

And Matt. He thought a lot about Matt. That stupid, sad look on his face before Frank walked away.

Fuck. "How'd you find—how'd you know?"

Matt can smell the infection. It makes his nose tingle. After Frank gets a good shower, Matt will have to give him something to try and clean up the wounds. He takes the burden of Frank's weight and is glad, at least, that this time it won't end up in Frank getting arrested. The only thing at the end of this walk is food and a bed.

"Just take it easy, all right? We've got fifteen, maybe twenty blocks to go." And there will be no rooftop hopping or cab catching for either of them, so Matt's going to have to navigate them through quiet alleys and side streets.

"I have Devildog, by the way." Better to say it now, in case Frank thought he could detour to his own place to get the pup.

"Yeah?" Absurdly, Frank feels himself starting to smile, even though he knows that at the end of their twenty-block hike is going to be a terrible few flights of stairs. That's twice now Red has rescued his dog (and him, but it's easier to think about the dog—and he's probably actually more grateful over him too, all things considered.) "Thanks." He'll ask how the hell the devil found his apartment later. For now, he's not even worried about it. More touched than anything, that Red even bothered.

It makes him wonder, for just a moment, what it would be like between them if he could change. But he knows he won't. Can't. Not for anyone.

He's right in that the stairs are hell, and Red ends up half-carrying him up the last flight when his leg finally just stops wanting to hold his weight at all, which means that they're both barely in any sort of condition to open the door and fall inside, though they manage it somehow. Frank props himself against a wall just so he can breathe for a moment, and then can't help but laugh. It comes out exhausted and relieved, barely above a whisper of noise. Everything still throbs, but it's more distant, duller. The smooth floor feels cool against his raw wrists. "You were right," he sighs, like he has half a mind to pass out right there in the hallway and is just talking to keep himself from doing it. "That bandanna is definitely worse than the horns."

It's definitely slow going. Along the way, Matt wonders, too, what it'd be like if things were different. He wonders about it a lot and sometimes he catches himself getting carried away. Anyway, if they weren't what they are, they'd never know each other. And, cliché as it is, Matt likes Frank the way he is. It's the version of Frank that Matt is most comfortable with.

"I thoughy so." He lets out a laugh of his own as he slips the bandana off. Imagine if a neighbor saw, it's already bad enough. When the door is unlocked, Devildog is out to sniff around, whining happily at Frank and sniffing around him. Matt has to nudge the dog away so he can help hoist up Frank.

"Don't pass out on me yet," Matt grunts, hauling Frank inside. "We're going to try and clean you up and get you to eat something, then you can sleep."

God, a shower and food sounds so good that it gives Frank the energy to move again. He imparts a few clumsy pats to the dog's head before dragging his ass to the bathroom.

Once he has rinsed most of the grime of the last two days (and the fight before them) off, Frank feels more alive again. He doesn't touch the bullet wound, or a few of the deeper contusions, but by the time he emerges from the steaming bathroom with one of Matt's towels tied around his waist, he looks (and smells) like a new man.

A hungry man. "Got any pants?" He had taken one look at the set of clothes he came in, stiffened by blood and sweat, and noped right out of putting them back on.

While Frank washes away the last two days, Matt gets out his first aid kit. He also cooks up one if those meals Frank made for him. It's not perfect, but it's better than nothing.

At Frank's question, Matt's brain momentarily shuts off and restarts again. He can't see, but he can imagine well enough. "Uh. Yeah. Give me a moment. There's some food for you and if you need to fix anything up, the first aid kit is there."

Matt motions vaguely toward everything before moving to his room. At least, from what he can tell, they're relatively the same size. Matt finds some sweat pants and a t-shirt, which he brings out. "I hope this works. And the bed's yours. Just pass out there when you're ready."

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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