trustinthedevil | (no subject)

To a degree, Matt knew it was coming. He knew Frank was going to do something in any case. He had just anticipated something more above the waist. Not that he's complaining. He does let out a moderately surprised sound and the dishes rattle a bit, but Matt just rolls his eyes in the end.

"I think just water." When he sits, he raises his eyebrows. "I think I'm gonna bruise. That wasn't very nice, Frank." Too bad Matt's a terrible liar, smiling before he even gets his sentence out.

"Yeah, you're a delicate goddamn flower," Frank throws back dryly instead of apologizing in any way, wandering back to the kitchen to fill up a glass with water and a mug with black coffee. The Keurig finishes so quickly and cleanly it almost brings a tear to his eye. He tosses the pod in the trash and hands Matt his cup, scooping out the pasta into their bowls.

He settles down, leaning back in the chair for a split second and just looking at the table, at Matt. It's all so domestic. Something he never meant to let himself have again, but here he is. Not running for the hills, like he should be. "You need to say grace or anything, Altar Boy?"

Admittedly, there's a vague sense of guilt as the Keurig whirs and the coffee pours out. Matt knows the sole purpose he bought it was for Frank, to make him want to come over more than he does. Shameless bribery.

By the time Frank sits back down and speaks, Matt's already got a forkfull of pasta half way to his mouth. He pauses. "No, I don't. Thank you for Catholic guilting me." He takes his bite, chewing pointedly.

Frank grins, chewing around his own mouthful. "You strike me as the type to do that to yourself enough," he muses, thinking back to the way he'd crossed himself on the boat. Completely ridiculous. Completely... Matt.

He makes a concerted effort no to think about how that, somehow, became a good thing along the way.

"Exactly. I don't need any help from you."

He might nudge his foot against Frank's under the table as he eats, carefully because spaghetti is hard enough to eat when you can see, let alone when you're blind. No heightened senses can save a man from saucy disaster.

Frank realizes, a little late, why his choice of spaghetti might not have been the best one. He watches a bit of the tomato sauce drip down a noodle and onto Matt's hoodie, suppressing the urge to laugh. He can't believe this is the guy who kicked his ass, more than once. Even after all this time, it's a little hard to reconcile the Red that can block punches and backflip out of the path of bullets with the one who shuffles around his apartment in fluffy socks and can't see when some of his noodles are dangling from his fork.

Frank gets up abruptly, fishes a spoon out of the silverware drawer, and slides it into Matt's free hand. Standing behind his chair, Frank hesitates for a split second before sliding his palms up Matt's arms to cup the backs of his hands, pushing a forkful of pasta against the spoon and twisting it around a few times to make it into a little round nest without any loose noodle ends dripping the sauce everywhere.

"Might be easier," he offers, letting go.

It could be considered romantic if if weren't a bit embarrassing, and, honestly, funny. Matt's hands flex under Frank's a little, but he patiently lets Frank guide him along, wonders if he did this with his kids. He leans back a bit, looking up in Frank's direction.

"You sure know how to make a guy feel special," he quips, before taking the neatly spun bite. "Thanks."

"You are by far the most special person I know, Red," Frank fires back, stepping away after looking down at his upturned face for maybe a beat too long. Still avoiding would-be eye-contact, but... less actively than usual.

He sits back down, gives him a curious look. "Coulda said something, you know. I'd have made something else."

"That sounded like an insult."

Matt points his fork at Frank, then shrugs. He twirls his noodles into their little ball, worrying that this is possibly making Frank uncomfortable. Which is stupid. There's no way a blind guy eating pasta can disturb The Punisher.

"I like this," he says, perfectly sincere. "Noodles are a bit tricky but after a few bites, I get the hang of it. You know, I'm becoming pretty proficient with chopsticks." Anyway, Frank's nice enough to make him food. Matt's not going to start getting picky about it. "See?" He takes another bite and swallows. "Ta da."

"Did it?" Frank takes an overly long drink from his coffee cup. "That don't sound like me at all."

Listen. He insults to show his love. Granted he also insults to show his hate, his mild indifference, his boredom and his pure distilled New Yorker...ness, but those are minor details.

Still, he shakes his head, resuming his own meal. "Chopsticks? That shit just seems like asking for trouble." Frank isn't exactly a chopsticks sort of guy, see.

"It's all in how you hold them." Matt demonstrates with his fork before finishing off the last of his spaghetti. Normally, he'd leave the bowl where it is but figures that would bother Frank, so he walks it to the sink.

"How's the Keurig?" He realizes he didn't ask. Matt speaks as he shuffles through his apartment, seeking out a shirt without sauce on it. "Is it everything you hoped for? I hear you can get reusable cups for them."

"Shit, yeah," he grins, finishing off the last of his coffee and watching Matt disappear into the bedroom. "Christ, I'd have killed for one overseas, you know? They had coffee in the MREs but only in some of them. They were only 6oz, and you had to slip them in with your shit instant food on the FRH." He shudders, just a little bit. All the horrors of war, and that's the one he's stuck hardest on. (Admittedly mostly because he dragged the rest of it back home with him, but at least he left the coffee rationing behind.) "Six ounces. That seem right to you, Red?"

"Oh, the horror," Matt says from the bedroom. He tosses aside his sweater and feels through his dresser for another one, before deciding his t-shirt is probably fine. Usually he just uses sweaters as a defense mechanism from the world. "That's the sort of thing a man never comes back from."

He lingers in the doorway for a moment before walking back out, a half-shuffle, half-walk as his socks slide across the floor. "So. I just need to ask, was it just the coffee or do I get to flatter myself and think you came over here to see me, too?"

"No kidding," he sniffs. "I'll try to find one of those reusable cups." Because it's gotta be cheaper, right? He may have god knows how much stolen dirty money stashed around, from the people who really, really deserve to have their toys taken away before they die horribly, but he still has Dad Sensibilities sometimes.

He squints at the devil in the doorway, though, brow furrowed. "Red, I come over all the goddamn time, even when all you had was tea," disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself, buddy. "Of course it's for you, you idiot." What a romantic.

It is weirdly romantic. It's definitely the nicest thing anyone's said to Matt in a while, or at least the more sincere thing. It makes him duck his head to hide a smile and he reaches to rub the back of his neck. He's good enough at being confident and smooth when he's in lawyer mode or public Matt mode. Here he's just ... Hopeless. He's always hopeless with people he likes.

"You can't blame me. You didn't come running until I said Keurig."

Given the dog and the groceries, Matt knows Frank was going to come over anyway. It's fun to tease.

"You didn't invite me until you mentioned the Keurig. Like I've ever said no without it." Of course, the implied invite had been obvious since the first text, but. Well. Maybe Frank just likes making him say it outright.

Alright, he definitely likes making Matt say it outright. It's awful (hilarious) satisfying to chase away the plausible deniability that Matt likes to skirt around when he's sober and regretting whatever drunken thing he found a way to say to Frank the night before.

"I didn't not invite you before that."

Behind his glasses, Matt rolls his eyes. He knows they could do this for hours, stubborn as they both are, and while that's fine, Matt doesn't want to miss any opportunities. He settles his hands on Frank's face, thumbs on the corners of Frank's mouth.

"I have no idea what you look like when you smile. I assume you smile, but I've been wrong before."

Frank's mouth pulls up at one side more than the other, as a huff of breath rushes out through his nose. He's always been more of a smirker than a smiler, though it's mostly not intentional. His tongue darts out of it's own accord to catch the center of his bottom lip, and the last ghost of the coffee he'd finished.

He doesn't reach up to hold onto one of Red's wrists, but it's a near thing.

"Only when I've got reason to," he rumbles, watching the line of Matt's mouth and trying not to move his head too much.

"I guess we can work on it," Matt says, with a smile of his own as he feels the subtle shift in Frank's expression. He moves his hands, skimming over those (adorabley, which he won't say out loud) big ears and the back of Frank's neck. He thinks about stepping back, returning them to their personal space. He can't keep waiting for other people, though, so Matt takes the plunge, closing the gap instead.

It's little more than a firm press of lips, but it happens, which Matt thinks is the more important part.

If Matt was angling to feel the shape of Frank's smile, this was the way to do it. His palms find the solid line of Matt's hips, and once he wrestles his grin back under control he tips his head to one side so their mouths slot together better. It's not particularly wild or debauched, but he pulls away after a moment feeling warmer. "I still ain't gonna call you 'Daredevil,' you know."

Considering how wild the rest of their lives are, Matt's perfectly fine with this being on the chaste side. It's a nice change from fighting on the streets of Hell's Kitchen.

"I'm still waiting for you to call me Matt," he teases, smiling easily. He doesn't mind the nicknames, really.

Frank huffs out another laugh, a smirk twitching around the corners of his mouth. "Don't hold your breath, motherfucker." So what if he manages to make a curse sound fond? Wanna fight about it?

After a second of hesitation, Frank scoops up his own emptied dishes and the pan and brings them over to the sink. He flicks on the water. Shit like this, it can wait until morning, probably, but Frank needs a minute to think. He licks his lips, glancing over his shoulder to where he left Matt, and Matt's doofy smile and rumpled shirt. "Why do you wear the shades, anyway?"

There's a bit of a snort, and if Frank's all the way over there, then Matt goes back to the couch and his work.

"Habit, I guess." He sets his papers in his lap, crossing his legs under him. "To make people feel more comfortable. I don't blink much, and people get unsettled by empty gazes at them but not quite at them."

Frank shakes his head, washing off the plates and then looking for a container to stash the leftovers in before he starts to scrub the pot and the pan. Matt's fridge, at least, is looking less depressing these days. Matt himself is looking a little less depressing these days.

Frank probably is too.

Devildog noses up to Matt, snuffling at his papers as soon as he settles onto the couch. Frank suppresses a smile at that. "Don't see why it's on you to make other shitheads comfortable."

Matt gives the dog a fond pat on the head before softly nudging him away. Cuddles can happen later. Probably sooner than later.

"I want people to feel comfortable around me. It's distracting if they're not. Hearts beating fast, frantic breathing, an offputting scent of perspiration. When I put on the suit and the mask, when I'm the devil, I like that. I need that. But when I'm me it's ... Nice to just talk to someone." He almost sounds apologetic, like he's sorry he's not going to ever have Frank's carelessness or Karen's ability to win everyone over or Foggy's strange but natural charm.