trustinthedevil | (no subject)

"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.

Frank's nose wrinkles, clearly not mollified by the not-quite-there apology. "Those kinda people really worth talking to?" That's probably a bit of a harsh way of looking at it, but Frank has never been big on giving anybody the benefit of the doubt. Not even before... everything. There's people worth hearing out, obviously, but having done some traveling and getting to know folks from all walks of life, Frank is pretty secure in his conclusion that those kinds of people aren't in the majority.

And life is too short to waste that kind of time on anybody else, he feels.

But that's getting off point. He sniffs, and gets back to scrubbing. "It don't fucking bother me."

"I know it doesn't."

Matt's lips curl up into a small smile. It's nice, having someone he can just be himself around - whether that self is Matt or Daredevil. It's nice to have someone around who understands. Leaning his head against the back if the couch, Matt raises his eyebrows.

"Are you trying to tell me you'd like me not to wear them right now?"

Frank is about to say do whatever you want, but he figures if he's always making Matt come out and say shit he should probably nut up and offer the same in return. "Yeah," he shrugs, not sounding particularly sheepish, but he still hasn't turned around from scrubbing a completely clean pan either. "They really get in the way of my giant nose, you know?"

Matt's grinning. It's hard for him to not be delighted by that, and for more reasons than just the promise of more kissing. He takes the glasses off, setting them on the coffee table. And he sets his papers next to them, who is he kidding, after all.

"It's not my fault your nose is so beat up." Not really. Maybe he's contributed. "I bet it suits you."

Frank snorts, but it's not like he has any grounds on which to stand and argue, either. He was starting shit and getting his nose punched in looong before Matt ever came flying into his life boot first while he was trying to snipe (rude.)

"That an insult or a compliment?" he wonders, finally turning off the sink and drying his hands with a dish towel.

Edited (phone tagging is the devil) 2016-06-13 10:58 (UTC)

"Right now? Compliment."

Seeing Matt's vacant lap, Devildog sets his head there for pets, which Matt happily gives. This, he thinks, is a good moment. Easy and domestic. A part of him is waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Frank has done all the bustling around the kitchen that he can manage before it starts feeling absolutely ridiculous, and he circles around the couch, nudging the dog's butt out of the way with his knee. He settles on the cushion next to Matt instead of the one at the other end of the couch, scratching idly at the dog's flank.

He busies himself studiously watching Devildog's short fur part under his blunt fingernails, instead of braving a look at Red. "You know I haven't, uh—done this in awhile, yeah?" Long time. Hasn't even really had the urge, until... well.

It's those dopey, full-face smiles, and the way he looks with blood on his mouth, and the fact that he brought Devildog back. He's the most frustrating person Frank knows. He's also the only part of any day that Frank looks forward to anymore.

Matt listens. He hears the moment where Frank gives up, listens to his footsteps. He feels the shift in the couch when Frank sits and there's a strong scent of dish soap clinging to him. Matt laughs and shrugs a shoulder.

"I don't exactly have a great track record," he says. Not that Frank knows. "What I mean is, I'm not ... Expecting anything. There's no rush." Because Matt can't understand what it's like to be Frank Castle. This whole thing they're starting is the strangest thing Matt's ever done, made even more strange by how natural the progression feels.

"It's fine, Frank."

"Just before you're forty, huh?" He sounds amused as he sinks into the couch cushions more fully, the side of his thigh pressing against Matt's. The loud, thwacking rhythm of Devildog's tail striking the coffee table as it wags incessantly is strangely relaxing.

He finally turns his head to look at Matt, and on impulse, reaches up to run his thumb lightly over his cheekbone, just beneath one of his bared eyes. He hadn't looked that closely before, though he'd seen Matt without the mask or glasses before. They're brown, but a light sort of brown. Almost hazel, though they're not quite there yet. Frank's lips twitch of their own volition as he remembers another text they'd shared, not too long ago. "In what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes?" Language don't get much more poetic than William Blake, motherfucker. "On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire?"

"To be fair, that's a ten year wait."

Matt smiles, then lets out a surprised laugh. Frank wasn't wrong, he has a knack for poetry. Matt can tell, used to listening to the inflections in a persons voice. And the words seem almost extra decadent coming from Frank's velvet-and-handcuffs voice. He reaches up to touch his fingers to the hand in his cheek.

"You know," he teases, gently, "you've already won me over."

"That a fact?" Frank grins, sounding more or less impossibly self-satisfied over Matt's response. The Tyger has always been his favorite, and yeah he's got most of his favorite poetry memorized, wanna fight about it?

He slides his hand further back, under the light touch of Matt's fingertips, using his palm to cup his stubbled jaw and draw him closer. Just a few inches. "Well, I like to be thorough," he says, lowly, the heat of intent warming his harsh voice up.

Warm, yes, but dangerous. Dangerous because Matt can probably list ten ways this is all terrible for him without trying, dangerous because when Frank talks like that, it reminds Matt of Elektra. Familiar and exciting all at once. It makes Matt's stomach drop and he leans in easily at Frank's guidance.

Too easily, maybe. It takes a lot for Matt not to unfold his legs and climb into Frank's space.

"I can appreciate that." Matt feels like his own voice is too harsh now, in comparison with smoothness settling into Frank's. He swallows, trying not to be too obvious about it. "I do appreciate that."