trustinthedevil | (no subject)

Frank laughs, but he's easily just as breathless as Matt and he can feel his heart thundering against his ribcage. He figures it must be as loud as a drum to the devil.

But it feels good. Good and easy and the warmth of someone's weight pressing against him in a way he didn't think he'd ever have again. He didn't think he'd ever want to have it again, but here he is. His hands wander idly up and down Matt's sides, over the thin fabric of his tshirt: he's all hard, compact muscle, which helps. Everything feels different than it used to, including the beard burn which he certainly never got while kissing his wife.

He rubs at his chin and jaw. "You angling for birthday sex, Red?"

"Who isn't?"

Matt laughs again, sitting back. His fingers flex against Frank's chest, plucking at the fabric that's stretched across it. He likes the feeling of Frank's hands on him, likes the sound of Frank's heartbeat and the way it beats off time with Matt's own. He follows Frank's hand, letting his fingers touch where Frank touches before taking his hand back.

"Or this. This is pretty good."

"Guess I haven't completely lost it," Frank murmurs, settling his weight a little bit bonelessly back into the armrest. He's trying not to smile stupidly at nothing, but he's pretty sure his efforts are in vain, so he drops his hands into Matt's lap, fingers curled loosely against his palms.

He knows that getting used to this is a bad idea. He's not sure he can stop it, either way. "Before you're thirty-one, huh. I can do that." Probably won't be nearly that long. Frank's always been a go-getter, after all.

Matt's grinning stupidly at nothing, too. The whole thing is ridiculous - here, straddling Frank on his couch, making out like it's going out of style. Matt definitely never saw this coming. All the same, he likes it, too. He leans back down to press another kiss to Frank's lips, but pauses, hearing something several blocks away. Too far probably for Frank to hear the gunshots.

Matt's expression changes quickly. His smile turns into a frown, eyebrows creasing. "I have to go."

Frank doesn't hear anything, which is why he just stares up at Matt in mute confusion for a good few seconds. It's not often anything can actually render him speechless, even if he doesn't make an effort to talk all that much anymore.

"I—what?"

Matt can't see Frank, but he thinks he can hear the gears start and stop. He huffs out a laugh and presses a kiss to the corner of Frank's mouth (because he misses his lips by accident), and steps on to the floor.

"Duty calls." And there's a hint of regret in Matt's voice. This is why he can't make anything last, but, well. Frank understands, right? Matt's pulled the trunk out of it's spot and he takes the suit out, working on changing from Matt Murdock to Daredevil. "Sounds like armed robbery. Won't take long."

Frank thinks about waiting up, but honestly there's not really much of a point to it and he's been up for just under 30 hours already, having just concluded the sort of shady business he has no plans to tell Matt about, probably ever. It's not like he's not perfectly able and willing to stay awake longer (especially not with a brand new Keurig calling his name from the kitchen), it's just that there's no incentive to with Matt off in his devil themed jammies, beating people up like they're bullies on a playground.

Humph.

After just long enough sitting on the couch staring at the vacated door like an idiot, Frank decides fuck it, raids Matt's dresser for pants to sleep in, and crawls into his bed.

When Matt gets back Devildog greets him enthusiastically at the door, but Frank has passed out under his covers, a pistol and one hand tucked beneath the pillow, dead to the world.

Okay, so it takes longer than Matt thought. He kept finding new things and he couldn't just go home. No matter how much he wanted to crawl back into Frank's lap. Frank probably was past the mood, anyway. But he's still in the apartment - if Devildog weren't the give away, Matt can hear Frank's steady breathing. He moves quietly, petting the dog and peeling off the layers of costume. The clothes he was wearing earlier are where he left them, and once he puts those on, he creeps into the bed. A moment of hesitation and then Matt shimmies himself closer, cozying up to Frank's back. The feeling of bare skin both delights and embarrasses Matt, but it's warm and instantly relaxing.

He hopes he's allowed to cuddle without permission.

Frank doesn't actually wake up—he had to learn to sleep through mortar rounds overseas or he'd never have gotten through a night, so he's not going to spring back into consciousness for Matt tip-toeing through his apartment—but somewhere through the night he turns over onto his back and finds a way to snake his arm under the devil.

He finally peels his eyes open some time just slightly after dawn, with his mouth pressed against Matt's hair and his hand (the one that had been curled around the pistol at the start of the night) tucked up under his flimsy tshirt, knuckles pressed the bare skin of his side.

It takes him a moment to reorient himself with the real world. To remember where he is and how he got there, and after a few split seconds of tenseness he relaxes carefully back into the smooth silk sheets.

He sniffs, slowly retracting his arm, jostling Matt awake in the process if he wasn't already. "Mornin', Red."

Mstt's had Frank over enough know to start learning Frank's sleeping habits. He knows that, when Frank wants to sleep, really sleep, he's out. But he knows, too, that Frank is certainly capable of resting enough to carry on and spring into action if needed. Sometimes it's hard to tell what, exactly, Frank is doing in the moment.

But it doesn't take long for Frank's easy breathing and heartbeat to lull Matt into sleep. He can sleep pretty well, too, when he wants to. When he lets himself let go of the day (and when he makes his way to bed as opposed to the couch). So the jostling is moderately unpleasant as sleep clings desperately to Matt while his brain whirs into something resembling consciousness, and his hand reaches over to slap the clock so it can speak the time to him.

"It's. Five," Matt vocalizes. Barely. It's five in the morning and Frank is moving away and Matt feels bristly at that. He rolls over, to settle more firmly into the pillows. His mouth feels dry and he licks his lips, tasting dried blood from last night's outing. Maybe he should've showered. Maybe he can shower at a more reasonable time of day.

"Uh huh," Frank says, thickly, like it's a perfectly reasonable time to be up and about. "Sun's up." He runs a hand over his face and sits up so he can swing his legs over the other side of the bed, hauling most of the blanket down and away from Matt in the process.

Oops.

Frank finally glances over, taking in the state of him. Shit. "You look awful." That's definitely a lie, but he does look like he had a rough night.

"You're an asshole."

His words are hardly words. It's more a string of syllables with something like vowels connecting them. He's more coherent when he's on death's door, as evidenced when he groans at the loss of both Frank and blankets.

Rolling over, Matt reaches for Frank, catching him in the abdomen to try and push him down. Back to bed. Back to coziness and sleep. "It's five in the morning, Frank."

Frank lets himself get pulled back, mostly just because he's too surprised that Matt was even conscious enough to lift his arms up and apply some close approximation of force. He shifts to avoid laying entirely on top of the devil.

He's really starting to regret not taking one of Matt's shirts, now that he's been stopped from moving to the shower or the kitchen for a cup of hot coffee. The air is cool on his skin, and Matt's arms are very warm.

Yep. He's fucked. "Don't you have work, or some shit?"

"Self employed."

Matt rests his head on Frank's shoulder, feeling a bit smug. That's what happens, Frank, when you wake up a sleeping devil in its natural habitat. You become trapped by its wrath. It's sleepy, cuddly wrath.

"Meeting a client this afternoon. A paying client." Important, that bit. He huffs out a breath. "I need a better office."

"You need a better job," Frank mutters, dryly. He'll never be sold on the nobility of protecting shitbags, whether with fists or the law. And Matt can argue about innocence all he wants, but he'd tried to defend Grotto and he'd tried to defend Frank: they'd both been guilty as sin.

So.

"Maybe I got shit to do," he tacks on, a smidgen unconvincingly. Maybe four hours of sleep after the last two days he'd had isn't entirely enough...

"Nobody has shit to do this early."

Not everyone Matt defends is bad. Hes still thinks, sometimes, about Mrs. Cardenas and how he couldn't help her. Those are the people he wants to help. They need his help. He exhales through his nose, because now he's thinking about it, and he rolls away from Frank. Let him get up and do his shit.

"If you can try to be quiet, that'd be nice."

Well, his goddamn bluff got called, didn't it? (Frank needs to stop expecting he can get away with that shit with Matt.) Still, he can practically taste the mood shifting, and he lays there for a split second longer without Matt warming up his side before deciding it's probably for the best anyway. Really. It is.

So much for holding onto shit with both hands, huh?

He grunts, pointedly doesn't examine why he feels a touch guilty, and rolls out of bed more carefully than the first time so as not to steal all the covers away again. He pads into the kitchen, makes a cup of coffee, takes a shower (without singing, you're welcome Red) then makes two more cups of coffee and hunts for wherever he'd discarded Devildog's leash the night before so they can bail while Matt's still sleeping.

Well. Now Matt's awake. Without Frank there, it's hard to settle back down. Stupid as that is. He lies there, looking up into nothingness, listening. The Keurig. The shower, the water kicking in and screeching quietly through the old pipes. The Keurig again. By the time he hears the leash, Matt's out of bed.

He rubs at his face where the blood is (he thinks), moving with a bit of lag. He leans against the counter, waiting for a moment or two. He's awful at this, he's convinced he's somehow ruined it all, and that's ... Typical. Class Matt Murdock. Fun while it lasted.

"It's customary to say goodbye," Matt says. "I'm just guessing you're leaving." Frank might not feel like he's rushing, but Matt can hear it. Moving faster than usual, an urgency in it all. "Thanks for dinner last night."

Frqank pauses, having finally found the leash mostly tucked beneath the couch, with only the clasp sticking out in the open. Holding it now, as Matt finally emerges from the cocoon of his bed, Frank feels an awful lot like a kid caught with his hand stuck in the cookie jar and he's not entirely sure why.

"You wanted quiet," he reminds Matt, in his own defense, giving Devildog an exasperated look as the pit makes a beeline for Matt and waits expectantly for the petting that always comes when he trots up close enough.

"Oh, right," Matt says. He obligingly pats the dog on the head, ruffling his ears. "And goodbye would have really just thrown me over the edge."

But he's smiling. He's not sure if he believes himself or not, this could be another one of those moments where Matt's tricked himself into thinking everything's fine. "I'll ... Talk to you later."

Frank hesitates. Frank never hesitates anymore, except with Matt. When they're tucked together in bed, or on the couch, or in the kitchen he forgets, maybe a little too easily, how out of sync they are. How new they still are to each other. With his wife, even when their tempers snapped and they fought like cats and dogs, he got her, what she wanted out of him.

Or maybe that only exists now, in retrospect, colored by nostalgia and the awfulness of her absence. Of not being able to fight with her about the petty things anymore.

Matt isn't nearly as brutally blunt as she was: no, he's more or less the opposite. Frank's still all about facing issues head-on, though, so, "Why're you being so squirrelly, huh?"

Any chance that might have remained for Matt to find the humour in this is gone. He feels chastised by the accusation and he shrugs, feeling tired and sore.

"I don't know. Habit?" They can't even go twelve hours without stuff like this happening. Maybe the night before was a fluke. It makes Matt sigh. Resigned. He finds Frank and touches his chest, leaning in to kiss his cheek. The action is quick and Matt's on his way back to bed. It's too early to argue. Better to just avoid it.

"Goodbye, Frank."

Frank's not fast enough to catch his arm before he goes, but that sure as shit doesn't mean he won't follow. "Goddamnit, Red," he complains, dropping Devildog's leash back onto the couch in a pointed rattle of chains. "It don't work like that. You know? This don't—I don't work like that. Yeah."

He stops in the bedroom door. Awake but not particularly even-footed. He's got words, but they're all in a jumble. "I gotta know what you want. But you won't talk, you know?" Never really does, either. Before it had been... cute, honestly. But after last night and this morning, suddenly it doesn't all just seem like a case of being shy, or a little too catholic for his own good. "I know you got shit to say. I need you to, you know, I need you to say it."

"Right now I want you to go."

The moment Matt says it, he regrets it. He turns around and moves to Frank, to catch him before he steps away. His fingers press into the fabric of Frank's shirt and he clutches, just a bit, just in case Frank tries to go.

"No - that's not ..." He's a disaster. Matt presses his forehead to Frank's shoulder. "Can we restart this morning? Rewind back to bed. If you want to go that's fine. I can't make you stay. I want you to stay."

Ain't that a kick in the teeth? Frank twitches when Matt's fingers find their way into his shirt, but it's not because he's got any desire to actually step foot out the door.

Then Matt's head comes to rest on his shoulder he almost agrees—almost—but he knows better than anyone that letting this shit lie is a good way to have it blow up in his face later. "I'm not going anywhere," he says gruffly, which is more or less a threat considering Matt's initial reaction. "We still gotta talk. Going back to bed and pretending it didn't happen isn't gonna fix what's bothering you." A beat. He leans back, and touches the corner of his mouth where he's still got a bit of dried, flaking red. "And you still got blood on your face."