trustinthedevil | (no subject)

(no subject)

Who:

brutalize
What: Following this.

Was it the smoothest text Matt had ever sent? Definitely not. Did it work? Yes. More or less. He's not entirely sure if it was his natural charm (unlikely) or the pull of the Keurig (probably), but the point is, Frank's coming over. And that's honestly the highlight of Matt's life these days. He's already done his sweep of the kitchen for the night, anyway.

There's not much to do while he waits. Sitting on his couch in his sweats and socks and t-shirt, he decides to go over some things in the never-ending effort to get his firm back off the ground.

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Frank shows up about an hour after his last communication, just like he said he would, having showered away any evidence of what he'd been doing when he first got Matt's text. He has the dog's chain in hand because, honestly, he expects to be staying the night. Barring them getting into some stupid argument that makes him storm out, of course.

He doesn't even bother to knock, just lets himself and Devildog in, toes off his boots in the entranceway and deposits an armful of groceries onto the kitchen counter with a grunt of greeting.

What? It was on the way.

It makes Matt feel a bit cozy, that Frank can just let himself in. It really shouldn't, all things considered, but there you have it. From his spot on the couch cushion, his lips quirk up into a smile. The presence of Devildog suggests Frank's staying, and there are groceries. Matt can forgive Frank's less than enthusiastic hello because, well. Food.

He gets up, setting aside his papers and giving the dog a pat on the head, and his head tilts as he wanders into the kitchen.

"Freshly scrubbed." Which suggests that Frank wants to hide something. Matt raises his eyebrows in silent judgment, feeling through the bags. It's actually sort of sweet. Frank caring to some degree, not wanting to outwardly upset Matt.

Frank snorts at the judgmental non-look, snaking a hand in under Matt's wandering fingers to pluck the package of ground beef out of the bag. There's italian sausage and a couple ripe tomatoes and a package of pasta, some garlic and parsley. They're having spaghetti tonight. Also, there's a thing of coffee. Frank doesn't fully trust Matt not to have picked out just some tea cups to go with his Keurig, the heathen.

He fishes a pan to brown the beef in out from one of the cabinets. "Fine, next time I'll show up with swamp ass, that what you want Red?"

Matt brushes his fingers against Frank's, up to his wrist, then keeps poking around the shopping.

"And you say I'm not romantic." But he huffs out an amused breath, walking away to give Frank his space to cook. Besides, there's a dog that needs to be scratched. "I appreciate it. What, with my delicate nose."

Frank hums, amused, and keeps bustling around the kitchen while Matt departs to lavish attention on his dog. The big boy appreciates it, making a concerted effort to lick any and all skin within reach, absolutely including Matt's face if it gets too close.

Frank alternates between watching them and dicing up the garlic and tomatoes, feeling entirely too contented. More than he should, certainly. He's supposed to be at war. "He should go to the vet," he says to distract himself, over the sound of the sizzling pan, "dogs need heartworm meds and shit, right?"

Accepting the fate of never-ending doggy kisses, Matt sets his glasses aside so they don't get accidentally broken under excited paws.

"I don't know, I've never had a dog. I can make him an appointment." He ruffles the dogs ears and stands, going to wash his face free of slobber. "A professional will probably have a better answer."

When Matt returns, he lingers by the kitchen counter. Out of Frank's way, of course, though he's wondering if he can (or should) try his luck. Matt's still not entirely sure what they're doing here. "If you need a taste tester, I volunteer."

"I bet you do," Frank mutters, a laugh stuck in his voice as he scrapes the food into their respective pans to start it all cooking up. He's not a great cook, but he's passable: he knew enough to feed his wife and kids when he was home on leave, mostly shit he'd learned by being nosy in the kitchen in his youth. He'd had a very Italian mom, see.

Either way, once it heats up far enough he scoops a bit onto a wooden spoon - meaty tomato sauce with a bit of garlic because of course - and holds it up in front of Matt's face, one hand hovering beneath the spoon so it doesn't drip onto the counter. "Well?"

Matt just smiles while he stands there, listening to the food sizzling and smelling it as it comes together. Honestly, if he applied himself, he'd probably be a pretty decent cook. But. Well. When does he ever have the time, really? Or the motivation.

His smile grows when he smells the sauce under his nose. The heat ghosts against his lips and he's all too ready to oblige, leaning in to take the bite. And laughing when it's almost too hot. "It's good - I think. Before it burnt off my taste buds."

"Typical Irishman," he scoffs, returning to the pan and giving it a stir. The water has started to boil by now, so he dumps the noodles into the pot too. "What is it they say about not being able to take the heat, huh?"

"Yeah, well, I've been in the Kitchen a lot longer than you, Frank."

Matt lifts his hand, brushing his thumb over Frank's cheek. The gesture is more for mapping purposes, the touch being replaced by a press of Matt's lips before he moves away. He figures he may as well help, right? Picking out bowls from the cabinet and forks from the drawer, then bringing them to the table.

Frank finds himself leaning into the touch, something he feels so rarely these days, but when it disappears he dips the wooden spoon into the water with the noodles, ostensibly to give them a stir but mostly to clean all the sauce off so when Matt passes by him with the bowls and silverware in hand, he can use the back of it to deliver a quick smack to the devil's ass.

He grins to himself, overly pleased, as he strains the noodles in the sink and then dumps them into the pan with the sauce, giving it a good stir before bringing it over and setting it in the middle of the table on a hot pad.

"You want something to drink with this?" He does have that lovely new Keurig, after all...

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.

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