This is what happens when Frank isn't there to reel him in, apparently. Matt goes off on his own and causes chaos, and it somehow ends up with him getting shot. Fucking figures.
"Did it?" he asks while watching him drink for a second, letting out a heavy breath. "And how'd he end up shooting you, Red?"
Because he'd croaked the name earlier and Frank is slowly putting two and two together, anger creeping back across his skin.
Matt licks his lips, gazing sightlessly up at the ceiling. It's the look he gets when he knows he's done something stupid and doesn't want to admit it to anyone, and he knows Frank is going to clock that in an instant.
"He didn't want to shoot me," he says, exhaling a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "I think it's ... Complicated. His feelings towards me."
Because he and Poindexter sure as hell aren't seeing eye-to-eye on anything, but Matt didn't pick up on any animosity during their brief encounter. The man almost seemed to genuinely want Matt's help and in turn he was willing to offer something for it. If he hadn't flown off the handle, would Bullseye have been at the gala tonight at all?
"Fuck his feelings," he says immediately, coming back over to sit on the cot next to Matt, eyes darting to the wound, to the blood smeared across Matt's chest and neck, and over his own hands. That bastard did this. Again. Matt almost died. Frank doesn't need to know why, just that it fucking happened.
"What aren't you telling me?" he pushes, insisting. Frank was going to let it drop until Matt recovers more but since Matt is so willing to speak up, he'll take it. "If he didn't want to shoot you, how'd you get shot? What's Fisk and blackmailing got to do with this?"
Matt doesn't know, but he knows nothing is ever just a coincidence when it comes to Wilson Fisk. He tries to parse it out in his head, but he's tired. Sluggish. Fisk had Bullseye moved to finish him off, but that could have been because he knew Vanessa had used Bullseye to put the hit on Foggy, or he was trying to clean up his own mess after six years to maintain a good image.
He runs a hand over his face, giving a weak shrug with his good shoulder.
"At the gala, Fisk was pulling people into a private room, making threats to elicit donations to his Red Hook project. His task force was crawling all over the place."
Which makes it almost laughable how easily Bullseye was able to infiltrate it. Fisk had worked so hard to lock it down and for what? Matt tries to refocus.
"Foggy was going to win his case, it would've been bad for the Fisk empire and his wife -" Matt pauses, still feeling a bubble of anger and sadness and loss when he brings it up. "I went to the gala to confront her. Bullseye wouldn't know I'd be there."
Frank listens carefully, absorbing all of this new information. There's a lot of it. With the Fisks involved, fucking Bullseye in the picture again somehow, and the ghost of Foggy Nelson still haunting Matt after all this time. It's like the universe won't let him rest and Frank understands it completely. Matt will never rest easy until he gets his revenge - whatever form that may take.
"Yet he did," he says evenly, balling a hand into a fist at his leg to keep himself calm, because from what he saw, just a couple millimeters to one side and that bullet would've hit a main artery and Matt would have bled out all over his floor. "And nothing happened to the people who deserved it, right?"
Matt is sure his guilt is painted all over his face. He reaches across his chest to gingerly feel the patched up bullet wound, and knows he just has to say it even though he knows Frank's going to be pissed about it.
"He was there for Fisk."
That should be enough for Frank to fill in the blanks without Matt having to lay it out all out.
He knows Matt is in terrible pain right now and probably should just lie down and rest, but the more he talks, the angrier Frank gets, frustration bubbling up to a boil beneath his skin. It's the realization of what Matt's telling him that sends him over the edge, and he's suddenly standing again - unable to sit still for long.
"What?" It comes out low and strained at first, and while he'd normally lash out physically, he isn't about to so much as jostle Matt in this state. "You are not fucking telling me you took a bullet for that piece of shit. You're not."
Well ... That's better than Matt anticipated. He still winces, and he's not sure if it's because of Frank's blatant disapproval or the pain still pulsing in his shoulder.
"I know what it sounds like, Frank, but I ..." But what? Matt has more reason than anyone to let Fisk get taken out, and then have Bullseye reap the consequences. "You know I couldn't let it happen."
"Yeah, you could have!" His voice rises higher that time and then Frank is pacing, hands on his hips, moving from the cot to a table and back again. Putting all the fractured pieces together, he can see the picture clearly in his mind, of Matt playing hero while also saving the one person in this damn city who doesn't deserve it. Putting his life on the line for assholes is just what Matt does and Frank hates it.
"You couldn't just let it slide this once, could you? You weren't even going to be there," he reminds him, and Frank wishes more than ever that he'd followed, that he'd been there to keep an eye out and catch the act in person.
He stalks back over toward Matt, his anger sounding more like pain than anything: "You were this close to bleeding out right here. And for what? What kind of justice is this going to bring?"
That's the worst part. This probably isn't going to bring any kind of justice. An assassination attempt is going to boost Fisk's popularity. Bullseye being the shooter is going to tighten the noose Fisk's task force has already been holding. Maybe Matt's bought himself a bit of time and grace, but Matt wouldn't be surprised if Vanessa comes clean to her husband. Fisk might respect Matt for taking a bullet for him, but all bets are off if Fisk thinks Matt is a threat to his wife's safety and empire.
"You know I couldn't," he replies, voice too tired to meet Frank's heated tone. "All hell would've broken loose. More people would have died if I let him die."
"Sometimes you drive me fucking crazy," he says in half a breath, hands running down his face, forgetting about the dried blood. It's fine.
All Matt had to do was not jump in front of the bullet and this city would probably be better for it. At least part of the problem would've been handled anyway. Dex never misses, right? The shot would've been a clean kill and even Frank can't fault a serial killer for wanting to put that piece of shit in the ground. He's glad it wasn't Matt taking the shot, but it doesn't mean he had to stop it from happening.
Frank takes a deep breath to calm the rage, hands on his hips as he drops his head. "You're not going anywhere until you're healed. Don't even think about it."
"You asshole," he practically growls, so frustrated with him, even though he's also worried. It's a whiplash of emotions. As if Matt doesn't know Frank would be worried about him beyond any morality concerns here.
"Clearly you do," he insists, in no mood for his bratty behavior now. "If it was up to you you'd leave right now and run right into the arms of Fisk's goon squad."
Matt knows Frank's genuinely concerned for his well-being. He just can't help but go on the defensive, and if Frank's going to bitch about Matt's moral code, well, Matt's going to poke the bear.
"So we're just gonna sit here and let Bullseye take them out for us? Never took you as the sort to let someone else do your dirty work for you."
Logically, Matt knows he's in no shape to take on anyone, let alone a task force. But he also knows time is ticking down and he's losing whatever buffer he has to get to his apartment before they do.
"If I'm staying, you have to do something for me. And you have to trust that I'll stay if you do it."
Matt is pressing, trying to push, and Frank knows it. It's annoying but just what they do to each other when times are tense and they're feeling frustrated by each other or whatever situation they're in. Even so, Frank can't help but fall for it every time, even knowingly.
"That's not what I said," he responds almost immediately. "I'm not asking you to sit on your ass and wait around, I'm just saying rest for at least one fucking day." You got shot, Matthew.
Frank looks up at him from where he's standing like a pissy partner, squinting at the ask. "Yeah? What's that?"
Matt huffs out a frustrated breath, at least half a dozen bitchy retorts on his tongue that he keeps to himself. He needs Frank to do him a favour, being more of an asshole isn't going to make that easier.
"Fisk knows where I live. If his cops haven't been there already, then they'll be there before the night's done. I need you to get my suit."
He can't risk them waiting it out and being there when he goes back, and he sure as hell can't let them find his hidden closet.
It's a reasonable request and it keeps Frank calm for the time being. Matt's right that it wouldn't be a good look if they found direct evidence of Daredevil there and could use it against him. Even if Fisk knows the truth, what good is it if he can't prove anything, right?
Frank nods to himself, agreeing without question: "Okay. I can grab it. Where is it?"
He's already moving to change his clothes and wash up to get the literal blood off his hands.
Matt exhales. He's not sure why he thought Frank would say no, but he's glad that Frank continues to never let him done.
"In my bedroom, there's a hidden door." Matt rubs a hand over his face. "Get the red one, the rest ... I don't know. Do what you have to do, don't think too hard about it."
Matt can eat the cost of them if they have to get ditched in dumpsters along the way or thrown into the river.
Of course there's a hidden door, though the thing that surprises Frank the most is hearing he has more than one suit. Since when? Did he know this? Maybe some part of his fancy new rich life. Then again, Matt wouldn't commission suits when he was allegedly retired right? So many questions.
"Christ, how many do you have?" he asks while finding an old duffel bag to take with him. Without hesitation, Frank goes to his gun locker too to grab a piece, because there's no way in hell he's heading to a potential hot zone without one, whether Matt likes it or not. "Weapons in the same place?"
At the very least, that gets something almost like a laugh out of Matt.
"Five," he admits. He's not surprised Frank's not too aware of it. Matt hasn't even used a couple of them, but he'd rather have them than not. "They have different functions, different uses. But this isn't the time to take them for a test run."
Welp... he grabs another bag for good measure, because if he's moving five full suits and weapons to boot, he's going to need more space.
"You've been busy," is his only comment as he moves back over to the cot and grabs his phone, his keys, lingering a moment. Matt made a promise but he hopes he'll uphold his end of the bargain here.
"You're really not going anywhere," he says rather than asks, wanting to trust Matt with this.
He'd be offended, but he can't blame Frank for asking. It's absolutely something Matt would do, send Frank away and then leave. It doesn't even matter if he's shirtless or without a suit. Frank's got clothes that fit him, protective vests and gear.
But, no, Matt's going to try and keep this promise.
"I'll be here. Unless I hear on one of your radios that the police are on to you."
He adds the last part with a smile, hoping to ease Frank's mind.
"Alright," he confirms, strapping his gun to the inside of his coat and gathering the bags. Frank lingers by Matt, feeling a bit calmer now, and he drops the bags to bend down and press a kiss to the top of his head. "I'll be back in a couple hours."
It's all he says before leaving for Matt's apartment. He's as cautious as he can be considering the heat and eyes that are probably on this place, waiting a bit for it to get dark first. Instead of going through the front door though, Frank uses the fire escapes he's familiar with by now, using the roof access to enter the apartment. It's suspiciously quiet but he'll take that as a good sign, moving around room to room as he scopes out the place. Matt is probably correct this place will be raided soon though and it's a shame, knowing he worked hard for it.
He finds the secret room with all the suits and just... stares for a while. Jesus Christ, Matt. He didn't realize he'd gathered up such a large collection of suits (and he makes a mental note of that black one, honestly), but Frank stays true to his word and stuffs all of them into both bags. It's fucking heavy but he isn't going to drop these off in the dump like it's no big deal. He'll make the effort to take them all back with him.
One more pit stop through the rest of the place in case there's anything else he should grab, and Frank notices Foggy's memorial card sitting in a bowl on Matt's dresser. He doesn't hesitate to grab that too.
He doesn't think anyone's following him, sending Matt a quick message as he's leaving: coming back. all's clear.
Just like that, as usual, they go from ready to punch each other in the throat to something calm and understanding. Matt listens to Frank's footsteps until they're too far away, then he sucks in a long and deep breath. He gets up to move around, splashing some water on his face and then drinking down a chalky, shelf-stable protein drink followed by a glass of water.
He settles back on the cot to close his eyes, choosing some sort of meditation over sleep. The static on the radios, the communications between various officers, the occasional blip of his own name as they keep a search out for him. Even though he knows it's probably fine, he's glad for the message from Frank when it comes through.
It doesn't sound like there's a lot of activity in the area. Should be a clear shot back.
There, confirmation of message received and, more importantly, confirmation he kept his word and didn't leave.
By the time Frank comes back, Matt's helped himself to a shirt and ditched the dress pants, and he's switched one of the radios to play the nightly news broadcast.
Paranoia is still a good tool to utilize in this situation so Frank doesn't blame Matt for wanting to get this kind of evidence away. Hopefully he didn't forget something else that could be used against him, but Matt has been doing this so long, he probably always had an escape plan in mind.
Frank returns with two heavy bags and a pizza. What a guy - he didn't even need to be asked for the food. He's breathing hard as he dumps the bags on the floor and sets the pie down on a table, leaning forward a bit to catch his breath.
"Why the fuck is your shit so heavy?" he complains, but that's including weapons and helmets too. "I didn't know you had a different color for every mood, Red."
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"Did it?" he asks while watching him drink for a second, letting out a heavy breath. "And how'd he end up shooting you, Red?"
Because he'd croaked the name earlier and Frank is slowly putting two and two together, anger creeping back across his skin.
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"He didn't want to shoot me," he says, exhaling a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "I think it's ... Complicated. His feelings towards me."
Because he and Poindexter sure as hell aren't seeing eye-to-eye on anything, but Matt didn't pick up on any animosity during their brief encounter. The man almost seemed to genuinely want Matt's help and in turn he was willing to offer something for it. If he hadn't flown off the handle, would Bullseye have been at the gala tonight at all?
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"What aren't you telling me?" he pushes, insisting. Frank was going to let it drop until Matt recovers more but since Matt is so willing to speak up, he'll take it. "If he didn't want to shoot you, how'd you get shot? What's Fisk and blackmailing got to do with this?"
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Matt doesn't know, but he knows nothing is ever just a coincidence when it comes to Wilson Fisk. He tries to parse it out in his head, but he's tired. Sluggish. Fisk had Bullseye moved to finish him off, but that could have been because he knew Vanessa had used Bullseye to put the hit on Foggy, or he was trying to clean up his own mess after six years to maintain a good image.
He runs a hand over his face, giving a weak shrug with his good shoulder.
"At the gala, Fisk was pulling people into a private room, making threats to elicit donations to his Red Hook project. His task force was crawling all over the place."
Which makes it almost laughable how easily Bullseye was able to infiltrate it. Fisk had worked so hard to lock it down and for what? Matt tries to refocus.
"Foggy was going to win his case, it would've been bad for the Fisk empire and his wife -" Matt pauses, still feeling a bubble of anger and sadness and loss when he brings it up. "I went to the gala to confront her. Bullseye wouldn't know I'd be there."
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"Yet he did," he says evenly, balling a hand into a fist at his leg to keep himself calm, because from what he saw, just a couple millimeters to one side and that bullet would've hit a main artery and Matt would have bled out all over his floor. "And nothing happened to the people who deserved it, right?"
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"He was there for Fisk."
That should be enough for Frank to fill in the blanks without Matt having to lay it out all out.
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"What?" It comes out low and strained at first, and while he'd normally lash out physically, he isn't about to so much as jostle Matt in this state. "You are not fucking telling me you took a bullet for that piece of shit. You're not."
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"I know what it sounds like, Frank, but I ..." But what? Matt has more reason than anyone to let Fisk get taken out, and then have Bullseye reap the consequences. "You know I couldn't let it happen."
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"You couldn't just let it slide this once, could you? You weren't even going to be there," he reminds him, and Frank wishes more than ever that he'd followed, that he'd been there to keep an eye out and catch the act in person.
He stalks back over toward Matt, his anger sounding more like pain than anything: "You were this close to bleeding out right here. And for what? What kind of justice is this going to bring?"
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"You know I couldn't," he replies, voice too tired to meet Frank's heated tone. "All hell would've broken loose. More people would have died if I let him die."
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All Matt had to do was not jump in front of the bullet and this city would probably be better for it. At least part of the problem would've been handled anyway. Dex never misses, right? The shot would've been a clean kill and even Frank can't fault a serial killer for wanting to put that piece of shit in the ground. He's glad it wasn't Matt taking the shot, but it doesn't mean he had to stop it from happening.
Frank takes a deep breath to calm the rage, hands on his hips as he drops his head. "You're not going anywhere until you're healed. Don't even think about it."
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Matt's smile is wry and humourless.
"I don't need a babysitter, Frank."
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"Clearly you do," he insists, in no mood for his bratty behavior now. "If it was up to you you'd leave right now and run right into the arms of Fisk's goon squad."
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"So we're just gonna sit here and let Bullseye take them out for us? Never took you as the sort to let someone else do your dirty work for you."
Logically, Matt knows he's in no shape to take on anyone, let alone a task force. But he also knows time is ticking down and he's losing whatever buffer he has to get to his apartment before they do.
"If I'm staying, you have to do something for me. And you have to trust that I'll stay if you do it."
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"That's not what I said," he responds almost immediately. "I'm not asking you to sit on your ass and wait around, I'm just saying rest for at least one fucking day." You got shot, Matthew.
Frank looks up at him from where he's standing like a pissy partner, squinting at the ask. "Yeah? What's that?"
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"Fisk knows where I live. If his cops haven't been there already, then they'll be there before the night's done. I need you to get my suit."
He can't risk them waiting it out and being there when he goes back, and he sure as hell can't let them find his hidden closet.
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Frank nods to himself, agreeing without question: "Okay. I can grab it. Where is it?"
He's already moving to change his clothes and wash up to get the literal blood off his hands.
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"In my bedroom, there's a hidden door." Matt rubs a hand over his face. "Get the red one, the rest ... I don't know. Do what you have to do, don't think too hard about it."
Matt can eat the cost of them if they have to get ditched in dumpsters along the way or thrown into the river.
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"Christ, how many do you have?" he asks while finding an old duffel bag to take with him. Without hesitation, Frank goes to his gun locker too to grab a piece, because there's no way in hell he's heading to a potential hot zone without one, whether Matt likes it or not. "Weapons in the same place?"
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"Five," he admits. He's not surprised Frank's not too aware of it. Matt hasn't even used a couple of them, but he'd rather have them than not. "They have different functions, different uses. But this isn't the time to take them for a test run."
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"You've been busy," is his only comment as he moves back over to the cot and grabs his phone, his keys, lingering a moment. Matt made a promise but he hopes he'll uphold his end of the bargain here.
"You're really not going anywhere," he says rather than asks, wanting to trust Matt with this.
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But, no, Matt's going to try and keep this promise.
"I'll be here. Unless I hear on one of your radios that the police are on to you."
He adds the last part with a smile, hoping to ease Frank's mind.
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It's all he says before leaving for Matt's apartment. He's as cautious as he can be considering the heat and eyes that are probably on this place, waiting a bit for it to get dark first. Instead of going through the front door though, Frank uses the fire escapes he's familiar with by now, using the roof access to enter the apartment. It's suspiciously quiet but he'll take that as a good sign, moving around room to room as he scopes out the place. Matt is probably correct this place will be raided soon though and it's a shame, knowing he worked hard for it.
He finds the secret room with all the suits and just... stares for a while. Jesus Christ, Matt. He didn't realize he'd gathered up such a large collection of suits (and he makes a mental note of that black one, honestly), but Frank stays true to his word and stuffs all of them into both bags. It's fucking heavy but he isn't going to drop these off in the dump like it's no big deal. He'll make the effort to take them all back with him.
One more pit stop through the rest of the place in case there's anything else he should grab, and Frank notices Foggy's memorial card sitting in a bowl on Matt's dresser. He doesn't hesitate to grab that too.
He doesn't think anyone's following him, sending Matt a quick message as he's leaving: coming back. all's clear.
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He settles back on the cot to close his eyes, choosing some sort of meditation over sleep. The static on the radios, the communications between various officers, the occasional blip of his own name as they keep a search out for him. Even though he knows it's probably fine, he's glad for the message from Frank when it comes through.
It doesn't sound like there's a lot of activity in the area. Should be a clear shot back.
There, confirmation of message received and, more importantly, confirmation he kept his word and didn't leave.
By the time Frank comes back, Matt's helped himself to a shirt and ditched the dress pants, and he's switched one of the radios to play the nightly news broadcast.
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Frank returns with two heavy bags and a pizza. What a guy - he didn't even need to be asked for the food. He's breathing hard as he dumps the bags on the floor and sets the pie down on a table, leaning forward a bit to catch his breath.
"Why the fuck is your shit so heavy?" he complains, but that's including weapons and helmets too. "I didn't know you had a different color for every mood, Red."
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