Well. He does know how to knock, anyway. But one of Matt's kitchen windows is slid upward without any further exchange of niceties and one boot after another, Frank unfolds into the apartment. In the unlit room he's just another shadow against the neon and halogen backdrop of Hell's Kitchen.
His glance around looks casual. Is casual, reflected even in the strong, regular beat of his pulse. The Devil of HK might be less than an enemy, but Frank doesn't have many people left he'd go so far as to consider friends. This turf belongs to Murdock; steady pulse regardless, he's ready for anything.] C'mon, [Frank calls to the darkness, moving toward the coffee pot,] that was good. You said yourself you've got a great ass.
[He clocks Frank about a block away. It's easy to pick out the sound of his heavy boots and the way that he smells like gun oil, powder and coffee. He stays passive from where he's seated in the living room when the window to the kitchen opens and the Punisher slides into his apartment. It's not the first time. It definitely won't be the last.
He reaches to turn on the light to illuminate the way for Frank, even if he's sure the other man could navigate his apartment in the dark with ease now. He rises from his chair and moves toward the kitchen to meet Castle at the coffeemaker.]
You're probably the better judge but I haven't heard you complain.
[He reaches to retrieve a couple of mugs and sets them on the counter.]
[Red's a spook; so is Frank, but there's a difference and Frank's aware of it and can't help but trying to work it out. He leans a hip against the kitchen counter and pushes his hood back. There's a perversion to watching a man who can't watch you back and Frank feels the tug of do-do not as Murdock crosses the kitchen and pulls out the mugs.
Yeah, maybe he glances at the ass in question, though.] It ain't bad.
[He takes care of pouring the coffee into both mugs but other than that doesn't offer assistance. It's hot enough to burn but that doesn't stop Frank from putting his nose into the steam and taking a drink. Fuck. It's good coffee. Frank swallows and exhales in appreciation.] Yeah. Now that's a cup of coffee. [He takes another sip, watching Murdock over the rim of the mug.]
[In his own home, Matt doesn't bother with the glasses and when he pads barefoot across the floor in an old t-shirt and his pajama pants, he probably doesn't look too much like the Devil. He can change quickly, if it comes to it, but he can't say that he's really itching for a fight tonight. That's not why he let Frank come over.
The answer about his ass sparks a smile.] I'll just take the compliment and move on.
[He takes a sip of the coffee once it's poured.] I told you so. There's whiskey in the cupboard if you want to add to it. Good stuff is on the top shelf. Mid range is the bottom. I stick with the bottom unless there's something worth celebrating.
[He likes this - Murdock without glasses, without lenses of any kind. Eyes the color of the coffee they're drinking. It's a new enough discovery to be something he's still taking in, the almost oxymoronic idea that they're two feet apart and Murdock's eyes can't find Frank but it's damn sure his knuckles could. Something about the friction between those two things always causes a heavy pressure to uncurl at the bottom of his gut.]
Nah, I'm good. Use whiskey more to disinfect than drink. [Frank pushes off the counter and walks slowly around the kitchen as he sips the coffee. He uses a finger to check the cupboard. The level of amber liquid in each bottle.] Curious what you consider worth celebratin', though. Winning a case?
[He's gotten more comfortable with Frank now that it feels like their run-ins involving their fists seem to have come to an end. At least for now. They're still diametrically opposed in all of the ways that matter so he doesn't fool himself into thinking it won't happen again someday. But for now, he can feel an ease around having Castle in his home and seeing him as something softer than the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. He's aware of every movement Frank beside him while they stand drinking their coffee.]
For once, you're not bleeding. [He doesn't taste copper in the air.] There's beer in the refrigerator but I don't think that pairs as well with the coffee. [He makes the offer with an easy, charming enough smile.] Yeah, sometimes. Depends on the case. Sometimes victories don't always feel like it.
You can smell that, huh. Yeah, quiet day. [Black tee, black jeans, black sweatshirt. Some things don't change but it's true; no blood. The cupboard is knocked shut, softly enough. Frank turns to look at Murdock. Old t-shirt. Cotton pants. A blind man. A man a world away from the Devil he's fought on the rooftops but still there's a common thread, isn't there? The way the angle of his jaw tracks Frank's location. He does that in the suit, too.
Sometimes victories don't always feel like it.] I hear that. [There's a goad there, waiting, but Frank doesn't take it. Murdock doesn't seem like the type to drown his losses. He wants to feel them. Just like Frank.] So what about today? You whistle, and your dog without morals comes running? I'm not that, Red.
Yeah. I can smell that. I can smell that you were cleaning your gun earlier. There's still some oil under your fingernails. [Sometimes it feels like a bit of a party trick but it's the advantage that he has in the world and Frank knows about it so he doesn't mind making a point of it. He spends so much fucking time trying to be something that he isn't in a feigned helplessness that isn't really him that it feels nice to be honest. Comfortable. Maybe it's strange that he finds that with Frank Castle.
Yeah. Figured you would. [Matt takes another sip of his coffee.] Today was...one of those days. Sorry. I didn't mean to make it seem like you don't have a code or something. I know you do and I know it matters to you. It was supposed to be a fuck buddies joke, not a referendum on you as a person. [He's over explaining but he feels kind of bad about it now.]
[Frank brings his fingernails to his nose and then exhales a laugh.] Yeah, takes a real rocket scientist. [But he knows it's not just a guess.
That idea of comfort, it's not so strange. Guys like them, they're weapons. Murdock has his safety on. Frank doesn't. But they're still both weapons, walking down the sidewalk everyday with people who don't understand what they're brushing elbows with. Is Frank comfortable with Murdock? Nah, not the way those people on the sidewalk take comfort in each other - but there's a release in knowing he's standing with someone who understands guys like them, they don't get to have that. Even if they do make referendums on each other as people.
Frank laughs, the too-loud, too empty kind of laugh that is already falling from his face as he pulls a hand over his mouth.] Jesus christ, yeah; sure. [He looks at the front door, the window. Knows he ain't gonna use either. He's not offended. He doesn't care. Truth is that if Red decided to take the safety off, yeah, Frank would be there.
His boots are loud, antagonistic as he crosses the hardwood back to Murdock. Stops too close, slides his mug onto the counter behind but doesn't touch. Sharing space as a threat, but he's not sure yet of what kind.] 'm here, aren't I? [Frank's voice, already low, drops into a rumble.] Sure as shit ain't for the coffee.
[He flashes a quick smile when Frank disregards his appraisal. It doesn't matter. He knows that Castle is likely very aware that it's not the only thing that Matt picks up but he doesn't feel the need to list everything; what kind of soap Frank showered with, the last thing he had to eat, the detergent he uses or any of the other dozen things that Matt can tell just by his presence. It's nice both to not have to feign anything while also not have to prove anything either.
He doesn't have to like it, but he and Frank are warriors. Sometimes on the opposite side because of method and motivations, but they exist in a space together where it's easy. They both stand in easy confidence because there's a strange safety in knowing how unsafe either would be if the gloves came off. They both hit hard but Matt's hands aren't anything resembling fists right now, circled around a warm coffee mug while Frank effortlessly stalks through his apartment.]
I'm glad you're here. [It's about as close to sentimentality as he can muster for Frank and that seems fine with the both of them. He sets his half finished mug down behind him and stands still in Frank's presence. They're both assessing.] And I assume not for my sparkling conversational wit.
[It's perverse, yeah, and strange, being able to look at a man all you want without him looking back. Murdock's probably, certainly, keeping track of other things, but vision - Frank's way of it - is his alone. He looks at the sleepless night in the light purple of the skin under the man's eyes, the imperfect line of his shave that's regrowth, not fumble. How does Murdock shave? Huh. The corner of Frank's mouth twitches upward as he stands there, muscles not quite still. Never quite as still as when he's looking down a scope.]
You talk too much, that's for sure. [But the spark of intentional aggression, that's gone from his tone.] Looks like someone else thought so too. [Frank reaches up without hesitation, his hand moving toward the dark edge of a bruise peeking from the corner of Murdock's shadowed jaw - and stops, fingers hovering. He breathes out through his nose.
[Matt might not know the things that Frank sees in him like the shade of his hair and eyes or what color clothing he's wearing but he tracks a wide variety of other things in their proximity. He can feel the small movements of Frank's body next to him and the way that he shifts slightly on his heel. Sometimes he wonders what Frank is looking at when they stand like this but he doesn't seek to ask.]
I've been told that a time or two, believe or not. [Of course Frank would believe it. The remark about the bruise forces a small smile out of him, especially when he feels Frank start to reach and pause inches from touch. Matt takes a small step forward to close the gap between them so rough fingers can connect with the bruise.] Yeah, well, you should see the other guy. [He came out ahead on that exchange. He almost always does.] What color is it? The bruise. [It's a day or two old but shallow so he wonders how obvious it still is. That's something he can only guess at with experience.]
It's chaos, because of course it is. Frank was right, of course, that instead of waiting for them to come, they should get the drop on the task force. They don't have the same methods and Matt knows that there's no talking Frank down off of his ways, just like Castle can't convince him to take a life because it's the easy thing to do. They fight their own ways. Daredevil leaves unconscious men and broken bones and the Punisher leaves corpses. It's always the same. What strikes Matt is how the old instinct to fight against Frank's nature is dimmed. The acceptance of sin is its own kind, he knows, but God never tried to stop Frank Castle.
He circles back to his place, like he knows Frank will after getting separated. Matt's aches catch up to him by the time the adrenaline wears off so by the time he gets onto his rooftop, he's feeling every blow. The patio door remains unlocked and he goes inside to strip off the suit to take in the damage. He tastes coppery blood in his mouth and he spits it into the sink on the way to retrieve the first aid kit. Broken knuckle--again. Rib is probably a hairline fracture. No, make that two. He took a knock to the head that had him seeing stars and that could be a concussion. Shit. Lousy night. He's not sure how much better or worse Frank managed but he remembers the distinct sounds of the silenced rounds and slowing heartbeats, so Frank probably thinks it was all worth it regardless.
He carries the first aid kit out to the kitchen to wait.
God has indeed not reached down his hand. Nothing Frank has met yet has ever smote him. And still, as they both make their way through the ranks, those bodies that the Daredevil leaves unconscious and broken - Frank doesn't come back to clean them up. He knows better but he leaves them to sort their own sins with their maker. Maybe they'll understand they were spared by a better hand. Maybe they won't and he'll find them later, send them to hell where they belong.
Despite that; it's always worth it. A few rounds of ammo, a few less shitbags waving their cocks around on the street like they're worth something.
He ignores the familiarity of the space as he steps into Red's apartment through the patio door. This isn't home, isn't real. It's like a safe house - enough, for now. A place to expand, for a while. Not forever. Red's at the counter already, white box in hand. "Aw honey, you waited up."
Frank's alright, the cops were too confident and too off-guard to be much of anything at close-quarters. He's got a graze on his shoulder that cauterized itself at range, a bruised knee that'll need ice, a busted lip. But getting the drop on them turned the tables. Frank looks at the coffee maker and then lets it go. "Shame I missed out on the little red number, though."
The smell of pennies and gunpowder follows Frank when he walks in through the patio door. Matt doesn't lift his head; he knows who's coming and had him clocked a block out so there's not much of an element of surprise. "Of course I did, dear. Supper is on the table," he drawls with a short laugh.
Really, it's just the first aid kit but that's the joke. Not that he's feeling terribly funny. Stripped down to his underwear and standing in the living room, he feels over his ribs with his fingertips while Frank closes distance. "I'd put it back on but you can never really figure out how to effectively take it off." He winces when he finds the right place and sighs before going to the freezer to retrieve an ice pack. Two, actually. One for his ribs and one for his head. "Can you put coffee on? I'm going to go crumple on my new couch for a few minutes." Frank's a big boy and when he's not actively bleeding all over the place, he doesn't need Matt to tend to his wounds, nor does he expect anything in kind.
"Awfully close to your little fallout shelter. Do you think they knew or just got lucky?" he asks from the sofa where he spreads his legs across it to stretch out with an ice pack on his ribs and on his forehead.
"Thought part of the mystery was fumbling for the zippers." Secret is, Frank likes it when Red's a bit more asshole than caring do-gooder. Maybe it's not a secret. Just keeps him on his feet, makes the ground feel a little more stable. He moves to the coffee maker without question or gripe. He watches Red slump onto the couch from the corner of his eye.
Red makes his own choices, as fraught by guilt or bleeding heart as they may be. Frank doesn't feel responsible.
"Truth? Dunno." He's got warning systems in place but he'll sleep a little lighter for the next few days. Water and grinds in, the pot starts its magic. Frank leans against the counter and pulls the velcro on his vest, taking a deep breath. Yeah, there're a few rounds in white paint that'll be bruises tomorrow and forgotten the day after. He exhales. "Most of those clowns got their heads up their asses but there are a few with their caps screwed on straight enough to be bad news." He doesn't want to relocate, but he will if necessary. Packing up wouldn't be hard.
"Reminds me of fumbling with Stacy Gaffney's bra in 8th grade. Though I might've been more coordinated then than you are now," he counters while he shifts to find something resembling comfortable on the couch. It doesn't come. That's fine. He's used to it by now and he listens to the sounds of Frank moving around his kitchen to all of the places where he knows things are. That's bred of familiarity but he doesn't call it out.
Matt's not sure either. He doesn't love the proximity, that's for sure. "Yeah, I know. There are a couple I had some run-ins with before that aren't as completely stupid as I wanted to think they are." He considers making an offer for Frank to crash at his place but he decides against it for now. It feels like an overextension, and probably unnecessary. Maybe. Obviously he knows he can come to Matt if he needs anything and that feels unspoken anyway so he decides to leave it there. "At some point, you'd think you'd have stacked enough bodies in the morgue and I'd have sent enough hospitals and left them to eat through straws that they'd give up." That doesn't seem to be how it works. Not with the true believers.
Red's rollin' around, uncomfortable; still, not responsible. There's a way to finish off assholes so that they don't second a second go at you; Frank's standing here living proof. He throws his jacket over a counter chair. His vest hits the counter in front of it a moment later.
Frank rolls his neck, vertebrae cracking with a content moan. "Not the true believers, Red. You should know, you know? Not so easy to give up a code when you're indoctrinated." He hates, more than a little, that these fuckers are using his symbol. His fucking skull. They don't know but that doesn't make it right. They've all got flag tattoos like it means something to them, the stars, the stripes. They don't know shit.
He turns to the counter to watch the coffee drip into the pot. Breathes. "I appreciate the back up. You could have walked. This isn't your fight."
Matt doesn't blame anyone for what happened except for Fisk's task force. He made his choices and he made them a long time ago. Far before he ever crossed paths with Frank Castle.
"Yeah. I know. I don't understand how Wilson fucking Fisk is the cult of personality for these assholes though." He knows how much it bothers Frank that they seem to think they understand the Punisher. They don't. Matt doesn't either, of course, but he has got a hell of a lot better idea than assholes who have no real code. That's one thing he can never take away from Frank Castle; he lives and will probably die by a creed.
He could say something sarcastic to keep the rhythm going but he doesn't. It's sincere enough. "You didn't need me but you know, it's my fight too. This is my city."
Matt tilts his head back, turning his neck to seek that same satisfying crack he heard from Frank's. "I hit my head. My impulse control is probably shot so I'll offer you something to wear that's not a flack jacket and fatigues and hope you don't bite my head off."
"Your city." Deadpan, like he knew it was coming. And he did. "Got the fuckin' monopoly on New York." There's no heat. Frank's tired and the coffee's only at a half a cup. He pushes off the counter.
"That's a pretty excuse, Red, considering we both know you've offered me more for less." But he's moving across the room because, well, he doesn't fucking know. "Maybe I've taken off all the heads I need to tonight." Yeah, he's gonna go through Red's drawers. But it doesn't take long; he's not looking for evidence, for proof of anything. He's already got Red's biggest dirty secret.
Turns out that leg size doesn't matter so much in sweats - they're clean and don't smell like blood, and that's enough right now. Frank falls into the chair kiddy-corner to the sofa.
"I do when it comes to assholes like Wilson Fisk who think they own it and his boot licking task force who do his bidding," he mildly answers.
He decides not to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth when it comes to Castle acquiescing about anything, even if it's just an offer for clothing for the night. Sometimes he likes to wear a size up in sweats anyway, so he figures that at least that part will fit. Not that either of them are putting on a fashion show any time soon.
Frank's steps across the hardwood echo and he winces slightly at the sound. Definitely a concussion. "Yeah. I remember."
The subject of Fisk isn't bait he's taking tonight - call it earned good will. Red's not all there, he can tell, probably a minor concussion. And to use a term that would be understood, Frank's not about hitting below his weight. Not here, not when Red had his back tonight.
He crosses his legs at the ankles, fingers laced over his stomach. "I was gonna enter the Seminary. When I was in high school, I thought. That's the way, that's where I'm goin'."
He knows they don't view Fisk the same way, or at least what should be done about him. He's pretty sure that Frank shares his views of Wilson Fisk as a human being but that's about where that line ends. Two paths forward and it doesn't feel like anything that'll be solved tonight.
Matt instead shifts, grabbing a throw pillow to tuck it under his head as he turns on his side, facing Frank. It's an illusion of attentiveness that's instinctive now, because somehow it makes people feel more 'heard' even if Matt could listen to Frank's voice from down the block. And this feels important. "It's kind of hard to imagine you as a member of the clergy." It's not a slight. Just an observation. "You went a different way."
"I was already fucked by then. Thought it would cure me. Save me."
Frank appreciates the gesture of the movement but he knows Red well enough by now to see it for what it is. He doesn't know if a blind man with a concussion will still get nauseous with a bodily shift but be it on his head, literally; Frank's never asked for Red to be anything but what he is.
"Thought didn't last long. I enlisted as soon as I got my diploma and got some sense beat into me."
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Something like that. I can hear you outside. I assume you don't need an invitation to come in.
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Well. He does know how to knock, anyway. But one of Matt's kitchen windows is slid upward without any further exchange of niceties and one boot after another, Frank unfolds into the apartment. In the unlit room he's just another shadow against the neon and halogen backdrop of Hell's Kitchen.
His glance around looks casual. Is casual, reflected even in the strong, regular beat of his pulse. The Devil of HK might be less than an enemy, but Frank doesn't have many people left he'd go so far as to consider friends. This turf belongs to Murdock; steady pulse regardless, he's ready for anything.] C'mon, [Frank calls to the darkness, moving toward the coffee pot,] that was good. You said yourself you've got a great ass.
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He reaches to turn on the light to illuminate the way for Frank, even if he's sure the other man could navigate his apartment in the dark with ease now. He rises from his chair and moves toward the kitchen to meet Castle at the coffeemaker.]
You're probably the better judge but I haven't heard you complain.
[He reaches to retrieve a couple of mugs and sets them on the counter.]
Kona coffee. Let me know what you think.
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Yeah, maybe he glances at the ass in question, though.] It ain't bad.
[He takes care of pouring the coffee into both mugs but other than that doesn't offer assistance. It's hot enough to burn but that doesn't stop Frank from putting his nose into the steam and taking a drink. Fuck. It's good coffee. Frank swallows and exhales in appreciation.] Yeah. Now that's a cup of coffee. [He takes another sip, watching Murdock over the rim of the mug.]
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The answer about his ass sparks a smile.] I'll just take the compliment and move on.
[He takes a sip of the coffee once it's poured.] I told you so. There's whiskey in the cupboard if you want to add to it. Good stuff is on the top shelf. Mid range is the bottom. I stick with the bottom unless there's something worth celebrating.
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Nah, I'm good. Use whiskey more to disinfect than drink. [Frank pushes off the counter and walks slowly around the kitchen as he sips the coffee. He uses a finger to check the cupboard. The level of amber liquid in each bottle.] Curious what you consider worth celebratin', though. Winning a case?
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For once, you're not bleeding. [He doesn't taste copper in the air.] There's beer in the refrigerator but I don't think that pairs as well with the coffee. [He makes the offer with an easy, charming enough smile.] Yeah, sometimes. Depends on the case. Sometimes victories don't always feel like it.
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Sometimes victories don't always feel like it.] I hear that. [There's a goad there, waiting, but Frank doesn't take it. Murdock doesn't seem like the type to drown his losses. He wants to feel them. Just like Frank.] So what about today? You whistle, and your dog without morals comes running? I'm not that, Red.
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Yeah. Figured you would. [Matt takes another sip of his coffee.] Today was...one of those days. Sorry. I didn't mean to make it seem like you don't have a code or something. I know you do and I know it matters to you. It was supposed to be a fuck buddies joke, not a referendum on you as a person. [He's over explaining but he feels kind of bad about it now.]
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That idea of comfort, it's not so strange. Guys like them, they're weapons. Murdock has his safety on. Frank doesn't. But they're still both weapons, walking down the sidewalk everyday with people who don't understand what they're brushing elbows with. Is Frank comfortable with Murdock? Nah, not the way those people on the sidewalk take comfort in each other - but there's a release in knowing he's standing with someone who understands guys like them, they don't get to have that. Even if they do make referendums on each other as people.
Frank laughs, the too-loud, too empty kind of laugh that is already falling from his face as he pulls a hand over his mouth.] Jesus christ, yeah; sure. [He looks at the front door, the window. Knows he ain't gonna use either. He's not offended. He doesn't care. Truth is that if Red decided to take the safety off, yeah, Frank would be there.
His boots are loud, antagonistic as he crosses the hardwood back to Murdock. Stops too close, slides his mug onto the counter behind but doesn't touch. Sharing space as a threat, but he's not sure yet of what kind.] 'm here, aren't I? [Frank's voice, already low, drops into a rumble.] Sure as shit ain't for the coffee.
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He doesn't have to like it, but he and Frank are warriors. Sometimes on the opposite side because of method and motivations, but they exist in a space together where it's easy. They both stand in easy confidence because there's a strange safety in knowing how unsafe either would be if the gloves came off. They both hit hard but Matt's hands aren't anything resembling fists right now, circled around a warm coffee mug while Frank effortlessly stalks through his apartment.]
I'm glad you're here. [It's about as close to sentimentality as he can muster for Frank and that seems fine with the both of them. He sets his half finished mug down behind him and stands still in Frank's presence. They're both assessing.] And I assume not for my sparkling conversational wit.
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You talk too much, that's for sure. [But the spark of intentional aggression, that's gone from his tone.] Looks like someone else thought so too. [Frank reaches up without hesitation, his hand moving toward the dark edge of a bruise peeking from the corner of Murdock's shadowed jaw - and stops, fingers hovering. He breathes out through his nose.
Waiting for permission.]
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I've been told that a time or two, believe or not. [Of course Frank would believe it. The remark about the bruise forces a small smile out of him, especially when he feels Frank start to reach and pause inches from touch. Matt takes a small step forward to close the gap between them so rough fingers can connect with the bruise.] Yeah, well, you should see the other guy. [He came out ahead on that exchange. He almost always does.] What color is it? The bruise. [It's a day or two old but shallow so he wonders how obvious it still is. That's something he can only guess at with experience.]
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I tried out "Murdock" but I hate it lol. "Red" just sounds more natural.
He will always be "Red" to Frank
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He circles back to his place, like he knows Frank will after getting separated. Matt's aches catch up to him by the time the adrenaline wears off so by the time he gets onto his rooftop, he's feeling every blow. The patio door remains unlocked and he goes inside to strip off the suit to take in the damage. He tastes coppery blood in his mouth and he spits it into the sink on the way to retrieve the first aid kit. Broken knuckle--again. Rib is probably a hairline fracture. No, make that two. He took a knock to the head that had him seeing stars and that could be a concussion. Shit. Lousy night. He's not sure how much better or worse Frank managed but he remembers the distinct sounds of the silenced rounds and slowing heartbeats, so Frank probably thinks it was all worth it regardless.
He carries the first aid kit out to the kitchen to wait.
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Despite that; it's always worth it. A few rounds of ammo, a few less shitbags waving their cocks around on the street like they're worth something.
He ignores the familiarity of the space as he steps into Red's apartment through the patio door. This isn't home, isn't real. It's like a safe house - enough, for now. A place to expand, for a while. Not forever. Red's at the counter already, white box in hand. "Aw honey, you waited up."
Frank's alright, the cops were too confident and too off-guard to be much of anything at close-quarters. He's got a graze on his shoulder that cauterized itself at range, a bruised knee that'll need ice, a busted lip. But getting the drop on them turned the tables. Frank looks at the coffee maker and then lets it go. "Shame I missed out on the little red number, though."
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Really, it's just the first aid kit but that's the joke. Not that he's feeling terribly funny. Stripped down to his underwear and standing in the living room, he feels over his ribs with his fingertips while Frank closes distance. "I'd put it back on but you can never really figure out how to effectively take it off." He winces when he finds the right place and sighs before going to the freezer to retrieve an ice pack. Two, actually. One for his ribs and one for his head. "Can you put coffee on? I'm going to go crumple on my new couch for a few minutes." Frank's a big boy and when he's not actively bleeding all over the place, he doesn't need Matt to tend to his wounds, nor does he expect anything in kind.
"Awfully close to your little fallout shelter. Do you think they knew or just got lucky?" he asks from the sofa where he spreads his legs across it to stretch out with an ice pack on his ribs and on his forehead.
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Red makes his own choices, as fraught by guilt or bleeding heart as they may be. Frank doesn't feel responsible.
"Truth? Dunno." He's got warning systems in place but he'll sleep a little lighter for the next few days. Water and grinds in, the pot starts its magic. Frank leans against the counter and pulls the velcro on his vest, taking a deep breath. Yeah, there're a few rounds in white paint that'll be bruises tomorrow and forgotten the day after. He exhales. "Most of those clowns got their heads up their asses but there are a few with their caps screwed on straight enough to be bad news." He doesn't want to relocate, but he will if necessary. Packing up wouldn't be hard.
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Matt's not sure either. He doesn't love the proximity, that's for sure. "Yeah, I know. There are a couple I had some run-ins with before that aren't as completely stupid as I wanted to think they are." He considers making an offer for Frank to crash at his place but he decides against it for now. It feels like an overextension, and probably unnecessary. Maybe. Obviously he knows he can come to Matt if he needs anything and that feels unspoken anyway so he decides to leave it there. "At some point, you'd think you'd have stacked enough bodies in the morgue and I'd have sent enough hospitals and left them to eat through straws that they'd give up." That doesn't seem to be how it works. Not with the true believers.
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Frank rolls his neck, vertebrae cracking with a content moan. "Not the true believers, Red. You should know, you know? Not so easy to give up a code when you're indoctrinated." He hates, more than a little, that these fuckers are using his symbol. His fucking skull. They don't know but that doesn't make it right. They've all got flag tattoos like it means something to them, the stars, the stripes. They don't know shit.
He turns to the counter to watch the coffee drip into the pot. Breathes. "I appreciate the back up. You could have walked. This isn't your fight."
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"Yeah. I know. I don't understand how Wilson fucking Fisk is the cult of personality for these assholes though." He knows how much it bothers Frank that they seem to think they understand the Punisher. They don't. Matt doesn't either, of course, but he has got a hell of a lot better idea than assholes who have no real code. That's one thing he can never take away from Frank Castle; he lives and will probably die by a creed.
He could say something sarcastic to keep the rhythm going but he doesn't. It's sincere enough. "You didn't need me but you know, it's my fight too. This is my city."
Matt tilts his head back, turning his neck to seek that same satisfying crack he heard from Frank's. "I hit my head. My impulse control is probably shot so I'll offer you something to wear that's not a flack jacket and fatigues and hope you don't bite my head off."
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"That's a pretty excuse, Red, considering we both know you've offered me more for less." But he's moving across the room because, well, he doesn't fucking know. "Maybe I've taken off all the heads I need to tonight." Yeah, he's gonna go through Red's drawers. But it doesn't take long; he's not looking for evidence, for proof of anything. He's already got Red's biggest dirty secret.
Turns out that leg size doesn't matter so much in sweats - they're clean and don't smell like blood, and that's enough right now. Frank falls into the chair kiddy-corner to the sofa.
"You remember when I told you about Gabriel?"
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He decides not to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth when it comes to Castle acquiescing about anything, even if it's just an offer for clothing for the night. Sometimes he likes to wear a size up in sweats anyway, so he figures that at least that part will fit. Not that either of them are putting on a fashion show any time soon.
Frank's steps across the hardwood echo and he winces slightly at the sound. Definitely a concussion. "Yeah. I remember."
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He crosses his legs at the ankles, fingers laced over his stomach. "I was gonna enter the Seminary. When I was in high school, I thought. That's the way, that's where I'm goin'."
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Matt instead shifts, grabbing a throw pillow to tuck it under his head as he turns on his side, facing Frank. It's an illusion of attentiveness that's instinctive now, because somehow it makes people feel more 'heard' even if Matt could listen to Frank's voice from down the block. And this feels important. "It's kind of hard to imagine you as a member of the clergy." It's not a slight. Just an observation. "You went a different way."
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Frank appreciates the gesture of the movement but he knows Red well enough by now to see it for what it is. He doesn't know if a blind man with a concussion will still get nauseous with a bodily shift but be it on his head, literally; Frank's never asked for Red to be anything but what he is.
"Thought didn't last long. I enlisted as soon as I got my diploma and got some sense beat into me."
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