thedevilsworkisneverdone | ~kingandcastle

He winces slightly at the clatter, not from the volume of the sound but because he knows that he has inadvertently struck a nerve with Frank and his memories that he hadn’t intended to pull on. He offers a weak smile of apology in response to it and doesn’t comment further on the remark. Of course he remembers what Frank told him. It was soft and tragic in the wake of a violent, terrible night.

“Is there a night that I haven’t pissed you off?” It seems rhetorical. Probably not. “I didn’t care about your revenge. I just wanted to get you out alive. That’s what matters.” He expects that could spark an argument and he doesn’t want that. Instead, he pushes himself upright with a soft groan since it seems like dinner is almost ready. “Was a pretty good shot though. You sometimes act offended that I call myself blind. I assume that sort of thing is why.”

Eh, he's all fuckin' nerves on his best day. He'll take the silver lining; more that he knows that his shit stinks too, the less of a fuss he'll make the next time it's pointed out. Frank hadn't offered that story to an impartial witness, any ol' Joe Schmoe walking down the street. He offered it to Red, because even though he was pissed at the guy, there was already some of their personal brand of fucked-up trust beginning.

No moral argument tonight, though, or maybe not about the point made: getting Frank out was what mattered to Red. Frank doesn't agree with it in general but that's only his opinion - and it's an opinion tempered by knowing now that he would have never found the real answers behind what happened to his family if he'd died in that place.

A bowl is tucked into Red's hands as Frank once again lowers himself into the chair. "Damn straight it was a pretty good shot. That's what pissed me off." He forks some stir-fry into his mouth, blowing at the heat of it around the chewing and swallowing. "And you're the hot-shot lawyer, you tell me. Is there a legal definition that I'm missing? I know you don't need that cane but I'm guessing when you're reading those big fancy books that you're not seeing the words."

Getting Frank out alive had mattered. Nothing was going to be made better by him dying at the hands of the Irish and he knows that Frank told him that whole story because he'd heard him whisper the words right before guns were fired and because he'd chosen to stay with him next to that gravestone instead of leaving him. They had been in a war together, even for just a night, and Matt had felt trust start there, even if he still didn't have any when it came to Frank's ability to have any semblance of self control. That's why he was there. The angel on his shoulder dressed like a Devil to forcefully still his hand, even if Frank bitched and complained about it.

"I'm legally blind by every definition that would be used to assess me, if that's what you mean," he answers as he waits for the contents of the bowl to cool a little bit. "I can't see color. I can't see screens or words in a book that aren't braille. Sometimes I can feel them, depending on how they were printed, but it's not sight. I have an idea of what you look like because of the sound of the room moves and how your heartbeat and your voice make the noise that vibrates, and from hitting you, from touching you, but I have no idea what color your eyes are. I can't see the sky or a sunset. It's more..." he pauses, tilting his head down while he considers the answer. "It's not all black for me. It's reds. It's like seeing the world on fire. The way people describe it as echo location or sonar or...it's a world burning, all the time."

He doesn't think he's ever really taken the chance to explain it but he knows Frank has made enough sarcastic comments that he probably deserves to actually know what he's fighting next to. "I don't need the cane but I don't navigate the world like someone with normal sight, so it's just easier to put on a facade." He takes a bite. "This is good, by the way. Thanks."

The sarcasm's always come from the fact that Red contradicts himself. He uses a cane and then leaps across rooftops. Fumbles a drink when it's convenient, catches an apple in the next moment. Frank's already seen Red fight - a description now isn't gonna change anything.

"Yeah you're welcome." Almost absent, pushing it away to continue on with the conversation at hand. "Why's it easier - because you'd have to stop and explain to people why you don't act like a blind guy? Easier to meet their expectations?"

He doesn't push on the thanks and just eats while he considers the answer to Frank's question. "Yes. I shouldn't be able to do what I do and people have an expectation of what it means to be blind. I can try to pass myself off as sighted, and it works in brief bits and pieces, but I can't make meaningful eye contact or do a lot of other things that you can do. So it's just easier to let people think I'm not as capable as I am than to have to explain chemicals in my eyes, super senses, training with a ninja, yadda yadda." He stirs the food around in the bowl. "People get weird about it once they know what I can smell or hear or taste. Some get self conscious. Some get worried." Frank doesn't seem to be capable of either of those things so it's easier to talk to him about it, and he figures after all this time, he owes some explanation.

Honestly, Frank realizes he's been thinking about Red's blindness in a purely physical sense. Not that he considered that Red was lying about the rest but in Frank's presence the guy is always so physically here, eyes generally covered by lenses or hooded in lust that there hasn't been a lot of room for the in-between - to the point that he understands he'd discounted it. That was an oversight.

No pun intended.

He's glad for the explanation. Doesn't know what he's gonna do with it, but is glad to know. Like seeing the world on fire. That's fuckin' something. "Still sounds exhausting," he says, after another mouthful. "I'm a prick, but at least I don't have to pretend not to be." But then again, he doesn't have to worry about maintaining a life, either.

He knows how he presents to Frank, who has seen him fight and bleed and move through the world in a way that most people with all of their senses can't. It makes sense that he might not understand and that's okay. Matt doesn't mind explaining it and getting to be honest about it in ways that he's typically not granted in the course of a normal life.

"It is," he admits between bites. "It can be, anyway. People might see you a lot of ways but I'm sure none of them look at you and see helpless. It's weird that way," he replies. He knows he feeds into it by virtue of his decisions but it's still difficult sometimes. "I catch myself even with you, reminding myself that I don't have to fake it. It's nice though. To be real."

It's not just that Red has two lives to Frank's one. Red has two distinct lives, as different from each other as almost humanly possible. It's not even something that Frank can wrap his head around - he's never been anything as much as he's been dug into being himself, the sum of his own parts.

"Is there a real for you when you're not in the suit?" Question's mild, honest, not asked to start a fight or pass judgement. "Yeah, you got your reasons, but doesn't that just mean you're making it easier on other people? You talk about fakin' it. You doing it for them? Burning yourself out for them?

"Maybe it would take just as much work to do it the other way. But you wouldn't be fake."

He's not suggesting Red live as the Devil. But he's thinking that Red maintains that helplessness so that the Devil can survive.

It used to matter more, having those distinct lives, when he had more people to protect. The numbers have gotten fewer over the years and sometimes he does wonder who he maintains it for. Selfishly for some part of himself still, but there might come a time when all that remains is the Devil. He thinks Frank would be fine with that outcome.

"I'm not in the suit now," he answers. "When I'm alone, of course. But around other people? I'm not sure there is," he admits and he can actually agree to that point that Frank is hinting at; Matthew Murdock is the disguise and Daredevil is who he really is. He's known that for a while now.

"It's a little late for that. I can't really have a 'miracle' recovery from an accident that happened when I was nine in front of the world," he shrugs before taking a couple more bites to finish off his bowl. He sets it on the coffee table and tugs the blanket back up over his shoulders so he can rest his head once again. "I know this life of mine is on borrowed time. It was from the second I put on the mask. Eventually something's going to give. Maybe when that happens, I'll be honest. But not yet."

Maybe Franks wants Red to be the Devil, yeah, but after tonight it's not gonna be the same. There have been new lines drawn in the grey in-between. He doesn't need Red to give into the reality that justice is never gonna be the Almighty thing that Red wants to believe it is, he can continue to battle his conscience and Frank will bat those battles back in face. But becoming the Devil means something different now. It means letting go of Matt Murdock.

And even Frank knows that's a trickier thing. Excuse the language, but fuck his personal life - Frank's seen the man stand up in court. He thinks that the tether.

"You got a timer on that, Red? Do you hear it? Tick, tick, tick." Frank makes a sound, almost amused, and stands to grab both bowls to take to the sink.

He remains still, faintly smiling at how almost domestic it is that Frank is putting away the dishes after cooking dinner for them. Of course, that's in the aftermath of a fight where blood was spilled all over the streets so it's not exactly a completely sweet image. All the same, Matt is grateful for it.

"Yeah. I've been hearing it tick down like the fuse on a bomb since this started," he answers as he pulls his knees up a little closer so he's lying in a half fetal position on the couch with the blanket up and his head on the pillow. "Been a while since I had a concussion," he mutters to himself while Frank moves around the apartment with comfortable ease. "Fuckers shoved me into the wall and I think my brain whiplashed against the inside of my skull."

Red's let alone to sit with his scrambled brain for a few minutes while Frank cleans up; he's a Marine - they don't less messes for other people to deal with, they keep tidy bed corners. It's habit made life style.

When Frank returns, he stops between the couch and the coffee table. "Gotta keep teaching those fanboys some manners. Sit up." He's got tylenol and water in-hand.

Yeah, he might be too fuckin' familiar with this place.

"C'mon. You'll sleep better in your fancy-ass sheets." Red needs rest, and Frank needs someone on the streets who doesn't want to kill him. Well, doesn't need it. Maybe he's gotten accustomed to it, though.

He pulls himself up with a soft groan that he doesn't bother trying to hide from Frank. Why should he at this point? His hand goes to his side while he sits up and he reaches to take the pills and the water. He downs them quickly. "Thanks." He doesn't elaborate farther than that because he knows Frank will just deflect the gratitude the way he usually does.

"What are you gonna do with yourself?" he asks as he plants his feet on the ground. Pushing himself from a prone to standing position is not a lot of fun but he manages it. "It's late." It's an invitation to stay. It'd be the smarter play; those cosplaying fanboy assholes were close to Frank's fallout shelter and staying off the streets after an ambush like that is the smarter play. He figures that Frank knows that, but he also gets weird about staying at Matt's place. He never does it with innocent or not-so-innocent offers so he's not sure he expects anything different this time. "I'm not sure I'm supposed to sleep with my brain sloshing around in my head."

"That shit's an old wives tale, Red. Thought you were supposed to be the smart one." He doesn't touch, but gets behind and just to the side of Red just in case. "Everything I know I learned from the best damn field medic ever to grace the Middle East, and he told me that not sleeping after a knock to the head is just macho bullshit. His words, not mine." Frank herds Red toward the bedroom. "When the brain's injured, what it needs the most is sleep. Rest. Repair, you know. So c'mon. Hup."

He's gonna sleep on the couch. Frank doesn't have the same death wish he used to and can always use the coffee as an excuse in the morning. But Red doesn't need to deal with that right now.

"I know the law. I'm not a field medic," he answers as he plants his feet and makes sure he's got a good sense of balance. He thinks he does but he stays still for a moment to see if he has his equilibrium. He does, so that's something. It's lowered again and he walks with Frank at his side like he's a sheep dog, drawing him to the bedroom. "Okay, okay, I'm going." It's actually kind of sweet in Frank's own strange way. It's what he's capable of and that's enough. He's not sure he's ready to sleep but Frank not answering his question does leave him with a minor worry that he is so locked in on the 'mission' to deal with the fanboys that he might make a bad decision.

"I'm a terrible patient," he says as he sits down on the edge of the bed. "I was as a kid but after that building fell on me? Christ, I was a pain in the ass to Sister Maggie. Just the biggest asshole about it. So you can kick my ass if I bitch too much."

"Eh I'd punch ya and put you out but, you know. Counter-intuitive." It's a joke, though the delivery's flat. "C'mon." He's only going to play nursemaid for so long. Curtis cares; Frank defends allies. But not against themselves. He stands near the bed, waiting. Impatiently shifting. "She kick your ass, that why you beggin' for it now? If she was able to whoop any sense into you then she sounds like the kind of sister I'd like."

It earns a smile all the same. "Just a little counterproductive," he agrees as he swings his legs onto the mattress and spreads out on top of the sheets. He takes a breath, letting a small wave of minor nausea pass with the movement. It is probably from the way that he tilted his head so he'll have to avoid that. "Pretty sure she wanted to but no, she didn't. She doesn't take a lot of shit for a nun though, so you'd probably like her." He reaches to adjust the pillow behind his head and closes his eyes. That feels more like instinct than anything, as if it might will sleep but he doesn't think he's really close to it. "Look. I'm not going to be weird about it. But you should stay." He just leaves it at that. Frank will do whatever he wants, and maybe it's crossing some weird invisible line in Frank's sense of code or the way that he wants to segregate his life from Matt's but whatever. He's hurting and his body is bone deep exhausted so his sense of self preservation isn't great.

Frank snorts. "Don't generally cook for someone if I'm not expecting something in return, sweetheart." And that's what Red'll get. He's not an idiot. Those cops were in his goddamn backyard; he's got some sorting to do tomorrow. He doesn't want to relocate but the sunlit hours will tell.

For now he just wants to fucking sleep, hope his knee will stop giving him shit, and pray that he doesn't dream of Maria. "Now go the hell to sleep."

"You don't have to crash out on the couch, you know. Bed's big enough," he offers. "Besides--not tonight, dear. I have a headache." He's obviously not in any shape for anything more than just falling asleep but Frank had his back tonight and it seems like a dick move to banish him to the sofa. It's a nice sofa, granted. Brand new and not covered in blood anymore. So maybe it's not the worst place to spend a night and he knows that the argument will be that Frank has had worse accommodations in his life. Still. He makes it anyway and he doesn't wait for the rejection he figures is coming before turning onto his good side, facing away from Frank so he can actually try to get some of that sleep he needs.

The comeback earns a laugh but Frank just turns to the doorway. Red's injured and needs his space, that's what Frank tells himself. He tells himself better not to jostle the wounded.

Nobody's banishing anybody.

"Eh. I've slept on worse couches. Night, Red." Frank pulls the door close on Red's turned back but don't latch it, leaves it open a crack so that--

Well. He's injured. That's all. He'll break in the couch; Red left a blanket for him anyway.

He's not surprised. Not even a little bit. Maybe disappointed on some level because he does feel like it's a dick move to make someone who has fucked him before sleep on the sofa but if it's a boundary that Frank wants to impose, that's up to him.

He listens to Frank's steps across his hardwood floor and the soft creak that closes the door most of the way. It's strange to hear someone in his apartment, moving around at a distance while he's alone in bed but he tries to ignore all of that. Frank's safe, at least, and tomorrow there's going to be the matter of figuring just how much, if anything, Fisk's good squad knows about Frank's living arrangements but he tries to ignore all of that in favor of a good night's sleep.

Frank's an early riser. He opens his eyes before the sun's properly come up over the jagged reaches of the city and he tries - hey, couch isn't bad - but his mind's already going. Red's apartment. Fisk's assholes. All his guns, his work.

So as dawn claws its way up over the buildings, the coffee's set to brewing and Frank's sitting in Red's sweatpants at the counter, intent on trying to sort out what's what but instead thinking about the last time he slept on a couch. Wondering how Amy's holding up. If Curtis and his girl are makin' do. He scrubs a hand over his face, looking at his jacket on the stool next to him. Instinct says go to ground, reassess, make a plan. Except his grounds been compromised.

He taps his phone screen awake to the headline from the Bulletin: Terrorist Attack Against Mayor Fisk's Task Force.

Sound startles him awake and for just a moment, he forgets where he is and who is in his living room. Then he takes in the sound of a familiar heartbeat and weighted steps in the other room and the smell of the coffee brewing. Right. The night before. His head is aching and his ribs feel like someone is digging a knife into his side but he'll be fine. He always is.

He puts his feet down on the floor and pulls himself up to his feet. He makes noise in the bedroom; opening a drawer, lifting and closing the lid of the metal hamper to swap out new boxers and put on a t-shirt that the braille on the label and the glossy print lettering on the front tells him is a grey Columbia shirt. He makes the sound so Frank knows he's awake. It gives him a chance to escape if that's his intention, or to not be startled when Matt slowly exits the bedroom to come into the kitchen for a desperately needed cup of coffee.

"Morning, Sunshine." Frank's still at the counter when Red makes his way out; doesn't even turn around, can clock the man in the reflection of the microwave door. Even in the distorted nothing of GE plexiglass he can tell that Red's still feeling last night.

"Our little party's already made the news." Frank reaches for the remote on the far side of the counter and turns on the TV, flipping through a few channels before finding a news network. "...confirmed deaths of eleven police officers on the Mayor's official task squad are assumed to be the work of a vigilante. Mayor Fisk, who has recently declared war on New York's vigilantes, is calling this an attack by local terrorists..."

Frank snorts. "Guess it's bad press to come out and say it's the Punisher's taking down the cops who love those stupid fuckin' tattoos."

"Good morning, sweetheart," he greets in return as he makes an immediate line for the coffee. He pours himself a cup and then goes to retrieve the bottle of tylenol that's still out and dumps four pills into his hand. He washes them down with a sip and tilts his head to the sound of the reporter on the television.

He faintly smiles at Frank's assessment because he's right, of course. It sounds bad to say that the Punisher is not only out in the world but that he's winning against the task force. Naming him would only spark a response that the mayor's office doesn't want. He doesn't linger on the fact that of the over twenty cops, Frank killed eleven of them. Maybe if he hadn't been there, it would have been all of them but he's started to learn that the time and place for discussions of morality is 'not here' and 'never' with Frank.

"Sad you didn't get any credit for your fine work?" he asks before taking another sip.

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