"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."
He doesn't push about the ways that Frank considered himself fucked up or what he needed saving from. Either he'll say it or he won't, and that's fine either way. Matt will listen to any story that Frank wants to tell but he's not interested in pushing at old scars to see what springs from them.
"I briefly thought about being a priest when I was a kid. Then after the accident and I lost my sight, there was a time me and God didn't get on so well. Cured me of that," he admits to the quiet in the room.
They're both fucked up and broken, just in different ways. "Better with the law than the Bible. Seems like you're better with a gun than the good book." There's no bite or sarcasm. An acknowledgment and even respect for how Frank can handle himself, even if Matt might wish he took less deadly courses.
There's silence for a moment, space for acknowledgement of the truth of that. They're better where they are now, for better or worse.
Then Frank barks a laugh that ends in a wheezed exhale as he lets his head drop back to look at the ceiling. They haven't turned on a light; he didn't realize it until now. "Y'ever think there's some alternate path out there?" His fingers tap patterns against each other. "Some upside fuckin' down universe where we both became priests and ran in the same small fucking New York parish circle? Damn, that's funny." He wets his lips, closes his eyes, listens to the drip of the coffee. Smiles. "Yeah, that would be somethin'."
Matt smiles at that while he faces Frank. "That would be," he agrees. "I don't know. I think about the alternative paths a lot. More than I should. The only one I don't linger on is the accident, but yeah. We could've been priests." Those are the kinds of thoughts that a man could drive himself crazy with. The could-have-beens and the might-haves.
The coffee is done and the drips are slowing. He pulls himself up slowly to his feet, partially to test himself and to be a good host. His head spins and his ribs ache but he pushes through it to pour them both cups. Matt puts one in Frank's hand and he sits back down on the couch with the mug between his palms. "You probably would've found some way to be a pain in my ass, even as a man of god."
Frank's been in that kind of crazy, so deep in it that he sought it out. Now that he's started crawling out the other side he realizes that he doesn't want to go back. But his brush with the Seminary, that's not a scar, not a real might-have. Just a stop on a straight line where he didn't get off. He can't regret what the Marines gave him, even with what it led to.
He watches Red haul his ass up and get them coffee. "Dumb-ass," he mutters in thanks, fondly, as the heated ceramic is placed in his hands. Takes a burning sip with an appreciative sound. "Hells yes I would have. I woulda pissed in your holy water and chuckled about it."
Matt carries regrets so heavy that it sometimes feels like they'll crush him but he knows that he has to live with those choices. He sees the ways that his decision to put on a mask caused a butterfly effect of destruction in his life but it doesn't mean that he would have gotten a happy ending without it. Probably not. He just would have been less prepared for a fight that feels like it was inevitable.
"Yeah, of course you would've," he replies, smiling faintly over the brim of the mug. "What else did you want to be as a kid? Besides a priest. You know, before my accident, I thought I might have to join the army to get an education. We were poor and I knew a kid whose dad went to school on the GI Bill. Can't quite picture me that way." Swings and roundabouts.
"Bet you were a scrawny kid." Frank muses over the image in his head. He doesn't know much about Red that doesn't start with a kick in the head on a dark rooftop. Red didn't need digging into and he sure as shit already knew how to beat himself up when they met. They might only - still - have a tenuous ally-ship, but Red's never been anywhere close to being on Frank's list. Which leaves a big ol' cluttered room of his past that Frank's never even tried knocking on. He knows the old man's a part of it. And Elektra. But that's about it.
"Y'know I can't see it. You in fatigues, bitch' and moanin' about what's fair and moral in war." His knee's starting to ache. "With that silver tongue though you might have just fast-tracked to JAG. Huh." He snorts, breathes in the steam of the coffee. "Wouldn't look bad in that uniform, though." Red, the confidence in his body even when he's hiding it, buttoned up in sharp Dress Blues.
"But me? Nothin'." His thumb rubs the side of his mug. "There was nothin' except getting out. Creativity ain't my strong suit, Red. There was just my shitty little couple blocks in Queens, and when I was old enough the Marines gave me an out." An out of New York, an aggressive outlet for his rage.
"Yeah, I was. I didn't start putting on any muscle until I started to train after I lost my sight," he answers with a shrug. He knows a lot about Frank because of the case and the trial, but most of that is just words on a page. Second or third hand. He likes these times when they are actually talking and he can get the story directly. Perspectives shift.
He faintly smiles at that, "Without the accident, without all of that, I'm not sure where that morality would've landed. If I could still see, I'm not sure how much time I'd have spent reading Thurgood Marshall and forming strong opinions on social justice." Swings and roundabouts. Different paths. "Pretty sure my dad would've shut that down anyway. He was big on the idea of a better life than the one he had." Not that the opinions of the dead necessarily matter; he solves more things with his fists than Battlin' Jack would've ever wanted him to.
"Was it worth it?" he asks after a moment. "What it cost you compared to the bill coming due if you'd stayed?"
"Dads," Frank says, low, "really know how to swing their weight around." God knows he did, probably too much for how often he was gone. When he was back he felt like he had to make up for it. He knew then how hard that was for his family. He knows it now.
Another long sip of coffee; definitely better than his shit. For a minute he just tastes it and lets the question settle between them. Then:
"Yeah. Every second of it."
He looks into his mug then out the window at New York, the breathing sea of lights that never sleep. He used to hate this city, but Red was right. He's right more often than Frank lets him believe. Frank came back, was pulled back. Wanted to be back. He's no better than the stink of this place, he deserves it and it deserves him. Difference is now he understands that.
"If I hadn't joined I know I wouldn't have met Maria. Wouldn't have been sitting under that tree, at that time, with that guitar. I would have never got to hold my babies, see my face in theirs. Even if I had to do it all again knowing where it would end, I would. I would. I would just hold them tighter while I could."
"Yeah. He's been dead over twenty-five years and I still hear his damn voice in my head," he replies softly. He knows all of the ways that his father sacrificed for him and all the ways that Matt wished that he hadn't, but that feels like another one of those alternate realities. One that haunts him the most.
The answer makes him faintly smile before taking another sip of his coffee. He hears the world outside; the window is open in the kitchen and sound carries but he ignores it for the rhythm of Frank's voice and the steady pull of his heart. "I'm glad you had that," he says simply and leaves it at that. Frank Castle doesn't seek out or want his sympathy and Matt doesn't offer it. He provides only as much understanding as he can muster as someone who never had children but who has lost a hell of a lot in his life. He's buried too many people and that's something they have in common.
"Stick asked me if it was worth it after I buried Elektra. I think he was hoping I'd say no. But it's always worth it."
Frank snorts, shifts just far enough to slide the mug onto the coffee table. Shuffles it a quarter-turn. Wonders if he should pry further but has to be real with himself - he's never met a knife he doesn't want to twist, just to see what more there is. He pushes himself up and heads into the kitchen, the breeze from the window cool on his chest as he opens freezer.
"Watchin' you two..." Down the scope of a rifle. It wasn't his fight, wasn't his kill. But how it played out, well. Frank's hand lingers for a moment against the cold of another ice pack. "Watching you work. That was like watching a goddamned ballet. She was your ride or die?"
"Yeah, that's pretty much Stick in a nutshell. He was an asshole," he replies with a faint laugh.
The question doesn't bother him. He's had time to mourn and he's lost since then so it's hard to quantify where the pain of Elektra's loss starts to mold into others. "You will be surprised to hear this but me and Elektra were complicated." It's a flimsy joke. "She was my college girlfriend. My first love. Maybe my only love, if I'm being real with myself." People had come and gone out of his life before and after her but none held the sway over him that Elektra had. "Yeah. She was. You know that building that fell on me? I was only under it because of her. Once it became clear there wasn't a way out, that we were gonna die together? I found myself at peace with it. Only problem was I didn't."
Frank doesn't understand a whole lot, but he understands what two people who know the guts of each other move like together. It's like finishing each other's sentences but without the need to aggrandize about it: it just is. It's not flash, and bang, it's self-awareness that includes another person as self. He and Maria could move around their kitchen like that. He and Bill, fuckin' Bill, they had that once upon a time when they were shoulder-to-shoulder under a goddamn hailstorm of bullets.
Red and Elektra fought like that. Like they'd ripped into each other far enough to share the blood and came out the other side.
Frank grabs the ice pack and knocks the freezer closed. "Midland Circle? Yeah, I heard about that. Only thing is..." Frank drops back into the chair, chases his knee with the ice. "I don't see how a dead woman got under that building with you."
He and Elektra could move like they shared a single pulse. Cynically, he could say it was because they were trained by the same asshole who had forced them to a collision course with each other in some pathetic attempt to win Matt back to a war he wanted nothing to do with but it had felt like more than that. Especially in the end.
He faintly smiles in response and sets his empty mug aside to go back to resting on the couch. Even going so far as to pull the plush throw blanket off the back of it to wrap around himself while his head settles into a throb instead of a spin. "Yeah. They brought her back from the dead. It's a...long story. She wasn't her at first. But she remembered me. Remembered that I loved her in the end. That's the part that matters." Easy to say when he's just handwaving her return from the dead. "Mourning her twice--that's a bitch."
Frank accepts the hand-wave, though his mouth opens, stays quiet, closes. He knows there's shit out there that's happening that doesn't involve him. That he doesn't want to be involved in. Metas. Crazy shit. So what if it includes resurrection?
Yeah. So what.
"I don't think there's many things in this life anymore than can break me, Red." Frank roughs a hand over the top of his own head before settling his chin in his fist and letting go of a long, slow breath. "But that would do it. Gettin' Maria back, just to--"
Doesn't involve him. Never gonna. There wasn't enough left of her to come back. His hand in his lap is shaking; he curls it into a fist. "I'd eat a fuckin' bullet." The words are nothing but breath and gravel, too low for anyone to hear aside from this man keepin' him company, wrapped in a goddamn blanket and head-injury. Frank gets to his feet, scraping his face with a palm before dropping the ice pack onto the table and moving away. The bathroom door slams behind him.
It wasn't Matt's first introduction to crazy shit but it was a hell of a punch in the gut that, if he's honest with himself, he's not so sure that he's really completely recovered from. Even with all of the years that have passed, it's part of the what-ifs and the alternate realities that he thinks too much about. What if he'd been able to save Elektra? What if they'd just left together and, for once in his life, he didn't do the right thing?
"Yeah. When she came back...she didn't have her heartbeat. I didn't even know I was fighting her at first when she came back and came at me as an enemy. And then...I mean. I guess that's why I was pretty comfortable dying with her." He knows that Frank has taken in the words and lines were drawn. He doesn't follow when he backs away and flees to the bathroom. If he just found out about people coming back from the dead? Yeah, he'd probably do the same.
He stays where he is. He tries to focus elsewhere away from any sounds Frank might make or the way that his pulse is faster. Privacy. Some measure of respect. He listens to the world beyond the room instead. Strains for distant sirens and neighbors and any part of the world that isn't invading Frank Castle's space.
Frank runs the tap. Splashes cold water on his face. Grips the sides of the sink hard enough to turn his knuckles white and stares at himself in the mirror.
He's had a death-wish since his family died, never any use pretending otherwise. His heart was dead but it was still beating so he decided to put those beats to good use. Walking into bullets, abuse, dumb-decisions and dead-ends the way only a suicidal man could, and yet none of it stopped him. He'd said Maria and the kids were worth it and he meant that, he said he'd do it again. But another go-around is different then what Red's told him. That's a second chance. And to lose it...
He knows that he couldn't survive that. The only rage left in him would be pointed inward. He knows it, because he still has nothing else, and can't hold his own eyes in the mirror.
It takes a few minutes for Frank to come out of the bathroom. Walks past Red to pull down two glasses and grab the bottle of good whiskey. Dumps them on the coffee table and pours more than a finger into each before pressing a glass into Red's hand. His pulse is steady now, his breathing even. "I don't know what the fuck we're drinking to. Just feels like..." He shrugs and downs his own pour in a single swallow.
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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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"I briefly thought about being a priest when I was a kid. Then after the accident and I lost my sight, there was a time me and God didn't get on so well. Cured me of that," he admits to the quiet in the room.
They're both fucked up and broken, just in different ways. "Better with the law than the Bible. Seems like you're better with a gun than the good book." There's no bite or sarcasm. An acknowledgment and even respect for how Frank can handle himself, even if Matt might wish he took less deadly courses.
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Then Frank barks a laugh that ends in a wheezed exhale as he lets his head drop back to look at the ceiling. They haven't turned on a light; he didn't realize it until now. "Y'ever think there's some alternate path out there?" His fingers tap patterns against each other. "Some upside fuckin' down universe where we both became priests and ran in the same small fucking New York parish circle? Damn, that's funny." He wets his lips, closes his eyes, listens to the drip of the coffee. Smiles. "Yeah, that would be somethin'."
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The coffee is done and the drips are slowing. He pulls himself up slowly to his feet, partially to test himself and to be a good host. His head spins and his ribs ache but he pushes through it to pour them both cups. Matt puts one in Frank's hand and he sits back down on the couch with the mug between his palms. "You probably would've found some way to be a pain in my ass, even as a man of god."
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He watches Red haul his ass up and get them coffee. "Dumb-ass," he mutters in thanks, fondly, as the heated ceramic is placed in his hands. Takes a burning sip with an appreciative sound. "Hells yes I would have. I woulda pissed in your holy water and chuckled about it."
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"Yeah, of course you would've," he replies, smiling faintly over the brim of the mug. "What else did you want to be as a kid? Besides a priest. You know, before my accident, I thought I might have to join the army to get an education. We were poor and I knew a kid whose dad went to school on the GI Bill. Can't quite picture me that way." Swings and roundabouts.
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"Y'know I can't see it. You in fatigues, bitch' and moanin' about what's fair and moral in war." His knee's starting to ache. "With that silver tongue though you might have just fast-tracked to JAG. Huh." He snorts, breathes in the steam of the coffee. "Wouldn't look bad in that uniform, though." Red, the confidence in his body even when he's hiding it, buttoned up in sharp Dress Blues.
"But me? Nothin'." His thumb rubs the side of his mug. "There was nothin' except getting out. Creativity ain't my strong suit, Red. There was just my shitty little couple blocks in Queens, and when I was old enough the Marines gave me an out." An out of New York, an aggressive outlet for his rage.
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He faintly smiles at that, "Without the accident, without all of that, I'm not sure where that morality would've landed. If I could still see, I'm not sure how much time I'd have spent reading Thurgood Marshall and forming strong opinions on social justice." Swings and roundabouts. Different paths. "Pretty sure my dad would've shut that down anyway. He was big on the idea of a better life than the one he had." Not that the opinions of the dead necessarily matter; he solves more things with his fists than Battlin' Jack would've ever wanted him to.
"Was it worth it?" he asks after a moment. "What it cost you compared to the bill coming due if you'd stayed?"
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Another long sip of coffee; definitely better than his shit. For a minute he just tastes it and lets the question settle between them. Then:
"Yeah. Every second of it."
He looks into his mug then out the window at New York, the breathing sea of lights that never sleep. He used to hate this city, but Red was right. He's right more often than Frank lets him believe. Frank came back, was pulled back. Wanted to be back. He's no better than the stink of this place, he deserves it and it deserves him. Difference is now he understands that.
"If I hadn't joined I know I wouldn't have met Maria. Wouldn't have been sitting under that tree, at that time, with that guitar. I would have never got to hold my babies, see my face in theirs. Even if I had to do it all again knowing where it would end, I would. I would. I would just hold them tighter while I could."
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The answer makes him faintly smile before taking another sip of his coffee. He hears the world outside; the window is open in the kitchen and sound carries but he ignores it for the rhythm of Frank's voice and the steady pull of his heart. "I'm glad you had that," he says simply and leaves it at that. Frank Castle doesn't seek out or want his sympathy and Matt doesn't offer it. He provides only as much understanding as he can muster as someone who never had children but who has lost a hell of a lot in his life. He's buried too many people and that's something they have in common.
"Stick asked me if it was worth it after I buried Elektra. I think he was hoping I'd say no. But it's always worth it."
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Frank snorts, shifts just far enough to slide the mug onto the coffee table. Shuffles it a quarter-turn. Wonders if he should pry further but has to be real with himself - he's never met a knife he doesn't want to twist, just to see what more there is. He pushes himself up and heads into the kitchen, the breeze from the window cool on his chest as he opens freezer.
"Watchin' you two..." Down the scope of a rifle. It wasn't his fight, wasn't his kill. But how it played out, well. Frank's hand lingers for a moment against the cold of another ice pack. "Watching you work. That was like watching a goddamned ballet. She was your ride or die?"
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The question doesn't bother him. He's had time to mourn and he's lost since then so it's hard to quantify where the pain of Elektra's loss starts to mold into others. "You will be surprised to hear this but me and Elektra were complicated." It's a flimsy joke. "She was my college girlfriend. My first love. Maybe my only love, if I'm being real with myself." People had come and gone out of his life before and after her but none held the sway over him that Elektra had. "Yeah. She was. You know that building that fell on me? I was only under it because of her. Once it became clear there wasn't a way out, that we were gonna die together? I found myself at peace with it. Only problem was I didn't."
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Red and Elektra fought like that. Like they'd ripped into each other far enough to share the blood and came out the other side.
Frank grabs the ice pack and knocks the freezer closed. "Midland Circle? Yeah, I heard about that. Only thing is..." Frank drops back into the chair, chases his knee with the ice. "I don't see how a dead woman got under that building with you."
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He faintly smiles in response and sets his empty mug aside to go back to resting on the couch. Even going so far as to pull the plush throw blanket off the back of it to wrap around himself while his head settles into a throb instead of a spin. "Yeah. They brought her back from the dead. It's a...long story. She wasn't her at first. But she remembered me. Remembered that I loved her in the end. That's the part that matters." Easy to say when he's just handwaving her return from the dead. "Mourning her twice--that's a bitch."
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Yeah. So what.
"I don't think there's many things in this life anymore than can break me, Red." Frank roughs a hand over the top of his own head before settling his chin in his fist and letting go of a long, slow breath. "But that would do it. Gettin' Maria back, just to--"
Doesn't involve him. Never gonna. There wasn't enough left of her to come back. His hand in his lap is shaking; he curls it into a fist. "I'd eat a fuckin' bullet." The words are nothing but breath and gravel, too low for anyone to hear aside from this man keepin' him company, wrapped in a goddamn blanket and head-injury. Frank gets to his feet, scraping his face with a palm before dropping the ice pack onto the table and moving away. The bathroom door slams behind him.
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"Yeah. When she came back...she didn't have her heartbeat. I didn't even know I was fighting her at first when she came back and came at me as an enemy. And then...I mean. I guess that's why I was pretty comfortable dying with her." He knows that Frank has taken in the words and lines were drawn. He doesn't follow when he backs away and flees to the bathroom. If he just found out about people coming back from the dead? Yeah, he'd probably do the same.
He stays where he is. He tries to focus elsewhere away from any sounds Frank might make or the way that his pulse is faster. Privacy. Some measure of respect. He listens to the world beyond the room instead. Strains for distant sirens and neighbors and any part of the world that isn't invading Frank Castle's space.
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He's had a death-wish since his family died, never any use pretending otherwise. His heart was dead but it was still beating so he decided to put those beats to good use. Walking into bullets, abuse, dumb-decisions and dead-ends the way only a suicidal man could, and yet none of it stopped him. He'd said Maria and the kids were worth it and he meant that, he said he'd do it again. But another go-around is different then what Red's told him. That's a second chance. And to lose it...
He knows that he couldn't survive that. The only rage left in him would be pointed inward. He knows it, because he still has nothing else, and can't hold his own eyes in the mirror.
It takes a few minutes for Frank to come out of the bathroom. Walks past Red to pull down two glasses and grab the bottle of good whiskey. Dumps them on the coffee table and pours more than a finger into each before pressing a glass into Red's hand. His pulse is steady now, his breathing even. "I don't know what the fuck we're drinking to. Just feels like..." He shrugs and downs his own pour in a single swallow.
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