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It starts when Frank gets shot in the shoulder.
They’d been in the field together, Matt in his suit and Frank with his guns, the two of them taking down a group of guys getting ready to ship out explosives on the black market. It had been going well until Frank got shot, and then Matt had been forced to knock a guy out and dump his body into the harbor so he could focus on getting Frank out.
In the alleyway behind the warehouse, Frank had said, “Piece of shit bullet couldn’t even go all the way through. Fuck.”
“We need to get that out of you,” Matt had said. He could hear it slipping deeper and deeper with every breath Frank took, the wet slide of blood sickeningly loud to his ears. “Come on.”
“I got a kit at home,” Frank said. “I can do it myself.”
“My place is closer,” Matt had argued.
And now they’re here: Frank leaning against the bathroom counter, shirt off, facing Matt.
“Hold still,” Matt says, adjusting the tweezers. He’s gripping Frank’s shoulder with his other hand, keeping him in place.
“‘S not my first time getting shot, y’know,” Frank says. Matt still feels him wince as the tweezers press into the hole left behind by the bullet.
“Oh, I know,” Matt says. “Stop fucking twitching.”
“You’re going to make it worse,” Frank says.
“I’ll poke you in the eye,” Matt threatens, pulling the tweezers out and holding him close to where he can approximate Frank’s eyes are. “Do you want me to?”
“Fucking—fine, just do it,” Frank says, and Matt squeezes his shoulder once before going back in.
The bullet comes out, and Matt presses gauze to the wound so they can get the worst of the bleeding to stop. Frank doesn’t make a sound during any of this, but his breathing gets a little more strained, the rough pull of it in his chest like gravel in Matt’s ears. Frank’s body temperature is so high that Matt almost worries he’s running a fever. He’s not, though—long nights in the field have told Matt that Frank naturally runs this hot. His fingertips are tapping against the counter.
“Be patient,” Matt says, gently feeling to check how the bleeding is going.
“Shut the fuck up,” Frank says.
“You want to bleed out?”
“Fuck you.”
“Okay.”
Matt waits until the bleeding has stopped before replacing the gauze and securing it with medical tape. Frank’s breath brushes against Matt’s ear, surprisingly soft, but no less rough around the edges than the rest of him.
“You’re good to go,” Matt says, hip-checking Frank as he moves to the sink, washing the blood off his hands. He hears the grind of Frank’s bones, the slight flexing of his muscles as he pulls his shirt back on.
“Thanks,” Frank says gruffly. “Turning the light off.”
The electrical buzz quiets once the switch is flipped, and in the silence, Matt listens as Frank heads back out into the main room to gather his belongings. Matt sighs and dries his hands before sweeping the trash into the bin.
By the time he emerges, Frank is gone.
The next time it happens, Matt is the one bleeding—a nice, large gash on his cheek, right under where the helmet stops and his skin begins. He tries not to cringe away as Frank dabs bitter antiseptic onto the wound, hand firmly holding Matt’s head in place by the jaw.
“I’m going to end up pouring this into your eye if you don’t stop squirming,” Frank says.
“Do it, then,” Matt says. “Not like I didn’t already get shit in it.”
Frank grimaces audibly. “Shit, sorry.”
“Whatever,” Matt says. “You do it and I’ll break your arm.”
“Broken both my arms,” Frank says, pressing the cotton pad to the wound, sending threads of fire racing under Matt’s skin. “Multiple times. Lost count.”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Matt gasps, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Stop talking.”
“I should turn you in to the police,” Matt says as Frank finally lets him go.
“Nah,” Frank says sarcastically, pressing a bandaid onto the wound. “You’d miss me too much.”
And maybe, in some awful, twisted way, he’s right.
After that second time, it’s a routine.
Whenever one of them has an injury that needs to be taken care of, they go to Matt’s place. If one of them needs help, the other gives it. They trade barbs and bandages and at the end of the night, Frank leaves and Matt goes to bed, wondering how the hell he ended up in this position.
Despite his initial reservations about working with Frank, everything is turning out well. Despite their threats, they haven’t killed each other yet. They work together well, even if they’re at each other’s throats more than half the time they’re not on the field, the mix of their skill sets perfect for taking down traffickers or black market traders or anyone else that stupidly believes they can get away with anything in Hell’s Kitchen.
Stupidly, because with Daredevil and the Punisher on the streets, no one can get away with anything at all. They’re incredibly efficient when they work together.
They’re back at Matt’s place after a successful run at a dog fighting ring. Matt is in the bathroom, biting his lip so hard that he’s drawing almost as much blood from there as what’s currently coming out of his side, trying his best to take off his shirt without making the bullet graze worse.
He flinches as the fabric unsticks itself from his skin and drops pathetically to the floor with an alarmingly wet sound.
“Fuck,” he says, a little too loudly.
“You okay in there?” Frank asks from outside the door.
“I’m fine,” Matt says, wincing. His voice is strained. “Just—” His hand slips. His fingertip catches on the gash, and he can’t help but let out a rough, “Shit.”
“I’m coming in,” Frank says, opening the door, and Matt tries not to groan. “Jesus Christ—”
“Hey,” Matt grouses.
“Oh, Father, forgive me,” Frank says, both appeasingly and sarcastically. “Why the fuck didn’t you ask for help?”
“Because,” Matt says, reaching for the bandages. He fumbles with the packaging, hands shaking too much for him to be able to open them. “It’s not that bad.”
It’s a lie—it hurts like fire and it’s getting worse—but Frank has no way of knowing that. Not like Matt would with anyone else, anyways.
Still, Frank doesn’t budge. If anything, he gets closer.
“Stop messing with it,” Frank says gruffly. Matt sighs and throws the packet of bandages onto the counter. “I’ll do it.”
“How do I know you won’t shoot me in the back?” Matt asks, bracing his hands on the counter, back to Frank.
“Man, I just saved your life out there,” Frank says incredulously, squeezing past him. Plastic crinkles—he’s picking up the packet. “Listen—do I got a gun on me, Murdock?”
Matt says nothing for a moment, thinking. Frank’s just in his shirt and jeans and socks right now. He doesn’t even have his belt on. If he brought any weapons into Matt’s apartment—
“It’s on the dining table,” Matt reports, and he feels Frank’s relief in the loosening of his chest where it’s brushing against Matt’s arm. “Under your coat. You should’ve hung it up.”
“Still don’t get how you can do that,” Frank mutters. Matt wonders if he’s imagining the hint of a smile in Frank’s voice.
“If it makes you feel any better, I had to lose a lot to get better at it,” Matt says, wincing as Frank presses a wad of gauze to the gash. “Y’know, my sight, my dad…”
“Aw, shit, man,” Frank says. “Actually makes me feel worse.”
Matt grins, and when he tilts his head, he finds Frank’s head mere inches away from his ear. “Putting a lot on there, huh?”
“You use your freaky bat senses to figure that out?” Frank asks. “You’re bleedin’ like crazy.”
“I didn’t notice,” Matt admits.
“Better be grateful I’m here,” Frank says, the packet of bandages crinkling as he opens it with a hand and his teeth.
Almost without thinking, Matt says, “I am.”
Frank falters, one hand pressing gauze to Matt’s side, the other frozen somewhere between the two of them. Matt is painfully aware of how close they’re standing—how he’s practically bent over his counter, back exposed to the man who shot him in the head once. How Frank is close enough to touch him, the heat of his body seeping through his clothes. His knee is right next to Matt’s. His hand is touching Matt’s bare skin. It’s the closest they’ve been without trying to kill each other and for a moment, Matt worries that it’s too much.
But then Frank removes the gauze and says, “Bleeding’s stopping,” and the moment is gone.
Matt stays silent as Frank bandages him up. The only things Frank says are quiet instructions for Matt to move—better angles for him to patch Matt up. Frank doesn’t just get the graze. He gets all the little spots too, even rubs bruise ointment on the places where Matt got hit without breaking skin.
By the end of it, Matt feels loose and tired, the pain fading to a dull throb beneath the secured bandage, and he tugs on a clean shirt while Frank sweeps all of the trash into the basket by the toilet and washes his hands. They move around and with each other easily, or as easily as they can in the tiny bathroom. God, what Matt wouldn’t give for an extra six inches of space between them.
Before Frank leaves the bathroom, he pauses, breath catching in his throat. Matt waits, unmoving, for him to speak.
“You’re wearing my shirt.”
“Huh?” Matt runs his hand down the front of it and feels the textured outline of a skull. “Oh. You must’ve left it here last time.”
Frank doesn’t move for a few moments. Matt can hear how shallow his breathing is—he wants to say something. But he doesn’t, just steps out of the bathroom and leaves Matt at the counter by himself. Less than a minute later, Matt’s front door opens and shuts, leaving the apartment echoing with the loss.
Matt allows himself a sigh, his chin dropping to his chest. When he brings his hands up to rake them through his hair, his freshly-bandaged wound twinges, the ghost of hands on his skin fading with each passing breath.
***
The ghosts don’t fade, not even after both of them are soaked to the bone and trying to dry off in Matt’s bathroom. The storm they’d gotten caught in outside doesn’t sound like it’s going to let up anytime soon. Matt has spare clothes for both of them, and the old Columbia sweatshirt that he hands Frank is just a little too small.
Matt’s in the process of drying off after his shower when Frank knocks on the door, so Matt hurries to pull his sweats on before letting him in.
“H—” Frank clears his throat. His heart is racing a little. “Sorry, you were just taking so fucking long—”
“It’s fine,” Matt says, shifting to the side so Frank can get to the toilet. He starts brushing his teeth and leans against the wall, keeping his eyes focused on where he knows the sink is.
Frank flushes and shuffles his way to the sink to wash his hands, keeping a good several inches between their bodies the whole time. Matt rinses his mouth out when Frank is done, leaving the two of them side-by-side at the counter.
It’s a position they’ve been in often, but never so…bloodlessly. Never in a way that makes them seem normal, like they’re just two guys who share a bathroom and occasionally use it at the same time.
Something about it is so…quiet. Even with the storm outside. This moment with Frank is quiet. Matt wants to bottle it up and keep it close to his heart.
When the faucet stops running, Matt dries his hands and leans against the counter, arms crossed. Frank leans against the wall opposite, inches from the door. They don’t say anything for a little while, the sounds of the rain and the heater the only thing keeping this apartment from being quiet as a tomb.
“You ever wonder what life would’ve been like,” Frank asks finally, “if none of this had happened?”
Matt can sense him gesturing between the two of them and gets his meaning instantly. If going blind hadn’t given Matt his senses, if Frank had never joined the Marines, if Matt had never gotten picked up by Stick, if Frank’s family hadn’t died.
If, if, if.
“All the time,” Matt says quietly, shifting his weight. “Do you wish any of it had been different?”
Without hesitation, Frank says, “Yeah. A lot of it. Some, though…” He trails off, and Matt wonders if he’s imagining Frank leaning a little closer to him. “There’re a couple things I wouldn’t change.”
Matt doesn’t get the chance to ask before Frank slips out, leaving the door open behind him. Sighing, Matt pulls on his sweatshirt and follows, shutting the light off as he goes.
***
“You are one lucky sonofabitch,” Frank says as he deposits Matt onto the counter.
“I’ll punch you in the eye,” Matt warns, but the pain in his voice renders the threat useless.
“If you stay alive, I might let you,” Frank says, unceremoniously cutting Matt’s shirt away from his body. Matt shudders as the knife scrapes against his skin, the false promise of pain burning deep to his core.
Out of the two of them, Frank has more than his fair share of life-threatening injuries, thanks to his refusal to wear anything except a kevlar vest. But tonight, Matt had been the one to get the lucky hit to the side, leaving Frank to finish up the job and drag him back home.
It’s not too serious, just a stab wound, but it hurts like hell and Matt is starting to wonder if his senses make him feel pain more intensely than most people.
Frank seems to be on the same wavelength, because the next thing out of his mouth is, “You sure it was just the knife?”
“Yeah,” Matt says, his eyes fluttering shut as Frank gently prods at the gash with two fingers. “Piece of shit must’ve been made of vibranium or something.”
“Ain’t no way some Hell’s Kitchen crook got his hands on vibranium,” Frank says with a scoff.
“How else did it get through my suit, then?”
“Must be a shitty suit.”
“Melvin would be hurt,” Matt says.
“I’m gonna be honest with you, Murdock,” Frank says. “I don’t really give a fuck.”
Matt manages a grin as Frank gets to work cleaning the wound. Matt really should be laying down for this, but something about the bathroom feels like a safe zone. They don’t stay outside of this place, not together, not like how they need it. Because Matt thinks they do need it, and who is he to deprive either of them of what little good life can offer them?
“Shit, it looks worse than we thought,” Frank says. “It’s deep. Can’t tell if it missed your organs or not.”
“I’m still alive,” Matt says. “That’s a good sign, right?”
“Unless you have internal bleeding,” Frank says. “You should call your nurse friend—”
“It’s fine, Frank,” Matt says.
“You don’t—”
“Just fucking fix it, okay?”
“I’m not a fucking doctor, Murdock,” Frank snaps, his voice suddenly harsh. “You’re bleeding and you’re bleeding a lot, and you’re acting like you don’t give a shit!”
“You’ve kept me alive for this long,” Matt says. Frank’s heart is racing so quickly that it almost sounds like a singular long buzz instead of separate beats. “I trust you, Frank. It’s fucking stupid but I trust you to keep me alive. I can’t—” His throat closes up, and he has to swallow firmly to clear it. “You’re all I have right now. Please.”
It’s almost painful, the realization—that Frank is the only one who can help Matt right now. Claire won’t come. Foggy and Karen will only insist that he goes to the hospital. Frank understands, he gets it, and why he’s so worried all of a sudden, Matt isn’t sure. But there’s blood on both of their hands and on Matt’s skin right now, so unless they can get it together, well—
“You die on me and I’m writing a letter to God Himself telling Him to send you to Hell,” Frank says, pressing a clean towel to Matt’s side.
“I’m going there already,” Matt says. “Use the paper for your will.”
“You really think I can afford a lawyer?”
“You wouldn’t have to pay me, Frank,” Matt says.
“Man, I ain’t trusting you with my affairs. Fuck you.”
Matt laughs and it hurts, but it’s worth it.
Eventually, as the night wears on, Matt’s side is bandaged and he’s pulling on a clean shirt. Frank is wiping blood from the counter, his body hot and high-strung next to Matt’s, and in the tiny bathroom, it feels like too much. Matt has to stuff his hands into his pockets and stay behind as Frank leaves the apartment, his heart aching behind his ribs and words lingering in his throat, on his tongue.
He doesn’t say them out loud, not even to the reflection he knows he must have. Because if he does, well…even then, there’s no taking them back.
***
The tipping point happens when Matt gets caught on a wire.
It was thin enough that he’d missed it while investigating the warehouse, and now he’s sitting on his bathroom counter with his arm in Frank’s hands, cuts encircling his wrist like bloody bracelets. It had gone right through his gloves when his attacker had yanked him to the ground, slicing his skin open and leaving him screaming.
Frank had run in, shot whoever it was that had attacked him, and helped him get back home with almost no words spoken between them.
Even now, as Frank wraps his wrist like he’s made of glass, almost too fragile to handle, they’re completely silent. Something is hanging in the air and Matt can’t figure out what it’s called, but it tastes like smoke and burns like coals.
“Done,” Frank says, dropping his arm. He sounds angry, upset. “You need to be more careful.”
“Fuck you, Frank,” Matt whispers.
Frank scoffs and turns to leave, but Matt takes him by the wrist and pulls him back in.
Their lips meet with a feeling like a match being struck to life, hot and sudden. Frank’s hands go to Matt’s waist and Matt gasps as Frank’s fingers dig into old bruises, pain blooming pleasantly on his skin. The edge of the counter digs into Matt’s legs but he ignores it in favor of bringing his hands up to Frank’s hair, which is soft now that it’s growing out. Frank groans into Matt’s mouth and nips at Matt’s bottom lip, sharp and quick enough to draw blood. The taste of copper slips like silk over Matt’s tongue. It sends a shudder down his spine.
Cruelly, Frank pulls back too soon, his voice sharp across Matt’s face as he presses their foreheads together. “Next time, I’ll let you die.”
“Counting on it,” Matt grits out, shoving Frank back.
Frank leaves without washing Matt’s blood from his hands. The front door slams shut. The silence in Matt’s apartment is oppressive and isolating.
***
Matt struggles out of his suit and lets it fall to the floor in an unceremonious heap. He didn’t get hit tonight—at least, not badly enough to warrant needing help—so he gets the shower running and strips out of his undershirt and boxers. Out in the main living room, Frank is quiet, so much so that Matt would almost think he’s gone already. But he’s still there, sitting on the couch, leather creaking under his body. Matt hesitates, a question rising in his throat, but in the end, he shoves it down and gets into the shower.
The last two weeks have been quiet for them. Matt suspects that a lot of it has to do with the kiss, the fight, the blood drawn between the two of them. They haven’t talked about it, obviously, because why would they? Matt half suspects that Frank wants to forget that it ever happened, judging by how dead set he seems on moving on from it.
And if Frank’s heart beats a little quicker whenever he sees Matt, well, that’s just a side effect of getting over that, right? That’s normal, right?
Matt washes the sweat from his hair and goes at it with another round of shampoo to really make sure it’s all out. He’s learned that if he doesn’t do this extra step, he’ll sometimes end up with a little grime on his pillow, and he knows that even though it’s undetectable to anyone but himself, he’d really rather not have it there. So two washes it is.
The door opens.
“Matt?” Frank asks, and the sound of Matt’s name on his lips is so unfamiliar that Matt almost gasps. “Are you—?”
“I’m fine, Frank,” Matt says shortly, turning his head to rinse more shampoo from his hair. The spray goes over his ear.
When he emerges from it, letting it beat down over his back, he realizes that Frank is still there, an unmoving shape beyond the shower curtain. No, he is moving, but it isn’t until Matt hears something fall to the floor that he realizes that Frank is getting undressed.
Matt’s heartbeat both stops and speeds up, a stumbling, uneven pattern that leaves him feeling lightheaded. Frank’s footsteps shuffle across the bathmat. He doesn’t get in, though, just waits. Matt bites his tongue and slowly pulls the curtain back.
Frank takes a second to drop what Matt assumes are his briefs before stepping in, and it should be awkward and uncomfortable with two of them in there, but somehow, it’s a perfect fit. Matt holds his breath, unwilling to make any sudden movements for fear of fucking this up. Because he can’t fuck it up—not now, not when they’re so close.
Frank speaks first: “Is this okay?”
To anyone else, his voice would be inaudible over the spray. To Matt, though—
Matt slides a hand around the back of Frank’s neck. The kiss is wet from their mouths and the water, but it burns. It burns and it feels incredible and Matt doesn’t want to let him go.
Frank steps in a little closer, pressing Matt’s back against the cool shower tiles, and Matt shivers. Their bodies are pressed together, no fabric between them like last time, and the feeling is somehow foreign and familiar at the same time. It’s not just okay, it’s good. Too good.
Frank breaks the kiss after a few moments, and Matt almost complains at the separation before he realizes that Frank is sinking to his knees. He’s kneeling in front of Matt like a man in prayer, hands brought up to rest on Matt’s legs, and then his lips are on Matt’s hip bones.
“Let me take care of you, baby,” Frank murmurs, his voice a gentle vibration on Matt’s skin. Matt gasps out his approval when Frank’s lips skate across his skin, the barest hint of teeth, Frank’s hands softly wrapping around his legs to keep him upright. The calluses on Frank’s palms are wonderfully rough beneath the water, enough of a scratch to send pleasant tingles up and down Matt’s spine. The combination of sensations makes him go a little weak at the knees, and Frank’s grip tightens on him.
“Careful,” Frank warns, teasing, sliding his hands up and down Matt’s thighs. “Don’t slip.”
“Fuck—fuck you,” Matt gasps, head knocking back against the tile. He reaches and finds his hands landing in Frank’s hair, soft curls drenched. Still, Matt manages to find purchase as Frank’s lips close around him, painfully gentle. A low whine slips out from behind his teeth, strained and broken.
“Let me hear you,” Frank says, pulling off for a moment. “It’s okay.”
“God, Frank,” Matt manages, his lungs heaving for air. The feeling of Frank, the hot water, the cool tiles against his back—it’s a lot, it’s so much, it’s almost overwhelming. Overstimulating might be the better word, because it feels like fireworks are going off next door and his entire body is going up in flames. It’s good. It’s so good.
Matt doesn’t hold back on letting Frank know just how good it feels, his voice painfully loud to his senses. Frank takes it all in stride, carefully coaxing Matt to the edge, and when Matt falls off, Frank is there to catch him.
Frank’s hands around his legs are the only things keeping him up as he comes down from the high, spent and pleasantly warm from things other than shower water. Matt gasps like he’d been drowning and relishes in the feeling of Frank’s hands rubbing his skin, bringing him back to awareness.
“You okay?” Frank asks, the slightest hint of worry in his voice.
“Come up here and kiss me,” Matt all but chokes out, and Frank’s quiet laugh is nothing short of devastating.
This kiss is softer, somehow, but Matt almost moans as he tastes himself on Frank’s tongue. He nips at Frank’s bottom lip, chasing that laugh, and breaks it so he can rest his forehead against Frank’s shoulder.
“Thank you,” Matt says softly.
Frank snorts. “Man, don’t make it weird.”
“Sorry.”
“No,” Frank says, his hand finding its way to Matt’s jaw. His thumb brushes over Matt’s lips, rests there for a few seconds. Impulsively, Matt kisses it. “I wanted to do that. I—”
He doesn’t say anything else. Matt understands anyway.
They take turns under the water, Matt taking the opportunity to wash Frank’s hair and run his fingers through it. It’s a little long, Matt notes, something his brain had missed when Frank had had Matt’s dick in his mouth. Frank hums under his breath as Matt works the rest of the shampoo out of it.
When they’re finally done, Matt hands Frank a towel from under the sink and starts to dry himself off before getting dressed. Frank takes a smaller towel and, to Matt’s never ending surprise, helps dry Matt’s hair for him, running his hands through Matt’s hair as if to help shape it. Matt stands there and lets it happen, smiling as Frank drapes the towel around his bare shoulders and kisses him on the forehead. It’s so unbelievably domestic and affectionate that it shocks the words right out of Matt’s mouth.
“You wanna, uh, spend the night?” he asks ineloquently.
It’s funny, really, that the least surprising thing about this whole evening is how quickly Frank says yes.
Matt takes a little extra time in the bathroom to clean up a bit, discreetly taking a spare toothbrush and leaving it on the counter, and when he turns to leave, he finds Frank standing in the doorway like he’d been watching Matt the whole time. His arms are crossed. His head is tilted. And he’s completely silent.
“What?” Matt asks. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothin’,” Frank says. “You’re pretty, ‘s all.”
Matt freezes to his spot as Frank exits the bathroom, his heart going a million miles an hour in his chest.
Pretty?
His feet move before he tells them to, carrying him out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where he all but throws himself onto the bed and takes hold of Frank’s wrist, dragging him down after.