Work Text:
Frank can pretend in the dark most nights. His work keeps him busy, keeps his hands steady, allows his demons out to play. The stars have always given him clarity, guided him through Afghanistan and beyond, the only source of light in his current hellscape.
Most of his encounters with Red are in the dark. They trade blows on rooftops and blowjobs in alleys and Frank’s never met someone so perfectly in tune with him, so well-matched it’s almost enough to get him to believe in Fate. He almost regrets never having the guts to find Murdock during the day. The man may not wear the stupid horns anymore and he might be wearing black pajamas instead of red, but there’s no doubting the Devil inside him, not when he goes on the offensive with vicious jabs and wild snarls, when he’s biting into Frank’s lips and leaving bruises along his thighs.
He shouldn’t feel the shit he does when he’s in Red’s arms. It’s almost a blessing when he inevitably wakes up, screaming himself hoarse, feeling like his skin is on fire, because it gives him an excuse to slip away.
The night hadn’t started badly; he’d managed to blow out the kneecaps of a few neo-Nazi shitbags and Murdock had rewarded his restraint by thoroughly fucking him into his expensive eight-hundred thread count sheets. The aftermath had been strangely gentle, for their previous aggression, for whatever the fuck they were in general. Murdock had molded himself into Frank’s side, his head pillowed over Frank’s heart, their legs tangled together in the ruined bedding.
It’d felt… safe. Normal, somewhat, if he ignored the bloodstains and the hastily stitched up wounds. Almost domestic. It would’ve scared the shit out of Frank had he managed to stay awake long enough to let it sink in.
He’d woken up screaming, the remnants of Maria’s head flashing through his mind, gunshots ringing in his ears.
Red had tried to comfort him the first time it had happened. He’d wrapped his arms around Frank’s waist, murmured meaningless platitudes in his ear; with anyone else it might’ve provided some sort of relief. All it did was make Frank focus on the fact that the bed he was in wasn’t his own, the bright light of the godawful billboard outside streaming in through the bare windows giving Murdock’s skin an ethereal glow.
It’s never Maria who Frank wakes up to anymore.
His hands are shaking as he rubs them over his skull and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He can feel Red’s presence: silent tonight, remaining close but not crowding, like Frank’s a wild animal that he doesn’t want to spook.
Frank shuts his eyes and takes in a shuddering breath. He needs the darkness again; he can’t look at Murdock, he’s too ashamed both that he’s let someone else in alongside Maria and he’ll inevitably destroy that someone too.
“Hey,” Murdock’s voice reaches his ears and his hand burns where it rests against Frank’s bare shoulder like a brand.
What’s left of Frank’s dignity is shredded when he jerks away with a snarl. Red’s touch is unbearable on nights like these – hell, even on a good night Frank prefers Red aggressive, his touch rough and unforgiving, taking instead of trying to give. He can’t mentally handle a gentle Matt Murdock.
He storms to his feet with a wordless growl. Behind him, Murdock gives an exaggerated sigh and falls back against the pillows, muttering darkly to himself. Good. If he’s offended maybe he’ll stay in bed.
The soft, threadbare grey sweats he grabs off the floor are Murdock’s, but they fit. Frank pads out of the room, automatically kicking clothing and boots aside to ensure Murdock doesn’t trip before he realizes what he’s doing. Whatever. Not like falling on his ass is gonna get Murdock to chill if he’s determined to poke his nose where it doesn’t belong.
He unlocks the rooftop hatch and climbs up the ladder, gritting his teeth as the wind stings his bare torso. The sounds of the city are soothing; he doesn’t sleep well in silence anymore, not since Afghanistan. He almost wishes for Red’s superpowered hearing, but the bastard’s snoring is a decent enough substitute for the white noise of Manhattan.
Groaning as his muscles burn, Frank sits at the edge of the rooftop and sighs. He should just move on, get out of town, find someplace where he can maybe see the stars at night and hide in the darkness. His fingers twitch and he picks at the loose threads in the knee of his borrowed sweats and wonders just how out of it he must be to come up on the goddamned roof without a weapon.
“Frank?”
He flinches a little at the noise but refuses to turn around, annoyed that Red can get the drop on him when his nerves are fried like this. He should have expected it though; they’re both too fucking stubborn and too fucking similar to each other to ever actually cooperate.
Soft fabric drapes over his shoulders, cutting the bite of the wind. It’s ugly and plaid, but it’s red and smells like Murdock and fuck but that shouldn’t bring Frank any kind of comfort, but yet… He can feel the tension seep out of his muscles and he shuts his eyes, exhaling softly.
Frank’s heartbeat gives him away. Murdock takes his relaxation as permission and settles in next to Frank, sightless eyes gazing out over Hell’s Kitchen. “There’s a burglary two blocks down,” he says after a moment, his voice quiet and sleep-roughened. “I left your boots and Glock by the access door. You’d probably make it in time.”
Surprised, Frank glances over, frowning at the solemn expression on Murdock’s face. “Yeah? You plannin’ on calling the cops as soon as I leave, that it?” He’s harsh and he doesn’t want to be but it’s instinctive at this point, like a dog who’s been kicked too many times.
“No,” Murdock replies, his head cocking slightly as the wind whistles by. His nose wrinkles and he brushes his messy hair off his forehead. “I don’t want to fight you, Frank; I never have.”
Frank snorts and shifts, pulling the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders. “Yeah, sure. I’ve got bruises that say otherwise, Red.”
A barely visible smirk appears on Murdock’s face, the Devil in him clearly enjoying the reminder of their earlier activities. “Okay, maybe I want to fight you a little bit,” he admits, ducking his head and making Frank hate himself for finding it cute. “But not while you’re like this. How can I help, Frank?”
The earnest tone in Red’s voice does things to Frank’s heart that he knows he can’t hide, not from the bastard that can hear a rat’s fart five blocks over. He fixes Murdock with a furious look that dies on his face when he notices the asshole’s wearing his black Henley. “Stay out of it, Red. Go back inside, put my shirt back. Go to sleep,” he growls, but there’s no feeling in it. He’s just keeping up appearances.
Murdock smiles and shakes his head. “You’ve got my pants; I figure we’re even as far as theft goes,” he replies. He lifts his hand and lets it hover over Frank’s thigh. “May I?”
Frank doesn’t feel like his skin’s on fire anymore at least. Red’s presence isn’t a cooling balm, but it still cleanses him nonetheless. He sighs and waves a hand. “Ain’t like you haven’t had your hands on me already tonight.”
“Yeah, well, right now I’d rather put you back together than take you apart.” Murdock’s thumb rubs Frank’s thigh absently in slow, soothing circles. “I’m sorry, Frank. I know it’s not the same, but losing Elektra, it… I don’t know. It gave me an idea of your pain, of what you go through every night.”
A strangled noise escapes Frank’s throat and his instinct is to lash out, to tell Murdock he doesn’t know shit, but he’s tired. He’s tired of carrying this shit, tired of the pain.
“I just wanted to say thank you, as weird as it sounds,” Murdock continues. “You’re the only constant in my life right now and I didn’t know how much I needed that. We’re probably fucking terrible for each other and God knows it’s not something either of us would have chosen, but I’m glad you’re here with me.”
Frank lets the words sink in and shuts his eyes. They’re almost too much, Red’s tone the icing on top of the goddamned cake, but it’s a good sort of pain. Healing – just a little bit. He exhales slowly and settles his hand over Red’s, his fingers twitching over the battered knuckles before finally calming.
A genuine smile appears on Red’s face, one of the rare one that sinks into Frank’s soul, one that only appears in the dark. “Sanctuary, I guess. For both of us.”
Looking down at their hands, Frank lets his fingers twine through Murdock’s and squeezes almost imperceptibly. “I can do that, yeah. Sanctuary,” he says, voice rough with barely suppressed emotion. “I’d like that, Red.”