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It was two o'clock by the time Frank managed to find time for lunch on Thursday. It had taken him that long to shake off the previous night’s injuries, a brutal beating at the hands of the Junkyard Dogs having left him with more than a few bruises. Christ, it hurt to even breathe. He was treating himself to lunch today because he fucking deserved it after the shitstorm that was last night.
The Cuban cafe halfway along West Fifty Second Street was a rare treat for him. He wasn’t going to feel bad about ordering enough beef, chorizo and pork sliders to put his arteries (and his belt) under serious strain. Matt would have something to say about it, no doubt.
But he’d been quiet lately, bordering on withdrawn, not that his emotional issues had stopped him from fucking Frank into a mindblowing orgasm a week and a half ago. He was something else when he was mad at the world, Red. He was rough and intense and Frank fucking loved it. If his food didn’t arrive sometime in the next twenty minutes, he was going to text him for a completely shameless booty call, he decided.
But then a voice called, “Fritas Cubanas with a side of matchstick fries?”
“Thanks,” Frank muttered, grateful for the interruption. “Just put it right… here.” His voice faltered when he looked up into the face of Foggy Nelson, but he soon recovered. “What the hell do you want?”
“Relax,” said Foggy, setting his food in front of him like some kind of gesture of goodwill. “I’m not here to have you arrested. Well, at least not this time.”
“Noted,” Frank grumbled, annoyed when Foggy took a seat opposite him. “You’ve got four seconds to tell me what the hell you want or I'll walk, Nelson.”
A look passed between them, their gazes locking for a single moment that stretched on uncomfortably long. Frank refused to look away first. He got the point Foggy was making with that stare down: he wasn’t afraid of him. He never had been as far as Frank could tell. He was just that stubborn. But then Foggy blinked and heaved a sigh.
“He hasn’t left the apartment in a month. Matt, I mean,” Foggy added quite unnecessarily; Frank would have known who he was here to discuss from his tension alone.
“So you want me to drag him back into the world, kicking and screaming? Pass,” Frank muttered, tugging a fry off his plate and popping it in his mouth.
“You guys are dating,” Foggy insisted, refusing to back down. “He needs you to-”
“We’re not. We’re not dating,” Frank said quickly, before Foggy could guilt him into anything. “Not that it’s any of your business because it’s not, but it's purely physical between us. That’s all. No feelings. No hand holding. No talking like we give a shit. It’s not a relationship.”
“Do you care about him?” asked Foggy, his voice low and doubtful.
Frank scowled. “Of course I do.”
“Great!” the lawyer said brightly. “That qualifies as a relationship, Castle. Here’s his spare key.”
He plunked a brass key capped with green plastic on the table but Frank didn’t pick it up. He pulled his plate closer to himself instead, picking up a slider and taking a big bite out of it just to spite the lawyer. He chewed hungrily, tossing Foggy a contemptuous look. He couldn’t make him be some kind of boyfriend to Red. That wasn’t the deal and the deal was between him and Red anyway. He would have thought a goddamn lawyer would understand that.
“What the hell do you want me to do with that?” Frank demanded when Foggy slid the key closer.
The lawyer rolled his eyes. “Here’s a hint-”
“Make some smartass comment and see what happens,” Frank growled, annoyed.
“Right,” Foggy muttered, showing the first signs of unease. “I want you to talk to Matt.”
Frank groaned. “Didn’t I just say that talking isn’t part of the deal?”
There was a reason talking wasn't part of the deal: neither of them wanted to. Matt kept his secrets close and Frank had seen (and done) more messed up shit than he cared to put words to. What they had together worked and he didn't want to change it, no matter what Matt's pal thought about it. Before he could tell him so, Foggy leaned forward.
“Here’s the deal,” he said quietly. “Toxic or not, he cared about Elektra. I think he might’ve even loved her… and she died. You’re… experienced with the whole ‘people you love dying horribly’ thing-”
Frank glared at him. “Thin ice, Nelson.”
“Just… talk to him,” Foggy pleaded, but Frank shook his head.
“What in the hell am I supposed to say to him? You’ll feel better if you get back out there and fuck shit up? He won’t,” he stated flatly and then he sighed. “I don’t, but I keep going because it’s the only thing that means anything in this shitty, fucked up world.”
“Then tell him that… just with a few less profanities,” Foggy muttered as Frank sighed and took another bite of his slider.
“I don’t do less fucking profanities,” he grumbled around a mouthful of succulent meat.
“Oh, I know,” Foggy muttered grimly. “But talk to him anyway.”
Frank sighed. “Nelson-”
The lawyer stood up. “I wasn’t asking, Castle.”
He gave him a furious ‘you’d better take me fucking seriously’ look and then walked away, leaving Frank with a key to Matt's apartment and a twisted, anxious feeling in his gut. He didn't want to talk to Matt about his feelings around his ex's death, but something he just couldn't do was leave him to drown in his pain. He knew how it felt and where it led.
He'd been in Matt's apartment for nearly an hour and the Devil of Hell's Kitchen still hadn't surfaced. It had taken Frank all afternoon to decide one way or the other, whether to go to him and try to talk things out or not.
The fact that he was standing in Matt's kitchen simmering homemade gnocchi in Pomodoro sauce was a pretty good indication of where his head was at. He cared. That wasn't bullshit. But just because he cared didn't mean that he knew what the hell to say to him or even if Matt wanted to hear it, which he probably didn't.
What the fuck did Frank Castle know about grieving healthily anyway? He shook his head as he removed the gnocchi from the stove and started dividing it between two deep bowls. Matt's bedroom door slid open the minute Frank started topping the meals with basil, parmesan and mozzarella, making him smile at the realization that all it took was good home cooked food to summon Matt.
“What are you doing here?” Matt asked, like he hadn't been listening to him cook from behind a closed door for the last hour.
“I'm making sure you eat this week,” Frank muttered, retrieving cutlery from a drawer.
“That’s cute,” Matt replied, sinking into a seat on the couch.
Frank sighed. “I wasn’t trying to be. What’s chewing you up, Red?”
Matt gave a tired smile. “Well, that was subtle.”
“Out with it,” Frank grumbled impatiently, setting a steaming dish of gnocchi in Matt's hands. “I don’t do this feelings crap and you fucking know it. This is a one time only exception.”
“That’s quite the way to invite confidence,” Matt deflected, leaning over his food and inhaling sharply, a contented sigh escaping his lips.
“Who the fuck says I want that?” Frank grumbled, flopping on the couch beside him. “Eat it already. You look like shit.”
Matt didn't argue with him, which was a first and besides, Frank wasn't sugar coating anything, not that he ever did. Matt really did look like hell, all pale and drawn, his eyes ringed in shadows, and his t-shirt and baggy sweats hanging off him more loosely than usual. Matt hadn't been a big guy to start with, lean and muscled, sure, so much so that it was obvious he hadn't been eating well or training in weeks. No wonder Foggy was worried.
“It was supposed to be me, not her,” Matt admitted when he'd gotten through half of his dinner and Frank had finished his.
Frank sighed. “Been there.”
“I figured,” Matt said with a half shrug of his shoulders.
Frank frowned. “What’s your plan, Red? You can’t hide out here crying over your Bible forever.”
Matt ducked his head guiltily. “I locked it in the trunk.”
“Been there too,” Frank said, muffling a yawn with his hand. “I think I torched mine with the rest of my shit. Do you wanna talk about it, Red?”
He nudged his shoulder affectionately, allowing himself a small smile when Matt actually leaned into his touch, slouching a little lower and making Frank deposit his empty bowl on the floor just to make room for Matt in his lap. The lawyer sprawled across him, his head resting on Frank's chest like this closeness was the easiest thing in the world.
“I don't want comfort,” he said, a statement that was completely at odds with the way he sought Frank's closeness. “Not from you, not from anyone.”
There was a bit of pride in that defensive tone of his, but Frank didn't comment on it, instead he said, “Can I tell you something? I didn't want comfort either. I wanted- I needed it to fucking hurt and it did. That’s how you know they meant something to you, when losing them tears you the fuck apart.”
“Yeah,” Matt agreed, sighing to himself.
“Are you gonna be okay?” Frank asked, less because he expected an answer and more because he needed to ask the question.
Matt shrugged. “Are you gonna stay tonight?”
“If you ask me to,” Frank murmured huskily, dropping a kiss in his hair.
Matt hummed contentedly. “Well, I’m asking.”
Frank let him shift closer, accepting that the perfect conversation in which Matt spoke about all the ways he was a fucking mess wasn't going to happen tonight. It was a process, grief. Matt would find his own way through it and til then, Frank would be around, making sure he ate and took care of himself properly. It was the least he could do.
He reluctantly moved away from Matt and stood up as he said, “I’m gonna get the shower running while you finish your dinner.”
Matt nodded. “Tell Foggy thanks when you see him.”
“Smartass,” Frank grumbled, but he smiled.
Matt Murdock was going to make it to the other side of all this. Frank was going to personally see to it. That was his job, right? Not just to punish all the wrongdoers in the world, but to protect the do-gooders who were worth more to him than they could ever know.