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The first thing out of Matt’s mouth when Frank lets him into his apartment is “I’m sorry.” Before he can respond, Matt passes him and is pacing by the couch.
“Apology accepted. Now you gonna tell me what it's for?” According to his admittedly shit memory, he hasn't been chained to a roof recently, so as far as he's concerned they're good. He didn't think it was possible for Red to look more uncomfortable than he did when he walked in, but then again he's always been able to surprise him.
“For… last night.” Matt says, shifting his feet and tilting his head down, not that it does anything to cover the blush crawling up his neck. He looks just as disheveled as he did last night, but not in the satisfying way he had when Frank took him apart. If Frank didn’t know better, he’d say he looks… tired (but Frank does know better, knows that exhaustion is as natural to Matt as breathing). Red’s wincing at noises he can barely hear, and scratching at his arms under what looks to be a very soft cotton sweatshirt.
Frank drops down onto his couch, and whistles for Chief to come out from the bedroom. The grey pitbull trots out, yawning lazily before walking up to Matt and sniffing curiously. Matt, who’s looking at the dog in shock, stopped from his nervous shifting as Chief tentatively licks his fingers. After a moment of hesitation, he strokes the dog’s face, feeling a small grouping of scars around his right eye.
“The Irish did a number on ‘im, but he’s a sweet pup. Callin’ ‘im Chief’s a bit ironic, couldn’t be softer, but it’s easy to remember.” he sighs, before patting the couch next to him, “No, not you, ya mutt; si’ down Red.” The younger man is certainly not comfortable, but he complies, stumbling slightly with the excitable dog under his feet.
Matt clears his throat, not even trying to look at him, “I took advantage of you for my own pleasure. I’m sorry.” He looks as guilty as a kid at his First Communion, but if he thinks he’s admitted some dark truth, Frank doesn’t understand it.
“Eatin’ ass ain’t exactly a chore; I did it cause I wanted to, and ‘cause it was hot.” Honestly, he’s assuming this is just some of the Catholic guilt Matt is famous for, but he’s trying not to laugh since he’s taking it so seriously.
Chief is sticking his head between Matt’s knees, his chin resting on the couch, clearly sensing his distress as he shakes his head, “We didn’t… I didn’t prepare you, and then I just took and—”
“Woah, woah; Red!” Suddenly, Matt is choking on his words, tearing up and rocking and Frank doesn't understand. “Whatever you think you did to me, we were two consenting adults, an’ I had a good time. Sex doesn’t have to be both of us gettin’ the same exact things, it’s just everyone havin’ a good time.” Hoping to break the tension, he adds, “I wouldn’t’ve minded you stayin’ for breakfast though.”
That gets a snort, but Matt is still ducking his head down, a shaking hand running over the snout at his legs. With a shaky breath, he finally ‘looks’ up, and Frank can’t help but wince at how broken he looks, unshed tears in his eyes, his whole face red and blotchy and unbearably young. “Still, I… it degraded you, and you’re g—you’re better than him. The… man I was with.”
And that… Frank doesn’t know what to do with that. “If you’re sayin’ this ‘cause we’re both men—”
“No, no!” Admittedly, he’s relieved to learn that Red’s religious hangups don’t extend to being gay, but now he’s just left with more questions. “There’s nothing, wrong with what we did, or, the action itself, it’s just,” Matt breaks off with a frustrated sigh, rubbing his hands over his face as he pieces together what to say, “the last person who touched me like that was… Bad, and I feel like I made you bad by association. This is stupid, I shouldn’t have come here.” As he makes to get up from the couch, though, Chief whines and nuzzles his head more firmly in his lap, licking again at his tensed fingers.
Frank may have lost a lot of his people skills with the bullet, but his less-fractured memories include a staggering array of reaction to trauma, enough that he can put together that’s what’s happening here. Not that associating Red and trauma is anything out of the ordinary, but with the context of the conversation his trigger finger reflexively twitches. He doesn’t say any of this, though he’s sure Red can sense something more in his tone, “If I’m good compared to him, he must be pretty fuckin’ terrible.”
Matt laughs, painfully wet and bitter, “You’re not wrong.” He puts each hand on either side of the dog’s face, putting his own face close to him; Chief takes the opportunity to lap at his face, and the chuckle he gets out of him this time is more genuine. Still, it’s with a haunted look that he continues, “Though depending on who you’d ask, he’s holy .”
Every worst-case scenario Frank imagined goes out the window. Now, all he is left with is one awful possibility. He's not one for delicate situations, but his fried voice is as gentle as he can get it when he asks, “How old were you?”
“Ten, I think? I wasn't very lucid, for most of it.” Matt's tracing a deliberate pattern into Chief's short fur, something that looks like figure-eights.
Frank can feel himself retreating, his feelings too much to deal with directly, but he fights to keep enough of his awareness for Matt's sake. He isn't sure if Matt wants him to respond, but he doesn't continue, so Frank eventually speaks up, “Did anyone find out?”
Matt nods, his whole body rocking with the movement; his sole focus still the dog half in his lap, “St-my mentor knew, m-mocked me for it. But, he taught me defenses, how to get out of holds, so. After my mentor left, I was ready if it… happened again, and it did. To another one of the kids.” Something hard crawls into his voice then, “He didn't get as far as he did with me. I didn't let him.”
Revelations hang heavy in the air, choking conversation. Matt remembering while Frank imagines. “ Fuck , Red,” he says after a while, too full of anger and second-hand grief to think of anything more. Instead of talking, he makes a motion with his hand Matt can't follow and Chief is up on the couch, laying his head on Matt's legs and his rump on Frank. The pressure is enough to make him alert, more there .
Something about the scene startles a laugh out of Matt, exhaustion sending it just the wrong side of desperate. He sighs, “God, what a cliche. Blind orphan and a priest…”
“Hey, you’re talkin’ to a vet with PTSD. Pretty sure there are more Lifetime movies about that.” He still doesn’t feel totally comfortable calling his problems that, not with all the actually good men who have it, but helping Red is worth being a little uncomfortable. Matt seems to appreciate it, relaxing into the couch for the first time since he sat down.
Frank gropes for the TV remote and flicks it on, not caring for what it ends up on as long as there is something to focus on; if Curtis saw him using grounding techniques like this he’d try to give him a fucking medal. “You want a beer?” he asks, not wanting to use too many healthy coping mechanisms at once.
Matt sounds more relieved than he’s ever heard him, “God yes.”
--
“This Miss Jones?”
“Who’s fuckin’ asking?” If he weren’t on mission, Frank might’ve laughed at that: Jones certainly lives up to her reputation.
As always, he isn’t one to mince words, “Frank Castle. I need you to find someone for me.”
He catches her whispered ‘ Jesus’ over the phone, but her voice is forcibly casual when she answers, “I’m not going down for assisted homicide—”
“I hear you make exceptions for rapists.”
Sometimes Frank wishes he wasn’t as blunt as he is, because he knows he crossed a line from the heavy breathing on the other side of the line. Eventually she calms down enough to get out a word: “Name?”
He grunts, frustrated but glad she’s agreed, “No name. A priest, stationed at Saint Agnes about twenty years ago,” thinking for a moment, he adds: “probably had a hospital visit around then, too.”
There’s the sound of shifting papers, and the fan of an old laptop chugging to life. “I’ll see what I can do.”