Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Matt hears Karen‘s car pull onto Frank’s property, tires scraping over gravel, he’s hit with a wave of giddy excitement and nervous energy. He’s still haunted by the way he treated them the night they dropped him off upstate, and especially ashamed of the way he snapped at Foggy. 

He knows that he wasn’t…in his right mind. And he knows that they know that too. In fact, they probably understand that better than he himself does. But none of that changes that the way he had behaved was unacceptable.

No one deserves that. Least of all, Foggy.

It’s the sound of a car door that finally has him putting that nervous energy to use. 

“Help me up,” Matt says, a thinly veiled demand that does nothing to hide the way he’s almost vibrating. He’s trying to be better about asking for help, although he’s still working on the part where he actually waits for that help to arrive; by the time Frank’s calloused palms and strong fingers are wrapping around his elbows he’s already halfway standing.

“You ever heard of patience?” Frank asks, and while his tone is undeniably fond, Matt also knows that it’s meant to be at least mildly reprimanding. 

Not that Matt cares.

“No,” he replies emphatically, clinging to Frank’s forearms as he settles into his feet. 

The alpha waits patiently as he slowly rocks his weight from foot to foot, assessing whether there’s any dizziness waiting to put him on his ass. 

Take it slow, Matt tries to remind himself. 

Tries. An important word to remember for later if Frank and Curtis get on his case for moving too quickly.

…trying to move too quickly. 

Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how it’s being utilised against him—Frank is built like a brick-fucking-wall. A fact he has no problem using to his advantage.

For example: despite the fact Matt’s muscles are definitely working towards closing the distance between his physical presence and the front door, he isn’t moving. 

At all.

He’s being held in place, gentle but firm, by the one-man barricade with a heartbeat that he could pinpoint in a crowd without even trying.

“Easy,” Frank murmurs, momentarily drawing his attention. “They’re comin’. You don’t gotta’ run at ‘em.”

Any reply Matt might’ve conjured up is lost as his focus jumps back to the front door—the quiet rattle of the handle and the squeak of hinges as the door is tentatively opened. 

“Knock knock,” comes Karen’s voice from the entryway, followed by the rustling of a bag and the soft crunch of trainers on the welcome mat. 

“Hey,” says Foggy, voice warm if not a little tentative. “I brought gifts! Got a donut from that place down the street you like—just a plain one though. Karen said no icing.”

Matt suddenly feels the distance between them like an ache. He wants nothing more than to shove away the slight wariness in Foggy’s tone—to finally fix what he broke. 

Karen and Foggy are barely in the door when Frank tightens his hold on Matt’s arms and huffs out a fond, “better get over here quick, Nelson.”

Matt hears Foggy’s heart jump at that, standing eagerly to attention before he closes the gap between them in four long strides; and only when Matt’s hands move to clumsily grasp Foggy’s shoulders does Frank let go.

Foggy takes Matt’s face between his warm palms, seemingly taking in the sight of him for a beat before he sighs with something like relief. 

“Matty,” he breathes, his tone heavy with something that hits Matt in the ribs like a physical blow. “I—shit, it’s good to see you, buddy. I don’t want to say you look good because that would be a lie, but—” the words get caught behind a slight hitch of breath and a wet-sounding chuckle that has Matt’s own subconscious smile wobbling. 

“I missed you,” he finishes, the words tumbling out around a slight grunt as they both pick the same moment to fall into a hug. It’s tight and a little desperate—clearly a reunion they’ve both been needing. 

“Foggy,” Matt exhales, tightening his hold as the familiar smell of his person—sun-dried eucalyptus and a musk that smells like home—washes over him. It’s like catharsis; the weight of guilt he had been carrying, in the moments he was lucid enough, finally lifting. 

Because whether or not he deserves it, he knows Foggy doesn’t hold his behaviour against him. He hears it in the way his friend's heart beats: no trace of a lie in his yearning declaration.

The embrace doesn’t go on for nearly long enough, in Matt’s humble opinion—lasting only a few moments before Foggy is firmly holding him at arms length by the shoulders, sniffling as he collects himself. 

“Matt,” Foggy says, his tone half-accusing, half-awe. “You’re—” there’s a slight pause, one that is punctuated by a little skip in his heartbeat. Then, with a cheeky smile so tangible that Matt can hear it, “you’re round.”

Matt blinks, caught off guard. “…What?”

“That—” Foggy gestures towards the general vicinity of Matt’s midsection, hand cutting through the air as if the movement alone explains everything, “—is a bump.”

The dramatic declaration makes Matt’s ears burn, something he tries to cover up with a scoff as he fights not to touch his navel. That would only make this worse for him. Because Foggy Nelson? Is like a bloodhound when it comes to finding ways to embarrass him. 

“Oh, thank you, Nelson,” Matt deadpans, not missing a beat. “I was just thinking that I don’t get enough unsolicited comments on my body these days.”

“That wasn’t unsolicited,” Foggy fires back, grinning. “It was important observational feedback. Someone’s got to keep you updated on your own… geographical changes.”

“Geographical—?” Matt huffs, face scrunching in a mix of laughter and disbelief, but Foggy doesn’t give him the chance to recover.

“When I last saw you it was like a slope. A gentle slope. But now? You’re encroaching on hill territory, Matthew.”

Before Matt can formulate a reply sharp enough to land, Karen’s voice enters the fray from behind, fond and threaded with amusement.

“He’s right,” she hums, stepping around as Foggy relinquishes his place in front of Matt, a vacancy she quickly fills by wrapping her arms around him. “You make a lovely knoll.” 

Matt groans—a long-suffering sound—but he doesn’t pull away from the embrace; not until Karen herself does. 

Her hand drops down to his elbow. “May I…?” She asks tentatively, the nature of the request obvious.

Matt smiles abashedly. “Sure.”

“No! No, no, no,” Foggy dismisses dramatically, waving Karen away with gentle shoo. “If anyone is getting the first feel, it’s going to be Uncle Foggy.”

Karen’s brows go up, huffing out an amused laugh. “Uncle Foggy?”

“You think I’ve done years of emotional heavy lifting to not get a title?” Foggy retorts incredulously, all but scoffing at the idea as he lays a hand expectantly on Matt’s shoulder. 

“This is ridiculous,” Matt says, torn between fondness and exasperation as he tilts his head towards Foggy.

“No more talking until I’m on a guided hillside tour,” Foggy says, his tone playfully final. Then, as if to accentuate the point, he places his wrist in Matt’s hand, nudging incessantly until deft fingers close around it.

Matt shakes his head. “Only if you promise not to cry,” he teases, but does as bid, guiding Foggy’s hand down to the soft swell below his navel.

Predictably, Foggy’s breath hitches. “Oh,” he says wetly, already sniffing as Matt withdraws his own hand, leaving Foggy’s to press against the curve of him.

Matt feels a quiet, involuntary purr building in his chest. “Little girl,” he supplies quietly, a bashful sort of pride creeping into his tone.

“A girl?” Foggy whispers, the wobbly grin audible in his tone as his thumb strokes in gentle arcs. “She’s…you’re…” he tries to continue, but the words don’t seem to be lining up. Any further attempts are quickly swallowed by a bubble of giddy laughter that has Matt smiling in return.

He feels Frank shift behind him, a soft rumble building in his chest. It’s not audible yet, and not quite a growl, but there’s something distinctly possessive about it—a perfect blend of smug, primal satisfaction and mine. 

Seemingly sensing the shift in the room, Karen ushers Foggy away with an impatient, “my turn, my turn—”

Matt smiles as he guides her hand to the cradle between his hips; that purr still fills the space, shy and prideful, as he lets go of her hand.

Karen’s palm is warm against him, the earlier excitement simmering into quiet awe as her fingers curve gently around the swell. She doesn’t fuss or press, just holds—steady, quiet—her thumbs brushing soothingly over his navel.

Matt shivers.

“Hi, little one,” Karen says quietly, giving one last lingering brush to his navel, the warmth never leaving her tone even as it becomes laced with something tender and playful. “You’re already everyone’s favorite hill.”

Matt chuckles, cheeks warm. “I’m starting to think you’re only here for my topography,” he says, voice as flat as he can manage as his Omega preens beneath the surface. 

“Well, you do have excellent views,” Karen smiles, letting her hand fall away as Frank’s rumbling begins audibly rolling from his chest, low and quiet. 

She takes a respectful step back. “Looks like I’m not the only one who thinks so,” she smirks faintly.

Then Matt finds himself encased in strong arms from behind, broad palms and strong fingers following his fading V line before curving over his belly. That rumble is undeniably smug now and subtly possessive in its cadence—not aggressively, though. More like a prideful reminder. 

Frank hums. “My turn.” His lips press into the curve of Matt’s neck as he inhales, slow and deep. After a moment, that press of lips becomes something more crooked, a hidden smirk brushing against Matt’s skin. “Takes two to landscape. Hill’s half mine.”

“Shut up,” Matt groans, his purr betraying him as he leans back into Frank's hold.

Karen chuckles, at the same time Foggy makes a scandalised sound.

“Dude! Please don’t talk about landscaping my best friend right in front of me.” 

There’s a pause, long enough that Matt dares to think it’s over. Then, with a cadence that tells Matt exactly how repugnant the grin on his face is: “no, wait. I changed my mind. Tell me everything.”

Matt chokes.

Frank doesn’t respond—Matt isn’t even sure he heard—he just rumbles, low and pleased, against Matt’s back. He begins guiding them backwards towards the couch, clearly intending to get the Omega off his feet.

But it’s then that Matt catches a subtle change in the atmosphere. There’s a shift in Foggy and Karen that tells him a wordless conversation is taking place.

Then—

“Frank,” Karen ventures with absolutely no attempt at subtlety. “I was wondering if you’d take a look at my car. It’s been making a weird noise when I accelerate.”

Foggy hums sagely. “Yeah, man. It sounds like something’s dying under there.”

Frank's arms tighten around Matt for a moment, clearly hesitant to leave, before they slowly loosen. So slowly that Matt is sure he’ll change his mind.

“Okay,” Frank grunts, hands still on Matt’s hips. His attention shifts then, voice dropping into something commanding, though the concern beneath is palpable. 

“Nelson,” he says gruffly. “Make sure he sits down. Porch or couch— don’t care which as long as his ass is in a chair.” 

Foggy’s hand cuts through the air in a mock-salute. “Ay ay, captain,” he says, voice filled with humour. But Matt can hear the quiet sincerity beneath. Sap.

Matt tilts his head back towards Frank, about to point out that he’s perfectly capable of managing the placement of his own ass, but a fleeting, gentle caress to the side of his throat stops the words in their tracks. He feels his purr slip into something deeper.

Frank gives a light squeeze to his hip—a silent but clear be good—before he reluctantly steps back, then hesitates. His heart thuds as if even that much distance cost him.

“Go on,” Matt encourages, though he can’t deny the way his chest tightens just a little at the prospect. “I’ll even stay sitting down until you get back.”

Frank huffs, but the tension in his body does seem to ease, if only a little. “Call me if you need anything,” he says gruffly.

“He will,” Karen says, her tone equal parts reassuring and stern—both a promise and a threat of repercussions if it’s a promise she fails to keep. Or rather, Matt fails to keep on her behalf. 

Matt huffs out a laugh, but his quiet purr doesn’t falter.

“Now, come on,” she continues, stepping towards the door expectantly. “Walk with me. Just for a bit.”

Foggy links an arm with Matt’s then, urging them in the opposite direction. “What’s it going to be, buddy—porch or couch?”

Matt hesitates for only a moment before letting himself be led; only when he’s moving does he sense Frank doing the same. 

“Porch,” Matt murmurs, feeling his purr wavering as the physical distance between himself and Frank slowly lengthens. 

Foggy leads them across the threshold of the back door and onto the newly renovated porch, not giving Matt time to brood. He whistles.

“Damn, it’s nice out here, Matty,” Foggy praises. “I can see why you’d pick this over the city.”

Matt clears his throat, feeling along the edge of the hanging chair before he carefully lowers himself down. “This is actually new,” he admits quietly, adjusting himself into a comfortable position before patting the spot next to him.

“New, huh?” Foggy’s grin is almost palpable as he squirms into the chair next to Matt, wriggling excitedly as he opens his arms. When Matt falls into them gladly, he squeezes gently before relaxing with a sigh. 

“New how?” He prods lazily. “Just the chair, or…?”

Matt hums, aiming for nonchalance. “Pretty much everything out here. It used to be just planters before Frank…” he trails off. 

Something in the air shifts, and Matt is hit with the feeling that he’s said too much, something that proves true when Foggy’s scent blooms thick with excitement; warm peppermint that leaves Matt’s senses feeling charged.

“Foggy—” he tries, aiming for damage control. But it’s no use.

“Oh my God,” Foggy cuts in gleefully, the grin spreading across his face so ridiculously that it’s practically audible. “This is a nest. A pinterest-worthy nest built by The Punisher—”

”Dont start,” Matt groans, tipping his head back against the wicker with a soft thump—a short-lived resting place that is quickly disturbed by Foggy’s arm beneath his neck, now gesturing animatedly as he bulldozes on.

“Oh, I've already started,” he says, almost giddy with excitement. “Temperature control, shades, plants—” His voice grows more exaggerated with every word. Then, almost conspiratorially, as if that explains everything, “Matty, we’re sitting in a giant, hanging egg.”

And… in a way, maybe it does explain everything. But that doesn't mean Matt isn't going to try and deny it. 

He shakes his head, cheeks warm. “You’re reading too much into it,” he mumbles.

“No, I’m definitely not,” Foggy rebuts immediately. “This shit is almost romantic, Matt. And he’s—” The words are cut off with a sign, his demeanor dampening into something a little more grounded.

“I won’t lie and say I’ve always approved of Frank, or your… involvement with him—” Matt cringes slightly at the wording. “—but even I can see that he’s good for you.”

Foggy continues, softer now. “And I don't just mean all this—” he gestures loosely around them, “You seem… more settled. All of you seems more settled.”

Matt swallows. “…I guess I am,” he murmurs, the purr that had stopped somewhere between Frank’s departure and stepping out onto the porch flickering back to life.

Foggy’s arms tighten around him. “I’ve never heard you purr before,” he sniffs, voice sounding dangerously thick with emotion. “—And don’t stop just because I pointed it out,” he adds quickly. “It”s nice, Matty. Don’t you dare ruin this for me by getting all purr-shy.”

Matt huffs a laugh, but does try to relax into the part of himself that purrs when content, however foreign it feels. “That’s not a thing.”

“Good,” Foggy says, not missing a beat. “Let’s keep it that way.”

They sit like that for a few moments; Matt being lulled by his own purr and Foggy’s warmth as he listens to the breeze brushing gently against the shades. The sway of the hanging chair and the way the cushions cradle his aching pelvis make him realise that Foggy’s earlier statement is true: he does feel settled. Deeply so. 

He feels himself loosening in Foggy’s hold, eyes sliding closed, his purr a constant hum that notably calms both their heart rates. 

“You know,” Foggy ventures quietly, his tone achingly sincere, “if you ever want to talk about the big stuff, I’ll listen. Because it seems like maybe there might be some big things happening…?”

Matt’s lips twitch. “Like a baby?” He deadpans, eyes still closed.

Foggy snorts. “Okay, yes,” he concedes, “but no. I mean the other big things—the stuff that your martyr complex tells you you’re not allowed to want, so you just pretend not to.”

Matt swallows, the words cutting deeper than he expected. “I don’t—” he tries, but the rebuttal—the lie— dies in his throat. “…It’s not just that,” he says instead, voice laced with quiet vulnerability.

“Alright,” Foggy says unflinchingly, his hand smoothing up and down Matt's arm in a slow, almost coaxing, rhythm. “Tell me what else.”

Like it’s that easy.

Matt thinks back to his conversation with Frank a couple of days ago, the morning after his scan and their first time waking up in a bed for almost a week.

-——ΑΩ——-

Matt woke up slowly, his face warmed by what he assumed was the late afternoon sun as it filtered through the blinds. He could feel a solid wall of warmth plastered along his back and the weight of a strong forearm draped over his waist, that line of relaxed muscle leading to a broad palm that rested against the base of his sternum. 

He felt the beginnings of a purr—lazy, contented—flickering to life in his chest, the Omega within him clearly pleased at the feeling of being so thoroughly held by it’s Alpha.

Matt tried not to linger on the sliver of anxiety he felt at the disconnect between himself and that part of his brain, choosing instead to lean into the fact that—for once—he was on the same page as it. The purr that quietly built within him was undeniably soothing, albeit in a way that he didn’t really understand. But at that moment? 

He couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Frank’s wrist was resting somewhere close to his head, close enough that, with a subtle tilt of his chin, he could nose against the underside. The alpha musk that brushed against his senses—warm leather and calm camomile that was so distinctly Frank—made his purr deepen and his pupils dilate perceptibly.

He felt the way that his hindbrain began to gently creep forward, his higher thought softened down into a dreamy haze by the mixture of Frank wrapped around him and his own steady purr.

As he continued to nose at Frank’s carpal gland, his focus slipped from the pulse point to its underlying rhythm—the quiet thump of Frank’s heart at his back. Its comforting rhythm was slower than he’d heard it in weeks, unhurried and even. The weight of sleep softened it in a way that Matt hadn’t realised was missing; each beat free from the tight coil of vigilance that kept it elevated and alert. It’s a calm Matt hadn’t heard since he arrived upstate.

And certainly not since the day Frank pulled him out of the pool. 

He felt his purr waver at that, the contentment dampened by a simmering guilt that made something cold begin to wrap around his ribs—flickers of a memory not fully within his grasp, but one he knew still haunted Frank.

The sting of chlorine, a fatigue so deep it left his limbs unresponsive, and the feeling of a bruising grip around his arms as he was hauled from the water. Frank’s voice, too raw with fear to be its usual steady timbre. The ache in his chest as he coughed up water. 

The rest was lost to him almost entirely.

But since then, Frank’s heart hadn’t truly settled. Not for any substantial length of time. During that first week, any time Matt had awoken? Frank was already there—watching, listening, ready. He had always been awake, seemingly too attuned to Matt’s every breath to rest.

That thought made the simmering guilt begin to boil over—hot and prickling against the edges of his comfort. He hated knowing he had cost Frank the peace that he moved upstate to find, that somewhere within Frank was the belief that he couldn’t let go—not even for a second. And now, lying there with the first real proof Matt had heard of Frank finally resting, Matt couldn’t shake the thought that he should be more…grateful. And not just lazily nuzzling into the hand of a man who had stretched himself too thin for the last week. 

All because Matt had shown up on his doorstep all those weeks ago; feral, defensive, and pregnant with his unplanned child. Hell—pregnant with a child Matt hadn’t even thought physically possible until he’d heard it inside him.

And once the worst of the shock and fear had run its course, all he could think about was that fact that he was getting a chance at something he had convinced himself he could live without. Every time his awareness was pulled to that rapid little flutter in his pelvis…he ached with a feeling too complex to name—something primal that originated, at least partially, from the section of his brain that spoke a language he still didn’t fully understand. 

But if he had to guess? He would’ve said that it was something not unlike joy.

Even thinking about it made something in him feel lighter; a fluttering sensation that made emotions swell within him quickly enough that, for a moment, he was suspended in that feeling.

But just for a moment.

Because, joyous or not, he wasn’t the only person affected by his unplanned pregnancy. So now, Frank, whether he liked it or not, was paying the price for Matt’s carelessness. And what’s worse is that Matt knew from the start—even through the haze of his Omega’s instinctual fear-aggression—that Frank would pay that price. No question. Whether through a sense of duty or genuine desire, Frank would never abandon him or their child.

Intentional or not, it was the perfect trap.

And that? That’s the thought that had haunted Matt since the start. 

He really tried to fight the sour edge that crept into his scent—to cling to the sleepy haze for a little longer, if only for Frank’s sake. Because Matt knew that his alpha would stir at the first signs of discontent.

Despite the churning guilt, part of that thought had given him pause and halted the self-loathing, at least for a moment.

His Alpha.

Those two words were enough to have his hindbrain itching with the urge to seek Frank—to ask for comfort, attention, or anything the alpha would give him. 

A warbling trill slipped from his throat before he could catch it; a wanton sound that both settled and enraged him. Both for the same reason.

The effect of that noise, however small, was immediate: a slight hitch in the rhythm of Frank’s sleeping heart. The first of many. His alpha began slowly surfacing, that hand over his sternum twitching faintly with consciousness.

Matt had gritted his teeth and willed himself to relax. If he just stayed still enough—quiet enough—maybe Frank would fall back to sleep. Maybe he could preserve that softened heartbeat. With that thought in mind, he nosed against Frank’s glands again, a slightly desperate attempt to smooth over the sour note that had crept into his own scent. 

But it didn’t matter. His hindbrain had already latched onto those two words—his Alpha—and now it was a losing battle. Every instinct within him brayed for more. It wanted a firmer hold, the warm weight of Frank’s palm on his belly, an answering rumble to his treacherous purr. 

Another trill slipped free, softer this time but no less pitiful and desperate, as if his body had decided to beg without his consent.

And it worked. 

There was a low, rough scrape of voice behind his ear, still thick with sleep.

“You talkin’ t’me, sweetheart?”

Matt’s stomach twisted. What is wrong with you? The venom that laced his thoughts burned sharp, but not sharp enough to stop the small, pleading chirr that slipped through his gritted teeth.

Frank stilled behind him for less than a second before his instincts seemed to click into place—his inner Alpha almost infuriatingly fluent in that language of gesture and sound that was so lost on Matt himself. He moved with a quiet certainty, shifting just enough to press impossibly closer to the line of Matt’s spine, the warm bracket of his pelvis slotting seamlessly behind Matt’s hips.

That broad palm that had been resting on Matt’s sternum dropped lower, knuckles grazing over the worn-soft fabric of Matt’s shirt before it settled low, dropping down onto the swell below his navel. 

Frank pressed his nose into the space behind Matt’s ear, kissing it softly as he began to rub Matt’s belly; a hip-to-hip stroke that was firm enough to be grounding but gentle enough to have Matt purring again—deep, satiated, trembling.  

“Keep talking t’me,” Frank said, the rasp in his tone close enough to cause goosebumps and startle another soft chirr from the Omega. “I’m listenin’, Red. Whatever you need.”

The words made Matt’s throat tighten with the need to apologise, but all that came out was a distressed trill—equal parts frustrated and anxious with need.

”You’re alright,” Frank murmured as his hand continued to rub Matt’s pelvis with that grounding pressure. “Just relax. Don’t fight it.”

Matt took a breath and willed himself to relax, just like how Frank had guided him so many times before. He knew that fighting only made it clamp down harder, but it was hard to trust that part of himself; too needy, too vulnerable, too loud.

….but not for Frank, apparently. 

And it's that thought which finally enabled him to relax—just enough that the stalemate in between thought and instinct reached a quiet truce, the vice around his vocal chords easing.

”M’sorry,” he rasped, voice hoarse from disuse and thinned with the remains of that trembling purr. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I tried t’be quiet, but it—” 

Matt’s voice got caught in his throat again.

Frank’s lips pressed into his nape and the hand on his stomach paused, not in reprimand, but in a steady, anchoring way that told Matt he’d been heard. And when Matt didn't continue, Frank stepped in.

“Easy,” he murmured, lips grazing against Matt’s nape. “I ain’t mad you woke me, Matt. And y’don’t ever gotta’ be quiet.”

Matt curled up tighter, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to fight the hot sting of tears. He wasn't sure whether it was because of the hormones or exhaustion but either way, the white-hot shame that blazed across his cheeks as a result sealed the deal.

He cried. 

Something Frank immediately noticed; he sat himself up and carefully extracted the arm resting below Matt’s neck. With both hands free, he gathered Matt against his chest. The pad of his thumb brushed a gentle arc beneath Matt’s eye, disrupting the steady stream of tears.

Matt clutched at the fabric of Frank’ shirt like a lifeline. 

“Okay,” Frank murmured as strong calloused fingers threaded through Matt’s hair. “You’re okay. Jus’ take a second.”

Matt tried—God, he tried—but despite his best efforts, his breaths continued to stutter with sharp inhales and a trembling purr that wouldn't quite settle.

But Frank never faltered. His hands never stopped. He just kept soothing until Matt’s breaths evened out and his white-knuckle grip eased.

“Talk to me,” he rumbled, cheek resting on Matt’s hairline. “Ain’t gotta’ be pretty. Jus’ tell me what’s goin’ on in that thick skull of yours.”

The request was quiet and coaxing, but came without pressure; something Matt was ridiculously grateful for. And was likely what allowed him to force words past the tightness in his throat.

“I don’t know—” Matt breathed, thankfully without a hitch that time, though his voice was no less thick with shame. “It just… wanted. And I couldn’t—it wouldn’t shut up.” 

Frank hummed in acknowledgment and pulled closer, steady and unflinching, even faced with the uncharacteristically visceral display of emotion. When he spoke, his voice was a quiet rumble, paired with fingers that rubbed gently against one of Matt’s temples.

”That’s dissonance, Red. Y’know that, yeah?”

Matt sniffled, but nodded in agreement. He did know. It’s a disconnect of his own making through years of off-market suppressant use. He even had a bit of paper to prove it: Designation Dissonance, severe.

But Frank didn’t leave him to linger in his self-deprecation. 

“Been readin’,” he admitted, a hint of sheepishness in his tone. But it's fleeting, and quickly replaced with quiet conviction as he continued. 

“And it ain’t your fault. Omega’s just playin’ catch up with the rest of you.”

Frank once again didn’t wait for the words to settle, he just steamrolled on; his lips pressed firmly to Matt’s temple while those strong arms continued to hold steady—a mirror of the surety in his tone.

“It just wants reassurance, Red. An’ it's askin’ for it the only way it knows how. Not because it's broken, or ‘cause you are. It’s just unsettled and wants reassurance, that’s all.”

The words cut right through the noise and the shame that bounced around Matt’s skull. The guilt didn’t vanish—it never did—but it was undeniably softened by the certainty in Frank's tone. 

However, in the next moment, Matt heard Frank’s heart change: the smallest jolt in the otherwise steady rhythm that put Matt immediately on edge. Yet despite the uncertainty, Frank’s hand never stopped moving through his hair and his hold never loosened.

Frank took a breath that felt a little too purposeful to be soothing. “Curtis was talking t’me the other day,” he said carefully, like he was laying out cards on a table—revealing his hand slowly so as not to overwhelm. “Gave me a pamphlet. Said we should talk about it when you’re ready.”

Matt went still against Frank’s chest, waiting with bated breath.

Frank attempted to smooth out the tension with a slow sweep of fingers across his furrowed brow. “It was about full bonds. Part of it was talkin’ about how it can help settle instincts, especially when there’s a disconnect,” he said, no hint of pity of judgement, just a recounting of information. “Said it might bridge the gap a little—help you an’ your Omega line up better.”

Matt’s heart seized in his chest. Oh, God—

“Can help with the pregnancy, too,” Frank added, quieter, as if treading carefully. “Make things easier on your body.”

Matt felt like he couldn’t breathe, his resilient purr finally sputtering out under the crushing weight of Frank’s words and the subsequent guilt that rapidly swelled in his own lungs like frigid water. 

Bonding. Settled. Easier.

The words should have been a welcome lifeline, but all Matt heard was his own fears becoming reality: Frank, clicking the cuffs shut over his own wrists. The perfect trap for a man, too loyal and too protective, to walk away. Even if he wanted to. 

Did he want to? Matt felt he would never truly know. Frank would never tell him, and Matt would never be able to trust his own ears. Not with this. 

Because he wants it. Fuck, he wants it. He wants it so badly that he couldn’t fully fathom the depth of it. But that want—that ache—was sharpened by a guilt that cut so much deeper. 

Frank had been so good to him, and this is how Matt would repay him? By asking for more?

Matt’s throat closed, strangling any words he might have said. Heat prickled at his eyes with a vengeance sharp enough to startle a wet gasp, and suddenly holding back felt like an impossibility. His body betrayed him completely: shoulders trembling as a fresh bout of hot tears fell in earnest.

Frank didn’t miss a beat; his grip tightened as he held Matt together. Physically, he didn’t flinch. But his heart…that stuttered in a way Matt wasn’t calm enough to analyse. 

“Hey—hey, it’s alright,” Frank soothed, his voice pitched just slightly with unease. He tilted Matt’s chin enough to look at his face, likely splotched and salted with tears. “It’s okay,” he breathed, wiping away the tears with his thumb. “You’re overwhelmed, that’s all. Bit heavy after today, huh?”

There was a hint of self-deprecation in Frank’s tone that had Matt tightening his grip on Frank’s shirt, trying to shake his head—to comfort—but Frank cut him off with a firmer squeeze to the base of his skull.

“No—listen to me. We ain’t gotta’ talk about it now. Not if it's too much.” He pressed their foreheads together. “We can leave it for another day. Ain’t no pressure to get anythin’ figured out tonight…and I’d never—this ain’t me tryin’ to force you into somethin’, Red. You hear me?”

Matt didn’t hesitate, nodding vigorously. Words were still lost on him, but he needed Frank to understand that he knew that. He knew. And for once, his hindbrain was on the same page: offering a fractured purr—thin, stuttering with emotion, but trusting. 

Thankfully, it landed.

Frank exhaled slowly, the tension bleeding out of him the second Matt had nodded. “Good,” he murmured, almost as if reassuring himself. “That’s good.”

A deep, comforting rumble began to build within Frank’s chest in reply to Matt’s fragile purr, its timbre wrapping around Matt like a blanket that almost made it easier to breathe.

Matt had let himself fold into it. Somehow, the solid wall of Frank’s body and that steady rumble made the shame and fear less crushing. His purr started to come a little steadier with each breath, which began a feedback loop of self-soothing that had his scent blooming vanilla.

He rubbed the side of his face against Frank’s chest.

”That’s it,” Frank gentled as he began to card his hand through Matt’s hair again. “That’s all I need. Just this. The rest can wait.”

-——ΑΩ——-

Matt swallows. “…He didnt…” He shakes his head, wincing a little as he forces the words out. “Frank has been so good to me, Foggy. But he—I just showed up. He didn't ask for this.”

Foggy nods slowly, his cheek rubbing against the top of Matt’s head. But it’s not agreement, just a processing of words. His brows furrow a little in confusion. “I mean… maybe not. But he’s clearly in this with you, Matt,” he says, the words measured as if he’s not quite sure what he’s dealing with.

”I know,” Matt allows, because that is true without a shadow of a doubt. But that only means— “He’s too honorable to turn his back on me or our baby.”

Foggy’s heart stutters in realisation. “Matty—”

“It’s the perfect trap,” Matt says, cutting him off. Then, sharper, “He talked to me a few days ago. About bonding. About how Curtis gave him a pamphlet on how it might benefit the pregnancy and help with my—” he gestures half-heartedly to himself, “…with my Omega. The disconnect with it.”

“…what happened?” Foggy urges quietly.

”Nothing,” Matt says flatly. “I panicked and he put a pin in it.”

“Okay,” Foggy nods slowly, gauging. “Just so I’m clear—panicked because you don’t want it, or panicked because you do?”

Matt sighs, suddenly exhausted. “Does it matter?”

“Well, obviously!” Foggy snaps, but it’s more exasperated than biting, and almost entirely undercut but the way his arms tighten around Matt. “One is valid, and the other is you being an idiot. I need to know what one it is so I can act accordingly,” he explains, as if it's obvious. 

Matt sinks into Foggy’s hold with another resigned sigh, eyes slipping closed as he pitifully murmurs his answer:

“…The second one.”

“Okay,” Foggy exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “Okay, great. Then this is in fact rooted in catholic guilt, which is my professional specialty.” 

Matt doesn’t open his eyes, wriggling closer as he settles in. “Here we go,” he mutters.

Foggy ignores him. Obviously.

“Yes or no answers only,” Foggy instructs, not waiting for a reply before he proceeds with his analysis. 

“Do you want the bond?”

Matt’s brows furrow faintly, cringing at the vulnerability of explicitly confirming it out loud. After a beat, he forces himself to reply, quiet and obedient: “…Yes.”

“Interesting. And do you think that Frank is the type of person to do anything he didn’t want to do?”

Matt hesitates, mouth parting—

“Uh-uh,” Foggy cuts in. “Yes or no, buddy.”

Matt’s jaw clicks shut, biting back a mildly frustrated huff. “…No.”

“Excellent,” Foggy nods gravely, although Matt can taste the playful edge slowly creeping into his demeanour. “Would you agree that Matthew Micheal Murdock is fully capable of convincing himself that: his partner wanting to bond with him and his partner wanting what’s medically advisable are two completely different, mutually exclusive things?”

“Objection—leading the witness,” Matt snarks, a smile pulling at his lips regardless.

”Overruled,” Foggy fires back, a responding grin woven into his tone. “Adverse witness. Now, answer the question: yes or no?”

Matt pouts. “Yes.”

“I see,” Foggy continues sagely, clearing his throat as he gets back into character.

“Before I ask my closing question I would like to, once again, draw attention to some critical evidence. Namely: that we’re currently sitting inside an egg chair curated by Frank, on a porch that appears to have been renovated in what I can only assume was a fit of feverish nesting.” 

Foggy’s heart jumps the same way it does when he knows he’s won in court before the ruling even happens. 

Matt doesn’t dignify that statement with a reply, but he can’t stop the purr that rises up again as Foggy’s cheek rests affectionately against the top of his head.

“With that evidence in mind,” Foggy quips, pausing for dramatic effect, “are you, in fact, an idiot?”

Matt can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips. Leave it to Foggy Nelson to have someone wishing they were, in fact, an idiot. A fragile part of him wants Foggy to be right so badly that he can’t help but hope.

“Maybe,” he murmurs, the word so weighted that it sounds almost like a whispered confession.

Foggy stills for a moment, then relaxes with a sigh; all the dramatic bravado drains out of him at once, only to be replaced with something softer. 

“I’ll take maybe,” he concedes quietly, allowing the moment to slip into a comfortable silence broken only by the quiet hum of Matt’s purr.

Foggy begins absentmindedly twirling the ends of outgrown auburn hair between his fingers. It doesn’t take long before the attention draws that steady purr into something fuller and almost leisureful with content. 

Matt feels more than he hears the rumble that rises from Foggy’s chest in reply.

“Shit, buddy,” Foggy sighs, the words a little slurred thanks to the cheek smooshing against Matt’s head. “Maybe it’s a good thing you didn’t purr in college. I would’ve got literally nothing done…”

Matt huffs. “You already got nothing done.” 

“Lies and slander,” Foggy declares, falling a little short of the dramatic flare from just a few minutes prior. 

“¿lo es?” Matt muses cheekily.

“Shut up,” Foggy laughs, low and content. “But seriously though,” he adds after a moment, “my instincts feel like soup.”

“…Soup,” Matt echoes dryly.

“Mhm,” Foggy hums in agreement. “A really good one. Like a chicken dumpling  soup from—”

“—Westerly market,” Matt finishes, an almost nostalgic smile pulling faintly at his lips.

Foggy laughs again, scratching at Matt’s scalp briefly before going back to worrying the soft curls between his fingers. “Exactly. You get it.”

The chair sways gently, a slight push and pull that Matt can feel in Foggy’s thigh as he controls the motion. The silence that follows isn’t heavy, but Matt feels it tugging at him—the way his friend so easily comforts him despite how they had parted before.

“…Foggy,” Matt murmurs at last, the name almost catching on his throat.

“Mm?”

“I’m sorry,” Matt says, his purr wrapping around the words like an offering. “About before. For the way I acted when you brought me here. You were only trying to help, and I—” he falters, breath catching.

“Matt—Matty,” Foggy soothes, burying his fingers gently in Matt’s hair. “You don’t need to apologise. I get it, okay? You needed space, and you got it the only way you could.”

Matt nods once, curling under Foggy’s arm before wrapping an arm tentatively around his ribs. When the actions receive an appreciative rumble that Matt feels against his chest, his own purr deepens in reply—creating a feedback loop of soupy contentment that has them both melting into the upholstery.

“Soup,” Foggy mumbles, as if reading Matt’s mind. There’s another long moment of quiet, then Foggy tenses.

“Hey—” he starts, sounding almost worried, “Frank’s not going to gatekeep, is he?”

Matt blinks. “…Gatekeep? What—?” he starts, baffled.

“You know,” Foggy interrupts, his voice earnest in that paradoxical way that suggests he’s both joking and deadly serious. “Now that I’ve had a taste of this whole purring thing, Frank isn’t going to shut it down like it’s classified, right? Because I gotta’ tell you, buddy—if he tries anything, I’m prepared to file for joint custody.”

Matt lets out a laugh, scandalised and mortified in equal measure, cheeks burning hot. “Foggy—”

Frank makes his way down the porch steps, slow and reluctant, straining subconsciously as if waiting to hear any sign of unease from inside the cabin. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Nelson, it’s just… he’s feeling twitchier than he would like to admit about not having Matt in his line of sight.

He flexes his fingers, forcing them to uncurl from the tight fist that they’d subconsciously been forming, focusing instead of making his way towards Karen’s Civic.

“Right,” he grunts, already going for the hood latch as he nods Karen towards the door. “Pop it. Let me have a listen.” 

Karen hums noncommittally, dipping her head as she bypasses the door completely. She walks casually, keeping her gait purposefully loose as her fingers curl around his elbow. 

“Maybe the car can wait,” she suggests, although Frank knows better than to assume that there’s a choice woven into that thinly veiled command.

Frank drops his shoulders, bracing himself on the hood of the car with both hands. He sighs warily, letting his head hang for a moment before lifting his head, just enough to catch Karen’s eye.

Her lips twitch into a half smile, tilting her head as she studies him carefully, as if trying to gauge what she can get away with asking of him. But she only keeps him in suspense for a beat or two.

“Walk with me,” she says, voice soft but decisive. And she clearly doesn’t miss the way Frank can’t stop his eyes from flicking back towards the cabin door, because her smile quickly extends into something more encouraging.

“Matt will be fine,” she promises. “If anyone is qualified to wrangle Matt Murdock, it’s Foggy.”

Frank’s jaw ticks, every inch of him shifting with reluctance, despite knowing that Karen is right and Matt is in good hands with Nelson. 

Fuckin’ hell, he sighs, but does push himself away from the car. He lifts his hands, displaying them in mock surrender as he allows himself to be pulled by Karen’s gentle but unyielding grip.

“Fifteen minutes, Karen,” Frank warns, his voice pitched low to try and conceal the knot of anxiety slowly tightening in his stomach. “I stopped his IV so he could say hello t’you two properly. I gotta’ get it goin’ again soon.”

Karen nods, her smile thinning into something more serious. “I won’t keep you long.”

She links arms with him as they fall into companionable silence, walking along the tree-lined roadside; not a car in sight to obscure the sound of the wind beckoning through the leaves, or the quiet orchestra of bird song.

It’s nice. The sounds, the fresh air… it’s peaceful. And Frank wishes that the peace was more than superficial for him—that it went deep enough to silence the ache that grew with every step he took away from the cabin. Away from Matt.

It takes less than a minute for those thoughts to take hold.

“So, what,” Frank begins bluntly, trying not to let the anxiety turn into a frustration that Karen would have to deal with. “We're jus’ goin’ on a nice little stroll?”

Karen eyes him, raising a brow at his tone; though she’s clearly more amused than offended. 

“No,” she says pointedly, her brows sloping with quiet understanding that softens any sharpness that may have crept into her tone. 

“I’m waiting for you to talk to me,” she continues kindly, her tone just matter-of-fact enough to let Frank know he’s not getting out of this one.

Frank huffs, his gaze remaining stubbornly on the tree line. “Ain’t got nothin’ t’say.” 

“You think you don't have anything to say,” Karen corrects, her tone faintly challenging. “But I know you do. So dig deeper.”

Frank scoffs. “What’re you, my shrink?” 

Karen tightens her grip on his arm, bumping him with her hip as they walk. “Nope. Just a friend,” she says earnestly, looking up at him. “A concerned one.”

Frank looks down at her for a brief moment, but he can’t hold her gaze. His eyes slip back to the trees. “Nothin’ t’be concerned about,” he says quietly.

“You sound just about as convincing as Matt when he tries to tell me the same thing,” she says, decidedly unimpressed.

Frank can’t help the slight twitch that pulls at his lips—a bit too grim to be a smile, but close enough to betray that he knows she’s got a point. Then he chuckles, low and humourless. “Guess we make a good pair, huh? A couple’a liars.”

Karen sighs, her gaze softening. “Not liars, just…you both learnt to tough it out alone. But I know you’re more emotionally intelligent than you pretend to be. You already know that’s not going to work forever.”

Her tone isn’t unkind, but there’s a distinct, underlying sternness that registers in Frank’s hindbrain as a challenge—like she’s daring him to contradict her. 

He grits his teeth, fighting against his upper lip and its will to curl, to go on the defensive. He’s not angry—not really—and he would never hurt Karen, but something about the vulnerability of it all gets his hackles up. It makes him want to snap and make space for himself. 

But he doesn’t. Because despite the way his instincts writhe, he knows Karen is right. Hell, he’s been encouraging this exact behaviour from Matt—tell someone when something’s wrong, take the help, don’t shy away from instinctual pulls. But doing that himself?

“I can’t afford to be unloadin’ on him, Karen. He ain’t ready.”

“Maybe not right now,” she allows softly. “But you’re going to have to talk to him eventually. And not just about him—about yourself, too.” 

Frank exhales, the fight draining out of him. He pulls a heavy hand down his face, pausing to rub at the unkempt beard he hadn’t even noticed. Christ, I must look like a fuckin’ wreck.

“And until he is ready…” Karen continues, “I’m here. Patiently waiting to listen.” She nudges into his side again, as if to playfully accentuate her words.

Frank smiles faintly despite himself, looking down at her with a dubiously raised brow. “Patiently?”

She huffs, looking away from him as she pushes him away, only to tighten her grip and pull him back. “I could be so much more impatient than this,” she warns, lips twitching into a smirk that quickly fades into something encouraging as she looks up at him—expectant, but not demanding. 

Not yet anyway, Frank exhales, fortifying himself. “I don’t know how to do this, Karen,” he admits tiredly. 

Karen smiles knowingly. “Start small,” she suggests. “What’re you feeling right now?”

Frank inhales sharply, trying to pull enough air into his lungs that the words are forced from his throat. He holds it—two, three, four—then exhales. 

“…That I don’t like bein’ away from him.”

The confession makes something in his chest ache. Like an old wound pulling at the seam; not painful yet, but threatening. 

It sets his teeth on edge.

“Okay,” Karen says simply. “Why?”

Frank scoffs, humorless and indignant. “Because he’s sick. Because he’s pregnant. ‘Cause he barely weighs a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet,” he lists sharply, voice thickening into something deep and grating. “You need me to keep goin’? I could go all fuckin’ day, but I thought it’d be pretty damn obvious.”

Karen doesn’t rise to snap, but doesn’t grant him space either. “It is obvious,” Karen retorts patiently. “But I’m not asking what’s going on with Matt. I’m asking what’s going on with you.” 

Frank clamps down on his biting gut reaction to the statement: a snarling, it doesn’t matter. Don’t matter what’s goin’ on with me. Not when Matt is still like that. Not when Matt almost—

He inhales sharply, pulling away from the thought as if it burnt. The ache in his chest flares with every breath now, deep seated and cold. Familiar.

“I don’t want to lose him,” Frank rasps, his steps slowing under the weight of the admission. 

Karen stops with him, still holding his arm steadily. “That’s not the same as not wanting to be away from him,” she says gently. 

Frank huffs a bitter laugh—hollow, sharp around the edges. “Aint it?” He mutters, fists clenching. “Feels the fuckin’ same to me.”

Karen’s gaze almost scalds as she watches him, but he still can’t bring himself to look at her. After a moment, she continues.

“No, I don’t think so,” she says carefully. “One is a natural instinct. The other is fear. Trauma…Grief.”

Frank jerks away from her, grimacing through the snarl pulling at his lips. Those words drag across his already frayed nerves and he hates how well they fit; because he is grieving. And he is scared. But worse than that, he’s scared to have something else to grieve. 

So, yes, the words sting. But not like grit in a wound…No, it's more like alcohol or hydrogen peroxide—a cleansing burn that’s too sharp to ignore. Maybe for the better, but no less painful for it.

Frank’s throat shifts with the mounting pressure, his breath caught somewhere between a growl and a gasp. God, he wants to punch something—something that will split his knuckles and bruise. Or break. Anything to distract from this godawful fuckin’ ache.

Karen takes half a step towards where he had stumbled away from her. She doesn’t touch him again, but the deliberate proximity is telling enough: she’s not leaving.

“You think I don’t know that?” He snaps, voice rough like gravel. The words fly from his throat like shrapnel as they shred him raw. “You think I don’t know what this is? Every time I close my goddamn eyes I see ‘em.”

His hands twitch at his side, fingers tapping before he closes his fist. “Now him… and her,” he rasps, voice breaking as the flare of anger quickly fades to ashes. 

He swallows. “I didn’t have time to think about it before, y’know? Couldn’t think about anythin’ other than gettin’ him thought it. But now—” 

Frank’s jaw clamps shut, chest burning as his breaths stutter through gritted teeth. Fuck.

“Now there’s room,” Karen finishes for him, her voice quiet but sure.

Now there’s room.

…the words hit. Frank knows they did. But what follows is an eerie moment of quiet where everything—the wind, the trees, the bird song—fades into a dull, static, nothing. He feels like he's looking at the blast, but he’s stuck in that pause where time slows down—suspended in a muted interval he knows is going to crumble and burn in the blast.

And it does. 

All at once his ribs feel like they’re being constricted by bands of cast iron that seize his lungs. It feels as if he’s losing the ground beneath his feet, fighting not to stagger with the loss. It hit him fast. Too fast. His lungs feel like they’re on fire, pulling too quick, too shallow—every inhale forced back out before it does a damn thing.

Why? There’s so much fuckin’ air, for Christ sake! Just—

“Frank.”

Karen’s voice cuts through the spiral—firm, steady, right in front of him. He feels her hands closing around his elbows, dainty but unyielding. He tries to jerk away, a defensive mix of agitation and overwhelm sparking against his nervous system without rational thought. But she doesn’t let go. 

The air thickens around him, dense heat and spice curling in close with amber and cracked cardamom that is unmistakably Karen. It clings to his senses like gravity, that spiced undertone demanding his attention without the scorch of aggression.

“Look at me,” she orders, sharp enough to reach him.

He does. Christ, he does. When he looks up, those blue eyes lock onto him, steady and unflinching. 

She firms her grip on his elbows and shifts her weight backwards as if preparing to brace. “You’re going to sit down,” she says. “Now.”

For once, Frank doesn’t need telling twice; his knees damn near buckle anyway, as if they had been waiting for permission. 

Karen doesn’t miss a beat, bending her knees and pulling against him like a counterweight. “There you go,” she grunts, the soles of her shoes scraping against the asphalt as she tries to soften his fall.

Frank hits the ground with a grunt that startles a sharp wheeze of breath from his rigid lungs, the impact just heavy enough that it shoots up his tailbone. 

Karen drops with him, one knee hitting the asphalt with a dull thud, her firm grip on Frank's elbows migrating to rest against his knee and between his shoulder blades. She strokes firm, rhythmic pressure into the column of his spine; from the middle of his back, up to the nape of his neck.

“Bend forward,” she orders, her tone not unkind but clipped enough to convey that there’s no room for debate. “As far as you can go, Frank. Head between your knees.”

Frank resists for a moment, his spine coiled with panic, but when he feels Karen’s palm stop and press at the nape of his neck—steadfast, unrelenting—he folds under the pressure. His head doesn’t quite make it between his knees—too much bulk and not enough flexibility to get him any lower than having temples just shy of brushing kneecaps—but it’s enough. His spine curves, his ribs squeeze, and the angle is different enough that his breaths stutter a little easier. 

“Good. Stay there,” Karen says firmly, her hand falling from his nape and back into rhythmic strokes up and down his spine. 

The only crack in her commanding exterior is the slight squeeze she gives his knee, soft and encouraging in a way she likely knows Frank wouldn’t be able to accept verbally right now.

One of Frank’s hands fly up to grasp Karen‘s wrist, bruising and desperate; the other curls painfully into the crumbling asphalt. His breaths continue to burn with insufficiency, caught in a tail spin of too sharp and too shallow that feels impossible to break out of.

Karen doesn’t flinch at the viselike grip, doesn’t try to shake him off. Instead, she leans into it, squeezing his knee again. “I’m here,” she promises, “and so are you. Which means you need to breathe. Properly.”

The frustrated growl Frank tries to muster in response is pathetic at best. “I ca—n’t—” he grits out, threadbare and wheezing.

“You can,” Karen corrects, cutting him off. “If you have the breath to argue, you can breathe properly.” She leans in, resting her forearm between his shoulder blades as she shifts her hand to wrap around the back of his neck. When she speaks again, her voice is much closer.

“Breathe in with me—four count,” she says, quieter now but no less authoritative. 

Frank sucks in a breath in time with her voice—one. Two. Three. Four—a little too sharp and he thinks he flakes out at three, but Karen doesn’t reprimand him for it, just moves on to the next instruction.

“That’s okay, just keep going. Now hold it. Two. Three. Four.”

Frank does, trying to focus solely on her count. At four, he lets the breath out as slow as he can, pursing his lips to control the shaky exhale.

“That’s it. You know how to do this,” Karen says, her stern exterior wavering just slightly with approval, though her grip never slackens. “Again. Do it with me.” 

In. Two. Three. Four.

Hold. Two. Three. Four. 

Out. Two. Three. Four.

Good. Again, Frank.

Every second of it is agony, but slowly—painfully—his lungs start to catch the rhythm Karen is setting. The burn in his lungs begins to recede, and the vice around his chest slackens enough to allow for meaningful breaths. Her steady hands guide him back into the eye of the storm. Back into that precarious pocket of calm that had served Frank well.

…until now, anyway. Shit, Frank heaves, forcing himself to take another fortifying breath.

Karen maintains her pressing demeanour through it all, only beginning to temper once the white-knuckle grip on her wrist eases. She doesn’t pull away, but the shift is palpable nonetheless as the dense fog lifts. All the cracked spices and sharp undertones that had previously forced their way into his orbit simmer back down into a coaxing warmth—one that encourages him to breathe without her. 

It’s clumsy and stuttering, but Frank breathes. His lungs fill completely, and each expansion against the residual tightness in his ribs feels like a pathetic sort of victory. Or at least, victory enough that Karen settles onto her knees at his side, the hand holding the back of his neck relaxing into more of a caress.

Her thumb traces gentle arcs into the thick chords of muscle in his neck. “You with me?” 

Frank heaves another breath, trying to release the last dregs of tension. “Yeah,” he says, voice no more than a quiet rasp.

“Okay,” Karen says gently, hand curving delicately around his skull as pulls him into her; his temple collides gently with her forehead. They breathe like that for a moment, just long enough for the sound of the birds to filter back in and the static in his head to dissipate. 

After a long moment, Karen nudges gently at his temple, the hand on his knee sliding down his shin. “Talk to me, Frank,” she pleads. “This isn’t okay.”

Frank’s eyes flutter open—he doesn’t even know when he closed them—jaw ticking at the words. “You think I don’t know that?” He mutters, low and frayed. “I know it ain’t. I know it ain’t normal t’feel so—”

He cuts himself off, forcing out a shuddering breath as he pushes into Karen’s hold. 

She shifts closer, her bent knees tucking in close along the side of his thigh. “Feel so what?” She prompts gently.

Frank swallows against the bitter, acidic taste that rises in his throat as he tries to form the words. He screws his eyes closed, not giving himself time to think before he forces them out, hoarse and raw.

“So fuckin’ scared all the time.”

The silence feels deafening. Grating.

Karen doesn’t flinch or soften further with pity. She nods once against his temple, accepting the words so easily it’s as if she’d been waiting for them; fully prepared to take the weight of them off of Frank’s shoulders and onto her own. Her hand continues moving at the base of his skull, fingers weaving into the outgrown length of his hair, grounding him through the jagged edges of his confession.

“I know,” she murmurs, an acknowledgment rather than a dismissal. She shifts both her body and grip, sliding her weight off her knees as she settles on the asphalt beside him, closer now. 

The hand in his hair lifts momentarily, not to leave, but for a moment it feels like it might. There’s a twinge in Frank’s chest, like the floor is dropping out from under him all over again, and it’s enough to have his scent fracturing under the pressure. It flashes cold and sour, like ash and spoiling fruit, sharp enough to make him flinch.

“Don’t stop…” His voice is quiet and abashed, the plea torn from him without his consent. 

Karen doesn’t let the shame settle, just leans into his flank with her own and drops that hand back onto his neck, weaving into his hair. “I won’t,” she says simply, moving past it with the kind of grace and understanding that Frank is stupidly grateful for, even if he can’t say it.

She loops his arm around her, making a space for herself as she rests her head against the front of his shoulder. She tilts her head up, linking their fingers and bringing them to rest on her lap. “Do you want to tell me what that fear looks like…or shall I start and tell you what I think?”

Frank’s throat feels tight, his jaw working. For a moment he thinks the silence might win out, but then he begins forcing the words from his lips, even as they scrape his throat raw on the ascent.

Frank tells her what happened—from the morning Matt fell into the pool, to Curtis’ intervention, making up for the missed first scan and the quiet moment after. Or what should have been a quiet moment.

He starts with the pool: how Matt had been floating as normal when something shifted and Frank had to drag him, weak and gasping, from the water. 

He tells her about the desperate phone call to Curtis and the intervention that revealed just how close Matt had been to slipping right through his fingers: severely iron deficient, dehydrated and hypovolemic, malnourished, hyperemetic, and suffering cognitively for all that.

That’s when his tunnel vision had started; for all he knew, the world outside of Matt and their cabin could have crumbled to nothing and Frank wouldn’t have noticed a damn thing. Because the only thing that mattered was getting Matt through that stage of acute crisis. 

One day at a time. Whatever it took.

When Curtis finally declared Matt stable enough to be demoted to active crisis, it had felt like a win—is a win. But that win came with more obstacles, and Matt’s newfound stability meant pushing for answers neither of them had felt ready for. 

He recalls the scan and the terrifying details delivered by Dr Robinson—the thin wall, the low-lying placenta, the fluid levels that need monitoring, how small their little girl is in there. 

He tries to remember that both Curtis and Dr Robinson are optimistic and that the information is good; it means that they don’t have to fly blind anymore. That there’s a plan. 

And for the most part? He believes it. He does. It ain’t easy, and he has to remind himself constantly, but he knows that Curtis would never lie to him—not about this. Especially about this.

No, where his anxiety truly lies is in those waking moments after the scan; when he woke up to Matt grappling with a dissonance episode and clearly upset. How he managed to soothe Matt enough for his voice to come back, only for the omega to apologise for waking him. Which was fucked up by itself, but somehow less fucked up than what came after:

…finally trying to talk about bonding. A full bond.

Trying being the key word. He barely even made it through the things Curtis told him before— 

“He just…cried. Broke down completely.”  

Karen’s head shifts against his shoulder—probably looking up at him, even as his gaze remains stubbornly averted—the hand in his hair slowing as she processes the words. 

“…He cried,” she echoes, voice steady and without judgment. “Then what happened?”

Frank scoffs. “Nothin’ happened, Karen. I shut it down.” The pause that follows is weighted, the air growing heavy with wilted chamomile and quiet grief. Then, quieter, “It was too much for him…I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Karen studies him again for a long, quiet moment, her fingers resuming their rhythm as she seemingly tries to choose her words carefully. When she does finally speak, it's cautious, but carries that stubborn edge that he knows all too well. 

“You say that like it’s too much because he doesn’t want it at all.” She leans away, putting herself in his line of sight so she can catch his eyes. Her mouth straightens into a grim line at whatever it is she sees. “But that’s not what I'm hearing.”

He shakes his head, resigned. “You didn’t hear him, Karen.”

“But I heard you,” she counters. “And I know Matt. Those tears weren’t because of you…they were for you.”

She shakes her head, huffing out a sad, humourless laugh. “He’e never been the way he is for you with anyone—not with any of his girlfriends, not even with me or Foggy.” 

She sighs. “I don’t think he was saying no, Frank. I think he’s scared.”

Frank feels himself still at the words, muscles locking with something almost foreboding. The air between them sharpens, chamomile edged with something charred and raw. He looks down at her.  “…What’re you sayin’?” 

She holds his gaze, not as a challenge, but to make sure he feels the weight of her words. 

“I’m saying that he didn’t shut down because he doesn’t want you,” she explains, voice firm and steady with conviction. “He shut down because he thinks you’re only offering it as a bandaid for the situation. He’s trying to protect you, even if he’d have to suffer for it.”

If it weren’t for the hand on the back of his head, Frank would have reared back, his heart skipping a beat with something not unlike alarm. “He thinks I don’t want it.”

Karen firms her grip, just enough to pull his attention back to her. 

“Do you?” She asks, blunt in a way that demands truth—one that she likely knows wouldn’t come out cleanly otherwise. 

Frank’s mouth opens, then closes as the thoughts stutter in his throat. He’s silent for a long beat, unable to find his voice.

“Because if you do,” Karen presses quietly, “then you have to tell him. Not because it’s better for his health, or for the pregnancy, but because you want to. If he thinks that it’s just a sense of duty making you offer, he’ll never take it.”

“What if that makes it worse?” Frank asks, not quite shouting, but rising in volume. “Christ, he looked so scared after I brought it up—like I was gunna’ go for his throat.”

Karen doesn’t raise her voice when she speaks, quick to cut in. “Maybe he was,” she allows. “But you and I both know Matt doesn’t get scared for himself.”

Frank pauses.

Because, yeah. Frank does know that. Matt has always faced everything alone, even when he could have asked for help. But even still— 

“…what if you’re wrong?” 

Karen’s brow twitches. “I’m not.”

Frank growls. “You can’t know that—”

“He tried to bite Foggy over you—to protect you!” She forces him to look at her. “Foggy, Frank. Matt would never do that—not unless he meant it. Which is just as insane as the fact he even thought about it in the first place.”

For all of a moment it looks like she’s done, but then her eyes blaze again, narrowing slightly as they continue to pin him in place. 

“And even if I’m wrong,” she begins, her tone clearly suggesting that she finds the idea laughable, “don’t you think you owe it to him to be honest? He’ll know that you’re keeping something from him, which will eat at him more than anything you tell him honestly.”

Frank averts his gaze, jaw clenching. He wets his lips, preparing to say something. Anything.

“—Stop. Don’t say anything. I want you to really think about what I’m saying before you open your mouth. You’re not an idiot, Frank. Think.” Her voice isn’t unkind, but the words are sharp, the edges serrated and fraying along with her patience.

Frank's mouth snaps shut. That command—think—lands firmly against his sternum. He glares down at the asphalt, teeth grinding, and the denial that comes to mind dies on his tongue.

He thinks.

He thinks hard about the moment after the scan when he woke up to Matt, clearly upset and torn between the two halves of himself, how…emotional he had been. Maybe it was hormones, maybe it was something else. Hell, maybe even both. But either way, the first thing Matt said was: sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Like he’d committed some kind of sin by disturbing him.

…more concerned about me than himself, Frank notes warily. Okay.

He made himself recall the nauseating moment Matt had completely crumbled, undone in a way he rarely saw from Matt at the mention of a bond; he looked scared. That much Frank is certain of.

…but not of me, he allows, rolling the words around until they fit. 

Matt had looked scared, but he hadn’t pulled away from Frank. If anything, he clung tighter. He damn near folded all over again the second he had permission—straight into Frank’s chest, no less. And he knows exactly what Matt looks like when he’s scared; snarling, defensive and rageful. Hell, he’s been on the receiving end of that rage enough times to know it by scent alone: fear so eye-wateringly bitter it’s almost suffocating, and a rage so sharp it burns.

But that day? That wasn’t it. Not even close. 

No, Matt had seemed…sad. Which was an emotion—much like fear—that Matt didn’t outwardly feel for himself. Only for others. 

…Fuck, alright.

“Say you’re right,” Frank begins tightly, “how the hell do I fix this?”

Karen doesn’t answer right away. She shifts, subtly squaring her shoulders as she holds his gaze, steady and unflinching. “This isn’t something to fix, Frank. It’s a decision. A decision that you need to make.” Her tone turns sharp and goading. “You’re clearly willing to bond with him. But is that what you want? Or is it just trying to pay a debt you think you owe?”

Frank’s head snaps up, eyes blazing, his chin tucking in scorching defiance. “Oh, for Christ sake. You sound just like Curtis!” The words tear from his throat, the beginnings of a growl bleeding through, low and angry. His shoulders tighten, flighting back against her hold as he tries to create distance, his Alpha suddenly reading the contact as coarse rather than comforting. 

Karen doesn’t flinch, and doesn’t give him space. Instead, she firms her grip, meeting his challenge head on as she dips her own chin defiantly in reply.

Frank’s lip curls. “You think I'd be sittin’ here in the goddamn dirt if I didn’t want him? Losin’ my fuckin’ mind?”

“I think,” she says pointedly, “that you’re sitting in the dirt because you’re a stubborn asshole that’s refusing to be honest with me.”

Frank’s growl swells in his chest, surging as his breaths come hot and ragged. He pushes her away—rough, but not cruel, just enough to free himself and knock her off balance. He staggers to his feet, taking two heavy steps away from her, head in his hands.

Karen went down with a grunt, her hands slapping against the crumbling sidewalk as she braces herself. The sound immediately makes Frank feel guilty.

“Goddamn it, Karen,” he hisses, his back still turned to her. He drags his hands roughly down his face. “I’ll tell you what I told Curt,” he says, a growl still saturating every word. “He’s it for me. And that’s my choice.”

Frank hears Karen grunt again, followed by the scrape of asphalt against the soles of her shoes. “If it was that simple,” she shoots back, “you wouldn’t be fighting me like this.”

Frank stiffens, his chest puffing with an inhale that fills every inch of his lungs. Her words lash against his back and, before he even registers that he’s moving, a snarl tears loose from his throat. He stiffens, posture rigid with instinctive fury when he sharply turns back to Karen, making it half a step before he’s stopped in his tracks. 

Karen is on her feet, eyes meeting his—flat, unyielding—as she stubbornly stands her ground. A low growl of her own bleeds out into the space between them.

Frank freezes mid-step, teeth still bared, but the growl chokes off in his throat. The weight of her gaze slams into him like a subduing wave, even as his Alpha continues to bristle silently beneath the surface.

“You said you were scared earlier,” she prompts, expectant and stern.

“Of course I’m fuckin’ scared!” He says, voice raised into something hoarse and raw. “I’m scared every goddamn second! Scared of wakin’ up and findin’ them gone again. Sacred that the minute I turn away, there’ll be no one left but me when I look back.”

He takes a step towards Karen, looming over her, breaths still coming harsh and ragged from the shout. 

Karen narrows her eyes, stepping assertively into his space despite her size—one final demand for attention, reinforced by the cold glare aimed squarely at him. 

“So that’s it?” She asks, voice calm but edged like a blade. “You’re going to let what’s left of your life be run by fear? You’re going to let it keep you from admitting that you love him?”

Frank’s mind gets momentarily stuck on the word love, tripping over it completely. It makes him want to shout and snarl, to get defensive and create some breathing room for himself. But instead, he feels his anger bleeding out of him with every breath. And it only takes one more tense inhale before the fight drains out of him completely, escaping on the measured exhale that follows. He drops his shoulders and tilts his head, hands raising slowly in deference.

Frank sighs. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” He shifts his eyes to her, but doesn’t move. “…You okay?”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine, Frank.”

“…let me check your hands,” he grumbles, quiet but insistent.

Karen huffs out a laugh, brushing the dust from her palms. “I’m not done lecturing you yet, so you’re going to have to wait your turn.” But despite her words, she holds out her hand expectantly, a silent acceptance of his apology. 

Frank steps forward, slow and measured, gently taking her hand in his, checking for any damage. Luckily, there’s no broken skin, just the faint imprint of gravel in the heel of her palm.

Frank makes a sound, caught somewhere between a grunt and a sheepish laugh, his weight shifting just slightly with unease. His fingers tap against Karen‘s palm, unable to let go quite yet. 

“You were right,” he admits, voice soft and worn. “I want him. Not because it’s safer, or Curtis says it will help, or because I owe him.” Frank swallows, his eyes skittering away from hers. “I want to bond him ‘cause I—”

He chokes, throat seizing, unable to continue. Heart in his throat, he snaps his gaze back to hers—raw, unguarded—silently begging her to understand. 

Karen doesn’t look away, meeting his gaze without pity. She steps closer, slowly raising a hand to rest against his jaw, forcing him to stay with her. 

“You don’t have to say it,” she says, voice soft but uncompromising. “I already know.”

Frank let’s go with the breath he didn’t realise he was holding with a shuddering exhale. He feels a raw sort of relief—catharsis almost—at finally having someone else know. But Karen doesn’t let him sink into it, her thumb rubbing a slow arch across his cheek, refocusing him.

“But he doesn’t,” she continues firmly. “And he’ll never believe you if you can’t say it.” 

Frank’s throat works, easing slightly around the sound rising from his chest, low and uneven—the rumble of an alpha caught somewhere between instinct and shame. It’s not a threat this time, just nerves finally rattling loose. 

A quiet chuckle falls from his lips, low and cracking at the seams. “You don’t make it easy, y’know that?”

Karen’s lips pull into a quick, knowing smile, mercifully letting him have this moment. “Never said I would.” She lets the silence sit after that, choosing to wait rather than crowd; her steady presence keeps I’m tethered, even without words.

The moment stretches, long and quiet. Frank's eyes flit between the ground and the trees, as if they might somehow give him the courage to go on. His fist tightens at his side, then loosens—again and again—until finally the words start to dislodge. It’s rough, and it ain’t pretty, but it’s honest. 

“…what if it happens again?” He asks, eyes darting back to hers, then away again, jaw clenching. “I let myself tell him and then somethin’ happens and they’re both just—gone. Like Lisa. And Juniour—” his voice cracks, “…and Maria.”

Karen strokes another soft arc over his cheekbone, her face open and honest as she speaks. “It might,” she allows softly, not sugarcoating it. “You know better than anyone that there aren’t any guarantees.”

Frank growls again, jaw flexing against the ache forming in his chest, but it sounds pitiful even to his own ears. All that fear finally overflowing. 

She leans in, catching his eyes before they can dart away again. “But telling Matt you love him isn’t going to be the thing that takes him from you, Frank,” she says quietly. “Love isn’t what took Maria, Lisa and Frank Junior. But pretending that you don’t feel it—letting Matt believe that you don’t—that’s what’s going to cost you.”

Frank squeezes his eyes shut, a ragged groan slipping loose from his throat. “I know,” he rasps, leaning heavier into her hand. “Fuck, I know. I just—” His hand lifts in a useless, half-hearted gesture that quickly collapses back against his thigh. “I didn’t know that he didn’t know. We’re imprinted, for fuck’s sake! Why the hell doesn't he know?”

Karen's expression softens into something tinged with sadness, but her tone remains steady and unwavering. “Because he’s Matt,” she says plainly. “And Matt is an idiot completely incapable of seeing what’s right in front of him.” 

Frank raises a brow. “Pretty sure there’s a word for that,” he mumbles.

Karen levels him with an unimpressed look, sighing as she continues. 

“…Everyone he’s ever cared about abandoned him. He’s spent so long convinced that he isn’t worthy of love that it doesn't matter what you do, Frank, it’ll never add up in his head unless you say it. You need to prove that you mean it—that you’re going to stay.”

Frank’s lips part, a hollowing mixture of shame and grief churning in his gut. Now that Karen has said it straight? Yeah, its fuckin’ obvious. 

“…Jesus Christ.” How the fuck did he miss that one?

Karen smiles sadly, head tilting appeasingly. “It’s not all on you, okay? That's his blind spot—” She pauses for a beat, scoffing lightly before shaking her head. “You just need to fill it for him.”

Frank exhales, long and low. “Yeah,” he mutters dryly. “Piece’a fuckin’ cake.”  

Karen snorts, sharp but warm, her mouth quirking despite herself. “If you expected easy from Matt Murdock then I’m not nearly as worried about you as I should be.” 

The corner of Frank’s mouth twitches upward, a twinge of something fond piercing through the ache in his chest. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Should’ve known better.”

That warmth he feels in himself at the thought of his Omega is quickly reflected back at him in the way Karen’s demeanor finally relaxes; all traces of that sharp edge evaporating into gentle cardamom. “Now you do,” she says simply, her thumb stroking one final arc against his cheek before allowing her hand to fall away.

Frank nods faintly, looking down at her with a tired kind of acceptance. 

“…Yeah.” He scrubs a hand down his face, turning to glance back down the path they came from, the cabin far enough that it’s obscured by the trees. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, stripped back into something almost vulnerable. 

“Can we—” He clears his throat, eyes darting abashedly. “Can we go back now?”

Karen smiles knowingly. She shifts her grip on his wrist, bending his arm so she can tuck her fingers into his elbow. “Yeah. We can go back now,” she says, already pulling them into a slow stroll back down the roadside.

Frank falls into step beside her, the heavy breath that leaves him feels a lot like relief. The walk back is filled with an easy silence, his earlier panic ebbing away with each step they take towards the cabin. But it’s only when they reach the foot of the driveway that Frank remembers why they had come out here in the first place.

Karen’s damn car.

Frank fights the grimace trying to pull at his lips. “You still want me to take a listen?” he asks, vaguely gesturing towards the Civic.

Karen hums noncommittally, not showing any signs of stopping even as they pass her car. “Don’t worry about it.”

Frank raises a brow, turning his head to look at Karen’s profile just in time to see the beginnings of a mischievous smirk. 

Frank scoffs quietly, shaking his head as he looks away from Karen’s smug face, unable to stomach the evidence of his walking into an incredibly obvious lie. Incredibly obvious in hindsight, anyway. Fuckin’ Hell.

“Son of a bitch,“ he mutters under his breath, though whether it’s directed inward or towards Karen is unclear even to himself.

Karen leans in, playfully bumping against him as they walk towards the front porch. “You needed the air,” she says simply, still far too smug for Frank’s liking and entirely unapologetic.

Frank grumbles low in his chest, more disgruntled than angry. “Didn’t need to be played for a damn fool to get it.”

“Yes you did,” she laughs, looking back at him playfully as they approach the porch. But then she pauses, stopping Frank in his tracks while she’s got head of height on him, courtesy of the steps. “And for the record,” she grins down at him, “if I were big enough to drag your stubborn ass out here without false pretences, I would’ve done it. Gladly.”

Frank blinks up at her, still processing, as Karen pivots on her heel with a victorious swish, taking the steps two at a time. He stands dumb at the bottom of the steps, muttering to himself for a few beats before he finally follows.

When he catches up, she’s already opening the front door. Frank plants his fingertips between her shoulder blades, nudging her over the threshold with a playful shove.

“Ain’t never gunna’ happen, Page.”

Karen laughs again, offering a one-armed shrug. “Don’t need brawn when I’ve got brains,” she says airily.

There’s a response on the tip of his tongue, but the thought is promptly stopped in its tracks by the sound of Matt’s scandalised laughter, muffled by the sliding door to the back porch. 

“Foggy—”

When Karen slides it open, stepping onto the deck, her eyes immediately land on the spot where Frank knows Matt’s chair is. And sure enough—

“Frank!” Foggy exclaims, “just the man I was hoping to see.” His words come confident, if not a little slurred, as if he isn’t currently curled around Frank’s omega like some kind of parasite.

Frank raises an unimpressed brow, pointedly ignoring Karen’s smirk as he takes in Foggy‘s demeanour—content, lazy, and clearly a little drop-happy with Matt’s purring.

“What the fuck,” he mutters, boots heavy as they hit the deck with a thud. The sound of Matt’s purr deepening into something fuller when he hears Frank’s voice softens the Alpha’s demeanour for a moment. Long enough for Frank to be a good sport, at least.

He huffs, lip twitching as he leans against the doorway. “Bad form, Nelson,” he says flatly. “Gettin’ woozy on my Omega. And on my own damn porch?”

Foggy raises a hand. “I’m gunna’ have to stop you there, champ,” he says sagely, a mildly patronising smile creeping onto his face. The action, somewhat paradoxically, plunges the porch into a chaotic tangle of retorts and anticipation:

“Foggy, do not—” Matt tries, his hands fighting to cover Foggy’s mouth— 

“Don’t call me that,” Frank mutters, a displeased frown marring his features—

“Here we go,” Karen says, amusement lining her tone as she leans in.

But Foggy presses on, entirely unhindered. “I take personal issue with your referring to Matty here as my omega—” he grins, artfully dodging Matt’s attempts to silence him. “—feels a little possessive, don’t you think?” 

Matt groans, finally plastering his hand across Foggy’s mouth. “Please, shut up—”

But Foggy just pries it away, wiggling his eyebrows as he slips back into character. He clears his throat. “I’ve spent considerable time with Matthew, noted pain in the ass, currently purring despite his struggles—” as if to prove his point, Foggy pets Matt’s hair, preening as the Omega continues to purr. “I believe I’ve more than earned my claim.”

Karen bites her lip, clearly prepared to egg him on despite Frank’s glare. “It’s a strong opening argument.”

“Thank you,” Foggy says emphatically before turning his attention back to Frank. “Therefore, effective immediately, I will be filing for joint custody. Which means—” he levels his finger squarely at Frank, holding Matt against him with the other, “—out of courtesy, I’d appreciate it if you would refer to him as our omega going forward.” 

Matt buries his head in his hands with a muffled groan.

Frank just stares silently, long and incredulous, before he all but barks out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re outta’ your fuckin’ mind.”

Foggy lifts his chin, still playful but determinedly gearing up. “So can I expect your cooperation? Matt is—”

“My Omega,” Frank cuts in. “Currently carryin’ my kid—!”

“Irrelevant,” Foggy dismisses with a wave of his hand. “He may be carrying your child, but I carried him—emotionally—through the majority of his twenties. And that,” he says solemnly, “counts for something.”

Karen snorts at that, hand flying to cover her mouth. 

Matt makes a horrified sound from behind his palms. “Oh my God.”

Foggy sighs, pulling Matt down with him as he settles back against the upholstery, as if taking a load off after a hard day's work. “I rest my case.”

“There ain’t no case,” Frank huffs, arms folding across his chest—at the same time Matt mutters, “Case dismissed.” He finally pulls his hands away from his face. 

He turns towards Foggy, peeling himself from the other’s chest, blinking at him in exasperated silence. His mouth opens and closes, brows knitting as he fights the bewildered smile pulling at his lips. “Foggy…buddy—” He shakes his head, finally letting out a chuckle—helpless, fond and completely lost for words.

Foggy just beams at him, entirely unrepentant and seemingly proud of the chaos he’s fostered. 

Frank’s own stance automatically softens in the face of Matt’s quiet joy, the hard line of his shoulders easing slightly. But the tone begins to subtly shift: Matt’s smile fades and his brows furrow in concern as his head turns toward Frank himself. 

Karen seems to notice it too; her grin softens as she slips past Frank, making her way inside with a brief touch to his shoulder as she passes. “I’ll start making some tea,” she murmurs, nodding at Frank’s vague mutterings about ginger tea being in one of the cabinets. 

Frank watches as Matt leans forward, trying to find the leverage to get up. He takes an automatic step forward to help, but Nelson beats him to it: placing a steadying hand on Matt’s lower back and shoulder, giving him the leverage to safely sit on the rim of the chair. Foggy carefully shifts himself upright and out of the chair—being careful not to throw Matt off balance—before helping the Omega to his feet, taking his elbows into a steadying grip.

“You good?” He asks. 

“…I’m good,” Matt replies softly, and only then does Foggy let go. He takes a step back towards the door, clapping Frank playfully on the shoulder as he passes, that shit eating grin still plastered on his face. 

“This isn’t over,” he warns, “just a…temporary adjournment.” 

Frank doesn't think he reacts—at least, not out loud. He’s too busy watching Matt. The way he stands there, head tilted just slightly, lips parted like he’s listening for something. 

After the door slides shut with a gentle click, they’re finally alone again. 

The silence leaves Frank feeling uneasy, like he’s being stripped bare under Matt’s scrutiny. He has no doubt that the Omega can sense the lingering dregs of his panic—the brittle, prickling smell of cortisol.

Matt takes a small step forward, scent blooming with a subtle lavender, as if instinctually trying to soothe. “What happened?”

He only lingered by the chair for a breath, his socked feet padding quietly against the deck as he closed the gap between them. There is a flicker of hesitation after his hand raises, just shy of touching, but then he gently rests his hands on Frank; one settling on his shoulder, the other curving around his ribs. 

Frank frowns at the hesitation, aching with the thought that Matt wasn’t sure if he was welcome. And that ache only intensifies with the weight of Karen's words, still heavy in his mind: he’ll never believe you if you can’t say it. His chest feels tight with grief all over again, but Matt’s touch keeps him pinned in place, filling him with solemn determination. 

“What’s wrong?” Matt asks again, softer this time, his clouded eyes searching in a way that only he fully understands. 

Frank bows his head until his nose brushes against Matt’s temple. “Karen made me realise I might’a been a bit of a coward, that’s all,” he exhales, taking in the soft lavender as his hands find purchase on Matt’s waist.

“A coward?” Matt echoes quietly, face scrunching as if the word itself left a bad taste in his mouth.

Frank hums in agreement, lifting a hand to smooth away the furrow forming between Matt’s brows, the expression so disapproving that Frank can’t help the slight upturn of his lips. 

Matt huffs, frown persisting despite efforts to the contrary. “You are many things, Frank Castle,” he begins, voice low and certain, “but a coward isn’t one of them.”

Frank laughs at that, small and self-deprecating. “Not in the way you’re thinking,” he allows. “But I can’t shoot my way outta’ this one.”

“You think I’d let you try?” Matt asks dryly, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the tension. 

Frank groans. “Shut up. I’m tryin’a be an adult here. Talk about feelings an’ shit,” he says gruffly. 

That gets Matt’s attention.

Frank watches the surprise show on Matt’s face for all of half a second before it shutters away, replaced with cocksure laugh and a matching smirk. He pats Frank on the shoulder—warm, but dismissive—preemptively shifting his weight backwards.

“That won’t be necessary,” he says smoothly, so smooth in fact, that it almost passes as confidence. 

Almost.

Frank's lips pull into an unimpressed line. His fingers automatically flex against Matt’s waist, anchoring him in place. “Yeah, nice try.”

Matt falters, his smirk dimming just slightly. But he keeps trying anyway. “I’m serious. We don’t need to—”

“Yeah, we do,” Frank interrupts, rubbing slowly up and down one of his flanks, the movements almost apologetic. “I ain’t lettin’ you talk your way out of this one, Red.”

Frank watches the aftermath of his words carefully, watching how Matt’s eyes shift, and feeling how his fingers twitch where they rest against him. Matt’s scent changes too—very slight, but telling all the same. That soft lavender begins to steep with anxiety, wilting as he braces for the worse-case scenario. All of it silently screamed retreat without moving an inch. 

Christ, he doesn't know how Matt’s fear of abandonment went under his radar for this long. It wasn’t subtle, not now he knows to look for it.  And especially not with Karen's words still heavy on his mind. No…now he can see it all too clearly. And that clarity reveals something within himself, too: 

That his own fear isn’t deeper than this—deeper than Matt. And it definitely doesn’t run so deep that Frank would leave Matt to fester in his fears.

“Hey,” Frank says, steadying both his voice and the hands on Matt’s waist. He leans in, pressing their foreheads together to make damn sure his Omega can’t drift away. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere. You hear me? I’m not leaving. Not now. Not ever.” 

Matt doesn’t respond, but stills in Frank’s hold. He tilts his head, hesitant and searching.

Frank pushes on, desperate to finally give Matt what he’s been wanting all this time; his own fears be damned. 

“I want the bond,” he says plainly, voice low and gravelly. “Not because Curt said it’ll help or ‘cause I got some fucked up sense of duty.” He brushes his nose along the bridge of Matt’s as he raises a hand to graze the side of his neck. “I want it because it's you.”

He watched Matt process, eyes widening just a little. But he doesn't wait for a response, continuing on as evenly as he can, unable to stop now that he’s finally started.

“You don’t gotta’ give me an answer now,” he murmurs, softer now. “I jus’ need you to know that it's more than all that shit I said. None of that is more important…” 

His fingers graze along the cut of Matt’s jaw, gently tilting his head back. 

“…than this,” Frank finishes, the words almost a whisper. “This is what I want, Red. You, me, an’ her. However you’ll have me.”

Matt’s lips part, but no sound comes out—his throat working around the disbelief. But where words fail, instincts provide; his scent flickers with a heady sparks of night-blooming jasmine, falling somewhere between seeking and lust. 

Frank can't help but pull in deep breaths, needing that heavy, unguarded scent lining his lungs almost more than he needs the air to breathe. Because its instinct—pure want—spilling out of Matt before conscious words, sticky-sweet and aching.

Matt’s lips part again, but only one word makes it out, breathless and thin. “Oh.”

Frank snorts, letting out something between a laugh and a groan as he cradles the back of Matt’s skull, head dipping with relief. He tightens his hold on Matt’s waist, grounding both of them. “Yeah,” he rasps, incredulous and fond. “Oh.”

Matt presses his cheek into Frank’s, rubbing back-and-forth—once, twice—arms wrapping around the Alpha’s neck. Finally, finally, he tips his weight forward, that soft curve pressing into Frank’s abs. He uses his arms as leverage to pull himself up onto the balls of his feet, tiling his head just so. 

He stops short, breathing quietly against Frank’s lips, as if giving him one final chance to pull away. 

“Frank…” he breathes, the exhale fluttering with the beginnings of a purr. 

For half a heartbeat, Frank just holds there, staring down at Matt, hand shifting to cup the line of his jaw. Looking down at him, Frank knows Karen was right; Matt had needed to hear the words spoken to him. But now that they’ve been said—his Omega trembling against him, offering and waiting—anything other than action would feel redundant.

And Frank has always been a man of action at heart.

He tilts forward, closing that last inch between them. He shifts his hand to Matt’s lower back as he takes that plump bottom lip between his own, lowering his stance and slowly easing Matt back onto his feet. He continues the slow, deliberate press of lips, one after another, Matt’s purr falling into every brief parting like whispered praise. 

Matt allows this for a few long moments before tightening his hold. He pulls Frank closer, tracing a skilled tongue tentatively along the seam of his lips.

Frank lets out a low, appreciative hum that borders on a growl, the sound tangling with Matt’s purr and hot breath. That hand on Matt’s back slides higher, up the column of his spine, to pull him closer, unwilling to have even an inch between them. 

With one final press of lips, Frank opens for him, slow but sure, meeting Matt’s inquisitive tongue with his own. He answers every tentative stroke with a steady sweep of his own. He can feel Matt growing bolder—more frantic—but he holds steady, refusing to let this become anything other than deliberate and measured. There would be time for that later, but not now. Not this kiss. 

This one is a promise. 

A promise to be there. A promise that he wanted to be—that he wasn’t just being swept along with the current. So he keeps them moored, meeting Matt’s frantic relief with slow reverence until the need for air becomes unavoidable. 

When they break apart, Matt’s purr continues to reach him through soft pants, filling the space like he isn’t ready for them to be parted. In those quiet moments, Frank can't help but enjoy the slight part in his kissed-red lips, and the way his eyes are half-lidded with contentment.

It doesn't take long for Matt’s lips to curve, syrupy and smug despite the dazed flush staining his cheeks. The purr fades, just enough to allow his voice to thread through, husky and entirely too cocky for a man whose knees are currently trembling. 

“Mmm,” he hums, all lazy satisfaction as he places a soft, clumsy kiss on the corner of Frank’s mouth. “Not bad, Frank.”

Frank huffs a laugh through his nose—a sharp, incredulous exhale—as he tightens his hold, compensating for Matt’s wavering balance; something he’s trying not to be a smug prick about. 

“Not bad?” He echoes, brushing his thumb across Matt’s chin with mock severity. “That’s all you got for me?”

Matt’s grin widens, somehow maintaining that cocksuredness while still looking ruffled. “What—you want a full report?”

Frank doesn't miss a beat. “What I want—is for you to stop bein’ a disrespectful little shit,” he says, playful and pointed, as he presses one final kiss onto that insufferable smirk. 

Matt looks like he has another comeback already loaded in the chamber, but before he can fire, he pauses. He tilts his head—like he does when he’s listening for something specific—that pleased flush on his cheeks darkening into something distinctly embarrassed; a sight which Matt quickly steals from Frank by hiding it against his chest.

Before Frank can do more than frown, baffled at the rapid change in demeanour, the answer presents itself, Matt clearly having sensed it coming:

A thump against the sliding door behind them. 

Frank slowly looks over his shoulder.

And there, pressed against the inside of the glass—face smushed, grin stretching ear-to-ear—is Foggy Nelson, looking like he’s just stumbled upon the best show of his life.

“…Jesus Christ,” Frank mutters, dragging a hand down his face. 

Matt lets out a wounded noise into his shirt. “I hate him.”

Frank’s mouth twitches, torn between sympathy and amusement as he looks down at Matt, rubbing slow circles into his back. “Yeah? Well he sure as hell don’t hate you.”

Another thump against the glass has Frank looking back over his shoulder, brow raised. But Foggy is entirely unperturbed by the look, continuing to grin as he mouths joint custody into the glass.

”…Don’t tell me,” Matt begs, his voice still muffled. “Whatever he’s doing—I don’t want to know.” 

Frank chuckles at that, the absurdity of the situation finally winning out. “You’re about to find out whether you like it or not,” he warns, only mildly apologetic as he explains: “Gotta’ head inside and get your IV goin’ again.”

Matt groans, rubbing his forehead against Frank’s sternum, as if he could continue to hide from Nelson forever. “Peachy,” he mutters, a dry imitation of Frank’s usual drawl. 

Frank snorts, patting Matt’s back as he finally begins shifting them towards the door. “This ain’t peachy, Red. Not even close.”

Matt clings to him stubbornly as they head for the door, a warm weight tucked against his ribs that—despite the exaggerated reluctance and faux-grimaces—continues to purr, his scent blooming brighter than its been in weeks. Even Frank himself feels lighter, like a weight he hadn’t even realised the extent of has eased into something manageable. 

So, maybe—if Frank ignores the sight of Nelson’s shit eating grin—things might be peachy after all. 

Maybe. 

Chapter Text

Matt had been acting different. Not bad different, just…different. And it started not long after Foggy and Karen‘s visit, which was only a few days ago.

More like a fuckin’ intervention, Frank mused. 

Either way, since Foggy and Karen‘s visit, and the subsequent conversation between himself and Matt, something had changed. Namely, that Matt seemed to be more willingly—or perhaps unknowingly—indulging his instincts. Which wasn’t an entirely new development, Matt had been giving into his omega more frequently as the weeks went on. But those instances had taken place largely while Matt was dropped, his forebrain barely a blip in the radar as his scent became thick, syrupy-sweet, and entirely dissonant. 

No, his recent behaviours had taken place while Matt was fully in control, which is also largely the reason Frank suspects that Matt doesn’t really know what he’s doing. Or maybe, that he doesn't fully grasp the instinctual significance of the actions.

And initially? Yeah, it was easily missed. Even Frank himself had put it down to restlessness—entirely expected now that Matt was awake for more than a handful of hours a day. At first it was nothing more than smoothing edges, adjusting blankets and kneading pillows. Easily missed, and even easier to write off as nothing.

But Frank had noticed regardless. 

There was something a little too quiet about it: the whisper of a furrow in his brow, and the slight part in his lips that never uttered a sound beyond a quiet trill or chirr. And if that wasn’t enough, the scent gave away his forebrain as the one behind the wheel; at least for the most part. That sweet vanilla Frank knew as Matt’s Omega presence was there, but it was very much an undertone; entirely secondary to Matt’s own natural sillage.

Frank knew from Curtis that his influence was helpful to Matt’s dissonance. Hell, he’d seen it. But a part of him couldn't help but feel guilty about the timing of these new developments. Because it looked like Matt had begun trying to coexist with his hindbrain. Which was good—really good, even. But Frank couldn’t help but wonder…if he’d been clearer about his intentions from the start, could Matt’ve had this sooner? If Matt had been more secure in their relationship, would he have been spared some of the distress his dissonance clearly caused him? 

Frank shook his head. Ain't no point in thinkin’ that way. What’s done is done. 

What mattered was that Matt was improving physically everyday, and it seemed that his instincts were also beginning to fall in line. It was a good thing. 

And honestly, despite the lingering doubts, it was hard not to feel the benefits. Because Frank? He was the sole benefactor of these behavioural changes in Matt. 

Those missable behaviours at the start had been the early stages of nesting—something Frank knew Matt had never done, which explained why he hadn’t been aware of what he was doing. If Matt had noticed, he would’ve either forced himself to stop, or been a hell of a lot more embarrassed while indulging. Which is why Frank hadn’t said anything.

When Frank has caught Matt at it the first time—smoothing the blanket over his belly, pulling it up, pushing it down, smoothing again—he trod carefully.

He rounded the couch slowly. "Matty," he said, keeping his voice low and quiet.

"Mm?" The Omega hummed in reply, almost absentminded as he continued his fussing. The reply had warbled slightly with the beginnings of a purr, an easy display of pleasure at his Alpha’s proximity.

Frank’s lips twitched at the sound. He sat next to the Omega, fingers threading through soft auburn hair. "You okay?" He asked quietly, despite knowing the answer.

Matt’s fingers slid to a halt as he blinked. After a beat his head tilted up towards Frank, looking a little surprised. "I’m fine," he said, searching. "Is something wrong?"

Frank smiled and shook his head, slow and deliberate, careful not to spook Matt out of whatever soft place he’d slipped into. "Nothin’s wrong," he murmured, thumb brushing along Matt’s temple. "Just makin’ sure you’re okay, that’s all."

Matt hadn’t seemed convinced, head tilting as his fingers subconsciously began worrying the edge of the blanket again. 

At the time, it had been too early to know for sure whether Matt was truly nesting. Too little data to go off, so to speak. But, Frank just…knew. He knew he was right and it took almost no time at all for his hunch to be proven right. 

Frank is just finishing his checks on the doors and windows, making sure they're locked and the lights are off. As he rattles the last lock, he feels more than ready to join Matt in their bed. It's been one of the good days today; Matt's eaten almost everything he's supposed to, stayed hydrated, and spent some time lounging on the porch. Some might call it blissfully uneventful. 

So when Frank finally pads into the bedroom, he expects Matt to be relatively settled. What he doesn’t expect is for the closet door to be open, or the sound of laboured breaths and grunts of exertion to be coming from inside. He quickly rounds on the closet, lurching forward in time to catch the weighted blanket Matt is just about pulling down from the top shelf. 

He catches the weight of it—all twenty fuckin’ pounds of it—on his forearms with a grunt. "You have a plan for when that squashed you flat, or were you just hopin’ for the best?" He asks incredulously, his scent souring, anxious at even the thought of it. "Christ, Matt—all you gotta’ do is ask, yeah? I would’a got it for you."

Matt froze, still clutching the blanket now safely held in Frank’s arms. He steps to the side, allowing Frank to lower the blanket into a less strenuous hold against his stomach. Matt doesn’t let go of it, choosing instead to lean into Frank’s side as he speaks.

"…I would have moved out the way." 

Frank shakes his head, taking a step towards the closet door. "Hopin’ for the best, then," he mutters, voice soft but edged with something sharper, the fear twisting towards anger. He shifts the blanket under one arm, reaching out with his free hand to coax Matt out of the damn closet. "C’mon, out. Go an’ sit down."

Matt huffs but doesn’t resist, allowing himself to be led by his determined grip on the blanket. "I just…wanted it." The admission is quiet, raw, and a little defensive. Almost uncertain, as if Matt himself can’t fully explain his reasoning.

Frank guides Matt towards the bed with a firm hand against the back of his neck, letting the uncertainty in the Omega's tone blunt the sharper edges of his own with a sigh.

"Ain’t nothin’ wrong with wantin’ it, Red," he murmurs, waiting for Matt to take a seat on the edge of the bed before setting the blanket down beside him. Frank takes Matt’s face between his palms. "Jus’ don’t try an’ pull a twenty-pound death trap down from overhead shelves next time." He places his lips heavily onto the crown of Matt’s head, muttering a resigned yet fond, "…dumbass."

Matt pulls a face, wholly indignant, but leans into the touch nonetheless. "Maybe I’m just smart enough to know that I have an overbuilt asshole lurking at all times," he mutters, the last words coming wrapped in the beginnings of a purr despite the indignation. "Ever consider that?"

Frank barks out a laugh, short and warm, against the top of Matt’s head. "Overbuilt asshole, huh?" He catches the underside of Matt’s chin with a gentle graze of knuckles, urging his head back just enough to catch a glimpse of the faint smile tugging through the frown. "That all I am to you?"

Matt’s lips curl further into something lazy, playful, and entirely unapologetic; even as he rests the full weight of his skull in Frank‘s palms. "When you’re angry with me," he allows coyly, nuzzling a quiet appeasement into Frank’s hand. 

Frank rumbles low in his throat, an acknowledgment and acceptance in one; the sound eases the sliver of tension in both their shoulders.

"M’not mad," Frank sighs, low and quiet. Then, he huffs. "Scared maybe—of you bein’ pancaked in the damn closet ‘cause you got no patience."

Matt headbutts Frank’s ribs, one hand finally leaving the blanket to curl around the top of his thigh, holding the alpha gently in place. "No pancaking happened. You’re being dramatic."

Frank exhales at the impact, hand shifting easily with the movement; his palm cradling the curve of Matt’s skull while his fingers follow the dip between muscles to the base. "You," he begins, pointed and desperately trying to ignore the purr building in Matt’s chest, "are the most dramatic asshole I’ve met, so don’t gimme’ that shit." Frank narrows his eyes. "And no more heavy lifting. You hear me?"

By this point, Matt has abandoned his grip on the blanket, instead letting his fingers curve slowly around Frank; one still at his thigh, the other now at his waist. He’s purring full throated into Frank’s ribs, clearly pleased with himself at having riled up his alpha to the point of being scolded. 

Frank’s jaw ticks with the effort of keeping his tone stern, tightening his grip on the back of Matt’s skull to try and bolster the effect.

"You ain’t purrin’ your way out of this," he warns, tilting Matt’s head up further. "I mean it, Murdock—no more bullshit."

Matt wrinkles his nose at that. "Don’t call me Murdock while I’m pregnant with your child."

Frank bends down, laying an appeasing kiss on Matt’s lips. "Quit bein’ difficult and I won’t have to," he murmurs, allowing one more press of lips when Matt stretches upwards for it. "Carryin’ my kid or not, you ain’t gettin’ levelled by a damn blanket—not on my watch. Just ask next time, yeah?"

Matt pouts but concedes, somehow both baring his throat and turning his nose up. "Fine. But only because I’m concerned about your neuroticism." 

"Yeah? Who’s fault is that?" Frank deadpans, stroking his fingers down the offered larynx.

The Omega hums noncommittally, one of his hands straying back to the blanket. "Maybe that’s just one of life’s mysteries."

Frank snorts, low and amused, gently prying the hand from his ribs. He presses a kiss against Matt’s knuckles. "Mystery solved," he says flatly, only waiting a moment before shooing the Omega off the bed. "Now, let’s get this done before you give me any more fuckin’ greys." Christ. 

Matt mellows at that, making his way to the head of the bed with a syrupy purr, hands already smoothing and kneading against the pillows. 

"That’s it," Frank says, voice softening as he makes his way to the foot of the bed. He takes the corners of the blanket, one in each hand, and gives it a strong, even shake. The heavy weight of it settles across the bed with a whooshing thump. "There. Got your blanket, no pancakin’ necessary."

Matt peels back the corner, crawling into the centre of the bed, hands never leaving the blanket as they smooth appreciatively over the surface. With some effort, Matt tugs it over his knees and lifts the worn seam up towards his nose, his purr momentarily suspended on the inhale. His eyelids droop, blinking lazily as Frank takes a seat next to him on the bed.

"Smells like you," he hums, low and pleased, the sound rolling into a quiet chirr as Frank’s hand settles between his shoulder blades.

"Yeah? Ain’t used it in a while," Frank says, softening his voice as he sweeps a hand along Matt’s spine. He follows the column of it all the way down to his lower back, patient and steady. 

"Well, y’went to all the effort of gettin’ it, think it’s time to actually use it," he urges, gentle and coaxing. "C’mon, baby—down you go." 

When Frank handles Matt, it’s always with an open palm and a guiding touch—a suggestion rather than an order. It works like a charm most of the time, leading Matt towards a response without bristling. Which is exactly what happens now.

He holds the cover up, making a space for Matt to slide underneath; the omega allows him to thread an alignment pillow between his knees, but after that his fingers are in the fabric of Frank's shirt, tugging insistently.

Frank goes without a fuss, tucking himself under the blanket and allowing Matt to press him exactly where he wants him. 

The Omega maps him out like cartography—finding the lines of his ribs, the angle is his shoulders, the breadth of his chest. Every nudge is gentle, syrup-thick with instinct, coaxing his Alpha into a shape that suits the geometry building in his head. 

He spends time making sure that Frank is comfortable before moving onto placing himself into the equation. 

"Here," he murmurs, pushing Frank’s arm out to make a space for himself underneath until the appendage rests along the column of his spine. It curves over his waist, a broad palm resting protectively over the side of his belly.

The chirr that Matt gives when it lands is pure satisfaction, his own hand resting atop Frank’s for a long moment, as if to secure its position. When the alpha doesn’t move his hand, Matt moves on; he smooths over the fabric of Frank’s shirt—once, twice—then curls a hand around his ribs to pull himself closer, higher up the line of his body. 

Frank instinctually accommodates the motion with the arm cradling Matt against him, tightening his hold to help the omega slide into position. "Easy, sweetheart. I got you."

Matt settles with a grunt, burrowing until he’s nestled under Frank’s jaw. The purr in his chest is steady now, vibrating gently against Frank’s ribs with every breath. His fingers linger against Frank’s side, slowly easing himself into the arm around his back, as if testing the strength that cradles him—finding it sufficient, he lets himself sink into it fully.

Barely a moment of stillness passes before he huffs, clearly displeased with something. He shifts his hips stiffly, trying to shuffle closer.

"Frank. More—" he grumbles, impatient and wanting.

Frank feels the complaint before he hears it—the restless push of hips and the breaths puffing against his neck with the exertion. He tightens his arm automatically, reaching across with the other to curl around Matt’s thigh.

"More, huh?" He rumbles, turning his head just enough to press his nose into the soft curls at the omega's crown. "Alright. I got it—jus’ relax. Don’t strain."

He shifts his weight, using his purchase on Matt’s thigh to close those last stubborn inches of space until they’re completely flush. When he’s done: Matt’s knees bump against his thigh, his rounded navel pressing warm and insistent into Frank’s side, right where his hand can easily cover it again. 

"That it, Matty?" Frank asks, his voice gone quiet and rough as he feels his muscles slackening under the force of Matt’s contented purr. "That what you wanted?"

Matt only lets out a pleased trill, pushing his nose firmly under Frank’s jaw as he wriggles, almost as if delighted by the way his nest—or rather, Frank—holds up under pressure, managing to keep him perfectly contained, even with his writhing joy.

Frank chuckles—Matt’s quiet joy seemingly contagious—tightening his hold around the Omega, really letting him feel the unyielding line of muscle and bone holding steady no matter how much he squirms.

He smiles, slow and helpless, brushing his thumb against the curve of Matt’s waist. "What—you testing’ the structure down there?"

Matt chuckles against Frank’s throat. "Might be," he admits, nosing up to the underside of Frank’s chin, his hand sliding up a well-muscled chest, resting over the networks of glands that hide beneath the surface. "It's important to perform stress tests."

Frank’s voice is easy and indulgent, happy to let Matt run with whatever narrative he’s concocting. "That right?"

Matt hums in agreement, the sound still laced with something smug despite how he falls heavier with every breath, clearly fading fast. "Due diligence," he murmurs, pushing the bridge of his nose into Frank’s beard, sighing contentedly. "You should never agree to occupy a property without corroborative evidence that it’s structurally sound."

Frank snorts quietly into Matt’s hair, the beginnings of a rumble forming in his chest. "A property for you to occupy now, am I?" His voice is low, the words granting Matt ammunition for the verbal spar he’s clearly wanting; all the while, his hands never stop moving, quietly encouraging sleep.

He brings his free hand up to his chest, tracing the back of Matt’s hand with calloused fingertips. They trail between knuckles and up the length of deft fingers, before following the path back down to Matt’s wrist. He curls his fingers around it, feeling the bones under the edge of his thumb with each gentle pass, lingering there for a moment before moving on. With feather-light touches, he drags his hand up Matt’s forearm, fingers following the contours of weakened muscle and bone to creep partway up his tricep. 

Rinse and repeat. 

Matt chirrs quietly at the attention, pressing a smug curve of lips into Frank’s throat as he speaks. "My property," he corrects, stretching luxuriously. "That m’already occupying."

The statement is quickly punctuated with a possessive scrape of teeth against the underside of his jaw, followed by—one, two, three—lazy strokes of tongue, equal parts appeasing and possessive. 

Frank fights the shudder that races down his spine, rumbling helplessly as he breathes into Matt’s hair. "Guess you jus’ signed the lease with that stunt," he says, voice roughened by the feeling of teeth and tongue.  

Matty’s purr thickens, syrupy and smug, vibrating directly into Frank’s throat as his mouth lingers. "Lease?" The question is soft and muzzy, his body slackening under Frank’s continued ministrations, slowly succumbing to the pull of sleep.

"No, Frank," he corrects. "Easement." The words is punctuated by one final caress of tongue against the edge of Frank’s beard, followed by a hum of satisfaction. "Perminant right of access."

Frank hums, projecting his own rumble on purposefully slowed breaths—deep, steady—fanning gently into Matt’s hair. "You’re bein’ smug, counsellor," he murmurs, voice dropping into that gravelly timbre that he knows seeps straight into Matt’s bones.

Predictably, the Omega melts in his arms, sinking into the cradle he curated with an ease that tugs at Frank’s heart. He takes that as permission to finally seal them both in, pulling the heavy blanket up their bodies. He drapes it carefully over Matt’s shoulder, smoothing the edges with the same dedicated attention he had watched Matt use to create his nest, doing so until Matt releases an approving little chirr; only then does he tuck himself in. 

"That pass inspection?" He asks, keeping his voice low and quiet.

Matt hums, low and approving, eyes already falling closed. "Yeah," he sighs, already half gone.

Matt’s health is improving slowly, and the second scan showed that the pregnancy was holding as well—she’s still small, but her heart is good and she’s active. Matt’s fluid levels have improved, the uterine wall and placental anchoring are unchanged, which is the best they could’ve hoped for. 

Beyond that, Matt’s energy levels have improved enough that he’s more awake, more engaged, and more of a pain in the ass. He still needs sleep throughout the day, usually staying away for two-to-three hours at a time before he needs at least forty-five minutes to recharge; and it’s plain to see when he needs it, too—he gets quiet, his brain visibly lags, and words become harder to string together. 

Most of the time he does go down easy. He hates the hypoxia probably more than anyone and he knows that sleeping will fend it off. 

But he wouldn't be Matt if it was easy all the time, would he?

Although it isn’t entirely his own stubbornness kicking back in frustration this time. That’s definitely part of it, sure, but the overarching force behind it…is hormones. All the big emotions that Matt has been too depleted to feel are finally showing through. 

Really, it’s a good thing—means that he’s getting better. It’s just unfortunate that the progress translates into a high-strung, upset Omega that needs careful handling. 

When that tired frustration hits, brief and sharp, Frank knows to prepare for the inevitable one-eighty that follows: an overtired mind and body that’s not quite able to contain the tears. 

Usually when that happens, Matt doesn’t fight going to sleep—small fuckin’ mercies—but that doesn’t make the process any easier for him. Matt’s newfound inclination to not immediately shut down his urges as an Omega helps in terms of accepting comfort from Frank, definitely, but that doesn’t stop the embarrassment. 

Delia had tried to reassure him at his latest scan, saying: "Pregnancy is a rollercoaster of hormones fluctuating constantly—it’s not always pleasant, but it’s completely normal, Matt. In fact, I’d be more worried if you weren’t experiencing them at this stage."

And Curtis mirrored the sentiment: "It’s not a character flaw, Matt. It’s chemistry. Your body's been in crisis, and now it’s finally starting to recover. The mood swings mean that you finally have the reserves to feel them. Give yourself some grace, okay?"

And Matt is trying. Frank sees it every time he asks for what he needs, every time he reaches what his instincts are asking for even if he can’t quite force the words out. 

Luckily, Frank is an expert and an excellent tactician. 

When Matt's scent frays into something wilted and sour, Frank moves; he positions himself within the Omega’s orbit and waits, quiet and patient. Because Matt always paces before he naps, like he has to earn the right to rest. But it never takes long before he’s ready to accept that he needs to lie down, that his body isn't going to give him the choice.

Sure enough, Frank hears a wet sniffle—the one that tells him that the frustration has tipped over into something else. The fight is gone. And, Christ, it’s so fuckin’ sad that it breaks Frank’s heart not to just scoop him up. 

But he knows he can’t.

If he does, Matt will bristle.

So he waits.

He let’s Matt pace that restless circuit, lets the tears fall quietly. He keeps his posture soft, his scent steady, every line of him patient and approachable; ready whenever Matt is and not a moment sooner.

It's stupid, really. Matt knows that Frank is waiting on him. And Frank knows that Matt knows.

But Matt doesn’t do easy. 

And Frank doesn’t ask it of him. 

He thinks he’s made it abundantly clear: he’ll take Matt however he comes. Even if it’s prickly, even if it’s slow, even if it makes his heart ache sometimes. 

So, no, he doesn’t want or expect easy. 

He’s prepared to wait until the pacing slows, until Matt stops in front of him; cheeks blotchy, shoulders hunched, lips fighting valiantly against the sadness weighing them down at the corners. 

Only when Matt finally tips forward does Frank open his arms.

"…I need t’lay down," Matt mumbles, voice thick with emotion and slurring with fatigue. 

"I know, Red," Frank answers, low and steady, pressing a kiss into Matt’s hairline. He lays a broad hand across Matt’s back, the other cupping a freckled cheek, gently swiping away the clinging wetness. "C’mon. Let’s get in bed, yeah?"

Matt nods into Frank’s palm, brows folding just a little as a fresh tear sneaks from the corner of his eye. "Okay," he whispers, sniffling as he tips into the Alpha’s hold. 

Frank tightens his hold, guiding them towards the bedroom with a soothing hum when Matt’s breath hitches. He half-carries Matt the short distance down the hall to their bedroom; the Omega’s face never leaves his chest, trusting Frank to get him there. 

And he will. Every damn time. 

He eases them both onto the bed with practiced ease—careful of Matt’s weight, careful of the delicate curve between the cradle of his hips. He lifts the weighted blanket, shepherding Matt safely  underneath it before tucking the Omega into his side. 

Matt sniffles, sluggishly scrubbing his face against Frank’s shirt, leaving wet patches that don’t register on Frank’s radar at all. A shaky exhale falls from his lips as his hands begin to move—slow push-pulls against Frank’s ribs, kneading as he tries to settle himself. 

Frank pulls Matt snuggly against him, a firm hand dragging down Matt’s spine in slow, grounding strokes, again and again, each one slower than the last. 

The motions draw a fragile purr from Matt’s chest, frayed and threadbare, but it's enough of a soother that Matt finally melts into Frank’s chest. 

As his eyes slip closed, Frank gently blots under his eyes, drying the remaining tears with the sleeve of his sweater as Matt nuzzles into his chest. 

"M’so tired, Fr’nk…" Matt mumbles, low and hoarse.

Frank hums low in answer, his chest rumbling under Matt’s cheek. He flexes his wrist, shifting just enough to free the soft cuff of his jumper to brush over Matt’s closed eyelid; each featherlight stroke pulls gently from lash to cheek, coaxing tired eyes to stay closed. 

"That’s okay," he soothes quietly. "Don’t fight it. Nothin’ to do but rest."

And Matt does. 

He sleeps for anywhere between forty-five minutes to an hour-and-thirty, usually waking up feeling better for it. He’s a little slow to get going these days, needing a few minutes at least to get his cylinders firing again, but that’s to be expected; they always take it slow, easing Matt upright in stages to check for dizziness before any real movement happens. 

But if his blood pressure doesn’t tank—something that is becoming a rarer occurrence if they play by Curt’s rules—Frank will carefully take Matt back to the living room. If Matt is due an infusion, Frank will get that started before he makes some tea, and if the Omega’s stomach doesn’t protest, Frank will offer him some food or a smoothie. 

They’ve found an easy routine that—for the most part—works well for them. Matt is slowly gaining weight and has been tolerating oral intake better than anyone dared hope for; on day twelve of Matt’s recovery, he’s sitting at exactly one-thirty-seven pounds, almost four pounds up from where he started.

But with progress comes the inevitable moving of the bar. To Matt’s chagrin—and mild excitement, Frank suspects—he had been cleared by Curt and Delia for light exercise. Frank knows that Matt is eager to be moving again, but…

An inflatable ball definitely wasn’t what the Omega had in mind.

Regardless, Matt was aching and getting progressively more uncomfortable; his pelvis was stiff, his SI joints were angry, and his ligaments were straining. Which is what made Frank message Curtis, who promptly put Doctor Robinson on the case; she came back to the cabin a few days before their second appointment with a potential solution. 

-——ΑΩ——-

"…What the hell is that," Matt had said cautiously, not moving to approach it.

"Your new best friend," Delia replied, entirely unperturbed by Matt’s steadily growing disgust. "This is going to keep your hips and back from seizing up and get you moving again. Gently."

"Absolutely not," Matt said, almost sneering in the direction of the ball, as if it was offending him by even being on the premises. 

"You ain’t even tried it," Frank attempted to reason, trying—and failing—to keep the amusement out of his tone.

Matt narrowed his eyes. "Because I plan on maintaining some of my dignity, Frank," he hissed.

Frank opened his mouth to try again, but Doctor Robinson beat him to it. 

"Frank—are you practised in safe handling?" 

Frank blinked.

"Could you safely lift something that’s, say, around one-hundred-and-forty pounds?" She elaborated patiently, looking strangely like she’d already won, though she hadn't looked especially happy about it.

Then, when Matt stiffened, Frank realised that’s because she had won.

He scrubbed  hand down his jaw, smiling thinly. "Yeah," he conceded, placing a hand between Matt’s shoulders in silent apology. "I could."

Delia opened her mouth to continue, but Matt cut her off.

"Okay—okay…I see your point," he said, voice quiet, his scent souring. "I’ll do it."

Delia sighed, voice softening. "I promise you, Matt—your dignity is my top priority. And I understand that this isn’t what you’re used to, but this—" she patted the ball gently, "—isn’t a gimmick. I recommend them to all my patients because they help. Sitting on it helps to align the pelvis, eases pressure on the sacrum, and keeps your core moving without too much strain. That’s true for any pregnant body."

Her tone came a little firmer after that, but wasn’t unkind. "I’m not here to lecture you on your own body. I’m sure you can see exactly why this is so important—especially for male carriers…but add the weight loss, and the time you’ve been stationary while recovering? Your muscles are deconditioned."

She exhaled softly. "So—am I introducing the birthing ball a little earlier than usual? Yes, I am,"she allowed, a faint smile on her face. "But that doesn’t make it a cruel and unusual punishment just for you, okay?" 

Matt’s mouth pulled tight, but he gave a small nod. "…Okay."

Delia's smile gentled, her tone lowering into something that suggested she was letting him off the hook. "Good. That’s all I need from you today—agreement to try."

She paused, then positioned herself so she was facing Matt completely. She leaned forwards, just a touch. "I’ll never force you to do anything you don’t want to, Matt," she assured, voice tilting into something friendlier, that clinical edge falling away. "But I will strongly advise when it matters. And keeping you independent and mobile? That matters. A lot." 

Then, softer, "and I think you would agree with me on that."

Matt’s shoulders were still hunched, but the tension had slowly begun to bleed out of him; this time more begrudging acceptance than defeat, Frank hoped.

"…Yes. I would," he allowed quietly.

Delia sat up straighter, her smile tipping into something relieved. "Then we’re on the same side. Three-to-five minutes, gentle movements, no more than twice a day—that’s all I’m asking."

-——ΑΩ——-

Which is how the exercise ball—Matt forbids anyone calling it a birthing ball anywhere in his earshot—became part of their routine. And Frank…wouldn’t go as far as to say that the Omega likes the ball, but he is at the point where he can begrudgingly admit that he appreciates it, at least. 

Unsurprisingly, Delia was right—it does help with Matt’s mobility, and it definitely helps ease the pain in his lower half. 

…But that doesn’t mean he won’t take the opportunity to tell anyone who will listen exactly how much he hates it, much to Frank’s amusement.

Frank holds Matt's elbows as he lowers himself onto the ball, keeping it steady between his foot and the edge of the coffee table; the latter of which will be pushed aside once Matt is fully seated. 

They’ve done this a handful of times now, so Matt’s embarrassment doesn't burn quite so hot as before. He plants himself with a huff, a sound Frank knows is supposed to carry more irritation than it does, but it never quite comes to fruition when the ball does exactly what it's meant to: distribute Matt’s weight more comfortably and take the pressure off his back.

His shoulders sag before he can stop them, silently betraying his relief. "Don’t," Matt mutters, eyes narrowing, lips pulling into the beginnings of a pout.

Frank smirks. "Didn’t say a word."

"You thought it," Matt accuses, gently rocking—forward, then back—testing the rhythm.

Frank hums, both hands continuing to steady Matt at the elbows, following the movements closely. "Maybe," he allows, valiantly fighting the smile that threatens to split across his face when Matt mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, stupid bastard, under his breath as he adjusts himself. 

"This is ridiculous," Matt grumbles, though his movements never cease. "I feel ridiculous."

"Looks ridiculous, too," Frank drawls, finally failing in his attempt to hold back the grin when Matt growls at him. He squeezes the Omega's elbows—half encouragement, half indulgence. "Tilts or circles?"

"…Circles," Matt sighs, the growls quickly giving way to his usual dramatic sighs and groans, the ones reserved purely for his time on the exercise ball. 

Frank keeps bracing Matt as the ball creeks, the rubbery sound filling the quiet between them while Matt rolls his hips in slow arcs, knees shifting subtly as he eases into the motions. 

"Breathe," Frank murmurs, a gentle reminder. 

With that prompt, Matt exhales slowly, trying to keep his movements smooth as he circles his stiff hips. Something clearly tugs a little because the movements stutter to a halt for a moment before he resumes, slower this time, muttering under his breath. "Jesus Christ."

Frank huffs out a laugh. "Don’t think you’re supposed to use His name like that, Red."

Matt tips his head towards Frank, face incredulous, his tone bone-dry. "What are you—my deacon now?"

Frank smirks faintly, taking Matt’s weight through his elbows for a moment when he winces, only easing his own grip once Matt's movements resume. "Depends. You gunna’ start rattlin’ off a prayer for forgiveness?"

Matt snorts, but then—because he never could resist Frank's goading—his voice drops into something solemn and mocking:

"O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee."

Frank’s lip twitches, something like muscle memory tugging at his vocal chords. He cuts in smoothly, tone flat but warm:

"And you firmly resolve with the help of His grace to do penance…by sittin' on this birthing ball twice a day."

That makes Matt pause. "That’s…stupid," he huffs, "but it is oddly close." There's a question buried in those words, but his curiosity, though plain to see, is quickly squashed by his nose wrinkling in utter disgust. "And don’t call it that—we spoke about this!"

Frank chuckles, steadying him through another slow arc. "You lookin' to avoid the near occasion of sin, counselor?"

Matt blinks, lips parting in surprise. "You do know," he says, quiet and confused, as if the words don’t quite line up with the picture he has of Frank in his mind.

Frank hums in vague agreement, hands steady as his grin softens into something almost sheepish. "Trained at a seminary for a while. Back before the Marines," he explains. Then, he scoffs. "Thought I might even wear the collar one day."

"You—" Matt tries, clearly still processing. "Frank, you would have been excommunicated immediately for your language alone," he chuckles, incredulous and a little helpless, though the curve in his brows speak of something more than that.

"Probably," Frank smirks. "Didn’t stick, obviously. But I remember bits of it." 

Matt exhales a short laugh through his nose, but it falters, cracking before it's even fully formed. His lips pull into a thin, trembling line, betraying the surge of emotions brewing beneath the surface. 

He lets out a frustrated hum, scrubbing at his eyes. "God, this is—this is absurd," he says, breath stuttering in a way that could almost be perceived as laughter if it weren’t so bitter—a blatant protest against his own body. "I’m fine. I am."

And, for once? Frank believes him.

It isn’t sorrow hollowing his bones, or despair lashing at his ribs. This is definitely hormones, winding up too tightly and spilling over at the slightest disturbance.

He tries not to crowd or coddle, just maintains his grip at Matt’s elbows with a gentle squeeze. "I know," he assures, then seamlessly slips back into a dry drawl, trying to ease the tension. "Reckon you’ve done your time. Lets get you off this thing before you take the Lord's name in vain again, yeah?"

Matt snorts, still a little wet and fragile, but more genuine now. "Well, at least now I know you were almost qualified to lead my prayers for forgiveness."

That earns him a chuckle. Frank shifts his grip one palm coming to brace Matt’s ribs as he helps the omega rise off the ball. "Alright, smartass," he says, voice dropping into something solemn and heavy with faux-solemnity as he waits for Matt to find his footing. 

"Brothers an’ sisters, let us acknowledge our sins—place em’ in the hands of God—and trust that He will show mercy."

Matt huffs against his chest as Frank steers them towards the couch, lip trembling a little as he absentmindedly worries the cross Frank knows rests against his sternum, buried beneath layers of clothing. 

Frank's face softens.

"I confess to you, my long-suffering Omega, that I have gravely sinned…mostly by runnin’ my mouth." His lips twitch upward, fighting the smile as Matt lets out a wet bark of laughter.

"…in my thoughts. In my words. In what I have done by callin’ it a birthing ball in front’a you."

Matt thumps him in the chest, letting out a half sob, half laugh. "You’re an asshole," he accuses. "And this—" he pushes his belly against Frank’s own, highlighting exactly what the Alpha is to blame for, "—is all your fault. I used to be able to have a conversation without crying, you know."

Frank's grin slips into something sly—almost wolfish—as he drops his hand to Matt’s waist, thumb stroking the edge of that soft curve being pressed against him.

"Yeah?" He murmurs, a smug rumble forming in his chest. "Well, you ain’t gunna’ catch me askin’ for forgiveness, Red. Not for that. Not when you’re carryin’ her so damn pretty."

Matt sputters, then thumps his chest again. "You’re a pig, Frank Castle."

Frank grins, unbothered and not at all disproving, his other hand dropping to rest heavily on Matt’s waist. He lets both thumbs drag across Matt‘s belly, savouring the feel of it, lips grazing his temple. "How could I not be with you lookin’ like that, huh?"

Matt lets out an affronted noise, somewhere between a huff and a growl, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he pushes closer, one hand slipping over Frank’s shoulder to the nape of his neck. "Well—I can’t answer that, can I?" He sniffs primly. "I don’t know what I look like."

A deflection. Perfect.

Frank’s grin sharpens as he leans down, grip tightening on Matt’s waist, breath ghosting across the shell of his ear. "Want me to enlighten you?" He husks, hands spreading wider as they explore Matt’s frame, openly admiring now, as if he has every right to do so.

"—No!" Matt blurts, cheeks flushing a delicious shade of red even as his purr sputters to life, betraying his delight completely. He squirms in place, caught between his own indignation and the instinctive pleasure of being handled; which only fuels Frank’s piggish grin further.

"Didn’t think so," he chuckles, finally ceasing his—admittedly knot-headed—behaviour to cradle the back of Matt’s skull, lips pressing into his hair. 

Matt groans, low and long-suffering, as he slides his hand into Frank’s hair and tugs. "Shut up and kiss me, you absolute asshole."

Frank exhales a quiet laugh, soft auburn strands brushing his nose. He feels his sharp grin soften, the edges rounded by fondness as he cups Matt‘s jaw in his broad palm. "Yeah, alright."

The Omega tips back with an insistent pout, lips parted, and Frank leans in—slow, steady, savouring the fan of warm breath before he seals their lips together. The kiss is soft and unhurried, a gentle capture lips, followed by a caress from calloused fingers against a damp cheek.

Matt purrs into the kiss, the sound like static between them has he grazes their lips together—barely-there brushes of soft, sensitive flesh that makes both their lashes flutter, each touch a spark of sensation despite the simplicity. 

Frank breathes him in, content to have his Omega pressed against him, to have Matt be so willingly taking what he wants. He cradles Matt’s jaw through each press of lips, a pleased rumble forming in his chest, every brush stroking the warm embers glowing in his gut.

Matt hums, pleased, lips curving against Frank's own in a quiet display of satisfaction. His purr resonates with the rumble in Frank's chest, blooming into steadier waves of contentment that rise and fall with every breath.

Frank feels the exact moment that Matt’s purr starts spelling out trouble: just before the final press of lips, and right as Matt tips his weight fully into Frank’s hold.

He noses under Frank's jaw, burying his nose into the rough of beard, laying down appeasements before he’s even spoken. When his voice does come, it’s coy and laced with the shit-eating grin Frank just knows is lurking beneath the surface.

"Does this mean you’ll start joining me in my prayers? I don’t do it as often as I should, but…" 

Frank huffs, granting Matt access by tipping his chin, exasperated but always indulgent…to a point, anyway. Jesus.

"Absolutely fuckin’ not," he grumbles, ending this detour and finally resuming his efforts to coral him wily Omega onto the couch. 

Matt laughs against his throat, clearly delighting in the back-and-forth. "Coward," he teases, allowing himself to be steered.

"Real brave of you, counsellor, callin’ me that while you’re takin’ exactly none of your own weight," Frank mutters, brow raising as he fights the upturn tugging at his lips.

"I’m delegating," Matt replies, his smug purr buzzing in the space between them, so smug it's almost liesurely.

"Uh-huh." Frank shifts them easily, carefully lowering Matt onto the couch before taking the time to make sure he’s properly propped and supported, grumbling all the while. "If you wanna’ do that outside of bein’ a smug asshole, that’d be peachy."

Matt tips his chin in a way that is somehow both subservient and unbelievably pretentious. "I don’t know what you mean."

Frank scoffs, but places his fingers across Matt’s throat regardless. "That’s some fifth amendment bullshit."

Matt hums conspiratorially, eyes glinting. "I seem to recall wishing you had made use of that particular right once before…" his voice trails off, dipping into something pointed, though the underlying purr betrays his fondness. 

Frank narrows his eyes, already knowing where this is heading. "Don’t even fuckin’ start, Matt." 

Matt’s laugh slips out—bright, unapologetic, joyful—and Frank feels it directly under his palm where it rests against that delicate column of throat. Bared to him, utterly trusting and content.

Any false pretense of annoyance melts away in an instant, and Frank is left with nothing but the all-consuming feeling that he’s completely fucked. So hopelessly gone on this asshole that it’s pathetic. 

Frank shakes his head, caressing the underside of Matt’s chin. "You drive me insane, y’know that?" 

Matt hums, far too pleased with himself, his scent unfurling into something gentle and bright with affection—a sunlit mixture of citrus and soft lavender. "That’s the idea."

And really, what can Frank do aside from laugh? For all the stress and tears and dramatics, this—the easy warmth forming between them—is what makes it all worth it.

A day or two later, Frank is walking down the driveway, taking out the trash before he whips up something for lunch. A smoothie is probably still the safest thing to offer. Somethin’ gentle on his stomach, Frank thinks idly, already running through what ingredients he has in the kitchen. 

He slings the bag into the bin, letting it fall closed behind him as he starts making his way back up to the cabin. 

It’s just past noon; there’s a gentle breeze but there’s heat in the sun’s rays—bright enough that Matt will need his glasses if he goes on the porch, but warm enough that he could have a little longer than thirty minutes if he feels well enough.

These days—the quiet ones—are the ones that Frank lives for now. The ones where the only decisions that need to be made are based on the weather, or about where his Omega will be sitting.

He gets halfway up the drive when he hears the scuff of footfall on gravel—not his own—coming from behind him; they step onto his property before coming to a complete stop.

Frank turns, slow and measured, then sees—

"Hey, rough road!"

Frank blinks. His lips part, just barely, in surprise, turning towards the girl inexplicably on his driveway.

"…Amy? What’re you doin’ here?"

Amy scoffs, thick curls forming a windswept mane around her face, a smirk forming as she resumes her strides. She quickly closes the distance between them with a dramatic flick of her wrist, all sass and youthful defiance. As she approaches, her voice drops into what is clearly supposed to be an imitation of him, face pulling into a deep-set, playful, scowl. "Hi, Amy. It’s so nice to see you—how have you been?" 

Frank huffs, face softening as he waits for her to reach him. "Hey, kid," he says, rough and fond. It’s been far too long since he last saw her and, as soon as she’s close enough, he envelopes her in a bone-crushing hug, murmuring softly into her hair. "Missed you."

She reciprocates without hesitation, arms wrapping tightly around his ribs. "That’s more like it, old man."

After a beat, Frank peels her away from him with a hand on each shoulder, looking her over with a critical gaze. "You okay? What’re you doin’ out here? Did you walk—?"

Amy rolls her eyes. "Just from the bus stop. Quit fussing—I’m fine." 

And, to her credit, she does look fine—no obvious injuries, not overly anxious, and doesn't appear to be feeling blatantly guilty about anything. But none of that explains why she’s all the way out here, especially unannounced. 

"What’re you doin’ here?" He asks again, studying her carefully as his hands drop back to his sides.

She shifts slightly, rocking her weight back and forth between her feet almost nervously—bingo—an action she tries to compensate for by jutting out her chin, just slightly. 

"What—I can’t just come and see my favourite old man in his hermit shack?" She asks, using that same blasé, care-free tone that Frank has come to associate with her. 

"I was worried about you," she continues easily, "figured someone should check you hadn’t died out here, seeing as you never check your phone and all."

Frank raises an unimpressed brow. Not only because he does, in fact, check his phone—and there ain't nothing new from her on the damn thing—but also because she’s blatantly lying, something she knows better than to do with him. 

It’s written all over her, becoming more and more obvious as the seconds tick by—the way she’s all but avoided his questions with deflections, the way she’s purposefully holding his gaze, and the subtle shifts in her stance that are becoming increasingly frequent. All of it suggests that she’s not being entirely honest, at the very least.

So he waits. Got all fuckin’ day, kid, he thinks stubbornly, holding the space with unyielding patience.

It takes a few long moments, but eventually, she cracks. Her eyes skitter away from his, though her stance remains defiant, the truth finally coming out as a reluctant mutter under her breath.

"…I just needed some space from my boyfriend—"

Those words have Frank's hackles up immediately, voice dropping into something low and gruff as adrenaline prickles at his nerves, instincts firing hot.

"He an alpha?" He growls, taking half a step forward as he fights the urge to take hold of her again. That would only make her bristle.

"…yeah, why?" she challenges, eyes flashing with more of that youthful defiance Frank loves to hate. "He’s not like that—"

Frank doesn’t wait any longer. Can't. He takes Amy’s jaw into his hand, firm but gentle, turning her head side-to-side. "He put his hands on you, Amy?" He growls, scrubbing a thumb under her eye to check for any bruising or lingering discolouration she might try to hide from him with make-up. 

"Wha—no!"  She sputters, batting his hand away indignantly; an action Frank allows, arm raised in surrender, though he doesn’t stop scanning her for anything that might betray a lie. 

His throat works around another protective growl, trying to swallow it down.

"Bullshit," he goads, wanting to trip her up and catch her out of the lie, if there is one. She always was quick to anger and tie herself in knots, something he’s sure she’ll never fully grow out of. 

"I know the types you hang around," he presses again, eyes scanning.

She groans, then takes a half-step back, throwing out one of her arms almost accusingly. "What—like you?"

"Exactly," Frank growls, low and certain, though dampened with worry. His face softens as he searches her eyes, slowly lowering his hand. "What’d he do that’s got you runnin’ all the way out here without callin’, huh?"

Her eyes jump back and forth between his—left, right, left—before she deflates: eyes darting away, shoulders slumping, and brows pinching as she rubs the back of her arm. 

"No, I—he’s not like that. I just…got cold feet. That’s all," she says, voice laced with a quiet guilt, offering what Frank believes to be the truth in lieu of an apology for her outburst. "It got too serious, too fast. He was acting like I was already his and I just…I couldn’t breathe. I needed to get away for a while." 

After a moment, she swallows, looking up at him again almost sheepishly as she adjusts her backpack.

"…can I stay here for a few days?"

Frank sighs, offering a quiet, forgiving chuff, satisfied that she’s telling the truth. For now, anyway.

"Don't gotta' ask, kid. ‘Course you can," he rumbles, lifting an arm and waving her over as he turns back towards the house. "C’mon."

She smiles, small and grateful, dipping under his arm. "I missed you too, you know," she mumbles, leaning into his side as she drapes an arm around his back.

Frank’s huffs, pulling her closer. "I know."

Amy hums, squeezing his ribs decisively. "Okay—great," she chirps, clapping him firmly on the back. "Enough of the sappy crap. I’m tired, so let’s—"

But just as she begins trying to him towards the cabin, he stops. Because—

Oh, fuck. Matt.

He hasn't told her anything. Hasn't even spoken to her since before this all went down.

"Ah, shit—hang on, kid. I gotta—" He shakes his head, needing to collect his thoughts. Fast. Come on, Castle.

Frank takes a breath. Right, he exhales. First things first—

"You're always welcome here. You know that," he starts, voice firm enough to stop her in her tracks, though not unkind. "But you gotta’ promise me you're not in trouble. Or—I need you t’be honest with me if you are." 

She tilts her head, smiling easily, if not a little wary at the sudden change in atmosphere. "Why? You actually sticking to your retirement—"

But Frank can’t indulge this time. He holds her gaze, his voice all gravel and grim sincerity. "Promise me, Amy. No fuckin’ around."

She blinks.

"…I promise. I really did just get cold feet—I swear, Frank," she says, voice sobering as she senses the gravity of Frank’s demeanour. She steps back, looking at him properly, quietly searching his face for answers. "What’s going on? You got a roommate or something?"

"…or somethin’," he allows, pulling a hand down his face. 

Amy looks taken aback, mouth opening and closing wordlessly for a moment before she can formulate a reply. "Wait—really? You actually let someone move into your hermit shack?" She finally asks, incredulous and disbelieving.

Frank huffs. "You actually gunna’ shut up and let me tell you?" 

She throws her arms up, jostling them both. "Well, hurry up then—I’m dying over here, Frank!"

"Alright—alright," Frank chuckles despite himself. "Keep it down. Christ, kid." But the smile quickly fades when he realises he actually has to tell her what’s been going on with him. With Matt.

He swallows. "Fuck, okay. I got a, uh…partner. Omega...his name's Matt."

"…huh?"

"I ain’t sayin’ it again," Frank mutters. 

"You—?" Amy exclaims, eyes wide with growing shock as she searches his face for any trace of a lie. Finding none, she continues, utterly bewildered. "Okay, shit. That’s literally the last thing I expected you to say," she chuckles, looking a little lost. "I promise I’ll behave…? Wait—does he know about you? Or is this strict Pete business?"

"No, it's…he knows who I am," Frank says distractedly. When he doesn’t offer anything more, she tugs at him gently, trying to coax him into walking back towards the cabin.

He groans faintly, looking skyward for a beat before meeting her eyes again. "Wait. That ain’t—" he sighs, deep and tired. "There’s more." 

"Okay…so, what?" She asks hesitantly. She cracks a smile, clearly trying to ease the tension building in the older man. "It’s fine if they've killed people, Frank—"

"—he’s pregnant," Frank blurts. "With my…mine. The kid’s mine," he finishes lamely, hands falling against his thighs with a dull smack.

And the silence that follows is so thick it’s almost suffocating.

"…you're serious," she says slowly, as if testing the words on her tongue.

"Yeah," Frank grunts.

"You’ve got a pregnant omega living in your hermit shack," she deadpans, brows raised. "An omega. Pregnant. With yourkid."

"…yeah."

She barks out a laugh, hands on her thighs as she bends at the waist. She shakes her head at him, looking as exasperated as Frank himself was feeling only a few moments ago. "Jesus Christ—we need to talk more. You need a smart phone, Castle. I’m not joking—"

Frank scowls. "I have a phone," he mutters, arms folding across his chest.

"That brick is not a phone," she retorts, openly scolding him now. "You’ve been holed up out here like a cryptid with a pregnant, what—boyfriend? And I'm only finding out because I showed up unannounced?" Her words rise in pitch, high and disapproving, hands cutting through the air dramatically with each breath. She ends her rant with a scoff, slowly shaking her head. "You are unbelievable. Un-believable, Frank."

Frank rumbles, low and soothing; an instinctual soother and slightly sheepish apology in one. "Ain’t like that, kid," he tries.

She raises her hand in a gesture that says, loud and clear: I don’t want to hear it, asshole.

"You’re lucky I love you," she says matter-of-factly, waiting just a beat or two before she smiles, a playful grin splitting across her face as she shoves him away. "A pregnant Omega, Frank! Why didn’t you tell me? This is good, right? I can say congratulations?"

"I know, just—listen, okay? I ain’t had time. He’s been…it wasn't good, Ames. He almost—" Frank takes a deep, steadying breath. He holds it for a moment—two, three, four—then exhales, slow and measured, before continuing. "…I had to call Curt. He needed more than I could give him. Feels like we only just got to the point where he’s stable."

"Shit…I'm sorry," she says, brows pinched with concern. She tightens her hold on his shirt, bunching up the fabric in her fist. "But he’s okay now? Everything’s fine, right?"

Frank sighs again, not quite able to bring himself to nod. "He’s better than he was," he allows, voice rough. "Outta' the worst of it, at least. But still gotta’ be careful, you know?"

Amy nods once, a sharp, decisive movement, as if accepting an order. "I can be quiet. And careful."

Frank smiles at that, crooked and tired. "I know," he says, reaching out a hand to ruffle her curls, earning himself a surprised squawk from his ward—hey, cut it out!—and the formation of a pleased, almost paternal, rumble in his chest. "M’glad you’re here," he murmurs, soft and genuine, finally allowing Amy to bat his hand away. "It’s real good t'see you, kid."

"…yeah, me too, grumps," she mumbles, offering a small, genuine smile of her own as she fixes her hair.

Frank squeezes her shoulder, nudging her towards the side of the house. "Mind goin’ in through the garage? You know where the spare room is. I just gotta talk to him first, yeah?"

"You got it," she says, falling back a few steps with a mock salute before she turns on her heel, making her way to the side of the cabin.

Frank shakes his head, watching her go. "Thanks, kid," he says, vigilantly watching her lift open the garage door; only beginning to make his own way inside once he hears the telltale click of the garage door sliding shut behind Amy.

…Though definitely not quietly enough to go unnoticed by the hyperesthetic Omega who was very much awake when he left to take out the trash a few minutes ago, and Frank has no doubt that Matt’d already heard every word said out here. So really, there was no need for him to take the time to inform Matt of the situation, but the time could still be put to good use, especially knowing just how prideful the Omega can be.

Sure enough, then Frank enters through the front door, Matt is already sat up and preparing to try and get to his feet. He quickly closes the distance, rounding the couch to crouching down in front of his Omega.

"You heard," Frank says, not a question. At Matt’s tight nod, he continues, voice low and soothing. "Ain’t gotta’ rush. She won’t come in here until I call her," he assures, thumbs stroking gently at the side of Matt’s elbows. "We’ll get you up, but we do it right. Nice an’ slow, jus' like we always do, yeah?"

Matt breathes, slow and deep, then nods. "Fine," he concedes quietly. He leans back into the cushions, allowing his body the time it needs to adjust. After a moment—and a few measured breaths—he continues, voice low and sincere. 

"…You don’t talk about her much, but I know how important she is to you. And I can hear how important you are to her, as well. Both your hearts settle around each other, and I just…want this to go well. It feels important."

Frank stays crouched, his eyes never leaving Matt's form. His warm hands continue to wrap around Matt’s elbows, mapping steady passes over tendon and bone, sharp enough to feel even through the thick layer of padding Frank’s own hoodie provides.

"Maybe it is. But it ain’t all on you," he says, voice rough and steady. "She’s a good kid—punk-ass attitude and mouth to match," he chuckles, "but she’s got heart. You bein' yourself is enough, Red."

Matt huffs, squirming a little as he mumbles out his reply:

"…I've never really met anyones family before."

Frank blinks, surprised.

Then grins.

"Matty…are you gettin' cold feet?" He croons, head shaking slightly in fond disbelief. With gentle a press of fingers, he smoothes his hand across the slight curve that's beginning to form just beneath Matt's solar plexus. "Reckon its a bit late for that, don't you?"

Matt groans lightly, cheeks warming, his head falling onto the back of the couch with a cushioned thump. "That's not what I meant," he grumbles, but makes a point to cover Frank's large hand with his own, even as he pouts.

Frank's grin only widens, warm and teasing. "No? Could'a fooled me."

Matt kicks him with his foot, a jab to the side of Frank's glute that's hard enough to sting. "It's rude to make fun of someone who's pregnant," he huffs, ignoring Frank's startled, if not amused, grunt at the impact. But he's clearly not done, immediately falling into another mildly scolding examination.

"And another thing—how could I possibly have cold feet, when you—" Matt grunts with the effort, but somehow manages to swing his foot, with surprising dexterity, at the side of Frank's head, "—have made it your personal mission to make sure I'm never cold."

Frank's bark of laughter is cut off by his own quick reflexes, but the smile doesn't disappear entirely, even through the pang of concern at Matt's exertion.

Though an impressive manoeuvre on Matt's part, if not a little ill-advised, Frank does manage to avoid getting kicked in the head by catching Matt's ankle in his palm, strong fingers curling gently around the delicate bones. He draws it into the curve of his neck, leaning his cheek against the side of Matt's socked foot, the soft material serving as pretty damning evidence to bolster Matt's claim.

With the appendage secured, Frank is free to huff out another laugh. "You outta' your damn mind?" He asks, equal parts fond and incredulous, thoroughly scanning Matt for any signs he might've pulled something with that little stunt—breathing, colour, facial expression, any tension or guarding in his muscles—only continuing after seeing nothing immediately obvious.

"Ain't explicitly stated," he drawls, "but I don't reckon Curt would approve of round-housin'—even if you're sittin' down."

Matt slumps back into the cushions with a satisfied exhale—breathing's a little labored, but ain't too bad—as the beginning of a smug purr hums in his throat. His lips twitch into a faint smirk. "I'm sure I can persuade you not to tell him."

Frank chuckles, low and dark. He skates his hand across the top of Matt's leg in long, broad strokes, enjoying the way Matt's knee slots perfectly into the recess of his palm each time he passes over it. Though he enjoys the way the Omega's leg flexes at the attention even more. He gently squeezes Matt's knee, finger curling towards the underside, sensitive even when protected by a pair of Frank's own loose-fitting sweat pants.

"Oh yeah?" He rumbles, internally preening at the sight of his red-faced Omega—slouched, rounded, and allowing Frank to touch him so freely. "And how d'you plan on persuadin' me, Red?"

Matt's purr rises into something rolling and pleased, a playful glint in his clouded eyes. "I can be very persuasive," he assures, voice cocksure and smooth as he flexes the foot still being held on frank's shoulder. "Professionally, of course."

With that, he shifts his foot: rubbing the outstep tenderly against the space behind Frank's ear. The soft rasp of fabric—a slow, measured, back-and-forth—against hair and skin sends a ripple of sensation prickling across his scalp. When Frank subconsciously leans into the touch, trapping Matt's ankle between shoulder and cheek, the Omega chuckles.

"Case and point," he purrs, low and far too smug.

Frank snorts, firming his hold on Matt's ankle—just enough to remind—and squeezes his knee, the movement fast and sharp enough that he pulls it off unanticipated.

The reaction is just as swift—Matt jolts, a startled yelp that quickly bursts into frantic laughter filling the room as chilled fingers scramble to pry Frank's fingers away. "Frank—!"

Frank lets out a chuckle of his own at the reaction, very briefly unmoved by the weak attempts at escape. But, because he can be merciful on occasion, and because he doesn't want Matt to strain, he quickly relents. After only a second or two, he releases his hold, smoothing his hand over the exploited appendage with firm, appeasing strokes. Just enough to chase away the itch without erasing the point.

Matt slackens against the couch, flushed and half-heartedly glaring. "You're sick," he accuses, resting a hand on top of his belly as he breathes through the residual laughter still pulling at his abdomen. "A sick, perverse, morally bankrupt individual."

Frank's grin stretches wider at the accusation, eyes crinkling as he settles back on his haunches, a rumble forming in his chest, delightedly unapologetic in its cadence.

"Morally bankrupt," he echoes, amused. "That's rich—comin' from the guy who just tried to bribe me with his foot."

Matt sinks deeper into the cushions, cheeks flushing deeper, though he can't quite hide the treacherous smile that creeps onto his face. He drags in another measured breath, failing to hold back the bubble of laughter slips through on the next exhale, brows bowing helplessly.

"Stop," he begs, rubbing rhythmically down one flank as his belly jumps with residual chuckles still wracking his frame. "It hurts to laugh."

Frank’s grin quickly simmers into something warm and soft around the edges, that content rumble still rising steadily from his chest. He gently eases Matt's foot back onto the floor before he shifts forwards, knees popping as lifts himself off of the rug and onto the couch, claiming the space beside his Omega easily.

"Alright, alright. No more," he concedes, palm flattening along Matt's side, stroking along the outer edge of that soft curve, feeling where tendons are pulled taut enough to ache. Exercise ball an' heat later, he notes to himself, watching quietly as Matt's breaths begin to even out. "Jus' keep breathing', Red."

Matt listens, breathing purpousfully—in through his nose, out through his mouth. He turns towards Frank, his flushed face lolling against the couch cushion as he lightly shakes his head. "You're insufferable," he says, any bite in the statement dulled completely by the rosy smile still lingering on his face. "I'm supposed to be getting ready to stand up and meet your ward, not—" he gestures half-heartedly between them, "—winded from laughing."

Frank hums, shifting closer to slip an arm behind Matt, fingers hooking around to his hip so he can pull the Omega against his side. "Ain't no rush," he promises, murmuring the words into Matt's hair as he noses into soft curls. He rubs tight circles into a knot he finds on the back of the Omega's hip bone, easing the tension he can feel. "She can wait."

The exhale that falls from Matt's lips after Frank begins kneading the tension out of his hip is sharper, though not unappreciative. If anything, the Omega sinks into the sensation, sighing contentedly as he's pulled against a broad chest by the hand on his hip.

He wraps an arm around Frank's ribs, humming affectionately when his chilled fingers find warmth under strong biceps. "Not exactly dignified, though. Not to mention bad etiquette," he murmurs, voice hoarse from laughter and fatigue.

Frank snorts. "You think she comes here expectin' good etiquette?"

Matt chuckles weakly, clearly mindful of the ache in his belly as his hand slips to the underside of his navel, bracing. "Fair point," he admits quietly, letting the hand on his stomach shift higher when Frank's palm moves in to take its place. "Still…first impressions are important."

He shifts a little, nuzzling slower as he speaks, the word whispered with care, as if trialing it on his tongue. "Amy. Amy…?"

"Bendix," Frank finishes for him, filling in the blank with that same hushed tone.

Matt nods. "Amy Bendix," he says again, just as slowly, almost as if he knows it's going to be the first of many—something that makes Frank ache fiercely with gratitude and devotion for the man in his lap.

"You'll like her, Red," he whispers, voice rough but sure.

Matt doesn't hesitate for even a second. "I know," he says simply, head tilting before a small smile ghosts his lips. His voice drops into a low murmur as he continues, barely a whisper against Frank's chest. "Now—help me up. She's at the door of the guest room. Probably waiting for you to call her."

Frank looks him over. "Feelin' okay?"

Matt hums. "Yes, I'm fine," he promises, shifting himself upright, feet planted into the ground. "Just…take it slow, I suppose."

Frank helped Matt upright with a palm between his shoulder blades, waiting until he was sure there was no lurking dizziness before pushing himself to standing with a grunt. "No need to rush," he reiterates again, reaching for the Omega's hands as soon as they reach for him. "We go at whatever pace works. I got all day, Red."

At Matt's determined nod, Frank firms his grip, sliding one hand back to a sharp elbow as the other drops to his hip. They slowly ease Matt to his feet, the Alpha acting as a wall at his side as they wait for his trembling legs to settle.

He leans into the touch easily, taking slow, measured breaths against Frank's chest. And, compared to where they started, it doesn't take long at all for Matt so carefully peel himself from Frank’s chest, though his hands don't ease their grip just yet.

He tests his weight, shifting back and forth between his feet—once, twice—before settling. He pats Frank's chest, letting out a relieved sigh as he absentmindedly rubs the side of his belly, clearly still aching, though it doesn't show on his face.

"No frowning," Matt says bluntly, a faint smirk pulling at his lips as he puts that sixth sense of his to work. "I'm fine. And I'll continue to be fine for the few minutes it's going to take for me to meet Amy standing on my own two feet."

"Not frownin'", he grumbles. But Frank’s eyes don't leave Matt's form, sharp and assessing, ready to pick out and sign of fatigue or lightheadedness and ease him back onto the couch. Plant him flat—just like Curt said.

Matt tilts his head up towards Frank, smirking faintly. "You are," he says matter-of-factly, pressing the pad of his index finger into the furrow between Frank's brows. "Right there."

Frank doesn't say anything, instead bowing his head into the touch as he consciously smooths out his brow.

Matt's face softens. He trails his hand to the hinge of Frank's jaw for a moment before allowing jt to fall away, dropping lower, his deft fingers hooking into one of the Alpha's belt loops.

"I'm fine," he says again, just firmly enough to make his point. To reassure. "So call her in."

Frank studies him for a moment longer, making sure that the line of his shoulders remains steady, that the colour still warming his cheeks. Then, finally, he dips his head, voice a low murmur as he concedes.

"Alright. But you tell me if it's too much, Matt. She'll understand."

At Matt's nod in agreement, Frank raises his head again, angling towards the hallway. "Okay, kid—"

-——ΑΩ——-

[if anyone is reading from here I'm going voice to text so it might be a bit all over the place until I fix it up lol]

"—get in here."

At the sound of Frank's voice, Amy's heart skips a beat, as if she'd somehow been caught eavesdropping, which she hasn't.

…Been caught, that is.

Not that she'd been able to make out much. The old man had built or curated a lot of this place himself, which meant all the doors were thick hardwood—not exactly the best material for listening in on conversations.

She exhales, low and steady, easing the line of her shoulder away from the door where it had been pressed, gingerly lifting her ear away from the seam along with it.

"Okay," She breathes, wiping both palms against the worn-soft denim of her jeans. She flexes her fingers, then carefully curls them around the door handle. When she pulls it down, it's done slowly enough to minimise creaking—an old habit, she never quite grew out of. Then, with one final breath, she pulls open the door, forcing herself to walk the short distance from the guest bedroom to the open lounge.

As she approaches the end of the hall, it becomes blatantly obvious by the smell alone that both Frank and his Omega have spent a lot of time in there.

Frank's Alpha musk hangs in the air as always—heavy but comforting, one of the few that doesn't itch as it settles on her palate—but there's more to it now. More, yet somehow not as much as there should be, all things considered.

Underneath it all, there are traces of vanilla and lavender…maybe citrus if she really concentrates. But it's faint—wilted, even—and almost entirely undercut by the tang of cortisol and the remnants of burnt ozone. It's just…stress. A lot of it.

She winces. No wonder Frank looks so shit.

She almost feels nervous as she gets closer, unsure—or maybe even scared—of what she might find. Because it's all painting a pretty grim picture, isn't it? Between Frank's demeanour and the faint yet somehow telling sensory input she bombarding her…she's imagining the worst: Matt. A sickly, pregnant, Omega. One that, if she had to guess, came with a personality strong enough to successfully make things work with Frank.

Don't get her wrong—she loves that old bastard. A lot. But that doesn't change the fact that he's prickly as fuck and maddeningly difficult to work with more often than not. So, yeah. She was expecting a number of things—any combination of which she would've accepted for Frank's sake at the very least…even if she was silently bracing for if the worst should happen, and how she would handle Frank if it did.

No matter what, it would be fine. Frank would be fine. Fuck it, I'll move back if I have to—

Her thoughts are stopped in their tracks, along with her strides, as she emerges from the hallway.

Because what she doesn't expect to see, all things considered, is a man that's…fairly well put-together. Matt stands straight, fingers curled into the crook of Frank's elbow. His skin is pale—a shade or two away from sickly—and dusted with freckles that give him a faint, rosy glow. His ginger curls look a little tousled, though not entirely out of place, especially paired with the oversized clothes that hanging loose on his lean frame. The sweatshirt—one of Frank's, Amy realises—swallows him whole, almost accentuating just how slight he looks underneath.

But really, her eyes are immediately drawn to his core. To that swell between his hips that not even Frank's clothes can hide.

…He can't be that far along, Amy decides. Which makes the way it stands out from the rest of him all the more jarring. It makes her own instincts rouse, itching with the urge to sooth and protect, Omega to Omega.

Her eyes linger for a moment too long, subconsciously cataloging every detail, before catching herself. Don't screw this up, she berates herself, eyes quickly darting up to his face. But when she does finally look him in the eye, she's caught by surprise again.

Matt smiles graciously, his expression warm. But his eyes, though expressive, are clouded and pale. His gaze lands in her direction, but he clearly doesn't see her. Blind, she realises, her own eyes flashing with incredulity as they flick towards Frank. Thanks for the heads up, asshole. What the fuck!

Frank only offers a silent half-shrug; so useless and unhelpful that she can almost hear the bullshit, grunt of a reply—sorry, kid. Forgot—he might've given her if they were alone.

Luckily for her, Matt seems to possess at least some level of social grace and is quick to fill the silence. He cuts through any tension with the kind of ease that suggests some kind of public speaking background—nothing like the caveman next to him, she can't help but muse.

"Amy," he greets, the cadence almost shaping the word like a gift. His voice is steady and polished, nothing like the rough, gritty tones she's come to associate with the inside of these particular walls. "I apologise for Frank having to smuggle you in through the garage. I promise I'm usually more hospitable," he chuckles, that smile dimming into something a little more self-deprecating as he gestures to himself. "Poor timing, I'm afraid. But I'm pleased you're here—it's lovely to meet you." His smile warms again, softening at the edges with sincerity. "I'm Matthew, but you can call me Matt."

Amy can't help the bark of nervous laughter that bursts out of her. "Jesus, you've got a silver tongue. You a politician or something?"

Matt smirks, though there is nothing sharp about the expression, just playful warmth and quiet intrigue. "Lawyer," he corrects easily, head tilting in a way that is far more endearing than it should be given that the man is probably ten years her senior. "Politicians make promises, I make arguments."

Amy laughs again, her grin pulling wiser, something about the Omega putting her at ease. "Lawyer, huh?" She shakes her head faintly, eyes flicking between the pair in front of her. "That how you wore him down enough to get more than a grunt out of him?"

Matt hums, eyes glinting with something she can't quite identify. "Something like that," he allows, his smile dipping into something almost conspiratorial. Maybe even nostalgic in the way his lips tilt at the corners; not entirely positive, but undeniably weighted with emotions that she isn't privy to. "We've always had a way of…orbiting one another, I suppose."

Frank huffs, pulling Matt closer with a hand on his waist. "That's one way'a puttin' it," he mutters, the quiet fondness in the words almost impossible to miss.

Something about seeing Frank be openly affectionate tugs directly on her own instincts. Seeing the Alpha she loves so dearly, the first one she ever trusted as a fully presented Omega, looking so…happy. Settled, despite standing in the wreckage of what was clearly an absolute shit show for the both of them…

Well, she can't help the purr that bubbles in her chest even if she wants to—a quiet mirroring of the contentment they've created together. She catches Frank's eye when he looks toward her, the sound catching his attention, and her grin softens into something teasing. "God, you two sound like you've been married for twenty years."

At that statement, there's a slight shift in the room. Not bad, she doesn't think, but something changed.

At first Amy thinks it's her comment—Maybe took things a bit too far? Too much, too soon?—and her smile dims. She feels her purr thinning as she opens her mouth to apologise. But before the words form, her sharp eyes catch subtle movements between the pair in front of her. Silently offering her insight.

First: she notices how Matt's lips part, just slightly, but enough for her to see how he presses his tongue against the back of his teeth. Scenting.

Second: She notices how, in response to the changes in Matt, Frank automatically shift the hand on the omega's waists napeof neck. Grounding. And not the casual kind, either.

Then she can't help but notice all the other slight cracks in what she thought was a flawlessly confident facade—a barely-there pinch between his brows, the subtle lean towards Frank, and the shift in his scent.

It all speaks to some kind of instinctual nervousness…except for Matt's scent. Given his behavioural changes, it makes sense for his scent to roll into something a little sour, or bitter. Something to clearly communicate his unease.

But that's not what's happening. His scent is…sweet. And warm. A paradoxically social invitation that she doesn't make sense.

Until Matt purrs back at her.

The sound that emerges from his chest is thready and uncertain, but definitely an attempt at mirroring her own congenial purr; a soft flutter that blooms from her chest, pitching high, ready to roll into a trill at any moment. But Matt's version, though recognisable, sounds…young. Unrefined, even. Like adding oil to rusted parts after years of disuse.

The thought makes her a little sad. Not pity, exactly, but…the kind of social isolation that suggests isn't something people generally celebrate, is it? And more than that, she knows that connection to people is something she herself thrives on as an O. Granted, she doesn't have many—but that's what makes the few she does have so important.

…but the more she thinks about it, the more she thinks that maybe this is something else entirely. That something isn't quite adding up.

Maybe it's not a lack of opportunity, but rather: a lack of capability. Because Matt doesn't look or sound like someone who's had a lack of social opportunity—quite the opposite, in fact. He's well spoken, charismatic and just plain likeable. So really, the only thing that makes sense is some kind of disconnect with his Omega. Which is something that she's all too familiar with.

She had a mild case of it around the time she first presented; a common thing for any designation—Alpha, Beta, or Omega. Episodes of disorientation—which is the fancy word for it—are common when people first present. But with the right environment and the stability that—usually—comes with a loving family, it resolves on its own.

…given the way her life was going at sixteen, that obviously wasn't the case for her. And she's certain that if Frank didn't come into her life around that time, it might have become something more chronic.

Something like what she's seeing in Matt. There's a word for it—another one beginning with D—but she can't remember it off the top of her head.

Doesn't matter, she dismisses. Either way—if she's right? The mixed signals make a whole lot more sense…and also make the fact that his instincts are trying so eagerly to resonate with hers that much more meaningful. That much more adorable, she thinks, though she decides against voicing that particular thought out loud.

Instead, she lets her own purr unfurl once more, easy and confident, almost syrupy with encouragement. She meets Matt's instincts half way, hearing the sounds—really hearing them—and returning them in kind.

Matt flushes red with embarrassment when a trill slips free from his throat, the note rolling eager but clumsy, all that social grace folding like a house of cards when faced with the language hardwired into his system.

Amy ignores the blush—for now, at least—letting her own purr roll upward, twining with his so seamlessly that it makes the uncertainty in Matt's pitch waver. She props her weight onto one hip, unable to stop the crooked smile that spreads across her face as she watches him consentrate, his purr settling, the sound gaining tentative confidence.

"So, are you a hugger?" She asks, keeping her tone casual, an invitation, but only if Matt wants it to be. "You sure soundlike one."

Matt chuckles at that, still abashed and laced with uncertainty, but looking a little less disjointed; a change palpable enough that Frank eases his hand away from Matt's nape, letting it fall back down to his waist. The Alpha rumbles quietly, a deep, approving backdrop.

Her eyes flick back to Matt when he clears his throat. The Omega's lips tilt into a smile as he speaks, voice hoarse but kind, weaving through his quiet purr. "Apparently so."

"Good," Amy says simply. She bouncing on her heals, just once, before taking a measured step forward. Then another. As Matt takes a half-step away from Frank, she opens her arms, carefully wrapping them around his ribs. The hug is firm but not constricting, just close enough that she can rest her cheek against his sternum, her purr dropping into something deep and content.

Matt's arms hover in the air around her shoulders for a moment, startled for half a heartbeat, before he sinks into the embrace. His arms circle around her shoulders and upper back, chin resting against her unruly curls. And there's something almost fiercely gentle about the way he returns the embrace, something almost maternal. It feels like comfort, like a wordless acceptance of the kindred imprint that her Omega has on Frank.

And then, something shifts. Amy can almost feel it—the internal click of recognition. His purr drops low to meet hers, thrumming deep and steady from his chest, his whole body loosening. It's almost as if he's reuniting with something long lost and precious.

Amy can't help but breathe into it, utterly content. It's in moments like these, held by another O, that she remembers why she prefers them to Alphas. Better in literally every way, she sighs, basking in the closeness that seems to come too easily for both of them.

Or maybe it's not so strange…? Instincts are a powerful thing—pack bonds even more so. Between her kinprint on Frank, and the Alpha's inability to turn away a stray, their kinship has had years to cement itself. It wouldn't be unusual for Matt to be feeling the effects of it now that she's here. But whatever's going on, it's…nice. And that's what she chooses to focus on.

And Matt seems to be doing the same.

But after a few long moments of stillnesss, the silence broken only by their twin purrs, Amy becomes acutely aware of the roundness that she's curled over. It's not that it's surprising, Frank wouldn't lie—and she has eyes, for God's sake—but actually feeling it? Well…

"Fuck, you really are pregnant," she blurts, face still pressing into Matt's sternum. There's a pause, long enough that she tightens her hold just a fraction, an instinctual tethering. But it soon passes, and she releases the breath she didn't realise she was holding when Matt quietly chuckles.

"So they tell me," he muses, his voice laced with a flat sort of humour that startles an amused huff of breath from Frank—probably the picture of sickeningly sweet, Alpha pride as he stands vigil, like some kind of rock-ribbed senrty.

The reminder of his presence sharpens something in Amy, her smile turning sly as she peaks over Matt's shoulder. The quiet fondness she sees on the Alpha's face in no way deters her sharp tongue.

"Not old enough to be shooting blanks quite yet, huh, old man?"

Frank immediately narrows his eyes. "Alright—watch it, big man," he warns. Though the absolute lack of heat behind the words is almost as pathetic as it is endearing.

The exchange between them, though fleeting, startles a laugh out of Matt. It's joyful and genuine, but sharp enough that it quickly sobers into a hiss. Each breath forces its way through clenched teeth, his face scrunching into a wince. One of his hands drops to his stomach, trying to ease the ache. He rubs the side with firm, coaxing pressure as he tries to school his laughter, achingly persistent despite the apparent discomfort.

"Easy," Frank murmurs, weight shifting restlessly, preparing to intervene at the first sign of…well, anything, probably. It didn't matter what happens next—good or bad—frank would find a way to help whether he's needed or not.

Matt exhales, slow and measured, then gives Amy one final squeeze. "I think that might be my cue to sit down," he says, reluctance practically dripping from his tone, as if it pains him to say the words out loud.

"Perfect," Amy says easily, sighing in faux relief. She's already guiding Matt towards the couch as she continues, hoping that he buys the act enough to ease his embarrassment. "My feet are killing me from all that walking."

Frank joins in a heartbeat, helping Matt down from the other side the moment they started moving.

"It's nice out here—don't get me wrong," Amy continues, flashing Frank a grin as she settles beside Matt, still tucked under his arm, "—but couldn't you have picked somewhere with better public transport? Not all of us have a licence, you know."

Frank raises a brow, levelling her with an unimpressed look he tucks a pillow behind Matt's back. "Wasn't exactly on my list'a priorities, kid."

Amy hums innocently, tucking into Matt's side, shamelessly using him as a human shield. Her grin is understated and coy, the purr buzzing in her chest even more so. "And where does teaching me to drive fall on that list?"

Matt lets out another breathy laugh as Frank hangs his head for a moment, hands braced on his bent knees. He shakes his head, sighs deeply, then looks up.

"Same place as the last time you asked," he says pointedly, knees creaking as he straightens up with a long-suffering groan. "I ain't teachin' you shit about drivin' a car until you know how t'maintain one." He raises a closed fist, lifting his fingers one at a time as he lists off his ridiculous conditions. "Tire changes. Oil. Fluids. Jump starts—"

Amy cuts Frank off with a dramatic groan, her head knocking the corner of Matt's shoulder. "That's what I have you for," she says emphatically, aiming a kick at the side of his knee. Aim for the joints. Joints are—

Frank narrows his eyes, catching her ankle in a vice-like grip, just ticklish enough that it makes her breath hitch. The look he gives her is entirely unimpressed, but there is a glint of amusement buried in the gravel of his tone. "Yeah, see, that right there? That's exactly why I ain't lettin' you behind the wheel of my car."

He squeezes her ankle, fostering a cruel, restless anticipation—holding her there two agonising seconds—before he tugs. The force isn't jarring, but it's enough to pull her off balance.

Amy yelps, the sound closer to a squeal than she'd like to admit. Her body twists as she's hauled down the couch, sliding down the line of Matt's flank until she's halfway off the couch. "Frank—!" She hisses, unable to stop the laugh that slips through, clutching blindly at Matt's arm for support.

To his credit, Matt braces his arm as best he can, though he's unable to stop her partial descent. In the end, her shoulders rest flat against the seat of the couch, her neck craning awkwardly beside Matt's hip. He chuckles warmly, but doesn't intervene.

Frank chuffs victoriously, broad and immovable, his grip like iron around her ankle, giving it one last squeeze before releasing his hold. "What'd I tell you about kickin' me?" He mutters, grit and amusement folding into something almost playful. And there is undoubtedly a smirk to match but, before she can catch a glimps, he turns away. He throws his next words over his shoulder, rounding the couch, then padding across the open floor towards the kitchen. "Kids today got no manners."

Amy snorts, carefully pulling herself back up the couch, mindful of Matt as she does so. But the second she's upright again, she throws Frank a look over the back of the couch. "Manners?" She parrots, incredulous, but purring. "You just manhandled me—and you want to lecture me about my manners?"

Frank doesn't even look at her, too busy pulling out a chopping board, setting it heavily on the counter. Draws clatter open and closed as he hunts down a knife, his voice carrying rough and matter-of-fact over the noise.

"Damn right," he fires back, setting the kettle on the stove, ready to boil. "You started it, I finished it. Simple as that."

"What—by throwing around someone half your size?" She says, hiding her smirk behind the back of the couch. "Real classy, Castle."

Frank's face scrunches up mockingly. "Throw around—?" He scoffs, shaking his head as he drops a root of ginger onto the board with a thunk. "Don't even start with that shit."

The knife clicks against the board, his arm angling to make the first cut. His eyes cut toward her for barely a second. But then—before she can shoot back another reply—he double takes, eyes narrowing. He places the knife back onto the counter.

"Hey," he calls, sharp enough that Amy knew she was going to get in trouble for something. The ginger root is still in his hand—aimed like a damn weapon, she might add—his brows drawn into that stubborn, flat look she knows all too well.

"What?" She asks, chin jutting out defiantly. "I didn't do anything."

But Frank doesn't budge, using the ginger to gesture towards the front door before dropping it back onto the chopping board. "Shoes," he says gruffly. "Off the rug."

Amy blinks, then barks out a disbelieving laugh. She wants so desperately to curl a leg underneath herself, just to piss him off. "Seriously? That's where you draw the line?"

Frank doesn't look up this time, only offering a grunt that sounds vaguely affirmative. The sound is followed by the slide of the blade as it glides through the ginger root like butter. His posture is broad and sure, the air around him weighted with that unmistakable Alpha pressure. It's not oppressive or forboading—never that, not with the people he loves. But rather, a pull, subtle and steady, that keeps balance between them.

…which is what this is really about, she realises.

It's not about the shoes or the rug—not entirely, at least. It's about that instinctual balance that Frank, as an Alpha, is charged with maintaining. He has two Omega's in his hermit-shack-turned-nest that he cares for, one of them already lagging with fatigue and systemic weakness, the other brimming with restless energy and—possibly—being a bit of a shit about it. Just a little, she concedes. His instincts are probably firing with the need to smooth the edges, to keep things clean, controlled, safe.

Hell, Frank probably wouldn't admit it himself, but Amy knows him well enough to confidently say that the man is a first-class mother hen; a worrier of the highest order, the fussiest, broodiest, Alpha she's ever met. Hands down. So much so that she's willing to bet a lot of money that he's been nesting in Matt's place. The Omega was likely unable to do it himself if things were as bad as she thinks, and Frank is definitely the type of Alpha to turn that shit into a military operation.

She huffs quietly at the thought. I gotta' get the dirt from Curtis on that one, she notes to herself, unable to stop the way her smile softens. With a dramatic sigh, she unceremoniously pulls of her shoes without untying the laces, pointedly holding them up where the Alpha can see them, brows raised. "There. Happy now?"

Frank's eyes flick up at that, catching hers just long enough to convey a silent, gruff flavour of gratitude that is so Frank Castle that she almost rolls her eyes. "Peachy," he deadpans, turning his back as he rounds on the stove to drop the chopped root into the kettle. With a click, he sets it to boil.

The moment his back is turned, she takes the opportunity to throw her trainers—one, then the other—towards the front door. She ducks behind the couch as soon as the second one clatters against the floor, the rubber soles dulling the sound not nearly enough.

Not that she wanted them to. Because while she acknowledges and understands Frank's rough-edged, altruistic tendencies…that doesn't mean that she's going to mindlessly respect them. Where's the fun in that? She learnt early on that pissing off the old man is one of life's simple joys—one that filled the gap while they were on the run, and one that she fully intends to continue indulging in.

Keeps him young, she reasons, trying to muffle the smug purr behind her hands. Can't have him getting too comfortable.

The silence that follows is almost comically heavy.

A sentiment that Matt seems to agree with. The Omega lets out another tired chuckle as he tilts his head towards her. His eyes never quite meet hers, but they're warm despite that. His arm is raised along the back of the couch, openly inviting, as if keeping the space open for her.

"Careful," he warns, his voice pitched low with fatigue, but laced with warmth and subdued amusement. "Don't want him bursting a blood vessel."

Amy, never one to ignore the pull of her instincts, carefully reclaims the offered space under Matt's arm, an impish grin tugging at her lips. "I'm enriching his environment," she explains, stating her case with all the solemnity she can muster. "It's good for him, you know? Simulating natural stressors."

Across the room, the stove is shut off with another soft click, a sound quickly followed by a long-suffering sigh. Frank mutters under his breath. a little too quiet for her to make out, but the cadence sounded a lot like his classic: oh, for Christ's sake.

Matt huffs another quiet laugh through his nose, draping his arm heavily over her shoulders.

Amy sobers at that. Something about the sound of all this—the three of them, together—settles deep in her chest. The warmth of it, the quiet, domestic absurdity of it…

She's spent years worrying that Frank may never have that again. Would never let himself. Aside from with her, when she had time to visit, obviously. And she'll always make time for him, that won't change. But the times between always left her feeling restless for him, knowing that he was likely spending the majority of his time alone, being a stupid, stubborn, anti-social bastard.

She's just…concerned, okay? But maybe she doesn't have to be anymore. Because Matt is here. And it won't be long before there's a baby here, too.

Her purr deepens at the thought, instincts itching again. She sits up straighter, folding her legs beneath her as she angles herself towards Matt. "I know you're probably sick of people asking," she begins, not quite a whisper, "but can I touch…?"

Matt's own purr flickers back to life again at the request, a small smile gracing his features, equal parts abashed and prideful. "Of course," he murmurs, pulling back the thick material of his sweater to reveal the thin layer of worn-soft cotton beneath. He smoothes his hand across the top of his belly, just becoming prominent enough to see below his ribs. Then, he smirks, eyes glinting playfully. "I'm getting used to the steady stream of conventional objectification."

Amy smiles at the joke, but can't quite bring herself to break the quiet between them. "Yeah? Got a lot of admirers?" She teases, swaying into him gently with her shoulder. "I promise I'll be respectfully objectifying, at least."

He laughs quietly at her words, but doesn't move to answer right away; the silence between them settles warm instead of awkward. And somewhere in it, the air changes—light, almost playful. There is a flicker of scent: lavender and citrus, a little muted but no less joyful for it, blooming just enough that she feels it wrap around her like a blanket.

She wonders briefly whether it was the verbal back-and-forth that did it or the permission she'd asked for. Either way, the thought is quickly discarded, replaced instead with a deep-rooted anticipation as Matt holds out his hand.

Amy doesn't hesitate for even a second.

She holds steady as she reaches out, the picture of calm and patience. But the moment her fingers brush his? The excitement stirring within her is betrayed completely by her purr: immediately pitching into something high and eager. The anticipation is enough to keep her grounded, but only just.

Matt gives her hand a gentle squeeze, then guides the flat of her palm to rest over his navel.

The warmth of him bleeds into her palm immediately, radiating though the thin cotton in a way that speaks to her so innately that she's almost lost for words. She's never touched a pregnant person's belly before, never had the opportunity or the inclination, but now…

Yeah. She sees the appeal. As an Omega, there's something about it—the warmth, the way the soft roundness feels beneath her palm, knowing what's curled inside—it makes her own abdomen feel heavy. The sensation feels not unlike an ache, but not in a bad way. It's almost as if she's experiencing a sympathetic echo of Matt's discomfort, which…isn't uncommon, admittedly, but it does raise some interesting questions for later—specifically about the fact that Frank failed to mention that he's—probably, can't know for sure, but come on—imprinted, and it's strong enough that even she's experiencing a familial pull towards the other Omega.

This is quickly becoming a complicated triangle that she doesn't want to think too much about, not before she gets the chance to actually talk to the secretive old bastard, anyway. And she has more important things to be focusing on—namely that feel-good high she's getting from her hindbrain and, even more importantly, Matt.

"…wow," she breathes, a small, awed smile taking all the tension from her face. Her thumb twitches with the urge to move, to feel more of the slope beneath her palm, but she holds steady. She doesn't think Matt is fully in sync with his O, and he might not be feeling the same pull as her, so she needs to proceed as if she were a stranger.

…a very forward stranger. Which I guess I am, she muses lightly. She takes a breath, pushing all that aside for now. "How far along are you now?"

There is a short pause before Matt answers, considering. "About thirteen weeks," he settles on, nodding slowly, as if trying to confirm the truth behind the statement as he says it. Then, he huffs. "Which is too early to be feeling like I'm smuggling produce in one of those plastic bags that split before you make it out the store."

Amy barks out a laugh, startled but genuine. "That's…graphic," she says between snickers, finally lifting her gaze from her hand, shifting her full attention up to Matt's face. "What kind of produce are we talking here?"

Matt hums good-naturedly, as if giving serious thought to the answer. "Well," Matt begins, a hand smoothing up and down his flank, "according to Delia's chart…a plum. Or maybe a kiwi."

Amy tilts her head, half amused. "…whose—?"

"Doctor Robinson. Matt's OB," Frank cuts in from the kitchen, dutifully tidying up after himself. "Curt's girlfriend, actually."

Amy blinks, turning towards the Alpha. "Curtis has a—?" She begins, but quickly reconsiders, shaking her head. Her mouth shuts with an audible click.

"Nope—hang on. Put a pin in that." She turns back to Matt, reluctantly pulling her hand away as she settles in beside him. She rests her head against Matt's arm, which is still loosely draped over her shoulder. Once it becomes clear that the other Omega isn't going to pull away, she allows herself to relax. "I'm more interested in the plum-slash-kiwi smuggling situation going on here."

Matt chuckles, low and warm, head lolling against the back of the couch. "Oh, that," he muses, all mock-solemnity. "Smuggling probably isn't the right word—I'd never get away with it. Too many watchful eyes."

"I bet," she snorts, her grin edging back into something teasing at the mention of watchful eyes. "Sorry, I—" she cuts herself off with a disbelieving laugh, sneaking a glance at the Alpha, who seems to be finishing up in the kitchen. "I still can't believe it. Against all the odds that his cryptid-recluse lifestyle stacked against him, Frank Castle managed to—"

"Finish that sentence, kid," Frank warns mildly, not even bothering to look up from where he's pouring the tea, steam curling from the fresh cup, "and you're sleepin' in the annex."

She laughs before she can stifle it, bright and unrepentant, a smug purr already curling around the sound. "Fine, fine. I can behave." She raises her hands in mock surrender, head tilting into something she hopes is appeasing enough to get her off the hook. Not that she think's hes actually angry at her—she doesn't remember the last time she managed that. But better to be safe than sorry—definitely don't want to be sleeping in that creepy annex, she huffs.

Frank shakes his head, muttering something she doesn't quite catch under his breath as he turns away; but not before she catches the smile tugging at his lips.

Heh. Amy grins, swiftly turning her attention back to Matt. Now confident that the Alpha isn't actually on the verge of scolding her, she leans in. Her voice drops into a whisper, low and conspiratory. "My disbelief isn't aimed at you, by the way," she assures. "If anything, I think you're way out of his league."

Matt's answering smile is slow and crooked, dry humour written into its lines like second nature. "That's because you don't know me very well yet," he says easily, though she doesn't miss the slight ruefulness that lines his tone. He smooths a hand across his navel. "She and I are…something of a full time job at the moment."

Before either of them can say anything more, Frank reappears with three small mugs of ginger tea, procariously held between broad palms. The scent curls out of the mugs along with the steam—sharp, earthy, but not overpowering—seemingly brewed to perfection. He places the mugs onto the table, nudging one towards her before handing another to Matt.

Matt takes his with both hands, pulling it towards his chest with a grateful sigh. His fingers settle around the ceramic, quietly soaking up the warmth, the steam rising in front of his face as he murmurs a quiet, sincere, "Thank you."

Frank hums, low and noncommittal, watching intently as Matt takes a small sip. There's a slight furrow in his brow as he does so, standing vigil like some kind of anxious sentry expecting trouble. Bracing for it.

Matt seems to notice the tension in the air, tilting his head towards Frank with an exhale, fond but weary. He presses his ankle to the side of Frank's leg, sliding it upwards—just an inch, just enough to get his attention—before lowering his foot back to the floor. "Come sit," he says, voice too soft to brook arguments.

Frank hesitates for only a moment as he lifts his gaze, but quickly relents, easing himself onto the couch. He settles down obediently beside Matt, the cushions dipping under his weight with a muffled creek.

Amy watches the exchange quietly, that deep-seated ache in her chest—the one that stems from her worry over Frank, how isolated he is out here—eases further at the sight of them together. Because, Matt? He seems to be acutely attuned to Frank, aware of his tendency to become high-strung and adrenalised with anxiety. And more importantly than that, he also seems capable of talking Frank back down from that state—a skill that not enough people in his life possess, in her humble opinion.

With a quiet sigh, she reaches over and grabs her tea. Just as she begins raising it to her lips, she pauses, replaying the conversation in her head. She slowly lowers her mug. Her eyes search the steaming liquid for a beat, breathing quietly. Then she looks towards the pair, leaning forward, mindful of the tea still steaming in her lap.

"…she?"

Matt hums softly, a placeholder as he swallows another sip of tea. "Little girl," he confirms, a small, genuine smile gracing his features. But the next exhale is a little too measured, the edges of his smile twitching downward. "Too little, though." He gestures absently with one hand, the other still curled around his tea, shifting his body almost imperceptibly towards Frank. "Delia is monitoring everything closely. But she's…small. For her gestational age."

Frank exhales through his nose, halfway between a sigh and growl. His hand finds Matt's thigh, fingers slipping between his knees and squeezing gently. "She's fine," he says gruffly, the words landing somewhere between a reassurance and a self-reminder. "Doc said her heart's good, she's movin', and she's growin'. Just takin' her time, that's all."

If the air weren't so filled with tension, coming specifically from a certain chronically anxious Alpha, Amy thinks that there's definitely a joke to be had here. Because the fact that, Frank—who is built like a fucking house—somehow managed to produce a clinically small baby? Would be hilarious, if only for the fact that it feels like some kind of statistical miracle.

But even she can appreciate that now probably isn't the time. She enjoys getting a rise out of Frank, but she doesn't want to actually stress him out. More than usual, anyway, she huffs. Okay—

"Okay, hold up—can we just focus on the fact that you're having a girl for a second?"

Matt smiles again at that, bringing his hand to rest atop Frank's. "It's not one-hundred percent yet," he says, voice quiet but lilting with a fragile, tentative sort of excitement. "But Delia seems pretty certain."

"Have you thought about names yet?" She asks, curious but careful. It's the kind of question that she knows might land somewhere tender, especially for Frank, who is still a little too quiet for her liking.

…quieter than usual, anyway.

"Not really," Matt admits, almost sheepishly, as if he's only just realising that it's something they should be thinking about. Not that she blames them for putting it on the back-burner, anyone in their position would do the same. They've both had way, way, bigger problems than baby names.

Although the self-deprecating note that creeps into Matt's voice as he continues makes her think that he doesn't agree with that unspoken sentiment. "Or—I haven't, at least," he corrects, eyes shifting briefly in Frank's direction, a tight smile pulling at his lips. "But I haven't really been doing much of anything lately."

Amy feels her face scrunch into a frown, indignant and incredulous in equal measure, watching as Frank pulls the exact same face. Her chin tucks defiantly, beating Frank to the punch only because of her innate extraversion, and the way her Omega bristles at Matt's blatant debasement of himself. "Okay, first of all," she begins pointedly, unable to keep the sharp edge from her tone, "that's total bullshit. And second of all—Frank's built like a pack mule. You love a bit of heavy lifting, don't you, rough road?"

She doesn't wait for Frank to confirm of deny. "And let's not forget," she continues, undeterred, a fire in her gut, "yourbody is the one giving everything to grow a whole-ass human inside of it, Matt. Which is insane to think about, by the way. So you—" she points, uncaring that the other Omega can't see it, "don't need to be doing anything other than that. That's the most important part, and you're doing it."

She concludes her monologue with a sharp exhale, trying to dissipate the vexing prickle under her skin.

The silence that follows is weighted. Stunned, even.

After a long moment, it's Frank who cracks first. He chuckles, low and fond, slowly shaking his head. "Pack mule, huh?"

Amy narrows her eyes, folding her arms across her chest with a huff. "Sorry, I meant to say ass," she snarks, the fire slowly bleeding out of her.

Matt joins in with Frank's quiet laughter at that, his face softening. "That was very passionate," he observes, his voice warm but slowed with fatigue. He looks as if he wants to say more, but the words never come. He blinks heavily, head lolling against Frank's arm where it rests along the back of the couch. "I'm…gunna' to have t'lie down soon," he admits, his voice practically dripping with reluctance, as if it cost him to say the words out loud.

Frank shifts forward at that, not looking the least bit surprised. "Yeah," he murmurs, quiet and accepting as he gathers the Omega against his side. "S'about that time."

Matt sighs, going without protest, his eyes half lidded as he speaks. "Maybe," he begins, tone as teasing as he can manage, his words beginning to slur, "Amy can keep you from festering in your neuroticism while I sleep."

Amy straightens. "Oh, easy—consider it done," she chirps, smiling as she tries to keep the atmosphere light. "I think I have a deck of cards in my bag. That'll keep him entertained for hours."

Frank grumbles at the mention of the cards, turning his attention back to Matt. "Ain't festerin'," he insists quietly, although his tone is more sheepish than certain—the rasp in it betrays the lie completely. "I like keepin' you company."

Matt doesn't hesitate. "I know," he says, easily, as if the latter part is a given. No argument or uncertainty, just a quiet gratitude that settles between the words, softening the air in the room. But then there's a shift—small, instinctive, barely noticeable. Matt's scent, though still weaker than it should be, hollows further. That natural Omega-sweetness turns inward, collapsing into something threadbare and sour, edged with guilt.

"…I don't like you worrying on your own," he murmurs, "Stuck, just—waiting for me to be functional again."

Frank opens his mouth, his brows furrowing with retort, but Amy—once again—beats him to it. She cuts in smoothly, her voice calm but resolute. "He won't." They both turn to her then, but she doesn't retreat. She straightens herself up, lining the steel in her words with the ease in her tone. "I'll make sure of it," she promises. "You think I'm going to let him brood himself into a stroke while you're sleeping? Not a chance."

There's a faint spark of humour in Matt's expression, and an easement in his posture that seems to act as all the permission his body needs to finally crash. "Perfect." He pats Frank on the chest—fond, final, and faintly amused. "Help me up."

They move together, it's with an ease born of repetition; slow and steady by design, meticulous in its execution. Hands rest in familiar places, the Alpha's weight instinctually shifting to counterbalance. It's a routine clearly polished through necessity, one that doesn't waste time or energy, effectively getting Matt on his feet.

Once up, Matt takes his time testing his weight, shifting it from one leg to the other—back, forth, back again—his hands anchoring around Frank's forearms like a trembling vice. All the while, Frank stands like a living rock, immovable as he bears Matt's weight, shifting only when it will help to steady the Omega. Then, when Matt finally exhales, the relief is palpable. He gives Frank a small, reassuring nod, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Frank shifts his hold, instead finding purchase on the omega's waist. "Ready?" He asks, his eyes still engaged in a seemingly never-ending search for complications.

Matt makes a noise that sounds vaguely like agreement, somewhere between a hum and a muzzy, "yeah."

He allows himself to be led for all of two steps before he stops, tipping his chin backwards, as if regarding the spot where Amy is still curled up on the couch, watching the exchange quietly. She catches a glimpse of a pale iris as it peeks over his shoulder, all the depth behind them turned glassy at the promise of sleep. "If he's not out in ten minutes," Matt says, soft but clear, bumping his hip into Frank for emphasis, "come and get him."

Amy grins, reclining against the couch with a mock salute. "You got it, boss."

Frank groans under his breath as they disappear into the hallway, and she's just about able to make out the Alpha's muttering: a gruff, "you two are gunna' be a pain in my ass."

Amy stays where she is as the sound of them fades behind the hardwood door. She sips what's left of her tea, now lukewarm, her mind running faster than she'd like.

See, she's always been good with details; spotting the things that others don't see. You learn to be observant when you grow up having to try and survive in other people's blind spots. And there is something about Matt…something that doesn't fit.

In any other circumstance, that would be enough to get her hackles up, immediately bristling with distrust. But this time is different. Not only because her Omega accepted Matt so easily—though that is a big part of it, and she has always trusted her gut. But no, it's also because there's innate trust already in play here. The foundation of their relationship is Frank, and she trusts him down to her bones.

But the thing about Frank is that he's a vault. Always has been. While he would never lie or endanger her, he will withhold details; sometimes purposefully, sometimes not. Either way—the things he chooses to withhold are usually, in themselves, telling enough that she can begin to make educated guesses about what it is he's hiding.

All secrets are kept for a reason. And all vaults are locked because there is something worth keeping inside. And Frank, in his blatant mental disarray, has already given her an unintentional glimpse inside. And you know what? Maybe it is just the stress. Maybe it's nothing. That's not an entirely unreasonable explanation given Matt's physical state.

…but it's a little odd that he forgot to mention that his Omega is completely blind, isn't it? Or if not completely blind, somewhere close to it. Legally blind, definitely. At the very least, it's the kind of thing that you would mention before introducing someone, right?

Admittedly, Frank isn't the type to make a fuss about these kinds of things, and certainly not one to dish out special treatment—wanted, or not—but to say nothing?

It was a very interesting choice, to say the least. One that certainly caught her attention as she scrambled not to be unintentionally rude or inappropriate. Again—thank you very much for that, Frank. Stupid asshole.

But anyway.

Now that she's spent some time with Matt—spoken to him, seen him in person, watched him carry himself…she can't stop thinking about it.

She doesn't doubt that he's blind, not for a second. There were plenty of moments where he felt blind. The careful turns, the haze in his eyes that means they never quite meet hers, the way he carries himself with the methodical precision of someone who has long since made peace with the darkness.

So, yeah. Matt is very much blind.

But then there were other moments, the ones that didn't fit. The way he seems to notice movement before it happens, how easily he tracks and adjusts to it, and the uncanny precision with which he interacts with his surroundings. None of it is hesitant or unsure.

And, fuck, maybe she's just an asshole.

An asshole that's never met or interacted with a blind person before. Wouldn't be the first time she she earned the title, and it sure as hell wouldn't be the last.

But her gut is telling her that there's something there.

She and Frank have always been on the same page when it comes to this stuff—their instincts almost always run in tandem. If something catches her attention, something she's feeling this strongly, there's no universe in which Frank didn't feel it also.

…but Frank hadn't even blinked. Didn't act as if any of it was unusual.

And that's what sticks with her: Frank wouldn't have missed this. No fucking way. Which means that there is something going on—and he knows about it.

She stretches out across the couch, throwing her legs over the arm of the couch as if she owns the place. The mug in her hand is empty now, her nails tapping against the ceramic as she lets her mind tick over. Blind, my ass, she smirks. A low purr builds in her chest, smug and curious in equal parts, and definitely impressed.

Whoever Matthew is, he's not some helpless house cat.

She huffs, unable to stop the exasperated chuckle that falls from her lips. Trust Frank Castle to knock up some kind of supe, she muses, rolling her eyes fondly. And then not tell me about it.

Luckily for her, she won't have to wait too long before she can finally get some answers and find out what the hell kind of stray the old man brought home this time.