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There's a code that you and Matt have established between each other. Reservation for two means that he needs food but can't go for himself because he's got company—the injured, incapacitated type.
Bring tupperware means something needs stopping up, and it's not the pipes—usually a wound or an artery that won't close, so best to bring bandages. Priority delivery means as fast as you can possiblly make it out the door.
Usually you don't get all of them in one text. But when you do, you know that it's time to hustle to the shwarma place around the corner with a first-aid kit tucked under your arm.
You always make sure to tip extra for larger, quicker portions, from the sleepy-eyed 24-hour employees. Then you dart off into the night to follow the marching orders given you. It's a good thing that Matt's moved his apartment down to a lower floor in the building or else you'd start demanding some gratuity.
You never arrive in one, organized piece. These requests, favors, really, because you care for Matt and you want to make sure that he and whoever's tagged along with him for the ride don't bleed out, demand a lot of you.
And they never come at convenient time—always when you're across the city or in the dead of night. This time it's the latter, which you're grateful for. It meant that you were home to shoot off into the darkness to do this little Florence Nightingale routine that you're used to with Matt.
Maybe it's just a talent that you've picked up with the practice—but you can usually get a hint for who's there on the other side of the door with him. When it's Jess, there's usually some muted, acerbic comment that you can pick up audial snippets of. When it's Luke, you can hear laughter of camaraderie—when it's Danny, there's usually something breaking. On the rare, rare chance that it happens to be Peter, you can all but feel Matt's palpable irritation through the door.
But this time, you can tell that it's someone different. You've never heard this voice, masculine and deep, as it reverbs through the door, as it carries with it a more rigid, stiff—yet somehow amiable—atmosphere than when you usually darken Matt's doorstop.
But you make your way there all the same. You take care to check that the plastic tray hasn't upended itself in the to-go bag, that you haven't lost the trauma kit in the journey up three flights.
And then you knock as you always do. Matt's voice, which is responding to the deep baritone cutting through the wood grain abruptly falls short.
You're no talent for cues like he is, but you can hear the smooth, practiced stride he makes. There's the casual "That's my person," that he throws over his shoulder to the person assumedly lounging on the couch in the center of his abode.
You catch a grumbling, "Didn't tell me you had a food delivery service," that's both crass and sarcastic—if they're making jokes, then they must be doing alright. Or at least, they're good at not letting on how hurt they are; a skill that Matt and all of his friends take on as a prerequisite.
"They're not delivery service—"—You hear the edges of Matt's patience fraying as he reaches the other side of the door you wait patiently at—"—They're a friend."
There's a fragment of emphasis on the word friend, as if to remind present company just how much of a courtesy it is that's been done. As if this person needs a constant reminder.
It's a head's up to you, who Matt knows you can hear through the width, that this person might be prickly. You batten down the proverbial hatches.
"Same difference, red." Rumbles the voice, which is louder now that you're closer. You can pick up the nuance of husk and coarse quality that this voice adopts with ease.
"Maybe," Matt returns with careful deliberation in the even keel of his voice, "That's why you don't have food delivery service."
There's a chuckle of admiration at the pluck your friend takes. Then the deadbolt switches out of the latch, the doorknob turns in the jamb—and then your friend reveals himself in the doorway, smiling in general direction of you. He's slightly more worse for wear than you last saw him, with some coagulating blood from a jab to the lip, a bruise already flowering on his right temple, a bit of tenderness as he favors his right side. He's been worse, but he made it to the door.
The gratefulness is evident in his voice as he grins down at you, taking a modicum of effort to do so as he reaches to take the food from your grasp.
"Hey," He inclines his head with the appreciation he can't verbalize, "Thanks for coming on short notice."
He's already turning on his heel to lead you down the small hallway that opens out into the rest of his apartment. You're dutiful follower, closing and re-locking the door behind you as you juggle the remainder of your chattel for the night.
"No problem," You answer—the faint, familiar stench of blood wafts to you now that you're in the belly of the beast. Already, Matt has glided on ahead into the brightly-lit illumination of his apartment beyond you.
"I'm glad that I could help."You trail carefully after him. You take care to avoid a few splotches of blood on the hardwood that were missed in what you can assume was harried flight back into the domicile. "Where can I put everything?"
"Well, the counter and the table are pretty full up," Matt begins wearily. You can already hear a disdainful noise from the company that's drawn quiet for you—but it seems that the reprieve is over now that the outside world has been shut out once more. "I'll clear a spot for you."
"Yeah?" That gravelly voice seems to drum through you with greater pitch now that you share the room with it, as you expose yourself to the sight of the owner that bears it. "Why don't you come over here and make me a nice mai tai too—"
You get a good look at the landlord of the tone when you pass the foyer, the injured person sharing space with you both. Well, perhaps barbarian would be better classification of the half-naked, bleeding gladiator reclining on Matt's finest towels that separate him from the textile of the furniture.
He's already got a few hamfisted bandages wrapped round the circumference of his head. This does little to disguise the heavy brow and the sneer of that lantern-set jaw that grows as he takes in Matt upon return.
And those dark eyes slink to you as you regard the state of undress that he's in, rudimentarily patched up and all muscle and sweat and sinew. God, he looks powerful, like he doesn't need the bevy of weapons that are littering the ground around him, the guns that are cavalierly placed on the table, a few of the cushions, the counterspace that Matt stated were otherwise occupied.
No wonder Matt needed reinforcements. But interestingly enough, whatever statement he intended to make as your introduction seems not to have been interrupted—but rather, it trailed off and died.
Now, he surveys you, evaluates you, regards you with something that you would categorize as blatant interest. Yes, he might be suffering head trauma, but he knows when he likes something he sees.
You remember to smile, just as you have each time that you have made nice with one of Matt's after-hours friends. You even remember to say something mildly witty.
"Hi. Your Oober Feasts Delivery is here." You assert as you hold up the other takeout bag. Matt is already pulling over a vacated side-table from his bedroom to set up shop in, by the arm of the couch that his companion is closest to. Perhaps Mr. Murdock assumes that if said friend is able to shovel food into his gullet, this will improve his temperament.
You watch the tick of the bandage as it clocks up, the brow raising in amusment, the smirk making itself clear. "You heard that?"
"I have ears." You respond with the good grace that you can muster. You cross the perimeter of the room to the table; Matt's friend's eyes follow you every single step of the way.
When you settle down the bag, you look back up to the gilmmer of that dark gaze, watching you. You already knew who this was the second you walked into the place.
"You must be Frank."
Frank has the composure of his wits to smile and display some bloodied teeth. It seems odd to make mention of the fact that it seems to be rather dashing look on him, so you don't verbalize it. Matt seems to be showing all the non-verbal indicators that he's suffering a terrible headache.
"Sure am—"—Frank takes aim towards you in laid-back fashion as he reposes. "Who're you? Don't think Matt's ever mentioned you before."
It's clear that there's something he wants either of you to confirm or deny, but he's not ready to put it out into the open. He's brash about it, but he'll also play his cards close to his chest, this Frank.
Matt sighs through his nose as he delineates between which half of the tale is for medical care, and which is for food. You follow suit to mollify the annoyance lacing through him.
"Sure I have, Frank." Matt responds bracingly, with surprisingly good humor. "You just weren't listening."
"Sure I was," Frank returns as he continues to make visual analysis of you, "You just weren't sayin' it loud enough."
This next statement he makes is directed towards you. "You, uh, live in the area?"
Matt's voice is a warning note. "Frank—"
You know the virtue of a well-placed laugh to diffuse the tension, so you do so now. Matt hefts up one end of the table as you do, moving it closer to Frank. Frank, it seems, is rather interested in the minutiae of certain…assets of your body.
"Yeah, Matt and I used to be neighbors for a bit." You inform him, settling down the food side of the table closer to him.
You offer him the finest spork that Shawarma Bay offers—when the rough pads of his fingers brush against yours, it's a difficulty to suffocate the shudder that's whispering up your arms, your spine. Especially when those eyes are still searching you for any hint of weakness.
Those thick brows that are making manifest under the bandages rise up that swathed forehead.
"Neighbors, huh? He borrow a cup of sugar off of you every now and then?" When his face assumes a leer, it's clear that he's still trying to search for intel. Something that will reveal the nature of your relationship to Matt—and whether you are actually friends or off-limits territory.
Matt seems to torn in asking for your continued services or leaping across the couch and strangling what remaining life clings to his friend. So, you have to take one for the team. You make a scoff through your nose.
"More like my medicinal care and soup, if anything." You pass him a take-out plate—his eyes are still gravitating to the orbit of your heavenly body as he accepts it. "I used to be an ER doctor."
There's another degree of interest, though it's still lecherous by a good mile as he asks his next question.
"Oh, so red got the good ol' up-close-and-personal treatment, huh?"
Matt's voice has a tad more heat as he interjects a, "Frank—"
The laugh that you make is more genuine albeit unexpected; you're taking care to set up your medical supplies in the remainder of the acreage of the table. Frank takes a walloping bite of basmati rice as he continues to observe you.
"I guess. Matt's a pretty professional guy." You answer back, and give Matt a smile that he returns rather thinly—not due to any fault of your own, you surmise.
The source of his vexation speaks up again, commanding your attention once more.
"Well, I'm not, sweetheart—"—At this, you look back up to the state of disarray and injury that he's been reduced to—"—And I'm pretty banged up over here."
His smile is voracious for more than just the food, as you share the heat of each other's gazes.
"So," He advances across uncharted territory to you, shifting the flat, bloodied muscles of his abdomen as he does so, "You wanna come and help me out?"
Before a silence—not uncomfortable, save for the third party forced to be unwilling witness to this interaction—ensues, Matt speaks up. To say that embarrassment is weaved through his voice is ample understatement as he straightens to full standing height.
"Frank," Matt pinches the bruised bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, "You're not making a good first impression."
Still, Frank has eyes, has hunger of sight only for you as he grins. You'd be a liar if you said you didn't have a similar smile already crossing your face, at this charming neanderthal who bleeds all over Matt's towels.
"Who said I wanted to in front of your cute friend, red?" Frank asks.
You approach him with scissors and bandages hand-in-hand, something that only encourages the arch of his mouth. "I'll help you only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself."
Frank, it appears, is not without bargaining chips of his own. "Only if you promise to go to that Chinese place down the street with me sometime."
You make a huffed chuckle, soft in the space that seems only shared by you both. "Is that a guarantee you'll be on good behavior, then?"
He shifts, which both aggravates his wounds, and makes him quite the lurid, masculine picture. Something that entices—and intrigues you, even against your better judgement.
HIs voice is crude, his eyes are gleaming, as he responds, "Sure, sweetheart. An oath of my chivalry and all that shit."
"I'm surprised that that exists in the first place." Matt jokes, reminding his compatriot that he's still in the room, witness to this display of shamelessness. As though Frank gives a damn, when he's so close to sealing the deal.
"Only for the people that I try for, red." Frank smirks as he still continues to search you, before you brave into the unknown. "And y'ain't one of 'em."
There's an unbidden command in his voice as he seeks out your services—and you're wont to respond. "Now, how 'bout you come over here and patch me up, honey?"
You think that this is the start of a very interesting relationship with Mr. Castle, indeed.