Work Text:
Christmas Day
“Shit,” Frank muttered to no one in particular, keeping pressure on the sticky, seeping wound on his thigh with one hand, while the other kept his M134 at the ready, six barrels of fiery death awaiting any of the Kitchen Irish mooks stupid enough to try and follow him. The gun was effective, not just in terms of firepower but as a deterrent: this model was usually mounted on a plane, so when criminals saw a man hefting its bulk anywhere in their vicinity, it wasn’t unusual for them to just turn tail and run.
Unfortunately, this also meant the weapon was heavy as fuck, and slowing Frank down more than he could afford given the amount of blood still trickling down his leg. He knew the symptoms of blood loss all too well: dizziness, weakness, shortness of breath, he’d had it all, and none of it was fun. And, he reminded himself, he wouldn’t be doing anyone any good if he was too bamboozled to think straight. Then he thought, bamboozled, Christ, maybe the blood loss has already set in.
So, when he found himself on a roof with a door slightly ajar, its darkened depths beckoning, Frank didn’t think twice before charging through it. He found himself on a sort of balcony, overlooking an apartment that would’ve been average if not for the massive billboard blasting its light into the living room, reds and purples dancing over a leather couch and smooth hardwood floors.
No lights on, he thought, that’s good, maybe no one’s home. Or, maybe they were asleep since it was three in the morning. Whatever.
He started down the steps to the ground floor, making a token effort to keep quiet but not really caring. If someone was here, they’d probably have hit the lights at all the ruckus of his arrival, and besides, even with a leg injury he was pretty sure he could handle any half-asleep business exec who stumbled upon him bleeding onto their living room rug.
The billboard outside flashed gold, illuminating a dinky little artificial Christmas tree and drawing Frank’s eye to it as its branches glistened with tinsel.
Right. Christmas. This was...Christmas Day, probably. Huh.
That was the moment the man who’d been standing patiently in the shadows behind Frank choose to step forward, noting casually out loud, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t think you’re the right man I’m supposed to find under my tree tonight.”
Frank whipped around, bringing his gun to bear on the apartment’s occupant. He was about Frank’s height, wearing a T-shirt and loose sweatpants, looking entirely unconcerned about the man who’d broken into his home and was now aiming a terrifying looking gun at him.
Frank squinted at the man’s mild expression and replied, deadpan, “Ho, ho, ho.”
The stranger’s smile widened, and Frank’s squint deepened. This was...not the reaction he usually inspired in people.
“So, does Santa need a first aid kit?” the man asked, glasses flashing in the darkness, “Because I think I hear you dripping blood on my floors, and let me tell you, they are a bitch to clean.”
Frank was a little taken aback. He wondered if the bullet he’d been tagged with had been laced with something.
“I could use some bandages,” Frank admitted, figuring he might as well play along, “Some alcohol wouldn’t be bad, either.”
The man nodded, his dark hair catching a shade of red in the billboard’s light as he turned, heading away and making rustling noises as he dug about in a cupboard.
Frank glanced around and decided that whatever was going on here, he might as well sit down for it, and pulled out one of the chairs circling the kitchen table, collapsing into it but sliding a palm into his jacket to wrap around the smaller gun he kept there – the one with the silencer.
The man returned, a mischievous sort of smile playing on his lips as he set a very well-stocked first aid kit on the table before Frank.
“Feel free and use whatever you need,” he told Frank, stepping lightly past him into the kitchen, clanking in the cupboards for a moment before producing a bottle of whiskey and plonking that down in front of Frank too.
Frank glared suspiciously at the kit, and the alcohol, and the man, and a nearby potted plant, just for good measure. “You’re doing this just...what, out of the goodness of your heart?” he asked, grip on his handgun tight.
The stranger shrugged, settling himself in a chair opposite Frank. “Sure. It’s Christmastime, after all. Also, if you die in here there will be a ton of paperwork, whereas if you fix yourself up and walk out of here, then I’ve just got to clean the carpets. A lot easier to get rid of stains than a corpse.”
“Have a lot of experience with that?” Frank asked, even as he cautiously flipped the lid of the first aid kit open and began to rummage through it for bandages and sutures.
The man’s grin sharpened as he replied, “More than I’d prefer, unfortunately. I’m a lawyer,” he added, though it sounded less like an explanation and more like unrelated information, which made Frank wonder who the hell’s apartment he’d stumbled into.
He grunted a neutral reply, dabbing at his wound but keeping one eye on his unexpected host. He was handsome, pretty hot, actually, if Frank was being honest. And there was something about the line of his jaw that was almost familiar, but Frank couldn’t place it.
The man’s rather rakish grin was still in place as he folded his hands in front of him and observed Frank splash some whiskey on his leg and then throw a belt of it back before beginning to stitch the oozing gash shut.
“What’re you looking at?” Frank growled, as if staring at the man who’d just broken into your apartment and was now patching himself up at your kitchen table was something unreasonable.
“Well, nothing,” the man replied, tapping his glasses pointedly. Frank blinked for a minute before understanding dawned, then grunted, going back to mopping up the blood that soaked his pants leg.
“I was just thinking,” the man continued, “that the world is a very strange place, and I think that fate gets off on bizarre coincidence.”
Frank didn’t reply, as such philosophical wanderings weren’t in his ballpark even when he did have the proper amount of blood in his body.
“I’m Matt, by the way,” the man announced, pausing expectantly afterwards.
To Frank’s surprise, his mouth opened and he heard himself reply, “Frank.”
“Nice to meet you, Frank. I don’t suppose you’re an innocent mechanic who was up doing some middle of the night repairs on the HVAC and was attacked by a rogue squirrel, or something?”
“Nope.”
“Hmmm. Paraglider who met an unfortunate incident with a flock of pigeons?”
“No.”
“Darn. Well, then, I don’t suppose you’re the gun-toting vigilante who’s been blasting away gangsters all across Manhattan?”
Frank’s head snapped up at that all-too-accurate guess, taking a closer look at Matt’s glasses. They looked opaque, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t faking being blind. Though why he would be faking, Frank couldn’t guess. Just in case, his hand drifted to the gun he’d abandoned on the floor, the barrel scraping against the ground as he pulled it closer.
Matt cocked his head to the side at the noise, asking innocently, “That wouldn’t be a firearm, would it?”
Frank twitched almost guiltily, before straightening up. Why the hell would he feel guilty? Something about this apartment was messing with his head.
“It definitely is,” Frank shot back, a little defiantly, “You don’t seem too upset about that.”
“Well, I’m not a fan of mass murder, kinda goes with the job description. But,” Matt shrugged his shoulders magnanimously, “I’m a New Yorker, and we do love our vigilantes.”
Frank inspected Matt’s easy smile for a solid minute, before letting the gun clank back to the ground, resuming work on his leg. Frank still didn’t really know this guy or what the hell his game could possibly be, but his soldier’s instinct told him he should get out while he still could, before he got stuck in this predator’s lair.
Predator? Frank scoffed at his internal monologue’s dramatic flair. This guy wasn’t a predator, he was a city slicker, an ambulance chaser, he shouldn’t even be a flicker on Frank’s radar – and yet, he was.
Frank gave his head a shake as he finished the rush job on his leg, shoving discarded cotton and sutures aside as he tested it, shifting more and more weight onto it until his nerves flared with pain. Not bad, it’d hold till he got to one of his safehouses, anyway.
“If you’re planning on leaving, you might as well take the front door,” Matt piped up. “No need to go hiking across the rooftops in your condition.”
Frank grunted something that might’ve been agreement as he hefted his gun up and headed for the exit.
Matt followed a few steps behind, his lips still curled in that same mischievous smile as before. “Stop by again sometime.”
“Right,” Frank grumbled, sarcasm clear.
“Really,” Matt insisted, tone earnest.
Frank paused. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Really?” he repeated, just wanting to be sure, because maybe he’d hit his head and not noticed, that would sure explain a lot of what had happened this evening.
“Yes, really.”
“That is...a really fucking awful idea. I could kill you, you do realize that?” Maybe this guy didn’t realize that, Frank thought. Or maybe, he didn’t care. Frank couldn’t decide which concerned him more. Or why he was feeling anything approaching concern for this total stranger in the first place.
“Well, I have been told I have a talent for cultivating really terrible ideas,” Matt said, a self-deprecating grin fixed on his handsome face.
“You’ve been told right,” Frank deadpanned.
“Well, nonetheless....my door is always open.” Matt adjusted his glasses and smiled something softer and gentler than before.
“Why?” Frank found himself asking, his traitorous tongue working without his consent once again.
“Honestly?” Matt shrugged, “I’ve been a little lonely. A lot of people just left my life and.....” He huffed a bitter sort of laugh before finishing, “And you seem like you might be a kindred spirit.”
“Ain’t nothin’ ‘kindred’ about me anymore, pal.”
“Exactly,” Matt replied, nonsensically.
Frank blinked twice, before settling his weapon more firmly in the crook of his arm, and marching out of the apartment’s front door.
He definitely didn’t take note of the room number, and he definitely didn’t tuck the building’s location away in his internal map of the city.
After all, it’s not like he’d be coming back.
Why the hell would he come back?
~~~~~
He came back.
He didn’t mean to he just...did. He had his ear pressed to Matt’s roof access door, listening for voices within, and when he didn’t hear any, he let himself in. The door was unlocked, or rather, it was after he jimmied it with a pick. Close enough.
“I was wondering if you’d stop by,” Matt called out, not moving from where he was sitting on the couch, legal briefs spread out around him. “I don’t hear your insides trying to relocate to the outside, so what brings you to my neck of the woods?”
Frank opened his mouth, expecting a worthy excuse to roll off his tongue but finding none. Certainly he had come here for a reason?
Before he could come to any further conclusions beyond, What the fuck are you doing Castle, Matt grinned up at him and gestured to the cushy chair opposite him.
“Please, make yourself at home.” He lifted a bottle of beer and swirled its contents. “Need a drink?”
“Always,” Frank grunted as he made his way down the stairs, flopping into the chair and telling himself that he didn’t enjoy its soft, comfortable give at all. Soft things weren’t for the dead.
~~~~~
Going to Matt’s apartment was becoming a...a Thing. A Real Thing. And Frank addressed Real Things in one of two ways: 1) he shot the Thing until it stopped being a problem or 2) he ignored the thing until it either fixed itself or he found a way to implement solution 1.
The untenability of this problem solving method became clear one night when he was settled in front of the crate currently serving as his desk, pulling out his war journal to log the day’s events. He raised his pen, and for perhaps the first time since he’d began the journal, the words didn’t come. He dug for a moment, but he couldn’t find anything to write because the thing central in his mind, the person, didn’t belong on these pages.
How would he write Matt into the war journal? Matt didn’t fit. Matt was like a piece from a different puzzle, none of his edges would click with Frank’s worldview. And, Frank found to his shock and alarm, he rather liked the way Matt grinned comfortably from his place tiptoeing along the edges of the Frank’s hellscape.
Frank briefly considered starting another journal that could better conceive of a world that wasn’t limited to war. Then he decided that was a stupid idea. Then he decided he needed to go shoot something.
But he still kept showing up in that damned apartment.
~~~~~
Matt’s nose was twitching. Frank didn’t ask Matt why he looked like a squirrel with allergies, telling himself it was because he didn’t give a damn what was bothering Matt. But if he was being honest with himself, which was something he tried to avoid, he didn’t comment because it was kind of adorable and he didn’t particularly care to see it stop.
After a few more minutes of Matt pursing his lips in irritation, he apparently reached the end of his rope. Frank watched with mild amusement as Matt turned towards him, shutting the thick legal volume he’d been reading with a thump.
“When’s the last time you washed your binder?” Matt asked baldly, “During the Bush presidency?”
That was, perhaps, one of the last questions Frank had expected to come out of Matt’s mouth. His hand twitched instinctively towards his chest and he barked out more harshly than he meant to, “The fuck did you just say?”
“I said,” Matt replied without missing a beat, “You should wash your binder before the stench kills us both.”
“How did you even know...?” Frank trailed off before continuing in an accusatory tone, “It’s your damn blind guy magic again, isn’t it.”
Matt replied lightly, “I think that might be ableist, but I’ll let it pass since indeed, it is my blind guy magic again.”
Frank grumbled, “You can keep your blind guy magic to yourself, I’ll wash my binder when I damn well please.”
Matt gave a neutral sort of hmmm. “Your call, I’m just saying that if you don’t wash that thing soon the bad guys will be able to smell you coming...”
Frank crossed his arms mulishly and glared at Matt, who just gave him a bland smile in return. Frank kept up his scowl for another minute, before giving up.
“Fine. Do you have –”
“Washing machine is in the closet in the corner, don’t fill it more than halfway or it might catch on fire again, give it a good knock on the side if it won’t start.” Matt smiled serenely at him, cracking open his book again. When Frank didn’t move, he kicked him in the shin for good measure. “Off you go!”
Frank grumbled rudely under his breath as he dragged himself to his feet and stomped over to the washing machine, but later that afternoon, wearing a full set of freshly clean clothes, he couldn’t deny it was a nice feeling to be rid of the scum and scent of trudging through the city’s garbage, human and otherwise. And, it wasn’t a terrible feeling for someone to care about it – about him – either.
~~~~~
Frank kissed Matt in the middle of the kitchen on a sunny Thursday morning. He’d collapsed on Matt’s couch the previous night, exhausted after 48 hours spent staking out the docks, and particularly after the vicious firefight that had ended the whole endeavor. Matt had stumbled out of bed in the morning to find him there, and he’d just smiled softly down at Frank as he blinked awake, and murmured, “I’ll get some breakfast going.”
It had been the breaking point on Frank’s self-control, and so he followed Matt into the kitchen, stepping into his path and taking his face in both hands to kiss him.
It was chaste, and gentle, and over in about three seconds once Frank processed fully what he was doing and jolted back.
“I....” he began, but found that he didn’t have anything, any excuses or apologies or anything, to say.
“Oh, um...” Matt blinked owlishly, expression blank.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have....” Frank began as his mouth finally reconnected with his brain.
“It’s fine, or well, not fine exactly but...”
Frank was already moving away, feeling ice flowing through his veins at the rejection but also confusion, because why the hell had this guy kept him around this long if he didn’t even want....?
“Hey, no, it’s nothing personal,” Matt said, laying a hand on Frank’s shoulder to keep him from leaving, “It’s just that’s generally, sex and related activities...aren’t really my thing.”
Oh. Frank felt the vise in his chest relax.
“But that doesn’t mean that I don’t...like you. A lot.” Matt’s fingers slid up Frank’s shoulder to brush gently along the line of his jaw. “Or that I don’t want to be with you, just....not in that particular way.”
Frank’s heart was doing double time in his chest, but he couldn’t move away from the warmth of Matt’s palm against his cheek.
“So, are you okay with this or...?” Matt asked, cocking his head as if could somehow hear what Frank was feeling – in fact, Frank wouldn’t totally doubt that he could do just that, as Matt had an uncanny knack for knowing exactly what was going through Frank’s mind.
“Relieved, actually,” Frank clarified, “Now that I know why you’re not into me.”
Matt laughed, finally pulling his hand away so he could cross his arms, “Do most people just fall at your feet, then?”
“No.” Frank tried to leave it at that, but something in the way Matt looked at him made him want to be honest, and so he found himself admitting gruffly, “It’s the trans thing. Had some...bad reactions.”
“Oh,” Matt’s expression softened and Frank held up a hand to stem whatever platitude Matt might’ve been planning on saying, cutting him off with a rough, “Don’t wanna talk about it.”
“You don’t want to talk about anything, ever.”
“Exactly.”
Matt hmmed thoughtfully and Frank tensed, wondering if maybe he should just leave. Or shoot something. Either option would probably nip a nauseatingly emotional conversation in the bud.
But Matt just tapped his chin and said, “Pizza. I’m really feeling some pizza right now.” He nodded to himself as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.
Something that suspiciously resembled a laugh sounded from Frank, but he quickly turned it into a growl as he replied, “If you order mushrooms again, I’ll kill you and hide your body in the building’s water tank.”
“A disturbingly specific threat, thank you, Frank, I appreciate the effort.”
“Anytime.”
Matt paused before hitting call, saying casually, “So, just for the record, I wouldn’t be averse to the occasional kiss. Just give a guy a little warning next time.” He patted Frank’s arm and breezed past him into the living room.
Frank stayed where he was, staring at nothing as he tried to beat down a warm sensation in his chest that felt suspiciously like happiness. He didn’t succeed.
Later that evening, after the pizza had been devoured and Matt fell asleep tucked against Frank’s side on the couch, Frank even allowed himself a small smile in the privacy of the dark, and let the feeling of something right clicking into place settle over him.
~~~~~
Christmas Eve
“Glad you could make it!” Matt called from where he was lounging on the couch, waving hello with a beer.
“Glad you’ve got decent beer this time,” Frank shot back as he grabbed a bottle from the cooler next to the coffee table.
“There’s that Christmas spirit,” Matt grinned as Frank grabbed Matt’s ankles, lifting them up so he could flop down on the couch before letting them fall in his lap.
“Whatcha got there?” Matt asked, poking the package under Frank’s arm with his toes.
“Present,” Frank answered gruffly, tossing the hastily wrapped package into Matt’s waiting hands.
“For me?” Matt asked, delighted.
“No, for the other guy whose apartment I break into on the regular. Yes, you.”
Matt elbowed Frank in the ribs at that, even as he tore into the present’s wrapping with gusto.
Frank watched as Matt pulled out the thick, cable-knit sweater, testing the texture with his fingers. When he then proceeded to pull it over his head without further ado, humming happily, Frank relaxed, irrational concern that Matt would hate it and subsequently chuck Frank out on the street assuaged.
“This may be the softest thing I’ve ever felt in my life,” Matt murmured, arms wrapped around himself.
“Good,” Frank grunted, and chose not to tell Matt that he’d spent hours feeling up sweaters across the city and lightly terrorizing the employees of various menswear departments. “Now you can stop complaining about how damn cold you are all the time.”
After another moment of reveling in the sweater, however, the joy faded from Matt’s face, replaced by something like....regret?
Frank was struck with the not unfamiliar urge to kill someone, although this time it was directed towards whoever had made Matt look that way. Unfortunately, Frank thought that person might be himself – though he didn’t have a clue what he’d done.
“What,” Frank declared more than asked.
Matt half-shook his head as if to dismiss it, but then relented after a moment.
“It’s just that... well, I’m not really that cold.”
Frank blinked and frowned. “Come on, don’t lie to me, Mr. Two Pairs of Socks in September.”
“Two pairs of socks is a totally reasonable amount,” Matt protested. “And...well....” Matt bit his lip, looking like he was working up the courage to say something. “I usually just claim to be cold as an excuse to cuddle – that is, conserve body warmth with you,” Matt admitted in a rush.
Frank rolled his eyes. Was that all? As if Matt’s scheme to snuggle hadn’t been completely transparent from the first time he took the liberty of tucking himself against Frank’s side on the couch, saying “I just want to keep the heat bill low” and “just because you’re a murderer doesn’t mean you can’t care about conserving energy.”
“Then you’ll be extra warm,” Frank growled, settling the matter.
A smile blossomed on Matt’s face and Frank had to look away as heat surged in his veins at the sight. Just because it was Christmas was no excuse for him to go all soppy now.
“I got you something too,” Matt piped up, hopping off the couch and scurrying over to the tree, the same little dinky plastic thing that had caught Frank’s eye when he first broke into Matt’s apartment a year ago.
Matt returned brandishing a package wrapped neatly in newspaper. Frank took it with a grunt he knew Matt would be able to interpret as thanks, and tore it open.
He pulled out the present’s contents, letting the wrapping fall carelessly to the floor. It took him a moment, but when he figured out what it was, all he could do was stare blankly.
“What is this?” he finally asked.
“It’s a binder,” Matt replied helpfully.
“I can see it’s a binder, it’s just... This is kevlar.” Frank shook the heavy material pointedly.
“Yes,” Matt agreed.
“This is... a bulletproof binder.”
“Yup. Two birds, one stone, right?”
Frank knew he was repeating himself, but he couldn’t seem to help it, “You got me a bulletproof binder.”
“Um, well, it’s kind of a specialty item, so I sort of....made it,” Matt admitted with a movement that was a cross between a shrug and a wince. “I cannibalized a bulletproof vest, listened to a lot of YouTube videos, sent up a couple of prayers for good measure...”
Frank didn’t say anything. He couldn’t say anything, because if he opened his mouth, he might say something really stupidly affectionate because oh my god this was really fucking nice. After the silence stretched to an almost uncomfortable length, Matt prompted, “Do you like it, then?”
“Of course I do, I love it,” Frank muttered roughly. His fingers trailed along the edges of the material with something like reverence before he coughed, straightening his shoulders and shoving his emotion back into his internal lock-box where it belonged. “I’m just still imagining you sitting on the living room floor somehow hacking up a Kevlar vest and doing all that....for me.” Damn, those pesky emotions were loose again. Frank really needed to find a way to have them excised.
Matt smiled, lips soft even as a knife blade of mockery sparkled at the edge of his expression, “If I tell you it’s because you’re worth it....will you feel compelled to throw me out the window?”
Frank shrugged, “Maybe.”
“Well, then, better not take any chances,” Matt smirked. Frank looked down at his lap, still laboring to keep up at least the impression that he wasn’t being drowned in awful, warm, mushy feelings. His distracted state was, he reflected later, what allowed Matt to sneak past his defenses and press a soft, dry kiss to his cheek.
Matt had moved back out of Frank’s space in a moment, leaving Frank to blink, a little thrown and mostly trying not to do something ridiculous like blush.
“Merry Christmas, Frank,” Matt said, a grin that was equal parts innocent and wicked playing across his face.
Frank’s surprise melted into a determined squint. Fine, if Matt thought he could throw Frank for a loop with his stupid perfect gift and stupid crooked smile and stupid soft lips, then Frank would step it up a notch. He’d been meaning to play this card for a while anyway.
“Merry Christmas,” Frank replied coolly, letting the silence stretch for a moment before adding, “Daredevil.”
Matt’s smile froze before his mouth fell open in shock. Frank grinned, pleased, as Matt’s expression blew through surprise, alarm, and anger, before finally settling into a kind of confused acceptance.
“How did you figure it out?” He asked, brows drawn together.
Frank snorted a laugh. “Your secret identity is kind of shit. I’m surprised that everyone else in the city hasn’t figured it out already.” At Matt’s answering pout, Frank chuckled again, reaching out to grab his half-empty beer from the coffee table, taking Matt’s while he was at it and shoving it at his still dumbfounded companion.
Matt shook his head dazedly as he accepted the bottle, and Frank continued to enjoy the sight. It wasn’t often he got to be the one to leave Matt stunned – damn know-it-all, he thought with more fondness than he’d have believed himself capable.
In a rush of holiday-induced good cheer, before his more brutal side could quash the gentle impulse, Frank leaned in to brush an answering kiss against Matt’s cheek. He pulled away, but not too far, clinking his glass with Matt’s where he was still holding it aloft, as if in a trance. “And a Happy New Year.”