Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1 - Curtis

The only reason Curt’s even awake at—he checks the clock as he plugs in his phone, squinting at the too bright screen—2:14 in the morning to hear some asshole try to break into his apartment is the time difference between New York and San Diego. Delia’d facetimed an hour ago, a crying Joy in her lap and an apologetic smile on her lips.

“Nightmare,” she’d mouthed, over Joy’s inconsolable wails of, “I want daddy!” As if Curt wasn’t already feeling like shit for having to work and skipping out on their trip.

Which is to say, Curt’s in absolutely no mood to deal with whatever’s currently happening out in the hall, and has already picked his phone back up to call 911 when he realizes that whoever’s at the door has a key, from the sound of it. They’re not exactly doing a good job of using it, he thinks as he peers out of the bedroom, missing the lock several times and probably scratching up the damn paint while they’re at it.

Then there’s a thump, as if someone’s slumped against the door, followed by a muffled groan, and—

“Fuckin’—Christ, Red, jus’ hold on for a goddamn second.”

Curt rubs a hand over his face.

Of fucking course.

The door bangs against the wall when Frank finally manages to get it open—definitely scratching up the wallpaper—and in stumbles the man himself, arms full of red leather and uncoordinated limbs. He’s still cursing under his breath, distracted by maneuvering two pairs of feet at once, so it’s Daredevil who spots Curt first.

He freezes in Frank’s hold, prompting even more colorful language, head tilting. “Frank—”

Curt crosses his arms. “This better not be some weird ass booty call situation.”

He actually manages to startle Frank, which is incredibly satisfying. But then Frank immediately ruins the moment by craning his neck to frown at Curt, voice accusing as he demands, “The fuck are you doing here?”

Curt quirks a brow. “In my own apartment?”

“You’re supposed t’be in California with the wife and kid,” Frank grunts as he readjusts his grip on Daredevil, and then, when Curt pointedly raises the second brow as well, he huffs and rolls his eyes, mutters, “What, I listen when you talk at me.”

Which is rich, considering he’s barely acknowledging Curt right now, and is instead busy fumbling with a zipper on Daredevil’s suit. Curt had mostly been joking about the booty call thing, but—

Then Daredevil hisses, his knees buckle, and Curt’s moving before he even makes the conscious decision to do so, slipping a supporting arm around Daredevil’s back. His hand lands in something warm and wet, and from this close up, the copper tang in the air is unmistakable.

“Shit,” Curt sighs, mentally kissing the rest of this night's sleep goodbye, “Frank—”

Frank’s jaw clenches. “Just help me get him to the bathroom.”

“Please,” Daredevil adds, because the one bleeding all over Curt’s brandnew runner is apparently also the one with the manners, “I’d prefer passing out somewhere more easy to clean.”

“Appreciate it,” Curt tells him, amused despite himself.

Daredevil, thankfully, doesn’t end up passing out, but he does look like death warmed over by the time they got him sitting on the toilet, his teeth gritted and his hands shaking. What’s visible of his face has grown pale, skin prickling with a cold sweat, and he’s breathing in the shallow, halting way that speaks of messed up ribs. Curt goes to grab the first aid kit from under the sink, and when he turns back around, Frank’s bullied his way between Daredevil’s legs, his thumbs are shoved under Daredevil’s helmet, and he’s glowering in that stubborn way of his that means he’s going to turn a little more feral than usual if people don’t start cooperating right the fuck now.

Putting the kit down on the counter, Curt hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m just gonna—”

Daredevil’s head tips in his direction. “Frank, do you—”

“He ain’t called the cops on me yet,” Frank grunts, and the corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly when Daredevil breathes out a trembling, wheezy laugh. “Yeah, with my life, Red.”

His eyes flicker up to Curt for a second, trusting but full of frantic worry, before they focus back on Daredevil’s face. Curt swallows hard, because goddamn, this is exactly why he can rarely ever say no to this pain in the ass and all his bullshit. “Hey,” Curt says, when Daredevil still hesitates, “I can leave, no problem. But for what it’s worth, secret’s safe with me. Medic-vigilante confidentiality, yeah?”

“There any legal precedent for that?” Frank asks, a little snarky, which makes Daredevil chuckle again, his hands squeezing Frank’s wrists where he’s holding onto them.

“Stay, please,” he eventually tells Curt with a small smile, one that turns full on teasing when he aims it up at Frank, “this one’s needlework leaves something to be desired anyway.”

“A’right, pretty boy,” Frank rolls his eyes again, but there’s palpable relief in the gesture as he starts to carefully lift up the helmet, “see if I ever stitch you back together again.”

“Don’t worry,” Daredevil says, and reaches out to soothingly pat Frank’s side, “you have other redeeming qualities I enjoy very much.”

Curt realizes a few things in quick succession. Firstly, the two of them are teasing, flirting. He can’t recall the last time he saw Frank flirt—or, no, that’s not true. He knows exactly when and why Frank stopped, he just never expected to witness him doing it again, especially not easily and casually like this. And secondly, and somehow almost less shockingly, he actually knows Daredevil.

From the TV, at least, because Curt had spent way too much time and energy following every snippet of news about one of his best friends single handedly massacring the three most prominent gangs in NYC to not recognize the crazy son of a bitch who’d stepped up to represent him in court.

Who, as it so happens, also moonlights as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Curt watches Murdock blink cloudy, sightless eyes once the helmet’s off, valiantly swallows all his very justified questions—like; how, what, huh, what the hell?—back down, and instead asks, “Okay, what are we dealing with here?”

It takes all three of them to peel the top half of the suit away from Murdock, and Curt can’t help but wince at the already darkening bruises littering most of his left side. He feels around them as gently as possible while Frank’s running fingers through Murdock’s blood-crusty hair, presumably looking for bumps and cuts. Satisfied that none of the cracked ribs are posing any imminent danger to Murdock’s lungs, Curt threads a needle, mumbles a quiet, preemptive apology, and goes about stitching up the gaping gash above his hip.

Murdock barely reacts beyond a huff and a wrinkled nose. He lets his head loll back against the wall once Frank’s done and proclaims his stupid, thick skull to be as intact as ever, and gives him a tired thumbs-up. Curt doesn’t miss how he tenses under his hands as soon as Frank steps back, however.

“Imma go fetch the van,” he tells Murdock, then points a finger at Curt and orders, “Don’t let him leave.”

Curt stares back at him. “I don’t think that’s gonna be—”

Frank shakes his head. “He’ll try. Don’t let ‘im.” Then he leans in close, hand cupping the back of Murdock’s neck, and presses a rough kiss to his forehead. “Behave.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Curt sighs deeply. “All right, then.”

He keeps working in silence for a while, Murdock’s breathing slow and steady above him now. He’s almost convinced the man’s finally succumbed to his obvious exhaustion when his hand falls on Curt’s shoulder, prompting him to pause and glance up.

“Thank you, Curtis,” Murdock mumbles, free hand knuckling tiredly at his eyes. “And I’m sorry about your rug. Send me the invoice if you end up needing a new one.” Then he grins, and squeezes Curt’s shoulder. “I’ll make Frank pay for it.”

God, Curt thinks, chuckling in disbelief, what a little shit.

No wonder Frank likes him.

Chapter Text

2 - Karen

“Well,” Karen sighs, and wipes some flour off her forehead, free hand braced on her hip as she glances around the disaster zone that previously used to be her kitchen, “shit.”

Her neighbor’s grandkids are going to be ecstatic about the unexpected treats, she’s sure, and she’ll bring some to pass around at work tomorrow, maybe send a few to Jess and Luke for Dani, but not even five ravenous kids plus an office full of constantly stressed lawyers will manage to go through seven dozen cookies—

The kitchen timer dings.

Eight dozen cookies, Karen amends in silent defeat, as she goes to grab the last batch out of the oven, where she’s greeted with its little clock blinking a bright red 11:04am at her. It’s not even lunchtime, Karen’s already over a hundred cookies into her nervous baking breakdown, and bar results won’t be posted until 2pm at the earliest.

“Okay,” Karen tells herself, then again, more firmly, “okay, this isn’t a big deal. This is fine.”

On the counter, barely visible under a veritable mountain of empty sugar bags and butter wrappers, Karen’s phone lights up with a message. It nearly slips out of her hand when she pulls it out, covered as it is in her greasy fingerprints from scrolling through recipes, and then, once she’s got a mostly secure grip on it and sees the name on the screen, she strongly considers just reburying it again.

She never should’ve let Matt convince her to take the day off. Would she have achieved anything productive at the firm today? Probably not. But at least she wouldn’t have been left to her own devices to slowly but steadily descend into confectionary madness. Taking a bite of a still warm, perfectly gooey Mexican hot chocolate cookie—never let it be said that her coping mechanisms aren’t absolutely delicious—Karen thumbs open the text.

did i leave my notes about the hardison case at your place?

Karen rolls her eyes. “You’re a human disaster, Matt Murdock,” she mutters around her mouthful of cookie, but dutifully goes to check the coffee table where they had worked on said case two nights ago. Lo and behold, stuffed under a cushion and crumpled enough that Karen doubts anyone but Matt could still make out any of the Braille, are several pages of case notes. “Unbelievable.”

I’ll drop them off at yours.

A walk will do her good, help her clear her head a little, and she can dump some of the cookies on Matt without him getting a chance to protest. Not that he would, Karen thinks as she digs through her tupperware cupboard, because the man has been living off takeout, snacks and scotch for as long as she’s known him. She’s made the mistake of opening the biohazard zone that is Matt’s crisper drawer exactly once, and then never again; she’s convinced, to this day, that that head of lettuce had been half a day away from gaining sentience.

The fresh air does end up helping, in the end, and by the time she makes it to Matt’s new place, the light stress headache she’s been trying to ignore all morning is mostly gone, and her stomach feels settled enough again that she might try feeding it something other than sugar and caffeine soon. There’s a Lebanese place around the corner, one Matt has been raving about for weeks now, and if Mr Super Senses genuinely likes a restaurant, it’s bound to be excellent.

The elevator in this building works, thankfully, but the old metal door to Matt’s apartment has a mind of its own, and Karen has to shove at it with her shoulder while balancing two containers of cookies and a folder of documents in her arms, so she really can’t be blamed for the shriek she lets out when she finally looks up, and is greeted with the unexpected sight of a half-naked person on a ladder.

It’s some consolation that Frank seems equally surprised to see her. He pushes the big, over ear headphones down to hang around his neck, and tilts his head at her, brows drawing together ever so slightly. Karen doesn’t take it personally. They’ve been friends for long enough that she’s done being insecure about Frank’s many and varied stormy but ultimately harmless expressions.

Instead, she winks and whistles at him.

It’s worth it for the huff of a laugh Frank breathes out as he hops off the ladder.

Karen quickly sets down the cookies and files, and holds open her arms. Frank steps into her space easily enough, gently returning her hug. She presses a kiss to his cheek, then props her chin on his shoulder, and tells him, “It’s good to see you.”

Frank’s been less of a cryptid ever since someone—Karen, over the span of their friendship, has also learned not to ask certain questions—took it upon themselves to dismantle Fisk’s whole operation in the most brutal manner imaginable. She has her theories, and could make an educated guess based on the dramatic falling-out Frank and Matt had had after Fisk was finally put away for good, but ever since they’ve worked that out between themselves, Frank has seemed at ease in a way Karen has never been witness to before.

He’s still unreachable for weeks or sometimes months at a time, and Karen doubts that’ll ever change. But nowadays, the select few people he’s chosen to trust actually get a phone number rather than a burner, and he drops by even when he’s not in bad enough shape that he doesn’t have any other choice than seeking someone out. Karen’s suspected for a while now that he’s been settling down, in his private life if not his professional endeavours, and now that she’s starting to put together whom with, she realizes she isn’t in the least bit shocked or surprised.

Birds of a feather flock together, even if both Frank and Matt would undoubtedly deny any similarities at all, of course. Yeah, honestly, the two of them just make sense, Karen thinks with a smile that she hides away in Frank’s shoulder.

“Lemme clean up real quick,” Frank murmurs eventually, pulling back, and tugs the headphones—the absurdly expensive, noise-cancelling pair Matt’s usually very protective of, Karen notices—off fully to drop them on the counter. “You staying for lunch? There’s some takeout menus somewhere around here.”

Karen pulls open the drawer Frank nods at. “I forgot what it’s called, but there should be a Lebanese restaurant I’ve been wanting to try around here somewhere?”

“Razane’s, yeah.” Frank points at the fridge, and an obviously often used menu. “The za’atar chicken’s good. Matty likes it, too.”

With that, he vanishes into the bedroom, moving through the apartment with confidence that speaks of frequent visits, as much or maybe even more so than the fact that Frank’s hanging around Matt’s place in nothing but boxer briefs and putting up art. Art that Matty can’t even see and appreciate, Karen realizes with a stifled giggle, and finally goes to check out the food.

The chicken’s as delicious as promised, as is everything else, and Karen’s so full once they’re done eating that she feels nice enough to not tease Frank about putting the leftovers away in the exact same, specific, meticulous way she’s seen Matt do on countless occasions. She’s also, like, 70% sure the sweater Frank’s put on is Matt’s, because it’s definitely a size too small and a color too far removed from black to belong to Frank.

Karen’s not sure what expression she’s wearing when Frank flops back down on the couch, but it must be telling, because he’s eyeing her with a hefty dose of suspicion. “What,” he demands, flat, and glowers when Karen only shrugs and smiles at him.

Not that she isn’t dying to shake all the juicy gossip out of him, but when it comes to Frank, threading with caution isn’t only recommended but definitely required, otherwise she’ll get nothing at all out of him. Taking a sip of her beer, she asks, as casually as possible, “So, are you staying in town for a while?”

Frank studies her for another few moments before he grunts, and takes a bigger gulp from his own bottle. “Think so.”

“Hey.” Karen stretches so she can put a hand on his knee, ducking her head a little in an attempt to catch his eyes. “That’s a good thing, yeah?” Frank shrugs, and Karen swats at him, insisting, “It is, come on!”

Frank’s saved from saying anything else when Karen’s phone alarm goes off.

“Shit,” Karen coughs, and quickly puts down her beer to open her mail app. “Come on,” she hisses, when refreshing her inbox takes forever, and then her breath catches in her throat when the message she’s been waiting for finally pops up on the screen. She thumbs it open shakily, clicks the link, and—

“Jesus,” Frank winces at her scream, but doesn’t miss a beat, and catches her effortlessly when Karen throws herself across the couch at him. “Good news, huh?”

Karen nods. And starts crying.

Frank squeezes her a little tighter, kisses the side of her head, and Karen can feel him smile when he mutters, “Congratulations, counselor.”

Chapter Text

3 - David

“Whatever you’ve gotten yourself involved in this time,” David mumbles through a yawn, in the vague direction of the spot he thinks his phone must have landed in after his clumsy, barely conscious attempts at accepting the call, “it’s too early for me to pull your sorry ass out of it.”

A beat of silence. Then, tinny and muffled by at least one layer of bedding, “Good mornin’ to you, too, asshole.”

David doesn’t have to see him to know exactly which of his arsenal of grumpy faces Frank’s sporting right now. Amused, despite what should be an illegal hour to call someone on a Saturday, David cracks open one eye, trying to locate his errant phone. “Don’t tell me this is a social call,” he teases while he shoves away the covers, and doesn’t even bother to hold back his smile at the annoyed grunt that earns him. “Well, I’m honored, Frank, truly. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure—”

The line goes dead just as David finally pulls the phone out from under a pillow.

Chuckling to himself, David flops back down, thumbs already flying over the screen. It’s a matter of minutes to trace back the call, and then ping Frank’s location. He actually whistles, impressed, once he realizes where Frank’s at. “Oh, you’re spoiling me today, aren’t you?”

He texts Frank his ETA, gets a middle finger emoji in return, and decides that’s confirmation enough, so he reluctantly drags himself out of bed and into the shower. He’d be lying if he claimed he hadn't been looking forward to his chance to sleep in for once, but Frank’s calls are infrequent at best, and also usually worth getting up before 9am on a weekend.

Sarah, when he video calls her from the car to let her know what he’s up to, makes him promise to get Frank to agree to a family dinner once Leo’s back from college by any means necessary. And then spends the rest of the fifteen minute drive coming up with increasingly concerning schemes as to how to achieve that goal.

Her break’s over at the same time as David’s pulling into the parking lot across the street from Frank. “Well,” she says, and David watches her sly smile with all the suspicion he knows it warrants, “have fun, honey. Give Frank a hug and a kiss from me.”

“You’re evil,” David tells her, helplessly fond. “Love you.”

“I love you, too,” Sarah laughs, eyes crinkling. But then she turns mock-stern again, pointing a finger at him. “And I’m serious about that dinner, you hear me?”

David salutes her. “Loud and clear, ma’am.”

Frank’s somehow managed to snatch up a table on the patio, in the shade no less, despite the café already being crowded with people trying to enjoy the sunny weather before the day turns too hot to be anywhere without AC. “Did you glare someone out of these seats?” David demands, hands on his hips, and grins when Frank rolls his eyes up at him with a blandly blank, “No.”

“Either way, you’ll have to get up,” David continues cheerfully, holding open his arms, “because I have several hugs I promised to forward, and it’s just going to be awkward for us both if we do this sitting down.”

A group of teenage girls at the next table over start giggling and shooting them not-so-sneaky glances. One of them snorts into her napkin when David winks at her conspiratorially.

“Fuck’s sake,” Frank sighs, a little too longsuffering in David’s humble opinion, but starts heaving himself out of his seat anyway.

With some difficulty.

“Hey, careful.” David steps forward, hands now hovering awkwardly. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—”

“It’s nothing,” Frank cuts him off, not harsh but definitive, “‘m fine.”

Which, coming out of Frank’s mouth, has never not been complete and utter bullshit, but he doesn’t seem to be actively bleeding out right this second, so David’ll pretend to believe him and let it slide. For now. He’s extra careful when he finally pulls Frank into a hug, though, and the fact that Frank doesn’t call him out on it speaks volumes in and of itself.

“It’s good to see you,” David says quietly, sincerely, but then adds a no less truthful yet possibly slightly manipulative, “we’ve missed you. The kids especially.”

Groundwork for operation family dinner: laid.

He gives Frank another gentle squeeze, mindful of whatever injury he’s hiding, then pats him on the side and moves back only far enough to be able to smack an exaggerated kiss on his cheek. “Sarah says hi.”

Frank wrinkles his nose, which just looks ridiculous considering it’s been broken about a million times, and tolerates another few seconds of their lose semi-hug before he starts squirming. “All right, get the hell off me, Lieberman.”

He doesn’t protest when David plops down on the bench next to him, close enough for their thighs to brush, though, so they’re still golden. It’s been years, over half a decade of friendship, and sometimes, David’s pretty sure he has barely even scratched the surface of the enigma that is Frank. He’d realized Frank was fragilely, self-destructively caring about half a week into their mutually beneficial—entirely implausible, completely crazy—arrangement back in the day, and reading Frank’s file had been more than enough to convince him that Frank, at his core, was a genuinely good person.

And over the years, David’s come to understand his quirks and idiosyncrasies, figured out how to navigate his insecurities and fears in a way that doesn’t lead to arguments and weeks of no contact anymore. He’s learned to tell when Frank’s getting overwhelmed by the mere idea of people caring for him and is about to shut down, and how to prevent the stubborn idiot from running away scared instead of allowing himself the basic comfort everybody needs every once in a while, even Frank fucking Castle.

It’s a little bit like walking a tightrope. An emotional one, thankfully, because David does not do heights. It takes constant practice, can be beyond frustrating, but David gladly puts in the work because the reward? The way the kids light up whenever Uncle Frank shows up at their house? How Sarah happily makes room in their lives and routines for him, with all that affectionate efficiency David fell in love with decades ago? The evenings when it’s just him and Frank with a couple of beers, out in the backyard shooting the shit, marvelling at still being alive after everything they’ve been put through?

Priceless.

Nevermind the fact that David’s now got the most capable person to deal with government overreach on speed dial in case any corrupt organizations try to screw him over again.

“Christ,” Frank frowns as he scans the daily specials, “this shit is getting more expensive every fucking week.”

An elderly woman turns around fully in her chair to stare at them disapprovingly.

David hides behind his own menu, because he’s a grown man and it would be rude to laugh at her, yes, but mostly because if Frank catches a glimpse of his expression right now, he definitely won’t stop complaining about David acting stupid and sappy anytime soon.

“Hey,” he points out, once he’s got his face back under control, “you suggested the place, buddy.”

“It’s your favorite,” Frank says absently, and narrows his eyes at the drink selection. “Matcha tastes like fucking grass, man.”

David orders a strawberry matcha latte along with his sandwich.

They catch up while they eat, which consists mainly of David asking questions, and getting grunts or monosyllabic answers in reply for the first ten or so minutes until Frank’s tuned into what David secretly calls his social mode.

“And work?” David inquires between bites, mopping up some egg yolk. “Still doing that construction gig?”

Frank starts to nod, then frowns, and eventually shrugs. “Can’t, right now,” he says, and gestures vaguely at his torso, “but yeah. After that, probably.”

Ribs, then. “That happen during one of your nighttime adventures?” David asks, deliberately obnoxious, and waggles his eyebrows when Frank graces him with a flat stare. “Well, honestly, I’m just glad you’re taking it easy for a while. You’re pushing fifty, you know—”

“Imma push you off this goddamn bench, ‘s what I’m gonna do—”

“Not with busted ribs, you’re not.”

“Wanna bet?”

David, fully aware that Frank’s perfectly able to kick his ass while severely more injured than this, but equally sure that Frank absolutely never would, only beams back at him. They order a much needed, second round of caffeine when the waiter stops by, and David excuses himself to the toilet, because Frank’s not the only one getting older; dairy definitely isn’t David’s friend anymore.

Frank’s on the phone when David gets back, but wrapping up the conversation, by the sound of it.

“Mmh, all right.” A pause, then Frank huffs, and looks heavenward, clearly asking for patience. “You’re allergic, dumbass.” Another pause, then, mockingly, “Mildly. That what we’re calling it now, huh? No, I’m not—fine, okay. Yeah, see’ya later.”

David raises a brow as sits back down. “That sounded fun.”

Frank says nothing for a long moment. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, not quite a nervous gesture, but something close to it. When he looks over at David, his guards are up, his shoulders tense, and David doesn’t understand why until Frank says, a little rough, “Just—Matt, demanding lunch for later.”

David nods encouragingly, and mentally crosses his fingers, hoping the genuine shock doesn’t show on his face. Matt Murdock is—a sensitive topic, to put it politely. David had let it slip almost two years ago that he was aware of Daredevil’s secret identity, after a borough-wide battle that had had most of the Hell’s Kitchen vigilantes involved, and Frank had not liked that in the least. David hasn’t been scared of Frank since early in that bunker, but that day, with all of Frank’s intense rage focused on him for a change, he’d come really fucking close again.

The ensuing argument hadn’t been pretty.

Frank had accused him of hoarding personal information as potential blackmail material, David had called him delusional for believing he wouldn’t run thorough background checks on every single person associated with Frank and, in turn, his family, Frank had told him he’d better stop associating with him then, and David, in one of his less proud moments, had spat at him that, “Yeah, maybe that’s for the best.”

They hadn’t talked for nearly six months.

Neither of them has ever apologized, either, but Frank had suddenly been lounging on David’s couch one day, playing video games with Zach, one leg in a bright red cast propped up on the coffee table. He’d muttered, “Brought some of that curry you like,” while avoiding David’s eyes like it was an olympic sport, David had nodded wordlessly, and gone to grab drinks and heat up the food.

And that had been that.

Matt Murdock and Daredevil both get mentioned sparsely ever since, and David wouldn’t dream of asking without Frank giving him an opening first. It’s been bits and pieces over the years, a puzzle David has had to put together without knowing what the finished picture was going to be at all.

“You’re not, uh,” David searches for the right words, cringes when the only thing he can come up with is spending the day with your situationship, and lamely settles on, “hanging out today?”

Smooth, Lieberman.

Frank mouths hanging out like he isn’t sure he heard it right, but then he snorts, and the tension breaks, just like that. David’s still surprised when he goes on with, “Nah, he’s gotta do some work shit today. Client meeting, scheduling conflict or something.”

David lightly kicks his foot, feigning offense. “So, what? I’m your second choice date?”

“Who says you were second?” Frank snarks back, winks at him, and steals the last sip of David’s latte, just to be a dick. He’s grimacing when he puts the cup back down. “‘S somehow even worse with the strawberries.”

“My sincerest sympathies,” David tells him, as insincerely as possible, while quietly filing away the fact that Frank hadn’t objected to the word date at all, and silently amends situationship to potential relationship???

And then, because there’s never been a boundary David hasn’t been willing or willfully ignorant enough to push, he offers, “You could bring him to dinner sometime, if you wanted.”

Frank’s saved from answering by the waiter bringing over their new drinks. David assumes that officially ends the window during which it’s acceptable to talk about the elephant in the room, but Frank surprises him, again, when he allows, “Maybe, yeah.”

David picks up his black tea—matcha really does taste like a freshly mowed field—and clinks it against whatever heart attack inducing abomination Frank’s ordered. “Just tell me what he’s allergic to beforehand.”

Frank sighs, rubbing a thumb between his eyes, but David catches the twitch of his mouth, and doesn’t miss the almost tender undertone when he deadpans, “Common sense, mostly.”

Chapter Text

4 - Heather

“Your Old Fashioned, Doctor Glenn, and your truffle fries will be out in just a moment. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Heather blinks, startled, and guiltily—albeit reluctantly—pulls her eyes away from the mirrored back bar to glance up at the bartender. “Thank you, Erik,” she says, after clearing her throat, and tugs the napkin with the tumbler closer, around her tablet and notes. “And I’m fine, for now.”

She takes a sip of her drink, savouring the sweetly bitter burn of the whisky with an appreciative sigh. Almost without her permission, her gaze wanders back to the mirror, seeking out the two men sitting at a table on the other side of the room, in the dining section. She doesn’t recognize the one with his back to her, though she assumes he must be a client; he’s fidgety, clearly not entirely comfortable in the upscale Ritz environment, leg jiggling nervously next to his chair. He’s dressed for the occasion, although barely, his black dress shirt unbuttoned a button or two too many going by the slight slump of his collar, and his boots, although black at least, have seen better days.

As Heather watches, Matt reaches across the table and touches the man’s wrist, stilling the hand plucking restlessly at the tablecloth. The bar’s too noisy for her to make out what he’s saying, but whatever it is, it has the other man’s shoulders lose some of their rigid tension as he settles deeper into his seat.

Heather looks down at her tablet, the screen long since gone dark.

She taps at it to wake it back up, then navigates to her drafts, trying to find where she’d left off before getting distracted. Her latest book—purposefully devoid of anything vigilantism—has been coming along nicely with the support of her new, more traditional, medically focused publisher, but as she scrolls and stares at the words without properly taking in any of them, she realizes she won’t get any more actual work done tonight.

Instead, she opens up her email, and starts a long overdue response to her sister’s wedding invitation, only looking up briefly to smile when Erik comes by to drop off her fries. They’re perfectly crispy, hot and oily, and topped with an obscene amount of truffle flakes, exactly the decadent indulgence Heather needs today, after an afternoon filled with one frustrating job interview after another, followed by an unexpected encounter with her ex-boyfriend.

Said ex, when Heather can’t help but glance at him again, seems deep in conversation with his client, fingers still curled loosely around the man’s wrist. The client must say something, then, because Matt snorts, a little inelegantly, around a mouthful of wine. And even though she can’t see the client’s face, somehow she gets the impression the man’s grinning back at Matt.

Maybe not a client after all, Heather amends silently.

The implication hits her with a pang of something ugly she resolutely refuses to indulge. It’s been close to three years since the disappointingly anticlimactic end of their relationship, and they’ve both moved on in their own ways. They’ve been on cordial terms for the most part, through surprising revelations and the gruelling Fisk trial alike, and Heather’s well aware that any resentment she still feels towards Matt is unfounded at best, and downright petty at worst.

Matt, Daredevil, technically cost her her career by exposing the former mayor in court, although the majority of the blame falls on her and her decision to accept a position in Fisk’s cabinet in the first place, loath as she is to admit that to herself. The whole procedure took a toll on her professional reputation she still isn’t sure she’ll ever fully recover from, but that’s her burden to bear; her penance to pay, as Matt would undoubtedly put it.

With a shuddering breath, Heather returns to her email. When Erik comes by to remove her empty plate, she takes the opportunity to order another drink, something a little stronger this time around.

Running into Matt is never entirely pleasant. They’re friendly whenever they see each other, manage a few minutes of smalltalk if they’ve got the time to spare, but every meeting dredges up memories, trauma Heather’s been working hard to process and move on from, and she knows it can't be much different for Matt.

She considers closing out her tab when Erik brings her her drink, but ultimately decides against it. It’s barely 8pm, and all that’s waiting for her if she leaves now is an empty apartment and the drafts she’s stuck on. Besides, coming here on Fridays to wind down is something she’s been doing for months, and—as she used to tell her patients—establishing routines is an integral part of healing and recovery.

Heather might be a lot of things, many of them in need of improvement, but she tries not to be a hypocrite on top of all that.

And she is also desperately curious about Matt’s friend.

The man’s focus has shifted away from Matt, towards the more private booths in the back of the room, though Matt doesn’t seem to mind. Heather’s eyes widen slightly once she notices his hand, however, the tips of his fingers now pushed under the cuff of Matt’s shirt, moving rhythmically, while Matt’s thumb is casually brushing back and forth across the man’s inner arm, his head tilted to the side as he sips his wine.

Listening to something, Heather realizes, something a regular person most likely shouldn’t be able to hear at all. After a moment, Matt frowns and gives a subtle shake of his head, and the other man huffs visibly, shifting in his chair. Agitated, or maybe impatient. It’s impossible to tell from the partial profile visible to Heather. The man’s fingers start moving faster, a repeated tapping—Morse code. Heather isn’t fluent enough to parse any of it from this far away, but Matt nods, and then the man stands up, and Heather’s knuckles turn white around her tumbler.

The Punisher offers Matt a hand, which Matt takes without hesitation or any of the sudden, choking fear that has Heather’s heart pounding in her chest. Daredevil has worked with the Punisher countless times, she knows, but seeing Matt fall so easily into step with a highly dangerous mass murderer, leaning into the hand the Punisher puts on the small of his back, is surreal enough that Heather has to bite back what would undoubtedly be a purely, improperly hysterical laugh.

Frozen, Heather watches as they wind between tables, moving towards the string quartet and the few couples swaying softly to the classical piece that’s being played. The music that must have prevented Matt from hearing whatever they’re here to figure out, because they’re very obviously on a case, and suddenly, the panic’s back with renewed force.

Heather’s studied the Punisher’s usual modus operandi, closer and more intensively than most, and she has absolutely no intention of witnessing that ruthless violence in person.

She takes a shaky gulp of her whisky.

The hand Matt has on the Punisher’s shoulder twitches. He leans in close as they move with the music, mouth against the Punisher’s ear as he whispers something, and when the dance leads them into a turn, the Punisher’s eyes find Heather’s through the mirror, narrow and calculating. But Matt’s still talking, and the moment passes when the Punisher reaches into the pocket of Matt’s slacks to retrieve something.

A minute later, Heather’s phone vibrates with a text.

recon, no threat

When she looks up from her phone, Matt’s face is turned in her direction, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Letting out a long, trembling breath, Heather nods to herself, downs the rest of her drink, and says quietly, “Okay.”

Matt’s smile widens almost imperceptibly for a second, before his attention drifts back to the Punisher, and whatever he’s mumbling against Matt’s cheek. With her head clearer, less clouded by sheer terror, Heather’s able to pinpoint the instant Matt finds what they came here for; the relief changes his posture as he runs a hand up the Punisher’s spine, settling it at the back of his neck for a brief squeeze. Heather expects them to pull apart, now, to return to their table and unfinished wine, yet instead, Matt relaxes even further into the Punisher’s hold, and the Punisher winds his arm tighter around Matt’s waist.

They keep dancing.

Matt drops his chin on the Punisher’s free shoulder.

The Punisher’s lips brush Matt’s temple.

Heather looks away with finality.