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[ he didn't need this. not today, not any day, not when he's got things to do and a long list of people more important to deal with, but that's apparently not a concern for red and his self-righteous crusade.
frank's holed up in an apartment building that saw its best days about eight years ago. now, the wallpaper's peeling and the floors are weak in some places, barely supporting the weight of a threadbare couch and a table loaded with weapons, but it's abandoned and quiet and those are the kind of things frank can work with. at least, that's how it is usually. not tonight, not with the devil of hell's kitchen sweeping into frank's makeshift base of operations like he's on some holy mission. christ, maybe he thinks he is.
frank throws the first punch. he's good at that, shutting red up before he can start spewing words of wisdom, his special brand of reassurances that are supposed to ease something in frank. and maybe they do, but they're like kindling to a flame to some other part of him, and he's gotten used to letting that part - the calculated, furious, burdened part of him - win out against all others. they exchange blows, both of them too well-trained and too aware of the other's body to do much damage. nothing helpful, at least. nothing that makes frank feel like he's got any control over this, and that just makes the warm swell in his chest that much worse.
in the end, it manages to spur him into getting the upper hand. a chair topples and he thinks one of the legs breaks with the force, but he's more attuned to the one stumbling step that red takes that provides him a moment's advantage. frank's shoulder surges into matt's chest, and he hits the wall with a heavy thump, somewhat satisfying after he's spent the last two to three minutes dealing nothing but empty hits. he gets a hand to matt's semi-armored throat in an attempt to keep him there, but his grip is almost slack, lacking force, and it's a realization he doesn't want to have. there's a moment of stillness where frank just breathes, chest heaving, adrenaline thrumming under his skin. then he huffs out this chuckle, gaze flicking away from his catch, free hand rising to prod at the split on the bridge of his nose. when his hand drops, he shakes it like he's trying to shake off more than a drop or two of blood. toe to toe, frank meets the blank eyes of the helmet. ]
We should quit meeting like this. [ his voice is low, caught between a threat and a joke. ]
( it isn't that matt wants to confront frank again, it isn't that he likes to punch anyone, much less someone who — however misguidedly — thinks he's actually doing good. if the world was a better place, matt wouldn't fight at all, or at least he hopes that he wouldn't. the alternative, that he is a murdock through and through, that he's got the devil in him just like his father, that he wouldn't stop even if he could, that is too terrible to contemplate, at least unless he is alone and the guilt is weighing in on him from all sides. then, and only then does he think it an option.
it is necessary, though, and it's frank who throws the first punch. they're fighting, but somewhere, something shifts, and in the end, matt thinks perhaps they aren't fighting anymore so much as sparring, a test of strength that has frank gain the upper hand because matt misses a step, didn't expect the chair to topple and break even though he should have. he only heard the cracks when it was too late, and now he's pressed against the wall with frank's hand around his throat.
he could shake frank's grip; he isn't using all of his strength, isn't even using a fraction of it, matt thinks. he doesn't know what keeps him still, but it is the same thing that has him tip his chin upward though he can't see frank one way or another. he's breathing hard, and he's thinking of fights with elektra that turned into something else. he could blame the adrenaline, he's going to blame the adrenaline, but after frank has dropped his hand away from his nose, matt lifts his own, dragging a finger across frank's jaw. ) You're bleeding. ( is all the explanation he can offer.
his thumb smeared the blood across frank's skin more than anything else. )
[ it's strange and almost unnerving to look at the half-covered face, met with blank eyes rather than anything he can possibly read. that's why his eyes drop to the mouth, the set of red's jaw and that damn tilt of his chin, like he's daring frank to do something. he's not fighting him, though, just letting his hand clutch at his neck. that probably means something, the fact that red's not trying to turn the tide of the fight again, but maybe it's simply his naive hope that not everything has to end in frank's brand of violence.
the touch catches him off guard, and he almost flinches. not that he's not on guard - he always is, now, almost obsessively so - but he's not prepared for that kind of engagement, careful where it should be rough, challenging. and yet his hand at matt's throat is not rough or challenging or even very effective, and the press of his fingers gets a little firmer, reassuring himself more than anything else. he swallows, squinting at matt, trying to draw meaning out of the words. ]
I'm used to it. [ and he is. sometimes, he doesn't even notice right away if there's blood on his hands or welling in the seam of a forgotten cut. it's routine now, ignorable. ] Aren't you? [ both to frank's blood and his own. he can't imagine red walks away from many fights unscathed, whether he's skilled or not, and again, frank being bloody is routine. red should be used to that sight by now, even though their encounters have been relatively brief.
he does notice the blood on his knuckle as he splays his free hand against the wall above matt's shoulder, though. it must be from where he grazed the helmet in their sparring, but it's the least of his concerns. for now, he's focused on crowding matt, trying to retrieve the upper ground that it suddenly feels like he's losing. ]
( his eyes would be blank even if his face wasn't covered, but the cowl paints his eyes a dull red, or so he's been told. it adds to the effect, apparently, making him look even more like the devil he so desperately tries not to be. there's a certain irony to the name, isn't there? matt takes it as a warning.
aren't you? has matt choke out a laugh, dry and not entirely amused, more surprised than anything else. ) Yeah. 'course.
( there's a certain irony to the ways in which they are alike, too, and maybe that is another warning for matt, a reminder that there are lines he should not cross. and it feels, right now, like they're hovering at the edge of a line, ready to tip over one or the other way, balancing. it isn't about killing and it isn't about criminals. unbidden, matt thinks of claire who left - and rightly so, he knows that - and of karen who is soft despite the steel of her spine, and of foggy who doesn't want to lose him, and he thinks of adrenaline and of losing his temper and of war.
frank is crowding into him, and under the mask, matt closes his eyes for a long moment, head tipping back further. he is no longer sure whether it's a challenge or submission - but in either case, the question is to what end? he doesn't know, but his fingers curl around frank's jaw and then drop to his neck. it isn't the same choke-hold that frank has him in, or could have him in if he tightened his grip.
frank might feel like he's losing ground, but matt feels like he's on thin ice. )
[ when matt laughs, his breath ghosts over frank's face, the heat prickling his skin. his lip twitches into a snarl but he doesn't back off. he almost wants to ask then why are you touching me? but he doesn't. can't. can barely imagine his mouth shaping the words despite how badly he wants the question answered. but matt's hand isn't falling away like frank expects it to; the only falling it does is slide down his neck so they're mirroring each other, both of their grips soft and slack in a way that frank isn't quite prepared for.
and yet, he's leaning closer, taking the tilt of red's chin as a silent invitation to push this just a little more. frank has always liked a challenge, so he takes it, pressing in until his nose touches the stiff material of the mask's nose. his jaw is clenched tight, breath finally slowing after the fight. this closeness is a threat as much as it's a proposition. this is another contest, but frank's not quite sure what constitutes winning and losing. they've stepped over into territory that's possibly just as dangerous as dealing blows, but the rules of this are different, unknown.
his eyes are hooded, almost closed; at this distance, there's little to focus on, and it's not as if he can search out anything in the red eyes. his hand hasn't moved from matt's throat. ]
You really wanna go there, Red? [ his voice is a gravelly rumble, and his mouth pulls into this almost predatory smirk, like he just can't shake the need to at least look like he's in control, like he's making the calls here. the question's supposed to be a warning, but he has this shivering fear that it comes out more like a request, daring red to push them over the edge. and he doesn't know where the urge has come from - the adrenaline of the battle or the just the shape of red's mouth or something else - but it's there.
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frank's holed up in an apartment building that saw its best days about eight years ago. now, the wallpaper's peeling and the floors are weak in some places, barely supporting the weight of a threadbare couch and a table loaded with weapons, but it's abandoned and quiet and those are the kind of things frank can work with. at least, that's how it is usually. not tonight, not with the devil of hell's kitchen sweeping into frank's makeshift base of operations like he's on some holy mission. christ, maybe he thinks he is.
frank throws the first punch. he's good at that, shutting red up before he can start spewing words of wisdom, his special brand of reassurances that are supposed to ease something in frank. and maybe they do, but they're like kindling to a flame to some other part of him, and he's gotten used to letting that part - the calculated, furious, burdened part of him - win out against all others. they exchange blows, both of them too well-trained and too aware of the other's body to do much damage. nothing helpful, at least. nothing that makes frank feel like he's got any control over this, and that just makes the warm swell in his chest that much worse.
in the end, it manages to spur him into getting the upper hand. a chair topples and he thinks one of the legs breaks with the force, but he's more attuned to the one stumbling step that red takes that provides him a moment's advantage. frank's shoulder surges into matt's chest, and he hits the wall with a heavy thump, somewhat satisfying after he's spent the last two to three minutes dealing nothing but empty hits. he gets a hand to matt's semi-armored throat in an attempt to keep him there, but his grip is almost slack, lacking force, and it's a realization he doesn't want to have. there's a moment of stillness where frank just breathes, chest heaving, adrenaline thrumming under his skin. then he huffs out this chuckle, gaze flicking away from his catch, free hand rising to prod at the split on the bridge of his nose. when his hand drops, he shakes it like he's trying to shake off more than a drop or two of blood. toe to toe, frank meets the blank eyes of the helmet. ]
We should quit meeting like this. [ his voice is low, caught between a threat and a joke. ]
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it is necessary, though, and it's frank who throws the first punch. they're fighting, but somewhere, something shifts, and in the end, matt thinks perhaps they aren't fighting anymore so much as sparring, a test of strength that has frank gain the upper hand because matt misses a step, didn't expect the chair to topple and break even though he should have. he only heard the cracks when it was too late, and now he's pressed against the wall with frank's hand around his throat.
he could shake frank's grip; he isn't using all of his strength, isn't even using a fraction of it, matt thinks. he doesn't know what keeps him still, but it is the same thing that has him tip his chin upward though he can't see frank one way or another. he's breathing hard, and he's thinking of fights with elektra that turned into something else. he could blame the adrenaline, he's going to blame the adrenaline, but after frank has dropped his hand away from his nose, matt lifts his own, dragging a finger across frank's jaw. ) You're bleeding. ( is all the explanation he can offer.
his thumb smeared the blood across frank's skin more than anything else. )
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the touch catches him off guard, and he almost flinches. not that he's not on guard - he always is, now, almost obsessively so - but he's not prepared for that kind of engagement, careful where it should be rough, challenging. and yet his hand at matt's throat is not rough or challenging or even very effective, and the press of his fingers gets a little firmer, reassuring himself more than anything else. he swallows, squinting at matt, trying to draw meaning out of the words. ]
I'm used to it. [ and he is. sometimes, he doesn't even notice right away if there's blood on his hands or welling in the seam of a forgotten cut. it's routine now, ignorable. ] Aren't you? [ both to frank's blood and his own. he can't imagine red walks away from many fights unscathed, whether he's skilled or not, and again, frank being bloody is routine. red should be used to that sight by now, even though their encounters have been relatively brief.
he does notice the blood on his knuckle as he splays his free hand against the wall above matt's shoulder, though. it must be from where he grazed the helmet in their sparring, but it's the least of his concerns. for now, he's focused on crowding matt, trying to retrieve the upper ground that it suddenly feels like he's losing. ]
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aren't you? has matt choke out a laugh, dry and not entirely amused, more surprised than anything else. ) Yeah. 'course.
( there's a certain irony to the ways in which they are alike, too, and maybe that is another warning for matt, a reminder that there are lines he should not cross. and it feels, right now, like they're hovering at the edge of a line, ready to tip over one or the other way, balancing. it isn't about killing and it isn't about criminals. unbidden, matt thinks of claire who left - and rightly so, he knows that - and of karen who is soft despite the steel of her spine, and of foggy who doesn't want to lose him, and he thinks of adrenaline and of losing his temper and of war.
frank is crowding into him, and under the mask, matt closes his eyes for a long moment, head tipping back further. he is no longer sure whether it's a challenge or submission - but in either case, the question is to what end? he doesn't know, but his fingers curl around frank's jaw and then drop to his neck. it isn't the same choke-hold that frank has him in, or could have him in if he tightened his grip.
frank might feel like he's losing ground, but matt feels like he's on thin ice. )
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and yet, he's leaning closer, taking the tilt of red's chin as a silent invitation to push this just a little more. frank has always liked a challenge, so he takes it, pressing in until his nose touches the stiff material of the mask's nose. his jaw is clenched tight, breath finally slowing after the fight. this closeness is a threat as much as it's a proposition. this is another contest, but frank's not quite sure what constitutes winning and losing. they've stepped over into territory that's possibly just as dangerous as dealing blows, but the rules of this are different, unknown.
his eyes are hooded, almost closed; at this distance, there's little to focus on, and it's not as if he can search out anything in the red eyes. his hand hasn't moved from matt's throat. ]
You really wanna go there, Red? [ his voice is a gravelly rumble, and his mouth pulls into this almost predatory smirk, like he just can't shake the need to at least look like he's in control, like he's making the calls here. the question's supposed to be a warning, but he has this shivering fear that it comes out more like a request, daring red to push them over the edge. and he doesn't know where the urge has come from - the adrenaline of the battle or the just the shape of red's mouth or something else - but it's there.
god help him. if god's even watching anymore. ]