“Clear sky?” Murdock asks quietly, pulling Frank’s attention and making him glance his way.
A talkative Devil — now that’s a rare sight. Especially after a night like this one. A night full of blood and busted knuckles. Usually, the most you’ll get out of him is a sermon. Those sermons throb, sting, grind you down until all you want is to shut Red up, either with a fist or a kiss.
Frank doesn’t answer right away. He touches the stitch on his shoulder before he finally looks up at the sky.
“Clear,” he mutters, not sure what Red’s getting at. “Hey,” his voice tightens when the Devil pulls the mask off. “Someone might see you.”
“No.” Matt — now just Matt — shakes his messy head, and it makes Frank freeze for a beat. You don’t see that often. Especially Matt taking the mask off himself — just like that, up on some rooftop. "Nobody’s watching."
Frank glances around, suspicious, before finally nodding. Matt might put himself on the line — Frank’s sure of that — but he’d never risk Karen or Foggy. His family. Frank doesn’t count himself part of that circle, but he should. He has no idea how much room he takes up in Murdock’s life.
A few more stitches. Meanwhile Matt strips off the suit, wastes water wiping sweat and blood from his face, then changes, stuffing his second skin into a bag like it’s nothing. Now he’s in a hoodie, sweatpants, sunglasses instead of his usual red-tinted glasses.
“Matt…” Frank can’t bring himself to call him Red like this — not when his hair’s flattened from the mask, not when there’s no armor on his body, just the thin cling of sportswear.
Frank nods, tugging the thread tight and biting it off.
“Done,” he confirms, his eyes never leaving Murdock.
Frank snorts. No way this is real. He doesn’t believe it even as he turns the key in the ignition. Doesn’t believe it when Matt gives him directions. Doesn’t believe it until they’re both lying in the grass — still soft, though already beginning to yellow.
“What the hell are we doing here, Murdock?”
Frank shifts his gaze from Matt to the sky. A serious ask. He hasn’t done anything like this in years. He can’t even remember the last time anything felt this close to romantic. Not even when he fucked Murdock. Not even when Murdock fucked him. Back then there were no words, just ragged breaths. Nothing but lips, tremors, shivers. Shit. It wasn’t ‘nothing,’ but Frank calls it that. Compared to this, describing stars is harder.
He lets the silence stretch. A long silence. Until finally he breathes out, low and rough:
“It’s like holes in my vest, Red. A thousand holes.”
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