Archive of Our Own ^beta

Matt Murdock had endured enough galas to know they were less about celebration than posturing. Tonight’s event, a glittering tribute to Hogarth, Chao & Benowitz, was a battlefield of egos, where cloying perfumes clashed with the faint tang of desperate ambition. Matt stood at the edge of a cluster of lawyers, half-listening to a young associate’s self-congratulatory tale of courtroom triumph, sipping champagne that tasted of duty rather than pleasure. His senses roamed restlessly, sifting through snippets of chatter, seeking anything worth his focus.

Then it hit him—a presence that sliced through the monotony like a blade. It started with the faint creak of an unused service door at the back of the ballroom, easily missed by most. The familiar scent followed: gunpowder, black coffee, and a faint hint of cedar cologne. Frank. Matt’s pulse surged, syncing with the relentless rhythm he knew from their midnight clashes. What was The Punisher doing here, in a tuxedo, at a gala of all places? The incongruity sent a thrill through him, stirring something reckless beneath his carefully curated composure.

Matt drained his champagne in one swift gulp, the bubbles burning his throat as he murmured a polite excuse to the associate. He wove through the crowd toward the bar at the far end of the ballroom, his cane tapping lightly, and chose a stool that felt like an island amid the sea of voices. He signaled the bartender, his voice calm but deliberate. “Two beers, please.”

He tracked Frank’s approach by the faint shift in the air, a low hum cutting through the gala’s chatter. The stool beside him creaked as Frank settled in, his solid frame displacing the space around them. The bartender slid two lager across the counter, and Matt raised his bottle in a silent toast.

“What’s with the brooding, Red?” Frank’s bottle clinked against his, the sound crisp, and they drank, the cold bitterness grounding them in the moment. “Thought this was your kinda circus.”

Matt’s lips quirked, sidestepping the jab with ease. “And you’re here because… what? Feeling fancy?” He tilted his head, teasing. “That’s quite an armory you’re packing under there.” His senses painted a vivid picture: a Glock strapped to Frank’s ankle, a Ka-Bar knife tucked inside his jacket, a Beretta nestled at his waist. The metallic tang of the weapons mingled with Frank’s scent, a mix unapologetically him. Maybe it was the champagne and beer loosening his restraint, but it was intoxicating, a dangerous pull Matt fought to ignore.

Frank snorted, his shoulders shrugging faintly. “Mind your own, choirboy.”

“Frank, your business here is my business,” Matt countered, his tone light but probing, testing the waters of Frank’s intent.

Frank shifted, angling toward the crowd, his elbow brushing the bar. “You like this crowd, Red? All this fancy bullshit?” His voice carried a sneer, but beneath it, a quiet challenge.

Matt didn’t bite immediately, letting his senses linger on Frank instead. The tuxedo clung to his broad shoulders, the fabric catching on the rough edges of scars beneath, accentuating the raw power of his build. Matt’s chest tightened, a flicker of guilt for noticing warring with desire. He shrugged it off—not the time, or place, to be all introspective. Instead, he chose to lean closer, voice dropping to a playful murmur. “You clean up nice, Frank. All this for me?”

Frank’s laugh was low, sarcastic, but a warmth bled through, softening his gruff facade. “Yeah, sure, Red. All for you.”

Matt smirked, the banter easing the tension. “Flattered. And for the record, I barely know half these people.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, the gala’s noise fading to a dull hum. Frank ordered whiskeys, the glasses sliding across the bar with a soft clink. Matt raised an eyebrow, catching the amber liquid’s sharp bite before it touched his lips.

“You shouldn’t drink on the job, Frank,” Matt teased, his voice light but pointed.

“Ever heard of undercover, preacher’s pet?” Frank shot back, his tone dry, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Gotta play the part, Red.”

Matt grinned, downing his whiskey in one smooth motion. The burn spread through his chest, loosening the edges of his restraint, tempting him to push boundaries he usually guarded. His senses swept the room again, a restless habit. Then, a whisper snagged his attention from a shadowed corner—his name, spoken in a low hiss, conspiratorial. His spine stiffened, every nerve sharpening. Frank sensed the shift, his shoulders squaring, a predator scanning for threats.

“Red?” Frank’s voice was a low mutter, barely audible over the crowd.

Matt tilted his head, straining to isolate the voices amid the symphony of clinking glasses and rustling fabric.

“…Nelson & Murdock, he’s here. The blind one,” a man’s voice hissed, sharp with intent.

“Is it set?” a woman replied, her tone clipped.

“Yes. When Hogarth finishes her speech, one of ours will approach Murdock. Say it’s about the Sing Sing case, get him out back. Our men will be waiting. Should be easy—he’s blind. How hard could it be?”

“Cameras?”

“Down for six minutes.”

“He’s got a... companion. Can your people handle them quietly?”

“Four pros. Best in the game. These big-city lawyers are no match for them.”

“Good. Do it quick. Clean.”

Frank leaned closer, his breath warm against Matt’s ear, the faint scent of whiskey and cedar sharpening. “Red? Those bastards comin’ or what?”

“You’re here for me.” The realization hit Matt like the liquor in his chest—warm, heady, dangerous. Frank wasn’t just crashing a gala; he was here for Matt, his presence a shield against the threat Matt hadn’t seen coming.

“What, you think I’d let you have all the fun?” Frank shrugged, his casual tone belying the weight of his presence, his fingers tapping the bar lightly. “So, what’d you hear?”

Matt suppressed smile, mischief flaring. “They’re luring me out back after Hogarth’s speech.”

“When’s that?”

“Half an hour, give or take.”

Frank exhaled, a rough edge to his voice, but a glint of amusement flickered through. “Christ. Gonna need another drink for that.” He knocked back his whiskey, the glass clinking softly as he set it down.

Matt’s grin turned playful, the thrill of danger mingling with something hotter. He handed his cane to the bartender with a quiet request to hold it, then reached for Frank’s hand, lacing their fingers tightly. Frank flinched but didn’t pull away, his breath hitching slightly under Matt’s touch, a subtle tremor betraying his guardedness.

“The hell, Red?” Frank grumbled, but the heat in his voice was soft, almost curious.

“Frank, you don’t pass for a lawyer,” Matt said, tugging him toward the dance floor, his tone light but purposeful. “Only cover that works is you being my date. They already think you are, anyway. Let's dance.”

The music shifted to a sultry blues number, warm and enveloping, carving a private world amid the crowd. Frank hesitated, his boots scuffing faintly, but followed. His hand settled on Matt’s waist, the other clasping his hand, firm and sure. “Fine, but I’m leading,” he muttered, his voice gruff but tinged with reluctant softness, his jaw tightening briefly.

Matt laughed softly, relenting with a playful tilt of his head. “Sweetheart, I’m blind. Of course you’re leading.”

Frank huffed, low and dry. “And I’m half-deaf from all the gunshots and explosions, altar boy.”

They moved together, Frank’s steps surprisingly fluid for a man built for battle. His body was a furnace—solid, warm, the coarse weave of his tux brushing Matt’s fingers. Every sway tightened the coil of desire in Matt’s gut, the music’s slow pulse mirroring the heat building between them. He tilted his head closer, lips brushing Frank’s ear as he teased, “Didn’t peg you for a dancer, Frank. Got a secret ballroom hobby?”

Frank’s grip tightened on Matt’s waist, a low laugh rumbling in his chest—half-amused, half-challenging. “Yeah, Thursday nights, Red. Been takin’ dance classes. Just for you.”

Matt let out a soft chuckle, his breath warm against Frank’s ear, voice dropping to a husky tease. “Get any better at this, Castle, and I might let you take me dancing next time.” His fingers pressed briefly on Frank’s shoulder, a deliberate touch that hinted at more than just a dance, his thumb grazing the seam of Frank’s jacket.

They fell into a comfortable silence for a while. Their bodies moving in sync as Matt's senses stretched outward, sweeping past the clink of glasses and murmured laughter to keep track of the sharp, hushed tones of the two voices he’d heard earlier. His jaw clenched, but Frank’s unwavering presence, the faint tremor in his breath, pulled him back, grounding him in the warmth of their shared rhythm

“Picked out those rats yet?” Frank breathed, his voice hot against Matt’s ear, sending a jolt through him.

“What, so you can kill them for me?” Matt teased, his tone light but laced with a challenge.

Frank’s lips twitched, a rare flicker of playfulness breaking through his guarded exterior. “Only if you beg real sweet.”

Matt’s hand slid up Frank’s arm, feeling the corded muscle beneath the tux. “Mmm, how romantic,” he drawled, sarcasm dripping but laced with warmth, his thumb brushing the edge of Frank’s collar, catching on a loose thread.

“I'll let you call the shots tonight, darlin',” Frank replied, his voice dropping to a husky mutter. “’S your head they’re gunnin’ for after all.”

“I’m touched,” Matt quipped, his fingers lingering on Frank’s shoulder, the banter masking the heat building between them.

The lights dimmed as the song deepened, and Frank pulled Matt closer on instinct, their bodies aligning—chest to chest, thigh to thigh. The playfulness fractured, giving way to something heavier, electric. The whiskey buzzed in Matt’s veins, eroding his restraint. Frank, here, in a damn tux, for Matt—because of him, protecting him. Maybe there was no better time than now to take his shot. If it went south, he could just easily blame the alcohol.

“Anyone ever tell you that beard makes you look like a hipster, Frank?” he murmured, his fingers twitching with the urge to touch, his own mind whispering warnings he ignored.

Frank’s laugh rumbled low, vibrating through Matt’s chest. “What? Got a problem with it?”

Matt pulled back slightly, then grazed his hand over Frank’s beard—coarse, textured, sending a shiver through him. “On the contrary,” he said, his voice low, laced with intent.

Frank stopped swaying, the air between them thickening, heavy with unspoken desire. Matt felt the weight of his gaze, searching, intense. The space between them crackled, waiting for one to break it. To Matt’s relief, Frank took the bait. With a slow exhale, he took Matt’s hand, his voice rough with purpose. “C’mon.”

Matt chuckled, the sound light but edged with heat, as Frank’s grip enveloped his hand. They slipped away from the dance floor, weaving through the crowd to a secluded alcove behind a corridor, the gala’s noise fading to a soft hum, the air cooler against Matt’s flushed skin.

“You hear the speech from here?” Frank asked, pressing Matt’s back against the wall, their bodies inches apart, heat radiating between them.

Matt nodded, his senses buzzing with Frank’s proximity—the cedar and gunpowder overwhelming, the faint tension in his frame like a coiled spring.

“Good.” Frank reached up, gently sliding Matt’s red-lensed glasses off and tucking them into his breast pocket. He paused, and Matt sensed his gaze—lingering on his eyes, then dropping to his lips with raw intent.

“Been wantin’ to do this a while,” Frank said, his voice a rough whisper, thick with honesty.

Matt’s lips curved, a quiet confidence in his tone. “No one's stopping you.”

Frank scoffed then crashed their mouths together, and Matt’s entire world narrowed to the heat of it. The kiss was raw, hungry, a dam breaking after months of pent-up tension. Frank’s lips were rough, demanding, parting Matt’s with a ferocity that drew a moan from deep in his throat. He tasted of whiskey and salt, his tongue thrusting in, claiming with a need that matched Matt’s own.

Matt’s senses sharpened—Frank’s beard scraped like a spark against his skin, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying a hunger held back too long. His hands fisted in Frank’s tux, pulling him closer as their bodies pressed together—hard lines and searing heat. He felt Frank’s arousal, thick and insistent against his thigh, mirroring his own hardening length. Sounds escaped them—wet smacks of lips, harsh breaths, low growls that vibrated through their chests.

Frank broke away briefly, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along Matt’s jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin before claiming his mouth again. The kisses slowed, turning exploratory—deep, languid licks, tasting each other with a tenderness that belied the urgency. When they parted, they were breathless, chests heaving, both achingly hard. Matt’s hands clung to Frank’s jacket like a lifeline, his body thrumming with need. Shit. This wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

“Uh, second drink at my place?” Matt rasped, breathless, his voice a mix of invitation and plea, his fingers catching on Frank’s lapel.

Frank’s voice was rough, raw. “Yeah.”

Matt pulled him down for another deep kiss, and when he broke it, Frank chased his mouth, drawing a soft chuckle. “Frank, Hogarth—it’s started.”

“Mm, alright, okay,” Frank muttered, still kissing him softly, reluctant to let go, his thumb brushing Matt’s jaw.

They took a moment to compose themselves, straightening clothes and calming racing pulses in the dim alcove. Frank fixed Matt’s skewed tie and jacket with surprising tenderness, his fingers lingering, making Matt’s chest clench with an unfamiliar ache—something vulnerable he wasn’t ready to name.

They slipped back into the ballroom as Hogarth’s speech ended, applause rippling through the crowd. Like clockwork, a woman approached Matt—Madeline Blunt from Wayward Son Security, her voice smooth as she requested a private word about the Sing Sing Prison case.

Matt played the part, his smile charming but calculated, then turned to Madeline, his voice smooth and deliberate. “Mind if my date joins us? We’re a package deal tonight.” He tilted his head toward Frank.

Madeline hesitated, her breath catching slightly, but she nodded, her voice clipped. “Fine. Bring him.”

Matt looped his hand around Frank’s elbow, fingers settling into the crook with a familiarity that felt both grounding and bold. Frank’s hand settled over Matt’s, his grip firm yet careful—an intimate, possessive gesture that made Matt's heartbeat stutter for a second. The weight of it lingered, a silent claim that anchored them as they followed Madeline toward the back of the ballroom.

At the exit, the trap sprang. Four men—highly trained, their movements precise—moved in, shadows converging in the dim alley. The first guard lunged at Matt with a silenced pistol, but Frank was faster, intercepting with a brutal elbow to the throat, the muffled crunch echoing as he disarmed the man in a fluid twist. The second came at Frank with a knife, blade glinting; Frank dodged, snapping the wrist back with a sharp crack, the weapon clattering as he drove a knee into the gut, dropping the man. Matt’s radar swept the alley, mapping the chaos—he sidestepped a punch from the third, countering with a discreet, yet precise strike to the solar plexus that left the man gasping, clutching his chest. Frank handled the fourth with ruthless efficiency, a chokehold rendering him unconscious in seconds, his body slumping silently to the ground. It was over in moments—grunts, thuds, no shots fired, the alley falling still.

Matt turned to Madeline, frozen in the doorway, her shock a sharp tang in the air. “Oh, I forgot to mention,” he said, his voice smooth with quiet menace, his hand still resting on Frank’s arm, “my partner here is an ex-Marine. He’s a bit… overprotective. My apologies for the mess, but don’t worry, Detective Mahoney will be notified. Tell your employers I’ll see them in court.”

They returned to the ballroom, Frank sweaty but relaxed, a faint sheen on his skin that suggested nothing more than a brisk stroll. At the bar, Matt requested a bucket of ice, a bottle of Glenfiddich, and two glasses. He poured, then crafted a cold compress with his handkerchief, his fingers gentle on Frank’s bruised knuckles, the intimacy grounding them both.

“How’d you find out?” Matt asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Frank shrugged, his tone casual but eyes sharp, his fingers flexing slightly. “Heard about an open contract on a blind lawyer in Hell’s Kitchen. Only one dumb enough to fit that bill.”

Matt grinned, the sound light and genuine, easing the tension. “Could’ve let me handle it.”

“Didn’t want your cover blown,” Frank said, a flicker of protectiveness beneath his gruff exterior, his thumb brushing Matt’s wrist with a tenderness that spoke of battles fought side by side.

Matt squeezed his hand, gratitude warm in his chest, mingling with the ache of wanting more than just tonight. “Thank you.”

Frank poured more whiskey, the liquid glinting in the low light, and they drank, the warmth spreading through them. Matt fidgeted with his glass, fingers tapping nervously, suddenly unsure of himself. He’d meant it when he invited Frank for that second drink, thinking it would be a one-and-done, a way to scratch the itch that had been festering between them. Now, with Frank’s resolute presence beside him, the weight of their shared fight and fleeting touches, he wasn’t so sure it was just an itch—this was unsettling and new, a pull toward something he couldn’t confess, not even to himself.

Frank noticed, his hand settling over Matt’s, stilling it with a gentle press. “Listen, Red,” he said, his voice low and serious. “About that second drink. If you wanna back out, ’s all good, yeah? Nothing changes.”

Matt rolled his eyes behind his lenses, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Everything’s already changed, Frank. There’s no turning back from this. Let’s go.” He stood, taking Frank’s hand, their fingers intertwining with ease. Frank laughed, a rough, warm sound, grabbing the bottle and following, the whiskey and the night pulling them closer.

The door to Matt’s apartment clicked shut, and Frank moved fast, pinning Matt against it with a wall of heat. Their mouths crashed together—desperate, whiskey-flavored, a collision of need. Matt grabbed the bottle from Frank’s hand, setting it on the table, fingers fumbling slightly in his haste, as Frank’s hands roamed, curving over Matt’s ass, squeezing with intent. Matt’s lips found their way onto Frank’s throat, sucking hard enough to mark, the taste of salt and gunpowder flooding his senses. Frank groaned, a ragged sound, grinding their erections together, the friction sending sparks through them both.

Matt gasped, breathless, his voice unsteady but urgent. “Couch.” They stumbled to the living room, hands tearing at clothes. Jackets hit the floor in a heap; ties were yanked loose, one catching briefly on a button. Frank’s shirt buttons popped under Matt’s eager fingers, brushing coarse chest hair, while Frank tugged at Matt’s, exposing skin inch by inch, a button snagging before giving way. They collapsed onto the couch, half-laughing, half-groaning, bodies tangled in a messy sprawl.

Frank maneuvered Matt to lie back across his lap, their kisses deep and sloppy, leaving them breathless. They shared the whiskey between kisses, swigs burning down their throats, the sharp taste matching their urgency. When Matt held the bottle, Frank’s hands worked slowly on the rest of his shirt buttons, fingers tracing old scars and taut muscle with a reverence that made Matt’s nerves sing. It was Frank—raw and intense, yet soft in a way that hit Matt deep, stirring memories of late-night confessions in safe-houses and cemeteries, of Frank’s loyalty despite their clashing codes.

“Night turned out better than I figured,” Frank muttered against Matt’s lips, his voice rough but carrying a quiet awe.

Matt hummed, setting the bottle aside, his voice soft with agreement. “For once, we’re on the same page.”

Their kisses deepened, loaded with trust and desire in every press of lips. Matt’s senses caught the faint hitch in Frank’s breath, a tremor of need beneath his gruff exterior, and it sent a warmth through Matt’s chest—something deeper than lust, threatening to unravel him, a confession his faith wouldn’t let him voice.

Frank’s thumb grazed Matt’s nipple, drawing a shudder, the peak hardening under his callused touch. “Look at you, Red,” Frank growled, his voice low and raw, thick with lust that mirrored the heat in Matt’s veins. His hand slid to Matt’s belt, unbuckling it with slow, deliberate tugs, the leather catching briefly, then eased the zipper down, each click amplifying the tension. Matt lifted his hips, letting Frank pull the pants off, the fabric hitting the floor with a soft thud. Frank’s hand roamed Matt’s inner thighs, then palmed his erection through the thin boxers, shifting between featherlight caresses that raised goosebumps and firm grips that made Matt’s muscles clench. The teasing drove Matt wild—moans spilling into their kiss, his cock hard and leaking, straining against his boxers as his hips arched up chasing more friction.

“Frank, c’mon,” Matt pleaded, his voice edged with desperation against Frank’s lips.

Frank laughed softly, kissing the corner of Matt’s mouth, his cheek, then whispering against his ear. “Say the word, Red.”

Matt grinned shakily, his fingers digging into Frank’s shoulder. “Fuck you.” He tilted his head, lips brushing Frank’s jaw, teasing, before murmuring a breathy “please.”

Frank smirked. “Atta boy.” He tugged Matt’s boxers down in one swift motion, a seam catching briefly, freeing his cock. He spat into his hand, slicking it, then wrapped it around Matt’s length.

The rough warmth of Frank’s bare hand sent a jolt through Matt, his hips bucking as a low moan tore from his throat. Frank’s touch was slow at first, stroking with deliberate pressure, thumb circling the slick head to spread the precum, pausing to tease the sensitive slit. Matt arched into it, breaking the kiss to gasp, but Frank pulled him back, tongues tangling as his pace quickened. He twisted on the upstroke, squeezing just right at the base, drawing out every sensation. Matt’s neck flushed red, arching back, lost in the sensations—Frank’s callused grip, the faint gunpowder scent clinging to his skin, the subtle tension in his frame grounding Matt’s spiraling need.

“That’s it, Red,” Frank praised between kisses, voice husky. “Look at you—fuckin’ gorgeous.” His strokes quickened, firm and rhythmic, building the pressure in Matt’s core. Matt’s hips bucked, hands gripping Frank’s shoulders, moans swallowed against Frank’s mouth. Frank’s free hand reached around and pinched a nipple, adding a sharp edge that made Matt hiss. The intensity surged—faster, tighter, Frank’s callused grip relentless—until Matt shattered, a deep, guttural groan tearing from his throat as he came hard in Frank’s hand, pulses spilling hot over his fingers, his body trembling with the overwhelming release.

They kissed through it, deep and consuming, the intensity melting into tenderness. “Hey, you good?” Frank murmured, his words rough but soft, hitting Matt with a vulnerability that tightened his chest. Frank held him through the comedown, lips pressing gently in and away, a slow rhythm that grounded them both in the quiet aftermath.

Matt recovered with a soft grin, sliding to kneel between Frank’s legs, his voice low and teasing. “My turn.” He undid Frank’s pants, tugging them down with his boxers, a button sticking briefly, exposing his thick, flushed cock—veined, already leaking. Matt leaned in, breath ghosting over it, drawing a sharp hiss from Frank.

“Red, shit—” Frank rasped, his voice thick with need, his hand threaded into Matt’s hair, gripping the soft strands.

Matt started with a slow lick from base to tip, tasting the salt of Frank, tongue flattening against the underside. Then, Matt took him in, lips stretching around the girth, sucking gently at first—hollowing his cheeks, bobbing shallowly to tease. Frank groaned, deep and ragged, his hips twitching. Matt built the rhythm, taking more with each descent, tongue swirling around the head on the upstroke. He hummed, the vibration pulling a curse from Frank. Deeper now, relaxing his throat to take him fully, nose brushing Frank’s abdomen, the gunpowder less sharper here, it's all Frank's earthy musk, all salt and desire. One hand stroked what his mouth couldn’t reach, the other cupping Frank’s balls, rolling them gently.

Frank’s breaths came in pants, praises spilling out: “Jesus, Red—your mouth…” The tension in his frame, a coiled readiness, betrayed how close he was, how much he was letting go. Matt intensified, sucking harder, faster, the wet sounds filling the room. Frank’s grip tightened, body tensing as he neared the edge. With a final deep thrust into Matt’s throat and an obscene hum, Frank came—hot spurts that Matt swallowed greedily, milking every drop until Frank shuddered, spent.

Frank’s chest heaved, the aftershock still rippling through him. “Fuck, Red. To think you quote scripture with that mouth…”

Matt pressed a kiss to the inside of Frank’s thigh, his teeth grazing the skin playfully. “What can I say, I’m a multifaceted man, Frank.”

Frank let out a rough laugh, half-amused, half-wrecked. “Multifaceted… hell, Red, you’re a goddamn cathedral with a back door.” He pulled Matt up, kissing him languidly, tasting himself on Matt’s lips, the kiss slow and savoring. They settled side by side, shoulders brushing, and Frank grabbed a tissue from the table, cleaning them both with careful swipes, his touch gentle.

Matt’s senses, still sharp despite the haze of pleasure, caught the faint clink of glass against wood—a soft roll, then a stop. The whiskey bottle, knocked loose in their fevered tangle, rested on the floor near the couch’s leg, its sharp, amber scent rising from a spreading puddle. They laughed, breathless, the sound warm and shared.

Frank drew Matt close, kissing his face, his sternum, lips lingering. “You lawyers really know to waste a good bottle,” he teased.

Matt smacked his arm, grinning, the playful gesture easing them into a softer moment. The air between them settled, warm and quiet, their breaths syncing in the dim light of the apartment. Matt’s fingers lingered on Frank’s wrist, tracing the faint scars there, the intimacy of the moment pulling at something deeper—a need to understand the man beside him, beyond the violence and bravado they shared. He hesitated, the weight of their closeness pressing against the walls he’d built around his heart, his faith whispering cautions he wasn’t sure he wanted to heed.

“Frank…” His voice turned careful, probing, the intimacy loosening his tongue. “You ever been with anyone? After?”

Frank’s fingers stilled on Matt’s arm, his breath catching. “Bartender in Michigan. Didn’t work out.”

“Did you—do you regret it?” Matt asked, his voice soft but his nerves frayed, the guilt of wanting more than he should pressing against him.

Frank’s gaze lingered, a knowing lilt in his tone. “Wouldn’t be here if I was still hung up on that, Red.”

Matt turned to face Frank, his voice cheeky to mask the vulnerability beneath. “So, this bartender, he…?”

Frank’s laugh boomed, warm and unguarded, filling the room. “You ain’t my first dude, Red. Been around that block a time or two.” Matt’s cheeks flushed, a dimpling grin spreading, bright and unguarded. Frank sighed, half-exasperated, half-fond, his breath brushing Matt’s ear. “That face ain’t fair, Murdock. Anybody ever told you that?”

Matt tilted his head, feigning innocence, his voice laced with playfulness. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Yeah, right." Frank scoffed, his tone thick with amusement and heat. "You damn well know,” he muttered, voice low and rough.

Matt’s lips quirked, a soft chuckle escaping as he shook his head. “No, I really don’t, Frank. I can guess, sure, but it’s never certain, especially with you. You’re always so damn constant, even when the world’s falling apart. Chaos, gunfire, doesn’t matter." His voice carried a mix of awe and frustration, fingers still lingering on Frank’s arm, catching the faint tremor of his breath. "You’re a wall I can’t read.”

Frank tilted his head, a faint smirk in his voice. “What’s my body tellin’ you now, Red?”

Matt stilled, focusing his senses. The rhythm of Frank’s breath was there—unwavering, a low, constant tide. Then, a shift: the faintest hitch in his heartbeat, a subtle surge that pulsed against Matt’s heightened awareness, betraying a crack in Frank’s guarded exterior. Matt’s smile bloomed, slow and knowing, as he leaned up, capturing Frank’s lips in a soft, deliberate kiss. “You didn’t have to crash a gala to get my attention, you know,” he teased, voice warm with a playful edge. “A call would’ve done it. Hell, even a note through Turk.”

Frank’s chuckle rumbled low, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles on Matt’s shoulder, grounding them both. “Could’ve, yeah.” He paused, his voice dropping to a rough whisper, raw with honesty. “But, here’s the thing, Red, why you keep lettin’ me get away with it?”

Matt froze, Frank’s words cutting through the haze of whiskey and heat, striking something tender in his chest. His fingers tightened on Frank’s arm, feeling the resolute strength beneath, his pulse quickening again. He tilted his head, sensing the intensity of Frank’s gaze. “Think we both know why,” Matt said softly, his voice barely above a breath, the weight of his own moral code pressing against the truth he couldn’t fully admit—not yet.

Frank stilled, his calloused thumb pausing its rhythm on Matt’s shoulder, a silent weight settling between them. Then, with a resolve that carried the gravity of a vow, he leaned forward, pressing his lips firmly to Matt’s forehead. The gesture was quiet, resolute, a wordless acknowledgment of the truth they both skirted. They stayed there, tangled and close, the night stretching into something that felt more permanent than a second drink.