If They Got to Know You, They'd Know
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen…”
The Apostles Creed—most likely originating in fifth-century, past the development of the, at least in the Catholic point of view, Christologically-challenged Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed, was the first recitation step for anyone praying the Dominican rosary; it was said, always, after doing the sign of the cross.
“I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of Heaven and Earth, and in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died, and was buried. He descended into Hell… on the third day He rose again from the dead, He ascended into Heaven and is seated at the right hand of God, the Father almighty. From there He will come to judge the living and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church, the communion of saints, forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body and life everlasting. Amen. For our holy Father, His health and intentions…”
Then began the Our Father prayer as Jesus Christ taught human beings to recite, in the Gospel of Matthew, chapter six.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…”
Praying the rosary was an essential part of any Catholic’s faith—and, of course, many members of the Anglican Communion and those subscribing to Lutheranism—and as such, it was an essential part of Matt Murdock’s faith. Usually, he would pray the rosary kneeling on the floor, a physical sign of penance, the twinge in his knees a sign of respect and reverence, but right now?
Kneeling on pillows was much more preferable to kneeling on the hard surface of the flooring of his bedroom like he usually did, Matt thought—the gentle cushion cradled his knees, a recommendation from Frank given to him a couple of weeks ago to keep some bruises he’d sustained from landing on his knees after jumping off a fire escape from getting any worse, but still allow him to exercise his faithfulness and dedication to the daily rosary.
As his joined thumbs found a place on his forehead, Matt leaned forward against his bed, eyes closed, in prayer. The cacophony of noise that usually plagued him was quenched, if even for a moment, as he shut his senses down to focus on nothing but the words flowing out of his mouth, the smoothness of the beads of his rosary beneath his fingers, and the sound of his own heart beating, lips moving, lungs breathing—quiet, to Matt Murdock, was a luxury. With his senses, it was inconceivable; almost impossible.
Prayer was the closest he could get to any sort of peace.
“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death…”
Matt moved along to a different bead in the triplet along the pendant of his rosary, the gentle sound of the bead clinking against his fingernail as he passed onto the little circular wooden reminder of where he was, where he had been, and where he was to go, in his recitations.
“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…”
His finger moved to the second to last bead in the pendant.
“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee…”
The knot between the Hail Mary beads and the second Our Father bead was rough in texture under Matt’s thumb, and he rubbed it gently before inhaling softly, coming to rest a little more gently on his knees as he settled in for the rest of the rosary.
“Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit—”
“Matt.”
Matt paused, the words ceasing to fall from his lips, and he didn’t lift his head up. In a moment, he’d reconstructed his world of fire—and he could hear the elevated heartbeat that belonged to his boyfriend, as he stood in the doorframe of his bedroom. He could smell the man’s cologne, something cheap yet rustic and soothing, a sort of convenience store ship-on-the-front-of-the-bottle scent that Matt found comfort in. He had a suspicious pool of dread that was forming in his stomach, one that told him that the next conversation he and his boyfriend were about to have wasn’t going to be one that reminded him of Frank’s cologne; no sort of comfort to be found, at all.
Slowly, he lifted his head up, holding his rosary a little tighter in his hands, thumb gently brushing over the Glory Be knot, and he looked over towards Frank—at least, directed his gaze in the general direction of the man. Not that he didn’t want to look at him, with his image of the world, but that he was feeling something like dread and shame crawl into his throat, making it hard to do so. Guilt settled in his airway there like a squatter, an unwelcome tenant strangling him out of calmative reassurances.
“I’m praying,” Matt’s voice was softer than he’d anticipated it to be, rough and scratchy in all the wrong ways, as though the feeble excuse to squeeze just fifteen, twenty more minutes of time to himself before he had to rip off this bandaid was dialing his words down to zero, masked by the supposition of time to wallow, “can we talk later? I’m almost finished with the pendant and I’ll be done with the loop in twenty—”
“Get your ass in the kitchen, Red. Come on,” Frank saw through his ruse, and retreated out of the doorframe without another word. The sound of his socked feet against the hardwood flooring were like grating screams on Matt’s ears; letting him know that he didn’t have much time to follow the other man out before he truly got upset. And of course Frank was upset, how could he not be?
Essentially, Matt had sacrificed his dignity for the sake of his secrecy.
Matt tilted his head up towards the ceiling, and closed his eyes.
“I’ll be back. I’m sorry,” he murmured, setting his rosary down on his bed, before crossing himself, “...in the name of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit…”
Frank was nestled on the end of Matt’s couch, at the end of the hallway that led from his bedroom to the common room where he spent most of his time, when he was with others—the vigilante couldn’t tell what color sweater his partner was wearing, but he could outline the bulkiness that it added to Frank’s frame as he obviously sulked on the cushion, the sounds of chewing indicating that he had helped himself to something in the lawyer’s pantry. Matt inhaled for a moment; salt, corn… tortilla chips. A comfort food, one that he’d noticed Frank often found himself digging for when he was stressed, upset, and otherwise disheveled, and the sound of a rustling bag Matt had come to associate with restlessness. It scraped against his eardrums in a way that promised irritation.
Matt sat down next to him, pulling his own sweater closer to his body, and closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Frank,” he let out, ripping the band-aid off with the three meager words of offertory peace, “I know how I made you look, yesterday. But you have to understand, Foggy and Karen weren’t going to stop investigating my injuries until I threw them off somehow, and that was the quickest way I could come up with to do it—”
“By making me look like an asshole?” Frank grumbled back, and from the tone of his voice, Matt could tell that he was far more hurt than angry. One of the many things he’d learned about Frank Castle; when he appeared angry, he was usually just… bruised, emotionally. Over the course of the last four or so months they’d been dating, Matt had come to understand Frank as a man who was more external in his expression when he was upset—a concept almost entirely foreign to Matt, raised to be externally poised and internally at war—and, truly, Matt knew that half of the things that he said, he didn’t mean how he said them. He would bitch and bitch and bitch about something, but it was just his compulsive way of trying to address the subject without truly knowing how to address the subject.
Matt preferred to leave subjects unaddressed, when it came to emotion. He hated bearing his soul to anyone except God, it felt too naked—too personal, too sacred.
And Frank was a good man, yes, but he was still deeply traumatized from what had happened to his family—and still so wrapped up in finding the man who’d killed his wife and children, his previous family, if Matt could even be so bold as to call himself Frank’s ‘new’ family at this point. Sometimes that came out of him in… well, unproductive ways. Matt was reminded of his partner’s brokenness every now and then, when Frank was explosive. Spitting words, pushing Matt away, in some twisted sense of self-preservation that told him he’d never have to care for another human being again, if he just didn’t let them get close enough.
Matt reached forward, fumbling gently in the air until he found Frank’s forearm. He gripped it, calloused hand on large muscle, muscle that he didn’t need to focus his echolocation on to see the definition of. In Frank’s presence, Matt generally found his guard let down—even now, when the man was visibly, undeniably upset. Found himself allowing himself to let his senses buzz and blur instead of being in razor-sharp focus constantly—which was, as many would imagine, quite tiring. It was nice to be able to merely let his defenses drop around people he was comfortable with. Sure, that gave the image that he was far more blind than he actually was, but he was masquerading as a truly disabled man, wasn’t he? It helped his case, with Foggy, and Karen, because they assumed that of him always. But with Frank, it displayed a special sort of intimacy—especially because he’d once told the other man that he only let his fine-tuned world of fire go staticky and unfocused around those he completely trusted, due to his disadvantages against sighted people.
The chip bag rustled slightly, and then Frank set a hand on top of his.
“There’s nothing I can say to apologize for that enough,” Matt told him, continuing, “I just… I needed to martyr you a little so that my friends wouldn’t get suspicious of all my busted-up lips and black eyes. I made the decision that them learning I’m some sort of idiot ‘boxer’ is a better alternative than digging too deep and finding Daredevil, you have to understand—”
“I get it, I understand,” Frank replied.
“You do?” a hopeful little tone flitted across Matt’s tongue, as his face contorted into one of clear surprise, but then—
“Sure. Your reputation as a vigilante is more important than mine as a civilian, I guess.”
Ah. Well, it was good while it lasted.
“That’s not it, Frank. I did it because I needed a damn good alibi for all of the bodily harm I’ve been suffering for the past couple months. Taking down Fisk has been rough, both legally and physically, and I can’t hide that I’m unraveling more often than not, nowadays. I came in to work with a black eye and a limp, Frank, they were bound to notice one way or another. Had to think of something quick.”
“So your poor fighting skills are some sort of excuse to drag my name all through the mud, then, Red? You gotta understand how this makes me look—asking me to punch you straight in the face in front of your two closest friends who think you’re blind—”
“I am blind, Frank—”
“---who think you’re blind enough to be completely helpless, Matt! You got any idea what that makes me look like!? Some sort of disabled-person-abusing piece of shit! I’m a lot of fucking things, Matt, done a lot of fucked up shit, but I’d never do something like that! And now, your friends, that’s what they think of me. And now, there ain’t no fucking chance we can tell them we’re together, and we’re gonna have to keep hiding this shit—”
“I already told them, Frank.”
“...you what?”
“I told them we were dating, Frank. In the street in front of Fogwell’s.”
“Why the hell’d you go and do that? Without asking me?”
“I was sure they wanted to bring your name up to the hospital staff once I went to the ED, and I made them promise to leave you out of it. Look. Look at me.”
“Mhm.”
“Don’t make me strain my senses to make sure you’re actually looking at me, Frank.”
Frank turned his head in a pointed, exaggerated sort of motion—the rustle of the fabric of his sweater gave it away.
Matt was sure there was contempt on his face.
“The hospital staff thought someone was beating me,” he extended, then, voice falling into resignation.
“Yeah, no shit. You’re covered in bruises and breaks, half the time. More than half, really.”
“If I had to make an educated guess, Foggy and Karen are under the same impression. And you have to believe me when I say that I had no intention on it… turning out this way. It’s a bigger headache than I imagined that it’d be. I didn’t think they’d think of you as an abuser, I just thought they’d think of you as rough-around-the-edges. And—maybe even still they aren’t, maybe we’ve got it all wrong.”
“Just because you didn’t mean to doesn’t mean the shit doesn’t still hurt me. What kind of image do I have, now, Red? I mean, shit, it’s not like it’s worth much in the grand scheme of things, but I’d like to keep my little domestic life here free of whatever the hell kind of complicated shit this is. And I’m no idiot, and I know that neither of those two are idiots either, from the way you talk about them. They’re onto us, and they’re onto me, specifically. They think I’m beating you—ain’t no doubt about that.”
Matt paused, then, slowly withdrawing his hand from Frank’s forearm. His unseeing eyes flitted back and forth, like he was trying to figure something out—to read something on some astral chalkboard that was being spelled out for him—to conclude something from Frank’s statement. He parted his lips to speak, and then pushed himself up and off the couch. It felt like his insides were kindlewood, and Frank’s contempt was the spark that lit everything inside of Matt alight; he couldn’t sit on the couch and listen to this.
Not worth much.
“I’m not worth much?” Matt’s voice was quiet, though not meek.
Dangerous. Fragile.
“Matt, I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Then what did you mean, Frank? Because I really don’t see any other way to take that statement.”
“I just—I meant that this life, it’s… shit, it ain’t…”
Silence.
“I can’t believe this.”
“Red, come on—”
“Don’t call me Red, not right now, Frank. You don’t get to call me sweet nicknames right after you’ve just told me that our life together doesn’t mean anything to you. You don’t get to—”
Frank was up and out of the couch in a moment, closing the distance between he and Matt. Matt wanted to pull away, but found himself trapped, feet planted in the ground like roots digging deep into soil, and he tilted his head upwards to at least try and keep up with the illusion of eye contact. He was glad, in that moment, that he couldn’t see Frank’s face; couldn’t see how upset he must look. Couldn’t see the little furrow in his brow that Matt had ran his fingers over, once, just to feel what it felt like.
“I didn’t mean it like that. You mean everything to me, Matt. I meant that… my image, in this life, doesn’t mean much. I’ve been pretty much a ghost for the past few years, just tracking and hunting and killing and tracking some more—I don’t have a history of domesticity, some good ‘ol boy record that’d get ruined if it were to get out that I’m some sort of abuser. My life’s been defined by violence, at this point, and my history lies in my crimes.”
Matt was silent. An invitation for Frank to continue.
“...and even though this little streak of what we’ve got going here doesn’t technically mean much to the rest of the world in terms of my reputation, I still don’t want it to get messed up by people thinking I’m hurting you. The couple of people you interact with think I’m punching your lights out, now, not ‘cause we train together, but because I enjoy taking my… anger out on you, or whatever.”
“I know, Frank. I’m—”
“---and now I can’t even meet ‘em proper, because I just know they already hate me. I wanted to be in that part of your life, eventually. Now I am, but in all the wrong ways.”
Matt’s anger dissipated, and he averted his general gaze, crossing his arms over his chest in thought—his own brow furrowed, and he worried his split lip between his teeth, the gentle hiss of pain every couple of moments a good reminder of how royally he’d screwed Frank. Frank deserved better than this, Matt knew, deserved better than to be thought of like some sort of animal who was taking all of his anger out on his boyfriend, and he knew that there was no chance in Hell that either Foggy or Karen were going to relent about this.
He had to fix this.
“You can still meet them properly, Frank. If they got to know you, they’d know. They’d know you’d never hurt me.”
A bloated period of silence extended between the two of them—and the sound of Frank’s heart and breathing were the only things Matt could hear (apart from the TV in the apartment next to his, the sound of traffic outside, and someone talking about Judge Judy upstairs) for what seemed like a minute.
“How can I start over, after the stunt in the ring?” Frank asked, not entirely dismissive, moreso curious about how he could earn metaphorical redemption in the eyes of the two suspicious thirds of Nelson, Murdock, and Page.
“How about dinner?” Matt decided, then, “dinner, at a good restaurant—not too good, though. Just… someplace nice, comforting, with really good food. I’ll invite Foggy and Karen. You can wear a good outfit, clean yourself up, be polite and nice, and we… officially come out as a couple. You can talk to them, tell them about what you do—”
“And what do I do besides steal your food, crash on your couch, and chase after organized crime leads in the night, huh? Ain’t got no job, I’m a real winner, here. I’m sure they’re gonna have a field day with that.”
“I don’t know, Frank, make something up. You’re good at lying, lie a little.”
“Not sure that’s ethical, choir boy.”
“Oh, God. I’d much prefer Red.”
“Suit yourself. I guess I’ll just tell them I’m a veteran getting back on his feet or some stupid shit like that, not so far off from the truth.”
“There we go, that’ll be fine. Implies that you’re taking some time to find yourself but you’ll be back to being a ‘productive upstanding member of society’ in no time.”
“Yeah. In the meantime—I might not be back for a couple days, the lead’s a pretty big one,” Frank told him vaguely, then—as always, Matt’s heart clenched with the idea that he wouldn’t see Frank for some time, and that he had no idea where he was going or when exactly he’d be back, but he knew that he could do nothing to prevent the other man from enacting vengeance on the pieces of shit that killed his wife and children—the pieces of shit who certainly deserved to have revenge enacted on them, but still. It made Matt’s soul ache with worry.
The sudden rustle of fabric and shoes and nylon told Matt that Frank was gathering up all of his things into a bag that he’d left strewn around somewhere (Matt’s apartment was significantly more messy since his boyfriend spent about seventy percent of his nights sleeping in it, too). From what the vigilante could guess, Frank was stuffing… a shirt, a hoodie, something loud (the bag of chips he’d been eating from), and some other things into the bag, before slinging it over his shoulder and moving towards the door, opening it, hesitating for a moment.
“Be safe, call me if you need help, okay? I’ll be there even as banged up as I am, I don’t care. I don’t want to lose you.”
“I’ll be fine. Stop worrying. Set up the damn dinner. Can’t have people thinking I’m keen on punching you in the face, gotta clear my image.”
Matt moved to lean against his doorframe, facing the open hallway that led to his neighbors’ house, an amused expression (though still tinged with worry) on his features.
“I’ll fix this,” Matt reassured, “it’ll all be fine.”
“I sure hope so.”
Matt’s hands found Frank’s chest, then, a little last-ditch effort to squeeze in some affection before his partner had to leave, hope that they could suture this wound closed bursting through his chest, and he leaned in a little closer, a reassuring smile plastered on his delicate cupid’s bow, ruined with a cut that sliced through his upper lip like a heinous bolt of lightning striking an unsuspecting tree. Frank allowed the moment, even though they were exposed, in the hallway, where anyone could see, and Frank was usually an incredibly private man who enjoyed keeping his personal life personal.
“...look at that, you’re really bruised up, Red. Got you good, didn’t I?” Frank observed, then, deeply sighing, switching the subject away from himself and onto the smaller vigilante, carefully moving his hand to cup against Matt’s face—the brush of thumb against bruised cheekbone carrying a note of sadness that was wordlessly communicated.
“It’s my own fault,” Matt reassured, resting his own hand on top of Frank’s, “I was the one who wasn’t careful enough about hiding my injuries, the karma levels out.”
“Isn’t karma a Buddhist thing? Thought you were Catholic, Matt.”
“It’s a figure of speech, Frank.”
“Still, looks like it hurts. Didn’t mean to hit you that hard, it was meant to be a solid punch but not a nose-breaking punch—did you lean into it or something?” Frank asked.
“No, I didn’t. You’re just that strong,” Matt grinned, and closed his eyes as Frank pressed a chaste kiss to his forehead, and he mourned the loss of warmth as Frank pulled away.
“See you in a couple days. Let me know about dinner.”
“I will,” Matt reassured, “be safe, Frank. I—”
The word ‘love’ was right there on his tongue, but he held it, gripping onto the doorframe a little tighter. Frank’s retreating footsteps echoed loud in his ears, a chorus of days-long abandonment that made his heart rate elevate—his frustration at his own injuries preventing him from following after his partner was mounting greatly, and he wanted nothing more than to don his Devil suit and follow Frank Castle into the night (or, at least, he was pretty sure it was getting to be night, he wasn’t sure of what time it was, really). His still-achy knee, broken nose, and various other healing bruises were preventing him from being with the man he loved, from making sure that he was safe and protected as he plagued the streets in vengeance. It was agonizing, worse than the pain of a shattered face or the pain in his friends' voices when they told him for the hundredth time since Saturday that they were there for him, if he needed to talk, about anything and everything and nothing at all. Matt was grateful to have such good friends, companions that he could sincerely say knew him (almost) better than anyone else in the world, but their misplaced concern was only contributing to the chronic migraine of a misunderstanding that his situation was turning out to be, these days.
“I’ll call you!” he chirped down the hallway, despite his toiling mind, his voice an octave or so higher than he’d intended for it to be---way to come off desperate, Matt.
“Don’t call me, Matt,” Frank’s voice echoed up the stairwell, an exasperated sort of gruff tone taking on his words that told Matt he was going to be slipping around in and out of buildings, on rooftops with sniper rifles, potentially, and other places that would require ultimate focus, and that receiving a call from his boyfriend (merely because he was worried, craved hearing his deep voice, or maybe was just clingy because he was the only person who truly knew who he was in the entire world, besides actually abusive people...) wasn't an ideal event that could happen; but, Matt figured, to spare his feelings, Frank omitted any of this, and simply finished with: “I’ll be busy.”
“Call me at least, when you can?” Matt called back, almost pitifully. And God, he felt like a teenaged girl getting rejected by her highschool sweetheart who hadn't leaned in for a kiss on their first date, when he'd dropped her off at her doorstep, all bumbly and practically falling over herself to wish him a good night, and practically begging for a call that she would never get.
“I’ll see you at dinner, Matt!" Frank was having none of it.
“Okay! Sorry!”
Matt sighed, then, gently tapping his fingers against the doorframe, hearing the little pecks crystal clear in his ears, and he sniffed a little, raising his fingers to the front of his mouth. His nose was bleeding, slightly, he realized, then, and his tongue darted out to lick at it slightly. The salty, familiar taste of violence coated his tongue, and he grimaced. He found himself not wanting to go back inside—even though he should get back to praying, his guilty conscience told him. Without the pillow below his knees, this time. He'd caused enough suffering in these last twenty-four hours not to deserve the pillow, tonight. It gave him a sort of solace, that he'd be able to put himself through some sort of pain to repent, in a way, for his mistakes. And sure, Frank would have a fit if he saw him doing that, especially with his iffy leg, but Frank was outside, now, getting into his car, Matt could hear.
He turned to walk back inside of his apartment, but the vigilante paused a moment.
He slowly moved his head and tilted it slightly. He could also hear something else.
A little heartbeat—in the corner, that he'd just now paid attention to, which he cursed himself and his fuzzy-Frank-senses for not clearly identifying earlier, it belonged to—
“...Fran?” he murmured, his own heart rate increasing as he thought back to the awfully incriminating private conversation he and Frank had just shared, foolishly, in the doorframe of his apartment.
His neighbor startled slightly, presumably because the blind man had somehow detected her presence, and Matt heard her open her door a little more from where she'd been peeking out from, listening to them. Watching, too, most likely.
“Matthew,” her voice was aged, motherly, but with a tone that told him her next words were no invitation, but a demand, “...would you… like to come in for some tea? And a chat. I think you know about what.”
“...sure, Fran,” Matt’s shoulders sagged, and a profound sense of tiredness overcame him, “Would you believe me if I told you it’s not what it looks like?”
“Not in a million years. Get in here.”
“Yeah,” Matt reached into his apartment to grab his cane, for show, knuckles white with his tight grip, and he made his way over and inside Fran’s living space after shutting his own door, not bothering with a lock, seeing as he was only going one apartment over, and he didn't exactly have much for a burglar to steal anyway, “yeah, I had a feeling.”
He reminded himself to ask for forgiveness after he’d finally gotten around to finishing reciting his daily rosary for his next words, whispered under his breath in a blasphemous prayer:
“God damn it.”