bang.

There were four things Matt knew.

Firsly, he was a selfish, selfish person. 

Frank wasn't supposed to stay for long. Between the overwhelming emotions Matt had felt after hearing his Soulmate's story, and the knowledge that their shared co-habitation was not a good thing to continue, the initial plan was for the Punisher to move on the moment he could stand on his own. It hadn't worked that way of course.

It had been twelve days since Frank had stumbled, bleeding violently, into Matt's flat. Twelve days since he poured out his heart and confessed the turmoil inside him. Twelve days since Matt realised that no, he wasn't worth it, and that Frank deserved more than Daredevil. Twelve days of near constant touching and talking... and trusting. After all Matt had been forced to return to the office after three days cooped up inside his home - there was work to be done - and so he had left the Punisher on his couch, reading. The first day he'd been sick with worry, especially if the man grew curious enough to unlock the cupboard that housed his suit, but it grew easier the more he did it. Karen had stopped by most evenings and thanked Matt for his hospitality, but even she was growing more and more suspicious as to why Frank was still living inside his apartment.

Matt, though, did nothing to encourage his leaving. In fact, he welcomed the presence, selfishly coveting what little attention and time he could from his Soulmate before the inevitable separation. He'd long since accepted that he and Frank would never be what all others were when they met the owners of the words on their wrists. But he was desperate and he was selfish enough to take whatever he could, and if this uncertain domesticity was the best on offer, he was going to hoard it and hold onto it as long as he could. 

Secondly, Frank Castle was beautiful. 

Frank had starting doing things shirtless. He'd taken to strutting around the apartment with less clothes after showering, confident that the blind man wouldn't be able to notice the difference. He'd made some passing comment over a week previously about whether he could because the t-shirt was irritating the healing skin on his shoulder, and Matt had confirmed it wasn't a problem. 

It was a problem. 

Frank was attractive, he knew that. Karen's pheromones hit the roof whenever she came over and it grossly outstripped the response she had to him. She'd flirted once or twice, but Frank - always polite - was nothing but respectful in return. She'd been a little disappointed but not entirely dissuaded. Matt was curious if Foggy would react someway. That would really tell him just how good-looking Frank really was. But asking his best friend to come over would be like throwing a grenade on a camp fire: stupid and asking for trouble. A part of Matt wanted to ask if he could trace Frank's features, build up a picture of the man, but it seemed too intimate and there was never a right time to broach such a thing. He'd been incredibly professional as he'd cleaned and dressed Frank's wounds but as he was rapidly healing, there was no need for him to drag his fingers over the marks left by whatever had attacked him that night. Occasionally Frank grunted - a sign that he couldn't quite reach the part of his shoulder he wanted to - and Matt would offer his assistance, but other than that all medical aid had been taken over by the man himself. And the more Frank became self-sufficient, the more panic bred in the pit of Matt's stomach.

But Frank stayed.  

He stayed, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore the way his body responded. The mere smell of him: of leather, coffee, the tangy faint traces of metal and gunpowder and something undeniably Frank, felt like a warm blanket, or sinking into a hot bath: blissful. He relaxed, muscles unwinding from their near constant state of tenseness, around the soldier, although his heartrate alternated between racing out of control or slowing down to a lethargic, sleepy tempo. It was intoxicating, and dizzying.  

Thirdly, he was integrating himself into Matt's life in a way that no one ever had before.

He was becoming a part of Matt's life the longer he hung out in the apartment and there was something a little unnerving about the situation. Frank's clothes - newly store bought by Karen two weeks prior - were in Matt's laundry basket, hanging on the backs of his chairs or folded in one of his drawers. Frank's books - also bought by Karen - littered the living room. His mug - or at least the one he had claimed - was almost always on the coffee table; and a small, cheap television set had appeared in the far corner of his place six days ago. Matt hadn't noticed these things until he'd walked into his flat five nights ago, weary from work and incredibly thankful he had an excuse not to go on patrol as Daredevil, and tripped over a pair of boots he hadn't noticed. Frank, halfway through cooking dinner, had swore colourfully and helped him up, kicking his shoes under the table as he did. "Sorry Blue," he'd muttered, checking him over quickly for injuries. "Forgot I'd left 'em there," he confessed, before guiding him to a chair and proceeded to ask Matt all about his day. The domesticity of it had frightened and thrilled Matt in equal measure. Because that was supposed to be what Soulmates did...but Frank didn't, wouldn't, couldn't know that they were Soulmates. So this was him being him. And suddenly every sense of Frank loomed large around him. For any stranger, the flat would look not just his but theirs. And wasn't that a thought?

Foggy hadn't said a word about it; about the sudden appearance of Matt-and-Frank, rather than Matt and Frank. Admittedly, he'd glared at Matt - and at Karen - a few times, but overall had decided that avoiding the conversation would ultimately avoid the ensuing argument. He knew that Matt wouldn't listen to his advice where the Punisher was concerned, so he just pretended the situation wasn't happening. In a way Matt appreciated it, although he was growing more and more desperate to talk to someone about the word on his wrist and just what Frank thought of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and the growing thing between them.  Although he wasn't sure they would talk about it even if Foggy was acknowledging of what was going on. It felt only right that the first person who should know that he was Frank Castle's Soulmate was Frank Castle. It was for that reason that he hadn't turned to Father Lantom either. But it was tearing him apart - becoming worse and worse as they inched closer together. 

He knew that it was cruel, to allow such domesticity. Frank would most definitely be furious, and betrayed, if he discovered that it was Daredevil who he now spent most of his time with. But he hadn't done anything to change it. He couldn't, if he was honest with himself, because he was selfish, and Frank was attractive, and Frank was in his life. 

Fourthly, Matthew Murdock was in love with Frank Castle.

Matt loved Frank. 

It hadn't been a light-bulb moment. He wasn't washing dishes, before gasping comically and dropping the pan into the sink. He didn't do any of that. In fact it was in the quiet, sleepy hours before they turned in. Frank had been speaking about a particular politician he'd more than happily murder if he could travel to Washington in his condition, and Matt had been lulled to sleep by the rumbling baritone of his voice and the reassuring scent on his t-shirt. When he half came to, he was buried in the man's side, Frank's arms holding him steady as he slept, and more at peace than he had been in years. He'd known then that he wanted to wake up like that every day. Every. Single. Day. He'd realised then, listening to the thump of Frank's heart and the rise and fall of his chest that the man was it for him. (He knew the moment he said Matt's words, but had never truly accepted that on every level until that moment). 

He loved him. 

He loved the ridiculous way he whistled when he cooked; pouted when Matt said something particularly self-deprecating; squinted when he read; snorted into his coffee when Matt recounted funny tales of roosters in the office and sixty-five bunches of bananas being delivered in thanks. "Well I guess you guys will be eating banoffee pie for dessert for a few weeks," he'd returned, aiming for deadpan, but the lift in his voice betrayed his amusement. Matt loved his love for animals, his rumbling laugh, and the soft gentle tone he'd use when speaking of his children - after his explosive confession, Frank had shared a few, much happier stories about Lisa and Frankie going to school, the zoo, the park, or sitting at the breakfast table throwing blueberries at each other when they'd finished their pancakes.  

Daredevil was, wholeheartedly, madly, stupidly in love with The Punisher. 

And Matt was beginning to wonder if Frank might not like him, like Matt, in reply. 

It had started with the little things. Small, curious looks, which turned into blatant staring. Pretending not to know that the ex-marine was watching him near constantly was beginning to be exhausting, but Matt kept with it. Then they began to sit nearer to each other. Then they were touching. Then legs were tangled together, or feet were in laps. On one occasion, Frank's head was in Matt's lap as he carded his fingers through what little hair Frank had. But nothing came of any of it and Matt, of course, hadn't pushed. How would be explain, or justify, the emotions, after all? Frank hated Daredevil. 

Matt should be ashamed. 

But he was selfish, Frank was pretty and settled in his life, and Matt was so in love.

They were sat on the couch in slacks and soft t-shirts, Matt's bare feet resting in Frank's lap as his fingers ran over the case notes for the new client they'd acquired that afternoon, glasses still perched on the end of his nose. Their meal - a lasagne concoction that Frank had proved incredibly good at - was cooking behind them while the ex-marine was finishing a book. He huffed in displeasure at the story-line several times, bringing a half-smile to Matt's face because he'd expressed his uncertainty at the main character nearly twice an hour for the four days he'd been reading it. He'd just turned the page when the door knocked: Karen. It was always Karen. Frank must have realised too, because he barely glanced up from his book. 

"It's open," he shouted. The door heaved open and heels on the floor echoed around them. 

"Hey!" Karen called from the hallway, hanging up her coat and rustling a bottle of wine from a paper bag. It was the third time she'd stayed for dinner, but the first two occasions had been in the days immediately following Frank's injury. It had been a surprise to Matt when Karen had asked to come over later than usual, but when he'd mentioned it to Frank, the man had shrugged and said:

"So long as she doesn't bitch about my lasagne." And that, it seemed, was that. 

"Sorry I'm late," she continued, rounding the corner. Matt heard her grind to a halt and her lungs fill with air. Surprise. 

"Nah worries Karen," Frank replied, still not looking up, "still got ten, fifteen minutes or so," he said, distracted. 

"Oh," she replied, voice higher than usual.

Matt took a sniff before frowning. "Maybe not," he muttered. "Somethings burning Frank."

"What?" he replied, turning and giving Matt his full, undivided attention. 

"Something's burning," he insisted. Frank cursed under his breath, not smelling anything but certainly trusting Matt enough to check. He dropped his book on the table and gently lifted Matt's feet before placing them in his space.

"Want a drink Karen?" Frank asked, limping just a little as he moved into the kitchen and pulled open the oven. The smell of partially burned pasta filled the room. "Fuckin' hell," he swore, pulling it out and turning the oven down. "You got one hell of a nose, Blue," he called over as he assessed the damage. It was mostly alright and he scraped off the worst part before turning it around and placing it on a lower shelf to keep it warm. "It's done," he announced. "Ya gonna set the table, Blue?"

"No," Matt replied, too comfortable to move. 

"It's alright," Karen broke in, discomfort evident now, "I can do it."

"Thanks Karen," Frank began, "but guests don't set the table," he said, turning back to Matt, "do they Juris Doctor?"

"Bite me," Matt shot back, attention remaining on his work, because they did this dance most days and it always ended with them laughing or Frank bodily carrying Matt to the table, or both. And from the uptick in Frank's heart it wasn't just Matt who enjoyed the closeness their strange routine brought. Domesticity, he thought. They had, much like all marked others, fallen into it. 

Frank sighed, partly in amusement and partly in half-forced irritation. Matt heard his bare feet on the floor, before the scent of coffee, leather and something undeniably Frank loomed around him. Then a hand was around his waist, another beneath his thighs, and he was being heaved off the couch, papers falling to the floor around him. He spluttered indignantly, aware of the creak in Frank's still healing shoulder, but the laughter beneath the soldier's skin was enough to stop him shimmying free. Then his feet were on the ground and Frank's hand was guiding him to the cupboard door. "Plates," he said, chuckle in his voice, "go."

Matt complied, but not before he stuck his tongue out. He'd never done so before and a surprised inhale from the man before him coupled with a faint, barely there scent of arousal, was suddenly flooding his senses. Heat raced to his cheeks but he turned away, moving to the table before Frank saw. After a moment Frank turned away too. "Wine, Karen?" Frank asked, jerking his head to the bottle still in the woman's hand.

"Uh, yeah, um, alright," she murmured, eyes pinned to Matt as though she wasn't sure of what she was seeing was real. "Thank you," she added as Frank poured her a glass and handed it back. The former Lieutenant moved back to the oven and pulled out the dish, carrying it to the table between two dish clothes and almost dropping it on the place-mat Matt had put there. He returned with a bowl of salad, salad tongs and a serving spoon a moment later. His beer clinked Matt's before turning to Karen after a moment, as though remembering she was there, and tapped the bottle against her wine glass with a half smile. 

"How ya doing Karen? Good day? Blue said it was busy," he began, dishing a large portion of food onto first Matt's plate, then his own before offering the spoon to Karen so she might decide on her own portion size. 

"Yes, busy," she repeated, clearly still dazed at the rapport they had established. "Um, sorry, Blue?"

"Me," Matt said with a smile, raising his hand as though it were the first day in law school again. 

"Of course," the woman smiled, still not understanding but unsure on whether she should push.

"New client," Frank pressed, making the decision for them, "right?"

"Oh, yeah," Karen nodded, "Mrs Dellany," she continued, not really paying attention. "She was wrongly evicted." She paused. "Is it Blue because of his suits?" she asked, curious. 

Frank frowned. "His eyes," he said around a mouthful of pasta, tone implying that the nickname should be self-explanatory. 

"Oh," she nodded before grimacing, "I, uh, never noticed." Matt felt himself tense, embarrassment washing over him, but he offered a fake smile to placate a sense of unease that had stuttered Karen's breathing. 

"Don't worry about it," he assured her. She didn't see through it. Frank, however, did, because suddenly there was the heavy weight of Frank's palm burning a hole into Matt's knee. The ex-marine squeezed once in reassurance and Matt found himself offering a grateful smile in reply. Then the hand moved. It framed his face for a moment before his fingers began grasping at his glasses and easing them off. A blush raced up Matt's neck and flooded his cheeks but Frank had looked away as he folded the shades neatly and put them on the counter behind him. The lawyer felt suddenly incredibly vulnerable, and self conscious, especially with the look Karen was now pinning to the side of his face, but as soon as Frank's hand returned to its place on his leg, he settled.

His heart tripled in size, and all because of the glorious man beside him. God, he was so in love. 

Karen cleared her throat, probably because it had gone incredibly dry all of a sudden. She smiled tightly before taking a bite of food. "So, Frank," she began, tilting just enough towards the broad-set ex-marine to demonstrate she had little intention of engaging Matt in much conversation for the night. "You're healing well," she smiled, "better by the day."

"You know me, Karen," Frank snorted, taking a drag of his beer, "ain't nothin' keepin' me down."

"Mr Indestructible," Karen retorted with an almost giggle, looking up through her hair. 

"Eh," he shrugged, "not quite. Helps to have a good nurse."

"If you're talking about me, Frank, you'll be sleeping on the floor," Matt retorted quickly, but without any bite, allowing a smile to creep into his words. 

"Course not, Blue," he replied, "your bedside manner's too shit to be a nurse."

Matt bit back a laugh.

Karen hummed, eyes narrowing sharply as she watched the pair of them. "The police think you've moved on," she ventured, "they're not actively looking for you at the moment."

There was a pause. 

"Well ain't that somethin'?" Frank shook his head. "Maybe I should get shot up more often, huh, if it gets me a bit of breathin' space?"

"Please don't," Matt retorted, ignoring the thundering, desperate pace of his heart at the notion of Frank leaving, "I don't think I can get any more bloodstains out of my floor."

Frank laughed and even Karen attempted a smile, although it turned into more of a grimace. "Don't worry 'bout it," he said, squeezing Matt's leg in comfort. "I'm alright here," he chuckled, taking another mouthful of food and winking at the blonde apparently shell-shocked before them. "Matt and I are good, Karen," another smile. "Aren't we?"

"Everything's fine Karen," Matt nodded dumbly, mind screaming: no, no, no, no it's not, he'll hate me when he knows... "Honestly, everything's okay."