Archive of Our Own

Frank lines up the shot, waits a few moments, squeezes the trigger.  The crack deafens him for a split second and the recoil jars his shoulder; an instant later his target drops like a de-stringed puppet, the back of his skull splattered across the rooftop in a spray of crimson and fragments of bone.

Daredevil's head snaps around, unerringly zeroing in on his position.  Frank tips an imaginary hat in a 'you're welcome' gesture.  He has no idea if Daredevil can see - sense? - it from here, but it amuses him anyway.  Daredevil doesn't get the chance to respond, being forced to throw himself behind a half-crumbled smoke-stack as another burst of fire comes his way.

Daredevil's outnumbered and outgunned - again.  The goddamned kid's always biting off more than he can chew, and never knows when to quit.  Frank's coincidental proximity is Daredevil's good luck this evening, whether he's willing to acknowledge it or not.  Frank is pretty sure that even after saving the guy's life he'll still get a lecture for doing it with bullets.  Being grateful isn't something the guy seems particularly good at, either.  

Frank picks another target, one with a pistol aimed at Daredevil's spinning and punching form.  Another crack, and Frank's second target's weapon spills to the ground a split second before his body crumples.  One less irredeemable asshole in the world.  Frank certainly ain't gonna cry about it.

In the end Frank only needs to pick off three before Daredevil has the situation under control.  He's flipping about all over the place, taking the last of them down, confiscating their weapons.  Boy scout still hasn't learned that his way is only ever temporary.   

Frank slings the rifle back over his shoulder, straps it onto his back.  Picks up the spent cartridges, pushes his thermos into the side slot of his backpack.  Double-checks all his equipment.  He's done for the night; the rest of the clean-up is in Daredevil's hands now.  He climbs down the fire escape and starts making his way through the backstreets, most of them abandoned, echoing and empty at this time of night.

He's halfway back to the safehouse when something pings at the very edges of his awareness.  He senses movement behind him before he consciously sees or hears it and ducks into an alley, slinking back into the shadows; silently pulls his pistol out of its holster and nudges off the safety.  It's already cocked, round in the chamber.

A few moments later he catches a faint scuff on the roof above and behind him, and then, softly:

"Frank.  It's me."

Frank scowls and thumbs the safety back on.

A shape drops down from the roof above and lands in a neat crouch six-odd feet from where Frank stands.  In the darkness it's little more than a silhouette, but the ridiculous little horns are pretty distinctive.

"Whaddya want, altar boy?  Ain't in the mood for a lecture."

"Not here to lecture you."

Daredevil rises to his feet, but something about his usual grace is absent, and he has an arm curled around his abdomen.  

Frank frowns.  "You hurt?"

"I'm fine," Daredevil says, making an effort to stand up straighter and letting his arm drop casually back to his side, but Frank can see the way his chest is rising and falling, and it shouldn't be nearly that fast now the fight's over.

"Then why are you following me?"

"I need--"  He takes a step towards Frank and then jerks to a halt as if having forced himself to stop abruptly.  "I don't know."  

There is a note in his voice Frank hasn't heard before, something uncertain and unsteady.  He's seen Matt Murdock as a lawyer and he's seen him as a vigilante, and both of them are confident to the point of arrogance.  Fear is the one thing he's never seen from either of Murdock's identities, and the fact that he's seeing something resembling it now indicates that there's something very wrong.    

"Red?"

Daredevil takes another step towards him and stumbles.  

Frank reaches out automatically to steady him, grabbing him by the shoulder.  He's never seen Daredevil miss a step.  Even when he's just blind Matt Murdock his movements are always confident and purposeful. He still has no idea how Murdock navigates despite the blindness, but whatever he does, it's just as effective as sight.  Daredevil in a fight is the epitome of grace of brutality, every movement sharp and deliberate. 

As Frank catches him, Daredevil makes a small gasp like someone's landed a hit on him.  Frank releases him immediately, figuring he must have aggravated an injury.  Daredevil wavers for a moment, but stays on his feet.

"You sure you're not busted up?"

"Not hurt," Daredevil grinds out.  

"Maybe," Frank says gruffly, "But somethin' sure ain't right."

Daredevil makes a noncommittal sound.  He's standing at the edge of Frank's personal space now, and from here Frank can see that the visible parts of his face are flushed, and he's still breathing too fast.

"You sick or somethin', Red?"

Daredevil shakes his head.  His arm's drifted back up to press across his lower stomach area.  

"Fuck, you got belly pain?  Appendicitis ain't something you can just tough out, Red.  If your appendix is fucked, you're going to the ER whether you like it or not."

"Not appendix.  I'd know.  It's just… one of them got me, with a syringe."

"Ah, shit.  What was in it?"  Gotta be one of three things, Frank figures: drugs, blood, or poison.  None of the options are good.  Poison'll probably kill you; drugs might kill you, depending on dose; and blood - well, that depends entirely on whose blood it is and what the fuck is in it.  

"New drug.  It was… I was there to stop the negotiations, before it could get to the distributor and get released onto the streets.  They had a sample with them, and one of them managed to jab me through the suit when another one grabbed me."

Fucking experimental drugs.  Still, probably the best option of the three: if they intended to sell it, it won't be designed to kill, but it could easily be lethal if they got enough of it in him.  

"You know what kinda drug it is?"

"It… doesn't matter.  It won't kill me."

"You can make a goddamned mess of someone without actually killing them.  You should know that better'n anyone, Red."

"Won't do any permanent damage.   It'll just be… unpleasant for a while."

"Unpleasant?" Frank mutters.  He doesn't know what the hell that's supposed to mean, but he's gonna guess that 'unpleasant' will be the least of it.

He sees Daredevil reach out again, a faint tremor in his hand now, and Frank mentally curses.  Whatever's going on with Daredevil, it's obviously getting worse.  He might not be best buddies with the guy, but he ain't gonna leave him in a back alley to suffer through the effects of whatever goddamn drug they dosed him with alone, either.  Especially when he knows how easy it is for an overdose to turn into a fatality.  He could do without Red's sanctimonious preaching, but he likes the guy alive and kicking.

"Shit, Red.  You need to go to the hospital.  They'll have stuff to treat you there.  Narcan or something."

"No hospital," Daredevil says, adamant. 

"Red--"

"No hospital. "

Frank sighs.  "Fine.  Stubborn sonofabitch.  You're coming with me, then."  Frank's trained to make decisions quickly, and he snaps it out before he's even thought it through, knowing that it's the best of a bad set of options.  If he can keep an eye on the kid, he can get him to an ER if he takes a sudden nosedive.

Daredevil's head jerks up, startled.  "What?"  His reaching hand finally makes it to Frank's sleeve, fingers grasping at the fabric, not even seeming to notice that he's doing it.  "No, I'm fine," he objects, all evidence to the contrary.

Frank snorts.  Kid'd protest that he was fine if he had two broken arms and his ass was on fire.  

"I ain't arguing with you," Frank says.  "And I ain't leaving you here.  Move it, or I throw you over my shoulder - your choice."  

Daredevil stares at him, mouth slightly open, apparently lost for words.  Without seeing the rest of his face Frank can't read his expression beyond the obvious surprise.

Whatever's going on with him, it's enough to stifle his habitual rejection of aid, but he doesn't seem quite willing to simply submit, either.  He wavers for another moment and in the end Frank grabs him around the upper arm and gives him a tug to get him moving.  He expects Daredevil to resist - kid is goddamned contrary and too stubborn for his own good - but after stumbling the first pace or two he follows along beside Frank as meek as a lamb.  Frank lets go of his arm but stays close just in case he has to catch the guy.  Because that'd just make his night, having to cart Daredevil to a safehouse like a swooning heroine.

Daredevil isn't entirely steady on his feet, but he doesn't end up falling, either.  He drifts close to Frank a couple of times, their shoulders bumping, before he jerks away as if stung.  Then he starts drifting closer again and the pattern repeats.  It's weird and kind of disconcerting.  It reminds him a little of a kid seeking reassurance from the closeness of a parent, but he and Daredevil have never had that kind of relationship.  He chalks it up to Daredevil's wits being addled by the drug, and doesn't say anything about it.  

They finally arrive at the closest of Frank's safe houses: a small place out the back of an old storage facility.  He finds the appropriate key and lets them in.  Daredevil follows, mutely.

It's not a big place: one room, with a kitchen area on one side with a table barely big enough for two, a ratty couch and a TV on the other, and a cot along the back wall.  Bathroom through the only internal door.

Frank points to the couch.  "You.  Sit."

Daredevil gingerly takes a seat.  

Frank's not entirely sure what to do with the guy now; he's well-versed in sewing and splinting a broken body back together again, but drugs are outside the realm of his expertise, for the most part.  He's pretty sure the guy's running a temperature, though, so he goes to the kitchen, finds a relatively clean glass, and fills it with cold water.  He takes it back to the couch and holds it out.

"Drink," he orders.

Daredevil's head orients approximately towards him, but he makes no move to take the glass.

"It's water. Drink."

Eventually Daredevil's brain seems to come online and his hand reaches out in approximately the right direction.  Frank guides the glass into it, making sure Daredevil's fingers are closed firmly around it before letting go.

The glass shakes slightly but Daredevil gets it to his mouth and takes a few sips.

"Drink it all," Frank says.

Daredevil obediently drains the glass and then holds it out again.  Frank takes it and sets it down on the coffee table.

"Take the mask off.  And the gloves."

Daredevil's mouth flattens into a frown, and Frank makes a frustrated sound.

"I already know who you are, Murdock.  You got nothing to hide from me." 

After a few moments of sullen defiance, Daredevil tugs his gloves off, one at a time, and then pulls the cowl over his head, finally giving Frank a good look at him.

His hair is sweaty and sticking to his face at the temples, the rest mussed and disorderly.  His face is flushed pink, as if from exertion or fever.  It's the first time Frank's had a good look at his eyes; he's always been wearing the glasses or cowl before now.  His eyes are hazel, and their gaze is unfocused, hovering somewhere around Frank's ribs.

It's strange, seeing Daredevil turn back into Matt Murdock, blind defense attorney.  He's had his doubts about Daredevil - Murdock without the mask, he supposes - and his supposed lack of vision, but seeing his eyes and the way they entirely fail to focus or track anything confirms it.  However the guy's navigating, it's not with his eyes.

"How you feeling?"  Frank asks. 

"Fine.  A little warm."    

'Fine', Frank's ass.  The kid's hands are still trembling, and his back is ramrod straight, the posture of somebody fighting to show no weaknesses when they're in a position of vulnerability.

"Can't help you if you aren't straight with me," Frank warns.

"Don't need help," Murdock replies obstinately.  "Just need… need to rest."

"Take the armour off." 

"What?" 

"If you're overheating, that ain't gonna help.  Can't be comfortable to lie around in, either.  You're staying here 'til I'm convinced that the shit's worn off or I decide to drag your sorry ass to a hospital, so you might as well settle in."

Murdock looks at him open-mouthed, and then a little furrow appears between his brows.  Without the cowl or glasses hiding his eyes, his expression is practically transparent - Frank can see the genuine bewilderment at the orders he's being given.

"Why are you doing this?"  Murdock asks softly, head tilting slightly, as if listening.  Frank recognises the gesture from more than one meeting; he guesses it's habitual.  He wonders whether it has anything to do with however Murdock's sensing the world around him.  He considers avoiding Murdock's question, but he's dragged the kid here and is practically holding him hostage, so he figures he owes him some honesty, at least.

"Because we ain't friends, but I don't want you dead, either," Frank replies.  "Now take off the armour.  I can find you a shirt or something if you want it."

Murdock fumbles at the fastenings of his chest armour, finally managing to release it and pull it off, dropping it onto the floor.  Beneath, his chest is bare; hairless and smooth, other than for the telling array of scars he's accumulated that almost rival Frank's own.  Frank can't see any obvious damage on him, but what's going on inside his body is more of a concern right now anyway.  If they're really lucky the kid can sleep it off and be out the door by sunrise.  If they're not, well - they'll deal with that if it happens.

"Boots," Frank prompts.

Murdock slowly unlaces his boots by touch - eyes focused somewhere else entirely, an oddity Frank's going to have to get used to - and then pulls them off and places them neatly to the side.  

"Ok.  Bed now."

"It's fine, I can take the couch--"

"Bed.  Now."  He growls, making it clear that the subject isn't open to debate.  When Murdock continues to simply sit and stare not-quite in his direction, looking like he's trying to formulate another protest, Frank grabs him by the bicep and hauls him to his feet.  

"Come on, move it."  

Murdock doesn't resist, letting Frank manhandle him again, and this weird passivity is getting pretty disturbing.  The Murdock he knows is stubborn, independent, and would rather chew his own arm off than let Frank Castle order him around.

He deposits Murdock on the bed - not exactly gently, but taking care that he doesn't actually hurt him.

"You want a shower first?"  Frank asks.

Murdock shakes his head mutely.

"Well, I need one.  You be all right here?"

"I'll be fine," Murdock says.

"Good.  Lie down."  Frank crosses his arms over his chest as he stands beside the bed, making it clear that he's going to remain right there until Murdock's done as he's told.

Murdock feels for the pillow and then carefully pulls his legs up onto the cot and lies down, curling onto his side.  With his bare chest and socked feet, he looks oddly vulnerable.  

Frank grunts and then heads over to his workbench.  He ditches the tac vest and removes his remaining armory, arranging everything neatly on the bench, and then unlaces his boots and leaves them beneath it.  He fetches a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and heads into the bathroom.  It's been a long day and he's sweaty and covered in the grime of the city, and his aching muscles are looking forward to a few minutes under a hot spray.

After the shower he dries himself efficiently, dresses, and hangs his towel neatly back on the rack. Some habits die hard; military habits more than most.  He's feeling looser after the shower, relaxed and more ready to deal with the disaster currently known as Daredevil. 

He heads back into the main room and then stops abruptly.   

Murdock's still lying on the cot, but he's dragged off the armoured pants and socks and dropped them onto the floor.  Now he's lying in nothing but black boxer briefs, all of his pale, scarred flesh on display.  Frank already knew that Murdock was well-built.  It'd be almost impossible not to have noticed; the suit is practically sculpted onto his body, showing off the slight taper from shoulders to waist and the perfect curves of his ass.  He has the body of a gymnast or a martial artist; all long lean muscle, built for speed rather than strength, unlike Frank's own bulk.  But up until now, Murdock's appeal is something Frank's only noticed absently, without any real intent behind it. 

Now he finds himself noticing in an entirely different way, and pulls his thoughts away with a frown.  Ogling a good-looking guy is one thing, but right now he's taking advantage of the fact that the guy's both blind and drugged, and that's definitely something he's less than comfortable with.

Frank grabs the glass off the coffee table, fills it again, and takes it to the cot.  He takes a seat gingerly on the edge, trying not to jostle the kid too much.  Murdock's face and shoulders are flushed pink with heat, and he's still breathing rapidly, almost panting.

"Here.  Sit up if you can.  Gotta drink more water, flush it out of you."

Murdock pushes himself into a sitting position, taking the glass in both hands.  He's still shaking, and the water sloshes a little as he drinks.  He manages a few mouthfuls and then sets the cup down on the bedside table and shakes his head.  

Frank presses his palm to Murdock's forehead.  Murdock flinches at the touch as if he hadn't seen it coming; Frank wonders if the drug is messing with however he usually senses movement around him.  Murdock's forehead is concerningly warm.  Frank's no medic, but he's dealt with a few fevers in his time; knows that a body can fry its own brain if it pushes its temperature too high.  

"You're pretty hot, Red.  Sure I can't take you to the ER?  Or at least call your nurse friend?"

"No hospital.  And definitely no Claire.  Just-- just you, ok?"

Frank doesn't know why Murdock's so adamant about not getting medical assistance, but he's not gonna drag the guy to the hospital against his will unless he's sure there's a good reason for it.

"And you're not gonna tell me what they dosed you with?"

"Not important," Murdock says, still shivering as if he's cold, despite his temperature.  He leans in Frank's direction and Frank catches his shoulder, worried he's going to tip over.

"Kinda might be," Frank retorts.

"Won't kill me," Murdock insists.  He's pressing forwards just a little against Frank's arm, as if he's trying to get closer to him.  His hands keep twitching in Frank's direction, like he wants to reach out but keeps stopping himself.  If he was a kid Frank would think that he was going for a hug, but Murdock's no child and he can't imagine anything that would prompt Matt Murdock to seek cuddles, especially from him of all goddamn people.  They've moved from habitual violence to grudging respect, but they're not close by any definition of the word.

The whole situation is off, and Frank's concerned despite his better judgement.

"You ok there, Red?"

Frank relaxes his grip a little to see if Murdock's got his balance back, and Murdock takes the opportunity to shift closer, hands gripping the sides of Frank's t-shirt and head dropping forward to rest on Frank's shoulder.  

"Mmm.  You smell good," Murdock mutters into his t-shirt.

"I smell good?"  Frank asks, incredulous.   

"You always smell good, but it's better without the blood and gunpowder."

The hell does that mean? 

Somehow Murdock's shifted again, and he's almost in Frank's lap now, his bare chest pressing as close to Frank's body as he can get.  He's buried his face in the juncture of Frank's neck and shoulder and is now nuzzling at the bare skin above the neck of Frank's t-shirt.  

"Whoa, whoa, what the hell, Red?"

He tries to get enough leverage to push Murdock away but Murdock resists; somehow he's managed to wrap his arms around Frank's chest and is now clinging like a particularly determined octopus.

"You smell really good," Murdock murmurs.  "I bet you taste good, too."

And that would be Murdock's tongue dragging wetly up his neck, and Frank is startled enough that he somehow manages to disentangle Murdock's arms and push him away, hard.  Murdock, however, doesn't seem to be discouraged by this in the least, immediately reaching for him again.  Frank has to grab his shoulders and brace against them to prevent being mauled again.

Murdock's cheeks are flushed pink and his lips are red and wet and slightly parted and jesus he looks a sight.  Heat curls low in Frank's belly, and his dick stirs. Hey, he's only human - whatever issues he has with Murdock, he can still admit that Matt Murdock is a gorgeous guy.  Even the sightless hazel eyes are framed by long lashes, and his mouth is a perfect cupid's bow.

It's been a long time since Frank's been with a man; some juvenile experimentation during high school led to a few fumbling encounters in the early days of his military career, but all before he got together with Maria.  After that, well - just because he couldn't touch any more didn't mean he couldn't appreciate a well-put-together guy, of course.  As long as he didn't get caught looking, anyway.

He hasn't had anything resembling a libido since he'd woken from the coma, though, so while he's noticed that Murdock was built, he hasn't had any kind of desire to peel off the suit and get his hands on the body beneath.  Now that that body is mostly naked and just about in his lap, however, his interest is suddenly flaring to life like somebody poured gasoline on it.

Frank jerks his thoughts away from that path sharply.  Murdock is sick and vulnerable and Frank needs to work out what the fuck is going on with him right now, not let his dick distract him.  Murdock's the last person he can imagine ever wanting to make a move on him - and yet Frank's neck is still tingling from where Murdock's tongue dragged up it.

"What the hell was that!?"

"Want you," Murdock says.  "Want to touch you and taste you everywhere."

Ok, where the fuck is this coming from?

"Red, you gotta tell me.  What the hell did they dose you with?"

Murdock mumbles something Frank can't make out, trailing his fingers down Frank's chest.  "I like the way you feel."

Frank squeezes Murdock's shoulders.  "Red, focus!  What did they give you?"

"Aphrodisiac," Murdock admits, somewhat sullenly. 

"Are you serious?"

"Mmm,"  Murdock says absently, obviously still distracted by Frank's proximity.  "New compound they've just developed.  Lowers inhibitions and sends sexual arousal into overdrive."

Ok, that might explain Murdock's sudden, newfound interest in Frank's body.

Murdock's hands are exploring his stomach and his sides now, fingers nimble and curious, and Frank jerks as they find their way under the hem of his t-shirt and onto the bare skin beneath.

"Red! " 

He releases Murdock's shoulders to grab his wrists and remove the hands from beneath his shirt, which unfortunately allows Murdock to push forward again, and the next thing he knows Murdock's mouth is pressed hard against his own.   

Frank freezes for a moment, and Murdock takes advantage of it to slide his mouth against Frank's, hot and wet and hungry.  Frank moans in response without even being aware that he's doing it.  Murdock's tongue nudges at his lip and then is pressing into his mouth, and a moment later Frank finds himself with a hand hooked around Murdock's neck, kissing him back fiercely.  Frank's dick, which was already curious about the goings-on, is now extremely interested in the proceedings.

The next thing Frank knows, Murdock's managed to throw a leg over his thighs and is now sitting in Frank's lap, straddling him.  He presses forwards, grinding against Frank's dick, and jesus christ that feels good.  It's been a very long time since he's had a warm body pressed against his outside of the context of violence.  It's been months since Frank's even bothered to get himself off - he just hasn't had the inclination since he woke up alone.

But with Murdock grinding his hips like that and his clever mouth kissing him like there's no tomorrow, Frank is in serious danger of getting carried away on a tide of arousal and want.

Frank manages to get a hand against Murdock's chest and pushes him backwards, breaking the kiss.

"Fuck!  Stop, Red!  Stop!"

"Why?"  Murdock asks, breathing hard.  His frown is petulant, obviously irritated at the interruption.

"Because if you don't, this is going to get out of hand real fast."

"Good!  I want that.  I want you to lose control, want you to forget about everything and just take me."

"Jesus, Red!  No!  I'm not doing that."

"Why not?"  Murdock sounds frustrated and needy and on the edge of desperate.  His hips are still twitching, as if he simply can't hold them still.

"Because you're messed up on some kind of drugs and can't consent right now, Red." 

Frank's seen guys take home girls too drunk or drugged to consent, and it always pisses him the hell off.  He will not be that guy - no matter how much his body wants to get on board with Murdock's plan, goddamnit.  

"I can!"  Murdock protests.  "I want this, I do!"  He nuzzles into Frank's neck, licking and nipping.  "I want you, I want you to fuck me."

"I can't," Frank says, trying not to groan at the idea of burying himself in the man currently wrapped around him, hard and wanting.  He can imagine the tight, hot slide into Murdock's body, pushing until he's as deep as he can get, the pleasure swelling as he starts to thrust.

Only he can't, because Murdock isn't in any fit state to consent right now, god-fucking-damn it.  He does groan then, in frustration.  "I can't, Red.  I'm no rapist.  You ain't in your right mind, and I won't take advantage of that."

"But I want you to!  I want it so much I can hardly stand it.  And you want it too, I can feel it."  Murdock rocks forward on his lap again, grinding against his erection as if to prove his point.  The friction sends another burst of pleasure through him, sparking down to his toes and shivering up his spine, and it takes every shred of willpower he can scrounge to take hold of Murdock's hips and push them backwards until there's a couple of clear inches between their dicks.  Murdock struggles against his hands, trying to close the distance again, his hard-on tenting his boxer-briefs.  There's a wet patch at the tip where he's already leaking pre-come, and Frank has to tear his eyes away from it and back up to Murdock's face.

"No.  I don't want this," Frank growls, desperately trying to hang on to his self control. 

"But you do!"  Murdock protests, still squirming to try and get closer.  "Your heart is racing and your face is flushed and you're hard.  And I can… I can smell  how turned on you are."  He leans in close and takes a deep breath, shuddering as he lets it out again.

"Jesus, Red!  Of course I'm fucking turned on - you're hot and just about naked and grinding on my lap, and it's been far too long since I've been with anyone.  But just 'cause my body wants it, don't mean I do."

"I don't understand," Murdock says, sounding frustrated and genuinely confused.  "I want you.  You want me.  Why won't you fuck me?"

"Because whatever they gave you messed you up good, made you want things you never would've otherwise.  C'mon, Red.  This ain't you.  You never wanted me before now."

"But I did!" 

Frank snorts.  "Red, half the time we meet up we end up beating the crap outta each other.  You don't even like me, let alone wanna kiss me."

"I do like you," Murdock says earnestly, stilling for a moment.  "I want to stop you killing, that's all.  I fight you to try and stop you, not because I want to hurt you.   We're alike, Frank.  We want the same thing, to protect people.  And sometimes…"  Murdock pauses, and then tilts his head down and away, as if embarrassed.   "Sometimes when we're fighting I think about you shoving me against a wall and claiming my mouth, grinding against me to get yourself off, or pushing me down onto my knees." 

Frank's dick jumps at the mental imagery of Murdock on his knees, mouth held open so that Frank can slide his dick between those cherry-red lips.  He has to shove that mental image away fast to preserve what's left of his slipping self-control.

"Fuck, Red!  You can't just say shit like that."

"Why not?  It's true.  I'm not supposed to want you but I do."

Frank groans again.  He wishes he could believe what Murdock was saying, but he suspects that Murdock's so wound up right now he'd say just about anything to get some physical relief. 

"I can make it good for you, Frank, I promise.  I can feel and hear and smell what your body likes.  You can use my mouth, or hold me down and fuck me hard, anything you want."

"This ain't about what I want, Red.  The problem is that it's not what you want." 

"But it is!  I want  you to use me, however you want to."

"I'm not going to use you," Frank says, baulking at both the phrasing and the idea.  Frank's very much of the school that any kind of sexual interaction should be fun for all parties involved, or it's just not on.  

"Why not?  You'd hardly be the first."  Murdock blinks at him, looking perplexed at his hesitance.  "I'm good at doing what people want me to in bed."

Frank feels suddenly sick.  That sounds entirely too much like Murdock's been taken advantage of before, and what's worse is that he doesn't seem to see a problem with it right now.  Frank becomes even more determined not to add himself to the list of assholes who've fucked Murdock over, figuratively or literally.

"You gotta stop this, Red.  It ain't about what other people've done, it's about what I'm gonna do, and I ain't doing nothing to you while you're like this."

Murdock's face crumples.  "Please, Frank?  I want it.  I need it.  It hurts."  His voice catches at the admission, and the pain in his expression seems genuine.  

"Look, I ain't gonna stop you doing whatever you need to.  I can go out, give you some space, so you can… take care of it yourself."  Frank shifts his weight, preparing to disentangle himself, and Murdock grabs at him desperately.  

"No!  Please don't leave me!  I can't.  I tried, it didn't work."

"You tried?"

"When you were in the shower," Murdock says miserably.  "I'm so hard that it hurts, but no matter how close I get, I just can't… finish, on my own."  He presses his palm against his erection, seeking some kind of relief from the ache.  "They said… they said the drug is designed to inhibit orgasm unless it's with another person.  Something to do with pheromone receptors, I didn't really follow what they were saying." 

Well, fuck.  Frank tries to think through his options.  Frank's pretty sure nobody's ever died of blue balls before, but who knows what the drug that's flooding Murdock's system is designed to do.  Maybe it'll keep ramping up his temperature until he gets off - he wouldn't put it past the psychopathic assholes who create shit like this.  A "fuck-or-die" drug - license for rapists to do whatever or whoever the hell they want without taking any responsibility.  Frank can't be sure, of course, but he doesn't want to take the risk if it might mean frying Murdock's brain, either.  He tries to think of a compromise. 

"What about if I just stay here with you?  You have to be the one that does it, I ain't touching you while you're like this.  But I can…" Frank hesitates. He can't believe he's saying this to anyone, let alone fucking Daredevil.  He'd never say it if Murdock was in his right mind, but the way he's wound up, he figures the kid probably won't even remember most of what he says tonight, so he makes himself finish the offer: "I can hold onto you, while you do it, so you could smell me and feel me.  Would that be enough?" 

Murdock nods fervently.  "Yes, please, I need you, Frank."  One hand clings to Frank's t-shirt while the fingers of his other hand slide beneath the elastic waistband of his own boxers.  "So I can…?"  

"Yeah," Frank says, voice rough.  "Go on."

Murdock quickly pushes his boxers down as far as he can while still sitting spread across Frank's lap, freeing his dick and balls.  His dick is hard and red and leaking, and Frank has to force himself to look away and keep his hands firmly on Murdock's hips.  His own cock is starting to ache now, tenting his sweatpants in a very obvious way, but he's determined not to touch himself until Murdock's done and he can get a few moments alone.  He doesn't think it's going to take him long when he does.

Murdock's hand curls around his own dick and squeezes.  He drags a stroke up and down again; groans at finally getting the stimulation he's been desperate for.  Murdock's head falls forward to rest on Frank's shoulder, forehead hot and damp with sweat, then turns so that he can press his face to Frank's neck.  Frank can feel the huff of Murdock's breath against his throat as Murdock breathes in his scent and then lets it out again.

Murdock's shaking hand manages to settle into a steady pace that Frank can feel everywhere that they're pressed together: Murdock's ass on his thighs, his hands on Murdock's hips.  He's making soft little moans that go straight to Frank's cock.  Every so often Murdock's hand pauses at the top of the upstroke to sweep his thumb over the head of his dick and collect the pre-come beading there.  Frank wonders if he always leaks this much, or whether it's something the drug is doing to him.  He can imagine leaning down, collecting it with his tongue, tasting--  

Frank jerks his mind away from that thought like it's on fire.  He can't afford to let himself want this, or it's going to weaken his already shaky resolve.

It isn't long before Murdock's hand is speeding up, his strokes becoming erratic.  He's whimpering into Frank's neck, and it takes Frank a few moments to realise the little staccato sounds are actually his name:  "Frank, Frank! "

"I'm here, Red.  You come when you're ready."

Murdock gasps as if the words are all he's been waiting for.  His entire body tenses, and then he's holding his breath and shuddering through his orgasm, ribbon after ribbon of come striping the front of Frank's t-shirt.  Eventually his hand stills and he starts breathing again, rough little pants as he starts coming down from the high.  His body is still trembling beneath Frank's palms.

Frank runs a hand up and down his back soothingly.  The bare skin is slick with sweat, and he can feel the muscles twitch beneath his hands.

"You ok?"

Murdock nods against his shoulder, and then finally pushes himself upright again.

"Yeah," Murdock says, sounding about as wrecked as he looks.  Damp tendrils of hair are sticking to his temples and his lower lip is red and raw from where he's bitten it.  "Better."

His eyes are staring off over Frank's shoulder somewhere, and it's kind of disconcerting; he's not used to the vacant gaze yet.  Murdock's expression is still a little shellshocked, but lucidity is starting to creep back in around the edges.  After a few moments, Murdock frowns and tilts his head down slightly, towards Frank's lap.  

Frank realises what he's going to do just as Murdock reaches out, and he manages to intercept Murdock's hand before it gets to the waistband of his sweatpants and push it away.

"But you're still--"

"No need," Frank says shortly.

"But I want--"

"No ."

He grips Murdock's hips tightly and lifts him off his lap, turning him and setting him back down onto the bed.  Murdock doesn't protest, body limp and unresisting now, sprawling bonelessly in post-orgasm languidity.  He looks debauched and wanton and painfully tempting.

Frank forces himself to his feet.

"You should rest some now."

Murdock blinks at him, starting to frown slightly, and Frank hurriedly makes his escape.

He heads straight to the bathroom, shuts the door and slides the lock home.  His pants are down in record time, and his legs hold him up for just long enough to flip the toilet seat down and collapse onto it, hand already around his dick.  

Frank's harder than he can remember being, at least any time since his former life - aching and desperate, like his libido is suddenly in overdrive after being dormant for so long.  He hadn't remembered what want really felt like; the molten heat of it in his belly, the fierceness of the urge to press himself against another human being, to push their legs apart and bury himself inside of their body.

He squeezes himself tightly for a moment, already close to the edge, before stroking again.  He wishes he could've seen Murdock's face when he came, but Frank remembers the groan of pleasure he made and the arch of his body as his orgasm took him, and it's enough to send a shudder through him.  He can still smell Murdock's come on his t-shirt, the faint briny-bleach smell of it going straight to his hind-brain, ramping up his arousal even further.  

Frank comes hard in less than a minute, pulses of blinding pleasure wracking his body, biting down hard not to make a sound.  His come spatters his own front, adding to the mess on his t-shirt, the last of it dripping down his hand.  The aftershocks of the orgasm echo through him for what feels like a long time afterwards, making his stomach clench and his toes curl, until they finally die away and he can relax and breath again.  Jesus christ, he hasn't been that wound up in what feels like forever.

Once he's recovered enough, Frank washes his hands and face in the sink.  He pulls off the sticky t-shirt, turns it inside-out and balls it up into one hand.

He takes a deep breath before exiting the bathroom.  He feels weirdly exposed, sure that Murdock knows exactly what he was doing in there.  It shouldn't rattle him as much as it does, especially as only minutes before Murdock had been jacking himself off in Frank's lap, naked and desperate.  But Murdock was drug-addled, barely in control of himself.  Frank has no such excuse. 

When he gets back into the main room Murdock's abandoned the bed and has curled up on the couch, arms around his knees, folded in on himself like he's trying to take up as little space as possible.  Frank's half-surprised to see him still there; part of him thought that Murdock might pull one of his usual disappearing tricks and bolt out the window as soon as Frank wasn't watching.  Frank would have let him go if he had, trusting that the kid knew whether the drug's effects had dropped to safe levels or not.  Frank has no idea whether an orgasm will have flushed the stuff from his system or whether it'll simply take time for his body to break it down.  

Murdock's facing the back of the couch, though, his own back to the room, and Frank gets the hint that he doesn't feel like talking right now.  He doubts Murdock's asleep yet, but he doesn't want to push him when he's obviously feeling as vulnerable as he currently is.  Let the kid sleep it off if he can - they'll have time to deal with the rest later.

Frank tosses the dirty t-shirt into the laundry basket.  He finds a spare blanket in the cupboard, unfolds it, and gently drapes it over Murdock's body, trying not to remember how many times he did this with his own kids when they fell asleep on the couch.

"Thanks," Murdock whispers.  Frank knows that he doesn't mean just for the blanket, but he's not sure either of them can deal with acknowledging that right now.

"You want something to eat?"  Frank asks instead.

"No.  Not hungry."  

Frank contemplates trying to scrounge him something anyway, but decides that Murdock has to make his own decisions.  

"Sleep, then,"  he grunts.  

He double checks the locks, grabs his sidearm and slides it under the pillow before settling himself on the bed.  Hey, if Murdock's not going to use it, no reason for him to be uncomfortable.  Weariness descends upon him rapidly, and he's asleep within minutes.

Frank wakes to a figure standing over him.  He's already rolled away and has his pistol in his hand - safety off, cocked and aimed in one smooth motion - before his brain's even come online.  The figure doesn't move, silhouetted against the faint light of the streetlamps filtering through the flimsy curtains.  Frank's brain finally catches up with his body, remembering that there's a reason somebody else is in his safehouse tonight.  He squints at the intruder, making out the shape of tousled bedhead.  

"Red?"

The figure reaches out an uncertain hand towards him, but doesn't quite make contact.

"I'm sorry," Murdock says, voice rough, like he's been chain-smoking or something.  "I need--"  He chokes the statement off, drawing his hand back sharply, obviously waging an internal war for control.  

"Jesus, again?"  Frank asks, rubbing a hand over his face.

"I'm sorry.  I can't… I tried, but I can't!  I need, I need--"  He sounds pained and miserable.

"Ngh."  Frank considers his options for a moment, still not entirely coherent yet.  He could turn Murdock away - if he's survived this long, odds are the drug ain't gonna kill him at this point.  But it wouldn't stop him feeling like an asshole, knowing Murdock's hurting and that he could help do something about it.  Alternatively, he could just go with it.  Hell, he's already let the kid get off on him once, what will another round matter?

"Fine,"  Frank says gruffly.  He holds up the blanket, an obvious invitation. "Get in."

Murdock resists for a moment, his fingers twitching.  Frank can practically see the battle raging between his drugged desire and the ragged shreds of his self-restraint.  He waits, letting the kid decide for himself.  

A few moments later, Murdock slides in beside him, face twisted with anxiety, holding himself rigid at the very edge of the bed.  He's obviously still fighting himself even now; stubborn little asshole.  Frank really can't be fucked with this right now, so he shortcuts Murdock's obvious moral dilemma by reaching out and hauling him across the distance between them.  Murdock tenses as soon as their bodies touch, but doesn't resist being manhandled.

"Do what you gotta do, Red.  If it ain't gonna leave your system til you burn through it, might as well get on with it so we can both get some sleep."

Murdock whimpers, still fighting it, and then gives in all of a sudden, melting against his side.  He throws an arm over Frank's chest and slides one leg to nestle between Frank's thighs, burying his face in Frank's neck in a way that's starting to get pretty familiar now.  His cock is as hard as a rock against Frank's hip, and the proximity of a warm human body half-draped over his wakes Frank's own body up in a hurry.  

It doesn't take long before Murdock's moving, rocking against Frank's hip, desperate for friction.  Frank can feel the grind of Murdock's dick as he thrusts, his boxers sliding roughly against Frank's sweatpants.    

Murdock's making small half-gasps into his neck.   He presses his mouth against Frank's skin, sucking hard, and then licks slowly over the same place as if trying to taste the mark he's left there.  The wet, warm rasp of his tongue sends shivers of pleasure straight to Frank's groin.  He's fully hard now too, and Murdock's thigh is so, so close.  He'd only have to angle his hips a little and he could relieve the ache, grind against Murdock's leg the same way Murdock's grinding against his.  

But he can't, goddamn it.  Murdock still isn't in a fit state to consent yet, and Frank simply won't be the asshole who takes advantage of it.  He forces himself to lie still, one arm curved around Murdock's ribs holding him steady, letting Murdock use his body without seeking anything in return.  His dick ain't gonna fall off just because he gets a hard-on and does nothing about it.

As if reading his thoughts, Murdock's hand drifts down and then drags up along the length of Frank's cock.  Frank inhales sharply and his hips automatically twitch up into the blessed friction, but he forces himself to push the hand away.  

"Don't worry 'bout me.  You just look after yourself," Frank orders.

Murdock obeys, his hand moving back up to cling to Frank's bicep.  He's whimpering half-formed words now, ragged and desperate.  "Need it, Frank, need it.  Frank, Frank, fuck! "

"Come when you gotta, Red."

The grinding gets more and more desperate until finally Murdock gives a muffled groan and jerks against his side, his fingers gripping Frank's arm hard enough to bruise.   Murdock's whole body twitches as the pulses wrack him and he spills himself against Frank's hip, the wet warmth of it seeping through Frank's sweatpants.

Frank gives him a few minute to come down from the high.  Murdock's body slowly relaxes until he's lying heavy and languid, still half draped over Frank's side.     

"You ok?"

"Yeah," Murdock says drowsily. He seems to lack either the strength or the inclination to move.

Frank fully intends to toss him out of the bed and send him back to the couch.  Murdock's practically snuggling with him, and whatever the hell Frank signed up for when he dragged Daredevil's sorry ass back to his safe house, he's pretty sure this wasn't it.  Fighting, arguing, knocking each other around and bruising with both words and fists - that's the kind of relationship they have.  Cuddling isn't supposed to be on the agenda, experimental drugs be damned.  The last thing he needs is for the goddamn kid to get attached to him, to think this is going to be some kind of new 'normal'.

He draws his hand back, intending to push Murdock away, to put a stop to this softness right here and now.  But at the last moment his will weakens, and he lets his arm settle around Murdock's waist again instead.  Murdock makes a soft, approving sound, shifting even closer.  His head is a heavy weight on Frank's shoulder, and Frank can feel the slow draw and release of his breath.  

Frank curses his own weakness.  He'd thought he was numb to skin hunger by now, to the gnawing ache caused by the absence of human touch.  But something inside of him wants this, as much as he wanted to push Murdock down and fuck him hard and fast and demanding a few minutes ago.    

It's been so long since he's had someone to sleep beside.  He remembers nights of drowsy warmth, curled up beneath the covers with Maria, speaking in soft whispers and letting their bodies fit together like two halves of a whole.  He misses her with a fierceness that seems to encompass his very being.  This - whatever the hell this thing is that he has with Murdock - isn't anything like what he had with his wife.  But maybe, if he's completely honest with himself - it's something .  Flickers of warmth in the long, cold, dark night.  A slender thread of human connection.

It's never going to be cuddles or flowers or breakfast in bed; it's not like they could ever fucking date.

But maybe just for tonight, he can allow himself this luxury.  A single night of solace and companionship.  He's still half-hard - his body having not quite got the message that it's not getting any more tonight - but the urgent, burning desire has faded into a lingering, comfortable warmth.  He pulls Murdock against him more tightly, ignoring the sticky mess between them, and closes his eyes.  He drifts for a little while, not quite asleep and not quite awake, savouring the weight on his chest, the heat of a body pressed against his, the soft drift of breath upon his skin.  

In the morning he wakes up to find his safehouse empty; the Daredevil suit absent along with its wearer. 

Frank's not at all surprised.  He can only imagine how Murdock must feel about what happened the previous night.  He suspects Murdock's going to be avoiding him for some time to come; can't say that he wouldn't do the same if their positions were reversed.

But he also remembers a fragment of Murdock's fevered ramblings: sometimes when we're fighting I think about you shoving me against a wall and claiming my mouth, grinding against me to get yourself off, or pushing me down onto my knees .  Frank wonders how much truth there was to the words, whether Murdock really does want him when he's in his right mind.  He lets himself toy with the idea, a slow smile sliding onto his face.  Maybe next time they meet he'll find out.