Archive of Our Own

Karen’s mouth is open, but no sound comes out of it—not a gasp, not a question, not a protest. Some small part of Matt’s brain that’s not currently mired in his own shock makes special note of it, because it’s the first time he’s ever heard her speechless. Even when he proposed, she only took a brief moment with her hand over her mouth before she started screaming.

“I’m sorry, what?” his mouth says before his brain catches up. “No, that’s incorrect. There’s some kind of mistake.”

“I’m just reading what the file says right here, sir,” the clerk tells him in a flat voice.

“Are you sure you have the right Matt Murdock? Matthew Michael Murdock, October 21, 1986, 584-45-3381—”

“Matthew Michael Murdock,” the clerk interrupts. “Married.”

Karen at last finds her voice again, and it is not a happy tone. “You’re married?”

He quickly turns to her, fumbling for her hand with both of his and giving it a quick pat and squeeze. “No, of course not. There’s obviously been a mistake.” He turns back to the clerk. “There’s obviously been a mistake,” he repeats to her. “Some sort of filing error. I’m not married. In fact, I came here, right now, today, to apply for a marriage license. With my fiancée. Right here.” He gestures to the blonde beside him and lifts her left hand to show the diamond ring, as if that’s all the evidence the clerk needs to hand over the license and send them on their way.

“Sir, you can’t apply for a marriage license while you’re already in a legally binding marriage,” the clerk tells him, unimpressed.

“Yes. Certainly. Obviously,” Matt agrees. “And I’m telling you that I’m not already in a legally binding marriage.”

“According to the system, you are.”

“Then the system is wrong.”

“You’re married?” Karen repeats, beginning to sound more angry than surprised now.

“No! Look, I have no idea what’s going on with your system, but obviously there’s something wrong. Some document got misfiled somewhere or some other Matthew Michael Murdock’s information got applied to my account by mistake, or something. I’m not married.”

“Look, sir, I’m not a marriage counselor. I can’t comment on the state of you and your spouse’s marriage.” Matt resists the urge to bang his head on the desk. “All I know is that you can’t apply for a new marriage license while you’re still legally married. If you want to apply for a new license, you’ll have to file for divorce first.”

“Fine!” Matt throws his hands up in frustration. “Fine. Give me the paperwork.”

“I can’t believe this,” Karen mutters to herself, and then more to Matt, “I can’t believe this. If you had just told me, that would be one thing. We could have worked it out together. But did you honestly believe that if you just ignored it, the problem would go away? That you could just bring me with you to apply for a license and everything would go smoothly and I wouldn’t find out that you’re already married?”

“No! Because I’m not married! There was nothing to tell you!” Matt scrubs his hands over his face as the clerk clicks around on her computer and starts printing pages, entirely unaffected by the drama unfolding before her. “Do you really think I would be that stupid, to bring you with me to the clerk’s office for a marriage license before I was divorced? I don’t need a law degree to know that polygamy is still illegal in New York, Karen.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Karen sniffs. “Apparently I don’t know you as well as I thought I did.”

Matt groans. The clerk slides a file folder over the desk to him. He opens it and runs his hand over the top page—printed. He sighs and automatically hands the folder to Karen. “Any chance I could get those in Braille?”

“Sorry. Braille printer is out of order.”

A lecture on ADA compliance begins forming in his mind and he just as quickly dismisses it, sighing again in resignation. “Can I at least know the name of my supposed spouse?”

“Francis Castiglione,” Karen reads from the pages in the folder before the clerk can answer. “An Italian woman? Is that why you’re always so critical of my baked ziti?”

“Not really the time or place, Karen,” Matt mutters to her in an aside.

The clerk agrees. “Have that signed by both parties and notarized and once it’s processed you can come back and apply for the marriage license.”

Karen makes a little disparaging sound at that and Matt’s heart stutters. Surely she can’t be thinking of calling the whole thing off because of a stupid clerical error?

“Next,” the clerk calls without waiting for them to leave and Karen quickly stands, spinning and striding away. Matt gropes for his cane and scrambles after her. He catches her elbow as they reach the elevators and she shakes him off.

“Karen. Just stop for a minute.” She obligingly turns and faces him, file tucked to her side as she crosses her arms. “I swear to you, I have no idea what’s going on. I’ve never even heard of this Frances woman before—”

“You know, Matt, you lied to me before, too. And we were able to work through it together, move past it, because I thought we were done with the lies. I don’t know if I can make a relationship with you work if it’s just going to keep being one lie after another with you.”

“Okay, yes, I messed up that time, I admit it. But I swear to you, I’m not lying about this. And if my word isn’t enough for you anymore, then we can track down this Frances woman together and maybe you’ll believe her. You’ll see it’s all just a big misunderstanding and we can get back to spending the rest of our lives together.”

Karen doesn’t answer, doesn’t move at all for such a long time that Matt begins to wonder if maybe he missed her walking away. Finally, she unfolds her arms and presses the file folder to his chest. “Wedding’s in less than a month. Clock’s ticking, Murdock.”

Matt follows a step behind her all the way back to their firm, where Foggy comes out of his office to greet them. “There’s the happy couple! Let me see that fancy scrap of paper!” Karen doesn’t pause in her march as she gathers her laptop and a few files from her desk and sweeps into Foggy’s office, closing the door more forcefully than necessary behind her. Matt drops his cane in the corner by the coat rack and stalks into his own office without a word. “Uhh…or not?”

Foggy tries the doorknob on his office and finds it locked. “Karen? While I totally recognize your worth to this firm that would crumble without you and admit that you’re underpaid and overworked and completely deserving of your own office, that one still has my computer in it and I was in the middle of an email to a client. Is there any chance I could get that back sometime before closing?”

“Why don’t you ask Matt’s first wife to get it for you?” comes the scathing reply through the door.

“What the—” Foggy turns around and strides into Matt’s open office. “First wife?”

Matt sighs in exasperation, dropping his glasses onto his desk to run his hands over his face and into his hair. “Apparently.”

Foggy frowns and a little whimper escapes his throat. “You got married and didn’t even tell me? I was supposed to be your best man. I’ve had my best man speech written since our second semester together.”

“Foggy, no. Of course I want you there when I do actually get married,” Matt hastily assures. “There was just some clerical error at the clerk’s office and they wouldn’t let us apply for a marriage license because apparently I’m already registered as married in the system.”

“To who?” Foggy asks, still sounding a little hurt.

“Some woman I’ve never even heard of. Seriously, Foggy, it’s a paperwork mistake. I didn’t run off and get married without telling you.” He slides the folder forward on his desk for Foggy to take and leans back in his chair.

Foggy nabs the folder and flips it open as he sits on the corner of the desk. “Hm. Francis Castiglione. Italian, nice. Though usually you see the feminine name Frances spelled with an e, not an i.” He scans the rest of the documents. “There’s a last known address listed here for over in Brooklyn. What are you going to do?”

“Meet her and get her to sign the papers, I guess. If the clerk’s office won’t admit it was a mistake on their part then there’s no other way to go about it than the legal way.”

“Mm-hmm. And how did Karen take the news?”

Matt gestures out to the room beyond his office door. “I think you saw how she took it. She thinks I’m lying about the whole thing.”

“Well, there was that time you lied about—”

“Yes, Foggy, thank you, I know. I’m not lying about this, though. I’ve never even met the woman.”

“So it was an arranged marriage,” Foggy grins. Matt shoves him off his desk. “Hey, I wonder if that means you’ve been misfiling your taxes all this time.”

That actually gives Matt pause. “How long does it say I’ve been married?”

Foggy flips back through the document and whistles. “Wow. Date of marriage, September 21, 2010.”

Matt’s mouth falls open. “That—that was six years ago! We were still in law school! Nobody caught this for six years?”

Foggy types rapidly on his phone. “Dude, that was a Tuesday. Who gets married on a Tuesday?”

Matt snatches the folder from his loose fingers. “Not me.”

“Seriously though, six years? You could have been filing jointly on your taxes this whole time. The government probably owes you a butt-ton of money.”

“Foggy, forget the taxes.”

“You won’t be saying that when the IRS is auditing you for misfiling.”

“One problem at a time. First I’ve got to find Francis and get her to sign the papers and then work on smoothing things over with Karen,” Matt outlines for himself, running his fingers over the edges of the folder.

“Good plan. You do that, and in the meantime, it looks like I’m working out of your office for the foreseeable future. Hey, did you remember to bring back lunch?”

Matt prudently leaves Karen unbothered to work in Foggy’s office the rest of the day and then goes home alone. It’s times like these that he’s glad they’ve held off on moving in together; he doesn’t think he could stand the silent treatment in his own apartment. The next day repeats itself with Foggy again locked out of his own office and his not-so-silent treatment finally goads Matt into persuading her out.

He raps gently on the door. “Karen? Sweetheart? I’m gonna go see Francis Castiglione and get her to sign the papers. Would you like to come?”

There’s nothing but silence from within the office. He turns back to Foggy. “I’m shrugging helplessly,” Foggy narrates in a whisper.

Then the door suddenly unlocks and Karen steps out, purse over one shoulder and coat in her arms. “Let’s go.”

Matt scrambles for the divorce papers, his cane, and his own coat before following her out. “Good luck,” Foggy calls after him. “I’ll just hold down the fort by myself until you get back. Again.”

They opt for a cab and after Karen reads off the Brooklyn address to the driver she again falls silent.

“This shouldn’t take too long,” Matt says after a few minutes in the hopes of drawing her into conversation. “We’ll go to her apartment, explain the situation, and she’ll sign the papers, no problem. Then we can get them filed and go back in a couple days for our marriage license.” There’s still no reply so Matt keeps talking. “Hopefully she’s not at work. I want to get this taken care of as quickly as possible, not have to wait till the weekend.”

There’s a soft snort from Karen at that. “Then maybe you should have taken care of it when you two decided to separate.”

“Karen…”

She waves him off and they spend the rest of the ride in silence. The cabbie eventually announces they’ve arrived and Matt can feel Karen’s irritation suddenly rising. “Are you sure you have the right place?” she asks.

“I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive, Missie. I think I can read an address number by now.”

She throws her door open and steps out of the cab.

“Karen? What’s wrong?” Matt moves to follow but is stopped before he can get out the door.

“Hey, pal, that’ll be 24.75,” the cabbie reminds.

Matt quickly pulls a 20 and a 5 dollar bill from his wallet and shoves them at the driver. “Keep the change.”

“Wow, so generous,” the driver mutters and speeds off as soon as Matt shuts the door behind himself.

Matt taps up onto the sidewalk and asks again, “Karen? What is it?”

“What is it?” Karen repeats, anger pitching her voice high. “It’s an empty lot is what it is, Matt.”

“An empty—are you sure?”

“Yes, Matt, I’m sure,” she says disparagingly, despite the fact she had asked the cab driver the same thing just a minute ago. “I can see the building on one side labeled 608 and the building on the other side labeled 612 and the big empty space between them where 610 should be and isn’t. Did you do this on purpose?”

“Did I—How the hell would I have done this?” Matt snaps. “The clerk printed the paperwork with the address on it at the office. You saw her do it.”

“I don’t know. All I’m saying is it’s awfully convenient that your mystery wife’s entire building has suddenly disappeared. And by the way, I called the phone number she had listed and it’s been disconnected, too.”

“When did you—never mind. This isn’t convenient at all. This is the opposite of convenient. I’m trying to get this taken care of so we can get married in three and a half weeks. If I can’t track this woman down and get her to sign the papers, we’ll have to postpone the entire thing. Our friends and family have already made arrangements; some have even bought their airline tickets already.”

“My family, you mean,” Karen corrects and Matt is struck dumb, his cane dangling from loose fingertips. “Sorry,” she mutters a long moment later. “That was…too far.”

He nods once and they both shift uncomfortably for a minute.

“Look, maybe…” she begins and stops, starts again. “If this is your way of telling me you want to call it off—”

“Karen, no! I’ve been trying to tell you all along this is just some mistake. Of course I still want to marry you.”

“Well then prove it! You’ve got one week to clean up your mess before I call the whole thing off,” she declares. “I’m not going to have everyone I care about waste their time and money just to come watch me get stood up at the altar.”

“Come on, Karen…”

“If you haven’t gotten it taken care of by then, then maybe we need to reevaluate our entire relationship,” she says, stepping off the sidewalk and hailing a cab.

“Karen.”

“One week, Matt,” she repeats and slides into the cab, closing the door behind her and leaving Matt standing alone on the sidewalk.

He listens to the car pull away and sighs deeply, digging his phone from his pocket and ordering it to make a call.

“Hey, are you free to meet me right now? I could use your help with something.”

Once Jessica finishes laughing at him, she makes him repeat the entire story and then laughs some more before finally agreeing to help. She orders another whiskey which she makes him cover as preliminary payment.

“Isn’t your amusement at my expense payment enough?” he asks dryly, sipping his own off-label beer.

“Nah, that’s just a signing bonus.” She gulps down half the glass before dragging the file folder across the bar to herself and flipping through it. “Huh. I thought Francis with an i was usually the boy spelling. I always get those mixed up.”

“All you need to do is find Ms. Castiglione’s current address—”

“Shouldn’t it be Mrs. Castiglione?” Jessica interrupts, smirking. “Or Mrs. Murdock? Mrs. Castiglione-Murdock? I like that one. Really flows off the tongue.”

He glares in her direction, the effect lost completely from behind his glasses and in the dimness of the bar. And also because it’s Jessica. “All you need to do is find Ms. Castiglione’s current address and I’ll take care of the rest, thank you. Also, we’re on a bit of a time crunch, so…”

“Right, right. The other Mrs.,” Jessica snickers. “How’d she take the news, by the way?”

“Not well. She thinks I’m lying about the entire thing.”

“Probably because you lied about the other thing.”

“Yes, I remember, thanks.” He sighs. He’s been doing a lot of that lately. “Can I count on you for this?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She copies the pertinent information from the documents into her own pocket notebook and slides the folder back over to him. “Give me 24 hours. If I don’t have anything by then, then there’s nothing to be found and you’ll be stuck married to Mystery Lady for the rest of your life. Actually, if you don’t hear from her in one more year, you can have her declared dead, can’t you? I thought I heard that somewhere…”

He opts to ignore most of what she just said. “Thanks, Jess. Call me as soon as you have something.”

“Hey, wait, I was serious about that declaring someone dead thing. I need lawyerly advice. It might come in handy.”

“Don’t pretend that you have the patience to wait seven years for anything,” he grins and she shrugs.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

It’s early the next afternoon—less than 24 hours of frigid civility at the office and complete silent treatment outside of it—when Jessica calls him back to the same bar they met at the last time. Matt can hear the satisfied glee in her voice and can only imagine what she’s dug up.

“What’d you find?” he asks, sliding onto the barstool next to her and signaling the bartender for a beer.

“Well, first of all, your case amused me more than the average bullshit I usually have to deal with, so I’ll give you a discount. You’re welcome. Secondly, I couldn’t find any trace of Francis Castiglione anywhere in the city for the last six years. It’s a good thing you hired me because I ended up having to dig into some records that you wouldn’t have access to, even as the legal next of kin.” Her ribbing is evident in the sharp grin he can hear in her voice. “It’s because the name is no longer Francis Castiglione. It’s Frank Castle.”

Matt takes a moment to process this. “She’s…transgender?”

“What? No, you dumbass.” Jessica whacks him upside the head, gently by her standards, as she still wants him conscious for the moment. It still leaves his ears ringing. “He’s always been a dude.”

“But…that’s…”

“What? Got a problem being married to a dude?” she sneers and there’s something a little less playful in her voice.

He huffs at her. “That’s not it. I have a problem being married to anyone I’ve never even met.”

“’Kay, then why does it matter if he’s a dude or a chick?”

“Because gay marriage wasn’t even legal in New York until 2011, and we were supposedly married in 2010.”

Jessica snorts into her drink. “Well, when the government fucks up, you can’t argue that they fuck up hard.”

“No, this is good, though,” Matt realizes, perking up in his chair. “If he’s been a man all along and we were married in 2010 before it was legal, then Karen has to understand that it was a clerical error like I’ve been telling her from the start.”

“Wouldn’t she believe you just as easily once you told her Francis is actually a dude?” Jessica asks dryly.

Matt quickly waves the question away. “Never mind that.”

But Jessica is not so easily distracted. He can hear the slow grin that spreads over her face like an oil spill. “I see. It wouldn’t matter that he was a guy if you swing both ways and Karen already knows it.”

Matt can feel the blood rushing to color his cheeks. He’s never been ashamed of who he is (not since the orphanage and the nuns, anyway), but something about Jessica’s gleeful tone makes it sound like she’s discovered his dirty little secret. “That’s neither here nor there. I assume since you found his name you have current contact information for him?”

Jessica chuckles and drains the last of her whiskey, pulling a crumpled sheet of paper from her back pocket and sliding it over. He unfolds it and runs his fingers over it—she’s written large and pressed hard enough with the pen that he can read it easily.

“That good?” she checks and he nods. He’s surprised to find that the address is actually in Hell’s Kitchen. Maybe they’ve passed each other in the street at some point and didn’t even know…

Jessica smirks and puts her feet up on the corner of his chair. “Go get ’em, tiger. And by ‘them’ I mean his signature on those divorce papers. Let me know how it goes. I want all the juicy details about how he flips out on you.”

Matt refolds the paper and stuffs it in his inner suit pocket. “Thanks, Jess. I owe you one.”

“Uh, yeah you do, and don’t think I won’t be collecting on it. I accept payment in shots or whole bottles!” she calls after him as he leaves the bar. The address is close by; he can go right now.

He follows his phone’s GPS on foot until it informs him he’s arrived at his destination. He runs his fingers along the indicated building until he finds the front door and rings the bell. It doesn’t seem like an apartment building, but this is definitely the address Jessica gave him. Maybe it’s Castle’s place of work?

The door swings open after a minute and Matt can hear several men’s voices inside and gruff laughter that echoes strangely in a large, cavernous room. There’s a moment of surprise as the person who answered the door looks him over before respectfully asking, “Is there something I can help you with, sir?”

Matt pastes on his friendly-professional smile. “I hope so. Is there a Frank Castle here?”

To his surprise, the other man laughs. “Uh-oh. You a lawyer or something?”

A bit of confusion colors Matt’s smile. “How did you know?”

The man chuckles again. “You’re not the first. Come on in. I’m Curtis, by the way. My arm is here if you need it.”

Matt gratefully takes hold of Curtis’s elbow and follows him through the door into the strange space. There’s a small entryway that opens into a hallway which branches off into several closed doors. He can hear the cavernous room echoing off to the right but Curtis turns left and leads him down the hallway toward several rough voices raised in friendly banter.

“This is the dayroom/kitchen area,” Curtis considerately tells him before calling out, “Yo, Frank, you got a visitor!”

The man in question must catch sight of him because a raspy voice groans and complains, “Another lawyer?”

Matt finds himself coloring a little for reasons he can’t name. He fights down the blush, clinging to professionalism. “Mr. Castle, my name is Matthew Murdock. Is there somewhere private we can talk?”

“If you’re here to serve me because another ingrate bastard is suing me for saving his life, you can do it in front of the boys. They’ve seen it before,” the voice dismisses, causing the other men around the table to laugh as they continue their apparent card game.

“I’m not here to serve you,” Matt clarifies, ignoring his own confusion for the moment. What kind of man gets sued for saving someone’s life? “Perhaps we could talk somewhere a little more private.”

Frank groans again and pushes away from the table, throwing his cards facedown. “Any ’a you asshats cheat while I’m gone, I’ll know,” he threatens and brushes past Matt. One of the other men at the table immediately picks up his discarded hand to look through it. Matt follows the sound of Frank’s footsteps back up the hall and through one of the doors into what sounds like an office, computers and electronics humming around him. Frank closes the door behind him and rounds the desk to drop into a leather chair behind it. “Have a seat. What’s this about?”

Matt sweeps his hand out for a chair and finds it, tracing the seat before sitting down and facing Frank’s direction. “Mr. Castle, I am a lawyer, but that’s not why I’m here today. Um, it’s—actually kind of a funny story,” now that he thinks about it.

“Well, spit it out, then. I’m a fun-loving guy,” Frank drawls.

“Um, well, the other day my fiancée and I went to apply for our marriage license—”

“Congratulations,” Frank interrupts dryly but Matt presses on.

“But they wouldn’t allow me to apply because they said I was already married. To you.”

Frank chokes on air and then snorts a laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You’re yanking my chain. Is this a joke? Did Billy put you up to this?”

“I wish it were,” Matt says ruefully.

“But I’ve never even met you. Why the hell would we be married?”

“Ah. Actually, I have a theory about that.” Matt sits up a little straighter, eager to confirm the thought that’s been forming in his head since his meeting with Jessica. “Your name used to be Francis Castiglione, right? You changed it six years ago.”

Frank sits back in his chair, whistling lowly. “Haven’t heard that name in a while. Now I know the other guys didn’t put you up to this, ’cause they don’t know that name and never will, if I have anything to say about it. Been going by Frank unofficially forever but finally had it changed legally when I moved over here from Brooklyn—six years ago, yeah.”

“Well, I believe that when you went to have it changed, there was some sort of error in the system, or maybe an intern who didn’t know what they were doing and misfiled something. Something somewhere along the way got messed up and we were somehow listed as married.”

“Six years ago? And no one caught it before now?” Frank asks dubiously.

“There was no reason for anyone to notice until I went to change my marital status,” Matt explains.

“Damn,” Frank says, thoughtful. “I missed out on my own bachelor party. It was gonna be epic.” He begins chuckling and Matt finds himself helplessly joining in. With Karen, all he could focus on were the negative aspects, the inconvenience, but with Frank it’s easy to see the absurdity of the entire situation and laugh at it.

It’s nearly a minute before they can control their laughter. “Damn,” Frank repeats, scrubbing a hand over his face. “This must be inconvenient as hell for you, though. Sorry about that.”

“It’s not your fault,” Matt dismisses. He’s having trouble taming the corners of his mouth into something not-stupid looking. “But yes, they won’t allow me to continue with the license application until I file the proper paperwork for divorce. My fiancée is pretty upset about the whole thing.”

“Shit. Sorry. Well, if you’ve got the paperwork, I can go ahead and sign it, get this whole mess settled,” Frank says.

The smile drops off Matt’s face. He pats his suit pockets uselessly, as if the folder might fit in one of them. “I…forgot it,” he confesses and Frank snorts again.

“That’s all right. Tomorrow’s my day off. Maybe we can meet for coffee somewhere and I can sign it then?” he offers.

“That’s not—I don’t want to inconvenience you,” Matt stutters. “I can bring it back by here later—”

“Hey, this whole thing is my fault, more or less,” Frank says over him. “The least I can do to make it up to you is coffee. Yeah?”

“I—all right,” Matt accepts. “But it’s hardly your fault.”

Frank shrugs it off. “Do you know Pete’s Diner offa 9th and 53rd?” Matt nods. “Best coffee this side of the East River. We could meet there at 10?” He reconsiders. “Or for lunch, if that works better with your job.”

Matt nods. “Lunch would be good. Twelve o’clock?”

He can hear the smile in Frank’s voice when he answers. “Twelve o’clock.” A long moment passes in silence before Frank suddenly slaps his thighs and stands. “Well, let me show you out of the station. It can be pretty confusing if you’ve never been here before.”

“Station?” Matt repeats as he takes Frank’s offered elbow and is led back out of the office. From the other end of the hallway, he can hear the rumbling of a large diesel engine from inside the cavernous room and he suddenly realizes where he is. “Is this a fire station?”

Frank snorts another laugh. “Yeah. Where the hell did you think you were?”

Matt shrugs, embarrassed. Damn Jessica. She could have told him. “I just had the address. Didn’t know what it was.” He gestures vaguely at his face, his useless eyes.

“Oh. Right. Well, this is the pride of Hell’s Kitchen, a living piece of history,” Frank says, running his hand along one wall as they walk. “Maybe I can show you around, give you the full tour some time when you’re not busy.”

Matt smiles. “I’d like that.”

Frank shows him out the front door and stands outside with him in front of the station. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” he asks and doesn’t apologize for the idiom. Matt finds it refreshing.

“Pete’s Diner. Twelve o’clock,” he verifies and it’s another long moment before he can make himself turn and walk away, feeling Frank’s eyes on him until he rounds the corner.

Matt’s unaware of the smile on his face until he steps through the office’s front door and the immediate tension inside wipes it off. Foggy stands from where he’s been relegated to Karen’s desk and follows him into Matt’s office, closing the door behind them. “Well? Please tell me Jessica had something for you. The sooner you get this mess cleaned up the better for everyone. I would really like my own desk back some time this year. Karen’s is boring. It doesn’t have any tiny dinosaurs hidden in all the drawers.”

“She did, actually. She managed to track down Francis Castiglione.”

“And?” Foggy prods.

“And…it’s not Francis Castiglione anymore. It’s Frank Castle.”

“…She’s transgender?”

Matt is secretly vindicated. He owes Jessica a whack upside the head—not that he would ever be brave (or stupid) enough to actually do it. “No. He’s always been a man.”

“But…gay marriage wasn’t legal in New York—”

“Trust me, Foggy, I know,” Matt interrupts. “I’ve already been over all of this.”

“At least that proves beyond all doubt that it was just a clerical error,” Foggy reasons and Matt nods. “You know, I used to think that you went out searching for trouble—and I still do, actually, because I’m not the idiot in this partnership—but apparently even when you’re not actively searching for it it still finds you.”

“See? It’s not my fault.”

“Yeah. You’re the picture of innocence.” Matt can’t see it but he’s pretty sure Foggy rolls his eyes. “So? When are you meeting this Castle guy?”

Matt smiles again just at the reminder. “I already did. Jessica found his current work address and gave it to me. He’s been right here in Hell’s Kitchen for the last six years.”

“Wild,” Foggy muses. “Well, at least this is all taken care of now and you can go tell Karen the good news.”

Matt winces.

“What? What is that face? I know that face. This isn’t all taken care of, is it.”

“I didn’t bring the papers with me,” Matt confesses.

“You didn’t—Matt!”

“Well, I didn’t know I was going to be meeting him today, or I would have!” he defends. “But it’s fine. I’m meeting him again tomorrow and I’ll bring the papers this time. Just—don’t tell Karen yet, all right? I’ll tell her tomorrow once everything is settled.”

Foggy groans. “You are a human disaster, Matt Murdock.”

Matt grins. “Thanks, Fogs. With any luck and a couple dozen apology roses, you should have your desk back by closing tomorrow.”

“I’d better. All the dinosaurs are going to suffocate without me there to crack the desk drawers open at night.”

“Come on, Foggy. Karen’s mad at me. She wouldn’t take it out on the dinosaurs. She’s not a monster.”

“Hell hath no fury, Matty. Just remember that,” Foggy warns direly. “Hell hath no fury.”

Lunchtime the next day can’t roll around quickly enough and Matt nearly forgets to stuff the divorce papers in his satchel and bring it with him on his way out. He has a feeling that Foggy is trying to catch his eye for some significant eye contact, but such gestures are wasted on him so he ignores it.

He makes the short walk to Pete’s Diner and arrives four minutes early, standing awkwardly inside the entrance when he realizes he’s not sure if he should try to find an empty booth or Frank, if he’s even here yet.

One of the waitresses apparently takes pity on him and asks, “Get you seated, hon?”

“I’m supposed to be meeting someone, actually, but I don’t know if he’s—”

“Murdock,” the familiar voice calls and then Frank is suddenly in front of him, warm and smelling like Irish Spring soap and coffee. “Already got us a table in the back.” He brushes his elbow against Matt’s arm in invitation and Matt happily accepts, distinctly ignoring the small part of his brain that notes and appreciates the size and firmness of the tricep under his palm.

He slides into the vinyl seat that Frank leads him to and drops his satchel beside him, sitting with his back to the room, but he doesn’t mind. It makes no difference to him and Frank seems like the type of guy who never has his back to the door. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“No worries. You’re right on time,” Frank tells him, a little self-deprecating chuckle in his voice. “I didn’t have anything else to do so I got here early for an extra cup of coffee.”

The waitress steps up to their table right on cue, a steaming pot in hand. “Refill?” Frank obligingly holds up his mug for a top-off and she turns to Matt. “Coffee, Sugar?”

“Well, I’ve been told it’s the best this side of the East River.” He gropes for the overturned cup on its saucer in front of him and flips it upright for her to fill.

“You boys need a minute to look over the menu?”

“Actually, could we get a Braille menu here, ma’am?” Frank requests.

“Oh, of course, I’m sorry—”

“No, that’s all right,” Matt quickly cuts in. “I’ll just have the club on wheat, please.”

“Sure. And for you?”

“The Reuben with chips. Thanks.”

The waitress leaves to deliver their orders to the kitchen and Matt sips his coffee. “Good, right?” Frank asks expectantly.

Matt shrugs noncommittally. “It’s all right for diner coffee, I suppose.”

Frank scoffs. “You’re full of shit,” he accuses lightly. “That’s the best damn coffee to ever be scraped out of the charred bottom of a carafe.”

“I think your taste buds must just have very low expectations from the station’s coffee,” Matt returns. “Or maybe you’ve been breathing in too much smoke from too many fires.” Frank laughs aloud and Matt thinks it might be the most pleasant sound he’s ever heard.

“Yeah, that may be true,” Frank admits, taking another gulp of the potent brew.

“So you’re a firefighter, right?” Matt asks. “What’s that like?”

He can hear Frank’s shrug against the vinyl of the booth seat. “Oh, you know. It has its highs and lows. The hours are long and the requirements demanding but the other guys are like your family. Never gets lonely in the station, that’s for damn sure. And it’s a dangerous job, yeah, someone’s always getting hurt, but the satisfaction that comes from actually pulling someone out of a fire, saving a life—there’s nothing like it.”

“Have you ever been hurt on the job?”

“’Course. Get burned all the time, even with the safety gear,” Frank says, and then snorts. “This one time—I don’t even know how it happened. I was crawling on the floor in a house fire and a piece of flaming plaster fell off the ceiling, burned right through the seat of my pants. I swear I still have a red mark the shape of Idaho on my ass to this day.”

A surprised laugh bursts out of Matt. “That’s…That’s…certainly something. Too bad it couldn’t have been New York. State pride.”

Frank chuckles. “That woulda been better. How about you?”

“I—what? No, I don’t have any state-shaped marks on me. That I know of.”

“I could ch—” Frank clears his throat gruffly. “No, I meant, what’s it like being a lawyer?”

“Oh. Well. Not nearly so exciting as being a firefighter, I’m sure,” Matt says. “The closest we ever come to danger is the occasional death threat from the opposing side. Honestly, the biggest hazard to our physical safety is probably death by paper cuts.”  He chuckles self-deprecatingly. “Oh, there was one time someone managed to sneak a ceramic knife into the courtroom and stabbed the bailiff. But that was only once.”

Frank sounds a little slack-jawed. “Right. Completely boring.”

“Really, it’s mostly just paperwork,” Matt insists. “Filling out forms, sending emails, lots of research on archaic procedural laws that no one can actually remember.”

“So what kind of lawyer are you, exactly? You don’t strike me as one of those hoity-toity big-name sharks that defend any kind of scumbag so long as they got money,” Frank says, the disdain in his voice making his opinion of the idea clear.

“No, no, nothing like that,” Matt hastens to reassure. “My best friend and I actually interned at a firm like that before deciding that we liked our souls intact and left to start our own firm, Nelson and Murdock. We only take clients we believe to be innocent, regardless of their ability to pay.”

“Oh, a couple of goody two-shoes choirboys,” Frank teases, but the approval in his voice is unmistakeable.

“We do what we can to help the poor and downtrodden,” Matt replies demurely and Frank laughs aloud again.

“So is that how you tracked me down, with all your lawyerly ties in the legal system?”

“No, actually, I had a bit of trouble finding you. Your last known address as Francis Castiglione is an empty lot now.”

“Ah. Yeah, my landlord sold the building to some big redevelopment company. Figured it was as good a time as any to get out of there, yeah? Changed my name, made a fresh start for myself.”

“Well you were a hard man to track down. I had to hire a private investigator,” Matt admits.

“Shit.”

“No, it’s all right. She’s actually a friend of mine. Accepts payment in the form of booze.”

Frank chuckles. “Sounds like my kind of pal.”

“I’ve never spent a dull moment with her, that’s for sure.”

The waitress returns with their food and the two tuck into their sandwiches, Matt regaling Frank with the tale of one of his misadventures with Jessica wherein she drunkenly tumbled out of a two-story window and then got up and brushed it off like it was nothing. Frank returns with a story about his own 23-foot fall out of a burning building, which the other guys cheerfully measured for him afterwards and his chief called him a dumbass for.

Matt finds himself laughing and genuinely enjoying himself with another person more than he has in way too long, probably since he and Foggy moved into their own separate apartments. Frank’s voice is warm and engaging, with a captivating rasp to it that pleases Matt’s ears. He treats Matt like a regular person, making allowances for his disability, like lending his arm for guidance and asking for a Braille menu, without drawing attention to it or asking prying questions like even Foggy and Karen did when they first met him. It’s like Frank accepts it as part of him and genuinely doesn’t give a shit at the same time. It’s delightful. 

“—So we’re getting closer now, and Billy says, ‘That smoke looks like it’s coming from nearby the fire station.’ And we get closer, and he says, ‘That smoke is coming from really close to the fire station.’ And then we turn the corner and we see that it is the station that’s on fire. You got this thick brown smoke just pouring out of all the windows, onlookers standing on the street laughing and taking pictures, ’cause irony, right? And then that jackass Curtis standing out front, still holding the empty coffee pot. His dumb ass thought the leftover grease from dinner was coffee grounds and went and splashed it all over the lit stove and started a grease fire inside the damn fire station!”

Matt is laughing so hard his eyes are streaming with tears. “Why—why was there leftover grease in the coffee pot in the first place?! And why was Curtis trying to make coffee on the stove?”

Frank throws his hands up. “Who the hell knows? Never did manage to get a straight answer outta him. We had to replace all the damn paneling on one side of the kitchen and the whole station smelled like smoke for months afterwards. We gave him grief every time we stepped back in after a call. ‘Hey, Curtis, you been making coffee again?’ Man, the look on his face every single time.”

Matt chuckles. “That reminds me of the time my partner and I went to this one house party in law school—” As if summoned, his phone buzzes in his pocket and announces Foggy. Foggy. Foggy. “Speak of the devil,” Matt mutters, running quick fingers over his watch.

“Do you need to get that?” Frank asks, and Matt’s probably just imagining the disappointment in his voice.

“No, he’s probably just wondering where I am. I didn’t realize it was so late.”

There’s a rustle of clothing as Frank checks his own watch. “Damn. Time flies. Didn’t mean to keep you so long. Good thing you have your own business, right? Set your own hours?”

“It does have its perks,” Matt agrees and reaches for the check the waitress long abandoned at their table.

Frank snatches it away before he can find it. “I’ve got this. It’s the least I can do for the inconvenience, remember?”

“That was just for coffee, not lunch,” Matt reminds.

“How about I’ll cover it this time and you can get it next time?” Frank proposes. “I mean…if you’re down for doing this again some time.”

Matt smiles broadly. “Yeah, of course. I’d love to hear more stories about heroism and dumbassery.”

“Oh, I’ve got stories for days,” Frank promises, dropping a few bills on the table and escorting Matt out of the diner to the street. “I’ll give you a call then.”

They go their separate ways and Matt is halfway down the block before he realizes that he forgot to get Frank’s phone number. Even worse, his signature on the divorce papers.

Damn it.

Foggy is going to kill him.

Matt enters the office as quietly as possible, hoping to sneak in without being noticed, but no such luck. Foggy is on him in a heartbeat, closing Matt’s office door behind them again and immediately pouncing. “It took you long enough! Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Sorry, Foggy. We got caught up in the lunch rush,” Matt sort of lies. The lunch rush definitely came and went around them as they sat and talked.

“Well? Did you at least get the papers signed?”

“There was an unforeseen circumstance,” Matt replies stoically.

Foggy sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Which was?”

“I forgot.”

“You forgot,” Foggy repeats flatly. “Matt. Buddy. I’ve always known you have no sense of self-preservation but this is getting kind of ridiculous. Worrying, even. Karen is going to kill you. You realize that, right? Like literally, actually kill you. Like chop you up in little pieces and dump them in the Hudson. And I’m going to defend her in court because, honestly, you kind of deserve it, pal.”

“Foggy. I genuinely just forgot.”

“How do you forget to get divorced?!” Foggy hisses and Matt gestures at him to keep his voice down.

“We were having a nice lunch and talking together and he was telling so many funny stories, it kind of just…slipped my mind.” Matt shrugs.

“Slipped your mind like Karen is gonna slip a noose around your neck,” Foggy mutters.

“I promise I’ll remember next time.”

“Yeah, whatever. Maybe you can meet him not on company time next time?” Foggy suggests. “I had to fight off the hordes of potential clients all on my own while you were gone half the afternoon.”

“Maybe we would have more business if you accepted the clients instead of fighting them off.”

“See, that’s why you need to be here, for brilliant ideas like that.”

The next day Matt considers walking over to the fire station at lunch to meet Frank again, but he doesn’t want to risk taking too much time and having Foggy lecture him about work hours again. As it was, he’d had to stay late the evening before and take home extra paperwork to make up the time he’d missed for his long lunch. He resigns himself to wait till after work and hope that Frank is on shift when he gets there.

He’s surprised, then, when the outer office door opens around midday. It’s enough of a rarity for someone besides the three of them to enter that it catches his immediate attention—as well as Foggy’s, who is still relegated to Karen’s desk. Matt can hear him hurriedly stand and approach the visitor with his affable-civil-servant voice. “Hi, welcome to Nelson and Murdock. I’m Foggy Nelson. Is there something we can do for you today?”

“I’m looking for the Murdock half, actually,” the visitor answers and a smile breaks out on Matt’s face at Frank’s familiar voice. He quickly rounds his desk and steps out of his office just in time to interrupt Foggy as he’s asking if he has an appointment.

“Frank. Hi.”

Foggy makes a little squeak that they both ignore.

“Hey, Matt,” Frank says and Matt is sure he can hear a smile in his voice that wasn’t there a minute ago.

“Um, come in.” Matt gestures to his private office and shuts the door behind them for no good reason. He’s entirely certain Foggy is trying to discreetly spy on them without Frank noticing and is tempted to pull the blinds shut, too. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Yeah, well, I realized that I told you I’d call and then forgot to get your number,” Frank says, sounding slightly embarrassed. “Lucky you told me the name of your firm so I could look you up.”

“You didn’t have to do that. I was going to stop by the station after work.”

“I was in the area anyway,” Frank says casually. “Me and the boys were on the way back from a call and I asked to stop in real quick.”

“You and… Did you drive over here in a firetruck?” Matt asks in surprise. “In your firefighting gear?”

“Well, I mean, I took most of it off in the truck,” Frank offers and his fingers snap what Matt can only guess is the suspenders holding up his uniform pants.

He firmly pushes away any stray thoughts of Frank in firefighting gear and then stripping said gear off. “You were on a call? Was it anything serious?”

“Nah. Just a false alarm. We get a ton of them,” Frank says easily. “I do need to get back to the station, though, so if I could just get your number real quick…”

“Right. Sorry.” Matt searches his desk for a pen and one of his business cards, feeling for the embossed printing on the front and flipping it over to carefully write his personal cell number on the back. He hands it over, a smile quirking his lips as he can’t help but ask, “Did you tell your coworkers why you had to stop by a lawyer’s office?”

“Hell no,” Frank barks with a laugh. “They’d never let me live it down, being married without knowing it for six years. I just told them that someone was suing me again and you were handling the paperwork.”

“Right, you mentioned that before. You’ll have to tell me that story sometime.”

“Maybe over lunch tomorrow?” Frank suggests.

Matt hesitates and then decides to go for it. “How about dinner instead? My partner got on to me yesterday about wasting company time.”

“Well shit, wouldn’t want that,” Frank says, grinning. “Dinner it is, then. I’ll call and we can work out the details.”

“Sounds good.” Matt smiles and there’s a moment of silence where he can hear Frank turning the business card over and over in his fingers.

“Right. Gotta go,” Frank reminds himself. “Uh, is this a four or a nine?”

“It’s a nine. Sorry, I’ve been told my handwriting can be hard to read,” Matt apologizes, embarrassed. He should’ve just had Frank write it himself.

“No, no, I like it. It’s…got character. It’s nice.”

Matt can feel his ears turning red. That’s the first positive thing anyone’s had to say about his handwriting since Foggy called it endearing the first time he saw it in law school. For lack of another response, Matt reminds, “Better get going before they think something happened and send up the rest of the squad to rescue you.”

“Right. Yeah. See you.” Frank tucks the card in his pocket and opens the door, nodding to Foggy as he lets himself out.

As soon as the outer door is closed behind him, Foggy pounces. “That was Frank Castle?”

“Yeah.”

“Your husband, Frank Castle?”

“Foggy, please. He’s not my husband,” Matt denies, the word strange in his mouth. Strange, but not unpleasant. “We’re not actually married.”

“In the eyes of New York you are.”

“It was a filing error.”

Foggy changes tack. “You didn’t tell me he was a firefighter.”

“Does it matter?”

“You didn’t tell me he looks like he could crush me with one pinky, either.”

That gives Matt pause. “What does he look like?” he asks.

“Scary. Like he could crush me with one pinky,” Foggy reiterates. At Matt’s exasperated look, he elaborates. “I don’t know. He’s about your height, short dark hair, dark eyes. Rugged. That’s a thing. Nose looks like it’s been broken a few times, but it just adds to the scary capable-of-crushing-you-with-one-pinky persona. Lots of muscles. I think his shirt was a couple sizes too small.”

Matt tries to reconcile Foggy’s description with what he already knows about Frank: that he smells like Irish Spring soap and black coffee, even when he’s not drinking it; that he’s considerate of Matt and respectful to women; that he regards the rest of his crew as family and would do anything for them. The heat of his skin under Matt’s fingers and the gravel of his voice as he speaks. The easy way he laughs and the way his words change shape around his smile. Matt finds it surprisingly easy to incorporate Foggy’s description into the mental image he’s been building of Frank.

“Of course, he was a lot less scary when he was talking to you,” Foggy continues. “Smiled a lot.”

“Because he actually appreciates my sense of humor.”

“Making constant blind puns does not constitute a sense of humor,” Foggy tells him for what is probably the thousandth time in their relationship. “Did he at least sign the papers?”

“Oh.”

Foggy groans, loudly. “Matt. He was right there in your office.”

“He was in a hurry.”

“Too much of a hurry to sign his name?”

“I gave him my number. We’re going to meet for dinner and I already promised you that I won’t forget this time,” Matt says.

“Hey, I’m not the one that’s going to be dumping your body in the Hudson if you don’t get this taken care of soon,” Foggy reminds just as they can hear the clacking of heels on the wooden steps up to the office.

Karen enters, the plastic bag of their takeout looped over one arm. “Hey, I saw a firetruck out front pulling away when I got back. Did something happen?”

Foggy heartlessly leaves Matt to answer that, taking the bag from Karen and digging through it to find his lemon chicken.

“There was a false alarm,” Matt answers, partial truth, and can feel Foggy’s disapproval radiating through the air at him. Karen remembers that she’s not talking to Matt outside of business and takes her own container of General Tsao’s into Foggy’s office. “There really was a false alarm,” he informs Foggy. Just, not in their building.

“Mm-hm.”

“I’m taking care of it.”

“Hudson River, Matt.”

The next morning finds Matt uncharacteristically indecisive getting dressed. He finally settles on the light grey suit that Foggy has told him accentuates the broad line of his shoulders, and then switches dress shirts three times. White is an easy match, of course, but makes him look too much like a lawyer—which wouldn’t normally be a problem, being a lawyer and all, but he’s not dressing for just work today. Finally he settles on the black shirt and sets it off with his favorite blood red tie, which Foggy has assured him is an exact match for his glasses. 

On his way out the door, he stops and considers the divorce papers in their folder, sitting prominently on the end of his kitchen counter to remind him to bring them. Does he really need to bring them to the office, though? He doesn’t know yet when exactly he’s meeting Frank for dinner, but he’ll probably have plenty of time after work to come back to his apartment and pick them up, right? He only has the Li case to work on today, and of course the Arriaga deposition to review, and the meeting with their new client Mr. Flores after lunch, and he should really rearrange his filing cabinet because Foggy can’t read Braille but keeps shoving files in there anyway and it takes forever to find anything. And maybe clean a bit because the dust has been making him sneeze lately. But he’ll definitely probably have time to come back. 

Matt nods to himself and leaves his apartment without the papers.

“Whoa, do we have court today and I forgot?” Foggy greets him as soon as he steps into the office. “No, that’s way too flashy for court. Do you have an interview with HC&B? L&Z? SSS&G? Are you leaving me, Matt?” 

Matt scoffs as Foggy follows him to his desk. “It’s not flashy. I wear this suit all the time.”

“Yeah, but not with that shirt and tie. You look like a shark. A super hot, supermodel shark on your way to a photoshoot for the lawyer edition of Vogue. Are you going to a celebrity wedding? Is Tony Stark getting married again?”

“I’m not going to a wedding. The opposite, actually. A divorce.” And if Matt sounds just a little mournful about it—that’s ridiculous, no he doesn’t. 

“Ohhh, okay. And you’ve decided to cosplay as a 1940s housewife leaving her alcoholic husband for the drama, I guess. You’ve already got the shades going; you just need the fur coat and hat.” 

Matt can’t help a laugh. “Foggy, I literally have no idea what you’re saying. We’re just going to dinner.” 

“Where? Del Frisco’s?” Foggy demands. 

“No. I don’t know. He’ll call me. If we go somewhere casual I can lose the coat and tie.”

“Matt, buddy, if you think that popping the top couple buttons on your shirt and rolling up your sleeves to show off your weirdly muscular forearms makes you any less hot, boy do I have news for you.” 

Matt can feel the tips of his ears turning red. He’s not necessarily trying to look hot. That hadn’t been what he had in mind when choosing his clothes this morning, he’s sure. After all, there’s no reason to look good for a near-stranger he’s meeting for purely business purposes. It’s not a date. 

He’s engaged. To someone else. 

“Good thing he’s a firefighter, then. He can handle a little heat,” Matt quips lamely and Foggy groans.

“Man, I don’t think you’re taking this whole thing seriously enough. I’ve been trying to keep it light, but you really need to fix this, for real. I don’t think Karen’s patience is gonna hold much longer. You’ve been my best friend for way longer, so of course I’m gonna pick you in the divorce—the metaphorical divorce between you and Karen, I mean, not the actual, legal divorce between you and Frank—I barely know the guy; why would I pick him—?”

“Foggy,” Matt interrupts. “Karen and I aren’t breaking up. I’m going to get the papers signed tonight, no matter what. I promise.”

“Yeah you will, because you’re self-destructive, not suicidal. I’m just saying, Karen is my friend too and even if I choose you, that doesn’t mean that I want to see her hurt.”

“I’m not trying to hurt her,” Matt protests.

Foggy heaves a sigh that could only be born from the burden of calling himself Matt Murdock’s best friend for years uncounted. “Yeah, you never try. These things just happen to you.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m trying to get it fixed.”

“I’ve seen you trying to get a client a reduced sentence, and I’ve seen you trying to get that cute barista to stop flirting with you, and they are very different levels of trying. Just saying, this situation really needs to be Level One Trying,” Foggy tells him seriously.

“It is. I am. It will be—settled. Tonight.”

“All right.” Foggy raises his hands in surrender and slides off Matt’s desk. “I’ve done what I can to advise you. The rest is up to you, Counselor. Don’t screw it up.”

Matt sighs as Foggy returns to his work at Karen’s desk. He probably should have brought the papers with him.

It’s midmorning when his phone rings with an unknown number. He pauses the audio recording of Arriaga’s deposition and pulls his headphones from his ears to answer it. “Murdock.”

“Is it, now? This must be my lucky day,” the voice on the other end drawls, and Matt finds himself sitting up straighter as a smile spreads over his face.

“Frank. Hi.”

“Busy?” Frank asks.

“I’ve got a few minutes,” Matt answers, unnecessarily pushing his laptop further away.

“Good. Yeah, me too.”

Matt’s smile doesn’t fade as dead air fills the line between them. After several seconds he asks, “Just taking a poll, then? Finding out who has minutes to spare during their work day?”

“Ah—How do you feel about soup dumplings?”

“Is this another poll?”

Frank huffs a small laugh. “Smartass. There’s a Vietnamese place on 10th that does killer soup dumplings. For dinner tonight. If you’re still free.”

“I didn’t take you for a soup dumpling kind of guy.” Matt’s grinning now. 

“What can I say? I’m a man of mystery. Multi-faceted.” Frank sounds like he’s grinning too. “So, dinner?”

“Dinner would be great. Six o’clock okay?” Why did he say six? There’s no way he’ll have time to swing back by his apartment before six.

“Perfect dinner-eating time,” Frank agrees before he can change it. “Do you want me to pick you up?”

No. Nope. Definitely not. The very last thing he needs is Foggy’s and Karen’s eyes on him as a ruggedly buff firefighter picks him up in his supermodel suit for a not-date. “Uhh, I can meet you there.”

“Pho Me.”

Matt almost chokes. “Beg your pardon?”

“That’s the name of the place!” Frank coughs a bit. “Pho Me. You know, like…the soup.”

“Right. Of course. Pho Me at six o’clock.” Matt grins devilishly as Frank makes a small strangled sound.

“Sounds good,” he forces out and clears his throat. “Uh. I think I hear one of the guys calling me. I’ll see you tonight?”

“See you tonight.” Matt’s still grinning as he restarts the deposition tape, and then fifteen minutes later when he has to rewind it to replay everything he wasn’t listening to.

Two hours later, it’s Matt’s turn to fetch lunch for the office, and it’s Friday, which means Greek. He hands Foggy his moussaka bowl and then awkwardly knocks at the closed door before wordlessly sliding Karen’s gyro across the desk to her and turning to go. 

“Whoa, you look nice,” Karen mutters. For some reason the comment evokes a strange sense of guilt in the pit of his belly. He smiles briefly but doesn’t reply, but before he can leave, Karen continues, “Actually, Matt, could I talk to you for a second? Close the door.”

Matt obliges, positive that Foggy is watching him, fork in mouth and eyebrows raised. He perches on the edge of one of the guest chairs, uncomfortable with settling in but unwilling to stand looming over her or looking like he’s ready to run. This isn’t a fight-or-flight scenario, he reminds his adrenal glands. “Yes?”

Karen spins her gyro on the desk a couple times, picking at the wrapper before laying both hands over it. “I’ve been thinking. I’ve—had a lot of time to think, over the past few days.”

“Yes, I imagine you’ve had plenty of time to think while closed up in Foggy’s office giving me the silent treatment,” Matt decidedly does not say. He keeps his mouth shut and lets her continue. 

“And I was thinking…that…maybe it’s a good thing that this happened. It’s made me…think…about some things,” she says slowly. 

“What things?” His fingers are beginning to fidget. 

She lets out an explosive sigh. “Things like… What are we even doing, Matt?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “What do you mean? Getting married?”

“Yes, but why? I—honestly, I feel like we’ve just been going through the motions, because that’s what’s expected. Following the formula. Boy meets girl. But I’m starting to think that maybe we were forcing things even from the beginning. Confusing friendship for something more because there was a little spark of potential there. I haven’t felt the spark in a while, Matt. Have you?” 

“I—uh, I mean—we— Are you breaking up with me?”

“Can you give me a good reason why I shouldn’t?”

Matt splutters. “Lots—there’s lots of reasons. We love each other. We’re engaged to be married, for heaven’s sake.”

“Being engaged is not a good reason in itself,” Karen argues. “Plenty of people break off engagements all the time. Better than after the wedding.”

“Are you telling me you don’t love me?”

“I’m not saying that. I do love you. You’re very special to me, you and Foggy both. I’m just not sure that I’m…in love with you.”

Matt reels back. “Is…Is all of this just because of that stupid misfiled paperwork? Karen, I told you, I’m handling it. It was all a misunderstanding; I swear I didn’t lie about being married—”

“No. Are you even listening?” Karen interrupts sharply. “I told you, that was just the catalyst. I mean, yeah, at first I thought you were lying or had done it on purpose somehow, but then I realized, it really doesn’t matter either way. We’ve both just been going with the flow because it was easy and obvious. But there hasn’t been any passion there in months. There’s no sense of devotion, no emotional intimacy. Is that really how you want to live the rest of your life? Because I don’t.”

“But—there’s still—trust, and respect, and, and support, and—”

“All of which are important for a healthy friendship. But I'm not talking about just friendship here. I'm talking about more. Life partners. Even more than what you and Foggy have going on.” She takes a deep, steadying breath. “Matt, tell me now. This is your chance. Do you want to spend the rest of your life married to me?”

Matt shuts his mouth. The silence weighs heavily between them for a long minute. 

Then Karen slowly takes off her engagement ring, sliding it across the desk with a soft scrape. Matt hesitates before reaching for it, his fingers resting over hers as she lingers there for a moment before gently pulling back. He tucks the ring into his jacket pocket. 

“Sorry,” she whispers, but he shakes his head.

“No, you’re right. About everything. I’m sorry, too.” When the silence gets to be too much, he tries for a smile. “One of us will have to break it to Foggy. Poor kid will be heartbroken.”

“I’ll take him on Wednesdays and every other weekend,” she jokes back hesitantly. 

“You can have him for Easter and Thanksgiving. We can share custody during the week.”

“Oh. Um. Actually… I applied for a job at the Bulletin,” Karen tells him awkwardly. “The editor over there, Mitch Ellison, I’ve worked with him before on a couple of cases and he loves me. Said I’m a shoo-in.”

Matt’s mouth works soundlessly for a moment. “Um. That’s great. Congratulations. I’m sure you’ll make a great journalist. You always did have a sharp nose for a good story. And the tenacity to dig it out.” 

Karen nods soundlessly back at him, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Yeah. Thanks. Um. I can set up some interviews for a new secretary before I go.”

“Yeah. That would be good. Thanks.”

“Yeah.”

Matt realizes he’s been fidgeting with the ring in his pocket and makes himself drop it. “Um. Enjoy your lunch before it gets cold.” 

“Uh. Yeah. You too.”

He flees the room as calmly as possible, ignoring Foggy’s inquiring puppy noise and shutting himself back in his own office, counting on the fact that Foggy will consider it too obvious if he chases after him immediately. He can’t remember where he set down his own lunch, but he’s not hungry anyway. The ring feels unreasonably heavy in his pocket. He opens his desk drawer and drops it in, shutting the drawer again and pulling Ms. Li’s file closer.

Unfortunately it’s only a few minutes until Foggy is letting himself in, bringing with him the aroma of warm lamb and cucumbers. Damn it. Matt knew his missing food would come back to bite him.

“Hey, I brought your lunch,” Foggy says louder than necessary before shutting the door and lowering his voice as he slides into the guest chair. “What was that about?” He sets the bag with Matt’s food in it on the other chair next to him, to Matt’s annoyance. Not that he would eat it now, but it would be nice to have something for his hands to fidget with other than pretending to keep reading Ms. Li’s file.

“What was what about?” he asks for no good reason. It’s not like he’ll be able to put Foggy off forever. Might as well just get it out and over with.

“What did Karen want to talk to you about?”

“Do you normally ask an engaged couple about all of their private conversations?” Then again, no one had ever accused him of taking the sensible path.

“Murdock, I swear, I will absolutely thumb wrestle you into submission until you tell me what she had to say to you after five days of the silent treatment.”

Matt huffs and turns his head away. Foggy waits him out. Matt is absolutely not hiding his thumbs when he folds his arms across his chest. Foggy cracks his knuckles. Matt relents, digging in his desk drawer until he finds the ring and wordlessly holds it up for Foggy’s view.

“Matthew. Michael. Murdock. What the hell did you do.”

“She broke up with me! Why do you assume it’s my fault?!”

“Because I’ve only known you your entire adult life,” Foggy says plainly. “And I didn’t know you as a teenager, but I can only assume that your decision making process was not any better before your prefrontal cortex was fully developed.”

“Look, I…cannot disagree with anything you’re saying. But in this case, it’s the judge’s ruling that the fault lies equally with both parties. Even Karen said so.”

Matt can feel Foggy’s skeptical face beaming disapprovingly at him. He even has a good idea what it looks like, because Foggy had once made him put his hands on it while declaring, “This is my skeptical face, Murdock.” “And is that the same story I’ll get when I cross-examine the witness?”

Matt raises one hand. “So help me God.” He drops his hand. “She said we’ve just been following the motions because it’s what was expected. That she loves me, but isn’t in love with me.” He wrinkles his nose. “Same as she feels about you, she said.”

“Wow. Either she’s secretly in love with me, or you got friendzoned.”

“The second one, I’m pretty sure.”

“That’s impressive. That normally happens before the first date, not three weeks before the wedding.”

Matt sighs, dropping the ring back into his drawer. “Better than three weeks after the wedding, I guess.”

“So that’s it, then? Wedding’s off?” Foggy sounds disappointed—more disappointed than Matt feels, which is what finally stirs up guilt inside him. He’s pretty sure that he’s supposed to be feeling some kind of grief, or disappointment, or regret, or something other than what he’s beginning to realize is relief.

“Would you rather we went through with it anyway?”

“No,” Foggy says with a huge sigh, sounding resentful against things like better judgment. “Not if you’d both be unhappy. I’m just mourning the loss of what could have been. You two would’ve made beautiful, beautiful babies, and I would’ve been the fun uncle to my little supermodel niblings.”

“You already have niblings.”

“Yes, but those are Nelson niblings. It’s hard to be the fun uncle when the whole family is so fun and loving. You and Karen are both tragic and traumatized enough that I would barely even have to try.”

“Yes, I can tell how fun you would be. You’re so good at cheering people up, after all,” Matt notes dryly.

“Neither of you has siblings, either,” Foggy continues morosely. “No competition. I would be the fun uncle by default.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Foggy sighs mournfully again, plopping his elbow onto the desk and dropping his chin into his hand, which squishes his next words. “I’ll have to cancel my tux rental. And looks like the best man speech will have to go back into the vault.”

“Truly a tragedy. The city as a whole may never recover.”

“Hey, joke’s on you, pal. For every year that passes until I finally get to bust it out, another embarrassing story gets added to it.”

Matt narrows his eyes at him. “You swore to me that the pineapple story was off-limits.”

Foggy laughs like a supervillain. “You fool! You think that the pineapple is the most embarrassing story I have in my arsenal? You have no idea! In fact, what say we go get drunk off our asses tonight and make a couple more?”

“Oh, um.” Matt hesitates. “That sounds fun, but I’m having dinner with Frank tonight, remember?”

“Oh yeah. Well, I guess there’s no rush in getting those papers signed anymore, is there?” Foggy muses. “He’ll understand if you want to postpone.”

Matt finds something in himself strangely resistant to the idea. “I still don’t want to be married to someone I hardly even know, Fogs,” he says, and it’s mostly true.

Foggy whistles lowly. “Damn, dude. Dumped twice in one day, by a fiancée and a husband. That’s gotta be some kind of record. Our best-bros-breakup-bash night out is gonna have to be truly epic to make up for this.”

“Tomorrow,” Matt nods.

“Tomorrow,” Foggy agrees, finally handing over Matt’s lunch.

Matt stands in front of the restaurant fifteen minutes early, nervously twisting his cane in his hands. He’s never been to this particular Vietnamese place before, but he can hear the other patrons inside, laughing and chatting at a dense volume just below raucous and well above the hush of fine dining. He’s definitely overdressed. He’s contemplating taking off his suit jacket (but where would he put it? Sling it over one shoulder? He can already hear Foggy’s catwalk comments) when that raspy voice that’s starting to become familiar calls his name. He turns toward the voice and smiles, sartorial worries instantly forgotten. 

“Whoa,” Frank breathes. And then, “Uh. Hey. Matt.”

“Frank. Good, I’m in the right place. It smells amazing.”

“Yeah, it is. Does. Good. Smells good.”

Matt smirks at Frank’s stumbling, which makes Frank inhale sharply, which makes Matt smile wider. “Shall we go in, then?"

“Pho Me,” Frank whispers under his breath. 

“Hm?"

“Yeah, let's.” He takes a deep, bracing breath and nudges Matt's hand with his elbow. 

They end up ordering way too many dumplings, a serving of each type of filling, after Matt confesses that he's heard of them but hasn't actually tried them before.

“Unbelievable,” Frank accuses. “I can't believe you've never had them but still had the gall to accuse me of not seeming like a soup dumpling kind of guy.”

“I still stand by that statement.”

Frank huffs, exaggerated offense. “What, just because I'm a firefighter I can only like burgers and apple pie?”

Matt grins. “Don't forget Italian. So burgers, apple pie, and pasta.”

“How dare you leave out pizza.”

Matt's first bite into a dumpling surprises him as broth squirts out and he laughs, dabbing at the mess with a napkin. “It's full of soup.”

“It’s right there in the name, yeah? What were you expecting, sand?”

“I just didn't expect so much to come shooting out like that.”

Frank makes a strangled noise but rallies swiftly. “I think it's supposed to be more of a one-bite food.” He demonstrates, stuffing a whole dumpling in too quickly and nearly choking on the explosion of soup that floods his mouth. Matt snorts but follows suit.

They’re halfway through the pork, which they both agree is better than the chicken, and Matt finally hears the story of a man suing Frank for saving him from a burning car. “That’s absolutely insane to me, that someone would try to sue you for saving their life like that. And that’s saying something, in the field I’m in. I’ve seen some pretty wild lawsuits.”

“Yeah, well, luckily the judge had his head screwed on straight that day and he dismissed the case out of hand,” Frank tells him. “I’ve heard of other guys in the service not getting so lucky.”

“The system can be flawed,” Matt acknowledges. “Still, I don’t understand how someone can feel that way about firefighters.”

“It might surprise you to learn that not everybody is a fan. Especially in this city. I’ve literally seen folks line up on balconies and fire escapes to take a piss on firemen working beneath them.”

Matt’s jaw drops. “What? But that’s— Are you serious? That’s the most insane thing I’ve ever— You guys are heroes!”

Frank laughs, unamused. “Well, not everyone shares that sparkly opinion of us, Sunshine.”

“But I—I don’t understand why. You’re literally risking your life to save theirs,” Matt argues. “Their kids, their pets, their property, their homes. You’re not like the police, who write tickets or arrest their loved ones or sometimes abuse their power. I support the NYPD, mostly, but I understand why people have some unfavorable feelings and opinions about them. But you guys—”

“Oh yeah? I thought defense attorneys were the natural enemies of cops. You telling me you’re Team Blue?” Frank breaks in, sounding mockingly offended.

Matt smiles. “Well. Team Blue might be taking it a little far. We do have to work closely with them on occasion so we’ve made some friends there. Though Foggy calls them frenemies.”

“Yeah, sounds about right for us, too. I’ll have you swayed to Team Red in no time,” Frank promises.

“Team Red, huh?”

“Yeah. You look good in red anyway. Uh—” Frank stutters, and rushes on, “Plus we have cookouts and hydrant parties. Can’t beat that.”

Matt’s smile is slow and utterly unstoppable.

By the time Frank has told him about the woman he once treated for a gunshot wound who complained about her husband pulling a gun on her before then pulling her own gun out from under her chair and waving it around as Frank tried to wrap her leg, and Matt has returned it with a story about the time he and his friends got kicked out of the zoo because Danny thought he could jump down into the enclosure and ride the Komodo dragon, most of the other patrons have left and the waiter has been giving them dirty looks for half an hour.

“I think that might be our signal that it’s time to go,” Frank notes as the serving staff start noisily upending chairs onto the empty tables.

“Oh, I didn’t realize it was already so late,” Matt says, feeling for his watch. He smiles crookedly. “Seems to be a bit of a theme for us.” He snags his suit coat from the back of his chair, where he had slung it sometime after the first course, hours ago, and rolls down his shirt sleeves.

Outside, they stand in weighted silence for a long minute before Frank asks, “Can I walk you home?” and Matt can’t think of a good reason to refuse him. He doesn’t try very hard. He takes Frank’s arm in one hand, leaving his cane folded in the other, and enjoys the cool quiet of the night as they stroll slowly in the direction of his apartment. Frank tells him about his father and why he wanted to become a firefighter, and Matt tells him about his dad and the reason he became a lawyer. They discover they were both raised Catholic, and Matt is about to invite him to come meet Father Lantom when he realizes they’re about to pass his building. He draws Frank to a stop and nods toward the door.

“Oh. This you?” He doesn’t think he’s imagining the disappointment in Frank’s voice. “I had a real nice—”

“Would you like to come up for coffee?” Matt interrupts, and “Yes,” Frank answers almost before the question is out.

Matt leads the way up to his apartment on the top floor, unlocking the door and fumbling for the light switch along the wall. “The lights should be—Oh.” The switch is already flicked upwards. “They’ve probably been on all week. If Foggy doesn’t remember to turn them off when he leaves, sometimes they’ll stay on for days before I realize.”

“That must be hell on your electric bill.”

“Not really. It’s balanced by the fact that they’re not usually on the rest of the time.” He rounds the hall to his kitchen, pulling down two mugs and starting the coffee machine. Should he make decaf? It’s late and he’s already feeling a little jittery for some reason.

“Whoa. With a piece like that sitting outside, why did he even need the lights on?”

Maybe he should make tea instead. “I see you’ve spotted the reason I’m able to afford a place like this at all.”

“A sighted tenant could just hang curtains, you know,” Frank points out.

Matt laughs. “Don’t tell my landlord. I like the acoustics here.”

“You do have really nice high—”

Matt cocks his head, trying to pinpoint Frank’s location and the reason his voice suddenly cut off. “Frank?”

It’s still a few seconds before he answers. “Is this them?”

Matt’s head tilts further in confusion before he remembers the divorce papers, sitting prominently on the end of his kitchen counter. His throat goes dry. “Ah…Yeah. That’s them.”

“Right. I, uh… I almost forgot the whole reason for…” Matt can hear him run a hand over the short hair on his scalp. “The fiancée, right?”

“Oh. Um. Actually, she broke it off with me, earlier,” Matt tells him, and then adds for no good reason, “So there’s really no rush now.”

“Earlier. Today?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, man. That’s rough. I hope it wasn’t because of…”

“No! No, it wasn’t your fault.” Matt chuckles, a little uncomfortably. “If anything, I should probably be thanking you. We really weren’t right for each other, and this made us slow down and look at things fresh. It’s actually kind of a relief. Better now than after the wedding, right?”

“Right. For sure,” Frank agrees. A moment passes. “Her loss, though.” He takes a step toward Matt. “Can I tell you something?” Matt doesn’t know what to do other than nod. Frank takes another step toward him. “Since the first time I saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on.”

Matt inhales sharply. “Frank…”

“I was jealous of a woman I’d never even met, that she got to have you.” Another step. “I had to keep reminding myself every time we talked that you were spoken for, that I was too late.”

Matt can feel his body heat, the warmth of him bare inches away now. He swallows convulsively. He should say something. He doesn’t know what to say. There’s too much, and he doesn’t have words for any of it.

“Can I touch you?” Frank whispers, and Matt nods helplessly. His hand, rough with calluses but so gentle, slides against his jaw, his thumb coming to rest just at the corner of Matt’s mouth. “It was a torment, knowing that I’d had this connection to you for so long without ever realizing it, just for it to be too late once we finally met. But now…” He leans in closer and Matt tilts his face up an inch towards him.

“Can I kiss you?” Frank breathes against his lips, and Matt finally finds his voice.

“We’ve been married for six years, and you’re just now asking to kiss me?”

He can feel Frank’s smile on the mouth a hairsbreadth away from his own. “I like to take things slow.”

“You married me before you ever even met me. I don’t think that’s taking things slow.”

“Is that a yes on the kiss?”

Matt surges forward to close the scant distance between them, lips meeting in a bruising kiss as his hands clutch at Frank’s waist. Frank’s other hand comes up to cradle his face, still gentle despite the desperation of the kiss. He doesn’t know whose lips part first, but then their tongues are touching, sliding against each other and exploring the wet heat of the other’s mouth. Someone groans.

Frank breaks away with a gulping breath, stumbling back a step. “Pen,” he demands. Matt, bewildered and reeling, pulls open a kitchen drawer and clumsily feels around until he finds a ballpoint pen. Frank snatches it from him and lurches back to the ledge with the divorce papers. He flips through the thin stack, finding every page with a signature line and hastily scrawling his name on each.

“That bad, huh?” Matt asks, more than a little confused.

Frank slams the pen down and strides back to Matt, boxing him in against the counter and taking his face in his hands again. “The next time I marry you, it’s going to be on purpose, and I’m not going to miss my own damn wedding,” he says, and kisses him again.