Leave on the light for me

"mornin', frank."

he hears your footsteps before you speak, that addictive perfume he bought you on your first anniversary giving your presence away. a smile curls upon his lips, unbidden, when he feels you drape yourself along his broad back where he's hunkered down by the foyer.

a week ago, you had seen a gorgeous embedded bookshelf on pinterest. you didn't even hesitate to curl up to frank that night, gently pushing down his novel of the evening to show your screen to him and request it. his chuckles had sent a shiver down your spine but his gruff agreement had earned him a sweet kiss to his crooked nose.

so now he's here, building a new bookshelf for you by hand, and you greeting him with his usual cup of coffee and a kiss to his scruffy cheek.

"morning, sweetheart. you're up early." he murmurs as he sets his hammer down to rub your forearm that's pressed gently onto his chest before kissing wherever he could reach.

he can feel your smile press against his head when you peek upwards to admire his work. it's nearly done now, the final shelf put in with just the final screw by his foot. "it looks so good, frank..."

"glad you like it." only four little words and yet it lights a warmth within him he hasn't felt since... maria. he gives and he gives, he knows it's all he could do for you, and yet the way you merely squeeze him from behind in a gentle hug is worth more than a million bookshelves he can make for you.

it's like you can read his thoughts, though, the way your hand comes around to gently take hold of his chin and pull his face up so your lips could meet his. it silences his thoughts for now, hyper-focused on the way your soft lips moves against his, your slow movement to crawl into his embrace until he's pinning you against the shelves.

"mm, hold on, darlin'," he murmurs until he's lifting you effortlessly to set you down on the island counter. he stands between your knees, his calloused palms gliding up your thighs to grip your hips. one of your hands travel up to tangle into the curly strands at the nape of his neck, the other settling onto the marble counter. as his lips travel lower, he sees the way your hand seems to slowly glide along the surface. it clicks and his chuckle is warm against your neck.

"frank, don't tease..." you whine but he pulls away and the crinkling around his eyes has you mirroring his smile.

"you like the new countertop?" he hums amusedly, taking that hand on the counter to bring up to his shoulder. your hands clasp together behind his neck as you smile.

"'course i do, frankie, you built it."

his brow raises, mirth evident in the way he tries to stifle his grin. "sweetheart, i built the whole damn house. i don't see you groping the walls."

your answering smile nearly knocks him off his feet, so bright that he feels almost uncomfortable with the weight of your love for him. "nah, i'd rather grope the man that built me a house."

and to your sweet surprise... frank castle, hardened killer, blushes. "jesus christ, sweetheart, 's nothin'—"

you shake your head and gently grip his lower jaw, pushing his lips together. no matter how much he waters down everything he's done for you, there isn't getting around the fact that frank castle had built you a home after he had proposed. a lot of land outside the city, fresh air and a yard — a wonderful change from your tiny box apartment. with renovations inside finally finishing up, you know his next line of work is to fix up the back for the backyard wedding he knows you've been dreaming about.

"it's not nothing, baby," you insist and kiss his pouted lips. "not nothing at all... it's everything." releasing his jaw, you take both of his hands and press kisses along his scarred knuckles.

"Yelena," you introduced yourself, an instinct to shield your true name and a comfort to borrow a sister's. You hoped Lena doesn't mind — you didn't expect much to grow out of what may possibly be just a one night stand. (You've never been more wrong.)

"Matt," he chuckled. He had a wry smile on his face, as if he knew something you didn't. "Can I get you a beer?"

You shrugged carelessly. It was a weak moment for you; waking up from what had been chemical subjugation only to have to relearn what your true wants are aside from what Dreykov had programmed in you could leave a girl a little vulnerable, after all. "Sure. Rough day?" You tapped his briefcase that he settled on the counter before boldly reaching up to gently tap the circles that hung beneath his red tinted glasses.

If it wasn't for his senses dialed up to eleven, he might've flinched at your touch. "You could say that."

He heard you hum quietly. "… Corporate douche or martyr lawyer?"

Matt barked out a laugh, pleasantly surprised. "You might've hit it on the money there on the second."

Josie approached with two bottles and placed it between you two, a knowing glint in her eye. You grabbed yours by the neck and took a sharp swig. "I've been told I'm pretty observant."

When Matt reached for his, you clocked the injuries on his knuckles, stirring the intrigue in your gut about the odd lawyer that might've stolen your attention. Conversation flowed easily between you both and one thing led to another and you were waking up at his apartment.

It was stupid to get so attached but you were trained for extraction, whether it was for a target or for yourself, and you packed whatever you left behind from Matt's apartment before he got home.

The darkness of the evening provided cover as you walked briskly in Hell's Kitchen, not out of fear but rather urgency. There were signs of Widow involvement near this particular borough and you wanted out before Dreykov caught a whiff of you or the kind lawyer that burrowed himself into a heart you didn't know you still had.

Unfortunately, you found yourself pinned in an alley by a few thugs with the sole intent of attacking for the hell of it. You caught a shadow above the rooftop but you didn't let yourself dwell on it; you wouldn't be who you are now if you expected anyone to save you. Instead, you sighed dramatically and dropped your bag by the dumpster, rolling your neck casually.

"Listen, boys, I've got a flight to catch. I don't have time to play."

They sneered at what they assumed to be false bravado. "Just hand over your bag, sweetheart, we don't gotta hurt you."

The old nickname had been Matt's, the easy affection he drowned you in always leaving you offguard, and the frustration comes to a peak inside you. With a low curse in Russian, you disarmed and knocked out all three men with fast and hard jabs to their gut and trachea before hooking your legs around the tallest one to bring down in a quick swoop.

You landed silently back onto your feet without even a hint of breathlessness, grabbed your bag and walked off to hail a taxi. You were completely unaware that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen had witnessed it all.

—

"Matt, your ex is back."

Karen lifts her head up from her desk in immediate curiosity as Foggy enters the office with a box of donuts. Matt groans silently, rubbing his eyes from beneath his glasses.

"Which ex?" Karen asks as she plucks a donut from the box and Matt senses the playful grin on her lips.

Foggy leans against the table with a shrug. "Matt never got her real name. She called herself Yelena."

"What, you never learned her real name and you dated her? Matthew," she scolds lightly before wiping away at her lower lip. "What happened? Did she… learn about your nightly activities?"

"Don't say that, you make him sound like a stripper," Foggy groans as he pours himself a cup of coffee.

"No, but I might've found out about hers, the night before she left."

"Wait, so she's the stripper? You never shared this, Matt."

Matt sighs heavily and Foggy raises his hands in silent surrender. "I saw her… take down three thugs from the Dogs of Hell, on her own." The severity of his words settle in like a leaden weight. Vigilante. Mercenary.

"Jeeze, Matt, you sure know how to pick 'em."

—

The threat of your presence hangs above him like a guillotine.

You had been an anomaly, something that he's yet to experience in his time as the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Your lies flowed smoothly from your tongue without a change of your heartrate and it had terrified him the first time around.

It should've been his first red flag; why stay with a woman that lives her lies as easily as truth?

And yet he stayed, not just because the sex was good, but because there had been an undercurrent of truth that even you didn't seem to be aware of. He remembers the way your heartrate skips a beat when he would catch you by surprise, kissing your shoulder. He remembers the way your smile would feel pressed against his skin when you indulge him in cuddles. He remembers the way your tone lilts in that teasing way whenever you called him 'sweetheart'.

You were allowed to have secrets — maybe that had been why he turned his head away from your blatant lies when he had one of his own.

Now you're back and he isn't sure how to see you again.

However, maybe the Devil might have better luck than Matt Murdock when it comes to you.

—

"I didn't know I'd be meeting the Devil so early. Come to collect my soul?"

He had landed silently on the rooftop but you didn't look up from where you're leaning against the lip of the brick parapet that has a view of the city. The scent of gunpowder and gunoil lingers on you and he finds himself hating it, hates the way he can't smell you beneath the violence you wear like armor.

"That depends. Have you done anything that deserves damnation?"

You snort and your head drops lightly before peering over your shoulder. There's a tinge of amusement that he recognizes, something he had heard from his couch when you'd tease him about something stupid and irrelevant.

"Plenty. Although I figured it'd be God that would smite me down Himself. But you can relax, Mr. Devil… I'm not here to cause trouble."

Truth.

In fact, it's the most truthful you've sounded since he's known you.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"Cleaning up a few messes I left behind. Maybe stop a few messes that might've followed me here…" Something settles into your tone that he can't quite draw out. Regret? Repentance? Before he can pick it out, dissect it the best he can, he hears your footsteps bring you closer to him. He instinctively stiffens, chin dipping slightly to give an approximation of meeting your gaze.

Beyond the gunpowder scent that clings, he catches the perfume you had worn that first night he met you. "Is someone after you?" The gruffness breaks away into something quieter although there's a heat that never goes away, not when the Devil in him senses the need to obliterate whoever could've made you run in the place.

To his surprise, you release a humorless laugh, a hand settling on his jaw where your fingertips trace the edge of the mask where it meets his chin. "Always a hero, aren't you? My favorite martyr…" He stiffens but before he can pull his face away, you sweep your thumb across his cheek, the same way you've done all those years ago.

"You—"