Archive of Our Own ^beta

Frank has always been a man of action. 

So when Curtis told him sometimes the only thing to do is nothing? Frank and his alpha both agreed: fuck that. 

He accepted that he couldn’t fight or shoot his way through Matt’s crisis. But he can’t just do nothing. Especially not while he was keyed up on hormones from his cold rut— a hellish buzz that lasted three days before finally starting to dissipate on day six of Matt’s recovery. 

During that time, he had abused the shit out of multiple express delivery systems and— with Curtis’s help— renovated the porch completely. Curtis keeps calling it nesting and…

Yeah. 

Looking over what he had managed to pull off in those three obsessive, sleepless days? Frank is willing to admit, in hindsight, that Curtis may have had a point.

It started with the hanging egg shaped chair— large, sturdy, and supportive in all the right places. It would allow Matt to sit upright when he was able, and lay down when he couldn’t; the openings on the side are the perfect height to elevate his feet. It would give him a change of scenery while still protecting him and easing the strain on his blood pressure.

The Next— and arguably the hardest— part were the vinyl sheets. Frank had mounted one set but prepared for two. The first were roller shades mounted on the inside of the railing; weighted, retractable, and able to be pulled down for shade and protection in the summer months. 

The second— purchased, prepped, but not installed— were thick, vinyl sheets of tarp designed to hook onto the outside of the railings. These would be better for winter, closing up the gaps the rollers leave in the corners and helping to seal the warmth in when the cold came.

So with that, the next logical step was temperature control. 

Frank had already wired lights into the porch ceiling, so he swapped the one above the egg chair with a fan light. The light itself doesn’t matter much to Matt— obviously— but the fan could help with airflow in the summer, hopefully keeping the porch cool even on the hotter days.

He also has an outdoor heater, just in case. But they’re a long way off needing that. Summer was only just beginning to roll in. 

Then came all the extras: a padded bench— sturdy and deep so that Matt could lay on it if he wanted to— a couple of small tables, a bamboo rug, and probably too many plants. Frank had read that snake plants were good for air quality, so naturally, he bought three. 

By that point, Curtis is fondly exasperated but still helping, even if that helped sometimes came in the form of a fever shot and forcing water down his throat. They worked well together, as always, and the project comes together in record time. 

For those three days, the only time Frank really sits down is when Matt is awake— or when it’s time to try and get food and oral fluid into him. 

Those are the moments his Alpha is truly settled— when he can dote on his omega directly; instead’a renovatin’ the fuckin’ porch while he’s sleepin’. 

And, while he has always been a man of action, those three days were pretty uneventful for Matt— something Frank is ridiculously grateful for. Even more than that, he’s grateful that Matt’s been almost compliant with Curtis. 

Matt still use bits and pieces of his finite energy for verbal spars, yes, but he always listens to Curtis. Since that first successful bathroom excursion— or, more likely, Curtis’ willingness to let him try— the omega has been more open when answering questions about his well-being, and more respectful of the decisions Curtis makes based on them.

And that shift in demeanour pays off for Matt sooner than Frank dared to hope.

The first bit of good news comes on day four of Matt’s recovery: Curtis declares his numbers as moving in the right direction— actual progress being made. He’s not stable, but no longer on the edge of collapse either.

Frank feels like he can breathe again. 

Matt looks quietly pleased but not much beyond that. Because for him, the news doesn’t change much— not yet.

It’s not until the morning of day six that Frank sees real, tentative joy light up Matt‘s face— finally seeing an improvement that means something for his routine.

Frank is carrying Matt back from the bathroom— something that’s already gotten easier, even just a few days after the first attempt. Matt’s BP holds steadier now, and the lightheadedness isn’t given the chance to set in before Frank and Curtis have him lying flat again, recovering. 

As Frank rounds the couch, Curtis stops him. 

“How’re you feeling, Matt?” He asks evenly. “If you’re okay to stay upright for another minute I’d like to get a weight reading.”

After a short moment, Matt nods. “I’ll be okay,” he says, voice still quiet and a little out of breath, but no less certain for it. 

Curtis nods, satisfied that the answer is truthful, and turns to Frank. “Help him out of his top layers while I get the scales,” he says, clapping Frank on the shoulder as he leaves to retrieve the scales. 

Frank sets Matt down gently on the sofa. “Ready?” He asks quietly, running his hand down the length of Matt’s arm until he reaches the cuff of the hoodie. His stolen hoodie. 

Matt hums affirmatively, lifting his arm up as best he can. 

Frank quickly captures the raised wrist in a gentle grip and helps Matt thread his arms back through the sleeves. He carefully pulls the hoodie and shirt over Matt’s head before moving onto the track pants… which are also stolen from him. 

Frank can’t help the fond smile that tugs at his lips. 

Just as the waistband of Matt’s pants is pulled over his heels, Curtis returns with the scales; he turns them on, placing them seamlessly underfoot. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Curtis says easily. He takes a step back, but remains close by to intervene if needed. 

Frank stands in front of the scales, threading his hands under Matt’s arms. 

Matt grips his arms automatically, planting his feet on the scales as he prepares to stand.

“Take it slow,” Curtis says, firm but not unkind. “And if you feel dizzy, nauseous, lightheaded— you tell me and we stop.” It’s not a question.

Matt huffs, amused, before firming his grip on Frank with a determined frown. “Copy that, Lieutenant,” he mutters with a smirk, wobbling along the edges as tension builds in his thighs, preparing to stand.

Curtis doesn’t miss a beat, grinning faintly. “That tone is bordering on insubordination, Counsellor.” 

While Curt offers Matt that playful dialogue, Frank can see how his eyes flick over Matt’s body— sharp, assessing and still very much performing active triage.

Matt’s chuckle gets caught in his throat as he ascends onto his trembling legs, gripping Frank’s arms fiercely for support as he gets himself upright unassisted for the first time in almost a week.

Frank automatically firms his grip, taking some of Matt’s weight for him as he gets settled on his feet. But once Matt loosens his grip, Frank does the same— allowing Matt to bear his own weight completely.

Curtis watches the scales for a moment before nodding. He looks up at Matt. “Alright, you can sit— slowly.”

Frank’s hands are back under Matt’s arms again lowering him down, slow and controlled. He helps Matt redress— efficiently but not rushed— covering up the chilled goosebumps that have rippled across his body in the short time he was exposed to the cabin air. 

When it comes to the hoodie, Matt stops him, weakly batting it away with a pout.

Frank pauses, eying the omega patiently. Then, when Matt doesn’t say anything, “What’s the matter? I can see you’re cold, Matt.”

Matt blinks, frowning slightly as he strings together the words he wants to say. 

“I’d… like to request a reasonable accommodation,” is what he lands on. It’s quiet and mumbled— a little hesitant, but not uncertain.

And not what Frank was expecting.

Frank huffs and amused breath. He sits himself on the coffee table, settling in for the dramatics. “Go on then.” 

He gestures vaguely towards Curtis, who is hovering by the IV line with a coffee cup and raised brows. “The court will hear your request,” Frank says, lips quirking.

Matt narrows his eyes slightly, hands planted firmly in his lap. “Substitution,” he says. “For the… garment on offer.” 

He’s clearly exhausted, but his pout gives way to the ghost of that cocky smirk Frank loves to hate; Matt is clearly enjoying flexing his legal bullshit muscles, and Frank? Is an indulgent asshole, if nothing else.

Garment, eh? Frank raises a brow. “On what grounds?”

“Olfactory based regulation,” Matt says, only missing a beat or two.

Curtis snorts into his coffee, catching on just before Frank. “Let the record show that Mr Murdock is requesting Mr Castle’s hoodie because it smells like him,” he chuckles.

“Objection! That’s—” Matt croaks, pointing menacingly in Curtis’ direction. Then, slightly slurred, “…hearsay.”

Frank, who had already pulled off his own hoodie, fights to contain a helpless chuckle. This fuckin’ asshole, Jesus Christ. 

He carefully slips the hoodie over Matt’s head, smoothing the hair away from his face with his fingers. “Overruled.” 

As Frank helps Matt thread his arms through the sleeve, Curtis cuts in with a raised brow— amused, but very much unimpressed. 

“While we’re making requests, I’ve got one,” he says flatly. “The opposition needs to be lying flat. Now.” 

Frank feels his mouth twitch. 

Matt grumbles something unintelligible but undoubtedly petulant. 

As always, Frank huffs. “You heard him, Red. Time t’serve your sentence,” he says, heavy on the faux sympathy as he eases Matt down onto the sofa— placing a pillow beneath his legs before Curtis can tell him to. 

The action doesn’t go unnoticed; Curtis nods in approval as he reattaches the IV with practiced ease. He pointedly ignores Matt’s grumbling with a faint smirk. 

“Get some sleep, Matt,” he urges, kind but final. “We’ll talk when you wake up.” 

With that, Curtis excuses himself to the kitchen, no doubt to make himself what he would describe as: a well-earned coffee. 

Frank sits on the sofa next to Matt, settling in to keep the Omega company— at least until he falls asleep. Which Frank hopes will be soon for Matt’s own sake, but he looks a little… antsy. Tired, definitely, but also restless. 

He threads his fingers back through Matt’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp. “Don’t fight it, Matt,” he says, low and soft. 

Matt turns his head into his newly acquired hoodie, breathing it in with a frown as he tries to soothe himself. “M’not,” he mumbles.

Frank hums, tucking the blanket more securely around Matt’s shoulders. And when the slight furrow between his brows fails to smooth out, Frank trails gentle fingertips up the side of his neck.

“Did y’get yourself worked up with all the lawyer talk?” Frank croons, smoothing his fingers over the hinge of Matt’s jaw, scratching gently at the sharp edge. “Not cleared f’work yet, sweetheart.” 

Matt’s breath catches slightly at the nickname before huffing out a breath Frank thinks is meant to be reprimanding— but the way the crease between his brows smooths out says otherwise. As does the way he tilts his head to create a better angle for Frank to pet him.

If he wasn’t still working through the last dregs of his cold rut— and it weren’t so fuckin’ endearin’— Frank might’ve been a bit smug about it. But as it stands, his Alpha is preening at the easy deference. 

Frank slips his hand easily under Matt’s chin, watching the way his muscles begin to slacken. A quiet rumble builds in his chest, low and soothing, as his eyes crinkle at the edges and his gaze softens. Because, smug or not, Frank understands intimately that this has never been easy for Matt— the submission, the deference, the yielding. 

So the fact that it comes so easily under his guidance? That’s a fuckin’ gift. Earned, maybe, but not his to take freely or force. 

An’ fuck all the scumbag pieces of shit that think that way. Because there’s no way doing that shit is more satisfying than this:

Frank hums soothingly at the quiet whine that slips from Matt’s throat— threadbare, tired, yet somehow still restless.

He applies the barest pressure to the underside of Matt’s chin. “Easy. You’re alright,” he coos gently, stroking softly up towards the tip of his chin. “I got you.”

Matt’s eyelids flutter, nose buried into the hood saturated in Frank’s scent. It only takes a moment of the soft words, the gentle, coaxing pressure to his chin… then the muscles in his neck finally relax, chin tilting up as he bares his throat for Frank. 

The Alpha’s rumble deepens in approval at the display. He humbly accepts what Matt’s offering, sliding a hand down to smooth over his larynx— soft, reverent, and utterly besotted. 

When he speaks, he keeps his voice low and soft. Barely more than a whisper, the words meant only for Matt.

“There you are,” Frank praises, his voice all gravel as he strokes the column of Matt’s throat. A contented sigh escapes him as he leans down to nose at Matt’s soft auburn hair. “There’s my sweet thing.”

Matt arches gently into the touch, turning his face further towards Frank with a breathy keen— wanting and sweet in a way that goes straight to Frank’s hindbrain. 

“Frank…” he whispers softly, lips grazing against Frank’s unshaven jaw. “I wan’…”

Frank looks down at him, sitting up now so he can use both hands to cradle Matt’s neck; fingers splayed around the base of his skull and thumbs stroking the underside of his jaw. 

“Want what, baby?” Frank murmurs, nose tracing across Matt’s temple before pressing his lips gently to the sensitive skin above the gland there.

Matt tilts again, pressing his own lips against the corner of Frank's mouth— tentative and seeking. He whimpers, so quiet it’s barely there, but Frank feels the stuttering breath that carries it against his jaw. 

He angles his lips over Matt’s, hovering close enough that the Omega can close the gap if that’s what he wants. 

And it is.

Matt presses forward, capturing Frank’s bottom lip between his own in a kiss; just an innocent press and gentle suction that makes warmth bloom in Frank’s chest and wrap around his spine.

He feels the purr that rapidly builds under his thumbs, paired with the most potent scent Matt has been able to produce in weeks; citrus and night blooming jasmine— light, fresh contentment and a sweet longing that beckons his Alpha like a moth to a flame.

He indulges, kissing Matt with slow, tender movements. The calming scent of his own chamomile musk weaves through the air. He shifts his grip; one hand moving down the back of Matt’s neck and pressing gently into his nape as he separates their lips, while the other remains to cradle the base of his skull.

Matt’s head falls heavy into Frank’s hand as he succumbs to the touch against his nape; eyes half-lidded and dreamy as they point vaguely in Frank’s direction, his lips parted as he breathes softly.

Frank presses his lips to Matt’s once more. “Why don’t you get some rest, yeah?” He urges softly, guiding Matt’s head down onto the pillow as he slides a hand out from underneath his neck; the other stays where it is, rubbing slow circles as he continues.

“Don’t fight it,” he murmurs, fingers sliding through Matt’s hair. He watches as Matt’s eyes slide closed, and hears the moment his purr becomes threadier with oncoming sleep.

Frank continues to pet Matt for a few more minutes, listening as his purr tapers off into deep, even breaths, his face finally softening completely. 

With one final press of lips to Matt’s hairline, Frank slowly eases himself up off the couch. Although, not before grazing the backs of his fingers up Matt’s throat, and whispering one final praise: 

“Good job, Red.”

Once he’s certain that Matt is asleep, Frank pads quietly to the kitchen.

As he approaches the island stool, Curtis places a fresh cup of coffee on the counter, sliding into the opposite stool as he nurses a cup of his own.

“Thanks.” 

Curtis hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t reply— seemingly allowing Frank to enjoy his first sip of coffee in silence. 

Frank sighs appreciatively at the blissfully bitter liquid warming his throat, eyes slipping closed to enjoy the quiet while it lasts. The morning sun peaks over the tree line, casting warmth and shadows that dance on the back of his eyelids as they creep through the window.

It’s nice. Peaceful in that way that mornings are when they’re experienced before the world has fully woken up. Before the day has truly begun. 

The first few days of Matt’s recovery, Frank hadn’t really been aware of time passing, let alone the different parts of the day. Mornings were what came after sleepless nights, and sleepless nights came after restless days of vital sheets IV maintenance.

Now they’re more like the calm before a storm. A storm waning and intensity, yes, the storm nonetheless. 

One he’ll continue to meet head on— acting as the wall against which the tide breaks until Matt is strong enough to withstand it himself. And even then, he’ll remain at Matt’s side. He’ll become whatever Matt needs to be safe.

After a few moments of quiet, the silence is broken again by the sound of Curtis' cup being placed on the counter. 

Curtis meets his eyes with a smile— calm as always, but tight. Apologetic in a way that makes Frank brace. 

Frank squares his shoulders as he places his own mug back on the counter with a soft click that feels almost deafening in the silence; a peaceful atmosphere now weighted with nervous anticipation— with the oncoming storm that’s finally rolling in. 

He holds Curtis’ gaze, never looking away as he waits for the low-down. 

Curtis doesn’t keep him in suspense.

“I need to talk to you,” he starts calmly, the tone almost conversational. “But I need you to listen to what I’m saying before you jump to conclusions.”

Frank nods, all business as he tries to school the frown he can feel pulling at his features.

Curtis taps his splayed fingertips on the counter, next to a clipboard of Matt’s charts and notes.

“First— just to make sure I’m not missing anything— has Matt had any prenatal scans done?” He asks, tone still even and calm. No judgement, just gathering information.

Frank feels his stomach drop like a stone regardless. He swallows, jaw clenching as he forces the words out over his rapidly mounting anxiety— the what-ifs and worse-cases sparking against the remnants of his rut as if it were dry kindling.

“No,” he murmurs finally, and the word feels heavy on his tongue. “Says he can hear the heartbeat an’ that his Omega wouldn’t handle it well.”

Fuckin’ idiot! Should’a pushed more—

Curtis nods. “Okay,” he replies simply, cutting through Frank’s spiralling before it can escalate. “That tracks. I just wanted to be sure.” 

He pulls the clipboard closer to him, making a brief note as he continues.

“The fact he can hear the heartbeat is a good sign. And when I did the physical exam that first night things felt like they were roughly where they should be— nothing immediately concerning,” he says evenly.

Frank can already taste the but coming.

“But—“ 

Fuckin’ shit.

“—that means that there's no eyes on the placenta. We can’t confirm fluid volume, implantation depth, cord placement—“ Curtis takes a breath, allowing a beat for the words to sink in. Then, still calm, “there are too many variables that we can’t monitor with touch and instinct alone.”

“You think there’s a problem?” Frank inserts quickly, searching his friend’s face for any kind of indication.

“I think,” Curtis says carefully, “that with Matt’s history of suppressant use? It would be reckless not to check.”

Frank averts his gaze— processing— eyes drifting automatically to the back of the couch. 

“I’ve been speaking with a specialist,” Curtis continues quietly. “Beta. She’s got experience with this kind of situation. And she can bring everything here. It’ll be quiet, controlled— no outside stress, no alphas, no clinics.”

After a beat, Frank nods mutely, slowly turning back towards Curtis. 

“I’m not saying we need to do it tomorrow, but it needs to happen soon,” Curtis says firmly. “I think physically? He’s stable enough to start planning.”

As Frank meets Curtis’ eyes again, he can feel the tone shift into something softer; the slight apologetic slope to his brow returning with a resigned sigh.

“Okay. If he’s stable enough, I’ll talk to him. Better t’do it soon— he’ll be pissed if we keep it from him for too long.” Frank says plainly, not yet allowing the emotional weight to sink in. Focusing purely on the strategy. “What else?” 

It’s not really a question. He knows there’s more— the weight of whatever Curtis has to say is written into every tense line on his face. 

Curtis rubs a hand over his mouth— once, twice— then puts both hands on the counter. He leans back, murmuring a decisive, “okay.” 

He looks at Frank again. “Let me start by saying this is purely me giving you information,” he taps the side of his hand against the counter as he speaks, as if trying to drive home the point.

“There’s an ethical grey area here that I don’t think there’s a right answer to. But I’d want to know. And I think you would too,” Curtis says staidly. 

“Do I look like I give a’fuck about the ethics?” Frank growls.

Curtis leans back on the stool, looking at him pointedly before tilting his head slightly; a show of appeasement that instantly has Frank doing the same— clearing his throat and checking his attitude with a grimace. 

Curtis chuffs quietly; the smell of clean linen, mild spices and something uniquely Curtis hitting his palate— familiar and calm. 

Frank feels his shoulders drop. Just a little, but enough.

Curtis continues. Careful but certain.

“I’m not going to speculate about what we might find. I only work with facts. And the fact is: we won’t know what we’re dealing with until we have that scan.”

Frank nods, finger twitching against the table. 

Curtis sighs reluctantly, lips thinning. 

“But what I am certain in saying? I think a big part of the reason he held on so long is because of you,” he says plainly. 

Frank blinks. 

Curtis smiles thinly. “A pseudo bond is a powerful thing, man.”

Frank doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Hell, he can barely even think— still trying to process the meaning behind the words.

Curtis just looks at him for a long moment— really looks. Then exhales heavily, like this whole conversation is costing him something.

“What you want matters, Frank. You’re not a tool, alright? And I’m not saying this to push or manipulate,” he emphasises. Then, with an all but humourless huff of breath, “but I think you’d pop a cap in my ass if I kept this to myself trying to be noble about ethics. Hell— I think I’d even deserve it.” 

He nods to himself with that last thought, seemingly more firmly rooted in his conviction.

Frank doesn’t manage much more than a slight twitch of his lip— nowhere near enough to be considered a smile. He lets out a breath, unsteady with anticipation. Finger still tapping.

Curtis’ assessing gaze probably sees it all. But he doesn’t soften it or backpedal, just keeps going; low and steady.

“There are a lot of plausible risks to Matt and the pregnancy going forward given his history and how his body has tolerated it so far,” Curtis begins, before quickly adding, “none of which we can be certain of right now.” 

He pulls a pamphlet from his clipboard and slides it over to Frank.

“But what we can reasonably expect would be significantly impacted by a full bond. It’d help his body maintain the pregnancy and act as a last line of defence against rejection.”

Frank's head snaps up at that. “Rejection—?”

Curtis is quick to raise his hands, cutting in before Frank can spiral. 

“I don’t think it will come to that— his vitals are improving and he’s gained weight. Things are trending positively,” Curtis placates, nodding encouragingly as he continues. 

“I’m only saying that a bond would help that process. It’d biologically rewire Matt’s systems to make rejection significantly less likely.”

Frank’s eyes drift back to the pamphlet, staring at it unseeingly as his mouth opens then closes again— trying to find some kind of response while still reeling from that awful word.

Rejection.

Curtis taps on the table gently, garnering his attention. He keeps his voice low and even.

“I know that’s a nasty word. But I need you to listen to what I’m saying— really hear it. Rejection happens when the body gets overwhelmed. And everything we’ve been doing? Is going to stop that from happening.”

After a beat, Frank exhales through his nose, heavy and controlled. He clears his throat, trying to clear the tightness wrapped around it. 

Jesus Christ. 

“So it’s— it’ll help him? And the pup?” Frank rasps, low and gravelly. “It’s just a buffer. He ain’t miscarryin’?” 

The word almost makes him flinch, but he needs to know. Needs to be sure. Fuck—

“No. And I don’t think we’re in danger of that,” Curtis is quick to reassure. “Once we have those scan results, we can make sure Matt and the baby are getting what they need to keep this pregnancy viable.” 

Curtis leans back slightly, fingers drumming lightly against the counter.

“You’re not wrong— calling the bond effects a buffer. If we hit complications later, it’d make rejection his bodies last possible resort. It’d recognise the baby as yours and fight to keep it. And that? Buys us time. Which is exactly what we’d need.”

Frank absorbs the words quietly, rolling them around in his head. After a moment, he frowns, looking up at Curtis.

He gestures towards his primary gland. “Matt’s not…” He ain’t swellin’.

Curtis hums. “I know. And he might not,” he allows thoughtfully. “But it’d surprise me if he didn’t. He’s there behaviourally. And I think that once he’s more stable physically, his omega will start looking for the next step. That’s when he’ll bloom.” 

Frank nods, feeling more settled now that there’s a timeline at play. A plan with a goal. He feels his jaw set with determination as he looks at Curtis.

“You’ll tell me when it’s safe.” 

Not a question. Barely even a request. 

Curtis raises a brow, arms folding across his chest. “I’ll answer that once I’m sure y’not just doing this out of duty. Biology doesn’t play like that, Frank.”

Frank narrows his eyes. “I know exactly how it plays. My dick just went into fuckin’— hibernation for three days because of him,” he hisses. “And your gunna’ tell me that’s just a sense of duty? For Christ’s sake—“

Curtis chokes on a shocked bark of laughter, waving his hand as he cuts Frank off again. 

“Alright, okay! You’re right— you’re right. I’m sorry,” Curtis says in a hushed tone. “That wasn’t me doubting your dedication to him— I see that everyday. I just wanted to make sure you’re ready for that.”

A pause. Then a rush of exasperated breath that becomes a quiet chuckle.“What the fuck— hibernation? You really have a way with words, man.”

Frank offers a wary chuckle in return, shoulders dropping as he runs a hand down his face. “Fuck off, Curt,” he groans. 

Curtis chuckles for a few more moments, wiping the corner of his eye as they subside. 

Frank hides his own faint smile behind his coffee cup, raising it to his lips.

“But really though,” Curtis says, sobering just enough to convey his sincerity. “I’m sorry I had to put that on you.”

Frank shakes his head, holding the cup as he places it on the counter again.

“I know this ain’t good timin’ and I would’a liked t’do things different, but…” Frank cuts himself off with a quiet exhale, eyes locking onto Curtis’. “I promised I’d take care of him. I want to take care of him. So long as he agrees, I’ll do it.”

Then, raw and quiet, “And it ain’t just a sense of duty or fucked up loyalty. It’s my choice. He’s it for me, Curt.”

Curtis smiles faintly, taking a sip of his own coffee after he murmurs into his cup— quiet and achingly soft.

“Yeah. I know.”

-——ΑΩ——-

Frank sat in the kitchen with Curtis for another half an hour or so; they had breakfast together and prepared Matt’s for when he inevitably woke up in the next hour or so. 

As Frank had stood up to leave— Matt's breakfast smoothie in hand— Curtis stopped him. 

“Oh, hey—“ Curtis said distractedly, rooting through his bag for a moment before pulling out a soft, densely bristled brush. “Use this if he’ll let you. Some of his glands were looking a bit dry earlier.” 

Frank took the offered brush with a nod in thanks, then began twisting it between his fingers as he made his way to the couch. 

Matt was still asleep, but Frank knew he wouldn’t be for much longer. 

As predicted, Matt begins to stir around twenty minutes later; a slight furrow appears in his brow before his limbs tense and stretch, elongating himself like a cat in a sunbeam. Then, with a long exhale, the tension falls away again. 

“You up, Red?” Frank asks quietly, hand hovering just above his sleep-mused hair.

There’s a pause. 

Matt’s eyes slide open, head tilting just slightly as he takes stock. It takes a moment, but he seems to realise Frank is waiting on permission to touch him. 

Frank watches as the Omega tips his chin up towards Frank's waiting hand, baring his throat in the process. 

A faint purr builds in Matt’s chest— low, inviting— words seemingly beyond him in his sleepy haze. That purr is quickly replaced with an impatient grumble and a slight arch in his spine when Frank doesn’t drop his hand quick enough. 

A mistake he quickly rectifies with a chuckle.

“Sorry,” Frank huffs, amused, finally lowering his hand; his fingers weave through soft auburn strands and scratch gently at Matt’s scalp.  “That better?” 

Matt’s purr is answer enough: yes. A deep, soulful and smugly pleased yes.

Little shit, Frank chuckles.

“If you’re awake enough t’be that smug, you’re awake enough for’a bit of smoothie,” Frank tells him, a faint smirk and a raised brow donning his features. 

Matt pouts at that, but dutifully sits himself up; a feat he manages on his own, albeit slowly.

“Made you the peach one y’like,” Frank murmurs, offering the small cup and straw to Matt. “With oat milk.”

Matt’s purr flickers back to life at the mention of alternative milk— the prospect of it prompting him to take a small, cautious sip through the straw. He hasn’t thrown up in a few days now, but the fear of his stomach rejecting intake stubbornly remains, making each meal attempt start out as an unhappy necessity at best.

The Omega gets about half way through the smoothie when Curtis appears from the kitchen. His eyes quickly land on a conscious and upright Matt. 

“Oh, good. You’re up,” he notes with a smile. “How’re you feeling?” 

Matt hums around a sip of smoothie, swallowing slowly. “Good,” he says, the small smile that graces his lips telling Frank that answer isn’t a lie or stretch of the truth. “A little tired but… good.”

“Glad to hear it,” Curtis nods. “Think you’re awake enough to listen to me talk at you for a bit?” 

There’s no pressure in the tone, just genuine enquiry. 

Matt straightens up at that, head turning towards Curtis— assessing, wary— like he can find and decipher the words before they’ve even been uttered.

“Nothing bad,” Curtis assures quickly, reading the tension in Matt’s frame. “It’s good, actually.” 

His voice is calm and reassuring— measured in a way that demands attention without the sharpness that would definitely get Matt’s hackles up. 

“You weighed one-thirty-three-point-two when I did the initial assessment six days ago. You’re now sitting at one-thirty-five-point-seven. That’s two-point-six pounds up. And all your vitals are trending the right way.”

He doesn’t give Matt the time to make the self-deprecating comment Frank can feel brewing— some cutting jab about barely gaining two pounds, or about still needing an escort to piss.

Curtis, either through instinct or years of experience, just keeps going. He’s clearly of the opinion that this is good news and he fully intends to deliver it as such. 

The approach leaves no space for Matt’s self-castigating bullshit, and that? That’s a notion Frank can get behind.

“So congratulations,” he continues, tone dry enough to be playful, but edged with quiet sincerity. “I’m now confident in saying you’re no longer in acute crisis. Still in an active one, but you’re not on the verge of collapse. And that’s a win no matter how you look at it.”

He automatically flips the page on his clipboard, but he doesn’t look down— clearly he has this part memorised.

“That means we’re entering what I’d call the stabilisation phase. We keep doing what we’re doing—monitoring, IV’s, light feeding, rest— but now we’re not just tracking symptoms. We’re tracking progress.”

Curtis lets the news sit for a moment, smiling encouragingly for a beat or two.

“So, first thing’s first: I’m clearing you for short, supervised journeys.”

He raises a hand, silencing Matt before he can chime in, catching the hopeful spark that rapidly pulls his features into something dangerously optimistic.

“A before you say anything,” he says pointedly, holding the silence with unflinching authority for a moment before he continues. 

“—that clearance comes with heavy T’s and C’s, Murdock. No unassisted attempts unless you’re feeling well, you’ve eaten within the last two hours, and you keep it to one assisted attempt every four hours— max.”

Frank can see the care in Curtis' expression, but his tone? No bullshit. No negotiation. 

“Deal?”

Matt blinks— processing— then huffs out an amused laugh. 

“Murdock? You say that like I’m in trouble,” he says, light and incredulous, his tone already curling into something playfully goading. “And that’s a lot of stipulations. No room for negotiation?” 

Just bein’ a shit for the sake of it, Frank smirks, barely suppressing a fond eyeroll.

“Absolutely none,” Curtis replies, his voice deadpan and final, only the faintest twitch in the corner of his mouth betraying the underlying amusement. 

But that playfulness quickly sobers. “Not much room for negotiation on this next bit either, I’m afraid,” he adds apologetically.

Matt straightens up at that, and Frank’s heart must do something that gives away that he knows what’s coming, because his eyes dart vaguely in Frank’s direction— head tilting almost accusingly as a furrow forms between his brows. 

Frank takes a breath, steeling his resolve.

Curtis sits down on the coffee table, seemingly doing the same thing.

“We need t’do a scan,” Frank says plainly, scanning Matt’s face for any kind of reaction. 

The Omega tenses, fingers twitching towards his abdomen, but he doesn’t offer anything else.

Frank continues, his tone low and rumbling in a way he hopes will take the edge off.

“Curt says the lady can come here, but it’s gotta’ happen soon. Probably nothin’ real bad happinin’ right now, but this is also the time when we can start gettin’ ahead of anythin’ that might be a problem later… yeah?” 

Frank looks to Curtis for confirmation, feeling a little out of his depth. 

“Right,” Curtis nods. “Frank says you can hear the heartbeat, which is good. But that doesn’t tell us anything about the placenta, the position of the foetus, amniotic fluid levels… there’s a lot we don’t know. And we can’t afford to have blind spots.” 

Then, as an afterthought, “she wouldn’t even need to touch you. I can do the scan myself, I just need her there to guide me and interpret the results.”

Matt’s jaw ticks with anxiety, his mouth pulling into a trembling, unhappy line. He brings an unsteady hand to rest against the soft swell under his navel. Once there, he settles into an uncomfortable stillness— the tension in his frame palpable as it spills over into the air: a subtle, bitter ash that coats the inside of Frank’s mouth like a film.

It’s not an outright rejection, but it’s a reaction Frank recognises all too well.

He’s bracing.

Matt’s expression quickly becomes one of helplessness. “I don’t—“ he tries, voice breaking off into something meeker. “I don’t want someone else to touch me.”

“She won’t,” Curtis assures immediately. “Not unless you give her the all clear. We can do this entirely at your pace, Matt.”

Matt unconsciously leans into Frank, tucking himself under the Alpha’s arm in an instinctive bid to make himself smaller.

Frank accommodates the contact immediately, wrapping his arm securely around the Omega and rubbing gently at Matt’s upper arm. He buries his nose in his soft auburn air, rumbling inaudibly— just enough for Matt to feel against his ribs. 

“Won’t take long,” Frank murmurs. “An’ we’ll both be there the entire time. Whatever you need, we’ll make it happen, yeah?” Then, low and protective, “Hell, I’ll kick her out myself if y’need me too. Try again and another day.” 

Curtis opens his mouth, likely to offer the same placations, but Matt beats him to it.

“When?” He asks, voice wary but firm. 

Curtis doesn’t miss a beat. “Whenever you want. She’s waiting for the call,” he says evenly.

“Tomorrow?” Matt replies, a slight waver in his tone that doesn’t go unnoticed. “I can’t— I need this to be quick. I don’t want to have time to think about it.”

Curtis nods. “Done. I’ll call her and make arrangements.”

As Curtis stands and makes his way to the kitchen, Matt presses in closer to Frank, the soft swell of his abdomen nudging against the Alpha’s hip.

Frank covers it gently with a broad palm. “I’d never let anythin’ happen t’you. An’ Curtis wouldn’t bring anyone here he didn’t trust. Knows better than that.”

Matt inhales shakily. “I know, I—“ he swallows, resting his forehead against Frank’s temple. “I know it’s for the best,” he whispers.

“It is,” Frank agrees quietly, lips pressed against Matt’s brow. Then, a little more upbeat, “hey— you wanna’ take an accompanied walk? Or, whatever the fuck Curtis said.”

Matt pushes away from Frank at that,  a faint grin pulling at his features. “Yes. God, yes.”

Frank grins in return, pushing to his feet with a grunt. “Come on then. Got somethin’ f’you,” he says easily, offering an open palm to Matt. 

Matt doesn’t hesitate, laying his wrist in the offered palm and wrapping his fingers around Frank’s own wrist in return. He tugs lightly, seemingly testing his own strength, before pulling himself up onto trembling legs. His free hand flies to Frank’s shoulder, hand wrapping firmly around the curve of it as he finds his feet.

Frank firms his grip on Matt’s wrist, while his other hand tucks securely under Matt‘s arm, fingers anchoring against the Omega’s ribs. He leans back, eyes darting across Matt’s features almost frantically as he looks at any sign of faintness.

Matt is panting lightly from the exertion, brows furrowed in concentration, but he doesn’t look any paler. 

“You good?” Frank checks anyway, unable to keep the concern out of his voice.

“Yeah—“ Matt grunts, firming his grip. He takes a hesitant step forward, and action with Frank automatically accommodates by taking a step back— never taking his eyes or hands off of Matt as they move. 

They make it to the porch door before Matt leans more heavily against Frank. 

The alpha steadies him immediately. “Y’good? Feelin’ faint?” Frank grunts, already preparing to lay Matt flat as Curt told him to in situations like this.

“No,” Matt reassures breathily. “Just— tired. You might— have t’carry me… the rest,” he admits abashedly, the words forced through panted breaths.

Frank is quick to take Matt’s weight, but not quick to lift; keen to keep the persistent lightheadedness at bay. Once the porch door is open, Frank drops his stance and carefully lifts Matt into his arms. 

As he crosses the threshold onto the porch, he becomes inexplicably nervous; both to finally reveal what he had been frantically working on during the height of his cold rut, and that the instinct behind the actions would be too much. Too obvious.

“What—“ Matt starts, head tilting as he takes in the porch; all the new sounds and smells. “What did you do out here?” He asks quietly, the smile audible in his voice. 

“Not much,” Frank mumbles, making his way towards the big nest chair that started it all.

“Not much?” Matt scoffs incredulously. “Frank, s’like a whole new porch!” 

He squirms playfully in Frank's grip, prompting a grumble to bubble in the Alpha’s chest. A sound that Matt’s Omega delights in if the pleased purr is anything to go by. 

“Stop bein’ a pain in the ass,” Frank huffs, trying to suppress the smile pulling at his lips. “M’gunna’ drop you,” he warns.

Matt doesn’t miss a beat. “No, you won’t,” he purrs. 

And…. Yeah. He won’t. But that ain’t the fuckin’ point. The point is— “Stop bein’ a shit,” Frank reiterates again as he approaches the chair. “Just— hang on for’a second.”

Matt manages— barely. That smug little purr continues to vibrate from his chest and radiates out to his limbs, twitching with restless energy he definitely shouldn’t have. 

Frank always knew that Matt was fuelled by defiance, but this is something else. Still, he can’t help the warmth that blooms in his chest: so achingly fond that he almost feels restless in return. 

He shakes his head. 

“Careful,” he warns one last time. “This ain’t fully fixed.”

Matt does still at that— still thrumming with energy, but mindful now. Curious. 

Frank lowers his stance, carefully lowering Matt into the hanging chair; he quickly moves a hand to steady the gentle swing while Matt gets settled, bracing the rim with a firm grip. 

Matt blinks, feeling the fabric beneath his fingers and running a hand over the smooth edge. 

“Here—“ Frank grabs a pillow from the nearby bench and lines one of the side gaps with it. “Put your feet up for a bit. Curt will knock us both flat if you don’t,” he huffs, trying to conceal his nerves.

Once Matt nods okay, Frank guides  his feet through the side gap, elevating them slightly. He fusses for awhile longer, but when Matt looks settled— if not a little bewildered— Frank sits cross legged on the deck in front of the chair, steadying it with his weight as he watches Matt relax into the pillows. 

Matt’s head tilts towards Frank, lips parted in quiet surprise. Something about the look— the slope of his brows, maybe— is so vulnerable that it makes Frank’s chest ache. 

“You—“ Matt starts, words catching on the hoarseness of his voice. “You built me a nest…?” He finishes quietly, so fragile and unsure. Like this was an entirely foreign concept to him. 

Which… shit, it probably is.

“No, it’s—“ Frank starts, not wanting to overwhelm Matt with too much, too soon. 

But Matt has other ideas. As always. 

Frank is cut off by a palm slapping against his nose, then correcting, and pressing over his mouth. He grunts at the contact, flinching the second time— just barely. He blinks confusedly at the contact, breath coming in a sharp exhale against Matt’s palm. 

The touch wasn’t rough. Not gentle either, just… urgent. 

Frank waits, studying Matt’s face as he does so. He’s acutely aware of the faint citrus that fills the air; not quite sour, but close. 

He looks small. Unsure. Like he’s withholding words out of fear of… fuck knows. Hard to be sure of anything when it comes to Matt— it could be any number of things. Especially when it comes to the complicated relationship he has with his designation. 

Frank is snapped out of his thoughts by said complicated Omega.

“You built me a nest,” Matt says again, still a little timid, but definitely more certain. His fingers fall away from Frank’s face, resting instead against the rim of the chair; he grazes  his fingers against the soft fabric of Frank’s shirt. 

Right above where his treacherous heart must have given away Frank’s—shit, admittedly— attempt to bypass the I built you a nest conversation.

…Although, now? Frank thinks maybe it’s a conversation they should have. 

Because that vulnerable look on Matt’s face— the catholic guilt one? The one that reflects his inability to accept comfort? That is a face Frank doesn’t want to see. Not before, either, but especially not now. 

“I’ve never—“ Matt starts, but immediately falters, pulling back from his own thought as if it’s too much vulnerability. 

Frank lifts a hand— slow, deliberate— and rests it gently over Matt’s, thumb moving in soft arcs over his knuckles.

“Yeah,” Frank says gently, “I guess I did.” Then, cautiously, “ain’t nothin’ wrong with listenin’ to your instincts sometimes. I was climbin’ the walls while you were out. I had to do somethin’ for you— wanted too.”

Matt’s lips pull into a trembling line, his lashes fluttering with the delivery of that last line. But despite his crumpling facial expression, the faint, sour note in his scent wavers, and his muscles relax into the cushions. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Matt whispers, his voice wet and frayed at the edges. Fragile, definitely, but the unspoken gratitude is also plain to see— obvious in the way he melts into the chair. In the way his scent becomes light in a way it hasn’t been for weeks. 

“You listenin’ t’me, Red?” Frank asks patiently, raising a hand to thread through Matt’s hair. He tilts the Omega’s face towards his own. “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

Matt doesn’t reply with words, but a threadbare purr surfacing from his Omega. Tentative, but grateful. 

When Matt nudges into his palm, more instinct than thought, Frank remembers the brush Curtis had given him: soft, densely bristled and designed to soothe. It feels like perfect timing; Matt is clearly a little spacey, which means he’ll be more receptive to things meant to help him. 

Especially, Frank has come to realise, if they’re delivered by him. 

Right, okay.

“Got somethin’ I wanna try,” Frank says, his voice low and gravelly. “I’ll go slow, yeah?” 

Matt nods faintly, eyes still half lidded, his body lax and trusting.

Frank fishes the brush out of his pocket, looking over it briefly, then rubs it against his own glands; a few slow swipes over his wrist and thumb— the carpal and pollicis brevis glands, where his Alpha musk is strongest.

He takes the brush in his hand like a pen, first using the back of his knuckles to graze against Matt’s temple— the pterional gland. 

“Ready?” Frank asks quietly. 

Matt hums his consent, trusting and dreamily curious. His head tilts subtly towards Frank’s hand, clearly sensing something new. 

After a few more gentle touches with the backs of his fingers, he realigns the brush between his fingers and uses it against Matt’s hairline; not on the gland directly yet. 

Matt doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t look relaxed either. His purr takes on a higher pitch— like a questioning trill laced into the cadence of it. Not fear or discomfort, exactly. Uncertain, definitely. Like it’s another new sensation he doesn’t know how to accept.

Frank pauses. He doesn’t lift the brush or give space. Just waiting.

“Hey,” Frank says, voice dropping into that gentle coo that he knows Matt’s Omega responds to. “You’re alright. S’just new, that’s all.” Then, firmer, “you tell me if it’s too much.” 

Matt chirrs faintly in agreement, chin tipping slightly in appeasement as he relaxes again; it’s not effortless, but the trust Matt’s Omega is placing in him is enough to get him moving again— to not take the opportunity for granted.

Frank exhales quietly, moving the brush in slow, soothing motions again, still focusing on the surrounding area.

Once Matt’s purr loses its edge of hesitancy, Frank swipes gently over the gland. Just once— a gentle, broad stroke of the brush. 

The reaction is instant: Matt’s purr stutters for just a moment, then blooms into something deep and soulful. He brings a hand to paw loosely in Frank’s direction— not frantic, but definitely searching.

Frank doesn’t keep him waiting; he captures Matt’s hand gently in his own, never ceasing the brush’s movement. 

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, bringing Matt’s knuckles to his lips.

Matt shivers, barely perceptible, but Frank sees it clear as day— sees everything. How Matt’s lips part around a trembling breath, how his muscles slacken with each passing moment, how his chin tips just a little further back. 

Frank uses that movement like an opening, gently gliding the brush downward; behind Matt’s ear and then along the cut of his jaw. 

As the brush nears Matt’s cervical glands, the omega begins to shift; his hips subtly tilting, spine slowly arching towards his Alpha. The scent of thick, syrupy vanilla fills the air— sweet and wholly Omega.

“Doin’ so good,” Frank coos, watching as the sensations make their way through Matt’s body, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

The Omega whines, the sound so quiet it barely catches on his vocal cords at all— more a controlled rush of air than sound. He tilts his head to try and encourage Frank to finally move lower— to make contact with his cervical glands.

Frank obliges with the same steady patience he’s that got him this far— no teasing or delay to rile up the Omega any further. He realigns the brush, drawing it downward in a long, slow pass directly over the cluster of glands. 

Matt shudders.

Not violently— no, just a ripple. A soft tremor that radiates outward; limbs twitching, his entire body curving towards Frank and blooming beautifully under the sensation. 

“There you go,” Frank hums, low and soothing. “Jus’ let it happen.”

After a few more gentle passes, Matt’s knees begin to draw inward; his purrs become something so primally content that Frank feels himself begin to rumble involuntarily in response— his alpha rising to meet Matt’s Omega in its bliss.

Matt sighs out a warbling trill— dreamy and serene— breathing gently through parted lips as he bares his throat completely. 

“Goddamn… look at you,” Frank breathes as he reverently acknowledges the display with the brush, trailing soft bristles gently down the column of Matt’s throat. “Didn’t think you’d take to it this fast. But damn. You’re bein’ real pretty, ain’t you, sweetheart?”

Matt lets out another warbling, drop-happy chirr— high, needy and utterly blissful. 

“I know,” Frank croons; low, husky, and promising to have Matt’s Omega melting into the upholstery. “So good. Such a good boy, lettin’ me take care’a you.”

He’s being shamelessly self indulgent now and he knows it. But, fuck, with Matt? You gotta’ take what you can get; any moments where that prickly, stubborn exterior falls away are opportunities to be seized. And hey— some of it might even make it through that thick fuckin’ skull’a his. He might learn that nice things happen when he doesn’t fight his Omega tooth and nail. 

…it ain’t likely, but no harm in hopin’. Frank sighs, equal parts exasperated and utterly besotted with the perfectly feral creature writhing in the nest he curated. 

That being said, he’s probably beginning to push his luck— the twitching and arching is starting to look like overstimulation, which is definitely not the goal. He removes the brush from Matt’s skin, replacing it with the flat of his palm against the side of his neck.

The defiant chirp that follows— immediate, unfiltered displeasure at having the soft bristles removed from his now oil-slick skin— startles an amused huff out of Frank.

“Easy,” he soothes, thumb swiping in gentle arcs against Matt’s larynx. “Was meant to be about relaxin’, sweetheart. Not gettin’ all worked up.”

Matt, as usual, doesn’t agree. 

Frank blinks as he watches Matt’s teeth click shut not too far from his hand. He can’t actually bite— the angle’s no good— but the intent is there. There’s no calculation, just a pouty Omega no longer getting its own way.

And, fuck, he adores this asshole.

Frank chuckles, low and warm. “S’that what we’re doin’ now?” He asks amusedly. “Bitin’ the hand that pets you?”

Matt doesn’t dignify him with a reply. Instead, he emits a sharp, sulking trill— such a stark contrast to the way Matt would usually tightly leash his emotions. A true testament to the lasting effects of the suppressants; an emotionally young Omega starved of expression and making up for lost time. 

…by sulking. Loudly. 

The part of Frank that lives deep in his bones— the quiet, ever present Alpha— thrums with the urge to press Matt flat. To coo at him until he melts into a boneless pile of contented Omega. 

But the twitch in Matt’s hips and the shifting of his thighs tells Frank that he’s too overstimulated for that. 

“Alright, easy now,” he murmurs, scratching gently at the soft skin behind Matt’s ear. “I know, that was a bit much. Jus’ gotta’ take a breather, yeah? Ain’t stoppin’ for good.”

Matt growls softly— a tiny grumble of sound, more frustration than aggression

Frank can’t help but grin. “Yeah? You mad at me now?” 

Matt chirps again, but it’s softer now. The heat is gone, replaced with something needier. 

Frank shifts the hand cradling the side of Matt’s neck, fingers splaying gently across Matt’s throat and the underside of his chin— a shift the Omega accommodates without hesitation.

The short lived petulance gives way to something far sweeter as Matt bares his throat, presenting himself perfectly. And, at the sound of Frank’s approving rumble, the beginnings of an answering purr hums to life in his chest.

Matt hums softly. 

Frank firms his grip into something more grounding. “What is it, sweetheart?” He murmurs. 

Matt only huffs, tired and a little irritable as his hips curl just slightly towards Frank.

It’s subtle, but he gets the idea.

Frank presses his lips softly to the back of Matt’s hand, a gesture that comes so easily he barely even notices himself doing it. Then he lowers it gently onto the cushions lining the inside of the chair, watching as Matt‘s fingers naturally curl into the fabric— still lax and syrupy-slow from the brush.

He lays his own hands next to Matt’s throat, using the back of his knuckles to skim gently up the underside of Matt’s chin. 

The Omega tilts instinctively into the touch, pushing the soft underside of his throat into Frank's hand, a soft purr stirring against his fingers.

“Atta’boy,” Frank murmurs, using the subtle shift to slide his other hand down the length of Matt’s body— slow, measured, never breaking contact. It smooths down his sternum, all the way to his lower abdomen; resting protectively over the soft swell beneath his navel.

And just like that, the Omega falls loose and pliant into the cradle of the chair, like a puppet finally cut from its strings. His purr deepens once more into something deeply felt and wholly content. 

“Is that what you needed, baby?” Frank coos, his hand rubbing slow circles onto Matt’s belly. “That’s it…jus’ relax. I got you.”

He leans heavily on the edge of the chair, becoming aware of the contented rumble still radiating softly from his own chest; the alpha in him sated at the sight of his Omega so yielding and soft under his hands.

“What d’you say to a little sleep?” Frank suggests quietly. Then, equal parts dry and hopeful, “Might be able t’save myself from gettin’ skinned by Curtis for all the excitement if you do.”

Matt chuckles breathily at that, still touch-drunk, but seemingly a little more cognisant. “Y’deserve it,” he mutters, voice slurred by his own purr. “Asshole.”

Frank laughs at that, low and affectionate. “Yeah, I know.”

The following morning, Frank finds himself in a position reminiscent of the night Curtis first arrived. The same nervous energy is coiled tight under Matt’s skin; the same painfully reluctant Omega, pushing all his weight back into Frank, but still trying to pretend that, underneath it all, he’s not scared.

They’re back in Matt’s usual place on the couch, only this time he’s reclined against Frank— every inch of him tense and flexing with unease. 

Frank’s lips are grazing gently against the side of his neck, trying to soothe away the bitter, acidic scent radiating off of Matt in thick waves. He wraps his arms around the omega; one across his chest, the other sweeping low and protective across his navel.

He breathes softly into the sensitive patch of skin behind Matt‘s ear. His voice is a low murmur— steady, grounding— like a balm that hopes to soothe the sharp edges of the man in his lap.

“It’s gunna’ be fine,” he promises. “Whatever happens, I got you, Matt. You hear me?”

Matt‘s hands grip firmly at Frank’s wrists, the sharp bite of nails digging into flesh punctuating the pressure, like he’s trying desperately to cling onto the words— clawing to make them ring true in his mind. 

Frank doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

“What if it’s not fine?” Matt asks raggedly, the words edged with the beginnings of a growl. The sound is frayed and overwhelmed, but Matt doesn’t try to flee. Even faced with something that flays his omega with fear, he stays. 

And Frank? He’s so proud that he aches with it. So fucking proud of this fiercely determined creature— pushed over and over again to the edge of his biological and instinctual limits without letting himself be tipped over it. Not fully.

“Then we’ll deal with it. Jus’ like we have been,” Frank says easily. “You can hear the heartbeat, Matty. If anythin’ was— fuckin’ unfixably wrong, you’d know, yeah?”

Matt’s breath stutters— just for a moment— and then slowly, slowly, it begins to even out. It’s not perfect, but it’s something. An’ ill fuckin’ take anythin’. Jesus Christ.

“You hear it everyday,” Frank murmurs, lips pressing into Matt’s neck once more. He tightens his hold against the shudder that wracks Matt’s body at the sensation. Then, with a gentle slide down towards the Omega’s softly curving navel, he whispers, “stubborn. Jus’ like you.”

Matt snorts at that. It’s wet and ungraceful sound, but real. 

Frank feels the tension in Matt ease off slightly. Just enough to take the edge off. And that’s probably the best he can hope for right now. That was his job: talk Matt down and keep him calm.

So when that tension returns all at once, Frank instinctively tightens his hold. “Easy,” he murmurs. “You’re alright. I got you, Red.”

Frank hears the telltale sound of footsteps ascending the stairs up to the porch. Curtis had gone outside to greet Doctor Robinson a few minutes ago— the professional acquaintance he had called in to help with Matt’s scan. 

And it looks like he’s finished briefing her.

Shit. Here we go, Frank thinks warily. 

The growl is building in Matt’s chest before the handle even clicks, coarse and raw as it rips from his throat. It’s nothing like the deep timbre of an Alpha growl, but it delivers the same impact: a warning and a threat rolled into one.

It makes Dr Robinson pause on the threshold— respectful and rightfully cautious, but not surprised. She doesn’t flinch, just waits patiently in the doorway, her head tilted in subservience; the posture portraying as clearly as possible to Matt that she’s not a threat.

After a tense moment, Curtis squeezes past slowly, placing a familiar hand on her shoulder as he does so. When Matt doesn’t seem to spare him any focus, he slowly steps forward, making sure to keep his voice low and even. 

“Matt, Frank. This is Dr Robinson— a friend and colleague of mine, and a damn good OB. You’re in good hands, Matt, I promise you that.”

Curtis gestures for Dr Robinson to step forward.

She spares him a glance, but ultimately ignores the invitation, focusing instead on Matt. She keeps her posture open and easily appeasing. Her entire demeanour is unobtrusive and gentle, scenting like clean linen and soft leather. When she speaks, her voice is clear and even but undoubtedly kind— projecting an air of calm confidence that invites those around her to feel the same. 

She nods a silent greeting towards Frank, sparking him a brief glance and a genuine smile before turning back to Matt.

“Hi, Matt. My name is Doctor Robinson, but you can call me Delia. Curtis gave me the details, but I’d like to check with you before we continue— are you happy for me to give you a scan today?” 

Somewhere in Dr Robinson’s speech, Matt’s growl tapered off and the tension in his frame eased. He’s scenting the air now, tongue dabbing against the back of his teeth as he gets a read on her. 

After a moment, he nods slowly. 

Dr Robinson smiles. “Thank you. May I come over?” She asks gently. Then, backpedaling slightly, “I can wait if you need more time. Anything that happens here is completely on your terms.” 

Matt lets out a breath at that, clearing his throat before he speaks. His voice is a little hoarse from the growling, but otherwise calmer than Frank was expecting.

“Yes, I— that’s fine. I apologise for—“ Matt flushes with embarrassment. “…being inhospitable. Thank you, Delia, for coming all the way out here.”

Dr Robinson places her bags in the entryway, approaching slow and empty handed before taking a seat on the armchair. 

Frank can feel the way Matt’s body is still holding cautious tension, but he’s no longer vibrating with nervous energy like he was before. Something about Dr Robinson clearly harmonises with Matt’s omega in a way that Curtis didn’t initially. 

“That is quite alright. And you’re more than welcome, Matt. I’m looking forward to working with you,” she says warmly. “Now,” she continues, a professional edge creeping into her tone, “how would you like this to go? If you’d prefer, Curtis can carry out the scan on my behalf.”

Matt considers for a moment, but— to Frank's surprise— he shakes his head.

“No, that’s fine. You can do it,” Matt says slowly, his brows furrowing in a way that says he’s piecing something together. “You…” he hesitates for just a moment, “…smell like Curtis.” 

Frank blinks.

Dr Robinson’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, a flush creeping onto her cheeks.

Curtis sputters. 

“Matt—“ he hisses, exasperation creeping into his hushed tone. “I gave Delia a long talk about being mindful of your sensitive ass, and you go and say something like that?”

He shakes his head slowly, chuckling warily as he drags an embarrassed hand down his face. Despite that, the tone that follows is decidedly fond— though it’s not without a mildly reprimanding edge.

“Maybe I should have been giving you that talk instead of her. I can’t believe you outed me like that, man. After all I’ve done for you?” 

Frank can almost feel the smug smirk spreading across Matt’s face.

Ah, shit. Here we go, he thinks amusedly, not-so-subtly hiding a cautious upturning of lips against his Omega’s shoulder.

“Delia, to you, is she?” Matt asks, sharp and knowing. “Well then,” he turns to Dr Robinson, “I hope he treats you better than he treats me. And that you didn’t get this job through nepotism alone,” he says, a playful purr punctuating the jab. 

For Christ’s sake.

“Matt,” Frank chastises, low and disapproving. There’s no malice in Matt’s words, but it’s a joke that could go either way; probably a little bold to be used on a stranger, mutual acquaintance or not. 

That being said, he’s not sure the disapproval makes it past the unbridled relief that this encounter hasn’t ended with lunging, teeth and spiking cortisol. 

Luckily, Dr Robinson is quick to roll with the punches; a small, playful smirk pulling at her own lips as her posture falls into something more relaxed.

“You don’t need to worry about that. I am exactly who you want in your corner,” she assures confidently. Then, with a decidedly unapologetic grin, “although, I can’t make any promises about being nicer than Curtis, I’m afraid.”

Curtis huffs in agreement. “Hate to break it to you, Matt, but I’ve been consulting with her since the beginning. All those rules? Agreed upon and co-signed by Dr Robinson.” 

Matt doesn’t miss a beat— the quick witted lawyer in him shining through. “So the oppression is peer reviewed? God, no wonder it’s so comprehensive.”

“Alright, that’s enough outta’ you,” Frank finally cuts in, voice low and pointed, though it’s lacking any real heat. He brings a hand up to rest against the side of Matt’s throat, firm and grounding; a half-attempt to wrangle his wily Omega. “You’re gettin’ way too smug for your own good.”

Matt leans into Frank's chest without hesitation, the picture of shit-eating satisfaction. His purr thrums to life; rich, triumphant and entirely involuntary. He tucks his head beneath Frank’s jaw in one fluid motion— one that allows Frank to feel the embarrassed flush warming his cheeks, likely because of the purr.

Fortunately— or unfortunately, depending on who you ask— the embarrassment doesn’t seem to dampen the sharp glint Frank can feel in his expression. It crackles in the air like citrusy static; light, fresh, and entirely too pleased. 

Matt and his omega both, it seems.

The purring gives away just how close to the surface Matt’s omega is; keyed up from the stressful anticipation Matt had been drowning in not thirty minutes ago. But, despite that, it doesn’t seem to be dangerously lurking— instinctively reactive, yes, but no longer airing on the side of volatility. Just, present.

…and purring up a self-satisfied storm.

Frank huffs, equal parts fond and exasperated. “Is this shit-eating grin a pitstop on the way to bitin’, or are we playin’ nice today?” He asks dryly as he shifts his grip on Matt’s neck, calloused fingertips curving around to rest in the hollow of his throat. 

He chuckles then, eyes flicking between Curtis and Dr Robinson before addressing his purring menace in his lap again.

“You’re gunna’ make Curtis jealous, warmin’ up t’someone so quick after you tried t’go for his throat.”

Matt just purrs louder as a quiet, unrepentant chirr, meant only for Frank, weaves seamlessly into his self-satisfied and entirely too smug symphony. 

Asshole, Frank snorts.

“If you’re settled enough for your ego t’be this big, you’re settled enough for’a damn scan,” he says, voice retaining a note of fondness despite the nerves he felt rapidly pooling in his chest before he even finished the sentence.

Matt definitely sobers at that, tensing slightly in Frank's hold, but he offers no rebuttal or complaints.

And suddenly Frank feels the weight of his own words. 

Right, okay. Fuck. He looks towards Dr Robinson with a wary smile. “Wanna’ get set up?”

Dr Robinson smiles, then looks at Matt. “Are you ready, Matt?”

Matt nods stiffly, leaning back into Frank’s chest. “How long will it take?”

Dr Robinson flicks her gaze briefly to Curtis, nodding towards her bags in the entryway, before her eyes return to Matt. “Twenty minutes hopefully— maybe thirty if baby is hiding from me,” she says kindly. 

Matt nods again. Just once— firm and determined. “Okay. Do it.” 

With that, Curtis moves to collect the bags, bringing them over to the couch and helping Dr Robinson set up the equipment with practiced ease. They work well together— seamless, efficient, but definitely mindful of making sudden movements in the presence of Matt’s flighty Omega. 

After a few short minutes, Dr Robinson hands Matt some paper towels. 

“Tuck this over your waistband— it’ll protect your clothes from the gel,” she advises kindly.

Matt does as he’s told, slow and measured, the faintest tremble in his fingers making the movements a little clumsy. 

Frank runs a comforting hand up his flank, the other coming to rest on his hip. “You got it, Red,” he murmurs.

Matt purrs faintly at the contact, but it’s thready and coarse; more an attempt at self-soothing than an expression of comfort. 

Frank feels a low rumble forming in his chest in sympathy, his inner Alpha pushing forward to comfort their Omega. It’s almost inaudible, but Matt will be able to feel it against his spine— I got you, it promises.

Neither he or Matt manage to stop the slight flinch at the sound of Dr Robinson’s voice, not even her dulcet tone soft enough to reach them gently with how on edge they both are. 

“I’ve warmed the gel up as best I can, but it might be a little cold,” she warns gently. “Are you ready?”

No, Frank’s mind supplies unhelpfully as if the question were directed at him.

Matt nods mutely, bracing as Frank helps him lay more horizontally in his lap. 

When the gel touches his abdomen, Matt doesn’t flinch, but there is a sharp inhale. He grips Frank's wrists tightly, anchoring himself as he breathes through the mounting anticipation.

“You’re alright,” Frank rumbles, pressing his lips to the top of Matt’s head. Although whether the words are for Matt’s benefit or his own is anyone’s guess.

“Starting now,” Dr Robinson says gently, then— slowly, deliberately— she lowers the wand towards Matt’s abdomen. “You’ll feel a little pressure, but any pain and you tell me, okay?”

She waits for a moment, then presses the wand against Matt’s belly.

Frank feels more than he hears the way Matt’s thin purr thickens into a growl— barely audible, but there. Like static humming against the palm of his hand where it rests on Matt’s sternum. 

Dr Robinson glances at Matt, but she doesn’t pause. “Just say the word, Matt, and this all stops, okay?”

“Sorry, don’t—“ Matt tries, voice catching on the involuntary growl. He clears his throat. “I’m fine. Please, continue,” he rasps. 

Dr Robinson smiles reassuringly, her expression warm but focused, before she turns her attention back to the monitor. The wand slides gently against Matt’s abdomen with practiced ease, and any adjustments made are delivered with a level of care and mindfulness that speaks to years of experience working with volatile Omegas.

He never doubted Curtis’ choice— knows his friend would never bring someone sub-par— but watching her work… it settles something in Frank. Her demeanour is so steady and calm that it’s hard not to mirror it, at least to a degree. 

And Frank can’t help but watch her work— tracking every glide, press and angle shift. They’re all performed with effortless confidence and professional integrity. 

Once she begins looking, it only takes a few moments of searching and then—

Sound. 

Fast. Not erratic. No, it’s rhythmic. And strong. It’s— 

A heartbeat. The heartbeat.

Matt stills.

And Frank? 

Christ, he feels the way his breath catches— suspended in his chest with an iron grip that feels exactly like how that tiny projected heartbeat sounds. His own heart feels like it’s racing to try and fall into step with that fluttering sound, like it’s trying to catch up as everything around him seems to warp and slip out of reach.

Dr Robinson’s voice cuts through the tension, barely more than a whisper. “There.”

She tilts the screen slightly, not rushing for even a moment.

“That’s your baby. The heartbeat is one-hundred-and-fifty-four beats per minute. It’s a good one, too,” she smiles.

The moment his eyes fall on that grainy image, Frank is transported to a different time and place. A time before… fuck, before almost everything about his current life.

A different city with different people and looking at a different grainy image.

And yet.

The situation is hauntingly familiar. An echo of a life he doesn’t have anymore— a family he doesn’t have anymore. And, Frank… he’ll never make peace with that. Never. For better or worse he knows that the memory of his family— of that day— will follow him forever. 

It’s almost palpable how the memory of it still sits in his chest, like a knife directly in his heart that was never removed. At first, the pain of his body morphing and changing to accommodate its constant agony is what fuelled him.

His body healed around that knife, calcified and fused it to his bones. He isn’t a religious man anymore, and he doesn’t believe in souls, but if he did? He knows for a fact that his would be housed in that knife.

It became a fundamental part of him; destined to carry it always along with that echo of go get ‘em, Daddy. 

And Frank did. 

Until, eventually, his heart learned to beat around it in a way that didn’t cause inflammation with every throb. Then, when he moved upstate, he tried to be more mindful of it— tried to let the agony settle into something not just survivable, but livable. That echo softened into something that sounded a lot more like we missed you.

And somewhere along the way, Matt Murdock happened. They happened. And now—

Now, that different time and place— the small hands in his, the excited patter of feet, the laughter down the hall, the bedtime stories, the drawings on the fridge, the blood on his—

…it's always been a reminder of what he lost. 

But now? They’re more than that. They’re a memorial that stands as a painful reminder of what he now has to lose again.

Again.

Matt leans into Frank then, that purr flickering back to life as a steady, comforting thrum that reaches him like a light in the dark. It feels like a biological circuit breaker that stalls the escalating bodily anxiety; his mind still reels with it, but the palpable slowing of his heart helps him breathe easier.

Frank blinks hard— once, twice— and tightens his grip on Matt. Focus on Matt. 

Because consciously or not, Matt is trying to comfort him. He’s reaching out with a purr that eases the squeeze on Frank’s heart and cools the blazing neural pathways that fire memories like hollow points to the forefront of his mind.

It’s Dr Robinson’s voice that delivers the final shove that brings him back to the surface. There’s no gasp for breath or visceral reaction beyond a sharp exhale, although he feels like there should have been with how close he felt to drowning just then.

“I’m going to take some measurements and get a better look at how baby is doing in there,” Dr Robinson says quietly, as if to preserve the fragile moment. “Try and keep still for me, just for a few minutes.”

Neither reply.

Matt is probably listening to Dr Robinson as she lists numbers and observations for Curtis to write down.

But, Frank… he can’t hear anything past the sound of her heartbeat— flickering in and out as Dr Robinson moves the wand around to investigate, but, shit… 

That’s his kid. Right fuckin’ there—

He’s snapped out of his thoughts again by Matt’s head tipping back into his chest— a gentle nudge with the curve of his skull. 

“You okay?” He asks gently, a wobbly smile pulling at his lips. “Or is that a stupid question?” 

If there weren’t a lump currently occupying what feels like all the space in his throat, he might have laughed. 

But he can’t. 

Can’t even talk. 

Instead he wraps his arms around Matt’s chest— high enough to not impede Dr Robinson— and just… folds. He bows his head, temple resting against Matt’s cheek, and just holds him. 

To his horror, he feels his eyes begin to sting; what little view he has of Matt’s abdomen becoming blurred under the weight of that question. 

Matt chirrs softly; low, knowing, and just for Frank. It’s a sound meant to comfort as he immediately notices the trace of salt in the air. He lifts a trembling hand to rest against the back of Frank’s neck, splayed fingers working gently into the base of his skull and threading though his hair.

“Matt—” Frank breathes, and he’s not even sure that any sound made it past the lump in his throat.

But, thankfully, his lips forming the word was enough. 

“I know,” Matt whispers, his temple rubbing purposefully against Frank’s cheek. His voice is steadier than Frank expected— a lot fuckin’ steadier than I’m feelin’, Christ— hoarse and thick with emotion, definitely, but… calm. Calm enough that the nerves are secondary. 

At least for now.

Holdin’ it together f’me, Frank thinks wetly, a quiet sniff hitching his shoulders. He exhales shakily, holding Matt tighter as he shakes his head lightly. 

He still can’t speak. Not yet. But he needs to say it. His lips form the words, and he hopes, hopes, that it’s enough. That Matt understands—

Thank you. 

He feels the grip on the base of his skull tighten. A silent acknowledgement and acceptance in one; a bone deep understanding that doesn’t need words— not when a touch and the scent of light citrus can say more than words ever could. 

Matt pulls Frank closer, his scent blooming with rich, syrupy vanilla as he nuzzles firmly against the side of his Alpha’s face. The purr that accompanies the action feels almost demanding as he incessantly scents Frank— a clear marker that says mine, mine, mine.

And the action is so painfully Matt— all want and attitude— that it startles a  fond chuckle out of him. It’s wet, frayed and not unlike a sob, but somehow… it’s easier to breathe afterwards. That demanding purr and aggressively loving touch manages to dislodge the lump in his throat with an ease that both settles and terrifies him. 

And those emotions are completely ignoring the fact that, Matt? Is not a calming influence in Frank’s life. Never has been. Probably never will be. He’s too much of a shit for Frank to ever truly relax. Yet somehow, Frank’s Alpha decided that this feral creature is the one that’s going to settle him.

Of course he is, Frank chuckles again— shaky and thick with emotion, but genuine. It’s hard to discern whether that emotion is bone deep acceptance or exasperation. Maybe both.

Matt trills in response, undeniably pleased that Frank is seemingly paying attention to him again.

Then he nudges at Frank, urging him to lift his head. 

Frank does. Slowly.

Curtis and Dr Robinson are both donning soft smiles, but neither are looking at him, trying to be respectful and give as much privacy as possible. His eyes are quickly drawn back to the screen, and he finds himself trying to memorise every inch of that grainy image.

“I have a printer,” Dr Robinson says, her voice quiet and warm. “I’ll get a copy for you,” she promises. 

Frank doesn’t look away from the screen, but murmurs a soft, “Thanks, Doc.” 

“My pleasure,” she smiles. 

Curtis chimes in at last, notes in hand. “Congratulations, both of you,” he says warmly. “It’s good news— there is absolutely nothing here we can’t manage.”

Matt’s hand laces with Franks against his chest. “Tell me,” he demands, voice hoarse but firm in his conviction. “I want to know everything.”

Franks swallows, nodding in agreement. His eyes flick between Curtis and Dr Robinson. 

“Delia,” Matt urges, “I’d like to hear it from you.” Then, with an attempted smirk towards Curtis, “no offence, Lieutenant.”

Curtis raises his hands with a returning smirk of his own. “None taken, Counsellor. Until we get to management, I’m just the note taker.”

After a moment, Dr Robinson carefully removes the wand from Matt’s abdomen, handing him another paper towel. “Here you go, Matt,” she says softly.

Matt takes it gratefully with a murmured thank you. He wipes the gel from his skin with slow, deliberate movements. As he pulls the paper towel from his waistband, one of Frank’s hands automatically migrates down towards that soft swell, covering it protectively with a calloused palm. 

Matt moves to sit up slightly, still reclined against Frank’s chest— pressing into him with every shift.

Sensing the nervous anticipation, Dr Robinson doesn’t ask if they’re ready and doesn’t keep them waiting any longer. Her tone is even and kind, edged with an authoritative professionalism that commands attention without sharpness.

“Let me start by saying that your baby is healthy. Strong heartbeat. Active. Measuring a little small for gestational age— around eleven weeks and a day rather than eleven-and-a-half— but the proportions are symmetrical. That means growth is consistent. Not stalling or restricted.”

Frank squeezes Matt’s hand, consciously emptying his lungs— slowly letting go of the breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. 

He feels Matt do the same. 

Dr Robinson continues. “Fluid levels are low-normal. You’re not in the danger zone, but it does warrant close monitoring and continued hydration support through the IV to prevent any sudden drops in volume. That, combined with your early metabolic strain, likely contributed to the baby's size. That being said, male Omegas usually carry small— as I’m sure you’re aware— so I’m not overly concerned at the moment. But we do need to keep an eye on it.” 

Matt nods, sharp and understanding.

“The placenta is low-lying but not covering the cervix, which means no previa yet. And it’s posterior, which is a good sign. But the anchoring is a little irregular. Likely compensating for scarring… there’s also a small placental lake forming— again, not critical right now, but something we need to monitor as your uterus stretches.”

Frank swallows, pulling Matt tighter agains him with the arm across his chest.

“As for the uterus itself,” she continues, “there is localised thinning in the anterior wall. The muscle tone is diminished in a way that is very commonly seen after long term suppressant use. There aren't any signs of rupture, and no dehiscence. But it does confirm what I expected after seeing Curtis’ notes: this pregnancy won’t go to forty weeks.” 

Matt’s breath catches, the cortisol spike saturating the air immediately, sharp and bitter. “Wha— no, that’s—” he breathes.

“Matt,” Dr Robinson cuts in, firm but not unkind. “Not going all the way doesn’t mean failure. If we can hold stable through to twenty-eight weeks, I’m confident we can plan for an induction at around thirty-five to thirty-six weeks. That’s late preterm—  a strong chance of breathing on their own and feeding without assistance. That’s the goal.” 

Frank finally manages to dislodge the words from his throat at that. “What about Matt?” He asks, voice rough with the beginnings of a protective growl.

Dr Robinson doesn’t flinch, her gaze softening as she turns to him. “That’s a fair question. And the answer— as I’m sure Curtis has told you— is that he’s not out of the woods yet.” 

Her eyes shift to Matt. “Based on the initial report I received from Curtis, you’re doing incredibly well. But there is more to do.” 

Curtis hums in agreement but doesn’t interrupt.

Dr Robinson lets the words settle for a moment, eyes flicking briefly to Curtis before they settle back on Matt and Frank. 

“Having late preterm as a goal is something I think will benefit the baby when the time comes, but it is primarily for your safety, Matt,” she says gently. “Your uterus is underdeveloped in places and I think it’s very unlikely that it will tolerate full-term expansion. Thirty-five to thirty-six weeks is our current ceiling for that exact reason. If we push for more, we risk rupture, haemorrhage, or worse.”

This time, she doesn’t let the words settle— continuing on with a raised hand to momentarily silence the questions Frank is certain she can see trying to claw their way out of his throat. 

“But what I’m seeing right now is extremely promising. I’ve seen positive outcomes in far more dire situations.”

She leans forward— all professional confidence, quiet and firm as she catches Frank’s eye. “My goal is a healthy, late preterm delivery for both of them,” she promises. “And I’m seeing nothing that makes that an unlikely outcome. With the right monitoring and management? We can get him there.” 

Curtis looks at Matt with a raised brow and a faint smirk— teasing but warm at the edges. “Compliance falls under management, Counsellor,” he says pointedly. “No arguments.”

Matt laughs wetly at that, wiping at his eyes with a congested sniffle. “I make no promises,” he says playfully, a frayed but genuine laugh bubbling from his chest. 

And that laugh is contagious, it seems. 

It’s not all good news, but after everything? It’s good enough. And that in itself is enough for there to be faint grins all round. 

“I know this wasn’t the first scan most people picture,” Dr Robinson begins softly, “but with all that out of the way—if you don’t have any other questions for me…would you like to know the sex? It’s not always a certainty at this stage, but I’m confident based on what I could see.”

Matt’s hold on Frank immediately tightens, his body suddenly coiled with something closer to excitement. He rocks back against Frank—once, twice— as if trying to make sure he’s paying attention. 

As if I could be doin’ anythin’ else, he huffs, fondly exasperated with the wriggling menace in his lap. 

He presses his cheek into the Omega’s temple, swaying them side-to-side in retaliation. “I’m listenin’, Red. You think I’m thinkin’ about other shit back here?” He rumbles, low and gravelly. Then, barely a whisper, “Not a chance, sweetheart.”

Matt only trills in response— bright and pleased. He’s excited in a way that tugs at Frank’s heartstrings, pulling his lips into an involuntary smile.

Frank looks at Dr Robinson. “Reckon that’s a yes,” he chuckles, holding Matt close as they both wait with bated breath. 

Dr Robinson turns back towards Frank, now holding a copy of that grainy image. She hands it to him with a kind smile, her voice full of something not unlike reverence— like she’s honoured to be the one delivering the news.

Frank takes it from her gently, as if it might disintegrate with any kind of pressure.

“Well,” she says, “based on what I saw… I’d say you’re having a little girl.” 

Silence.

And then Matt lets out a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob, the breath leaving him in a messy, overwhelmed rush. 

Frank barely has time to breathe himself before Matt is clumsily turning in his hold and flinging uncoordinated arms around his neck. He catches Matt without hesitation, taking his weight and adjusting himself instinctively as he clutches his omega tightly against him.

…and their daughter. His daughter. 

“That’s—” Frank rasps, but quickly aborts in order to force another breath into his lungs. His vision has blurred completely as he buries his face into Matt’s neck, breaths heaving as he smiles helplessly. “Fuck, Matty— we got a little girl—”

Matt’s purr in response is strong and warbling with emotion, so frantically pleased that Frank can’t help but laugh. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he croaks, though it sounds like a besotted praise even to his own ears. 

Matt only chirrs in response, unapologetic and so damn happy that Frank aches with it.

“You’re both ridiculous,” Curtis chuckles, shaking his head as he steps around the couch to help Dr Robinson pack away her equipment. 

They make quick work of packing up. Or, at least, Frank thinks they did.

All he knows is: one minute there was equipment all over the coffee table, and the next it was all neatly packed away.

Curtis clears his throat. “I’m going to head out with Delia for a while. I’ll be back later, but call if you need anything, okay? I’ll have my phone on me.”

Dr Robinson smiles, nodding in agreement. “It was lovely to meet you both. If you’re agreeable, I’d like to do weekly scans for now. I’ll be in close contact with Curtis, so if there are any problems please let him know.” 

Then, with a playful chuckle, she adds, “he’ll have his phone on him.” 

Frank chuckles, low and genuine. It’s a sound meant to lead into words, but he doesn’t quite make it there internally. He thinks he said something— a gruff thank-you to Dr Robinson, maybe a nod to Curtis— but if he does, all memory of it is swiftly ejected from his skull the moment Matt slumps deeper into his hold. 

Because everything else is secondary to the warm, purring mess of an Omega in his lap— one that’s fading fast in the aftermath of emotional overload. He’s half asleep already, his scent soothed into something rich, sated, and perfectly primed for a nap.

Hell, could do with a nap myself, Frank thinks, eyeing the hallway with newfound resolve. In a fuckin’ bed, he decides. A real one. With pillows. And behind a goddamn door.

It had been a week since either of them slept in a bed. Matt had refused— refused— to be shut away, curling into the couch and grumbling at any attempt to move him somewhere more comfortable. Frank and Curtis both agreed that pushing him wasn’t worth it. And it’s not as if the couch was inconvenient— the opposite, in fact. 

But now?

Matt is semi-mobile again. Which means: fuck the damn couch. 

With that, he lifts Matt— slowly, carefully— and makes his way to their bedroom. He kicks the door open, revealing the neatly made bed, still exactly how Frank had left it that morning before the pool incident.

He hadn’t even thought about sleeping in it. Not when Matt couldn’t join him. But looking at it now… fuck, he’s gunna’ enjoy this.

Frank peels back the covers, lowering Matt down with all the care of handling something precious. A soft, sleep-heavy sound falls from Matt’s lips the moment his body meets the mattress, barely stirring as he curls onto his side. 

Frank wastes no time in settling himself along Matt’s back; one arm tucking under the pillow and the other spaying gently over the soft swell of Matt’s belly. 

Now that he’s lying down, everything hits him at once— the exhaustion, the overwhelm, the joy. There’s fear there, too. He can feel it simmering low in his gut.

But for now? The fear is secondary.

Secondary to the feeling of finally getting some news that isn’t bad. Something is finally going right. Not perfect, sure, but positive. A week of hell, and suddenly there’s light at the end of the tunnel— a visible end to all this.

An ending that promises something good.

“A little girl, Red,” Frank whispers into Matt’s hair, pulling the Omega flush against him. “…A family.”

Matt arches leisurely into the touch with a tired purr— threadbare against the pull of sleep, but there. He places his hand over Frank’s, pressing it gently into his navel for a moment before letting it fall away. 

“We’re gunna’ make it,” Frank promises, his own voice heavy with sleep. “I’ll get you there, Matty— fuckin’ swear I will. An’ I’ll look after you. Both’a you.” 

I’ll look after both of you, he vows.

The last thing he hears as his eyes fall closed, too heavy to remain open, is Matt offering the quietest whisper from where he’s curled, warm and safe, against his chest:

“I know.”

And it’s so soft and trusting. Not sharp with conviction or holding any heat, just… accepting. Like the words come easily to him, even on the verge of unconsciousness when he’s at his most honest, because they are that easy. 

Matt knows in his bones that Frank will look after him. All of him. The lawyer, the Omega and their little girl. He’ll guard the family that they’re making together with his life, just as Matt himself would. 

They’ll protect the life they’re building together.

But first? 

They’re going to sleep in a goddamn bed.

-——ΑΩ——-

Curtis and Delia drive in silence. It’s not uncomfortable, just quietly reflecting— weighted, but the overarching theme is one of cautious optimism.

He spots a quiet drive-thru just off the main road and, feeling as if they both deserve a damn coffee, he pulls in.

There’s no queue, the lot almost completely empty aside from what is probably the cars of the staff and a single patron Curtis can see sitting at one of the windows inside. 

The sun is just beginning to creep over the treeline, the shadows casting long over the cracked asphalt. They lean against the hood of the car, hands warmed by the take-out cups as they enjoy the crisp morning air.

Curtis wraps an arm around Delia as she leans into him with a sigh— tired, but not displeased. He takes a well-earned sip of his coffee, a pleased sigh falling from his own lips as the liquid warms his throat.

“You held your own in there,” he remarks after a moment, voice lined with quiet praise.

Delia arches a delicate brow, her eyes meeting his over the lid of her cup as she takes a sip. “You sound surprised,” she accuses with a faint smile.

Curtis huffs. “I’m not. But, shit, I mean— you saw them. Frank’s never been easy. Always been intense. And, Matt… he’s something, isn’t he?”

She hums in agreement. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I can see why you’re so fascinated with him from a behavioural standpoint.” 

Then she chuckles, warm and disbelieving, “I can’t believe he sniffed us out like that!”

Curtis laughs at that. “Yeah, he is a marvel. And a little shit,” he muses, shaking his head fondly. “But really— you threaded the needle in there. They’re not easy.”

Delia shrugs, quiet and contemplative. “They’re not difficult,” she corrects. “They’re scared. And with good reason.”

Curtis nods at that, eyes watching the tree like for a moment before he speaks again. “You think we can get Matt to thirty-six weeks?” He asks quietly. 

Delia exhales, long and slow. But when she looks up, there’s a small smile pulling at her lips. “Yeah, I do,” she says softly. “If we keep on top of everything—monitor everything and catch any changes before they become even a hint of a problem,” she says seriously, searching his eyes. Then, quietly, “…if they bond. If they do that, I’d be confident instead of cautiously optimistic,” she admits.

Curtis sighs at that, pulling Delia closer. “I know. I’ve already spoken to Frank about it,” he assures.

She’s quiet for a moment, still watching him as she leans her head against his shoulder. “He asked about Matt. That was his only question.”

Curtis smiles knowingly. “Yeah,” he says gently. “Frank’s in it. And I think once Matt’s body is strong enough, he will be too.” He chuckles, then, “that one could do with less dignity and a little more instinct.”

Delia chuckles. “Maybe,” she allows, smiling up at Curtis as she places her now empty cup on the hood of the car. She wraps her arms around his waist, sobering a little as she does. 

“We plan for thirty-six weeks. Keep building him up like you have been. Get him strong enough to tolerate the bond, if that’s what they decide to do,” she says, voice edged with that fierce professionalism and genuine care for her patients that Curtis quickly came to admire when they first met.

“And even if they don’t,” Delia continues, “we’ll get him through this. Maybe not to thirty-six weeks, but Matt and the baby will get through this. I’m not in the business of losing people.”

Curtis smirks at that, one hand holding her face against his shoulder, the other resting on her waist. “Now you’re speaking my language,” he grins, rocking them gently. “We got this.”

She tips her head up at that, eyes blazing with a quiet determination. “You’re damn right we do.”