Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was fucking stupid, really. Frank could just end it right there. He was tempted. Fuck, that extinguisher hammer thing – the ones used to break the glass in case of fire emergencies – was all but seducing him; inviting him to grab the damn thing and knock the man in front of him out cold.

Finish it once and for all.

“You okay back there?” The man said cautiously, his voice ringing out from behind him. And what was that – was his voice wobbling? Frank snorted at the thought. The big, bad 'Punisher' gave the poor guy the heebie jeebies, was that what it was?

Either way, Frank was startled back to reality, and reluctantly tore his gaze away from the potential weapon. Focus, Frank. He was bleeding out. He could feel it. The persistent dripping of blood down his thigh becoming a puddle of crimson in his boots. Shit, he could practically hear the fucking squelching every time he took a step.

“Yeah.” Frank muttered, eyeing the broad-shouldered man as they walked up the stairs, leaving the building’s war-torn lobby. Their footsteps echoed throughout the complex, ricocheting off the plastered walls and disguising the awkward silence.

Shit. Was it awkward? What did it even matter?

The man stopped before they resumed up the next flight of stairs, a hand on the railing, hesitant. “You sure you don’t need a hospital? Because – ”

Frank sighed impatiently, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Sure. Casual fucking chit-chat whilst he splayed the stairway with his seemingly never-ending blood. Bring it on.

“You, of all people, Red, should know that hospitals do us no good.” Frank grunted, before he shoved Matt to keep him moving. Perhaps not as hard as he would have with someone else testing his patience. He liked to believe it was because he was dying. What was that they said? A man became more generous once he realized his days were over?

Matt Murdock clenched his jaw, remaining resolute, not budging an inch. Hand still on the railing. Three flights of stairs until they reached his apartment. Or three in the opposite direction towards the building’s entrance, if he felt like telling Frank to go fuck himself.

“Yeah, you’re right, considering that you default to shooting them up anyway.” Matt deadpanned. Decision made. He continued to trudge up the stairwell, ears craning to catch any movement from the man behind him.

Frank scoffed, but remained silent. He matched his pace, and they climbed up together. More silence.

Not so awkward this time.

“Being led by a blind man. Huh. Can’t say it’s my first time.” Frank jested, voice still low, one hand on the stab wound near his abdomen. That motherfucker out in the garage had gotten him good.

Matt mulled it over before sighing. Okay, he’d bite. “Yeah? What makes you say that?”

He could practically feel the sly smirk that formed on Frank’s face.

“Because, Matthew, most commanders acted like goddamn blind men anyway, leading us into all those suicidal missions.” The gravelly voice rang out.

“Don’t call me that.” Matt protested, but his lips curved in amusement anyway. War and Frank. Frank and war. Where one blurred into the other, no one was able to tell. Two things that you just couldn’t differentiate.

Matt knew from the scent alone that it was his floor. The smell of his neighbor’s tulips out on her kitchen table, the cat named Lollipop next door, the leftover chili on the stove from the Mexicans that lived opposite him – they all mingled to become one singular entity.

Home.

They paused in front of his door, and he fumbled for the keys. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.

Nobody rattled him the way that Frank goddamn Castle did.

“Not to rush you or anything, but I’m kind of dying.” The sound of heavy boots tapping impatiently. An intake of breath. A sniffle. Frank’s fixated gaze on his back.

How the hell did Matt find himself here anyway? Nursing a heavily-wounded Frank Castle, to the point where he had offered to patch him up at his own apartment?

He certainly wasn’t expecting to encounter the half-dead ex-Marine on his way back from a druglord’s basement, and should’ve fought it harder when the Punisher had wrapped a muscled forearm around his waist, a calloused hand clasped over his mouth to keep him from shouting in surprise.

The greeting itself had been formidable. He’d recognize that throaty timbre anywhere. The “Hey there, Red” wrapped the realization into a convenient package for him to process.

He’d never be rid of Frank.

“Yeah, you might die. But Pete Castiglione won’t. I’ve gotta say, I like him a lot better.” Matt nudged the door to his apartment open, the dark space only lit up by the neon billboard sign opposite his windows. Not that it mattered to him, of course.

Frank squinted at the attack to his eyeballs as they walked in. Why was this place so fucking pink? “Smartass.” He mumbled, heading towards the nearest couch and slumping onto it; head leaned back, legs spread, posture relaxed, the previously burning pain gradually becoming a dull ache he was growing accustomed to.

Fuck, that felt good.

Matt stood near the doorway, the image of the sight in front of him engraved into his mind — fueled by the sounds of Frank making himself comfortable.

Well, as comfortable as a man with two bullet wounds and several stab lacerations could be.

“I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but…” A smile played on Matt’s lips as he crossed his arms.

Frank huffed; eyes half-closed to avoid the harsh glare of the neon sign diffracting into the room. “You didn’t have to do this.”

Gratitude.

A smile ghosted Matt's lips. He headed towards his first-aid kit, one practically falling apart since it was frequented often after he took off his own mask. “You sure about that, Frank?" Raised an eyebrow. "You did give me that speech about how I don’t kill rapists and murderers, but would let a Marine die in my arms.”

Frank looked up at him from under his eyelashes, the irony not lost upon him. “If I can convince an attorney, what can’t I do, huh?”

He grimaced when he sat up, the bullet lodged in his stomach only just missing vital organs. A wave of pure agony overcame him, his entire body desperate for relief, blood cells working overtime. He waited for it to subside. It'd have to.

Matt’s brows furrowed in concern once he heard the sound. He made his way over to the man bleeding all over his couch, and sat tentatively beside him. “Come here.” Matt beckoned, steady hand on Frank’s forearm, who instinctively bristled at the touch.

A spark of something, Frank couldn’t decipher what it was, shot straight up his spine. He pulled his arm away from Matt instantly, glaring.

“Sorry, I –”

“Hey, the fuck — ”

They both spoke at the same time. Silence enveloped the pair as they each waited for the other to continue.

Frank glanced at the man sat beside him. Stubble littered Matt’s jawline, which was clenched, betraying how tense he was. Dark pink lips pursued. Hair ruffled. He wasn’t wearing the dark glasses he usually wore, and his gaze was unfocused. The unnerving mahogany eyes were aimed elsewhere – something that relaxed Frank slightly.

He’d never admit to that, though. Fuck that.

Finally, Frank sighed, another action that spurred a flash of blinding pain, before grabbing Matt’s hand with his own calloused one. Then, he gently placed it upon his forearm again. Frank looked away, towards the windows and the stupid fucking neon sign, as the large hand tightened on him and formed a vice-like grip.

Permission.

Matt acknowledged the movement with a nod, before turning Frank’s forearm over, and tracing a thumb over the gash there. From touch alone, he knew it was deep. But not one that needed stiches. Felt the crimson on his fingertips. Reached for the bandages in the metal tin beside him.

“How’d you manage to get cut here?”

Frank scoffed, shaking his head. “Last straw, yeah? Thought I’d end it all.” He joked darkly, nodding in indication towards his wrist.

Matt bit his lip in concentration as he firmly wrapped the gauze. “And here I was, thinking that you didn’t want to claim PTSD in that court case, all those months ago.”

Frank looked over at him then, curiosity flickering in his eyes. Surprised he still remembered that goddamn case, and its consequences. “You know, I – ” He began, before licking his lips. Water – when was the last time he’d had a glass?

Matt raised his head, waiting for him to continue.

They had all the time in the world, didn’t they? Two men who’d died long since. Two men who were all but walking corpses, happiness having been crushed along with their spirit - ages ago. Now it was simply a matter of waiting. Waiting for someone to see past the empty eyes, the façade. To render them worthy of being six feet under.

“You were good at that case. Great, even. Talking to those jurors. Being a laywer… it suits you, Murdock.” Frank muttered quietly, before clenching and unclenching his fist to examine his range of movement once Matt let go of his arm.

Matt chuckled in surprise, taken aback at the compliment. Shook his head in disbelief, before lowering it again, fixated on the injuries.

Somewhere, deep down where feelings came to life, Frank noticed what a nice sound it was. Joy. Pleasure. Clear, and soothing.

And… yeah, that had to be the pain-induced hallucinations kicking in. He needed fucking sleep.

“Would have won the case had you not pulled that shit afterwards. The whole ‘come get me, I’ll kill you all’ act? Seriously, Frank?”

Frank gave a nod as if in deep thought. “Well, Red, sometimes certain shit needs to be done. Yeah?” Looked him in the eyes. Knew that despite Matt’s pupils being unfocused, he’d be able to sense the gaze upon him. Uncharted territory.

Matt ignored him. “Take that stupid vest off, and lift your shirt.” He knew the bullets had to be lodged in deep, even though the asshole next to him would never admit to it.

“Shit, why don’t you take me on a date first?” Frank grinned, wolflike. He obliged anyway, and tore off both items.

Matt wasn't paying attention, though. The smell of blood overwhelmed his senses entirely. Copper. The faintest traces of perspiration. Grass. Cement. Matt heard Frank’s sharp intake of breath upon discovering the injuries on his bare torso.

Matt could all but hear the blood cells shifting within Frank in attempt to keep him alive. The pumping of blood, the steady beat of his heart, the labored breathing. No vital organs were in overdrive, none that he could hear anyway. Again, he reached out without thinking first – something he usually never did, not unless it was Frank Castle in question. His belief was that the wrong movement could end a life.

His cold fingertips scalded Frank’s warm skin, and Frank tensed his abdomen in surprise. “Stop that, asshole. I don’t need probing.” He growled, swatting Matt’s hand away.

"Why were you there?" Matt demanded, ignoring Frank's temper tantrum.

"Same reasons you were."

"Cut the shit, Frank. I saw what you did to them. It was personal, wasn't it?"

"Nothing they didn't deserve." Frank gritted, unwilling to elaborate further.

Matt considered calling Claire. Hell, he was practically itching to. There was no way he could wrestle two bullets out of flesh – not without a surgical instrument, not without antiseptic, and certainly not out of a man like Frank Castle.

But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Wasn’t going to drag her back into the hellhole he now called home – the constant injuries, the bloodshed, the life lived under disguise. She deserved better.

And Frank? He’d just have to endure the pain for now.

Not that that would ever be a concern for the ex-Marine. Matt wouldn’t be surprised if Frank was a masochist, considering how often he was bruised and bleeding. A permanent state for the Italian-American.

Matt was startled back to reality when Frank snapped his fingers to get his attention, once then twice. “Hey, hey, hey, Looney Tunes. You falling asleep on me?”

“Shut up.” Matt gritted, mind still working overtime. He’d have to stitch Frank up without removing the .22s.

Plan in place, he dug for his thread and needle, expecting Frank to protest.

If he did, it was never audible. Instead, he heard Frank shift again, seemingly settling into a more comfortable position once he had seen what was in Matt’s hands.

“Your vitals were missed. The people you go after really have to learn how to shoot better.” Matt tore off a piece of thread with his teeth, before expertly tucking it into the needle and leaning over Frank’s sculpted yet bloodied torso. Hovered it over the first wound.

He could almost visualize the careful rise and fall of Frank’s chest in such a moment of vulnerability. The slowed breath in attempt to keep calm. The slackening of his biceps.

“You need a drink?” Matt tilted his head towards where he kept his hard drinks – knew there was an unopened bottle of scotch in there somewhere.

Frank watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, face already blank and erased of any indication of emotion. “Nah."

Matt raised an eyebrow, but nodded anyway.

Then, he got to work. The first thread-through was always the most painful, where steel pierced flesh, inflaming the area further.

But Frank remained silent. His thoughts had since drifted miles away from the current situation he was in. He’d made his peace with pain a long time ago. It had become an old friend. Different types, never permanent. But always bound to return.

Matt used all of his remaining senses to ensure the stitching was as clean as possible, not straying too far away from the wound. The task distracted him. And he hadn’t heard a peep from the ex-Marine, so he kept working – fiddling with the string once every few seconds to ensure it was still intact. The warmth emanated from Frank’s bare skin – and what was that his hand just brushed against? A hardened nipple?

“You’re done.” Frank patted his back gently, startling him from his thoughts. He observed the dark-haired man leaning over him with faint interest, spreading his legs further apart to allow access to the other wound. The one that hurt like a fucking bitch.

Matt inhaled deeply before nodding, trying to regain composure. Then, he moved to the other side of Frank’s chest. He sensed this bullet hole as being near his ribcage, just under his left pectoral muscle.

“This might hurt.” Matt murmured, though it was useless.

Frank shrugged with one shoulder. “I’ll survive.”

“Life isn’t just about surviving.”

“How much are you charging me for the therapy session, huh, Doc? Need to invoice me or somethin’?” Frank snapped, drawing out the last few words the way he usually did when he was agitated, the undeniable New York accent finally making a return after all the gruff one-word sentences.

Shit, it had Matt’s lips curving all the same. He was amused, more than anything else. Exactly how easy was it to piss off this man?

“I’m just saying.”

“That right? Hate to break it to you, but I'm not here for your conversational skills.”

Matt’s hand hovered over the still gaping bullet-hole before he leaned back. Hands covered in blood. “Yeah?” Tested the waters.

Frank clenched his jaw, irritated. He narrowed his eyes at the man opposite him in defiance. They were of a similar height which lessened the overall effect, something that did nothing to extinguish his exasperation. God, his chest fucking hurt. He couldn’t even decipher where the fuck the hurt was coming from. Fading adrenaline made for a worse come-down than any narcotic out there.

“You gonna close me up? Christ, I’ll end you right here if you pull some shit like ‘we need to talk.’”

Matt smiled. “I’m tempted. Good communication skills are necessary for any relati - ”

"Shut your mouth, or I'll shut it myself."

"You think you can threaten me in my own house, Frank?"

"Apartment." Frank corrected. 

Matt sighed, and realized arguing at a time like this was useless. Not to mention, Frank seemed five minutes away from passing out due to blood loss. 

He couldn't let that happen. Not on his watch. A few minutes passed as he tried to locate the gaping wound again.

Frank reached for Matt's hand again — warm over his own — and carefully placed it over the wound, helping Matt find it. He cleared his throat before removing his hand from Matt's. 

Something in the air had changed. He was no Matt Murdock, but he could feel it.

Matt resumed the stitching, ensuring the thread was pulled in tight. He tried to ignore the sharp intake of Frank's breath at a particular poke-through.

The ticking of Frank’s jaw. The tapping of his foot on the hardwood floors. A hand through his hair. 

"You a nurse, Red? You've obviously done this before. And I'm not talking about the little scrapes from your daily playground fights either." Frank prompted, arm over the back of the couch. He massaged his temples with his other hand, willing for the exhaustion to fuck right off.

"My dad. He was a boxer." Matt answered ruefully. A bitter smile ghosting his lips. "Guess you could say he took quite a few punches."

Talking made the work easier, Matt realized. Easier to ignore the splattering of blood as he worked on skin.

"He'd sit at the kitchen table and ask me to bring the box over. The first-aid box. The thing was practically falling apart, by then." Smiling faintly at the memory. "We often found ourselves talking about our...days, you know? He'd ask me how school was, stuff like that, whilst I stiched him up back together." Matt cleared his throat.

Frank listened attentively, fixated.

"He usually lost by choice, said there was always purpose behind a loss. He —" Matt seemed to remember his surroundings, and exited the trip to memory lane.

"Don't know why I'm telling you all this." Matt murmured. He had to lean closer to the hot and bloodied skin, had to break the thread with his teeth. 

Frank tensed involuntarily again at the brief contact, before weighing the thoughts that had begun to pile up on his mind. Considered them carefully.

"Nah. Go on." 

Chapter Text

Exhausted. Tired right down to his bones. It felt like one of the longest days of his life; never ending, persisting, a drag. Matt couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept. He knew dawn was soon to break, from the way his fatigued heart began to beat faster, as if he’d been asleep this entire time and only was to awaken now. His ‘biological clock’ as Stick used to call it.

“Ah, yeah, that’s good.” Frank rasped, admiring the tightly-wrapped bandage on his left bicep. Clean medical gauze. What else could he ask for? It wasn’t a sweat-ridden cotton shirt he’d stolen off a Russian gangster like the last time he’d taken a knife to his flesh.

“Get some sleep.” Matt instructed, standing up himself, stretching. Felt himself beginning to unwind. Wanted to faceplant onto the nearest set of sheets.

Frank wasn’t planning to stay long to find out where all the domestic stuff was. Nah. Buses were meant for napping, anyway. So long as you had the fucking ticket, and didn’t wake up to an inspector splaying spit all over your face, demanding some piece of paper in gibberish or some shit. He had raised his hands up in surrender towards the officer, had thought it was time to head into the cage once and for all. Maybe Madani had changed her mind. Didn’t want him to roam around freely on the streets after all. Whatever. Worse had happened.

But all the commotion had been about a laminated card. Right. He’d bought one on the next stop. Like all the civilians did. Even lined up for it without a fuss. Character development, or whatever they called it - right?

But right now, Matt stared at him, waiting for… something. Frank couldn’t decipher what it was, and decided he didn’t care much about it to find out. “Huh?”

“Sleep. Take the sofa. You can have the bed tomorrow. I’ve had a long day.”

Despite himself, Frank laughed at the idea, looking away and shaking his head. “You’re fucked in the head, aren’t you, Red? I’ve done nothing to deserve your charity. I’ll be out of your hair once I manage to get up.” Attempted to heave himself off the blood-stained couch.

He was pushed back by Matt, who remained resolute. Matt looked as if he was completely over his bullshit, which Frank couldn’t blame him for.

“They’re all dead. You massacred the lot of them. The Punisher never leaves a job undone, does he? You’ve got nowhere to go. Get some rest. Let me get some shuteye too.” Matt blurted bitterly, knowing exactly what Frank’s intentions regarding leaving had been.

When Frank remained silent, Matt's doubts were confirmed. “You sniped them, didn’t you? Except one got away without you realizing, so you had to get up close and personal.” Referenced the drug den that Frank had been busy destroying – both the living and the material. That is, until he interrupted with his mask on, having heard pleads of protest from miles away.

“Nah. He didn’t get away. I was just itching to kill him myself.” Frank muttered, scratching his nape.

Matt scoffed in disbelief. “Oh, that’s right, of course, the bastard didn’t get away. I forgot that you were Mr. One-Shot-One-Kill. Whatever Frank wants, is what he gets, right?”

Frank raised an eyebrow, wondering where this was going.

“Tell me, Frank, how come you never just became a sniper? Didn’t the thought ever occur to you? Sure as hell seem capable for it. They wouldn’t have dragged you through Afgh – ”

“Not my field, alright?” Frank interrupted; voice raised. Shoulders tensed, he leaned forward. “It ain’t that easy. The military isn’t the cherry-picking adventure you think it is, yeah? You think USMC goes up to its soldiers and asks them about their hobbies – what they like, their favorite cuisine, what – what countries they’d like to see? That what you think, huh?” Frank narrowed his eyes, fists clenched.

Matt realized he’d wandered into uncharted territory. What was it, the mere mention of Afghanistan that had gotten the ex-Marine riled up?

“This is our ritual.” The instructor called out, his voice ringing out loud and clear despite the roaring winds.

Frank was about three feet away from Billy Russo, laying on the mud as he focused his eyes from behind the scope of the M24 in his hands. His cheek pressed against the cold receiver, and his finger twitched near the trigger. He was cold, tired, and irritated. They’d been out here for four hours, maybe more, maybe less. None of them carried watches, and even his ability to be able to guess the time from the sun’s position was wearing thin – considering that even the fucking sun wasn’t in sight anymore, having been veiled with clouds that threatened rain.

The targets were roughly six hundred yards away from them: plates of steel attached securely to wooden posts. Which were difficult to aim for… if you were a middle-schooler with your hands tied behind your back. Anyone could’ve made the shot, Frank believed, which is why he was growing increasingly frustrated at having been laying there for the past several hours.

“We master our breath; we master our mind.” The sniper instructor continued, his hands behind his back as he paced back and forth, watching the men sprawled on the wet grass with a vigilant eye. He stopped short at Owen Johns, who was two men away from Frank. The instructor pushed Owen’s backside down further with one of his laced boots. “You preparing to get dicked down, Johns? Your ass is up so high, it’s as if you’re mooning goddamn Mt. Everest.” The instructor gritted, and Frank knew that Owen was scowling behind the rifle.

Him and seven others had just been pulled out of the Marine Corps to be placed within a unit preparing for Kandahar instead, a Special Forces unit that boasted of the Army’s finest.

The other men laid upon the hill were all either Navy SEALS, experienced Marines, or part of other Special Forces units that Frank hadn’t had the heart to ask about. They weren’t there for introductions and friendly chit-chats and ‘how’s-the-family-back-home.’ They were there to keep their heads down, learn how to shoot from distances that no regular man could imagine of, and trained to become one with their rifles. It was the middle of winter, they’d been stationed somewhere in Indiana for the past six weeks – and frankly, Frank couldn’t wait to get the fuck out. He missed Maria and the kids. God, he had trouble keeping up with the little assholes’ ages now.

There was a reason he hadn’t gone down the sniper line. The job was one that relied around waiting. Waiting for other men to make a move first. Waiting, for hell knew how long, with adrenaline coursing through your veins the entire period – eyes trained for any potential movement. For breathing to become an unwanted activity, precision to become your middle name, and for accuracy to become your lover.

“Pulling the trigger will become an unconscious effort.” The sniper commander had since left Johns' side and had begun pacing around once again.

Frank’s MARPAT slacks, standard military grade, were tucked into his combat boots and he fidgeted before inhaling again. All he could smell was sweat, grass, and smoke. It had started to rain, and the downpour only added to the discomfort he felt rolling around in the mud. He closed one eye, allowing his finger to become familiar with the glossy trigger beneath it. Then, he exhaled and fired – the rifle jolting back slightly from the act. It hit the plate near the centre with an obnoxious clang.

The instructor only nodded at the effort - devoid of any emotion, even though it was probably the best fucking shot that had been made all day. Frank knew he was an hour or two away from fucking insanity.

But, then. There was Billy, who whistled, and snapped him out of the thoughts he’d been in. “Nice one.” Billy had mouthed when Frank tilted his head slightly to look over at him. Russo’s cheeks were muddied, and his eyes were squinting. Then, Billy composed himself and exhaled – similarly to Frank, before shooting the target himself. The bullet hit the plate dead centre.

This time, when they locked eyes, Billy simply winked.

Matt’s hand upon him startled Frank from his thoughts.

Realizing there’d be no answer from the lawyer opposite him, Frank scoffed at the irony and shook his head, leaning back. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Matt opened his mouth to protest, but said nothing. Instead, he swallowed, and shrugged wearily. “Holler if you need anything. Get some rest, Frank. I mean that. There better not be a bloodied trail leading down the stairs in the morning.”

Matt offered him a rueful smile but it was different from the usual he displayed, and it didn't reach his eyes like it usually did. Frank immediately caught the exhausted expression painted all over Matt's face.  

Frank considered the offer silently. Oh, fuck it. He’d pass out before he could make it back to his van anyway. “I’ll be gone before you’re awake, Murdock.” He finally croaked, watching Matt’s back as he retreated to his bedroom.

Matt paused, hand on the doorway, and smiled at the thought. “Wouldn’t expect any less, Castle.”

Screams. Fire. Burning. His father’s firm yet gentle voice. The tinkling sound of Elektra’s laugh. The sharpness of chemicals; how they made a home within your nostrils; acerbic. Sweaty palms. Stick’s piercing eyes, communicating messages he’d never be able to understand. A hand on his back. Blood. Lots of blood. The type that left the taste of copper in your mouth, never to be gurgled out, remaining permanent – until even your coffee began tasting like salt and iron. Blinding pain.

Matt awoke in a puddle of sweat, sheets tangled near his ankles, breathing labored. It wasn’t as dark as usual, implying that it had to be sometime in the morning. He remained still on his back for a few seconds, attempting to catch his breath. Hand on his chest, trying to reassure himself he was alive. This is the real world. Felt the nightmares disintegrate within his fingertips, no longer tangible, fading steadily away, only to return tomorrow – and then the day after.

Finally, he reached over for his bedside table, grasping for the alarm-clock that was programmed in Braille. Traced the numbers.

9:29AM.

Was it a Saturday? He couldn’t remember. He tore the sheets away from his body, and stood. Needed a leak. There was something on the tip of his tongue, something his subconscious was begging him to remember. Matt frowned.

Frank Castle.

That’s what had happened last night.

Curious, Matt pushed his door open, and realized he could still hear another heartbeat.

Frank was still here.

Sleeping, most likely. Frank’s pulse was steady, and Matt couldn’t hear any footsteps. Couldn’t hear anything except heavy and sated breathing. The carefree type. The type where a man wasn’t aware of his surroundings, and had since delved into dreamland where no day-to-day struggles existed.

Matt could sense Frank’s head as being tilted to one side; neck in an uncomfortable position. Arms crossed over his chest. Legs splayed over the couch since his 6’1 height did him no favors when it came to sleeping on couches. Matt raised an eyebrow, grinning despite himself.

Looked like it’d be breakfast for two.

Chapter Text

“Hey, sleepyhead.”

Frank gasped for breath, eyes opening instantly, hands flailing for the nearest weapon.

The same fucking dream.

It was always her. Her scent on his skin, her grin against his soft smile, her locks of mahogany hair brushing his cheek. The way he had grazed her cheekbones with the pad of his thumb, heartbeat steady, chest swelling with love and hope and all things pure. How he had told her he’d finally leave. He’d leave the military and wash his hands clean of its fucking filth. Take a hundred hot showers if that was what it took. Scrub off the immorality. Have a chance to actually be there for his kids.

And… Lisa. He could pick her up from school tomorrow. Shit, he’d pick her up every day now in his old Ford if she let him. Take her to Starbucks or whatever that shithole was where kids got their sugar intake from nowadays.

But he hadn’t been able to. Never been able to do any of those things. And now he’d never get the chance.

Frank’s heart felt as if it was beating out of its chest. He stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying to gauge where he was and how the fuck he got there. Pain was all he felt, from the top of his skull to the last of his toes. Ache seeping from his pores. Wondered if being buried six feet under, down near the bowels of the Earth — embedded within Mother Nature’s soil – would be more comfortable than the spiny couch he was currently laying on.

What the fuck was this piece of junk anyway? He tipped his head slightly, saw a green plaid blanket over him. Frank glared at the uncomfortable couch underneath him, as if it had answers that no one else seemed to be able to provide.

Realization cleared the fog within his mind, and he finally put the pieces together.

Goddamn Matt Murdock, and his shitty apartment, with the obnoxious neon sign still shining through the windows - even though it was well past the morning by now.

“Fuck me.” Frank groaned, trying to gauge the extent of his neck cramp. He tried to move his head to the left, and winced.

Yep, well and truly fucked.

“Not on the first date.” Frank heard a voice murmur, and he shot straight up, turning to face the man who had spoken.  

Matthew Murdock himself.

Of course. Fantastic. The cherry on top. What was that he had said last night about being out of Matt’s hair? That sure didn’t happen. Because right now, he was treating this crappy apartment - could he even call it that - like a goddamn Bed & Breakfast.

Matt was behind the kitchenette, facing him with only a pair of red plaid pajamas on. The lack of a shirt made Frank raise an eyebrow, but who the fuck was he to say anything. It wasn’t like it was a bad view either.

Focus, Frank.

He was without a shirt himself, since his own was soaked through with blood and possibly someone’s splattered brain. Stitches and bandages littered his torso. He’d deal with those later.

Matt was smiling, Frank realized. A big fat shit-eating smile on the goddamn lawyer. Two things that did not go well together. You didn’t want your lawyer to be grinning like the Cheshire Cat. The court wasn’t Comedy Central.

He could smell coffee, though. Freshly brewed, by the seems of it. And judging by the two mugs on the counter that Matt was pouring it into, one of those were for him.

Gratitude.

“You win the lottery or somethin’?” Frank croaked, feigning nonchalance, rubbing his face wearily, cracking his neck. Left, then right.

Matt grinned this time, cheeks dimpling, shaking his head as he brought the two mugs over. “No. But I am alive and able to experience another day. That’s enough of a win for me.”

Frank pulled a face of mock disgust, leaning back onto the couch. Made the action of shoving two fingers down his throat, as if he was about to throw up at what had just been said. Accepted the steaming mug with a nod of acknowledgement.

“So, you’re a morning person then.” Frank confirmed, watching Matt with interest as he sat on the armchair opposite him.

Matt took a sip of the dark liquid, smirking. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and he looked younger almost. As if he had less of the world’s weight on his shoulders. Dare Frank say, a bit more relaxed.

It suited him.

“How are you feeling?” Matt asked, knowing full well that Frank was staring at him. He heard Frank take a sip of his coffee.

“Never better.” Frank lied through his teeth. Almost breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the caffeine enter his system.

Matt raised a brow, but didn’t question it.

“This your girlfriend’s?” Frank held up the plaid blanket that had been placed over him whilst he was asleep.

“You were shivering.” Matt muttered, not bothering to elaborate.

“Because you live in a goddamn glacier.” Frank huffed, looking around the studio. “You don't even know what this shithole looks like, do you? Your estate agent’s real lucky you can’t see, because there’s no way in hell she would’ve sold this… box, with inhumane circumstances, otherwise.”

“Is the entire day just going to be full of you complaining about where I live, Frank? Because I might as well pop an Advil now.”

Frank raised his hands in mock surrender. “My bad, counselor.”

Matt crossed his arms, head slightly tilted in expectation.

“But just saying, even Iraq’s trenches were more comfortable than th-”

A cushion was hurled at Frank’s face, and he ducked, grinning. He managed to keep his coffee mug steady, and held the pillow to his chest with the other forearm. Ignored the pain near his ribcage. He saw Matt bite back a smile, and took another generous sip from his mug.

“Should’ve gotten up earlier.” Frank muttered, mostly to himself. Still couldn’t figure out how he managed to miss the break of dawn today, which was usually when his body jolted awake.

“You needed the sleep.” Matt offered, leaning forward.

Frank frowned, eyes narrowing. The sentence sounded more familiar than he’d have liked.

Companiable silence fell in between them as they each swirled around the liquid in their mugs. Too much to say. Nothing to say at all. Silence, not speech, was what was expressive. Power lay in containment. In keeping hidden one’s true intent.

Strangely, however, Frank felt no obligation to get up and leave. He’d just have to blame his war-torn torso for that one – it’d be a miracle if he even was able to somehow heave himself off the damned couch.

“You have ghosts, Red?” Frank eventually murmured, so softly that Matt almost missed it. Perhaps it was intentional. A ploy dripping with irony. Tormenting the most delicate of Matt’s senses, yet somehow knowing he’d hear it anyway. His upcoming confession.

Matt turned his head towards him, ear craned, the beginnings of a frown on his lips. The question hung heavy between them.

How in the world did conversation take a turn to this? He’d never be able to predict Frank Castle.

“I…” Matt began, thoughts racing. “I wouldn’t call them that.”

“That right?” Frank prompted, still staring out of the barred windows. He briefly glanced at the man sat opposite him, piqued. “Amuse me.”

“They don’t haunt me. So, I’d rather refer to them as people of the past.”

Frank scoffed, before drawing a knee closer to his body. Warmth. That whole blood-circulation-generates-heat stigma they were given every waking hour at the Corps? Wasn’t bullshit.

“Forgot you were an altar boy.” Frank teased.

Matt could practically feel the smirk on him. He heard Frank take another sip of the coffee in his hands. Almost as if he were swirling his thoughts around along with the few remaining dregs of caffeine.

A sigh. “Of course, I have ghosts.” Matt mumbled. People he’d seen die. People that had died because of him. People he’d drawn to near-death. How he’d practically hung the image of the Grim Reaper in front of their glossy eyes as they gasped for breath, itching for him to take the plunge into immorality and end their pain once and for all.

But he never did. Never would.

He could sense Frank’s gaze upon him again, unnerving and fixated. Frank was a good listener. A great listener. And perhaps he had to be, to have survived this long despite the odds constantly being against him.

“They’re on the insides of my eyelids.” Matt swallowed, rubbing the back of his nape.

Why did he say that? It wasn’t as if he expected Frank to understand. For all he knew, Frank enjoyed the act of killing. Relished the bloodshed. Craved the crimson on his scarred hands. Liked the taste of its drops on his bottom lip. How could an immoral man sin any further? Was it even a sin if one were without faith? Surely there had to be technicalities to that sort of thing. A limit. Matt had a feeling that Castle had long since surpassed that limit.

But it wasn’t like that for Matt. His ‘ghosts’ were the flashing images of faces. It was all he could see, during his darkest of moments. The faces taunted him, tormented him. Made him dig the palm of his hands into his eyeballs, a pathetic attempt to return to sanity.

Matt heard Frank clear his throat.

“Yeah.” Frank murmured softly, voice like gravel, brimming with emotion. “Mine too.”

It wasn’t like Frank didn’t want to talk about what happened. Fuck, he was practically itching to. He lived only in the memories; wanted to bathe in the few remaining ones. He wanted to talk about what had happened, but without mentioning how much it hurt. There had to be a way. To care for the wounds without reopening them. To name the pain without inviting it back into him.

The first few months after it had happened were similar to walking through hell with his eyes wide open. The After. After it had all gone to shit. After he had shot Russo as he was bleeding out onto the gymnasium floor. After he had let the kid – Amy – take the bus to the furthest place it could go. Even nowadays, when he was alone in his temporary housing, there was nothing but silence and four walls staring at him begrudgingly, whispering: ‘it shouldn’t be like this, you didn’t plan it like this, did you?’

Breathing heavily, Frank looked up to meet Matt’s glossy eyes. Needed the eye contact, even if Matt didn’t. There was an expression of confusion on Matt’s face, as if he were trying to figure something out, but wasn’t able to.

“Hey." Frank began, tearing his gaze away. "Just... sorry about all this, yeah?” Frank gestured to himself, the blood-stained couch, the medical kit on the floor, the forming bruise on Matt’s face. Remembered how Matt had labored over his wounds yesterday. Knew Matt would know exactly what he meant.

Matt shook his head. “It was the least I could do after letting your target get away.”

He had tackled Frank to the ground when he had seen him, pointed the handgun away, tried to convince him that he had done all he could. To let the bastard go. To let the law handle it. There, in the dim-lit alleys of Hell’s Kitchen, they'd been playing goddamn footsies whilst some drug trafficker got away. Frank had gotten Matt good, had jabbed him near his cheekbone, had limped away, gun still in his hands, eyes still alight with determination and fury.

All of which had eventually led to this. To them having a casual conversation over a cup of joe.

Frank rubbed the top of his head, closing his eyes, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Yeah. Thanks for that, asshole.” Drew in a heavy breath. Composure, Frank. Fucking composure.

“You shot him in the head when he was retreating anyway, guess there wasn’t really a point to it after all.” Matt offered light-heartedly.

“You gave him another few minutes to make peace with his maker, yeah?” Frank reassured, settling the ceramic mug down onto the coffee table. Realized he couldn’t just sit around on his ass like some retired investment banker. He stood up, and grabbed his gear off the floor.

“You ever need anything, you let me know, Red. Other than that, you stay outta my way, got it? Don’t wanna see you again unless you’re without those stupid red underpants.” Castle warned, inspecting the damage on the skull vest. He felt the migraine latch onto him. 

Fuck. Ever since he’d shot every motherfucker alive related to... what had happened; the ferocious rage and vehemence had begun to fizzle out. To be replaced by something more tangible. Liquid. It was uncertainty. Inner turmoil. The fucking accountability that followed.

He sometimes heard Agent Orange's voice murmur: actions have consequences, Frank.

It was fear. Ache, loneliness, and disquiet.

There was no one else's throat to wrap his hands around, hoping the choking would spur some answers. He faced the apprehension everyday within the mirror. Saw it in his eyes when he peered closer. Found himself gradually becoming a skeleton of what he once used to be.

What happens after you kill them all, Lieutenant? It won't bring your dead wife or kids back. 

Frank swallowed, and headed towards the door. Had he told Matt how fucking suffocating this shithole of an apartment was? Needed to be gone. Where had he even parked the goddamn van?

“Where are you going?” Matt stood up himself, alarm in his voice. He’d be damned if he let Castle walk away just like that. Needed answers. He wasn’t sure for whose sake.

Frank turned to face him, previously tense muscles slackening. Observed the way Matt’s hair fell into his eyes, the rigidity of his jaw, the flushed face. Knew that he’d hate himself indefinitely if he dragged someone like Matt into the kind of shit that he did. Someone still good. Pure. Wanting positive change. A believer. Despite all that happened. Traits that Frank respected Matt for.

Frank clenched his jaw, tightened his fists around the black material in his hands. Looked away. 

“Home.”

Chapter Text

Hell’s Kitchen had always lacked a certain type of empathy. It catered to those with a degradation kink; the squalor and filth making for living conditions that were past inhumane for most that lived there. One could grow accustomed to it, perhaps; the homelessness, the endless cockroaches, the increasing crime rates; the level of apathy that caused needless pushing and shoving in train carriages, bumping into others on cobbled pathways, interceding lines at grocery stores.

And if one were to ever grow accustomed to it, they’d make themselves home within the feeling. It eventually became refreshing, not having to give a shit. Cursing at people on the street just because they looked at them strange, and no one raising an eyebrow at it. How it was a given that the politicians were all dirty, eating eagerly out of the shit-stained palms of the richest of thugs. Bickering, over news telecasts on televisions blaring out of technology stores, made for a soundtrack that one became used to on their daily walks.

Assume the worst, and you were usually right.

God forbid, if one ever were to return to their previous hometown, something like Salt Lake City or Detroit, they’d would find the sudden pleasantries that arose suffocating. The ‘how’s-the-family’ conversations that’d begin whilst browsing in Walmart for a decent brand of fucking cereal, were suddenly smothering.

Common courtesies were rare in Hell’s Kitchen.

That’s what Frank liked about it.

He was anybody, everybody, nobody. A black hoodie, black utility pants, baseball cap, and expertly tied boots. Stubble growing in, hair well past the buzzcut stage. Hood over the hat, ears hidden.

There were the usual café sounds of chatter, the milk-frothing machine hissing, espresso grinds being thumped out, as he settled down into the furthest booth in the diner. Red leather seats worn out, the color steadily fading away. Back against the wall, eye on the door.

Old habits died hard.

“Ma’am.” Frank hollered, voice raspy, dragging an empty cup and saucer closer to him. The woman in the apron looked over at him expectantly, raising an eyebrow in question.

No pleasantries or nothing. Made for a change.

“Could I bother you for some of that?” He nodded towards the jug of coffee in her hands.

She obliged, pouring the dark liquid into his mug until it was all but overflowing. Blonde curls bouncing as she stood straight up again. “Any grub?”

“Yeah, yeah. Three eggs, side of bacon, sourdough toast if you got it. Over easy.” Frank muttered, distracted. There was commotion outside of his window, some long-legged woman arguing with a bum from the street. Frank watched as she hit him with her handbag repeatedly, then jabbed him in then side with a kick from her steel-capped heels.

An amused smile ghosted his lips at the sight. He raised the cup of coffee to his mouth. It was practically brown water, but he’d had worse.

His breakfast made its way over to him, and he continued his people-watching. Wasn’t much to do, nowadays. He found comfort in the solace that came with the idle days passing him by, each similar to the last. Sometimes he’d pick up the occasional construction gig, only returning to his housing when it was well past midnight, shirt soaked with sweat, hands bleeding, mind numb, exhausted to the point where he could no longer think about anything but sleep.

It had been weeks since he’d last seen Matt Murdock.

Good. It would have to stay that way. He’d take the fact to his grave, but he kept an eye out for flashing red fabric in the dim alleyways nowadays. Made sure he never unloaded his chamber unless the place in question was clear of a man in a mask – didn’t need… want friendly fire to take place. Usually, it ensued in an extra stab wound or two from the men he was up against, due to the few additional seconds it took, but he could endure those. He’d be gone soon anyway. Had places to move on to.

Frank forked more food into his mouth, eating as if he had all the time in the world. Gulped the coffee down, every now and then. He heard vibrating, and realized what it was.

His burner phone ringing.

Frank put his fork down, and rubbed his hands together. Kept a vigilant eye outside the window as he flipped the phone open and held it to his ear. Didn’t say anything.

“Frank? You there?” A female voice.

Karen.

“Yeah.” He grunted, eyes now raking over the rest of the diner. He tapped out a familiar drum beat onto the table as he waited for Karen to speak again, thoughts already racing.

“Hey, I wasn’t sure if this really was your number. It’s hard to contact you, Frank. I got it from – ”

“What's going on, Karen?” He interrupted, pushing the plate of food away. Gestured to the diner lady that he was done with his breakfast. Dug into his pockets for a wad of cash.

“It’s Matt.” Karen murmured; voice muffled over the receiver.

It told Frank everything he needed to know.

He slouched in his seat, arm over the back of the diner booth. “The attorney? Yeah? What ‘bout him?” He switched the phone to his other ear.

“I…” An intake of breath. “Don’t know. I haven’t seen him for the past few days, and his phone’s been switched off for more than a week. Foggy’s been worried sick, too. We’ve been to his apartment, but that place is bolted shut. There are piles of letters littered outside, Frank.”

A knot in his stomach. He ignored it. “What’s that got to do with me, sweetheart?” Frank kept his voice levelled, feigning obliviousness.

“I called you because you, Frank, are one of the…” Karen lowered her voice, and Frank heard the sound of a door shutting behind her. “You’re one of the only few who know him for what he truly is.” She let the silence hang heavy between them, implying that she knew what he knew. That she knew that he also knew.

Frank drew in a ragged breath, rubbing his jaw with a recently stitched hand.

“And I’m worried. I don’t know everything that he gets up to, but – it’s gotta be something bad, right? He can’t just ignore us like this for weeks. Not unless he’s injured and in need of help, which he won’t let us provide.”

Karen was a smart woman. Perhaps one of the sharpest Frank knew. There wasn’t much fooling her, and if she had a gut feeling about something, Frank knew with experience that she was usually right.

“You need me to be a babysitter, Karen? That what it is? ‘Cause I’m sure that man is perfectly capable of taking care of his own damn self.”

He heard Karen sigh. “No… that’s not it. I called because I’d really appreciate it if you could just, you know, maybe, check up on him. You know where he lives, how to get in. Could you do that, Frank?” Her voice softened, and Frank stilled. “Just as a favour? And if he’s not there, I promise I won’t bug you for anything else.”

Frank knew Karen was running a hand through her hair the way she usually did when she was agitated. He shut his eyes briefly, the phone in his hand in a vice-like grip. Knuckles practically white from the strain. Didn’t bother asking her how or why she knew what Matt got up to. Didn’t even want to know how she knew that he knew. Stupid fucking Matt Murdock and his mask, and the shit he dragged innocent people into.

“Yeah. Okay. I’ll go. You take care of yourself, you hear me?” Frank confirmed, and snapped the phone shut, pocketing it deep. He rose and tossed a few notes of cash onto the table. Emptied the coffee cup of its contents.

“Delicious.” He called out to the diner lady as he left, swinging the glass door shut behind him. He didn’t bother giving the place a second glance, hands in his pockets as he camouflaged himself with the footpath crowd of Hell’s Kitchen.

The stars were out when Frank finally headed over towards Matt’s apartment, the overcast sky disguising the majority of them. There was a new bandage on his forearm, more bruises forming under his eyes and littering his jaw. That stint near the Hudson River had taken longer than he’d have liked. Not that he was a fan of tying people to chairs and demanding them for their boss’s whereabouts, but it had to be done. Had to kill the fostering crime before it reared heads and became bigger than anyone could ever anticipate. Gave him purpose.

In his darkest moments, he could admit that it gave him something – something to live for.

Frank knew he smelt like blood. There was a distinct scent to it, one impossible to miss if you knew what you were looking for. He could taste it on his upper lip, and almost recoiled. Noticed it now more than ever; the scent, the taste, how it stained his palms. Seemed to be bathing in it more than water these days.  

Keep going. Can’t stop now.

Walking to places with a thudding heart made for an oxymoron. What was usually a leisure activity had to be sped up, influenced by the fading adrenaline.

Hood still drawn over his head, he finally reached Matt’s building, and gave the buzzers a glance. Decided not to bother with it. He picked the lock on the front door with a gun range card. Fiddled around with it, until he eventually heard a click, and the door creak as he shoved it until it gave way.

Frank jogged up the stairs, impatient as ever. Needed to see whether the attorney was okay, then he’d be done and go home and get some sleep. Be rid of the stupid mask and the man underneath it. Tell Karen she had nothing to worry about.

He muffled his footsteps once he got to Matt’s floor, and Karen wasn’t wrong. Letters piled outside Matt’s front door, since the letter chute was crammed with older ones.

Frank picked one up and squinted at it, tried to read what it said under the moonlight shining through from one of the floor’s windows.

‘EVICTION NOTICE.’

Right. He picked up a handful of the letters, tucked them under his bicep, and tried the door.

Locked.

As expected. He could either pick the lock, shoot it, or thud on the door until someone answered. Cautiously, Frank made sure his good arm had his gun locked and loaded, ready to raise if there was someone else in the shitty apartment.

“Murdock? Hey, hey, hey. Open up. It’s Pete.” Frank hollered, thudding on the door repeatedly. Used the fake name because what was New York if not known for its nosy neighbours?

No answer. Frank tried to crane his ear to catch any potential movement, but all that greeted him was silence.

Fuck it. If anyone wanted to call the cops about gunshots going off in their building, they could be his goddamn guest. He wasn’t planning on staying long anyway. Frank raised his gun, counted to three, aimed, and shot the lock.

The door handle hinged off the piece of splintered wood that was now the door. Matt could invoice him for that for all he cared.

Frank pushed the door open carefully, closed it behind him, ignored the gaping hole within it.

The apartment, as far as he could see, was empty. The same neon light filtered through the barred windows, rendering the living area pink. Bottles of alcohol – hell, Matt really did like his scotch – were strewn across the floorboards, and spare bandages along with other medical equipment littered every other possible surface area. No sign of either Matt or the little red panties he wore for his vigilante deeds.

Shit, shit, shit. Where the fuck was he?

Frank stepped into the room, gun held steady in one hand. Pointed it towards the first sound he heard – what was that, a mouse?

The bedroom. Right.

Walked towards it, made sure the rest of the place was clear. Hoped to hell that the attorney had just decided to pack it up and leave, move to a better place, settle down with someone or some shit. A part of Frank dreaded opening that door, wanted to leave it untouched, what he didn’t know couldn’t haunt him.

He nudged the bedroom door open, and inhaled sharply.

Matt Murdock, in the flesh, slouched over his bed – so many bruises on his face alone that it’d be useless to try and count them. Left arm in a rigid position, as if it were broken, but it was untreated. He was shirtless, and bloodied. Fresh stitches, from the seems of it. No other visible bullet entry points. His abdomen was tensed, pecs flexed every time he drew a heavy and ragged breath. Hair flopping near his eyes, no dark glasses, a cut over his lower lip. His eyes were closed, but he was still breathing. Frank couldn’t gauge whether he’d been stabbed or shot in the legs, because Matt had covered them up with grey joggers.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Frank swore, tucking the handgun into the front of his pants, storming his way over to Matt. He dropped the stupid letters on the floor. Fuck those.

He tilted Matt’s chin up towards him, the moonlight making it hard to decipher whether there was any other potential damage. Matt’s chest rose and fell with difficulty, but he didn’t open his eyes.

“Red.” Frank shook his shoulder gently, careful to avoid his injuries. Took in the sight of him with his jaw clenched.

No response.

“Murdock. Hey.”

Silence.

“Matt.” Frank tried again, voice octaves lower, softer almost. It clearly worked, because Matt’s eyes opened instantly, and he struggled in Frank’s grip, left arm flailing.

“Who are you.” Matt demanded, clearly unable to sense who it was. He shoved Frank away with a hand, and Frank tripped backwards, almost causing the lamp to fall and shatter with him. Didn’t expect the attack.

Right. Had forgotten that Matt couldn’t see him.

Matt resisted again, as if to stand up and protect himself, but groaned at the pain that shot up his entire body instantly. Overwhelmed him to the point where he fell back onto the bed, nursing his broken arm. He reached out with his other arm anyway, bicep tensed, trying to grab Frank and cause damage.

Frank regained his balance, and ducked the arm, came over towards the bed from the other side anyway.

Frank pushed Matt down when he tried to raise again, and instead sat down next to him on the bed. Breathing heavily, Frank held Matt close to his chest, no other alternative making itself visible.

Matt flailed, and Frank grunted when he felt a jab land near his stomach. Didn’t reciprocate it, even though it rendered him breathless for a few seconds. He tightened his grip around Matt, felt the rise and fall of Murdock’s chest against his own.

“Shh, shh, shh. It’s Frank. Not gonna bite.” Frank whispered, shutting his eyes for a few seconds. Could smell the shampoo from Matt’s ruffled hair. Knew Matt’s heart was beating as fast as his own.

Matt relaxed in his arms almost instantly, all the fight within him fizzling out. Perhaps he was too drained to give a shit, or perhaps it was just par for the course when you had one foot in the grave.

Frank sighed, not knowing where to go with this. What was he supposed to do, leave him here, half-dead? Just like this? Even though Matt had patched him up all those weeks ago, when he could’ve let Frank bleed out and die on those cobbled pathways?

“I… couldn’t tell.” Matt rasped an apology, his own eyes shutting from the sheer ache that tormented him, rendered him useless.

“Yeah. It’s okay. Shh. I got you.” Frank murmured, still not letting go, even though Matt had made it clear there’d be no further attempts at an attack. Stubbled cheek against Matt’s head, arm around his other shoulder. Hand on his broken arm, holding it steady, making sure he didn’t move it the wrong way. Why the fuck was Matt so warm? Was that a fever? Or was it just Matt’s bare skin against his own?

Shit. What the fuck?

“You smell like a vampire.” Matt mumbled, half-delirious. Smelt the blood, wondered where Frank had been.

Frank chuckled at the thought, shaking his head despite himself. “Hate to break it you, buddy, but you look like one yourself. What – you been biting people’s necks, Red? Got blood all over you.” He offered half-heartedly.

Matt snorted. Then, he imagined it, and started laughing at the imagery until he was coughing. Felt the blood in his mouth. Tasted the copper.

“Hey, hey, hey. You gon’ bust a lung doing that, Murdock.”

“Don’t care.” Matt muttered, finally sitting up straight, untangling himself from Frank. Frank clenched his fist to avoid reaching out for him again.

“Aww, come on. You done buried the real Matt, didn't ya? Thought Matt Murdock was someone who was grateful to see the fucking sun rise every morning.”

Matt wiped his bleeding lip with the back of his hand, shrugging carelessly. “Huh. Well.” Didn't acknowledge the demons he'd encountered over the past few days he spent alone, trying to heal. 

Frank stared at the man beside him for a few seconds, and he dragged a hand over his face wearily when he realized.

He couldn't leave the vigilante like this.

Chapter Text

"You want me to stabilize that?” Matt heard Frank ask, most likely referring to his broken arm. Frank was closer to him than he’d expected; Matt could feel his warm exhales on his nape. Felt the stubble brush his shoulder. Flinched at the unexpected contact. He felt himself fading in and out of consciousness.

Why was Frank here? He didn’t call him, did he?

Hoped not, anyway. That’d be humiliating. Asking the Punisher to tend to his injuries? Add him to the list of lunatics in Hell’s Kitchen.

“Matt?” Frank’s voice was gruff and intimidating, and Matt had to look up to face wherever the voice was coming from. It was alienating, to be called his first name by the likes of Frank, someone who usually stuck to last names or silly nicknames.

“No.” Matt cleared his throat. Ached for water. Closed his eyes and praying that this – the anguish, the ache, the incomprehensible pain – would fade soon. He had faint memories of stumbling into his room, hand on his broken arm, scrummaging for the strongest painkillers he could find. Taking twice the recommended dose, and slumping onto his bed, waiting for the burning sensations to subside. 

Frank frowned, confused. If you had a broken arm, you got it stabilized, no matter what. Out there, in war-torn villages, and countries they were deployed to – a good arm could be the difference between life and death. He’d lost count of the times he’d used blood-stained shirts as slings, weeks spent shooting with his other arm. But the bone healed. And that was all that mattered.

“What happened out there, Red? You can’t look after yourself no more?” Frank demanded, patience wearing thin, to be replaced with – he’d never admit it – concern. He reached for Matt’s face; felt the stubble there as he cupped it and tilted it to face him. Matt’s unfocused yet penetrating gaze held his.

“Nothing that should concern you, Frank.” Matt spat.

Frank dropped his hand instantly, as if he’d been scalded.

“Yeah, well.” Frank stood, face now erased of any emotion. Cracked his knuckles. “Concerns your lady.” His jaw twitched as he tried to regain composure. Didn’t bother asking Murdock to elaborate on how he’d received the injuries. Didn’t fucking care.

Matt suddenly recoiled, face painted with alarm. “Karen?”

Frank gave a nod. Knew Matt would be able to tell.

“You know, Murdock, when you go missing, you better hope there’s no one out there that gives a shit about you, yeah? ‘Cause you can do it, and maybe you’re out here thinking that, you know, they’d be better off without you, but it’s not like that, is it?” Frank hissed, squatting down, forearms on thighs, dark eyes fixated on the man opposite him. Matt looked away, indignant. 

“Yeah.” Frank drawled, scoffing. “See, you sit here, convincing yourself of these little lies – maybe everyone’s safer if they don’t know where you are, maybe they gotta move on and learn to live a life without you. But your brain, your little brain, just can’t comprehend it.” He rasped, eyes narrowed and alight with irritation. Waited for some type of response, then smirked bitterly when he received none.

“It’s not the physical pain that’s killing you, is it? It’s the shit up here.” Frank jabbed the side of his own head, then placed a fingertip on the side of Matt’s.

Matt’s jaw clenched at the touch.

“Believe it or not, you got people out there that actually give a shit about you. Big surprise, they actually care if something happens to you. So, you – ” Frank swallowed, looked away himself this time, faced the windows and cast a glance towards the neon sign he was now growing accustomed to.

“You cherish that, you hear me? Don’t let that go. And I suggest you give your friends a call, yeah? Tell them you’re not dead in a goddamn ditch somewhere.” Frank stood, as if to leave.

Matt heard the strain in Frank’s low voice, the emotion brimming underneath, the increased heart rate.

“Where are you going?” Matt blurted without thinking. A part of him didn’t want to be left alone. Not now. Would take any company over none. Hated the desperation he harbored. He heard the vulnerability in his own voice, the tremble within it, wondered if Frank had caught on to it too.

If Frank did, he never mentioned it.

“To get us a drink, asshole.” Frank called over his shoulder. The bedroom door slammed shut behind him, practically hanging off its hinges in its awakening.

And for the first time in the week, Matt felt… okay. Didn’t feel the impending sense of doom hang over him, the suffocating pressure on his shoulders, the ache in his heart. He tried to examine his range of movement and groaned softly at the immediate physical torment that followed. He shuffled back to his original position on the bed, needed the support to keep him steady. Let his eyes flutter shut, hoped he wasn’t being rude by falling asleep on a guest. Darkness enveloped him, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. He could appreciate it. Predict it. Predicting Frank Castle, however…

Matt didn’t want to think about how he had gotten to this state. Could barely piece the memories together to form one comprehensible moment. Remembered the Russians, something to do with them, maybe? It hurt to think. So, he sat there, mind numb, limbs weary, exhaustion becoming an old friend. He could deal with the world and its entirety, tomorrow. There’d be a tomorrow. With that sense of finality, he allowed himself to delve deeper within the darkness; permitting it to blanket around him, envelope him reassuringly.

Frank returned with two bottles of beer tucked under his bicep, a glass of water in one hand, and painkillers – so intense that they were borderline illegal – in the other. Had known exactly where to find them, hated to admit he was growing used to this apartment and its certain flaws. Especially Murdock’s medical box. He was becoming real accustomed with that.

Frank saw the slumped man on the bed, and shut the door behind him with a leg, before making his way over to him. The bed looked real good right now. He himself couldn’t remember the last time he slept.

“Hey, princess, you sleep now, you’ll wake up in the afterworld, with all that blood loss you got going on there.” Frank deadpanned, peering over at the Devil. He scoffed, rolling his eyes at the sight.

Matt mumbled something unintelligible.

Frank craned an ear towards him, bottles clinking within his hand. “Huh?”

“I’m up.” Matt repeated, eyes still shut. What difference would it make if they were open, anyway? He felt like he was in the pits. Downright miserable, and he still couldn’t put a finger as to why.

“Sweet. Get these in you.” Frank placed a hand under Matt’s arm, pulling him up forcibly. Matt grumbled, but rose anyway, frowning at Frank. Matt laid a palm out and accepted the pills, throwing them back and swallowing the water afterwards.

Frank watched him with a vigilant eye, only putting the remaining pills down on the bedside table once he was sure that Matt had swallowed the previous ones.

“You’re intolerable.” Matt groused, but there was gratitude in his eyes. 

“No need to get all sweet on me, Murdock.” Frank said wryly, corner of his mouth lifting in amusement. Then, he offered a beer to Matt, who accepted it without further complaint.

Frank made his way over to the other side of the bed, and settled himself against the headboard, raising his beer to his lips. Closed his eyes. Bone-tired. Knew that the man beside him was pretty much a log at this point anyway, no need for formalities.

They sat there in the quiet, no existing need to say anything, simply resting. Police sirens and car horns blaring every few moments. Streetlights splaying into the room. Each warding off their own nagging thoughts, eyes clouded with doubt.

“You still alive?” Frank eventually prompted, poking Matt in the side.

Matt scowled, the pain instantaneous, beer halfway to his lips. “Unfortunately.”

Frank found that amusing, for some reason, and Matt heard him chuckle softly. “You’re a real downer when you’re half-dead, you know that?”

“Yeah? You aren’t sunshine and rainbows either, Frank.”

Frank pulled a face of contemplation, before shrugging in mock obliviousness, as if it were new information to him.

“You good?” He asked seriously this time, casting a glance towards Matt, who seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. Matt nodded half-heartedly – even speaking out loud hurt.

“Better.” Matt croaked honestly, and in his half-delirious state, was able to admit that he appreciated the companionship. There was a certain engulfing quality within loneliness. It chewed you up and spat you back out, dripping with doubt and uncertainty, all qualms fed, and inhibitions ignited. No such thing as silence existed for Matt, not when his ears could pick up the smallest of sounds from miles away. It was more of a ringing, never-ending, something he’d since gotten used to.

But now, the ringing had ceased, replaced with the sounds of Frank’s steady breathing. It was comforting, almost. Distracted him. He appreciated the diversion. Perhaps even needed it to remain sane.

Frank finished the remaining dregs of his beer, reaching over and taking Matt’s empty bottle as well, before resting them both on the table beside him. Still not entirely sure why he was still here, only that he couldn’t seem to make himself leave.

“You need rest, Red. Needa’ wrap up that arm of yours.”

Matt shook his head. “Not now.” Swallowed. Couldn’t bear moving. Didn’t want to. He faced Frank, exasperation shining in his glossy eyes.

Frank raised an eyebrow. “You’ll fuck up that arm permanently if you sleep on it like that.” Rubbed his stubble, needed a shave soon.

Matt huffed, past the state of mind where pleasantries and suppression existed, no longer cared about anything in the present. He placed a pillow under his head, made himself comfortable and faced the ceiling, defiance in his eyes. Burning in his soul. He held his arm in place with his other hand, steadied his breathing.

“Spend the night here, Frank. No buses during this time of the day.” Matt murmured rationally, eyes already closing.

Frank stared at the man next to him in disbelief. 

“A sleepover, Murdock? You listening to yourself?” Drawl more prominent than ever. Didn’t want to sleep on that spiny sofa again. Hell, why was he even toying with the idea? Need to go. Now.

“Nothing new.” Matt smirked knowingly, then gestured towards the space next to him, where Frank was currently sitting.

“And, you can be a good Samaritan and hold my arm for me, huh, Frank? Tell Karen that you helped nurse me back to the living. That was why you came here, wasn’t it?” Her name hung heavy between the both of them. Matt raised his chin expectantly, knew what Frank’s weakness had been, because it was one of his own.

Frank’s jaw ticked, a fist clenched. There was no fight within him, though, his body had since extinguished it and replaced it with fatigue.

“No.” Frank tried, glaring at the body next to him, wanting nothing more than to backhand the smirk off of Murdock’s face.

But he couldn’t leave, goddamnit. Matt wouldn’t get up and let anyone else in to help cater to those stupid fucking wounds of his. Who got injured this bad despite claiming they were a vigilante, anyway? The fuck had happened to Matt’s ability to actually defend himself? If he had done so, Frank wouldn’t be here, guilt-tripped into nursing him like some do-gooder.

And Frank owed him one. He tensed at the idea. A man’s word was his highest privilege. 

“Okay. But if you leave, Frank, do me a favour and don’t return.” Matt drawled, feigning nonchalance. Knew that Frank was practically burning holes into him with that death glare of his. He tried to stifle a smile.

“Fucking asshole.” Frank rasped, voice hoarse as ever. Swung his legs around the bedside, stood up.

Matt held his breath.

There was no slamming of the door, however. No further obscenities.

Just the quiet crinkle of clothing hitting the floor, of boots being unzipped, a belt being unbuckled. 

Matt felt the bed dip underneath him, and the warmth emanate from what was presumably Frank Castle’s body beside him.

A few moments of stillness, before Matt felt a reluctant arm reach for his broken one. He swore when the pain shot up his arm again. 

“Shut it.” He heard Frank grouse, and then a calloused hand replaced Matt’s over the arm, holding it firmly in place, ensuring it didn’t bend further out of its position. Frank's hands were cold. Freezing, over his bare skin. It was as if he had an ice pack to his arm, and it felt... good. Better. 

Matt placed his left hand over his chest, relieved of the pressure.

Frank was closer than Matt expected him to be, which made his breath hitch. If he turned his head the other way, they’d practically be nose-to-nose. Which meant he couldn’t sleep in his usual position unless he turned to face Frank. He wasn’t willing to risk it though, didn’t want another few bruises to add to the pre-existing ones on his face.

So he settled for moving his bad arm closer to Frank instead, choosing to let him deal with it. Being rid of obligations for the night. Blamed it on the painkillers. In this new state of comfort, Matt finally felt his lids becoming heavy.  

Frank could tell Matt was beginning to doze. His breathing was beginning to even out, and Matt’s grip on Frank’s shirt lessened. Frank felt his own muscles slacken, his body giving in, the bed more comfortable than he expected it to be. He needed a shower, but he’d deal with that tomorrow. The position he was in was fucking uncomfortable, however. Frank drew in a ragged breath, realized it’d be almost impossible to sleep like this, with his hand holding Matt’s arm, who seemingly had no care in the world. 

Frank sighed, staring at the ceiling. Jaw still ticked. He'd slept in worse positions, before. Just one night.

“Murdock.” Frank turned, cheek on pillow, observed the way Matt’s eyelashes rested near his cheekbones, how his lips were pursued, the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“What.” Matt answered, voice lower than usual.

“If you snore, you’ll wake up to your brain splattered all over that wall over there, you hear me?”

Matt could only grin.

Chapter Text

“I’ll teach you what pain means. In a way that you’ll never forget.”

Matt opened his eyes, gasping for air, entire body on fire, the pain receptors in his left arm in overdrive. Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, and he flailed, panting. Unable to breathe. It was hot. Hot, and yet freezing at the same time. His chest felt as if it were in a vice, and he tried to sit up, mind racing. Felt the dread creep up to him, that familiar sinking feeling.

Shit. Why was it so hard to breathe? Inhale. Exhale.

Darkness enveloped him, and he tried to sense what was near him. Couldn’t. Thoughts still racing. Heard his own heartbeat. Wondered if everyone else in Hell’s Kitchen could hear it, considering how loud it was. There was someone’s hand gripping his arm.

Matt tried to move his broken arm, tried to do something, goddamnit, but the ache that ensued swallowed him whole and rendered him speechless.

He knew there was someone in the bed next to him; the warmth radiated off the body, made the king bed a hell lot of a less lonely.

Was that Frank? Why would Frank Castle be in his bed? Matt rubbed his face and tried to think, tried to clear the fog in his head. He heard thousands of sounds at once, all of them merging together as one singular soundwave, suddenly impossible to separate. Shitty painkillers. Could never trust them. Dampened his senses. Made it hard to focus.

“Hey. Hey, hey. Look at me.” Frank husked, voice croaky in the middle of the night, a dreamless sleep having been interrupted. He leaned on his elbow, peered over at a gasping Matt Murdock. The smallest of noises woke Frank up, and this was no exception.

Matt felt Frank’s rough hands on his face, felt a thumb graze his stubble, felt his chin being tilted upwards. Realized Frank was laying right next to him. Matt tried to catch his breath. Tried to say something. He knew his heartbeat was way faster than it should’ve been.

“You’re sweating bullets, Red. Probably an infection.” Frank murmured matter-of-factly, not waiting for a response as he stood up, eyes bleary. Frank knew that his right hand, the one that had held Matt’s arm in place over the past few hours, was cramped to all hell. Couldn’t find it within himself to care.

And what was that, a panic attack that Matt was experiencing? Sure as hell seemed like it. He’d dealt with his own fair share, could sniff one out from a mile away. Frank’s frown softened at the sight.

“You hang in there, Murdock. Shh, shh. You’re alright.” Frank crouched beside him. Ran a hand through Matt’s hair, made reassuring shushing sounds. Instinct kicking in, no longer thinking about what it was that he was doing. Stayed there for what seemed like hours, until he heard Matt’s breathing finally even out. Didn’t mention how he knew it had been a nightmare that had caused Matt’s current state. Didn’t need to.

Matt felt as if he were in a fishbowl, trapped with no one to hear him. It wasn't until the memories of the dream, possibly memories of what had caused his current state, drifted away that he finally found himself being able to focus on the world around him.

"Listen to me count, you able to do that for me?"

Matt heard Frank count to ten, and focused on the sound, willing all the other noises to disappear. Concentrated. Tried to ground himself. Remind himself that he was under no further harm, right where he was. 

That is, under no harm from anyone except the Punisher.

Matt almost wanted to ask Frank to straighten up, wanted to shake him by the shoulders, ask him to stop with the pleasantries and to return to being Frank. Not someone who helped him calm down after a panic attack. A panic attack he'd never seen coming.

The last one he'd had, was years ago. Wouldn't allow himself to remember what had caused it. Not now.

It was harder to hate Frank this way, Matt realized. With Frank rubbing his back mindlessly, whispering words of comfort. Matt despised the fact that it was working, didn't understand how or why someone like Frank Castle had the ability to calm him down the way no one else had ever been able to. He felt his ability to breathe steadily return, and exhaled. 

Eventually, once Frank was sure that the Devil wouldn’t die on him from a fucking heart attack, he removed his hand, and untangled himself from the man. “Just gonna get you something for that pain, alright?”

“Opened a stitch.” Matt grumbled, eyes still closed, heartbeat gradually returning to a more tolerable rate.

Frank paused midway to the door, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I can smell copper, and I heard the thread snap.” Matt nodded, not bothering to elaborate further.

Frank turned to face him, squinting in confusion, unable to decipher what Matt had just said.

“Huh. No wonder why you scare off the masses.” Frank finally muttered under his breath, before opening the door. His footsteps were audible as he thumped around the apartment, trying to locate more painkillers.

“Says the goddamn Punisher himself.” Matt groused, mostly to himself, the irony not lost on him.

He heard Frank huff from behind the kitchen. Matt smiled weakly when he realized that Frank had heard what he just said.

Matt sat up and adjusted his arm as he kept an eye on his doorway. “The big, bad Punisher, huh?” He grinned. “Not so big and bad when all he’s doing is getting Advil and a glass of water for a helpless blind man.” Matt continued mockingly, resting his head against the bed’s headboard. Tried to ignore the burning sensation that overwhelmed his entire body.

Frank made his way back to the bedroom, sheet of pills hanging out of his mouth, hands occupied with various medical equipment and, as Matt predicted, a glass of water.

“You done?” He glared at Matt as he tossed the painkillers onto the bed and handed the water over.

Matt’s cheeks dimpled, and he raised his left hand in faux surrender. Swallowed the tablets. “Thanks.” He said earnestly.

Frank shrugged, indifferent. “Where’s that stitch you busted open?”

Matt pointed instinctively at his abdomen, having sensed it close to there. He heard Frank scrummage around the medical tin box for supplies.

Frank got to work almost instantly, the moonlight providing the substitute for a flashlight as he thread through a medical needle, and pierced Matt’s flesh with it, beginning to close the open wound.

Matt flinched but said nothing.

“You always treat everyone that you take to bed this way, Red?” Frank grunted with sarcasm, though there was humor in his eyes.

“Wake ‘em up by making them think you’re dying from a heart attack?” He pulled through the string again, got into a rhythm, didn’t bother apologizing for the further pain that it caused.

“Only the big and bad ones.” Matt fired back, distracted by the sound of the needle entering his skin repeatedly.

Frank smirked, shaking his head.  

Both of the men were quiet for a few minutes as Frank continued his handiwork, all too comfortable with the act of patching someone back together. He had to lean closer to cut the thread off with his teeth and felt Matt’s stomach tense as he exhaled. Frank leaned back almost instantly, still fiddling with the needle in his hands. The flashback of Matt having done the exact same thing to him, all those weeks ago.

Matt traced the new stitching thoughtfully. Then, he reached over for one of the ice packs that Frank brought in with him, and held it over the bruise on his jaw, ear still craned to catch any other movements by the man opposite him. “That should be good.” Matt nodded, shutting the box and placing it under the bed.

Frank stared at him with faint interest; knew that there wasn’t much else he could do for the Daredevil other than let him rest. Oh, and hold his stupid broken arm in place. Frank made a mental note to stabilize the damn thing when Matt was asleep – he’d be done before Matt could realize, anyway.

“Go back to sleep, Frank. I’m fine.” Matt tilted towards the space next to him, shuffled over. Laid back down with some effort, facing the ceiling.

Maybe he could blame it on the fatigue, or maybe he just didn’t want to aggravate an injured man further. Either way, Frank obliged silently, and laid back down in his previous spot, one hand tucked under his head, the other automatically reaching for Matt’s arm – placed a cold hand under Matt’s forearm, making sure it was elevated. Didn’t know how bad the fracture was, but knew it had to be immobilized.

Frank felt his lids become heavy, didn’t fight off the sleep this time. Would be gone tomorrow. Just one day.

“How do you do it, Frank?” Matt finally spoke into the tranquility that had enveloped them, voice hoarse. A question that he’d been mulling over for hours. How did Frank cope? How could a man digest ending lives? Playing the role of judgement – getting to decide who died and who didn’t? Didn’t Frank ever pause, for one second, to think about the lives affected by the ones he took; the sisters, fathers, brothers and mothers of those that Frank killed? Having no idea that their loved one was someone so vicious, so gnarling, and by the time they did realize, it was by news of their death? It didn’t sit right within his chest.

Matt heard Frank’s steady heartbeat, a sniffle, the heavy breathing.

“I don’t.” Frank finally gritted, as if he were unwilling to even part with the answer. Knew what Matt was implying towards.

“I – “ Matt exhaled. “I don’t understand. You feel good about it, Frank? Is it the control you crave, maybe?”

Frank continued staring at the ceiling, remaining silent, glossy eyes becoming accustomed to the darkness, nostrils flaring in irritation. What Matt said couldn’t be further away from the truth.

But what was the truth nowadays anyway? Because he’d long since given up trying to find it. Had stumbled through years of his life, arms outreached in attempt to discover it, aching to hold it close to his chest and never let go – something to keep him grounded. Thought it’d keep him from being led astray. The truth. Yeah, right. A bunch of fucking baloney.

“That’s what I thought.” Matt muttered when Frank didn’t answer, sneering.

Frank smiled bitterly, accepting the lashing. “That what you think, huh, Murdock? Is that right?”

Matt shrugged carelessly. “You don’t think about the people you kill, do you? It… it never occurs to you?”

Frank exhaled, rubbing his face with his left hand. “Think?” He raised an eyebrow, as if even the idea were ridiculous. “Thinking is what destroys people, Red. Thought you knew that by now.”

Didn’t want to think. Preferred not to. How many loved ones had he taken to the grave himself? Dug a hole for, placed the headstone in for? There were innocent people that he loved, that had died, simply because they knew him – because he was in their lives. He couldn’t bear his own reflection in the mirror sometimes, because he’d see death and destruction within his own eyes, inner turmoil escaping as indignant tears and cascading down his cheekbones, wetting his face, falling as drops on tiled bathroom floors. Remembered what it was like, to desperately hold people’s hands as they were dying, life steadily being snatched away from them – an unstoppable force, never reversible.

Lifeless bodies rendered cold, but Frank still wouldn’t let go, stubbornly begging the Grim Reaper himself softly underneath his breath. Take me instead of them. They don’t deserve it.   

Matt remained silent.

“The first man you kill, that’s what haunts you, Red. His face, it never leaves you, yeah? You remember the color of his eyes, the sound of him begging for you to let him live. Sometimes you wake up in a pool of sweat, and by some fucking delusion, you think that it’s still his blood on you, you know? Like it never left, after all these years, no matter how many showers you took since then.” Frank breathed, a faraway look in his eyes. Clenched his fist to stop his fingers from twitching.

Matt flinched involuntarily at the thought; wondered where this was going.

 “Nah. If I spent time to think – if I listened to my head… shit.” Frank scoffed, shaking his head, the ghost of a smile on his lips at the thought.

“It just – it wouldn’t end well for anyone, yeah? Least of all myself. You don’t know half the stuff that goes on up in here, Red.” Frank swallowed, voice brimming with honesty.

“You learn to shut that shit off. Ignore it. Hell, the first thing I learnt in the Corps was to think about nothing at all. You ever try that, Murdock? Silence your mind, everything within it, until all you can hear is your own breathing? Makes you think about how alone you truly are, when even your own thoughts desert you.” Frank murmured, eyes closing briefly.

“Yeah. They made it pretty clear that we wouldn’t last a week if we didn’t learn to forget. Clear our heads of the shit we saw in the field; countries we were deployed to. The first month, the guys in my unit, they – they spent the nights whimpering, you know? You could hear them crying for their mothers, their fathers, even God – if they were the religious sort. Just begging to go home. Couldn’t muffle the sound of that, even if you wanted to. Shit, the hell did we know, we were just kids with big heads, thinking we could take on the world.” The corner of Frank’s mouth lifted in irony.

Matt drew in a ragged breath, hanging onto Frank’s words. As if they were a lifejacket to a drowning man. Felt the bumps of the fresh stitching on his abs again, traced it with his fingertips. 

“You don’t regret killing them, afterwards? You don’t pause for a second and think about how that could’ve been someone’s son or brother?” There was no judgement in his tone this time, and instead it was brimming with curiosity.

Frank cast a glance towards Matt, and some semblance of sympathy arose within him. No, not sympathy. Matt didn’t need that; he could take care of himself. Understanding, maybe. Knowing that he himself had once been in the same position: alone with only his demons for company, the act of judgement a harsh one to face.

“Nah.” Frank replied easily. “Those I send off to the morgue, they deserve it.”

Matt turned to face Frank, an eyebrow raised. “And what if they kill you first?”

“Then I deserved it more than them.”

Chapter Text

“Morning, Frankie. You look like you had a long night.” The man behind the cash register grinned, one hand lazily propped onto the counter behind him. Raised an eyebrow in question as Frank Castle shut the familiar diner door behind him, raising a hand in greeting.

He'd walked the ten blocks to grab breakfast from the diner he frequented whenever he was in this part of the city. Maybe also some grub for Murdock, who was still peacefully dozing away back in his shitty apartment, if he felt generous.

Lou was no stranger to Frank Castle; he had practically kept the man alive during the past few years with his buttery bread and greasy bacon. The coffee here was tolerable too, which was all that mattered. The brew wasn’t watered down like the law enforcement nowadays, and it wasn’t burnt to all hell either. A balance – somewhere in the middle.

“Yeah? You look like you’ve had a long life.” Frank sat down on one of the bar stools, rested his forearms on the counter, smirked as he eyed Lou.

“Long, but I made something out of it.” The moustached man smiled knowingly, already putting through Frank’s order and pouring him a fresh cup. Slid it over.

“Yeah, my scrambled eggs.” Frank teased, raising the Styrofoam cup in acknowledgement.

“Just for that, you’re not getting any.”

“Then everybody wins.” Frank scoffed, leaning over to grab a copy of the day’s newspaper. Flicked through it with faint interest, read a few headlines, ears still picking on to the chatter behind him. It was a weekday, so the diner wasn’t as full as usual, but there were still the regulars jostling about. Reminded him why he never went anywhere this early in the morning.

“Those bruises look like a bitch.” Lou tutted, referring to the golf-ball sized bruise forming near Frank’s jaw, and the few scattered underneath his eyes. He gestured to the chef behind him when Frank held up two fingers, indicating that he wanted double the portion size.

“You should see the other guy.” Frank deadpanned, dripping with dark irony, knowing full well that there was no other guy left to see. Hadn’t travelled that far last night just to wound the man.  

Lou handed over two paper bags, one already darkening through due to the excessive grease. Held a hand to his forehead in an attempt at a salute.

“At ease.” Frank rolled his eyes, accepting the food with a grateful nod. “Look afta’ yourself, Lou.” He left the way he came, rolled-up newspaper in hand. Heard the jingling of the diner’s bell as he shut the door behind him and walked into the warm breeze.

Matt woke up to the smell of bacon and eggs, the familiarity of it making his stomach grumble. It sure as hell was better than waking up thinking you were going to die. He winced as he stood up, nursed his abdomen with one hand, heard an abandoned ice pack fall onto the floor. Headed towards the bathroom, tried to think as he brushed his teeth. Matt ignored the way that his entire body pulsated with pain as he then walked towards the kitchen, pushing his bedroom door open.

Frank had been working quietly, mind preoccupied on other things, seemingly not noticing the man near the doorway. He settled down a glass of water on the table for Matt, tossed a few pills next to it, made sure the plate was full of food.

Matt realized his broken arm was bandaged and secured with duct tape. He cleared his throat, and could tell that Frank looked up to face him. He held his broken arm up. “What’s this?”

“A man’s gotta eat.” Frank offered half-heartedly, dragging the chair out from under Matt’s circular table. Held it, clearly in anticipation for Matt to sit down.

Matt raised an eyebrow but sat down in the chair anyway. “I’m talking about my arm, Frank.” Matt picked up a fork.

Frank sat in the chair opposite him, stifling a smirk at Matt’s irritation. “Yeah, I stabilized it whilst you were sleeping.”

“I told you not to.”

“You think I listen to everything you say?”

“The body has a natural way of healing things, Frank, you can’t just – ”

“You know what I think? I think you’re cranky cause you ain’t got food in you yet. Eat.”

“Frank – ”

“No need to thank me, Red. I insist.” Frank waved a hand around dismissively.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Matt grumbled, admitting defeat and forking the eggs into his mouth. He had to admit, they were pretty damn good. Combine that with the bacon, and he was a happy man. Well, as happy as he could be, sitting opposite Frank goddamn Castle.

“Where’s my coffee?” Matt complained, knowing there was some around, had heard Frank take a generous sip of his own.

Frank continued flipping through his newspaper, spreading himself comfortably on the dining chair. He took another sip of his own coffee as he cast a glance towards Matt. “Interferes with your meds, Captain Underpants.”

Matt put his fork down. His dark glasses were on, but Frank knew that Matt was glaring at him from underneath them. “Seriously?” He referred to the name, exasperated.

The corner of Frank’s mouth twitched as he shrugged. “Red capes, right?”

“I don’t wear a cape, Frank.”

“Then maybe you should consider it, huh?”

Matt ignored him, and instead continued his breakfast. Didn’t ask why or where Frank had gotten it from. Cared only about the fact that it was food, and that he was grateful for it.

“I’m gonna head out for a while. You’ll be good on your own, yeah?” Frank spoke up, having finished his own breakfast, fork clattering on the plate as he put it down.

“I’m always good.” Matt smiled sarcastically, before swallowing his pills with a sip of water. He didn’t mention how walking to the chair almost had him on the floor, writhing, because of how much agony it caused his entire body. Fleeting memories had arisen the night before: his state definitely had something to do with the Russians.

He had been caught off-guard, and it all had gone to shit.

“Is that so?” The Punisher tapped his rolled-up newspaper on the table in disagreement, his chair screeching as he straightened up and dragged it closer to the table. “Cause that isn’t what it looks like from my end of the table, Red.”

Matt reached over the table and grabbed Frank’s coffee, before leaning back comfortably and sipping it in defiance. “Yeah? Then maybe you should sit on my side of the table. Plenty of space here. Not a great view right now, though.” He grinned.

Frank’s jaw ticked, unbeknownst to Matt. He rested his forearms on the circular table, glaring at the man opposite him. “You think you’re funny?”

“Oh, definitely. The lawyer gig's only a back-up option in case the stand-up shows don’t work out.”

Frank sighed, rubbing his face wearily. “Gonna tell me who did this to you?” He prompted, referring to Matt's current state.

Matt’s expression turned serious as he faced Frank. “Is that what you’re heading outside for? To meddle in my business?”

“The hell does that mean?” Frank scoffed, feigning obliviousness.

The lack of an answer spoke volumes towards Matt, who pushed his plate away in disbelief. “You’re kidding me.”

“Sorry I don’t speak attorney.” Frank grumbled, before stealing his coffee back from Matt and making himself comfortable again as he took a sip. Lukewarm. Blamed Matt for it. Frank wouldn’t put it past him to have some sort of fucked-up powers to rapidly cool down his beverage.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Matt stood up, awaiting a response. As far as he was concerned, breakfast was over. What it was time for? Answers.

Frank looked at him from under heavy lids, disinterested. “Not letting the sons of bitches get away with what they did to you.” He became suddenly fixated with the label of a nearby ketchup bottle.

Matt could sense the lack of attention, and he stepped forward, pushing Frank’s shoulder aggressively.
“I’m going to make myself clear, yeah, Frank? This has nothing to do with you. You better make your peace with that.”

The chair fell backwards as Frank stood up himself, towering over the bandaged man. He shoved Matt’s hand off him, closing the distance between them.

“Oh yeah? Huh. Funny. Alright, let me guess, okay, Murdock, let me just assume what went down the other day. See, you walked home, one foot in the grave, after getting your ass beaten, leaving a bloody trail out there in the streets of Hell’s Kitchen for any dumbass to follow. Isn’t that right? Sure as hell was easy getting up here, and I don’t hear none of your neighbours complaining about the gunshot last night when I tried getting into your shitty apartment.” Frank hissed near Matt’s ear, holding him still.

“Which makes me think that none of your little buddies next door would be scrambling for the NYPD if some Russian gangsters did decide to come up here, and finish it once and for all, yeah? Don’t think anyone would blink twice, actually, considering that your friends already think you’re fucking dead.” Frank growled, voice low, eyes alight with aggravation, gauging Matt’s reaction.

Matt shoved him backwards, instinctively wrapping his good hand around Frank’s throat.

“You think you’re smart, Frank? You think you know every move the Russians make – what are you, some pathetic Soviet spy? Because you’re wrong. They don’t know me. And the only reason you knew how to get up here, was because I chose to let you know, Frank. It was a choice.”

And he had to admit, it was one that he was currently regretting. He was never this flustered around anyone – never let anyone break down his walls and rub him the wrong way, the way Frank did. Calm and composed? Definitely not right now.

Frank chuckled, voice strained by the hand against his throat. “This is your fucking problem, Red.” He gestured at Matt’s hand around his neck, before placing his own hand around Matt’s, tightening the grip around his own throat. Testing the waters.

“You never finish the job. You wanna kill me? Do it. But you can’t, can you? Just like you won’t be able to when someone runs up those stairs, guns a’ blazing. You’ll be too busy nursing your goddamn stitches and stupid broken limbs. Try to convince them to let you live, with some Catholic sermon, yeah?” Frank spat, meeting Matt’s eyes behind the dark glasses, stepping even closer.  

Frank wasn't sure if his concern was practically pouring out with the words that he said. Fuck. But he wouldn't let some fucking gangsters pull the trigger on Matt. Street thugs? Ones he could bury if given half a chance?

There was no way in hell. 

Matt let go of Frank, untangling himself from the man, clenched his fist to avoid the temptation of doing it again. “I’m not a killer.”

Frank sighed wearily, as if to say ‘this again?’ He stepped away himself, indicating he wasn’t a threat and nor did he want to be. “Others are. And they won’t hesitate with emptying their barrels into your skull.” He leaned over to pick up the plates from the table, stacked them on top of each other, and headed towards the kitchenette.

Frank busied himself with washing the dishes as Matt stood there silently.

“So, you tell me who did it. This way, you live, Karen stops asking me to babysit you, I go home, and we all have a happy fucking ending.” Frank continued, all emotion erased from his tone.

Matt didn’t want the blood on his hands. Couldn’t ask the Punisher to step into his business. It wasn’t his own life he was concerned with, however, it was the lives of others, and he couldn’t risk the involvement of those that lived next door in case something did happen. Hell, he couldn’t remember how well he’d made it back home without a trace, didn’t know whether someone had seen his face or not.

“The Russians.” Matt confirmed.

Frank made a face. “Yeah, princess, which ones? They’re all over the place here, like goddamn sewer rats. Need specifics.” Frank grabbed a hoodie from one of the laundry hooks near him and shrugged it on. Was it Matt’s? Most likely. Did he give a shit? No.

Matt sat back down on the chair, head in hand as he contemplated it. “Near Josie’s bar. The garage a few blocks away. Had most of them down, but I heard a little girl scream. It caught me off guard.” It had only taken a few seconds for it to all go to shit. He hadn’t expected a little kid there, not this time around.

Frank’s jaw ticked as the information sunk in. “Did you get her out?” He rasped, hand gripping the counter. Memories arose. Lisa. Lisa’s screams. How it never took more than a few moments for your life to turn around. For everything to go to fucking shit.

Matt looked up to face him, worn down to his bones. His face was painted with anguish, and Frank knew the answer before Matt could even speak.

“No.”

Chapter Text

Frank was no Matt Murdock, but all sounds made themselves evident as he stood there, jaw ticked, eyes narrowed, muscles tightened. Recently washed and dripping plate still in his hand, as if he were some domesticated housewife in an argument with her husband.

The blaring horns of cars passing by, police sirens, traffic lights changing colors, commotion from junkies on the sidewalks below, the distant noise of the subway.

As far as Matt’s answer was concerned, the city soaked it up like a sponge and expanded. Sounds were what carried all of Hell’s Kitchen’s past. The city, however, did not tell its past, but rather contained it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of the streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods; every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls.

And now, it contained Matt’s confession. It floated in the air above them, leaving one man devastated, and the other dismayed.

“You left her there?” Frank asked quietly, every word grave.

Matt exhaled, trying to think. Rubbed his face with one hand, weary. “I can’t remember, Frank. I’ve been going over it for the past week. Don’t even know how I made it home, let alone alive.”

Frank hurled the plate he was holding at the wall. It shattered into millions of fragments, and they fell on the floor, skidding across the hardwood flooring.  

The sound pierced Matt’s ears, but he didn’t flinch. Remained resolute. Faced Frank.

“Then you better sit there, and try to fucking remember, you hear me? I don’t give a rat’s ass whether or not you left any of those motherfuckers alive, or even if you made it out alive. What I wanna know is whether or not that goddamn girl is safe.” Frank threatened, voice dangerously low. Didn’t need to yell to get the point across.

He shut his eyes briefly, knew his fingers were twitching to grab something or someone. Rationalized. Calmed himself down. Anger was a tool, not a hindrance – better to use it in demanding circumstances. Not now. When he opened his eyes again, they were clear of all emotion.

“I’d die before I let something happen to a kid.” Matt gritted with conviction; wasn’t sure what kind of person Frank took him for, except that he clearly was misunderstood if that was what was in that trauma-ridden head of his.

Something within Frank softened at the words. He took in the sight of the man in front of him. Half-dead, yet still somehow functioning. He was shirtless, with enough scars to make up for a hell of a story.

Matt’s breathing was ragged, but he sat with his back straight anyway. Hair slightly disheveled from the night before. The cut above his lip was beginning to bleed again, and to think of it, so were the rest of the unbandaged wounds on his torso. The broken, now stabilized, arm was held close to his chest, but Frank knew that Matt wouldn’t resist using it if the need arose.

The most devastating thing, however, was Matt’s expression. It would be impossible to fake the heartbreak that was painted on Matt’s features – the dismay caused by what was assumingly one of his own actions. Disappointment, true and clear.

“Yeah.” Frank sighed. “Yeah, I know.” He murmured, absent-mindedly grabbing a damp dish cloth and heading towards Matt.

The warmth in Frank’s tone took Matt by surprise, who flailed when Frank kneeled next to him. Frank held the towel close to one of the bleeding wounds – it wasn’t medical gauze, but he’d dig around for that later. Would stitch up Matt’s lip too, if Matt let him.

“Let me.” Frank mumbled, pushing Matt’s arm away as Matt held over his chest in defense. Matt eased off, and rested his arm behind him, allowing Frank unrestricted access to his abdominal area.

Frank watched Matt’s chest rise and fall as he soaked up the blood, concentrating. “I’ll sort this shit out.” He spoke, not bothering to look up towards Matt. Shifted his weight to the other knee as he reached over to cater to one of the other open wounds.

“And I’ll find the girl.” He promised, voice brimming with sincerity.

Matt shut his eyes, wondered if Frank could hear how loud his heartbeat was. “I’m coming with you.” He finally spoke, firm. Wouldn’t budge an inch, even if Frank refused. Steadfast, and unwavering.

Frank looked up this time, glancing at Matt’s features. Let his eyes fall on the injuries again, the bandaged arm, the bruised face. Then saw how resolute Matt was.

“Okay.” Frank agreed softly. “Okay.”

As the hours passed, Matt remained on the couch, brain still somewhat scrambled, even a mere action like standing making him dizzy. Heard Frank thud around the apartment, occasionally making phone calls. The crinkling of newspaper. Had smelt another batch of coffee being made – and thank God, he was offered a mug this time.

Had accepted it. More water and Tylenol being offered, which he’d taken dutifully. A bowl of soup, seemingly homemade since the sounds of Frank labouring over the stovetop had been apparent. The soup had surprisingly been good. Delicious, actually. Made him feel better. Less dreary.

Matt sensed steel and aluminum nearby, heard the clank of it on his wooden table. Knew Frank was currently cleaning his gun, taking his sweet time with it.

“Gotta move soon.” Frank said matter-of-factly, dark eyes still on the gun he was thoroughly cleaning. He thumped it on the table a few more times; mulled over whether or not the barrel needed replacing.

Matt raised his head, one foot in oblivion from sheer exhaustion, and the other firmly planted within reality.

The radio was commentating a baseball match, MLB World Series to be exact, from a couple of years ago. But neither of them were paying attention towards it. They had spent the past few hours in companionable silence — which had been both comforting and grounding — only breaking it with the occasional rib here and there, or when they decided to part with something they’d been dwelling over.

Matt knew Frank had been determining locations, backgrounds, people, all of it. Trying to get a grasp on the Russians. And the girl.

What Matt had learnt over the past few hours, was that Frank was a man of deadly precision. Lots of research went into what it was that he did. Cold-blooded murder, to be exact. Exact coordinates were programmed into the database Frank was using on his burner phone. The phone calls had been to fellow contacts, which Frank had insisted was a rare occurrence. Usually, he went over to the contacts himself, demanding answers, a method that usually relied on him using his fists.

Frank had, in return, teased Matt for being a man with ‘red-underwear’ who just leapt off roofs in the middle of the night, trusting his gut to lead him to the crime. Matt didn’t bother arguing, didn’t have the energy at the time to tell Frank to fuck right off. Or that’s what he liked to think, anyway.

“Chances of me getting a shave before we leave?” Matt smiled weakly, rubbing his jaw. His beard was growing out, past what he preferred on himself. His right arm, however, the one he usually shaved with, was unfortunately very much broken and in agony, so that was a dead end.

Frank cast a glance towards Matt, as if he only just realized there was someone sitting in the same room as him. “Huh. Knock yourself out.” He grunted, before returning to the task at hand.

“There’s a problem.”

Frank hummed a tune under his breath, not paying much attention towards Matt. “Yeah?”

“I use my right to do just that, and I know what they say about trying new things, but I really don’t feel like destroying my face today by using my left arm to shave.”  

Frank turned to face him this time. “I sympathize. That what you want?” Frank raised an eyebrow, unsure of where this was going. You either shaved, or you didn’t. You definitely didn’t raise a goddamn sissy fit about it.

“Shave me?” Matt smirked, tilting his face towards Frank. Knew how much irritation it would cause Frank. Didn’t know why he asked, only that he really wanted a shave, and that he might as well make the most out of Frank’s babysitting abilities. So, Frank could suck it up, and do it for him. That, or he’d just have to tolerate an itchy face for the next few weeks. Neither option sounded appealing.

Frank chuckled in disbelief, shaking his head. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.” Continued wiping down the barrel.

“Karen wouldn’t be pleased to hear that, now, would she? Not even gonna help a blind man shave, Frank?” Matt’s cheeks dimpled; had known exactly where to target. What was it Frank had once said? Sometimes certain things needed to be done? Well, this was it. Not that Matt enjoyed hanging a carrot over Frank’s head, but again, sometimes shit just needed to be done.

“Piece of shit.” Frank grumbled, the chair screeching as he stood up and thumped his way to the kitchenette. Matt could hardly stifle his amused smile as Frank then headed towards the bathroom, clearly scrummaging for supplies.

Finally, Frank returned, and Matt felt the warmth emanate from his body as Frank then seemingly kneeled beside him, so that they were facing each other.

“You and your stupid demands, Red. A toddler, is that what you are?” Frank continued to grouse, but coated one of his hands with olive oil anyway, clearly having been unable to find any shaving cream.

Matt grinned again, shrugging with one shoulder. If this was the most entertainment he could summon, so be it. "I didn’t even ask you for my milk bottle yet.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Frank groaned, but an amused smile ghosted his lips.

Frank reached for the blade, checked its sharpness. He’d have to be careful, but it would suffice. Again, able to kill if that was what he wanted. But right now, he needed to get closer. Frank opened his knees to have a firm position, motioned the man closer. Could study his features, now under the dim light of the apartment.

Matt sat straight, even moved closer, close enough to be between the other’s knees. Too close. Far too close, and what the hell had he gotten himself into? He forced the swallow back down, refused to show his tension, but couldn’t quite manage to relax his body.

Frank squinted, wondered where to start, then decided on the left cheek.

Oil. Heated skin. Stubble. Frank placed the blade on the skin, eyes narrow with concentration. Started near the ear, did notice the curve of Matt’s neck, the tan. A slight smirk as he scraped the hair off, slowly, deliberately, the whisper of blade against skin. He knew Matt was twitching underneath his touch, the pad of his thumb on Matt’s jaw. Knew it was him with the power, knew that it was an unusual position for Matt – who never permitted himself to be in such a moment of vulnerability. Under sharp steel, no less. That made it almost better.

Almost. Glint of steel against tanned skin. Frank took Matt’s chin in his hand, tilted it to the side to follow the jawbone, then wiped the excess oil on his pants, high on his thigh. Didn’t want to move out of this.

Matt tilted his head when the blade began its journey, brown eyes unfocused. The sensation against his skin had a strange effect, almost relaxing. Minute movements, tiny increments of released tension, as his head began to simply move with the calloused hand that guided his chin. Heard the scraping. His breath hitched. Could imagine the muscles rolling slowly beneath Frank’s skin as he maneuvered his arm; the precision it took. Matt blinked slowly, lazily.

Frank felt the other man falling in stride, stopping to resist him on some level. This way, maybe. Down the trace of stubble, down to the cheek. He broke contact only for a moment to rub some more oil onto the face, cheek, and chin, but he’d save the chin for later. Shaved the cheek, neatly traced the line of bone. Didn’t shave all the hair off, that wasn’t what Matt had asked for. He moved Matt’s head to side, more oil, shaved the other side, jaw, cheek.

Instilled trust.

Matt hadn’t been touched like that in ages. Wrong. Couldn’t remember. Wondered if anyone had ever been that… that what? Determinedly intimate? He’d shake his head, or shrug his shoulders, if he didn’t have that blade close to his lips, and if he simply didn’t lack the will to do anything at all. Ridiculous to relax now, his throat and face under the Punisher’s blade.

Yet, relax he did, gave himself over to the steady change of movement, blade, fingers, grease and the comfort of all encompassing heat.

You’re insane, Matt.

Who cared. Matt closed his eyes for a moment, goddamn suicidal, didn’t give a shit. Just a moment, this one precious moment, and allowed his body to give in and react to the rare physical comfort. He could always raise his defenses again later if Frank did pull some sort of twisted shit. Wasn’t entirely vulnerable. Allowed himself to find solace in that knowledge.

The next bit would take longer, and take more concentration. Frank carefully worked around the round, broad chin, doing small strips of skin each time, only stopped to wipe the blade on his pants. Then, raised Matt’s head and placed the blade on his upper lip. The curves there, the way the man could sneer, and mock, and… other things.

Frank forced himself to breathe. He took a bit more oil, and began to prepare Matt’s throat, the sides thick with muscle, but a long neck, powerful, longer with how Matt stretched it now. Frank tilted the head back, and began to scrape up, starting at the sides again.

Frank paused, shifting his weight, bringing one knee between the other’s legs.

Close enough to brush against Matt. Feigning ignorance.

Matt parted his lips to let out a breath that seemed heavier. Telling himself that he was goddamn insane, a nutcase, but still bared his throat and closed his eyes again. Knew Frank had every opportunity to cut his throat – maybe if the shit he’d said over the past few days weighed up on Frank’s mind and caused him to lash out. Nothing could stop Frank from doing so. Not even Matt.

A few more swift movements, and Frank wiped the blade on his pants again. He startled Matt from his thoughts as he cleared his throat. Spoke with his voice raspier than usual.

“Done. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

There were only two things that Frank truly longed for at that moment. The first being a M60 that never required reloading, and the second being for Matt Murdock to shut the fuck up.

The stars had since made their appearance, the moon hanging low in the sky. They’d spent the past few hours in a shitty rented van, with ‘rented’ being too civil of a word to describe how they had in fact acquired the vehicle. Gathering intel. Frank had immediately made himself home within it, driven it over to his temporary garage, loaded the back with enough machine guns to challenge the entirety of a  SWAT team. Had since tucked his knife – a Gerber tonight – into his sleeve, and a handgun into his waistband.

There was one singular motive: kill the Russian hitmen that Matt had encountered, and find the girl.

Frank had tried that meditation technique he’d once learnt whilst enlisted to pass the time. Or rather, in attempt to not kill the man sat beside him, who'd been yapping away about everything and nothing for the past few hours. He adjusted his bulletproof vest, kept a vigilant eye on the digital clock on the van’s dashboard. Watched the minutes creep by. Reached over to program exact coordinates into the barely functioning GPS system.  

“Coffee sounds good right now.” Matt mumbled. Crossed his arms to fight off the cold since Frank wouldn’t let him turn on the van’s heater. Only in sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie, he was severely underdressed as the Punisher sat beside him with full body armor, down to the expertly tied boots and the KA-BAR concealed underneath the soles of them.

Just another regular night.

Frank cast a glance to the man sat in the passenger seat, eyes narrowed. “You always talk this much?” One hand on the steering wheel as he swerved through the unrelenting traffic.

Matt stretched, having only just finished his spiel about the bombing he’d heard about on the news earlier. “Only way I can stay awake. No offense, Frank, but you aren’t the most entertaining person around.” Sat back in his seat, colors dancing before his eyes as cars drove past them. Headlights and traffic lights became a whole jumble of reds and blues that made his head hurt.

“None taken.” Frank smiled lazily, before leaning over and messing with the radio dial again. Settled back into his seat when it transferred to the NYPD dispatch communication line. “Now, you got ears, yeah? Use ‘em while I’m inside there. Anything goes to shit, you get outta here, you understand?”

Matt shrugged, indignant. “I’m coming in with you.”

Frank exhaled, and jammed a fist on the horn in frustration; the blaring sound causing Matt to recoil. “We been over this, Red. Your ass stays inside the fucking van.” He glanced at Matt, before scoffing. “I mean, look at you. You can barely walk straight.”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “I can still hold my own, even on a bad day.”

“Hope you’re hungry for some humble pie, champ.”  

“Scout’s honor.” Matt held up a hand.

“Didn’t know the visually impaired could go scouting.”

“Oh, that is a low blow, even from you –”

“Shh, shh.” Frank interrupted, eyes outside the window, clamping a hand over Matt’s mouth. He parked near the warehouse as he watched a man in a black coat approach the building, one hand gripping a phone near his ear and the other deep within his pockets. “That’s our guy.” He explained, immediately reaching for the handgun. Let go of Matt’s face.

Matt craned his ear. “He’s talking about a weapons shipment. Coming in tonight.”

Frank eyed Matt. “Yeah.” Scrummaged underneath the seat for tape.

There wasn’t a chance in hell that he’d even let Matt get out of the car. Not because he doubted the Devil – shit, he’d practically seen hell himself after a few jabs by Matt Murdock – but because of Matt’s condition. To be put simply, Daredevil would be a liability tonight, not an asset. Oh, and then there was the fact that Frank really didn’t want to listen to another one of those fucking morality speeches once he had his gun cocked on the Russian’s head.

“Swap seats with me.” Frank bit off a piece of duct tape with his teeth, proceeded to wrap it around one of his wrists. Feigned obliviousness.

Matt sighed, but switched seats with Frank anyway, thighs brushing against his as they stood to change positions. Frank settled into the passenger seat, an eye on Matt.

As soon as Matt sat down again, Frank thumped the back of his head, causing Matt to instinctively lash out, flailing at Frank. Frank seized the opportunity, gripped Matt’s forearm in his hand, and had the handcuffs around Matt’s right arm and the steering wheel before Matt could even blink.

“I’m going to ask you this once.” Matt’s jaw ticked. He already knew that he was bound to the stupid steering wheel – didn’t bother to thrash against it. Beyond irritated, even though he should’ve expected it from someone like Frank by now. “Where’s the key?” Matt demanded. Wouldn’t sit in this shitty van whilst Frank went out there frolicking into the arms of Russian hitmen. Not because he feared for Frank’s safety, but rather, because he feared for theirs.

“Up my ass.” Frank offered sweetly, before throwing open the door and stepping out into the night. He locked the van once he slammed it shut. Headed over to the back.

“Frank!” Matt hollered, jabbing the car door with his broken arm in frustration. He heard Frank open the cargo trunk, knew Frank had picked up a M60 and rested it on his shoulder, listened to Frank scrummage through various other firearms – seemingly looking for a certain weapon.

Frank reappeared and rapped his knuckles on Matt’s window. “Stay.” He yelled. Didn’t waste another second as he turned and walked into the midnight.

Time was of the essence.

It had gone to shit.

Turmoil, anguish, agony. All of which paralysed him, to the point where he could no longer focus on the world that surrounded him. The streetlights were a blur. The whole fucking world was a blur. Tasted dust in his mouth, held the upheaval close to his chest. Spat blood out onto the concrete footpaths of Hell’s Kitchen, made an attempt at swerving the people walking past him, didn’t notice the blood dripping onto the street as he walked. One hand nursing the bullet wound near his stomach, the other clenched tight beside his side.

Ignored how he’d been shot in the leg, couldn’t stop now. Frank kept limping towards wherever he had parked the van, head spinning. One thought on loop. Get out of sight.

There was the good news. One, he’d learnt the Russian word for 'little girl.' Had yelled it quite a few times, followed by the Russian word for 'where.' Two, he’d walked out of the warehouse leaving behind eight dead bodies, since none of them had the answers he sought. Felt their blood on his own hands. Wouldn’t spend a second mourning their lives, hoped the men went straight to hell for what it was that they had done.

The mind became automatic, check the breach, identify your target, check the background, safety off, regulate breathing. Put the ball on the target. Fire, fire, fire.

Then there was the bad news. Matt had been right about the child trafficking, and the kids were long gone before he’d arrived. He had been greeted by the sight of decomposing bodies in the basement, the remainder of bodily fluids, plates of half-eaten food. Stained mattresses. Stripped walls. Frank’s heart had sunk to fucking hell when he realized what they were, and what the signs implied. He had to resist the retching, had to drag himself back to sanity, struggled to keep his composure when he finally exited the damned building. The night seemed to have taunted him. The midnight breeze had seemed to whisper that there was nothing waiting for him except damnation.

The mind became automatic, the training was there, but sometimes retreating was the best option.

It had been a shock to his system, losing something he could never replace. Maria, and the kids. But it was a shock that numbed him to everything else, so that he dealt pretty well with discomfort ever after. Tonight, however, it felt as if he’d just woken back up in a nightmare he couldn’t escape.

When people lost everything worth living for, they decided they were no longer afraid of dying. But Frank knew that it was just a lie that they told themselves. The truth was that people wanted to live more than ever, if they could just push past the initial shock, the trauma, the nights full of endless aching.

Once Frank had pushed through that initial shock, he found that he wanted to see his life through. He wanted, more than anything, more than death, to completely exterminate the kinds of bastards that took his life away from him. The scum of the Earth, those that walked on the planet with no good bone in their body. Wanted to wipe them off the planet. Frank wanted to emasculate the evil, wanted it so bad that he’d do anything to stay alive, just so no one ever lost anything the way he did.

And, today, he had failed. Failed to prevent, failed to save. Succeeded in the killing, but what comfort were scarlet hands and more headstones within a cemetery? So, yes. It had gone to fucking shit. No amount of bodies that he buried would ever replace the lost lives; the damage that had been done.

His sanity began to slip away from him, slowly and steadily, and the despisal he held for himself permitted it. Truth be told, he was tired to his goddamn bones. The burning he could grow accustomed to, the rage too, but exhaustion was the first sign of weakness. The fatigue embraced him, and he for once, welcomed it with open arms himself.

Frank almost laughed bitterly at the sight of a well-built man leaning against a street sign, one arm rigidly positioned against his chest, gaze seemingly penetrating. But Frank already knew that the gaze was one unfocused, held by two brown eyes almost as dark as his own. Would recognize him anywhere, in the dark, in broad daylight, near a dimly-lit fire escape like that one time, and yes – whilst lying next to him on the same goddamn bed.

Daredevil.

Frank continued to limp towards the figure, fixated, didn’t know how Matt had gotten out of that fucking vehicle despite the lock and the handcuffs, didn’t care. Had been expecting it.

“NYPD are on their way. Reports were made.” Matt frowned, walking towards him once he sensed that it was Frank’s heartbeat nearby. Immediately put Frank’s arm over his shoulder, knew there was a bullet in one of Frank’s legs. Ignored the pain that shot up his own spine, from his battered torso and arm.

“Gotta move.” Frank’s voice was like gravel, and the words were barely audible. Vision blurring. Leaned onto Matt despite himself.

“Where to.” Matt spoke, firm and unwavering. Emotion erased from his tone. He didn’t stop to gauge the full extent of Frank’s injuries, because Frank was right – they had to move. Before the sirens got here, and it all became a huge clusterfuck of ‘who dunnit?’

“To that shithole of yours.” Frank garbled, blood in his mouth, spitting it on the sidewalk as they walked, leaning on one another for support. The taste of copper still prominent; felt the blood drip down his face. Cascade down his cheekbones, like scarlet tears. Face coloured crimson.

Matt knew what his street smelt like, knew the sounds of it. Led him towards his own apartment. Would be a lengthy walk, but neither of them could drive. They’d have to come back for the van some other day.

“Always ends like this, don’t it, Red?” Frank smiled bitterly, allowing the pain to envelope him wholly. A familiar friend. No longer resisted it.

Pain was like drowning. You could struggle against it, you could kick and scream, your lungs could fill up with water. The only relief was to find which way was up. To swim towards it. Direction was purpose. Frank had been drowning for as long as he could remember, lungs burning for air. He hadn’t yet found the surface, but he did know which way was up. His lungs still burned, but when he was distracted, he hardly noticed the hurt; the blinding quality of it; the burn.

It reminded him that he could still feel. Grounded him. Separated him from a corpse buried six feet under. Differentiated him from the motherfuckers he’d just sent to the morgue. The assholes who delighted in the pain, fucking looked forward to it. Were attracted to it. Power and pain weren’t easy to separate – two intertwined entities, difficult to untangle from one another. Power-hungry bastards were the ones that chased the pain.

No. Frank wasn’t one of them. He simply had reverence for it. An understanding of it. 

Grief was different. Grief had no distance. No direction. Grief came in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weakened the knees, blinded the eyes and obliterated the dailiness of life. Fucking hated the grief. Unpredictable, seemingly never-ending. Left a man with muddy cheeks and an oesophagus full of salt water – causing one to choke, helpless, only moments before the next tide arrived and upturned you in a manner fiercer than the last.  

What unsteadied Frank, what made him lean on to Matt despite knowing that he shouldn’t, was the grief. Tormented him, made him see ghosts in the darkness ahead of them, swivelled his mind. That fucking basement burnt into his memory. Kids. The kids. Oh God, the kids.

“Shh. We’ll be home soon.” Matt murmured, no questions raised.

Priorities first.

Matt pushed Frank into his bathtub, impatient, no longer gave a shit about pleasantries. Too much blood loss, a slowing heart rate, not enough time.

Frank lost his footing, landed with a thud, water splashing everywhere. Looked up with deliriousness in his eyes and a permanent scowl.

“Off.” Matt gestured to Frank’s shirt. Would have taken it off himself if he had two capable hands.

Frank stared at him begrudgingly. Finally, after a long moment of silence, he obliged, hauling the blood-stained shirt off himself in a single motion. Had since lost the skull vest. Frank breathed raggedly, chest rising and falling with difficulty. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Wasn’t broken this time. Good. Broken noses were a bitch.

Silently, Matt reached for the drawer underneath the sink, knew there was a sponge and a bottle of antibacterial wash in there. Lathered the sponge as he heard Frank wince.

Frank blinked, trying to stabilize his vision, oblivious to the water around him. Only realized what was happening when Matt gripped his bicep.

Frank shoved Matt’s hand off him; didn’t want to be touched; couldn’t bear the warm hands on his skin. The touch had been searing, penetrated him more than any bullet ever could. A cauterization to his mind, his heart.

Matt resisted, lips thinning in frustration, unable to understand Frank’s behaviour. “Cut that out.” Matt reprimanded, hand tugging Frank’s hair, trying to get him to straighten up.

Matt was promptly awarded with a jab in the stomach, which almost rendered him breathless.

“Get your fucking hands off me.” Frank gritted, jaw tensed. Didn’t know why the fuck he was in this shitty bathtub, didn’t understand why he’d been coerced into the bathroom in the first place. Fuck this place. “Don’t touch me.” All he could see was red. And ironically, Red.

All Frank needed was some medical thread. A sewing needle wouldn’t be too bad, either. A beer if he was lucky. Could suture himself. Just like every other time. Needed to leave once he was done with that, thank Matt for the hospitality, tell him to ‘get well soon’ or whatever the fuck the slogans were on greeting cards nowadays, and disappear. Cause no further harm. Tell Karen that Matt no longer required babysitting.

Because the babysitter most likely required an asylum himself.

Matt held up the sponge patiently, indicating that he wasn’t a threat.

“You’re not giving me a goddamn bubble bath.” Frank growled, voice laced with warning, stood up in the bathtub itself. Water pooled around his boots. He heard Matt scoff at the idea.

“Sit down.” Matt urged, voice patient. As if Frank were a wild animal requiring taming.

Frank tensed, made a move as if to leave, but he was shoved back down into the bathtub by Matt. A firm hand on his shoulder to keep him down. Didn’t resist it, didn’t knuckle Matt down for it. Was frankly too tired to give a shit.

“Tell me what happened out there.” Matt began his work, gently soaping Frank’s chest with the sponge. With care, and conviction.

Frank held his breath, looked down with faint interest, observed the way Matt’s hand brushed past his lower abdomen. Heartbeat skidded.

The clang of a belt buckle being opened.

Matt worked open the button to Frank’s utility pants – difficult because of how wet they now were due to the water and blood. Another intake of breath from Frank. Warm hands. Matt dragged them downwards, knuckles brushing past Frank’s boxers, his thighs.

“Shot in the leg.” Frank murmured, gaze fixated upon Matt’s hands.

Matt chuckled softly because he already knew. Paused before he pulled the pants down to Frank’s ankles. “Remember what I said about your targets not knowing where to shoot?” Though the relief was evident – all vital organs missed, yet again.

“Almost insulting.” Frank agreed roughly, letting his head fall back and rest against the lip of the bathtub.

“Tell me.” Matt knew there was no fight left in Frank, could hear it in his defeated tone, was almost concerned. Nothing kept the Punisher down. Nothing. Not even the Grim Reaper could dampen Frank Castle's spirits regarding all things worthy of nightmares. Some people just had a taste for blood, and Frank was one of them.

“Can’t.” Frank swallowed, letting his eyes close. Allowed the burn to overtake him once again. Remembered. Remembered how he had promised Matt that he’d find the girl.

He hadn’t.

Matt frowned but didn’t prod the matter further. Let it rest between them, unspoken about, and it prickled the air around them. Made it harder to breathe, somehow.

He continued to lather Frank’s body with the antibacterial soap, silently washing off the blood and the grime. Fingertips tracing the defined abdomen, deliberately avoiding the nipples, wondered why Frank’s skin was so warm. Almost as if Frank were feverish.

Frank was worlds away, mind preoccupied, no longer registering reality. Knew Matt’s hands were on him. The sensation grounded him, and he didn’t give voice to false complaints. They’d been through too much to allow for anything less than the truth.

Matt almost breathed a sigh of relief when he realized that there were no other physical wounds, save for the two bullets that had pierced Frank’s skin. Definitely a bruised face. Came to the understanding that the excessive blood on the Punisher was someone else’s. Plural: others’ blood.

“Gonna get you some clothes.” Matt murmured, voice grave.

Frank stopped him, a vice-like grip on his forearm. “I’m leaving.”

Matt raised an eyebrow and decided to ignore the delirious man sitting in his bathtub. Headed towards his bathroom to find something for Frank to sleep in. Came back with his arms full of warm clothing, and a towel.

“Frank. Come here.” Matt beckoned, standing near to what he assumed was the bathtub. Held the cotton towel open, for Frank to step into.

Frank opened his eyes to the sight, disbelief on his features. What the fuck was happening here? 

He shook his head, incredulous. Seconds passed.

Finally, Frank snorted, and stood up in defeat, grumbling about how ridiculous this was. Unlaced and yanked off his boots. Stepped out of his pants. Picked them both up from the now crimson water, and rested them on the tiled floor beside the bathtub. Took his sweet time with it.

Then, he stepped into the open towel that Matt held up, dressed in nothing but his fucking boxers. Again, didn’t give a shit.

Had it been anyone else, anyone other than Matt Murdock, he would've been long gone before they even stepped into the bathroom.

Matt wrapped the towel around Frank’s shoulders, said nothing. He felt as if something in the air had changed, but dismissed it.

“You gonna wipe me down, too?” Frank raised an eyebrow, voice rough.

Matt cleared his throat, and let go, stepping backwards. “You need suturing.”

Frank shrugged the shirt on that Matt gave him. Silent gratitude. “I’ll handle it when I get home.” He exhaled, flinching when the material came into contact with the bleeding bullet wound. Ignored the sensation, rolled up the sleeves. Pulled on the pants he was given.

“No, I don’t think so. Not letting you go anywhere like this, Frank.” Matt blocked the doorway. Frank was bigger than him in terms of muscle, but they were the same height – wouldn’t be easy for Frank to get past him.

Frank’s jaw ticked, and the words were all it took to push him over the edge. “Is that right?”

Matt shrugged carelessly with one shoulder, facing where the gravelly voice came from.

Frank scoffed. “Get out of my way.”

“Make me.” The Devil smirked, challenge present if Frank were to accept it.

Frank tossed the towel aside roughly. In a swift movement, he twisted Matt’s arm behind his back, and muscled him to the bathroom wall. Leaned against him with his entire body, and heard the wince that escaped Matt’s lips when his broken arm came into contact with the wall.

“You’re becoming a real pain in my ass, you know that, Red?” Frank hissed, lips dangerously near Matt’s ear. Pushed in even further, shifted his weight so that it was his front against Matt’s back.

“Yeah? Why don’t you tell me what really happened out there, huh, Frank? Maybe serve less of your bullshit, this time?” Matt grunted in defiance.

“So you can tell me a little bedtime story to make it all better? That the plan, Murdock?” Frank growled, body burning with the pain from his abdomen and left leg.

“If it helps.” Matt smiled sarcastically, cheek still against the wall. Heartbeat beginning to race.

Frank chuckled bitterly at that, the laugh a warm sound.

Definitely nicer than most of the things Matt had heard in his lifetime.

“Alright. Gonna give you the choice, Red.” Frank grinned wolfishly, mouth near Matt’s ear. Knew it caused goosebumps to arise on Matt’s forearm, because he could feel them under his fingertips.

Blamed it on the deliriousness.

Frank let his lips rest on Matt’s nape, teeth dragging along the warm skin. Felt the thick neck muscle there, made minute movements. Noticed the way Matt’s hair brushed against his cheek.

Matt froze. Yes, the Punisher was known for his torture techniques, but what in the hell was this?

Frank steadied Matt’s shoulders with calloused hands. “Shh, shh.” His other hand cascaded and traced the planes of Matt’s back, the expanse of it. Felt the muscles roll underneath the shirt Matt was wearing. Fingertips pausing near Matt’s lower back. Knuckles gently rubbing the area there, knew Matt had been injured there recently, because he was the one who stitched him back up.

“So, you decide for me, yeah?” Frank nipped Matt’s ear playfully, head still low. Wondered how far he could take this. Surprised that he hadn’t yet been shoved to the floor, punched in the face, or worse. Knew Matt could do it despite his injured state. Which meant that Matt was resisting against his urges to lash out in defence. Curiosity got the better of Frank.

He tested the waters, delved into the uncharted territory. He was nothing but a man who blurred borders.

“Stay, or go?”

Frank’s throaty voice caused a shiver up Matt’s spine, and Matt leaned away, trying to regain composure. Didn’t know what this was. Couldn’t understand. Mind racing. Frank’s lips still on the back of his neck, those familiar hands still caressing him – kneading. The pressure of Frank leaning into him, one knee between his own, arm still twisted. Frank’s chest against his back. Felt Frank’s stubble brush his nape. Hyper senses in overdrive. Yet somehow, somehow, he couldn’t make his mouth form the words for Frank to let him go, for him to leave – no, didn’t want to.

“Stay.” 

Chapter Text

"Stay."

Silence.

Or similar to it, anyway. For Matt, it was a prattling world. Everything prattled. Leaves as they tumbled in the breeze. People’s heartbeats when they were nervous about something. The wails of the floorboards in houses whenever someone walked over them. The antennae of the train lines as the New York subways rattled past. Grasshoppers that created such a long racketing shrillness, then suddenly cut out, so that you found yourself aware once again of silence. Except that it wasn’t silence at all, it was a low, continuous rustling and buzzing and humming, as if each thing’s presence was as much the sound it made as its shape, or the way it had, which was all its own, of moving or being still.

Frank stepped backwards, hands immediately drawn back to his side. Breathed heavily, having not anticipated this. Wanted to land his fist on that jaw of Matt Murdock’s. The same fucking jaw that he’d shaved earlier with such… care. Tenderness. Wanted Matt to kick him out, wanted Matt to tell him to fuck right off and never return. That was what he had been expecting. It had been what he was waiting for – had been counting down the seconds until he jogged down those stairs and swore to never see the man again.

Not this. Not the… what the fuck was that? Vulnerability? Not the goddamn vulnerability in Matt’s voice, as if Frank was a person that actually deserved to see that side of him. Because he wasn’t. Had his own fucking issues, and his own shit to deal with.

Well, this was awkward. Matt pushed himself off the wall, heartbeat steadying. Unclenched and clenched the fist of his previously twisted arm to examine his range of movement. Held his broken one close to his chest again, defiant.

“The fuck did you just say?” Frank growled, not missing a beat, wrapping a hand around Matt’s throat. Held him close to the wall again. What was this? Some kind of joke?

Matt had known the arm was coming, hadn’t bothered fighting it, now felt the weight of Frank’s palm against his Adam’s apple. Knew the man was beyond deadly, knew he could be joining the list of men that Frank had killed tonight. Didn’t need vision to know that Frank was currently glowering at him, murder in his eyes. Didn’t care.

“You heard me.” Matt grinned, cheeks dimpling. Suddenly finding this very amusing, because he had, in fact, just given the man who was currently choking him a bubble bath earlier.

“You outta your mind, Red?” The same brashness, less hesitancy within his tone this time.

“Might as well be.” Matt’s smile widened. Still trying to recover from the sensation of Frank Castle’s lips on his neck. The same neck that Frank now had his calloused hand around.  

Frank remained silent, staring at the man he was facing. A man against the wall of his own bathroom. How Frank was still dripping from the stupid bath that this same man had given him. The way this man had once stitched him back up, all those weeks ago, when he had one foot in the grave. The man he had let down today, unbeknownst to him, because he hadn’t found the girl. Because the girl was long dead, along with others her age.

He dropped his hand from Matt’s neck. Clenched his fist to avoid doing it again. Looked away.

“I mean it, Frank. You know you can’t go out looking like this. The NYPD have shut down the streets, and the van’s probably long gone. Stay. Let me help you.” Matt cleared his throat, tried to ignore the discomfort from the throttling, and tilted Frank’s chin up to get his attention. Had known that Frank had since looked away to avoid facing him.

Frank flinched at the touch, his chin in Matt’s hand. His eyes were glossy, and he had a faraway look on his face.

“Why are you doing this?” Frank finally murmured, unable to understand. Wanted to understand, goddamn it. “You feeling the need to contribute towards some… some type of charity? That what it is? Because whatever it is, I’m not what you’re looking for.”

Because I care. Matt swallowed the words down. “Would be dead, if it weren’t for you, Frank. Had you not stumbled into my apartment that day, I…” He trailed off. Tried to gather his thoughts together and present them into one convenient package. Cleared his throat. “You help me. I help you. Isn’t that how the world works?”

There was no doubt that Frank had just received his plain answer. No doubt at all, no ambiguity, and not a margin for uncertainty. It was exactly the kind of answer that Frank preferred. Straightforward; black and white. Frank listened to each and every word, remained silent. Scrutinized the other, studied Matt. Long, drawn-out moments of silence.

Then, the sound of abandoned laughter. Warm, and genuine. As if Frank couldn’t quite believe what it was that he was hearing. Shaking his head in the end, with utter disbelief on his features, eyeing Matt as if he still couldn’t quite figure him out.

Something in Matt gave way at the sound, as unexpected as it was. Wanted to hear more of it. Wondered what the world would be like if Frank Castle smiled more often. If he were not so reserved, not so dismal. Preferably without all those damned machine guns too.

“Alright, altar boy. Your sermon worked. Come get to work.” Frank smirked lazily, patting Matt on the same arm he had twisted earlier, before exiting the bathroom. Left behind a blinking Matt Murdock who wasn’t entirely sure of what had just happened.

“Watch yourself.” Frank grunted, shirt lifted with one hand to reveal his torso, looking down at Matt from under his heavy lids.

“Shut up.” Matt gritted, trying to close the wound with the remaining thread in his hand. Had to sense where Frank’s blood was coming from due to the lack of sight. Knew that he had accidentally pierced the wrong area with the medical needle. A few centimeters off, but that was all it had taken for blood to trickle down Frank’s lower abdomen.

“You tryna kill me, Red? Cause this is one way to do it.” Frank muttered, resting his head back on the bed’s headboard.

“Oh, you’ll survive. Which is… unfortunate.” Matt pulled the needle through, heard the sound of the wound being pulled together, the gentle swish of the skin. Lowered his head, and bit off the end of the thread. Traced the bumpy suturing thoughtfully with his fingertip.

Frank swatted Matt’s hand away, and let his shirt drop back down. Didn’t give a shit about the new stitching, it’d heal up eventually. He’d have to dig the bullet itself out sometime soon, and the one in his recently stitched leg too. Possibly knock on Curtis’s door so that he could tend to it. But he’d be fine for today. Which, when in a world where tomorrow wasn’t promised, would be enough.

“Not sleeping on your shitty couch.” Frank glanced at Matt.

“No, you’re not.” Matt confirmed, tilting his head towards the space next to Frank. The expanse of space that Frank had slept on the night before. Was grateful that Frank had even accepted his offer in the first place. Slightly triumphant, too.

Frank stood up, rubbed his stubbled jaw with a hand. “Oh, so I get the bumpy side of the mattress? That how you treat all your guests?”

Matt would roll his eyes if he could. Only Frank. Only Frank pulled this kind of shit.

“Here I was, thinking I could put a pea under the mattress without you realizing, princess.” Matt’s cheeks dimpled.

Frank chuckled at that, shaking his head. Walked over to the other side dutifully, settled down in the new position, made himself comfortable. No need for courtesies, they both knew what was what. Turned the lamp off because who the fuck could sleep if it wasn’t pitch-dark?

Matt lay down on his own side of the bed, where Frank had previously been, with one hand underneath his head and the broken one held to his chest carefully. It was becoming tiring, reminded him why he never fared well with broken limbs. Always such a bitch to deal with.

“You good?” Frank looked over at the man beside him, had heard the wince of pain.

“Better than you are.” Matt raised an eyebrow in the dark, irony dripping from him.

Frank remained silent.

“Tell me what you saw.” Matt knew that whatever it had been, it had clung desperately onto Frank’s skin, hadn’t let go of him. Had the Punisher in a vice he was unable to escape from. Truth be told, his heart had sunk when he realized that Frank had returned from the warehouse alone, no little girl in tow, no kids at all in tow for that matter. Had heard the anguish within Frank’s voice when he’d first spoken once they reunited under the gleam of the Hell’s Kitchen’s streetlights. Yet, he had remained hopeful. Didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Wanted to give Frank a chance to explain.

Frank let his eyes adjust to the darkness. “And what good would it do if I told you?”

Matt scoffed, turning to face where the voice had come from. “Frank.”

Frank continued to stare at the ceiling, nonchalant. “I made them pay.” Nothing else offered. Take it or leave it, because that was the most he’d offer. Nothing else he could do. Nothing except lay there, and revisit the image of… decomposing bodies, so small that he had almost missed them when he’d first walked in. Hadn’t noticed the smell because it was one he’d long since become used to. The sight itself, however, almost had him heaving. Small, and lifeless bodies.

Similar to Lisa and Frank Jr’s when –

When what had happened, happened.

Matt leaned over to place a hand on Frank’s shoulder, startling Frank out of his thoughts.

Frank exhaled heavily, shutting his eyes.

Thinking is what kills people, Red. You learn to shut that shit off.

Yet, he couldn't bring himself to do it now. Head spinning. Wanted to remember, it was the only way to punish himself for what had happened.

“Frank.” Matt repeated, patiently. All the time in the world.

“She’s dead.” Frank suddenly rasped, voice hoarse. Eyes still closed.

“They killed them all, Matt. Starved them off, or something. I… I don’t know. Didn’t stay there long enough to figure it out. Cages. There were cages. Isn’t that fucked up, Red? I’m not one to talk, but –”

Frank was interrupted by the hand that Matt clamped over his mouth, closer to Frank than he had been before, shoulders practically touching.

Matt had been steeling himself for it, had almost expected it, knew deep down that it had to be his fault, if he had just acted sooner, if he had done something that day. But he hadn’t. And now, nothing could’ve prepared him for the way his breath got knocked out of him, as if he’d just been punched in the stomach by someone with the intent to kill him. He found it difficult to breathe. Tried to steady himself. And when that failed, he let the grief sink in. Let it make itself home within his consciousness, once again.

Frank gently took Matt’s left hand off his mouth, held it close to his own chest instead. Rested his own two hands over it, reassuringly. Permitted the helplessness to swallow him whole. Kept his eyes shut, because his world was so dark, that it no longer mattered whether or not his eyes were open.

Matt exhaled. Felt the thud of Frank’s heartbeat underneath his palm. Steady. It had a calming effect on him, brought him a strange form of comfort.

Stick had once told Matt that the human eye was the world’s loneliest creation. How so much of the world passed through the pupil, and still, it held nothing. The eye, alone in its socket, didn’t even know that there was another one, just like it, an inch away, just as hungry, as empty.

And perhaps that was what connected him and Frank Castle, in this terrible, tragic way. The both of them with nothing to hold close to their chests. Alone. Empty. The similarity that drew them close together, whether they liked it or not.

Except Matt was aware of Frank’s presence now, and he could no longer pretend that it didn’t exist. He was no longer the lone eye in its socket, because he was now aware that another existed, only an inch away. Over the past few days, Frank’s presence was what kept him alive. Both physically, and mentally. It was Frank’s gentle murmurs, his irritated lash-outs, his calls to action, his tentative touch, that kept Matt on his feet. Rose him from his deathbed, when he had been so certain his final days were here.

So who was Matt, to judge a man like Frank, to judge himself, for something that they had both failed to do, despite dedicating the remainder of their lives towards it? To save, to protect?

Perhaps judgement could wait another day. In the waiting room, with its coat on the hook, because it could take a while before it was its turn to be acknowledged.

“I’m sorry.” Matt spoke into the darkness, grave.

“Shh.” Frank didn’t address the apology, didn’t understand the need for it.

“It’s my fault. If I hadn’t let my guard down that day, then I – ”

“Hey, hey, hey. You cut that shit out, you hear me?” Frank turned, interrupting Matt from whatever confession he had been about to make. Didn’t care to hear it because he knew the blame was unnecessary, untrue.

“I say I’m not a killer, but this is the shit that I cause, Frank. What difference does that make?” Matt whispered, words barely audible. Hurt to speak.

Frank instantly drew Matt closer to his chest, held him tight. Hands around Matt’s back. Maybe to quieten him, maybe to reassure himself. Didn’t matter. He cradled Matt, let the words lie heavy between them. Rested his chin on Matt’s shoulder, moving carefully so he didn’t cause further pain to Matt and his recent injuries. Felt the man practically melt underneath his fingertips.

“Listen to me, it wasn’t you that caused that, alright? It was them. Them. Nothing would’ve changed that. Not me, not you. Shit, if I… if I could empty my magazine on those motherfuckers again, I would. A hundred times over. That’s me. I’m the killer. That’s not you, Red. That’s not what you are. You remember that, okay? You gotta remember that.” Frank spoke quietly, lips near Matt’s ear.

Matt gave into the embrace. Let the words sink in. Would dwell on them later, but for now, he simply listened. He let himself be held, felt Frank’s heartbeat against his own chest, the reminder of life, the reminder of the lack of one.

“You still got faith, right? Hang onto it. World’s a whole lot less empty that way.” Frank murmured, voice deliberately low, earnest. He was practically speaking into the crevice of Matt’s neck, felt the flushed skin there, decided that Matt smelt nice. Better than nice, actually. Maybe it was cologne.

Get a grip, Frank.

“Yeah.” Matt breathed into Frank’s shirt, gripping it tightly. “You did all you could. You know that, don’t you?”

Frank told himself that they weren’t words he had needed to hear, but the reality was, the words infiltrated him anyway, soothed the ache in his heart. He skinned himself, or at least admitted the gravity of the weight he bore.

Frank didn’t say anything. He raised his lips to Matt’s forehead, let them rest there. In understanding, in compassion. Eyes still shut as he delivered the kiss, fleeting.

Matt tensed, heart thudding. Frank’s lips were soft against his skin, his face warm, the stubble something he was becoming accustomed to. Surprisingly, it warmed him to his core, almost drove away the nights of loneliness, the ache. He didn’t pretend to understand it, but he found himself remaining still. Leaned into the touch.

“Answer me.” Matt exhaled, ignoring the pain from his broken arm. Was almost disappointed when Frank pulled away to face him again, their noses practically touching. Frank’s hands remained around him, though. Grounding him. As if to say: you can put your strength down, I’m right here with you.

“Yeah.” Frank husked. Felt his lids become heavy, felt the familiar pull of sleep dragging him under. Maybe it had something to do with the man beside him. He was relaxed, he realized. Despite the pain that shot up his torso whenever he made a movement, he was comfortable. And how fucking ironic that was, considering it happened to be in this shitty apartment. Shit, who the hell cared.

Matt allowed his own eyes to close, seemingly satisfied with the answer. Felt Frank’s stubble brush against his own cheek. Close. They were so close. Too close. Only a hair’s breadth away.

“Turn around.” Frank demanded, suddenly.

Matt opened his eyes, raised an eyebrow in the dark.

“Gonna ruin that arm of yours if you sleep on it like that, Red. Turn around.” Frank explained tiredly, hardly able to string the last few words together. Blood loss wasn’t his best buddy. Needed the goddamn sleep.

Matt obliged. Faced the other way. And, Frank was right, the pressure eased off his broken arm. Felt better.

Frank didn’t waste a second, and shifted himself next to Matt again, an arm lazily resting on Matt’s waist. Frank ended up closer than expected, his entire front pressed against Matt’s back. His thighs underneath the back of Matt’s knees. Could feel the rigidness of Matt’s torso with the hand that rested there comfortably, stitches alongside the abs.

Shit, this looked and felt to all intents and purposes like cuddling after all. Whatever. Fuck it. Matt could invoice him for the trouble, for all he cared. Couldn’t bear moving again. Frank hesitated. Blamed it on the blood loss. Did things to a man’s head. He burrowed his face into the crevice of Matt’s neck, tightened the grip around Matt’s waist.

Holding Matt as he relaxed into sleep. It was unfamiliar to hold a man like this, like a comrade, with some odd kinship, an understanding that he found hard to form into precise thoughts or words. Protectiveness played a role, recognizing something of himself – younger, and simultaneously less messed up – in somebody that used to be an enemy and now was just another fighting man. Part of a select elite of killers, and yet impervious to his own moral standards.

“Frank – ”

“Shut up.” Frank grunted, now comfortable, didn’t dare move his leg again because the bullet wound was starting to rile him again.

Matt smirked but said nothing. He felt Frank trace his abdomen soothingly, and he shivered at the touch. Couldn’t understand what it was about those calloused fingertips, the scarred hands, a hard chest behind him, biceps that stilled him, the muscled thighs that dug underneath him – but he drew comfort from it. Felt himself give in, let go of his moral obligations, and simply allowed himself to be held. In the arms of Frank goddamn Castle.

Matt let his eyes close once again.

And if he could, he’d wake up early to bribe the coming day to be kind to them. 

Chapter Text

“Daddy!” Lisa squealed with laughter, tiny hands covering her face shyly. She was at the age where she considered her dad the greatest superhero of them all; her father being someone that protected the country, protected her.

Frank chuckled, knees in the sand, a hand smoothening her damp hair. He littered her face with kisses. Pretended to miss a spot.

Lisa giggled, tapping her nose dutifully. Making Frank raise an eyebrow as he feigned a lack of understanding, as if to say: what could you possibly mean?

Lisa kissed the tip of Frank’s nose, then tapped her own again, indicating she was awaiting the same treatment. Frank couldn’t resist the grin that spread on his features, the warm fluttery feeling within his chest, as if it was his own beating heart that was right there in his hands – demanding a smooch on the nose. He obliged, and then kissed the top of her forehead too, just for good measure. Stood up, picked her up with ease, and twirled her into the air. Heard her shrieks of joy. Caught her back in his arms, held her close to his chest, tickled her stomach, her laughter music to his ears.

He felt another little creature run up to him, felt arms around his legs. Looked down to see his little boy, the spitting image of him. Ruffled his hair, tilted his chin upwards. The three of them stood there in the shallow water, the beach’s shore not too far away. Could see the sky melt into the sea, from here. The sunlight causing the water to sparkle, to glimmer.

“Hey.” A gentle voice murmured, warm hands on his waist.

Frank felt the long hair brush his face, and he turned to smile into the kiss. Maria. “Hey.” He murmured back, entranced. Held Lisa in one arm, and used the other hand to run his fingers down Maria’s face. Tilted her chin upwards for another kiss.

Was okay, for once. No one to fight, no longer in enemy lands, had a while before his next deployment, could relax, could let go. Just for now. Just for these few moments.

That is, until he blinked again, and the sky became dark, and there was no longer water pooling around his feet. Instead, it was blood. An ocean of red. His kids no longer in his arms, around his legs. His wife no longer beside him. Blood trickling down his cheekbones, his nose. Face coloured crimson. Palms stained scarlet.

He turned helplessly, eyes searching.

Saw rifles, saw cages. Bits of brains, skeletons. Saw bodies decomposed past recognition on the familiar shore of the beach. Recognized them. His heart dropped.

Opened his mouth to yell, to holler, say something, goddamnit. Tried to move.

But he was stuck, and no sound left his mouth.

Frank opened his eyes, breathing heavily, rubbing his face wearily with a hand. Tried to remember, tried to forget. The dream faded away gradually, disintegrating on his fingertips, no longer tormenting his mind. The morning closed in like water over a stone, air around a bird.

Hated the mornings. Every apprehension came crashing down, suffocating, burying. The thudding realization that you’d always wake up the same fucking person. With the same ghosts, and the same face in the mirror.

Frank tried to steady his breathing, a hand underneath his head, eyes closing again from sheer exhaustion. Wouldn’t admit it to himself. 

He realized he wasn’t alone in the bed and opened his eyes again. Glanced downwards to see a corded forearm around his torso, holding him tightly. Matt’s fingers dug into his side, which meant it was difficult for him to move, unless he shoved the arm off himself.

Fuck. Frank hesitated.

Turned to face Matt Murdock, who was still deeply asleep. Used the seconds, the long and seemingly endless seconds of the morning, to look at Matt. Truly look at him; to observe the man, perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps out of intrigue. Noticed the way that Red’s eyelashes rested on his cheekbones, how his lips were slightly parted, hair ruffled and falling over his forehead, the lack of wrinkles – how carefree the man seemed in his sleep. As if he were rid of all vices. Was nothing more than a man resting.

A strange sight. Definitely not a bad one to wake up to, but unfamiliar. The arm lazily slung around his waist had a reassuring weight to it. Anchoring. Felt… nice. Had never been held this way before; wondered silently when they had changed positions over the night.

Frank reached out, movements slow and precise, and smoothened Matt’s hair back, away from his forehead. Exposed more of Matt’s face. Rested his hand in Matt’s hair, noticed how soft it was. Had to force himself to breathe.

Matt opened his eyes, slowly, akin to a kitten awakening from a slumber. Brain hadn’t yet come to terms with the fact that he was awake – not yet spurred. Half still in his dreams. He struggled to piece together reality as he instinctively took his arm off Frank’s abdomen and stretched instead. Carelessly. Finally, he realized whose hand was in his hair, whose solid chest it was against his, why the bed was warmer than usual.

“Hey.” Matt murmured, smiling faintly.

Frank flinched. He immediately took his hand away, brought it back by his side. Wanted to move – move away from this.

Matt’s smile was disarming; made Frank think irrational thoughts. It dimpled Matt’s cheeks, made him look younger. Frank wasn’t sure if he even deserved a genuine smile like that; one full of… affection? Could that be affection? There was no fucking way. Shit, shit, shit.

“Hey.” Frank exhaled, because what the fuck else was he meant to say? What, was he supposed to tell Matt that he’d been watching him sleep for the past few minutes, practically sharing the same breath? Yeah, fuck that. Stupid idea.

Matt rubbed his face wearily, having had the best few hours of sleep that he had gotten in a long time. He lay on his back, facing the ceiling. And, as usual, could hear conversations from his favorite coffee cart approximately a mile away. Wanted some himself.

“Coffee?” Matt offered, as if this were a regular occurrence, him waking up practically spooning Frank Castle.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He heard Frank yawn.

Matt rose from his bed – was a good time as any to start the day. Needed painkillers because his arm was acting up. Knew Frank’s wounds had to be killing him too; they’d only been stitched a few hours ago. Maybe even needed another look at them since it had been such a hasty job. A regular man would probably require morphine after being shot in locations like those, but Matt thought it’d be safe to assume that even painkillers were a second thought for Frank Castle – pain a familiar friend for the Italian-American.

“Where are you going?” Frank spoke, voice hoarse. Missed the warmth of a body beside his own. Squinted into the daylight, scratched his jaw. Way too bright in this bedroom. Brighter than what should’ve been reasonable.

“Church. It’s a Sunday.” Matt looked back, had to bite back a grin.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Frank groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I’m not coming.” He grunted, turning over, burrowing himself back into his pillow. Told himself he needed the sleep. Was suddenly more than willing to admit to himself the extent of his injuries. Definitely couldn’t get out of bed – not today. Maybe not even tomorrow. Matt would have to ask someone else. Very unfortunately.

Matt grinned, shaking his head. “I’m messing with you, sinner. Let’s go get that coffee. Fit a walk in.” Leaned on the doorway, waiting to hear the rustle of bedsheets to confirm that Frank had gotten up.

A walk? Matt Murdock was nothing more than a goddamn golden retriever in human form. “I’m sick.” Frank mumbled into the pillow, suddenly finding it a very comfortable bed.

Matt paused for a second, as if trying to figure something out. Then, he raised an eyebrow. “You’re not sick. Your temperature’s perfectly fine. Heartbeat’s steady, too. Get up.” Matt said as he walked out of the bedroom.

How the fuck Matt knew something like that, Frank had no idea. But getting up? Not happening. Daredevil had quite the reputation in the streets, didn’t he? He could take the wheel today, for all Frank cared. The Punisher’s day off. The bullet-wound on his abdomen was a fucking bitch.

Frank cracked an eye open despite the pounding in his skull. “I’m dying.” Frank tried again. “Better say your goodbyes now, Red.” He spoke up again, trying to keep his voice as level as possible, the humor not lost on him. Covered his head with the pillow, willed for the Devil to go away. Another ironic thought.

Matt sighed. “Frank.”

“Matthew.” Frank mocked, even losing his own drawl to sound more like the man facing him.

Matt couldn’t decide if he wanted to smile or to strangle the man still in bed. “Get up.”

“On one condition.” Frank’s voice was muffled from underneath the pillows, and Matt rolled his eyes.

“And what’s that?”

“Wear the red suit.” Frank demanded, biceps bulging as he brought the blankets up closer to his chest.

“Why?” Monotone. Matt wanted to bang his head on the nearest wall, maybe bang Frank Castle’s head on the same wall too. How infuriating could a man be?

Frank finally revealed his face as he turned to face Matt. “Makes for one hell of a sight.” He smirked, before arising, stretching as he did so. Limped his way over, would take a while for his gait to return to normal. The bullet had only briefly pierced through skin on his leg last night, but it had still penetrated muscle. “The horns, too. What costume store d’ya shop at, Red? Any Halloween discounts?”

“Glad I’m able to entertain you, Frank.” Matt sighed wearily, as he followed him out of the bedroom.

Time flowed past indifferently above them; minutes and hours no longer holding any meaning. By then, anguish and uncertainty had become the surface on which they slipped and slid, losing balance, dignity, and pride.

They sat on nearby stairs that led up to an apartment block, having bought their coffee. Now nestling it within their palms: the familiar blue Anthora cups with flat lids. The guy behind the coffee cart yelled at nearby pedestrians to line up like adults. Taxis honking as they sped by. Bums on the street asking for spare change.

Comforting sounds.

“Pay your rent when you get back.” Frank drawled, his back against the concrete. Remembered the eviction notice.

“Careful there, Frank. You’re starting to sound like you care about me.” Matt smiled, thumb tracing the lid of his coffee cup.

“Yeah, well.” Frank had to look away, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Companiable silence. It was too early in the morning to think about anything grave. It was that time of the day where it was far more appropriate to think about everything, and yet nothing at all. Thoughts that held no weight, required no energy. The air was crisp around them, indicating that the seasons were changing yet once again.

Habit kept Frank’s mind alert, eyes darting across the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. The characteristic resembled that of nervousness, but there wasn’t a nervous bone left in his body. It was cold out. He felt it seep into his body, dragging icy teeth over what little exposed skin he had left. Tucked his other hand into his pocket in a piss-poor effort for warmth.

“God, how silent are thy fair children. That they never scream in fear, or kill their sweet kind, in thy name. As we do, and have forever done.” Frank muttered over the rim of his coffee cup, voice grave as he recited the familiar words, a lenient eye on the people that walked past them. Dressed in varying layers, in attempt to cover up from the cold. The sky was overcast. Grey, and gloomy.

“Sounds tragic. What is that?” Matt murmured, sipping his own. He rested his back against the entrance to the building, walking stick tucked by his side. A pretense, more than anything else. His injuries were healing, and he felt better. Better than he had in weeks. Arm would still take a while to straighten back up, however.

Frank shook his head, dismissive. “Eh. Some poem from way back when.” Rubbed his face tiredly with a hand. Felt like shit.

“You can read?” Matt smirked. Only half-joking.

“Hilarious.” Frank huffed gloomily, but his dark eyes gleamed with humor. Reached over to poke Matt in his abdomen, where he knew his stitches were.

Matt leaned away before Frank could do so, reflexes like lightning. Instead, he gripped Frank’s thigh. Hard. Knew it was the same area he had sutured up the night before. Where Frank had been shot.

Frank instantly recoiled. “Son of a bitch.” Frank hissed at the pain that shot up his leg, spilling coffee everywhere. Wetting the black shirt and utility pants he was wearing. He turned to glare at Matt, eyes narrowed.

Matt lazily pointed towards the coffee cart. Or where the sound of it came from, anyway. “You don’t suppose he keeps any napkins handy?” Stifled a grin.

“You’re a menace to society.” Frank grumbled. Had no option but to sit there, clothes wet. Rested the now empty coffee cup by his side.

Matt laughed, shaking his head. “You’re adorable.” He couldn’t help but say, knowing that Frank was sitting beside him with his arms crossed, most likely pouting like a toddler who had just had a temper tantrum.

Frank felt his face heat up, and he wondered how long it’d take to choke Matt Murdock to death. Maybe a minute if he acted fast. A bit more than that if someone walking by noticed.

Eh. Wasn’t worth the effort. Frank pretended to stretch, and at the last second, stole Matt’s coffee from his hand instead. Sat back again, took a sip. Winced.

“Christ, how much sugar did you put into this shit?”

And, with that, normalcy was restored.

A knock on the door.

Frank had been sharpening his knife, seated near the circular table, had been leaning back onto the chair comfortably, taking his sweet time with the task at hand. Matt had since retreated into the bedroom, had decided to sleep his pounding headache off. So, the apartment was silent. Save for the occasional sound of water dripping, the fridge humming, rats clawing behind the walls. All in all, a nice Sunday afternoon.

So, there were no thoughts behind it, no moments of panic. Frank reached for his handgun, aimed it towards the entryway. Held it steady, irritated. It wasn’t goddamn Christmas, why would there be visitors?

More thudding on the door. A muffled voice from behind it.

Frank didn’t move. Remained seated. Gun still raised. Finger on the trigger.

The door creaked open. Reluctantly, as if even it didn’t want to give in.

“Matt, you in here?” Called out a cautious voice, wavering slightly.

Frank frowned, still leaning back, knew the voice sounded familiar. Couldn’t place it. Heard footsteps approach, heard the second door that led to the apartment itself open. Hand still steady.

“I’ve been – Oh, Jesus Christ!”

Foggy Nelson.

Foggy shuffled back behind the doorway as soon as he caught sight of the gun raised at him, and then did a double take when he saw the man behind it. A man with an expression that definitely wasn’t friendly. Face littered with bruises, and cuts. Dark eyes. Strong jaw. A nose that had been broken too many times. A man wearing – what was that, one of Matt’s hoodies that Foggy himself had given him back in college? A man that looked tempted to kill him. Someone that Foggy had thought was long dead, and he had definitely been sleeping better with that assumed knowledge.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Frank caught a glimpse of who it was. The light hair that grazed the man’s shoulders, those curious eyes. Windy, Sunny, Foggy, or whatever fucking climate his name was inspired by. The other attorney. Nelson and Murdock. Right. The Nelson. Who he assumed to be Matt’s right hand. Frank tossed the gun aside, and it clattered as it landed on the table.  

“I have pepper spray.” Foggy warned. “And I’m not afraid to use it, Castle. Raise your hands above your head while we wait for the authorities to arrive.” He peered, hands on the doorway, head jutting out almost comically.

Frank raised an eyebrow, disinterested, arms crossed.

“Tell me what you did to him. Confess. You can still get out of this if you do.” Foggy narrowed his eyes, was relieved to see that there was no longer a gun pointed at him.

Frank scoffed, amused. Cuddled him last night, actually. I plead guilty, judge.  

“The show’s over, Frank.” Foggy continued, voice laced with warning. His eyes darted around the apartment, and he tensed when he didn’t see Matt anywhere. “What. Did. You. Do.”

Frank stretched lazily. “He talks a lot of shit, doesn’t he, your friend? All this yapping about morality, blah blah, how we should never kill. A bunch of fucking baloney, right? And, you see, the thing is, someone like me can only tolerate so much of that. Gets old, fast. Became fucking annoying, yeah? So, I did what I had to.” He bared his teeth in some semblance of a grin, enjoying this more than he should have.

Foggy grimaced. “Answer me.” He finally gritted. Wasn’t stupid, wasn’t going to step another foot into the apartment. Knew what the Punisher was capable of. Hadn’t exactly made peace with his maker, yet.

Frank raised his hands in mock surrender. “He wasn’t in pain for long, Nelson. Made it quick, and clean. Even let him say a prayer beforehand. Thought he deserved that much, you know? I’m not a total barbarian.” Tried to stifle a smile.

The last straw. Foggy immediately stepped forward into the apartment, lunging for Frank, fueled by rage and sheer panic.

The chair clattered behind Frank as he stood up himself, awaiting the attack.

“Foggy?” Matt called out, rubbing his face wearily, standing outside his bedroom. Had woken up, having heard the commotion. It had been amusing at first, but when he had heard Foggy’s heart begin to race, he knew he had to step in. Knew Frank would continue to torment him if he didn’t intervene, because, well, that was just Frank being Frank.

Foggy paused, mid action, hands still outreached for the Punisher’s throat. Frank stared down at him, smirking. Foggy faced Matt, features painted with surprise, having believed what Frank had said.

“Matt? Holy shit, man. Is the Punisher holding you hostage? Did he do all that to you?” Foggy instantly made his way towards Matt, stood near him, inspected the injuries from a distance, frowning. Turned to stare at Frank, almost balked.

“Jesus Christ.” Frank grumbled at the accusation, reaching for the upturned chair, and straightening it up. Sat down again, pulled himself closer to the table, picked up his knife to continue sharpening it.

Matt smiled at the irony. Wondered what Foggy would say if he told him that, no, it had been Frank who had put him back together again, physically. Hell, maybe even mentally. “No.”

“So, you’re holding Castle captive?” Foggy asked Matt, squinting, tried to make sense of the situation. Instincts kicking in, requiring him to understand the context. Had to be one thing or the other.

“Yeah. Save me.” Frank deadpanned, voice gruff. Picked up the sandpaper that was beside his other tools.

Both Foggy and Matt ignored him. “It’s… a long story, Fogs.” Matt held his broken arm closer towards his chest, hoped he didn’t look too worse for wear. Would have a hard time explaining it all, otherwise. Especially his association with Frank Castle.

Foggy remained silent, eyes flickering between the two men. Finally, he sighed. Decided that as long as Castle didn’t have his gun pointed to his forehead anymore, he’d be fine. And, Matt was safe. That was all that mattered.

“Just wanted to check up on you, man. Didn’t we have that chat about radio silence?” Foggy mumbled. “You haven’t been answering calls, haven’t been getting back to us. Even your place was bolted shut last week. Knew there was something wrong when I saw a bullet hole in your door today.” Foggy turned to glare at Frank again, as if everything was his fault.

Frank felt the eyes on him, didn’t bother glancing towards the attorney. Kept his head down, hummed a tune as he worked. Feigned obliviousness.

Matt drew in a deep breath, knew there were things to say, things to explain. Yet, couldn’t bring himself to speak. To talk about all that had happened within the span of a few days. “You doing okay? How’s Karen?” He could only muster.

Foggy didn’t take his eyes off Frank. “Yeah. I’m alright. Her, too. I’ll let her know that you’re…” Eyes back on Matt this time, Matt could tell. “That you’re alive.” He confirmed.

Guilt seeped into Matt’s pores. He sighed. “Good.”  

Foggy’s eyes scanned Matt’s face, as if searching for answers. Finally, he stepped back, seemingly convinced that his best friend was fine after all, save for the broken arm and other injuries he couldn’t see. Just happened to have a terrible habit of scaring the shit out of everyone that cared about him.

“Awkward.” Frank drawled cheerfully from where he sat. Was enjoying the show. Thought it was a cute little reunion, or whatever they called it nowadays.

He was ignored again by the two other men.

“My taxi’s still waiting downstairs, I didn’t know if you’d… answer.” Foggy announced. He was still in a shirt and tie, had been catching up with some work before he’d headed over here, hadn’t known what to expect, only that it was killing him not knowing.

“Go home, Foggy. Get some rest. I’m fine. He is, too.” Matt tilted his head towards Frank. Patted Foggy’s shoulder. “Everything’s alright.” Matt reassured, tried to smile, hoped it was convincing enough.

Foggy contemplated it, before shrugging, giving in. “You take care of yourself, you hear me? I’ll be back tomorrow, and you will be telling me everything.” He warned, voice low. “And you better consider yourself lucky that I’m not calling NYPD on your ass, you goddamn fugitive, you. I better not see you again.” Foggy spoke again, towards Frank this time. Eyes narrowed.

Frank glanced at him, raised an eyebrow.

Foggy patted Matt on the shoulder, leaned close to murmur something in his ear. Matt nodded at whatever was said. Then, Foggy walked back towards the door that he’d come from, eyeing Frank the entire time. “See ya around, Matt.”

Matt tensed when he heard the door slam behind Foggy. “I’ve got to tell him.” He murmured, walking over towards the door himself.

Frank stilled. “Tell him what?”

“About the Russians.”

Frank rose instantly, dropped the knife. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

Matt continued walking, didn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t let himself drift further away from those he cared about. Needed them to know – wanted them to know that he wasn’t just an asshole who abandoned them without reason, goddamnit.

A hand clasped around his forearm, and Matt paused.

“Don’t do this.” Frank hissed, and Matt could tell by his tone that the Punisher meant the warning. What Frank didn’t know, however, was how resolute Matt was himself.

“Let go.” Matt gritted. Didn’t know what kind of communication skills Frank relied on, but in his world, you didn’t just shun away friends that knew everything there was to know about you. He’d promised no more secrets. He was a man who kept his word.

Frank pulled him backwards, was stronger, kept him away from the door. “The fuck is wrong with you?” He grunted, arms now restraining Matt’s abdomen, struggling as he tried to keep him still.

Matt slipped out of the hold easily, too easily, elbow connecting with Frank’s abdomen. Frank flinched at the pain, had been shot there only yesterday, but remained resolute. Wrapping his arms around the man once again, wouldn’t let go. Knew what the consequences of letting go would be.

Matt kicked Frank’s injured leg out from underneath him, knew it was a low blow to target the injuries, but if he didn’t now, he’d never get the chance.

Frank lost his balance, fell backwards, hadn’t expected the agony that overwhelmed his entire body. Dragged Matt with him, and they both hit the floor with a thud.

Scrambling, Matt reached for Frank’s knife, had heard it clatter to the floor too. Held the blade close to Frank’s throat, no more rational thinking. Just him, Frank’s heartbeat, and the glinting steel. He lay on top of Frank, close, closer than necessary. Used his elbow to weigh Frank’s other arm down, couldn’t use the stupid broken arm because of how precisely Frank had stabilized it – meaning it’d require unwrapping. Had to make do with one arm. Breathed heavily.

Frank felt the blade against his throat, its sharpness, looked down from under his lids and saw how it gleamed. His own fucking knife. Knew he could switch the position if he wanted, kill Matt within seconds, Matt had made it too easy. Had to resist years of training to not lunge for the knife and bend it back against Matt’s throat instead. His fingers twitched, his muscles tightened.

Couldn’t. Couldn’t do that. Had to make Matt understand. Frank let his head drop back onto the floor.

“If not now, then it’ll be tomorrow, Frank. I’ve gotta tell him, one day or another. You don’t understand. I caused her death.” Matt’s voice was firm, and his grasp on the knife remained unyielding. Precautionary. Couldn’t trust Frank to not make a sudden movement.

Frank scoffed at that, shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe the man lying on top of him. “Goddamn naïve, is what you are, Murdock. Putting your little attorney friend in danger, that what you want?”

“I made a promise.” Chests pressed together, hell, even their groins were pressed together in this position. Matt had to lean away. Suddenly found it difficult to focus on anything but Frank’s heartbeat. The thudding of it, how it remained steady even in possible near-death situation. Pressed the blade closer to Frank’s jugular. Was never someone with a preference for weapons, usually relied on his fists to get his point across. But, when in Rome.

“No.” Frank grunted. “You made a choice. To keep your friends safe. Think about it, real hard, yeah? You made that choice as soon you started leaping off buildings with that little outfit of yours. People like us, we’re different, Red. Can’t bring them into this. Not unless you want ‘em all dead.” Frank felt the blade move against his throat with every syllable. He could feel heat, now. Friction. The weight of Matt’s body on top of his. He loosened his arm from underneath him, and rested it on Matt’s waist instead, stilling him, holding him steady.

Frank didn’t move to kill him, just to get some fucking respect. Breathed hard, heavy-lidded, catching every motion, every thought of a motion. The blade still on his bared neck.

Thought of those lips, hell, they were close enough.

Matt felt the fight within him dissolve, fizzle away. Knew Frank was right – couldn’t bear the information. Had known it all along, had desperately been clawing for a different way, a different manner to approach it with. Was no longer able to differentiate between himself and Daredevil. The lines had long since become blurred. He’d thought he could live as one, without it affecting the other. But he’d been wrong. Knew he’d been wrong the first day he’d walked into Nelson & Murdock, the ghosts of the night before still taunting him.

Still breathing heavy, still lying on top of Frank. Legs tangled. Lips practically touching. Frank’s lips on his skin, the night before. Wanted to remember, wanted to forget. Thought of the position that Frank was in, under his mercy, under his control. Didn’t know why that image did… things to him. That mouth of Frank’s, how he always had a snarky comeback, always knew exactly what to say. Wanted to busy that mouth of Frank’s – use it elsewhere. Matt could hear Frank’s heart rate beginning to race now, gradually, from the prolonged contact.  

Matt could feel Frank’s muscled thighs underneath his own, those hands on his waist, the rigid abdomen. Inhaling sharply, scent of musk, and something so goddamned male, he’d just lost his own battle. Couldn’t understand the attraction – it made his head spin, weakened his senses.

Frank stilled. His groin was practically pressing against Matt’s – and what was that, was Matt hard against him? Fuck. He moved his hand, painfully slow, until it was brushing the heat, could smell the adrenaline, practically heard the other man’s heartbeats. Swallowed hard, didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even dare to blink. All sorts of fucked up.

Even more fucked up the way his eyes were drawn to Matt’s bulge. Shit. Could smell anger and lust. No mistaking about the other’s greed. And his own. No different.

“Need a little privacy there, Red?” Frank smirked, voice rough, pressing the words out against the blade on his jugular.

Chapter Text

Matt turned to face Frank, clearly surprised, licking his lips quickly in a rare moment…of something. Didn’t have a word for it, could hardly understand it. Self-conscious didn’t quite nail it.

“Depends on whether you’d grant me some.” Matt murmured, not missing a beat, voice barely above a whisper, knew the other man had heard him because they were practically sharing the same breath.

Jesus Christ. Frank held a breath, tried to rationalize, didn’t understand what this was. Wasn’t sure if he wanted to understand. Knew only that the time for rationalizing was long gone – had left as soon as he’d walked into Matt’s apartment again the other day despite silently vowing to never see him again. Couldn’t, no, wouldn’t understand what it was about this man – this fucking frustrating man, the same that made him want to rip his own hair out most days. Wanted Matt to feel the same, wanted to tear him apart, but in other ways. Had to admit that he fucking loved the control, the knowledge that it was him who drove Matt insane.

“Get off me.” Frank demanded, the threat clear in his voice, the blade becoming more of a distraction than anything else.

Matt obliged immediately, did as he was told, moved onto the floor beside Frank. Flat on his back, chest tensing slightly. Tried to breathe. Recover. Tried to unscramble his mind, knew that he was harder than a priest next to a nun. Knife clattering by his side, no longer cared about that. Could hear nothing but Frank’s heartbeats, nothing but the way the air around Frank moved as he got up, almost as if it were accommodating to the man.

Frank tangled his left leg with Matt’s, used it to leverage himself over Matt’s body so that their positions were interchanged. One arm holding Matt’s good arm down, the other still near Matt’s waist. Almost teasingly. Leaned forward – had been in this position many a time, just not under these circumstances.

“What do they say about bringing a knife to a gun fight, huh, Red?” Frank rasped, voice deliberately low, mouth near Matt’s ear. He thrusted involuntarily, couldn’t resist the friction, the heat. Nothing more than the red-blooded male within him – needed the close proximity, hell, was aching for it.

Matt chuckled breathlessly, almost faint from the bulge against his own. Felt the lips near his neck again, and knew that they were his undoing. Had been thinking about those lips for the past several hours, wanted nothing more than to feel them on his own, to shut Frank up for good. Was certain that it was most likely the only way how. He was nothing less than stubborn himself.

Frank moved his hips slowly, tantalizingly, gauging the other’s reaction. Eyes half-closed. When he saw Matt lick those fucking sinful lips of his again, he knew he had his answer. Became impatient. Yes, actions had consequences, but he could blame the deliriousness from the blood loss. Fuck the consequences. Enough of the preliminaries.

“May I?” Frank smirked, the pleasant words dripping off his tongue carefully. Unfamiliar, as if they didn’t belong. Both hands near Matt’s abdomen now, fingers toying with the material of Matt’s shirt. Could still feel Matt’s cock underneath his own. Dismissed all justifications. No longer mattered. Driven by lust, better than his usual rage. It swallowed him whole, made him see nothing but the man underneath him. That beautiful, fucking irritating, insanely moral man.  

Matt knew he was playing with fire, felt heat spread through his body faster than a match alight. Knew that it had been him that had struck the goddamn match. Yet, all he could do was nod. Fervently. With exasperation. Reaching down with his hand to assist Frank himself, beginning to haul his shirt off himself.

Frank chuckled at the impatience, decided he’d make it well worth the wait, wanted to see how far he could take this. He stilled Matt’s hand with his own.

“Didn’t spend all that time nursing your goddamn arm just for you to break it again, did I now, Red?” Frank tutted at the behavior. Carefully, movements precise – always came down to the years of training in the end – he lifted Matt’s shirt. Maneuvered it over the broken arm cautiously, then over his head. Hurled it across the room, now irrelevant.

“Frank.” Matt breathed, feeling the goosebumps prickle his bare skin, the heat from the man sat on top of him. Frank, in this position. Made for a sensation he wouldn’t be forgetting any time soon. Frank’s scent. The gunpowder, his own shampoo, coffee, and something else goddamn delicious.

Frank hummed at his own name being called out in such… reverence. Liked the way it rolled off Matt’s tongue. Wanted to hear it again. He adjusted himself, knew he was as hard as a fucking brick, didn’t care. Lowered his head, hands cascading down the expanse of Matt’s chest.

Pale brown nipples, small, almost negligent amongst its plane of pale, smooth skin stretched across a taut pectoral muscle. Frank placed his lips over one, more curious than anything else, heard the gasp of surprise. Began his descent, teased the nipple there.

Teeth, lips, and tongue, working their way around and across, flicking, teasing, and tasting. Bites, licks. Never quite kisses across and upon Matt’s body underneath him.

Matt softly cursed, unusual considering as he was an advocate for no profanities, and yet. Chest tensing, hands reaching for the other who…made him squirm like this. Every touch on his nipples was directly connected to his groin, and he was breathing hard. Groaning before he could remember that he usually tried to make no sound. Certain that this was his unravelling, that this was his evening prayer. Basked in the feeling, loved it, even if it made him desperate.

Matt’s fingers tangled themselves in Frank’s hair, the perfect length for gripping and tugging, some attempt at showing his appreciation.

Frank lifted his head a mere fraction. Noticed the flushed cheeks, the way Matt was biting his lip, his desperation. Desperate for him. “You like this, altar boy?” Frank’s lips curved into a grin, before he turned his attention back onto the hardened nipples, swollen and damp from his attention. Surprised at the reaction, hadn’t expected a man to get much out of this.

Matt hummed in agreement, unable to voice his thoughts, unable to think clearly, focusing on nothing but the minute movements across his chest, across his stomach. Drove him insane, made him dig into Frank’s still clothed back with his hand. Some attempt at returning to sanity. Delirious with the pleasure that arose, the blood that rushed straight to his groin.

His lack of sight meant that all his other senses were intensified, all merging together to become a symphony of pure ecstasy, him unravelling under that mouth of Frank's, those skillful fingers and hands.

Frank chuckled and moved to the other nipple, never permitting it to be lacking in attention. Making his way downward, teeth, tongue, lips, touches hard and then soft, but never ever quite a kiss. Instead, tasting skin, and licking, biting, sucking. Moving down the body, sensation of rope-like abs beneath the silken-smooth skin. Leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. One hand clamping Matt’s arm to the ground, the other adjusting his own hardness.

Matt opened his legs, hard, twitching when Frank moved closer, tension building up, then breathing again when Frank left there.

Frank was moving back up, along ribs and onto pecs once more, playing with sensitive flesh, before travelling towards one shoulder, and then the other. He traced a healed scar there with his fingertip. Knew it was from one of the times Red had caught him on that rooftop, gun in his hands, and had tackled him to the ground. Knew the scar was from his own knife, could tell by the way it gleamed underneath the apartment’s dim lighting. He had caused it. Gently, he placed his lips over it, kissed it fleetingly, some attempt at reconciliation.

Matt’s hand came undone from underneath Frank’s, and he squirmed under Frank’s grip, the warm touches evoking enough pleasure that it was almost unbearable, that hot mouth on his own skin.

“Hey, hey, hey. Easy.” Frank growled, pinning Matt’s arm to the ground yet again. “Be good for me. You understand?”

Matt nodded wordlessly.

Frank took his time mapping the terrain of Matt’s body, ever so patient. Teeth and lips making their progress across the neck, sucking and biting when he reached Matt’s throat, causing Matt to groan yet once again, before Frank’s tongue dipped along bones and muscles, dips and hollows. Admiration, and perhaps even affection.

Matt knew he didn’t look very dignified right now, but he didn’t want this, whatever this was, to stop. The intimacy almost had him breathless, and he was more than ready for anything that would happen, perhaps had been ready the first time he’d heard Frank’s voice: gravelly, deterred by a slight drawl, that goddamn accent. Every word that Frank said had the capability to distract him from every other sound to exist. Went straight to his groin.

Frank lifted his head once more, almost on eye level. His own body lined up with the other, fully clothed. Groin connected to groin, cocks meeting from underneath all that fabric, chests acquainting. “Tell me what you want.” Murmured. Goddamned horny by now, didn’t give a flying fuck. Cared only about the man underneath him.

Matt groaned, breathing, needing, struggling to regain a little control, but couldn’t care, somehow. He just didn’t. “Anything.” He exhaled. “Whatever.” Moving his hips up to get friction against that body, hand resting against Frank’s bulge. “Move.” Just wanted to feel the other’s strength, wanted to have all that skin on skin, feel the weight, even hold him – goddamn it.

Frank nodded, already understanding, no words necessary.

Matt felt Frank’s hands leave him, that sinful mouth of his no longer on his body, was almost disappointed. He heard a belt being unbuckled; the quiet crinkle of clothing being pushed downwards. Almost exhaled with relief when calloused hands reached for his own pants, tugging them downwards. He leaned into Frank’s touch, knew he was on the very edge when Frank finally palmed his hardening length, and hissed in pleasure. If this was what hell felt like, then it sure was a pleasant experience indeed. Frank's fingers wrapped around his dick almost tipped him over. 

Friction, heat, and strength. Frank pushed down onto that body that was stealing his senses, and robbing his mind of anything but the imprint of muscles, skin, and hardened flesh. This man, this man and his ability to drive him insane. Frank moved, obliged, forcing his hips down, cock against cock, no more fabric this time, his own held by a relentless grip.

They both inhaled sharply at the contact.

Frank needed his hands to support himself, but ground and pounded, pushed and slid, moved his body viciously so that he was fucking the other’s cock with his own, hand or not. The sharp pain from his bullet-wound mingling with the raw pleasure, becoming a high he chased after. This would take longer, wanted it to last, last forever, if only it could.

Things were simple. He could push everything away – the lingering doubt, his demons, the faces that haunted his nightmares. Complete unity, struggle, pain, intensity, and he relished it, riding his own adrenaline and Matt's body.

Matt groaned again, unable to remain silent. Felt Frank’s heartbeat against his own, dangerously intimate. Pressure building, releasing Frank’s arm and digging his fingers into Frank’s back, almost slippery with sweat, pulsing with muscle. And he thought, alive. They were alive. Screw everything else, they were here, and alive.

Frank was getting close, muscles coiling to build up the pressure, could feel sweat, smell it, feel it trickle down his temple. Matt underneath him. A perfect sight, especially his shoulders and collar bones, working, shifting, holding the weight and moving it, just need, no control, chest glistening. Both of their dicks in his hand, hard against each other, unaccustomed, foreign, but felt so fucking good.

"Use your words." Frank grunted against Matt’s glistening shoulder; the lust replaced with longing to be closer, even more intertwined if that were possible. Needed it more than anything. More than his next fucking breath. He wrapped a leg around Matt's and inched forward, groaning, lifting his weight off Matt, a slow and agonizing movement from the hips. 

"Frank." Matt breathed as he came against him, his come within Frank’s hand, and Frank followed close behind; moment of weight, tension, crushing strength held in cheek by the resisting strength.

Frank came with a harsh groan, rode it out, his hand still stroking Matt’s cock until he heard him swear and felt thick spurts coat his hand, then pulled away – almost dizzy with the sensory overload. Gave up strength, tension, control altogether. Just let himself fall on the other’s body, sweat-slicked, and wet with the cum between them, skin on skin. He was breathing hard, heart pounding, face nestled in the crook of the other’s neck.

Slowly, Matt relaxed, felt the clarity sink in, felt the heaviness lift from his limbs only to be replaced with the physical heaviness of a body on top of his. One with a weight that was comforting, one he was becoming accustomed to. One he had just thrusted against to the point of release. Right.

The silence stretched, felt like forever. Seconds passing by like waves crashing upon the shore, easily and without effort. Sweat cooling on Frank’s skin, his heartbeat slowing back down and thudding slowly, lazily, utterly relaxed.

“Wish your apartment had room service.” Frank finally mumbled.

Matt laughed, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. “Maybe one day.” He spoke. Felt the discomfort from his injuries, the pain from his broken arm, and yet it mingled with the previous pleasure, providing nothing more than a buzz.

Moving his head, Frank smiled lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. Whole body moving slowly, undulating on top of the other before relaxing once more. “Maybe don’t pull a knife on me next time, how about that, huh, Red?” Eyes closing; should really move off Matt’s body, but hell, he was spent.

“You’d lose the ‘Punisher’ status if you treated everyone that pulled a knife on you this way.” Matt chuckled, felt Frank’s head underneath his chin. Decided he liked it there. Gradually, sounds and vibrations returned to him, his senses tightening up again once more.

Frank huffed, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He pushed himself up on his elbow, rolling off the other, back against the floor. Stared at the ceiling, tried to process his thoughts. Knew he was beginning to stiffen up once again, muscles no longer slackened, mind becoming alert. Habitual.

Matt could sense Frank distancing, both emotionally and physically, couldn’t decipher the reason behind it. Knew Frank was frowning, knew Frank’s heart rate had dropped drastically, as if he were on enemy lines and awaiting an attack; an ambush.

Matt reached out for him, a hand smoothening back his hair. No words necessary. In understanding. Knew what this could mean, wasn’t oblivious. The implication it held. More than just lust, more than a quick release, an orgasm. Almost breathed a sigh of relief when Frank leaned into his touch, rather than moving away from it.

Didn’t Frank know that letting go was the lesson? Didn’t Frank understand that so much of his agony was tied up with guilt and self-conviction?

Matt turned to face him, knew exactly what was playing on Frank’s mind. The broken record.

“You’ve got to stop living with your ghosts, Frank.” He murmured into the dip of Frank’s neck. Placed his lips there, a fleeting kiss. One hand lazily wrapped around Frank’s abdomen. Wouldn’t let go. Not now.

“They’re the only things that keep me alive.” Frank’s eyes were shut, and his voice rough. Voice brimming with honesty. Physically here, but mentally absent. To have turned, and not have turned, like a blue but storm-filled sky.

Time having a restorative property to it; the ability to heal a person; mend the wounds? That was bullshit. Time passing by meant that Frank got used to the pain. Eventually forgetting who he was without it. Forgetting what he looked like without the scars.

And yet... there was peace. Similar to a subway station; a momentary stop, never allowing one to stay within in permanently. Temporary, but it still existed. There was peace, and he had arrived within it. Here, with Matt in his arms. Matt was someone who understood. Someone who he had no reason to lie to.

He didn’t have to worry about protecting Matt, hell, Matt did a decent job of that all on his own. Could suppress those urges. Didn’t understand why, or how he deserved this: the care. And maybe, just maybe, he was too much of a coward to ask, in fear that it’d cause the man to re-evaluate his choices and possibly deem Frank unworthy of his affection after all.

Would much rather bask in the feeling, swim within it. Just a little while longer. To have spent his life, holding his hands in tightly clenched fists. Tried to understand what it would mean, now, to hold his palms open.

To let this… whatever the hell it was, develop.

A fucking terrifying thought.

Chapter Text

Weeks passed.

Trickled by, steadily, with ease. As the weather began to lift in Hell’s Kitchen, so did the heaviness within Matt’s limbs.

Frank had since made himself home within the ‘shitty’ apartment as he referred to it, had brought over a duffle bag full of clothes one day, and had bought a parking ticket for the carpark near Matt’s apartment.

An unspoken agreement.

To stay.

Until the bastard gets better. Was what he had told himself, although he was past believing the lie. Truth was, it was him that needed to get better, or so to speak. The motherfucker in the warehouse had gotten him good, and he still woke up to the throbbing pain within his abdomen each day.

A reminder. A reminder of the lives taken, and those lost.

He’d limped his way over to Curtis’s one night, had remained silent when he was asked who'd caused it; knew it’d only bring back the memories of the sight he’d seen that one night. Fuck the sentimental shit, he only needed the bullets out of him, and that Curtis had done with ease. Just like always. Could always trust Curt.

Matt was good, had been good with the stitching, but Curt possessed a skill that was riddled with precision. ‘God-given’ was how the boys back in his unit used to describe it. The finest corpsman, an even better medic. He’d stitched Frank back up again, had always done, back when they were deployed, and especially now. Always had this trick, this way of suturing, that left the healing scar so small it’d almost be invisible, so that you could almost forget about it. Forget what had caused it, forget it’d ever happened. Which was what Frank wanted, and so it was what he got.

Matt’s arm had recovered, had almost returned to its full capability, and he’d begun his training again. Stiches had since healed, a miracle considering what a sloppy job it had been at the time. Face now cleared of bruises. All that remained was the goddamn cut on his upper lip.

They still hadn’t spoken of that night, all those weeks ago.

And yet, the night replayed itself on Matt’s mind whenever he found himself near Frank, near those tempting lips of his, remembered how hot Frank’s mouth was on his chest, how Frank’s hands felt wrapped around his cock. Wondered what it’d be like to feel those lips against his own. A broken record. Didn’t understand the feelings, didn’t want to. Some things were better left unnamed. Better forgotten about.

They’d avoided the subject entirely, and were never too close in proximity within one another. One of them would lean away if the other came too close.

Precautionary. Fucking precautionary.

Frank hadn’t slept on Matt’s bed since then, had since resorted to the couch, and no longer complained about how uncomfortable it was. Fell asleep in the dark, handgun on his chest, an eye on the door until sleep dragged him under. Neon light filtering in from the billboard across the street. Spent the nights staring at the ceiling sometimes, willing himself to forget about those lips of Matt’s. Those fucking sinful lips. How they curved into a smile; how Matt’s cheeks dimpled when he grinned. How the Devil’s body had felt underneath his own, strength against strength, an equal give and take.

He never left Matt alone in his apartment for too long, avoiding the crime scene entirely, no more nights of him letting loose an M60 on motherfuckers guilty of inhumanity. Let the barbarians roam around freely, as much as he loathed the idea. His fingers stopped twitching, and he found himself within this strange lull – not necessarily comfort, but not complete solace either.

Quiet, quiet weeks, where neither Daredevil nor The Punisher were seen on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen.

And it was only them that knew why.

Let him stay. Was what Matt thought. Let the light die, but let him stay. Until spring, until fall, just for a little while, even if it broke the spine of the Earth. Frank’s presence was comforting, he since realized, in some twisted way. A reminder that he was no longer alone. Frank was someone that had once tread the same path that he was on, but had chosen to challenge morality rather than tiptoe around it like he did. Matt remembered how it felt to reach for comfort, and fail, and to keep failing. And during those nights, it was Frank’s companionship that kept him sane. Frank’s snappy remarks and his anecdotes and that goddamn drawl of his whenever he talked.

“You gon’ finish that?” Frank interrupted Matt’s train of thought, and Matt felt the familiar gaze on him. He realized he was no longer eating his dinner, couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Yes, actually. You mind?” Matt smiled, leaning back in his chair.

Frank yawned. “You eat so fucking slow, Red. Think I aged another ten years just sitting here.” He crossed his arms, comfortable.

They were at Lou’s diner again, the weeknight club sandwiches too good to miss out on. It had been where they spent most of their nights now lately, the chatter of the diner and the shitty music from the falling-apart jukebox now forming a familiar environment.

“Huh. Looks like it too. You don’t age well, do you, Frank?” Matt grinned, dripping with dark irony. Triumphant when he heard Frank chuckle. Liked the sound more than he should have. It was always genuine, always sounded warm, contagious. Hard to earn, but worth every effort.

“Yeah, yeah. See, I’d feel insulted if you weren’t blind.” Frank sipped his coffee, a smile playing on his lips.

“You know, excessive caffeine can cause blindness too. I’m surprised you don’t have a walking stick already, considering how much of that you guzzle down a day.” Matt gestured lazily towards the mug in Frank’s hand. Smile reaching his eyes, he took his own dark glasses off and offered them to Frank.

Frank scoffed. “Bullshit.” Stared at the glasses anyway with faint interest, then glanced at Matt’s expression to gauge whether or not he was being serious. Despite the unfocused dark eyes, Matt held the eye contact well – to the point where Frank doubted the legitimacy of his visual impairment.

Matt shrugged, took them back as if to indicate that Frank had missed out.

“What movie tonight?” Frank’s back was against the wall, their table the furthest away from the door so that Frank had an eye on everyone coming in and everyone leaving. Again, old habits died hard. There was a trick to people-watching, and he’d spent more than half of his life perfecting it. His eyes scanned the diner crowd now, and only when he was certain that no one looked out of the ordinary did he return his gaze back to Matt. No deviances, at least for now, anyway. Hell, sometimes that was all that mattered.

“Casablanca?” Matt suggested, raising the sandwich to his mouth, taking his sweet time with it. No rush to get anywhere, wasn’t yet in the state to go anywhere, could ease into the evening and the lull of it.

Frank groaned at the idea. “Not another black-and-white. Gotta watch one with color tonight, Red.”

“Doesn’t matter to me. And, it’s my turn to pick tonight, Frank. Don’t tell me you forgot.” Matt stretched, shirt riding past his stomach as he did so.

Frank immediately followed the movement, eyes landing on that expanse of olive skin; the shape created where two muscles met: the lower abdomen and the obliques. He cleared his throat and dragged his gaze away. For his own sake. Focus, Frank.

“How could I? You’ve been babbling on about it the entire day.” Frank grumbled, although he didn’t give a flying fuck about what movie it was that they watched. Or in Matt’s case, listened to. It was the distraction that it provided that held the importance, the satisfaction within explaining each scene to Matt as it occurred – right down to the goddamn clothes that each actor wore. How surprisingly easy it was to unwind, when there was a rental on the TV and both of them sprawled on the same stiff couch.

“Babbling? Seriously?” Matt protested, raising an eyebrow.

“Yep.” Frank leaned over and stole a handful of fries from Matt’s plate. Hurrying him up. “Ready to go?”

Matt smiled, knowing exactly what it was that Frank had done. Didn’t know why Frank considered himself slick. “Yeah. Let’s head home.”

“One day, Matthew, one day, you’ll repent. It’s all that you were made to do.”

A world on fire. Matt’s heart thudded as he awoke, struggling to breathe, sweating. Reached for his face with a weary hand, so certain that there was blood trickling down his features, only for the hand to come back unstained. Felt the biting air of midnight wrap around him, almost throttling in its relentless manner. He heard something fall to the ground, shatter into millions of pieces, the sound piercing his ears. And then, only then, did he realize he was still alive.

Wondered if it was disappointment or relief, that consumed him whole after the realization.

Knew before his next breath that it was Frank who came into the room, the door practically hanging off its hinges as he entered.

“Hey.” Frank murmured once he made his way over to the man on the bed. Fingers tangled in Matt’s hair, smoothening the strands back comfortingly. “Easy now, it’s alright.” Hesitated then, only because he’d acted without thinking, had instantly made his way over at the sound of something hitting the floor. Realized now that it had only been an empty glass from the nightstand. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to write home about. And, yet.

Matt leaned into the touch instinctively, hands already reaching for Frank’s waist, tugging him downwards, needing the company. Needing the reminder that he was here, goddamnit, that he was alive. Could no longer bear an empty bed, the dreams that ensued. Could no longer pretend, no longer sit in silence.

Frank sat down silently, saw the anguish within Matt’s eyes, the doubt within his expression. Recognized it. Didn’t question it. He cleared his throat. “Need anything?”

“No.” Matt exhaled. You. The word died on his tongue.

Frank observed him for another few seconds. Finally, he shrugged. “You know where I am if you need me.” Made a move as if to leave, but the hand that wrapped around his forearm stopped him. Kept him there.

“Sleep here.” Matt murmured, voice hoarse. Had nothing to blanket the honesty under, knew he most likely sounded desperate, but it was that hour of the night where even the grittiest of confessions were more easily digestible. Easier to retain, easier to forget if the need arose.

Frank stilled.

Uncharted territory. Couldn’t bear the close proximity again, not after what had happened last time, not now. Perhaps not ever. Didn’t know what it’d mean, hell, didn’t want to fucking know. Hadn’t spent all those nights trying to forget how Red’s body felt underneath his, only to have a goddamn refresher on it. Frank didn’t owe Matt anything, not anymore, he knew that. And yet, he couldn’t make himself get up and leave.

“Please.” Matt closed his eyes. Dignity and pride no longer existed when it came to Frank Castle.

Fuck. How could Frank argue against that? Silently, he obliged. Thoughts racing as he made his way over to the other side of the bed, footsteps stealthy – would never have been audible for anyone else other than Matt. Didn’t want to know why he was doing this, and could no longer tell himself that it was because of how uncomfortable the couch was to sleep on. Not when he’d slept in fucking bunkers, with ease, whilst deployed in war-torn countries.

Frank sighed as he lay down, defeated, though it felt nothing like a loss. Cautiously, he inched closer towards Matt, until their foreheads were practically touching. Would never be a big enough bed. Not for the two of them.

“This what you want, Red?” Frank’s voice was somber, testing the boundaries.

Matt could only nod. Half still in oblivion. No longer cared about the goddamn boundaries, had spent the past few weeks trying to rebuild them, only to fail miserably. Hated failing. Couldn’t bear it – never had been able to.

“Don’t understand it.” Frank mumbled softly, was never one for lies. Didn’t refer to what it was he was talking about. Didn’t need to.

“Yeah.” Matt breathed. He had no space for his other arm – the two of them together on the bed meant that there was little room to spare. So, he did the only thing he could think of, and placed it within Frank’s hair. More curious than anything else. Ran his hand through it, felt the soft strands underneath his fingertips.

Frank held in a breath, wanted nothing more than to leave and never return, because this was when things fucked up – this was where it went downhill. It always began with one touch, and then another. Until it became bigger than what either of them could ever comprehend.

Matt knew Frank’s heart rate had started to accelerate, heard the way Frank’s muscles shifted, as if preparing himself for impact. Couldn’t bring himself to care. To care enough to move away. Selfish. Would always be when it came to this.

Matt traced Frank’s features with his fingertips, tried to imagine them, conjure them together. Gentle, and yet probing touches. Over the scar near his temple, the eyebrows. Knew Frank’s eyes were closed because he outlined his eyelids with the pad of his thumb. The crow’s feet near his eyes. Wondered if Frank had been a person who had, once upon a time, smiled a lot to have caused them. Heard Frank exhale, as if giving into his touch. Not resisting as much, guard being let down. Matt ran a finger down the bumps of his nose – a nose that had been broken too many times. The strong jaw, the stubble there, the broad chin. Features he could imagine too easily, already had an idea of what Frank looked like. They combined well; Matt decided. Suited him.

Frank felt the fingers on his face, the touch both soothing and agitating. Remained silent. No words seemed appropriate. Nothing to convey how he felt. How his heart ached, how intimate the touch felt, how it cauterized his mind.

Matt’s hand reached its final destination, a thumb on Frank’s bottom lip. Felt the shape of his lips, how full they were. Lips that were now thinned, lips that could just as easily sneer.

“Tell me what you want.” Matt whispered, the words all too familiar. Reminding them both of that one night, reminding them that something like that was never easy to erase altogether. Couldn’t go on pretending it never happened. It was easier to kill a man than to forget successfully.

“To feel human.” Frank could only say, voice like gravel, raw with desire.

Two arms, two legs, one head. Was already human, in all its form. Fucking comical. Would’ve laughed at the thought himself weeks ago, and yet. Suddenly tensed, suddenly resisted against Matt’s hand. Muscles tightened.

Without thinking, Matt tilted Frank’s chin upwards, and pressed his lips against Frank’s. Just like that, no fear, no misgivings, body to body. Fairly chaste, as the thought of passion seemed far away. The thought of teasing, of arousing? No longer a concern. Irrelevant. Smelling his own soap on him, the damp skin from a recent shave. Tasting what amounted to bitterness, he thought. Like tears.

That was it. Simple and profound. Frank’s own humanity lost, and shot to pieces in a war that was no longer just his own. All he had ever been, for as long as he could remember, was a killer. Not a title he’d ever minded. But, right now, he was more than that. Remembered what it was like to be human. It gratified what he felt, wrenched out with his bleeding hands during all those nights, wanting nothing more than to touch something living.

Frank didn’t touch Matt at first. Resisted. Did nothing but part his lips. A rare moment of passivity in a man who would still fight and kill within the next heartbeat, if he had to. No armour, no knife. Could still fight this, but he had nothing to expend, nothing to give. No extra round, no spare magazine. Defeat. Closed his eyes, just for a moment. Felt as if he were burning. Thought about how this was the torture method that they should’ve just adopted back in Kandahar, because those goddamn lips against his own almost had him reeling, almost had him confessing all his transgressions then and there.

Then, Frank reacted. Tilted his head and breathed, moved, demanded to taste. Matt’s stubble scraping against his lips when the kiss became real; sensing scars on the other’s lips, his own somewhat chapped in places, and in others smooth and warm. Lips seeking, scarred hands palming the other’s hard chest – unfamiliar and yet not at all. Wanting the touch, the warmth, this softness. Something deep and tender, connecting straight through his centre.

He’d dehumanized those on enemy lines, those within crime syndicates, even the Mujahideen he was supposed to be organizing against the invaders during deployments. He’d taken humanity from plenty corpses, and in return, those dead eyes, maimed bodies, and rotting flesh had taken his own.

This man, though – those eyes, lips, hands and body. Red. He was alive, causing an onslaught of sensations when tongue met tongue, without force, with ease.

Matt parted his lips, almost surprised at the tongue, how the kiss went straight to his groin. Seemed unlike Frank, somehow, to kiss him like that – searching, demanding, lusting, without restraint. He ran his hands down Frank’s face again, to his shoulders, enjoyed the way his muscles shifted and jumped underneath his touch. Demanding more, much more as it struck an inner chord, somewhere down there, and reminded him of lust and greed. Thought about how he shouldn’t have been wanting this, but it was sensuous, tender.

Impossible for Matt to pretend that he didn’t want this, after all the past weeks; after the months it had been since the first time they’d met. Because, they both could have been dead, and not met here.

Frank pulled away, breathing hard. His temple against Matt’s. “You need to rest up.” He said softly, silencing his mind and all the formidable thoughts that came with it.

“What?” Matt felt abandoned, had wanted something he couldn’t understand. Once again.

“Can’t keep doing this, Red.” Frank muttered, voice still coaxing, tried to make the other understand. He knew he had love still within him, what little of it left, its purity unstained by all his other transgressions. But just didn’t know how to use it. Had since forgotten. A blunt tool, entirely useless without instructions. Instructions, he could grow accustomed to. Predictable, easy to follow. Love? An entirely separate matter – no correlation. As erratic as an untamed tongue.

Maybe, what Frank had been trying to say all this time, was that: he sensed a mass of fucking white noise in front of his face wherever he went. It stood between him and the world, between him and other people. More and more, he found himself lost within it, and gradually it became difficult to make it through to the other side. Shit, he was being led astray. Couldn’t drag Matt with him – not to there. Not to that wretched place. Wouldn’t wish that upon an enemy.

Matt scoffed, pulling away himself. Defensive. Left cold. “Help me understand.” He snapped, past comprehension.

“I can’t. I can’t, Red. Listen to me, you’re one of the good ones, you know? You deserve better, yeah? Someone you can come home to, someone that’s got your dinner on the goddamn stove and asks you how your day was. Someone that can… care for you. I’m… I’m a lot of things, Matt. But I’m not that.” Frank closed his eyes.

Matt didn’t let go of Frank, some piss-poor attempt at keeping him here, of not letting him leave. “You’re not what?” Matt breathed, loathed himself for asking, because he knew the answer wasn’t one he wanted to hear. Had to know, anyway. Even if it tore him to shreds.

Frank met the unfocused gaze. Knew that this was it, this was turmoil and anguish and heartache, all of those fucking awful feelings encapsulated into one sentence. “I’m not that person.” He exhaled.

Killing a person was easier.

Matt knew that his eyes were glossy. Tried to make his peace with what had just been said, tried to understand it, engrave it into his own flesh if he needed to. Repeated the words in his mind. The same thought on loop. Frank is not that person. He let his head fall back onto his pillow, shut his eyes because it no longer mattered whether they were open or closed.

“What if I told you – ” Matt murmured. “That I don’t need you to be that person?”

Frank smiled softly at that, shook his head, lips now pressing against Matt’s forehead. “That’s what you think, Red. A huge misunderstanding you got there.”

“A friend. Be a friend, Frank.” Matt tried again.

Would take anything over nothing.

“All the friends I’ve ever had are dead, Murdock.” Frank’s confession was dripping with honesty, one that hurt to say out loud. “I’ll be damned if I send another to his grave.”

Matt nodded. Not in agreement. Shit, not in understanding either. In attempt to mend the situation, to pretend the words hadn’t been said. To somehow take back the desperation, the way he’d laid his soul bare for Frank to tread all over. “That’s the past. Guilt will get you nowhere, Frank.”

Reconciliation. Ceasefire.

Frank reached for Matt again, knew what it was that he had to do. Remained silent about it. Better left unsaid. “That right?” He smiled, feigned obliviousness. Held Matt close to his chest, felt his heartbeat against his own. A hand in Matt’s hair, now a familiar position. Lips now against Matt’s jaw, littering Matt’s face with kisses so soft that they were akin to the whisper of a midnight breeze. Gentle, and yet sharp within their impact.

“Yeah.” Matt sighed. Defeat. Was too tired to torment himself about it. Would leave that to tomorrow. There’d be a tomorrow. For now, Frank was in his arms, and the heaviness within his chest had lifted – even if momentarily. After weeks of struggle. Could breathe again, no longer struggling for oxygen. No longer encompassed with that sinking, gaping feeling.

No longer alone. Found it easier to fall asleep with that knowledge.

Frank didn’t let go of him for the rest of the night, no complaints raised about the uncomfortable position, just held Matt close to his chest, his chin on top of Matt’s head. Legs tangled with the other. So close, impossibly close. Stubble against stubble. Closed his eyes, ignored the searing feeling. Knew what it was he’d have to do. For everyone’s fucking sake. Had already let this become much bigger than anticipated, should’ve let go the first day he’d walked in. Had been a coward, then. Couldn’t be one now. Wasn’t like him – past few weeks had been unlike him.

Only when Frank felt sleep drag him under, did he let himself relax into the embrace.  

Daylight streamed through the tinted windows, and left lasting imprints on the insides of Matt’s eyelids. Lazily, he stretched. Reached for a familiar body, one he was growing accustomed to.

When his heart sunk, he knew. He knew before he felt as much. He knew before he could notice the lack of warmth on the bed, the lack of another heartbeat within the apartment, the lack of sounds associated with another’s presence. Just like he knew the duffle bag full of black clothing was no longer strewn across his bedroom floor. No handgun on his couch. No knives hidden in obscene places for easy access. No coffee mugs left within the sink. Knew when his hands reached, only to be met by nothing. An empty bed.

Matt knew.

Frank was gone.

Chapter Text

The cold breeze of Hell’s Kitchen welcomed Frank as he stepped outside of Matt’s building. Dawn only just breaking through, the very beginnings of a sunrise. It was still dark enough that he had to squint, however, and he tried to adjust his eyes to the world around him. Found this difficult to do. Tried not to inhale, knew that Matt’s familiar scent – the cologne that the bastard wore – still clung to him. To his clothes, desperately, as if unwilling to let go.

To swallow the past night in its very silence, a night now immersed in the stealth of lost footsteps.

Headed towards his van. Would hand in the parking ticket for good this time.

And with every step he took, it became more impossible for him to turn back. Mind empty, or it was as if though his mind had become one enormous, anaesthetized wound.

Brain cells, like muscles, built bridges with repeated stimulation, letting memories scratch across until they lived in the grooves. The more that he remembered, the deeper the scratches became. Until, eventually, remembering became a habit, like breathing, or tying a butterfly knot in the dark.

It would be difficult to stop remembering, but it had to be done. The memories could no longer hold a place within him. Couldn’t afford them to. Couldn’t let them trickle into his consciousness. And yet, he didn’t want to erase them entirely either. He lived only in the memories, had been doing so for what seemed like a lifetime now.

It was over. Anguish was just a thing. The shape of a trailer, of a wheel, of a knife. The details of his past life were better left alone. A life that included those he loved. Those he cared about. Maria. Matt. It was time; time for him to face his own reality, and move on. Time for him to forget about Matthew Murdock. To ignore the name ‘Daredevil’ within newspapers.

Frank was no longer someone that believed in prayers, but if he were to pray, he’d pray for the safety of the stupid vigilante. Hoped that Matt wouldn’t get himself killed out there.

Darkness too, was a habit. Ruminating on sorrow, until sorrow became easy. As easy as breathing.

Easier than breathing.

FOUR MONTHS LATER

Months passed.

Days stuck to one another, all the same color, like time in a hospital bed. Daily routines repeated at the same slow pace. Matt found himself within a strange lull, unable to explain where time went, unable to remember the date sometimes.

Physically, he was better than ever.

And yet, Stick had been right when he’d once told Matt that one’s physical state was entirely useless without a sound mental state.

Matt’s mental state? A laughing stock. Thing was, he couldn’t bring himself to care. Didn’t give a shit. Was easier to not think, anyway. Thinking was a hindrance. Frank had been right, all those nights ago, nights that felt almost a lifetime away, nights that felt like a part of some delirious dream. Frank had been right about how it was necessary to shut off one’s own mind sometimes, to quieten the persistent thoughts, to empty your conscience until it held nothing other than survival instincts.

Frank….

Screw Frank.

Autopilot. Matt was on autopilot. The sound of the light in its dead hour, the color of time on a ruined wall. Ironic how shitty the weather had been on the days that followed after Frank’s departure. How Matt could barely summon the willpower to even leave his apartment most days, and rather, remained sprawled on the couch for hours on end, the ticking of the clock his only companion. Mostly, all he could remember was fog. Fog and rain, until wetness became him, washed him up and wrung him out. He never dried, just became wearier at the cracks.

Drank a lot. Empty bottles littered his apartment, but again, he found it easier to ignore them than to acknowledge them. 

The Punisher was good at remaining hidden, goddamn it. Even better at remaining unseen. Matt knew that Frank Castle was still out there, still at large, still in the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. And yet, no matter how much he craned his ears, no matter how much he hyper fixated, he still couldn’t detect Frank’s heartbeat amongst the million others – couldn’t differentiate. Couldn’t hear him at all. Didn’t know where to find him, or perhaps didn’t try hard enough, in fear of what would happen if he did.

It was Frank who had decided to leave, and there was nothing that Matt could do to change that. Not if Frank had already made up his mind. To challenge a man like Frank Castle, someone with a predetermined agenda? Someone stubborn to all hell? You’d have to be a lunatic.

“Matt?” A female voice prompted again, tone patient though curious.

Matt dragged his attention back to the woman in front of him again, an apology already on the tip of his tongue. “Sorry, what’d you say, Karen?” Smiled, hoped it was convincing enough. He raised his coffee mug to his lips. Not the burnt brew from a never-ending diner jug, but rather, something fancy. Milky, sugary. A cappuccino, maybe. Frank would have scoffed at it.

Screw Frank.

Karen scanned Matt’s face, searching for answers, because she knew that the ones she was looking for would never be provided verbally. “Oh, I was just asking about your court case. How’s that going?” She wondered if Matt could tell how relieved she was.

Relieved to know that Matt was still alive, that he was okay. Had been months since she’d seen him last. Had known briefly from the confirmation she’d been given by Frank, but it was another thing to lay her eyes on the man himself. Matt Murdock, sitting in front of her. In the flesh. She stirred her own coffee, glanced outside the café’s window as she waited for a response.

Matt relaxed. A safe question. Easy to tread through. “You don’t want to know.” He grinned, leaned back in his chair.

Karen smiled back, had never been able to resist that contagious smile of his. “I think I do want to know, Matt. Amuse me.”

Matt shrugged, implying that it really was nothing interesting. It had been a case that had droned on and on for months, dragging him along in the process. The court date had only been announced last week, and he had to admit, it gave him purpose.

After all these days of what seemed like complete darkness, it seemed like a beacon of light. It wasn’t as if he could sleep anymore, anyway, not without the nightmares – so he worked on the paperwork throughout those hours of the day. Catching up on sleep through naps. Sometimes staying awake for days in a row, so that he had no choice but to fall asleep from the utter exhaustion, mind completely empty, no nightmares ensuing.  

Matt rested a hand on Karen’s. Platonic. Perhaps there had once been a time where he’d felt some sort of attraction towards her – and who wouldn’t – but there wasn’t even a spark nowadays. “Tell me about this new journalism thing of yours. Heard you’ve made quite the name for yourself, huh?” A genuine smile this time, because she really did deserve to be happy within whatever it was that she did.

Karen laughed, shaking her head. “I can promise you that it’s not quite as big as the title of ‘Nelson & Murdock.’” Smiled ruefully at the thought.

“Nelson, Murdock, and Page.” Matt corrected, not missing a beat.

“Still as charming as ever, aren’t you?” Karen teased, tilting her head in faux exasperation.

“Was there ever a moment when I wasn’t?” Matt smirked, dripping with irony.

A smile played on Karen’s lips. “I don’t know,” She drawled, pushing her coffee cup away. “Wasn’t very charming of you to disappear for months on end, was it now?”

Matt’s lips thinned at that, and he knew he couldn’t even begin to describe what had happened over the past few months. Not now, perhaps not ever. He reached for his glass of water, wondering where to begin.

“How’s Frank?” Karen suddenly asked.

Matt stilled. Heard the seconds tick past on a clock in the diner next door. Heard the kids laughing from a local elementary school a few miles away. Felt the vibration of the air particles surrounding them change, as if even they were bracing themselves for the question.

Felt as if he were trapped underwater.

“What?” Matt blinked.

He’d become more reckless lately. Went out with his mask on as soon as night fell upon Hell’s Kitchen. Daily, nowadays. Too many newspaper articles going around boasting of another day that ‘Daredevil’ had saved. Whatever. Cared less and less about the outcome of each crime that he busied himself busting, and rather, focused on the striking quality of it – how good the adrenaline made him feel, as if he were alive once again, fingertips electric. Wouldn’t return home until he was heavily bruised himself, or had heavily bruised another.

Had never once crossed paths with Frank Castle. Wondered why Karen was asking this now, of all things.

“I just… I had to call him, that day, you know? To check up on you, to see if everything was okay. Matt, I know that he knows.” Karen replaced her hand on Matt’s.

It took everything within Matt to not pull away from the touch.

Couldn’t bear to be touched.

“So, I wanted to apologize for that, in case I overstepped somehow,” Karen chuckled, shaking her head at herself in disbelief. “I know it wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, asking Frank Castle to show up to your door –”

“It’s fine.” Matt interrupted; jaw clenched. Didn’t want to listen to a speech about Frank Castle, was already itching to get up and head towards the door. “Seriously, Karen, you probably saved my life by doing so.” A confession brimming with honesty. Had Frank never showed up to his door that day, then…

Glass half-full, Matt.

Karen processed the information, before sighing wearily. “Did he, uh, help you out? Because he called me that night and told me that I had nothing to worry about.”

Matt took a sip of his water now, and nodded. “Yeah.” He breathed. “Yeah. I guess, in one way or another, he did.”

This was it.

The plan was simple. Some fucking narcotrafficker had begun ascending through appropriate channels, hungry for power, dripping with greed.

Flavio Bianchi, who had risen from the sewers of Hell’s Kitchen along with the cockroaches and others similar to him, had made quite the name for himself. Was known by the imprint on the back of the clear bags he sold, filled to the brim with poorly produced cocaine. The motherfucker had made a living off it by selling it to literal teenagers, and even that was too generous of a word to describe the ages of the kids that had been buying it off the streets.

Frank had wanted to draw blood, but he’d be in it for the long game if he took his usual route: showing up armed with a bulletproof vest and a machine gun. The asshole moved around too much, was always surrounded by civilians wherever he went, knew the name of the game himself. And Frank couldn’t risk civilian lives, not after what had happened with –

No. Just couldn’t.

Taking down Flavio required tactic, perseverance, and strategy. Frank had presented himself as a reliable source. Earned Flavio's trust. It had taken weeks, but he was here now, had full access to the druglord’s den – which was just a fucking basement, really. Knew that him and his men were meeting up tonight.

So, tonight was the night.

He’d be splattering brains today. Kill the men all closely linked to the trafficking.

Frank had missed it. Missed how his body responded to the strain. He was back in training, back to lifting weights, press-ups, pull-ups, back to the shooting range. Took to it like a fish took to water. Too fucking long. Wanted to keep that tension in his body, wanted to feel it build up. The past few months had been nothing but that, of him keeping to himself, out of sight and out of the light. Picked up the construction gigs again, not for the money, but for the distraction it provided. Read sometimes. Attended those meetings that Curtis still held, occasionally.  

No longer thought of a certain masked vigilante. No longer thought about that certain man’s lips, or that body of his, or how the man moved like water: fluid, unresisting, each movement precise.

Frank preferred it when his thoughts were shut off, on autopilot, nothing but the survival instincts that had been deeply ingrained within him. And, so that was how it was. As far as he was concerned, people like Maria, people like Matt Murdock? They were a lifetime away. No longer tangible, nothing but memories. And, he’d gotten better at not remembering.

Liquid dripping from the ceiling somewhere. Its sullen trickling was audible throughout the entire basement. Rust forming on the corners of each room. Layout maze-like. Dim lighting. A seedy place, right down to the sweat-slicked walls and the blood-stained floorboards. Crates full of cocaine, powder-form, stacked in each and every room, awaiting packaging.

The other men circled around Flavio, armed with various weapons, none of them worth Frank’s interest. Frank leaned against one of the walls himself, near Flavio, arms crossed, face clear of all expression. 

“Alright, boys. This is it. Shipment comes in tonight, you know the drill.” Flavio looked at each and every man, meeting their attentive gazes, nodding as he spoke. Silver-haired, a golden tooth.

“Keep your eye on that one. It’s his first gig.” Flavio tilted his head towards Frank Castle, a man who looked like death itself. Truth be told, Castle made his skin crawl. How dark his eyes were, without soul, without emotion. The lack of expression on his face. How he moved like the Grim Reaper himself, footsteps stealthy and formidable.

Frank raised an eyebrow, but remained silent. Almost fervent with anticipation. A few more hours. A few more hours, and they'd all be dead.

Flavio grinned, tobacco-stained teeth making their appearance. He reached out and patted Frank on his shoulder. “Go make me proud, Castle. Do that for me, and I’ll give you enough cash to have a Brazilian hooker in your sheets every fuckin’ night, huh?”

Laughter ensued from the other men. Frank glanced at Flavio with disinterest.

“Alright, off yer’ asses and out you go. Watch your backs.” Flavio lit up a cigarette, words muffled as it hung out of his mouth.

Flavio’s men headed out of the room amidst chatter, towards the exit, and Frank followed with his eyes on their backs. Ears craned to catch each and every movement. Felt the beginnings of adrenaline trickle in, appreciably noticed how it flowed through his veins, kept him on the very edge.

“Hey, Carlos?” Frank called out to one of the shorter men, who stopped in his tracks. Wanted for three murders and arson, Carlos was no angel himself. He geeked over Frank, though, had idolized him. Something that made Frank sick to his fucking stomach.

“What’s up, Frank? Havin’ second thoughts?” Carlos grinned, unable to keep still. Twitched as he stood there, fumbled for the gun strapped by his side.

Frank’s eyes followed the movement, alert. Had to fake a chuckle. “Nah, nah. Just need a hand with my vest here, huh? Tighten it up for me?” He tilted his head towards the bathroom down the hallway, and Carlos squinted.

Finally, he shrugged, giving in. “Yeah, whatever, man.”

Frank nodded, mock gratitude, and headed into the bathroom, with Carlos close behind him. The other two men had kept on walking, so they wouldn’t be a problem. Had no reason to doubt Frank, he had spent weeks buddying up to them after all.

Frank had a few seconds before Carlos entered the bathroom himself, as he was still rounding the corner. The walls were bare brick, and Frank leant against them as his eyes searched for a potential weapon. An empty glass bottle of Coke sat on one of the counters, which Frank seized. There was a two-hole porcelain sink, and unspooled toilet rolls everywhere. No windows.

Frank filled his empty glass bottle with water from the faucet, for extra weight, and he wiped his palm on his T-shirt, which neither dried his hand nor made the shirt appreciably wetter. But he got a decent grip on the long, glass neck, and he held the bottle low down by his leg – waiting.

“Where’s the – ” Carlos began as he walked in, but Frank swung the bottle, the water kept in by centrifugal force, and it caught him high on the cheekbone and rocked him back.

Instantly, Carlos flailed for his knife – whereupon Frank whipped the bottle down again and smashed it on the lip of one of the countertops, glass and water flying everywhere, and he stabbed the jagged broken circle into the man’s thigh, to bring his hands down, and then again into his face with a twist, flesh tearing and blood flowing.

Frank felt the knife slash his forearm, and dropped the bottle and shoved Carlos in the chest, which resulted in a loud thud and crack as his head hit the mirror behind him, arms flailing. The knife in his hand dropped onto the bloodied tiles with an obnoxious clang.

As Carlos bounced off the wall and came back towards him, Frank headbutted his nose. Which was game over, right there, helped a little by the way the man’s head bounced off the hard edge of the countertop on his way to the floor – which all made a conclusive little head-injury trifecta, bone, porcelain, tile, good night and good luck.

Would be dead soon, if not dead already.

“Piece of shit.” Frank grunted to the unconscious body on the floor, before exhaling. He had diluted smears of the man's blood on his face, which he proceeded to rinse off with lukewarm water from the bathroom taps. Ignored the gash on his arm, nothing serious, fuck that.

Left the bathroom the way that he had entered it, and had to jog to catch up to the other two men. The basement was practically smoke and mirrors, some rooms disguised as others. Felt like a fucking maze at a goddamn kid’s playground.

He caught sight of them and had to slow down. Couldn’t pull out his handgun and shoot, not when they were still in the basement, Flavio would catch whiff of what was going down and come crawling. Flavio had bodyguards outside the basement too, armed like a fucking SWAT team. Too risky, too loud to shoot. Even with his silencer on.

Also why Flavio would be a fucking nuisance to take down.

Frank kept following them, hands steady, mind empty – until they eventually ended up in the lobby, where the stairs, that led up to the main entry point, were. From there, they’d head towards the docks, expecting the next shipment, keeping an eye out for any law enforcement patrolling the ships.

One of the guys paused, most likely to look out for Carlos, and Frank knew it was the perfect opportunity to strike. Stealthy footsteps. A hand clamped to his mouth, staggered him backwards and around the corner.

The man reacted instantly, turning around and hurtling his fist towards Frank’s face. The knuckles impacted Frank’s mouth and nose immediately, and for a second, Frank saw stars. Another jab landed on his face, and one on his abdomen, but Frank recovered and ducked the next one. Grunted as he punched the man back, once, twice, and then again. His own knuckles on fire, would be bruised within the hour.

Muscled him to the wall, other forearm around now his throat. It was trickling with blood from where Carlos had slashed him, but he held the chokehold. Felt the man struggle underneath him, but Frank had been doing this for too many years to be weakened now.

Wasn’t the way that he preferred to kill, but the most silent method he knew, and so it was the one he went with. Hand still on the man’s mouth, wondered silently what his name was. Trent? Tristan? Some shitty name, who the fuck cared. One that frequented the FBI’s ‘wanted’ list enough, anyway.

Seconds passed, and the man still struggled, his yells muffled against the vice-like hand of Frank’s. Legs kicking from underneath him, entire body quivering. Funny how much a man did to stay alive, when it really came down to it.

Finally, and thank fuck, Frank felt the man begin to droop, his breathing lessen. Frank bit his lower lip in concentration as he dug his knife out of his sleeve, forearm still not budging from the man’s throat. Finished the job by stepping backwards, and nudging the knife into his flesh, near his heart. A messy job, but it was the most he could do considering his front was against the man’s back. The motherfucker could no longer scream in pain, anyway, seeing he’d long since lost consciousness. Another one down. Fuck them all.

“What the fuck?” The remaining man came hurrying into the hallway, dripping with suspicion. Couldn’t believe the sight he was seeing: a dead comrade and a bloody Frank Castle, staring at him with murder in his eyes. Reached for his gun, but it was too late.

Frank walked towards him, leisurely, watching him fumble with his gun holster. Before the other could blink again, Frank had a hand wrapped around his throat, and led him back into the lobby, meeting the panicked gaze with his own dark eyes.

“You were the biggest pain in my ass, you know that?” Frank grunted, hurled him towards the floor. The man was skinny, had practically no weight to him despite the full body armor. A goddamn joke. Body armor never protected the most vulnerable parts of the body, never protected the areas that Frank could slide his KA-BAR into. Places he could guide the knife through, and rip right into the parts that left a man dead.

“I’ll kill you.” The man spat, on the floor, on his knees. Tried to stand up again, but Frank pushed him back down, a boot to his face.

“Try it.” Frank grinned, challenge present. Held his hands up in mock surrender, even stepped back to allow for an advantage.

He came lunging, knife in his hand, reaching for Frank’s face, but it was too easy for Frank to block the attack. Too fucking easy. Was almost disappointed at how predictable the move was. Kicked his legs out from underneath him, twisted his forearm backwards, turned him around so that he could manoeuvre the man’s arm into holding his own knife against his own throat.

Frank tutted apprehensively, shifting his weight so that his own arm was pushing the man’s hand closer towards his throat. The man flailed, struggled, but couldn’t escape the hold. Downright terrified as he watched the knife inch closer and closer towards his own throat, tried to let go of it, but Frank’s hand clasped around his own.

There was an engulfing quality within sin, and one often had to make his peace with it. You couldn’t take the life of another without sacrificing your own – that wasn’t the way the world worked, that wasn’t how anything worked. Ghosts seemed to leave you alone when they noticed that, you too, were suffering, perhaps more than them. They’d observe you with sympathy, change their minds, decide that they were better off dead than you were alive, and would permit you a night of solace.

The ghosts had begun to torment Frank again, they could no longer sit in silence. And so, neither could Frank.

Frank held the blade close to the jugular of the other man. Precision and accuracy. Clamped the man’s mouth with his own hand to quieten his struggling.

“This one’s for you, Red.” Frank murmured into the silence, dripping with dark irony.

Frank slit the man’s throat. One end to the other. The familiar sound of gurgling, of skin swishing underneath the blade, unrestricted access.

And, then? There was no more struggling – no more flailing. Just silence. Only one heartbeat, no longer two. Blood still splaying, never-ending, until it was forming a pool around Frank’s boots.

Frank shoved the lifeless body off him, forward, watched it fall onto the floor. He stepped away from the crimson puddle; would be a bitch to clean off his boots.

The relief of giving into destruction.

Blood trickling down his chest, hands stained with that of another, face so bruised it was a miracle he could still see. To see the lifeless body in front of him, regard it with faint disinterest, no different to the others he had killed over his lifetime.

Frank headed back towards Flavio, had discarded the vest and bloodied clothing. Time to fucking finish the job, after months of waiting. Walked back into the hallway, back into the maze of the basement, headed towards the room he had begun his evening in.

What he hadn’t expected to see, however, was Flavio, waiting in his room, as Frank approached.

Flavio was leaning against a table, smoking away thoughtfully. He looked up as Frank walked towards him, and smiled at the sight of the man.

“Ah, Frank. Good you haven’t left, yet, huh? Need you to do something for me.” Flavio grinned, cigarette still hanging limply out of his mouth. He ignored the bruises on Frank’s face, or perhaps didn’t notice them at all, having been distracted already.

Frank’s expression was one of utter disbelief. Do something? He was here to kill the motherfucker, goddamnit. After all these weeks he’d finally caught Flavio alone. Flavio, again, was a cunning man. Always surrounded himself with a handful of men, or other civilians that he sold to, knowing it’d be easier to stay alive that way.

But something within Flavio’s hesitancy caused Frank to pause, and he clenched his fists to stop from shooting the man on sight. Dying men deserved their final words, didn’t they? Frank would hear him out.

“See, Castle, I’ve got this man. A very, very irritating man, as you might call it. Asshole just won’t leave my business alone, you know? Not like you, you understand the way of the world, don’t you, friend? You know that business like this must be done. But not this man. This man has been taking my men down for weeks, and I do not doubt that he will come for me next.” Flavio breathed, glancing at Frank.

“Motherfucker always escapes, always exposes all of the locations I trade in. Has NYPD on my ass all the time. Fucking do-gooder or some shit, I think, licking the assholes of the law.” Flavio continued, blowing the smoke out of his mouth. Accented English making most of his words slurred, difficult to understand.

“So, Frank, you and I – we feel the same about the law, don’t we? We know how useless the government is, we both hate it with an equal passion, do we not? That is what I have always liked about you, other than your zealous streak, of course.” Flavio chuckled at that.

Frank raised an eyebrow, knew that Flavio was clearly mistaken if that was what he thought of him. Remained silent.

“And as the generous man I am, and as a slave to tradition, I’d like to initiate you into this business by giving you this honor. See, we have this man here today — one of my men grabbed a hold of him before he could get away. The bastard is in the next room, unconscious. Tied him up so tight that I can only pray he doesn’t have a fucking bondage kink.” Flavio continued, eyeing Frank carefully.

When Frank’s face remained clear of all emotion, Flavio gestured for him to follow him out of the room.

More curious than anything else, Frank obliged. Let the dying man have his wish, or whatever it was that they said.

They both walked back into the hallway, and this time, Flavio led him down a different set of corridors. Frank stared at the druglord’s back as he walked, mused over the different ways he could kill him tonight.

“I would like to give you the honor of killing him.” Flavio finally gritted, almost reluctant. They stood outside the closed room, and he gauged Frank’s reaction.

Whatever Flavio had been expecting, he didn’t receive. Frank merely shrugged. “Give me the gun.” He rasped, eager to get this night over and done with. Hadn’t been listening to half the shit that Flavio had been rambling on about.

Flavio smiled at that, bared his teeth. Nodding, he nudged the door open.

Frank had to adjust his eyes to the darkness inside, had to squint to make out the figure seated on the chair. An empty room, save for what looked like various torture devices. Could smell the blood from here, knew the man had most likely been the person that those devices had been tested upon.

Whoever the man was, he was clearly unconscious, head lowered. Arms strapped to the back of the chair, ankles bound to the legs of the chair. Layers of rope wrapped generously around his lower abdomen, clearly digging into his skin, causing his chest to rise and fall with difficulty.

Flavio handed Frank his own gun, and stepped into the room, clearly waiting for Frank to do the same. Frank followed him in, and held the gun up lazily. Wouldn’t even have to aim for this one. Finger already on the trigger.

When Flavio turned on the nearest light switch, Frank stilled.

A flash of red.

He felt paralyzed. Felt his heart sink to the bottom of his fucking stomach. World at a standstill. Noticed the months’ worth of suppressed emotion, similar to waves, finally rise up to shore. The sensation rose up to the very front of his consciousness, until it overwhelmed him to the point where it became an effort to even stay upright. Had to force himself to breathe. Had to step back. Gun still in his hands, now pointed downwards. Felt the bile rise up to his mouth. Had been a second away from shooting.

There, sat tied to the chair, unconscious, and heavily injured, was Matthew Murdock.

Chapter Text

“Kill the bastard.” Flavio spoke again, voice brimming with suspicion. Watched Frank hesitate. He narrowed his eyes, inhaling another drag from the cigarette still in his hand. Blew the smoke into the air. Grew impatient.

“What’s the matter, eh, Castle? Forgot how to fuckin’ shoot?”

Frank was past comprehension, no longer listening, couldn’t drag his eyes away from the man he hadn’t seen in months. Felt the emotion course through him, and for a second, all he could do was close his eyes.

Prickling stillness. As if a wound were healing. Or rather, as if it had just been opened again, and this time: smeared with salt. Hated the futile longing that grew within him, hated the memories that flashed within his mind like fucking strobe lights – impossible to ignore.

He noticed the way Matt was practically dripping with blood; not a single part of his body that wasn’t wounded in one way or another. Matt had been tortured, Frank realized. Face still covered by that mask of his, but jaw bruised, mouth bleeding.

Those lips. The same lips, that had once made him feel human, now had a gash across them. Zigzags on his forearms, had taken knife to the skin too. Couldn’t tell how badly his torso was injured, was covered by that body armor of his. Noticed several stab wounds, centimeters deep. Whoever had tortured him, they had taken their sweet fucking time with it.

Frank’s fists clenched. Familiar rage trickling in, vehemence growing, fingers twitching to unleash ravage. Knew this feeling all too well, knew that it never ended well for anyone, nothing but destruction to follow. Thirsty for the blood of the man behind him: Flavio Bianchi. Knew that he’d make Flavio beg for a God even if he wasn’t the religious type.

Goddamn it, Red. Just had to come crawling, didn’t you?

Frank finally acknowledged the man behind him, and turned, jaw clenched. Tossed the gun aside, and it clattered on the floorboards as it fell. Cracked his knuckles. Absolute restraint.

Flavio almost had to step back when he saw the expression on Frank’s face. One full of absolute hatred. Murder in his eyes, every movement precise and calculated. Dark eyes communicating messages that caused him to flinch, caused him to inhale deeply in some attempt at resolve.

Flavio was usually a man who only feared God. But this man, this man in front of him? Frank Castle? He looked like the Grim Reaper himself. The walking embodiment of Death.

Frank diverted his glossy stare, now glancing around the room, nodding to himself. Whistled in faux appreciation at the various torture devices laying around, observed the bloodstains on both the walls and floorboards.

Frank walked around, until he stood behind the chair that Matt was tied upon. Knew what it was that he’d have to do. But, fuck, he wouldn’t be able to if Matt remained unconscious, goddamn it. Already looked like he had one foot in the grave – couldn’t risk it.

“Listen, Bianchi, I appreciate the offer, yeah? Really, I do.” Frank rasped, meeting Flavio’s eyes again, jaw still ticked.

Flavio bristled, hand instantly reaching for his other handgun.

Frank raised an eyebrow at that, but continued anyway. “But, see, you were right. This man here? He’s a fucking asshole. A goddamn boil on my ass, that’s what he is. Been after me, too. And to go after someone like me? Well, Bianchi, you already know how that story ends, don’t you?” Smirked at that, narrowing his eyes.

Presumed knowledge sitting heavily between them. Frank had no doubt that Flavio knew exactly the type of man he was.

“So, truly, I gotta thank you for givin’ him to me, yeah? Makes my life easier. Ends his a lot quicker too.” Frank was gritting the words out by now, gripping the chair so hard that his knuckles were practically white. Fucking difficult to put a leash onto the rage, always had been.

Flavio listened carefully, unable to decipher the hidden meaning. Took another puff of his cigarette, watched the man with a lenient eye. Regarded the bruised body on the chair with faint disinterest. “What you tryna say, Castle?” He spat, no longer interested in beating around the bush. Accent heavier than ever.

Frank grinned at that, before shrugging unapologetically. “I want my turn.” He spat. “Want to make the bastard pay before I send him straight to the fuckin’ morgue.”

Could no longer think straight, could think of nothing but the familiar tang of blood, what it smelt like when it dried on warm skin, how it mingled with a person’s scent wholly until it became a part of them – impossible to wash off. Was counting down the seconds until he could wash the blood off Matt’s skin himself, so that it never became permanent, never lingered on Matt longer than necessary.

Flavio seemed almost relieved at that, shoulders slumping, hand raising from the handgun tucked into his waistband. “Be my guest.” He yawned, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. Interest flickering in his eyes as he watched Frank make his way over opposite Daredevil, now facing him. Almost eager to see him in action, akin to a bloodhound.

You gotta wake up for me, Red. Frank swung his bruised fist towards Matt, knuckles burning as they impacted Matt’s face. Had restrained most of its velocity, had been clumsy with it on purpose. Just needed him to wake the fuck up, goddamn it.

Matt stirred, but remained unconscious, hardly registering the punch.

Other side. Frank tilted Matt’s chin up again, had to force himself to breathe. Come on, come on. Was tempted to tear the mask off his face, but knew Flavio was watching. Matt’s head drooped in his hand, indicating his weakened state.

Frank wrung his hand, ignored how it pulsated with pain, hadn’t duct-taped it. Bone on bone never resulted in a happy ending. Shook it out, calculated the distance. Couldn’t just land blind punches, needed method to it, needed specific areas to target. Wasn’t planning to cause further damage, for fuck’s sake.

Frank punched Matt on his face again, grunting from the effort, and heard a crack. Knew he’d hit what he was aiming for. Had knocked Matt’s broken nose back into place. Would bruise and hurt like a bitch if he ever did awaken, but would heal regardless.

Swift movement. Frank jabbed him in the abdomen this time, and then again on the jaw. Backhanded him. Boxer moves, brawler moves, all combined. Less weight to the punches once again, finding it almost impossible to hold them back, to lessen their impact once delivered. Not breathing himself, mind already drifting.

Matt recoiled instantly, gasping for breath, struggling against the rope. All survival instincts kicking in, without a second thought. Thudded against the chair, tasted the copper in his mouth. Face on fire. Entire world on fire. Knew he was surrounded by men, knew he had to fight back against it, but was restrained completely, unable to budge an inch. Grunted in pain. Couldn’t focus on his senses, now weakened. Body already in overdrive from the strain it was under. Spat blood from his mouth, felt it dribble down his chin.

“Son of a bitch.” Frank hissed, more for the pretense than anything else, stepped forward so that Flavio wouldn’t realize Matt was no longer unconscious.

Frank? Matt recognized the voice, but his brain could hardly process the information, could hardly register his surroundings, one foot in oblivion. Felt sleep drag him under again, soothing and comforting, unlike the rest of the world. Heart racing, all efforts made to unscramble his mind, to escape from the rope bound against him. Had done so hundreds of times before.

But his body protested, every blood cell within him flailing, couldn’t summon the willpower to move. Felt trapped.

“Never cease to amaze, do you, Red?” Frank whispered into the silence, voice so low that it was only the two of them that could hear it. Impossibly quiet, with the knowledge that Matt would hear every syllable. Tilting Matt’s face upwards again.

The words taunted Matt, wrapped around him. Voice like gravel, raspy, New York accent exaggerated. Frank. It was Frank’s hand holding his chin; had been Frank’s blows against his body. Would recognize that touch anywhere, had known from the eyes on him alone: the weight that the gaze held. Didn’t matter how many months had passed, or how many would continue to pass, he’d never forget. Had always been good at remembering. Was all he knew how to do lately.

Matt struggled against the chair again, unable to even form words, wanting to lash out. Felt every muscle within him shift, could barely breathe underneath the rope. Chest rising and falling with difficulty. Kill me. Please. Just end it all.

“He awake?” Flavio called out, suddenly on the edge, peering around Frank’s shoulder, hand immediately reaching for the handgun on his side. Now alert, now past the bullshit.

Frank stiffened, hands still against Matt’s face, now comforting, no longer causing anguish. Felt the familiar stubble underneath his fingertips, the shape of his jaw, the broad chin.

“Not for long.” Frank lied, stepping to the side to block Flavio’s view. It was a small room, almost suffocating, which meant that Flavio would have to enter in order to catch a sight of Matt. And he wouldn’t be doing that, wouldn’t be able to, not whilst Frank was still alive.

“Shh, shh.” Frank quietened Matt’s struggling, held him still. He reached for the gun that he’d hurled at the floor earlier, now picking it up carefully. Unyielding grip. Steady hands. Finger on the trigger. Made his way behind the chair again, until he was behind Matt, and facing Flavio.

“Kill him. Kill him before I shoot you both, you fucking bastard! Figlio di puttana!” Flavio’s voice became higher with every syllable, pronunciation strained. He aimed his gun at Frank’s temple, nostrils flaring. Crushed the cigarette underneath his boot.

Frank straightened, disinterested in the temper tantrum. He placed the barrel of his gun on the back of Matt’s head. “How about you shut the fuck up?” He narrowed his eyes at Flavio, voice laced with warning. Goddamn suicidal, didn’t give a shit.

Matt flinched when he felt the gun against him, breathing heavily. He heard the sound of clipping, so faint that it was practically inaudible, and felt the pressure against his wrists lessen. Realized that Frank had just cut into his rope, easing its hold.

Frank leaned close to Matt’s ear, lips dangerously near his jaw. “You hear a gunshot, you make a run for it, you hear me? No more heroics, alright? I’m fucking sick of it.” Voice barely above a whisper.

Matt felt Frank’s lips brush against his cheekbone and shivered involuntarily. Didn’t nod, didn’t acknowledge what had just been said. Still trying to gather his thoughts, still trying to see past the pain that overwhelmed him to the point where even breathing required effort.

Matt heard the voices, the conversation being exchanged, but the words held no gravity – no meaning. Numb. Wondered whether this was it, this was death, and all he could do was accept it. How fitting it’d be, to be delivered by the hands of Frank Castle.

“I’d say it’s been a pleasure knowing you, Bianchi, but that’d be a goddamn lie.” Matt heard Frank hiss. Matt braced himself for impact. Thought of nothing, seconds slipping through his fingers like sand in a closed fist. Hurt to think. Hurt to breathe. Everything hurt.

Heard the gunshot. Heard the bullet approach. Heard it with accurate precision, from the second it left the chamber, and to the point it entered the air surrounding them. The way it sped through the oxygen particles, with the ability to be mistaken as faster than light itself. How it held the ability to end one’s life, and to change another’s. Lead. Brass. Copper.

Heard it all, because it was him that the bullet came hurtling towards.

Matt felt himself be enveloped by a darkness so deep, that it no longer mattered where he was, or how he’d gotten there. Stillness. Felt himself give into the darkness, almost willingly, almost desperately. Life slipping through the gaps in a closed fist. And, he let it go rather than resisting – held open his entire palm. Welcomed the obscurity; could almost hear his father’s voice again.

He embraced it.

Chapter Text

Rats clawing behind the thin walls. Wails from toddlers several stories below. Sullen footsteps on the concrete of Hell’s Kitchen. Rain. The gentle pitter patter of it, how soft it became once it fell, no longer piercing. Steady heartbeat. The gentle breathing of another. A solid mattress underneath him.

Nothing like what he imagined death to be. Had thought, foolishly, that he’d be able to see the lining of the world: the other side of it. Beyond birds, mountains, sunsets. The true meaning, ready to be decoded; the incomprehensible comprehended.

Instead of all of that – what he did feel, was his own blood flowing throughout him, in attempt to keep him breathing. Pain dulled, until it was no more than throbbing that coursed throughout his entire body. This prickling sensation on his lower abdomen. Head pounding. Nose seemingly broken.

Realized that he wasn’t dead, because the dead definitely did not suffer from goddamn migraines. Disappointed, more than anything else. How anticlimactic.

Matt swallowed, couldn’t wait, couldn’t pause, mind frayed. Tired, so goddamn tired, that he almost wished he was dead. Forced himself to appear as normal and stoic as he could whilst attempting to rise.

“Don’t move.” Someone grunted. Again, that prickling, stinging sensation.

Frank Castle. Reality dawned upon Matt, and he let his head fall back on the pillow again. “Oh, you've got to be kidding me.” He muttered, mostly to himself. Concluded with complete certainty that dying was, in fact, better than the current situation he was in.

“Yeah.” Frank huffed, lower lip bit in concentration as he pulled the needle through Matt’s skin once again. Ensured the medical thread closed the wound entirely, precise suturing. “Nice to see you too, Red.” Dripping with dark irony.

The familiar voice startled Matt, and reminded him of his own transgressions. Didn’t want to hear it. Never wanted to hear it again. Would burrow into the pillow, if he could, try desperately to wake up into some other alternate reality. One that didn’t involve Frank laboring over him, nonchalant as ever.

“Get off me.” Matt hissed, voice hoarse. Threat clear.

“Shut up.” Frank replied, unimpressed, reaching over for some scissors. Cut the thread, tied it close to the skin. Wiped over it with a wet cloth.

Onto the next wound.

Matt stilled Frank's forearm before he could do so, hand wrapped around Frank’s wrist, grip unyielding despite the limitation within his limbs. “Get the hell out of here, Frank. I mean it. Don’t come near me again.” Lifted his head slightly. Knew he was surrounded by dim lighting. Was on a bed. Frank’s hands on his bare stomach. Senses weakened. Tried to gauge the location.

“Kicking me outta my own apartment, Red?” Frank answered the question for him, knew it was what Matt was wracking his mind over. Not surprised at the lack of emotion within Matt’s voice, how cold the man was, indignant. Deserved it. Deserved it and more.

Frank’s apartment? If Hell was a physical place, this had to be it. In Matt's mind, the entire thing didn’t seem all that horrific anymore. But there was that one memory he’d never forget, no matter how much whisky he drank to erase the thought of it.

The reason why, and the start of it all. Of everything. The pain, the truth, the lust, and this. The… being taken care of. And now, the gentle, healing touches. Almost apologetic in their impact. Matt wanted to laugh – laugh at how absurd it was, how ridiculous it was that they always ended up like this. One bleeding in the arms of another.

Familiar warmth, and something else that Matt didn’t want to recognize. Stuck to what he knew instead: the ache, the desolation, the forlornness.

Matt no longer trusted the man leaning over his bare skin, knew it would only lead to his own downfall. No longer relaxed underneath the touch, now tensed.

“Nothing more I want than to wrap my hands around your throat, Frank, you hear me?” Matt gritted, fingers twitching, jaw clenched. He felt the needle poke through him again. How simple it seemed now, to kill a man. To end it all. The only man who had caused him to feel…this way. Hated it. Could no longer idealize the feeling.

Matt wanted to bring destruction to the one who had caused it. Loathed the man that had caused it. Frank Castle. Frank, who had torn him to shreds. Life had taken a turn for the worse ever since Frank had stepped foot within it again, and ever since he’d first taken him back to his own apartment, all those nights ago.

“Nothing stopping you.” Frank muttered quietly, voice grave, head lowered as he continued working over Matt’s bloodied flesh. Grimacing when he realized the wound was deeper than expected, knew it’d infect soon if he didn’t splash some sort of alcohol over it. The best substitute for sanitization.

“Yeah, well, consider yourself lucky.” Matt finally croaked; knew he was being stitched up somewhere else despite his protests, could tell that the majority of his abdomen was bandaged in one way or another.

Frank had gotten up, Matt realized. Was now thudding around the apartment, boots heavy, each step loud. Heard the bathroom tap turn on, water emerging from it.

"Just couldn’t stay away, could you, Murdock?" Frank scoffed, returning to the bed with another wet cloth and a bottle of vodka. "Shit, you just had to come fucking crawling.”

Matt chuckled bitterly, chest rising and falling with difficulty. “You’re flattering yourself if you think I came for you.”

He’d been scouting the streets for weeks, had busted every single location that Flavio traded from, but the bastard always managed to begin his business again – unaffected. Almost as if he enjoyed the attention from Daredevil, as if he liked being kept on his toes.

Matt had been so close, so close to tearing the entire thing apart, to set fire to the entire stash of pure cocaine within the warehouse, to pull it from its roots. But there had been a dirty cop, goddamn it, had taken him to the station under the pretense of requiring a report. Was injected with a substance before his senses could latch onto it, and the next thing he knew, he’d woken up in the same warehouse. Hours of torture that followed. His mask stayed on.

Flavio had insisted for it to stay on, found gratification within it. Laughed about how he liked to imagine all of the people he loathed, underneath the mask. Had no interest in the Daredevil’s real identity, cared only about ‘an eye for an eye’ or whatever the hell it was that he said.

Matt hadn't given Flavio the pleasure of sounding his grief; remained deathly silent, no protests raised. Endured the torture, because, hell, physical torture was no worse than emotional.

He'd been close to escaping, had his plan in place.

That is, until Frank Castle came stumbling into both the basement, and his life again.

“That right?” Frank raised an eyebrow, finding it almost amusing how defensive Matt became.

“Goddamn suicidal, that’s what you are, Red. A fucking shit magnet.” The concern disguised underneath his indifference. Wanted nothing more than to backhand some sense into the stubborn, stubborn man laying underneath him.

Hadn’t spent all those months hoping for Matt’s safety, only for it to result into this.

Hadn’t left, all those months ago, just to end up back here.

“Takes one to know one.” Matt tasted the blood in his mouth, the copper on his tongue. Knew his lip was bleeding. Couldn’t care less. Wiped it away with the back of his hand, eyes closing again.

Frank chuckled at that, shaking his head. “You think?” He splashed the alcohol over the wound, knew it would only slow the healing process, but had to reduce the risk of infection somehow.

Matt flinched instantly, flesh burning. Had to force himself to breathe. Inhaled, exhaled.

Frank placed the wet cloth over the wound, carefully wiping away the blood that regurgitated again, some attempt at reconciliation. One hand on Matt’s thigh, holding him still, almost reassuringly.  

“Where is he?” Matt closed his eyes again, referring to Flavio Bianchi. Knew he had been shot, but there was no particular place on his body that burned more than the other, so he still didn’t know where. Would have to wait until he regained his heightened senses to figure that one out. Or ask Frank. The latter being something that he’d rather not do.

“Dead.” Frank said simply. Remembered the way he’d shot him twice in the chest, once in the head. Military technique. With Bianchi’s own gun, a custom-made piece. How he’d dug his fingers into Bianchi’s eyes beforehand, how he’d beaten his face with his fists until it was past recognition, how he felt the motherfucker struggle underneath his weight.

The agonizing seconds that followed after Matt had been shot. The shot hadn’t been fatal, had only whizzed past Matt’s side, missing all vital organs. Vision unclear, overcome with pure rage. How he’d dragged Matt’s limp body to his van, had sped past red lights, one thought on loop. Don’t die on me, Red.

Matt merely nodded at that, knew it was Frank who did what he couldn’t – ended the entire narcotrafficking business within a few weeks, not months of failed attempts like his own.

Perhaps, sometimes, just sometimes, death was the answer.  

“Here.” Frank held out the bottle of vodka, now half-empty.

Matt accepted it, held it to his lips, swallowed a mouthful. The familiar burn of it, how warm it made him feel once the liquid slid past his throat. Everything to say, and yet nothing to say at all. Resentment. Too exhausted to lash out further, could no longer bear the anger. Frank had won.

Frank observed Matt silently, dark eyes not wavering from his face. Drinking in the sight of him. Noticed the lack of expression, the defeated state. Wanted nothing more than to reassure. Had to clench his fists to resist from doing so.

“Need to, uh, stitch up your leg.” Frank finally cleared his throat, fingertips brushing the area he implied towards. Matt’s thigh. Needed to unbuckle Matt’s pants for that one, hadn’t quite summoned the willpower to do so. Knew what it would entail.

Matt raised an eyebrow at the hesitancy within Frank’s tone – was unfamiliar on the man. “Be my guest.” Almost smirking. Mocking. Dark irony. Feigned obliviousness. He took another mouthful of the vodka, back now rested against the bed’s headboard.

Frank glanced at Matt’s face again, gauging his reaction. A face that was bruised beyond belief, nose swollen from having been set back into place, eyes glossy. And still, still, he managed to look alright. Pulled it off, somehow. An almost comical thought, really. Frank’s eyes averted from those lips of his, the strong jaw. Couldn’t bear the sight.

Frank’s hands brushed against Matt’s waist as he dragged his pants downwards, the crimson body armor. Unbuckling his belt as he did so, precise fingers. Skillful fingers, even. Matt ignored the spark that shot up his spine. Ignored the way his body responded immediately, as if the past few months had never happened.

It was now just him. Him and Frank’s heartbeat.

Frank wiped away the blood pooling on Matt’s left thigh, concentrating on the task, not allowing his thoughts to roam. Jaw ticked. Observing the way Matt’s muscles rolled underneath his skin, the quadriceps. Fingertips tracing the knife laceration, only millimeters deep.

“Do you remember, Frank?” Matt murmured, voice barely above a whisper, steeling underneath the touch.

Remembered. No moment passed where Frank didn’t. The threat. The memory of the knife. The careful balance, that, whenever it tipped, brought danger, danger of complete destruction, of not one – but both. Remembered the bleeding lips pressed against his own. Hatred and lust, forming to become an emotion so overwhelming that it fucked with his mind. Remembered the strength against strength, an equal give and take, hunger, power. Remembered what it felt like, being able to surrender, even if just for a few seconds – to be able to hand himself over entirely, consequences be damned.

Painful to remember.

Frank nodded, distracted, fingers pulling needle through skin, accustomed movements. Hand brushing against Matt’s boxers occasionally, was impossible not to. Eyes still on the wound. Forgetting that Matt couldn’t see him.

Matt’s hypersenses were gradually returning, and he knew that Frank had nodded. Couldn’t decipher the emotion that coursed through him. But, he didn’t reach out. Didn’t cater to Frank’s response, didn’t entertain him like he usually would. Wouldn’t lower his defenses this time. Would take a while for that wall to come down again.

“Tell me why you’re doing this. Tell me why you didn’t just let me die out there. Why didn’t you just kill me, Frank?” Matt's lips were thinned, fist clenched by his side. Knew Frank had begun the suturing upon his thigh. Felt like a goddamn handmade stuffed toy, at this point.

Frank stilled at the words. “The fuck did you just say?” Voice like gravel.

“You could’ve killed me. Why didn’t you?” Matt repeated, emphasizing his words this time.

Frank had to restrain himself, exhaling to calm down. Resisted against the urge to lash out against the accusation. “You’re delusional.” He hissed, pulling the needle out, setting it aside. Glaring at the man facing him. Fingers twitching.

Matt laughed cruelly at that, shaking his head. “Oh yeah? See, Frank, why would I be inclined to think any different? You want me to be honest with you?" He swallowed roughly. "I thought you’d kill me, Frank. Hell, I’d been waiting for it. Anticipating it. And I’ve gotta say, I’m disappointed.”

He remembered what it was like, strapped to that chair. To wake up to Frank Castle’s fists, to be filled with that impending doom. His words were more to rile Frank up, however, to spur a reaction. Needed to see whether emotion still existed within the Punisher, goddamn it.

Frank reacted immediately, grasping Matt’s face roughly within his hand, closing the distance so that their noses were practically touching.

“You think that’s what I want, huh? To kill you? You don’t think I would’ve done that the first time I’d gotten the chance?” Spat the words out.

Had thought that maybe Matt had understood his reason behind leaving. Now realizing that he had been wrong.

“Get your little heart broken, did you, Matthew? That what happened?" He met the unfocused eyes, fingertips digging into Matt's skin. "Well, you have my fucking condolences.” 

Frank smirked when he received no response. Had been proven right.

“Yeah. You think it’s real easy, don’t you? Real easy to sit around and play houses, ain’t that right? You saw what happened when I wasn’t on the streets. Chaos. This. Shit like this happens, Murdock. Bastards like Bianchi make themselves comfortable. Yeah, you saw that, didn’t you? Saw the little kids he sold that shit to? Knew it was happening, but you were happy to sit around and twiddle your thumbs anyway, weren’t you? Waiting for your little friends over at NYPD to handle it? Or were you not there?” There was no friendliness within Frank’s voice this time, no reassurance, just pure spite.

Almost unable to believe what it was that Matt had said. What it was that Matt thought of him.

Matt’s jaw clenched, and he leaned away from Frank’s hand, shoving it aside with his own. “That how it is, Frank? You’re suddenly in charge of everything that goes wrong, every crime that occurs? So, let me get this straight, you’re not only the executioner, but now the goddamn judge as well?”

“When will you realize it, Frank? When will you realize that not everything is your fault, that you can sit down and let yourself breathe – and do so without blaming yourself for every single problem underneath the sun?” Matt was seething at this point, no longer cared about suppressing his emotion.

No longer cared about how he had felt during the months following Frank’s departure – hell, that was irrelevant. Cared more about the ghosts that had consumed Frank, the ones that had led Frank to believe that he no longer deserved happiness.

“So, you know what, Frank? Yeah, I did think you’d kill me. Wouldn't be unlike you, would it? Because clearly, dead or alive, no one matters to you as much as your goddamn ghosts do.” Matt gritted. He ignored the burning pain, the agony that tormented him as he moved to get off the bed. Standing once again. Had to get away. Could no longer bear to be here.

Frank stilled.

Maria. Maria, and the kids. Family. Friends that he’d buried. Graves that he had dug himself. Handfuls of soil he’d thrown over their caskets. American flags that he’d carried during the funerals of fellow soldiers, in formal Marine attire. Every waking moment a nightmare. To be consumed with memories so profound, that he was no longer able to register reality. Tried to find the words to explain, knew it’d be useless even if he could. Carried with him: the blame. The upheaval.

Where’s home, Frank? Is it here, or is it there?

‘Here’ was what he had told Maria, but truth be told, he no longer had a home. Not here, not there. Perhaps somewhere in the underworld, perhaps somewhere deep within the Earth’s soil – knew there was a grave marked with his name somewhere out there, awaiting his arrival. Memento mori.

Frank closed his eyes, allowing himself to sink within the feeling, letting go. Fists no longer clenched. Exhausted beyond belief. Mind wracked.

“Matt.” He finally mumbled to the retreating figure, defeated. Didn’t glance upwards. Didn’t deserve the concern within Matt’s eyes, the blatant affection. Tried to understand that, tried to remember that, but couldn’t give a flying fuck anymore.

Wanted it more than anything.

More than his next fucking breath.

Matt paused, there in Frank’s apartment, body littered with so many bandages that he was surprised he wasn’t in a museum in Egypt somewhere. Hand on the doorway. Patient. Knew it was Frank that had labored over him; had been Frank that had stitched him back together. Frank who’d always had the ability to put him back together, piece by piece, never complaining, always patient.

And yet, he was frustrated, because Frank would never let Matt do the same for him.

“I…” Frank cleared his throat, dragged a hand over his face wearily. “I’d die before I let anything happen to you.”

Complete honesty, not a single syllable disingenuous.

Matt closed his eyes, knew it was Frank’s attempt at an apology. “Don’t need that. Don’t want you to die.”

Frank remained silent for a few seconds, dark eyes still on the bare expanse of Matt’s back, watched as his muscles bounced with every movement he made.

Owing. Now, this was dangerous ground again. They owed each other so much by now, it was hard to keep track. Two men more similar than they would have liked. Unable to go back, unable to pretend certain things had never happened.

Didn’t want to pretend that certain things had never happened. Hell, maybe even wanted them to happen again.

“C’mere.” Frank rasped.

The corners of Matt’s mouth twitched. Noticed how commanding Frank Castle was with every single thing it was that he did. Even now, the demand in his voice was clear. Come here, or else.

Matt obliged, more so for his own amusement than anything else. Sat down beside Frank again, thighs touching.

“Lay back. Need to finish stitching up that leg of yours.” Frank muttered. Oddly resigned.

Again, Matt did as told. Head against the pillow once again. Followed the sound of every movement Frank made, held in a breath. Knew he could now ask the question he’d been wondering about, muscles slackening. Able to relax. “Where was I shot?”

The dim lighting of Frank’s apartment caused Matt’s body to appear similar to one of Michelangelo’s finest sculptures, shadows accentuating every dip and curve. Matt had put on more muscle, Frank realized. Could now pay attention towards the smaller details: the stubble that littered Matt’s jaw, the pink bags underneath his eyes, the swollen lips, the corded biceps.

Fuck the stitching.

Frank tore his own bloodied shirt off, tossed it across the room somewhere. Leaned against Matt’s body with his own. Heard the way Matt inhaled sharply, flushed skin against his own.

Frank lowered his head, and pressed his lips against Matt’s lower abdomen, which was now freshly stitched. Matt, here, on his bed. An intoxicating thought. “Here.” He whispered; voice hoarse. Left a trail of kisses there. Reconciliation.

Matt could no longer breathe, could no longer think straight, not when Frank’s mouth was against his skin, not when the memories resurfaced. Except, this was now. No longer just a memory. Alive, and here. Frank’s chest against his own, the defined pecs underneath his palm when he reached for the body he’d been longing for – had been longing for what seemed like forever.

Frank's familiar weight on top of him; mind now haywire. Calloused hands trailing up his arms, causing him to shiver. Sensation akin to drowning, except that he was a man made for the water – wanted to drown, goddamn it.

Matt then felt Frank’s lips brush against his own. Soft. Hesitant. Teasing. 

Knew then, with complete certainty, that he’d never be able to resist the man that was Frank Castle.

“Tell me to leave, Red.” Frank murmured against Matt’s mouth. Hands still searching, exploring, aiming to please.

A final warning.

Matt smiled against Frank’s lips, his hands tugging the strands of his hair, pulling him closer.

“Like you said, I can’t kick you out of your own apartment, Frank.”

Chapter Text

There used to be a lady who came in to clean the dorm rooms, the same that Matt and Foggy stayed in during law school. She had quite the temper, as most immigrants did back then within New York, but also came accompanied with one of the biggest hearts that Matt had ever seen on a person.

She would never knock on their door with her hands empty, always had some sort of food in her hands – whether it be a homemade stew, or leftover paella doused in olive oil and packaged in plastic containers; portions beyond generous.

The meals were always something that both Foggy and Matt were grateful for, knew that their day’s calories were sorted for; more delicious than anything money could ever buy. Food that radiated love, somehow. The lady never accepted a thank-you, always held a hand up dismissively, as if it required no acknowledgement at all – as if were a completely normal thing to feed two struggling law students whenever the opportunity arose.

Her English was sparse, so there was a language barrier there, but her smiles were more than enough to indicate the affection that she held for them.

Anyway, once Matt had picked up enough Spanish through his elective class, he could finally understand what it had been that she always said.

“Dios hizo un día detrás del otro.”  Which translated into: "God made one day after another.”

The familiar words now echoed in Matt’s head, like ripples on a lake. Liked to believe that it meant everyone received second chances, that each new day always brought with it redemption.

Here, with Frank pressed against him, it all came back to him. This flood of lust and passion, happiness and anguish, so much fucking pain and loneliness that he gasped – choked on it.

Second chances? He found himself wading shit-deep through those. Lived a life that revolved around second chances, missed opportunities, the act of forgiveness.

Frank’s lips against his own were no longer demanding, no longer searching – but rather, gentle. Comforting. A contradiction, almost. A testament to the line that blurred Frank Castle and the Punisher.

His hand trailed near Matt’s waist, but there was no attempt to arouse. Rather it was as if he were greedy for him; greedy to hold as much of him as he could. Stilled him, pushed him down reassuringly, quietened his sharp intake of pain with his mouth again. Some attempt at an apology. Other hand cupping the back of Matt’s neck, drawing him closer. Nuzzling him, stubbled cheek against one shaved only hours ago.

When people embraced to say goodbye, perhaps this was why – to take into their arms what they wanted to keep once they were gone.

“Hate you.” Matt could only breathe, once he pulled away again, breathing heavy. Truth, intense and pure. Hurt me, use me, give me a reason to be angry, to make sense of all this pain. Blinking now, trying to make sense of it, to see past the physical pain and to bury the emotional. Just like he’d always done. Today was no different.

Christ, this man. Matt tied him in knots, and always would. It took Frank a moment to reply, and when he did, his voice was thick, hoarse with emotion. He closed his eyes, a bitter smile ghosting his lips. “Yeah. Figured you would.”

The ache in Frank’s voice eviscerated Matt’s insides, dug them out until he was no longer certain whether there was anything even left.

Or maybe, the sensation was caused by the fact that his insides had practically been dug out by various knife lacerations and bullet wounds.

A comical thought.

Frank leaned on his elbow, pushed closer to the man than what was comfortable — there’d never be a bed big enough for the two of them. Observed how Matt’s chest rose and fell with difficulty, the rosy lips, bruised jaw. Shirtless, a hand resting on his abdomen, nursing it. Matt was still tensed, as if bracing himself for the next attack, gripping onto reality the only way he saw fit.

Cautiously, Frank brought his hand closer to Matt’s face. Traced a thumb over the bruises, the swollen nose, the cut over his lip. Almost curiously. Tilted his chin upwards, inspected the damage. An apology on the tip of his tongue, knew it had been him that had caused most of them.

“That hurts.” Matt muttered dumbly, swatted Frank’s hand away. “Really took the anger out on me, huh, Frank?” He scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. Damn if the Punisher didn’t know how to throw a punch or two, with enough weight to them that they still had his head spinning. Knew that he’d only done so to allow for him to regain consciousness, but Jesus Christ.

Frank snickered, lowering his head. “See, I remember telling you to stay away, Red. Not a big fan of people that don’t listen, you know?” Couldn’t stifle the smug smile.

He pressed his lips against Matt’s jaw, a form of healing in itself. A silent apology. “Here I was, thinkin’ you’d thank me for fixing your nose back up, huh?”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t expect roses.” Matt deadpanned, but when Frank replaced the hand over his face, he leaned into the touch this time. Placed his own over it, lost in thought, traced the bleeding knuckles with his fingertips. “Go ice your hand.”

Frank ignored him, didn’t care about the unkempt knuckles. Felt close to drowning, so close that he could hear the rivers singing through his body, memorialising the tidal pain of wanting. Almost couldn’t bear to be so close again, not when he’d spent endless days isolating himself, away from most of the population.

They were so broken, so damn broken in more ways than imaginable. Frank had always had that darkness within him – had it before becoming enlisted, before getting married, before becoming a father. It had always settled deep within his limbs, clinging to him like a lover, until he could no longer remember what he was like without it.

Matt, however, had been different. Optimism, and light. A ray of sunlight on a cloudy day. A man who insisted the glass was always half-full. Frank knew Matt carried some semblance of the same darkness within him too. Knew that their darkness would clash. But needed him, anyway, needed him so damn much that he could hardly breathe from the want.

Matt knew that when he reached the centre of his darkness, a certain void opened. The terrifying shapes died, and there was no longer an outside or an inside. It felled him, and he’d disappear with a mask in his hand, no longer anything within him that resembled a heart.

Didn’t want to think about that. Thought instead about the man pressed up to him. How Frank’s scent awakened something within him: the blood, the gunpowder, the lingering shampoo, something entirely male. Unfamiliar to all the women he’d ever been with, and yet intensified his lust like nothing else ever had.

Matt lowered his hand, the same that had been broken all those months ago, now used to it to trail against Frank’s lower abdomen. Teasing. Some form of retaliation. Rested his palm against Frank’s groin, knew he was half-hard, felt the outline of the bulge there.

Hell, he was straining against his boxers himself.

Frank swallowed, eyes flickering to the hand. Could fight, could maim. But he trusted, had done so before. Yet, this was as much for real as the killing in the basement a few hours prior, the mountains back in Afghanistan, the inner turmoil.

No sound, just the heartbeat in his ears, and the sensation of heat travelling up to his face, increasing pressure as the bloodflow to his cock increased. Air suddenly reduced. Seemed more difficult to breathe.

“Dangerous game you’re playing there.” Frank exhaled, eyes now glancing upwards, landing on Matt’s face, only centimeters away. Averting downwards, until they landed on those lips of his.

“Shh.” Matt murmured. “You gotta learn to trust me.”

Trust? That was the last thing on Frank’s mind right now. All he could focus on was that hand inching closer and closer towards his belt, how skillful Matt’s fingers were as he undid the buckle – hell, was this man really even blind – and how he promptly dragged his pants downwards, the body armor. Fingers now tracing Frank’s bare thighs, the quadriceps, with deliberation.

“Don’t start something you can’t stop, Red.” Frank warned, necessary to do so. Made no movement to resist, but tensed anyway. Vulnerable.

Matt chuckled at that, lips now trailing against Frank’s jaw, his chin, his cheeks. Never near his mouth, knew it’d drive him to the point of insanity, no longer cared. As far as he was concerned, it was his turn to own, to remind Frank of what only they knew of.

“It’s never been me with the issue of stopping, Frank. You forget that.”

Double meaning. A sharp edge to his voice. Something about that sound, about that throaty timbre, it unraveled the control Frank held over himself. Lessened the restrain.

Had to remind himself to breathe when Matt pushed his boxers downwards too, hand finally finding what it had been seeking for. Hardening length. 

Nobody had the strength, Frank thought. Nobody had the ability to rival him in this way, to bring light to his vulnerabilities. And maybe, he’d broken or torn more than the physical resistance back then. What he knew was that as much as he tried, his own hand could never possess the heat, the utter insanity of the body against his, try as he might, imagine as he might.

Only this. Only the fucking heat and that intoxicating smell and the insane need they both had for destruction.

Matt brought his hand upwards again, spat on it, replaced it over Frank’s dick. Cold, slick hand coating that hot, heavy cock, the balls, just screwing with his mind now. Fingers teasing, gripping, tugging.

Frank jerked involuntarily, past caring. Thinking, even. Too much, too fucking much. Air diminished whilst something else increased. Something dark and angry, bloodied, and full of suppression. Against the fucking world and himself. Against Matt? No.

Wanted him there, needed him. Kill and destroy, once more, forever again. Had to close his eyes when he felt the hand wrap around him, knew he was under Matt’s control, and hell, who gave a shit anymore. Matt’s hand pumping his shaft, fucking heaven and then some more. Leaned into the touch, his own hands rough against Matt’s body.

The flame flared up in Matt; the darkness he was holding in cheek, the fascination for the other’s strength and trust, transformed into the need to make him feel exactly that. That he was his. Some delirious thought. Simple, brutal, little word, really.

Almost as simple as the way Matt quickened his pace, hand no longer teasing, now jacking Frank off. Hand gripping his shaft, firm, almost painful. A thumb grazing over his tip, provoking the sensitive gland underneath there.

Something within him relished how Frank’s muscles tightened, the way Frank’s hand dug into his back possessively, how Frank had to steel himself under the touch.

The man was fighting him, just exactly what it was that had torn his soul open that first night, and a drug he had craved over the past few months. Those times that they went to the limits, when it became something unbelievably brutal. Dog eat dog. Man on man. Screw you, he thought. Tenderness and need and, above all, that dark flood pounding against the anchoring of his sanity.

“Leave me again, Frank.” Matt hissed, dangerously near his ear, mouth trailing past his stubble. The threat made clear. Lips now searching again, now against Frank’s.

Frank met the kiss with equal desire, equal hunger, nothing held back. No way to hold back, no need to, not even the thought of it. In a battle only Matt could win. Fucking impossibly raging need. He pressed Matt against the bed, but not to stop, never to stop, chasing his own lust and Matt’s anger, purging both with bone grinding force.

This was it. Life and living. Arousal, brain going haywire, terror and panic, those hands, the body, everywhere, and fuck.

He came too fast, too easy, and felt like breaking under the onslaught. Only a groan escaped his throat as his thick spurts coated Matt’s hands. Giving in entirely.

Frank pulled away, breathing heavily. Knew Matt’s hand left him, no longer torturing him in that wicked way of his, felt the residue dry on his lower abdomen. Eyes closed, heartbeat accelerated. Reveling in the short-lived glory.

Matt was listening to Frank’s heart pound, hand slicked with his come, his own cock still hard, didn’t care. Listening to the fibres in his body, the blood rushing. Rested for a moment, just one moment. Didn’t need sight to know that Frank was still sprawled, flushed skin, shimmering with sweat.

Made for a tempting visualization. Was itching to replace his body over Frank’s once again, but knew the physical pain from his injuries would torment him if he did so. Had to ignore them, for now.

A silence, so complete, so free of ambition, it felt possible to know forgiveness.

“It’s ironic. NYPD never did anything with Bianchi, no matter how many times I exposed the locations he was trading from. Guess they really were eating out of his palm.” Matt murmured broodingly. Was just voicing his thoughts out loud.

“Not this again.” Frank groaned. “The fuck are you on about?”

Matt’s tendency to get all deep and meaningful on him in the most ludicrous situations was almost comical. Pissed him off sometimes.

Not this time, though. Too satisfied to gather the energy. “You didn’t really believe that they’d do shit, did you? Bianchi gave them a cut of his cash. That’s all it took for them to look the other way.” Frank shrugged, lazily pulling himself up on the bed.

“Law and order exists for a reason.” Matt argued, though he knew it was useless to do so. Law and order existing? Lately, he had yet to see it.

“Yeah, well. You take that belief that you have, that part of you that still thinks that the world is filled with sunshine and rainbows, and you kill it before it kills you.” Frank sighed, heavy-lidded. Rubbed a hand over his face wearily.

Matt snorted, but didn’t have the energy to dispute what Frank had said. Instead, he reached over for where he knew the discarded wet cloth lay. Wiped his own hand on it, leaned over Frank’s body to wipe him down too.

Frank swatted the cloth away. “Let’s hit the shower.” He smirked, knew he still had to reciprocate the favor, wouldn’t leave Matt with blue balls. Hell, didn’t want to. Pulled his boxers upwards.

Matt raised an eyebrow. Found himself laughing when Frank came over to his side of the bed, and lifted him up a bit, pulling his pliant body with him towards the edge of the bed, forcing him to stand.

“I can shower myself.” He insisted, cheeks dimpling when Frank practically tugged him towards the bathroom. A calloused hand wrapped around his forearm, dragging him.

Frank turned the shower on, stepped under the water first, to make sure the temperature was right, and then helped Matt step in as well. “Face the wall.” He grunted.

“Frank, I don’t need help with – ”

“You realize life would be a lot easier if you just shut up?” Frank interrupted, arms crossed.

Matt sighed dramatically, but did as he was told. Mouth twitching as he did so, because an irritated Frank amused him like nothing else.

Matt stood underneath the spray, hissing when hot water hit the cuts on his biceps, his abdomen, forearms, everywhere. Lowering his head, the heat beginning to soothe the ache in his body.

“Good boy.” Frank murmured, reaching for the shower gel. Poured some into his hands, and began to wash Matt. Starting with his neck, tracing the lines of muscle, above all, feeling him. Alive, warm, powerful despite his predicament. Soaped up his back, then reached around for his chest and pecs, wiping away any remaining blood.

“Kinky bastard.” Though Matt found his cheeks heating at the nickname, was glad he was facing the other way. Felt Frank step closer towards him.

“Know you like that.” Frank chuckled, voice low. Lips now near Matt’s jaw again, nipping his ear playfully.

The throaty timbre went straight to Matt’s groin, and he stilled. What was it Frank had said earlier? A dangerous game? Sure as hell felt like it now. A minute shiver ghosted his body, and he kept his eyes shut, dark hair now dripping with water. “What does that make us, then?”

“Two kinky bastards.” Frank snickered. Hands still trailing across Matt’s body, never lowering past his abdomen, teasing in that way of his. Holding him steady by the waist at times, allowing for the water to wash off the soap suds, not noticing how he was becoming drenched underneath the shower too.

Matt found himself warming at the sound of Frank’s laughter: contagious, boyish, pure. Blanketed him with tenderness. If only it were so simple.

Frank stared at the erection that now strained against Matt’s stomach, concealed by his boxers. How tempting the hardening length was. Never felt… this way about a man before, and yet, here he was. “Jesus Christ, Red. You’re gonna kill me.” Eyes glued to his bulge.

“Not today.” Matt licked his lips, tasted the waterdrops on them. “Can’t bear it. Painful, with all this going on.” He gestured at his torso, knew that he wouldn’t be able to stay still if Frank lay a hand on him, knew he’d writhe underneath his touch. Would do him no favors, especially with healing stitches. Every movement already caused him to hiss with pain, so he’d have to resist against the temptation.

Frank glanced at Matt’s face again, knew the concern was evident on his own features, tried to conceal it. “You good?” He muttered, continued washing him, his own hair now wet as he lowered his head, hands grazing past the pectoral muscles, the hardened nipples. Took everything within him to ignore them.

“I’ll survive.” Matt replied weakly, raising his arms when Frank indicated for him to do so, allowing for better access.

“Life isn’t just about surviving.” Frank mimicked him in a high-pitched tone. Words Matt had said all those days ago. Words that he still remembered. Hadn’t forgotten anything about the first night he’d trudged into Matt’s apartment.

Matt scoffed at that, but humor shined in his eyes. “I don’t talk like that.”

“Yeah, your voice is usually even higher, ain’t that right?” No longer glancing upwards, distracted by the task at hand, lathering him with the remaining soap in his hands.

Matt grabbed the detachable shower-head and aimed it at Frank, smirking when he heard Frank’s shout of surprise. Practically heard him dripping with water, creating a puddle on the tiles, walls drenched.

“Asshole.” Frank grumbled, shaking his head in attempt to get the water out of his hair. Reached for the towel and swatted Matt with it, some attempt at revenge, but knew he’d lost when Matt only laughed harder. Couldn’t resist the grin that spread on his own face.

He ended up wrapping the towel around Matt, toweling him down, taking his time with it. Jaw clenching when the towel came back stained with blood, reminded him of the way Matt had been tortured several hours earlier.

Matt could hardly bear the affection, the gentle touches, and now this. Intimate, dangerously intimate, more than just an orgasm, than a quick release. The way Frank held him, an almost protective manner to it. Frank's biceps tightening around him as he was toweled down, and dried. Lowered his head without thinking when Frank made a move to dry his hair too. Closing his eyes as he did so. Warm fingers running through his hair, massaging his scalp at times, making sure each and every strand was dry.

Forgot who he was, what he had been through, and for that small space of time, felt like everyone else – anyone else. Someone being taken care of. Nothing more to it. Blurry colours dancing before his eyes. The voice in his head quietened, weakened.

Frank didn’t hesitate, and Matt needed that. In that moment, it was as if time hadn’t separated them at all, as if the past hadn’t changed them.

Frank noticed the change in Matt’s demeanor but said nothing. Brought him closer by the back of his neck, resting his own forehead against Matt’s, still drenched himself from all that water. Silent understanding. Felt the way Matt slackened underneath his touch, how he relaxed.

Knew he didn’t deserve the trust he was receiving.

And yet, hoped it lasted. The tentative bridge they’d built between them, and tried not to think of the storm that would inevitably destroy it.

Chapter Text

Josie’s bar. Colours dancing before his eyes. Conversation flowing from every corner of the establishment, all of them merging to become one singular soundwave. None of them worth his attention, none of them concerning, just mindless chatter, empty words to fill in the quiet. Just the noise that people made when they were in company, and afraid of where silence might take them.

Matt raised the beer to his lips, smiling mindlessly at something Foggy had said. Placed the glass bottle back down on the table, felt the lingering ache within his muscles begin to lift. Had missed the buzz caused by a drink or two, the way everything felt more electric, senses dulled but thoughts no longer unfinished.

Frank sat beside him, huffing at the joke, arms crossed. “Think your fancy little law school ripped you off, Nelson. Taught you some shit comedy instead of real law, huh?” Took a swig of his own beer, eyes wandering. Gaze landing on Matt, observing the healing bruises on his face. Flickering to his lips, and then upwards to his dark glasses. Looked away.

Matt felt the weight of the gaze upon him, would know those two eyes anywhere. Remembered the way that he’d gotten a call from Foggy earlier, inviting him to Josie’s, insisting he had to see him. How it’d only been a day since the basement incident, and how he’d been in Frank’s apartment, lazing on the bed, when he’d received it.

Frank had thinned his lips at first, had known Matt’s injured state did him no favours. Had been brooding whilst Matt had shrugged his clothes on, dark eyes following his every movement. That is, until he stopped Matt from leaving, suddenly: “I’m coming with you.” Wouldn’t let him go alone. Not like this.

“Oh yeah? And what’d they teach you in the military, huh, Castle? How to be an asshole?” Foggy said now, raising an eyebrow. Friendly banter. Lingering caution.

Was surprised to see the smile that ghosted Frank’s lips, had do a second take, but it had already disappeared by then. Frank Castle smiling? Had to be the eighth wonder of the world. That, or whatever you called rare things with the possibility of occurring only once in a lifetime. Grab your cameras, everybody, the Punisher just smiled. Foggy snorted at the thought.

“Nah, kid. Stuff like that comes naturally, can’t be learnt.” Frank smirked. Knew Foggy was all tensed up – relished the amusement he gained from that fact. Found it comical how Foggy flinched every time he made a sudden movement.

 “You’ve got such a God complex.” Foggy shook his head in disbelief, frowning at the nickname.

“Or maybe God’s got a Frank complex.” Frank shrugged, non-committal. Waved down the barkeep for another beer.

Matt couldn’t resist chuckling at that. Found himself easing into the evening.

“Matt, tell him to shut up.” Foggy groaned, beyond irritated at the man that sat beside him. Hadn’t expected his best friend to come trudging into his favourite bar with goddamn Frank Castle. What, couldn’t a man drink in peace anymore – without having the Punisher sit right beside him? What had the world come to?

“Frank, leave him alone.” Matt reprimanded, but he struggled to stifle his amused grin.

“You both suck.” Foggy muttered in faux exasperation. No real spite within his tone. Sipped the last few dregs of his own drink, though he had no idea what it was – one of Josie’s new inventions. Rum mixed with – he took another sip and winced – cranberry juice, maybe? Whatever it was, it did the job.

“How’s the case going?” He asked Matt, watching him carefully.

Frank zoned out immediately, ears bleeding at the attorney language that the two men beside him exchanged. Something about a mistrial, a deposition, a subpoena – blah, blah, blah, who the fuck cared. Corner of his mouth twitching when the barmaid winked at him as she handed him another beer.

A pretty little thing, late-twenties or early-thirties. Wore denim shorts and a skimpy shirt – though even that would be too generous of a word to describe the piece of cloth, which is what it really was.

“Haven’t seen you around here before.” She hummed, wiping down the counter beside him. Deliberately brushing her soft hand against his bandaged one – yes, Matt had made him wrap his knuckles up, how fucking domesticating.

“Yeah? You sure about that?” Entertaining her now, knew he’d only stepped foot in this shithole once or twice briefly, only ever to stake out someone he wanted dead.

As if she’d know something like that.

 “Oh, I’d remember a face like yours, honey.” She purred, standing up straight now, leaning against the bottle cabinet behind her. Blatant attention.

A southern twang that faintly reminded Frank of Louisiana. Could bet his beer that she was from around there somewhere.

Frank tilted his head to the side, an eyebrow raised. Found it difficult to keep a straight face. Ended up shrugging, as if to say: okay, you win. Met her blue eyes as he raised the beer to his lips.

Had since grown accustomed to the sharp contrasts within his life. One day spent with a knife to the throat of a rapist, the other spent shooting up the drug cartel, and now – drinking a beer whilst listening to the sluggish chatter of the bar he was in.

Momentary stillness.

“Think it’d be better if you forgot it, instead.” Frank drawled lazily, observing her with faint interest. Hell, he had time to kill. Not like he was going to tune into the conversation happening right next to him. Would hurl if he heard the word ‘affidavit’ one more time.

She laughed. A tinkly sound. “And why would I want to do that? Better to look at someone like you than the rest of the old mutts in here.” Tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes never leaving his face.

Frank chuckled at that. “Old mutts.” He repeated, voice low. “One way to describe your customers, huh?” A forearm resting on the countertop. Heavy-lidded.

The barmaid waved a hand around dismissively. “Not mine, really. I’m only in the city for a few weeks. I always stay at Josie’s whenever I come up here, though, you know? We go way back, but that’s a story for another day.” Beaming, now. “Feeds me, gives me a roof over my head, but not for free, no, that’s never been the way Josie works. So I pick up a few shifts here and there.”

As if Frank gave a shit. He nodded at the onslaught of details anyway. “And where’s someone like you from…” Eyes landing on the nametag that hung low on the apron tied around her waist. “Rebecca?”

Rebecca smiled at the way her name rolled off his tongue. “Henderson. Small little town, down in Louisiana. Don’t expect you to know it, not many people do.” Her own elbows resting on the counter now, mirroring Frank, no one else she needed to serve. Feeding her curiosity as she stared at the man facing her, unbashful. Bruises on his jaw, a cut above his eyebrow, piercing eyes, black clothes.

Bingo. Frank smiled lazily at the mention of the state, settling his beer down. “That right?” Glanced at the two men sat beside him, but they were still deep in discussion. Dragged his gaze back to the barmaid. “Why don’t you tell me more ‘bout it?”

Matt had caught on to the conversation that Frank was currently in, and found himself smiling.

Had never seen this side to Frank before. One so… easy-going. Laidback. Warmth arising from the man as he flirted with the barmaid effortlessly, a lopsided smirk on his face. His thighs grazing Matt’s; their barstools drawn close together. The occasional chuckle. Sipping his beer every now and then. Gaze attentive, but posture relaxed.  

Matt paused for a brief second, before answering another one of Foggy’s questions. The burning pain from yesterday’s stab wounds and the bullet, now amounting to nothing more than a dull ache. Alcohol served as a better painkiller than any other prescription drug out there.

And, yet, he winced as he reached for his wallet. Abdomen tensed. Could hear the thread snap, could smell copper. Knew he’d busted open a stitch.

“You good?” Frank asked upon hearing the sound escape Matt. Gruff. A hand instantly landing on Matt’s thigh, prompting.

Forgot about the beer, about the barmaid, about the place they were currently in. Too preoccupied to notice.

“Yeah.” Matt breathed. Debated telling Frank. Decided against it. No need.

“Your lip’s bleeding again.” Frank muttered, voice hardened, jaw ticked. Had to tear his gaze away from the blood that trickled under Matt’s lips. Wanted to lick it off. Wanted to make sure Matt never bled again. Stupid fucking thoughts. Buried them.

Matt wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m fine.” He repeated. Knew that Foggy was watching the entire scene unfold. Didn’t care.

“You need a Band-Aid?” Rebecca offered helpfully, reluctantly averting her attention away from Frank, now directing it towards Matt.

Frank made a face at that, as if even the idea was ridiculous. “Nah.” He answered for Matt. Stood up, reaching for his own cash. “We’re leaving anyway.” Pushed a handful of bills towards her, knew he’d left a generous tip, didn’t need to count, didn’t give a shit.

Matt frowned, tilting his head upwards. “Really?” He challenged, eyebrow raised.

“Yep.” Frank answered, not missing a beat, all emotion erased from his voice. Pulled Matt up by his forearm, ignoring the way he resisted.

Foggy was staring at them as if they’d both grown horns. Eyes flickering between the pair, widening.

Matt obliged, standing now, but he knew the irritation on his face was evident. Had to compose himself. Tempted to wrap a hand around Frank’s throat, to shove his hand off him, to tell him that there was no reason for him to be treated like an invalid, goddamn it. Did none of that. Jaw clenched, a hand nursing his abdomen.

“You look after yourself." Frank acknowledged Foggy. Nodded towards the barmaid, knew he’d never see her again, couldn’t find it within himself to give a flying fuck. Waited for Matt to say his goodbyes, or whatever it was that he had to do, before he could drag him out of here.

“Matt?” Foggy glanced at his best friend, beyond confused. Couldn’t understand what was happening.

“Yeah. What he said.” Matt spoke, voice low. “I’ll see you soon. Be careful out there.” Exasperation dripping from him as he gritted the last few words out, though they were necessary.

Was past midnight now. And, Hell’s Kitchen was never a great place to be in, during a time like this – no matter who you were or where you were from.

Foggy could only nod. Glancing at Frank Castle briefly, observing his rigid posture, the way some indecipherable emotion flickered in his pupils, how impatient he was – and decided to say nothing. Knew he’d have to wrestle an explanation out of Matt someday, but not right now.

What he didn’t notice, however, was the way that Frank rested a reassuring hand on the small of Matt’s back as he led him out of Josie’s bar, and into the biting breeze of Hell’s Kitchen.

“You pull that shit again, and you’ll live to regret it.” Matt hissed, once they reached Frank’s apartment. Had been a short walk, one where Frank walked behind him at all times, his familiar gaze on Matt’s back. Protective. Matt felt the supressed anger roll off him in waves. Didn’t need protecting, for God’s sake. When would Frank understand that?

“Language, Red.” Frank admonished, pushing open his door as he did so. No longer tensed. Matt was here, in his apartment. Could now take care of him. Humming a tune as he ushered Matt in.

“You think this is a joke?” Matt continued, adamant, turning to face Frank once he stepped inside.

“Does it look like I find any of this funny?” Frank raised an eyebrow.

“Sure as hell seems like it. What, does it entertain you, Frank? To ruin people’s evenings like that?” Matt couldn’t hold the words back, not now. Humiliated. Had been treated like a toddler.

“Huh.” Frank handed his keys to him. Headed towards where he kept his medical box, not listening. Words washing over him.

The lack of attention aggravated Matt like nothing else. He hurled the keys at the wall, only millimetres away from where Frank was currently standing. Purposeful. Goddamn seething, at this point. The keys clattered to the floor loudly, skidding across the hardwood flooring until they landed near Frank’s boots.

Frank stilled, saw how Matt’s face was contorted with resentment.

“What the hell was that about, back there?” Matt demanded, stepping closer towards the ex-Marine.

“What?” Frank sighed wearily.

“Oh, don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you, Frank.” Matt chuckled bitterly. “You know exactly what it was that you did, dragging me out of there like that.”

Frank dug around the medical box, searching for medical gauze. “You want an apology, Murdock? That what you want?” He found one, bit the packaging off with his mouth, peeled the adhesive layer away.  

“Well, I sincerely apologize.” Frank continued, sarcastic, now glancing at Matt again. Held a hand to his heart, mock earnestness. Gauze in his hands as he closed the distance between them, stepping forward until their noses were practically touching.

“But I’d do it all again, you hear me?" Eyes darting around the room now, some attempt at composure. Struggled with it. "What... what, you think I’m gonna sit around and twiddle my thumbs whilst you’re fucking bleeding, and too stubborn to admit as much?” Frank snarled. Unable to understand Matt’s behaviour.

“Stubborn?” Matt scoffed in disbelief. “I told you I was fine. There was no need to – ”

“Yeah, don’t you start.” Frank interrupted sharply. “Fine, huh? Almost dead yesterday, but now... what, now you’re fine? You got some sort of magical healing powers that I don’t know about, Red?” Previously concealed emotion now making an appearance.

“Told you not to go, told you to lay the fuck down and rest up, but you didn’t listen. So, yes. Stubborn.” Frank gritted, tearing his gaze away from the familiar face. Swallowed. Felt like a goddamn housewife.

Matt thinned his lips. Bone-tired. Irritation fizzling away, could hear Frank’s heartbeat accelerating, unusual, considering Frank’s heartbeat remained steady even in near-death situations – as if nothing could startle him or his consciousness.

“Don’t.” Matt managed. “Never again. I can handle myself.” Just like I have, my entire life. Feeling weight that left his body hollow. Old shame swelling up like a sea of waves, drowning him in a sea of uncertainty.

Frank observed him for another few seconds. Wondered if Matt had any idea. Any idea of how carefully he had put him back together, the night before, each movement precise. Fingers feeling around inside his wounds; grief woven through him. The silence between breaths. Those long, agonizing seconds before Matt had regained consciousness.

No one ever talked about how blood reminded one of the sweetness of soil. How it crumbled within your palms, as you threw it over another’s coffin, burying them. Similar qualities. A similar scent. As if Mother Nature itself was bleeding, and the evidence of that was through that sharp tang of dirt, and soil. Blood carried with it: the reminder of death.

Remembered what Matt looked like, last night, bleeding in his arms. Bleeding, strapped to that fucking chair in the basement. Had thought of soil, then.

Matt’s wounds weeping in the morning sun, today, when they had awoken. His touch tattooed on Frank’s flesh. If only you knew, Frank thought. If only you fucking knew.

“Alright.” Frank said finally. Reluctant, but was a man of his word. Mostly convincing himself as opposed to the man facing him. Self-deception.

Matt gave a nod in acknowledgement.

A truce.

Now. Back then. Always.

Frank traced Matt’s bottom lip with his thumb before thinking. Wiped away the blood there. A hand then tilting his chin upwards, inspecting the healing bruises.

Matt leaned into the touch, the warm hands; eyes fluttering shut.

Seemingly satisfied, Frank led Matt to the bed again. No longer a moment for words, that moment had long passed.

“Show me.” Frank muttered, stepping backwards once Matt had sat down.

Matt unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his chest. Placed a hand over the busted stitching. Felt Frank’s hands trail over him, place a medical gauze over that area, no point in stitching it up again – would only inflame the healing wound further. More prodding, more examining. A few other areas being dabbed again with antiseptic.

“Move up.”

Again, Matt did as told, silently inching towards the left side of the bed, laying down now. Head rested against a pillow.

Knew the lights had been turned off. Heard Frank taking off his own clothes, and then felt the bed dip underneath him. Heat surrounding him as Frank moved closer towards him, laying next to him.

“Got some stuff to take care of tomorrow.” Frank broke the silence, a few minutes later. Staring at the ceiling, eyes growing accustomed to the darkness once again.

Matt knew exactly what that ‘stuff’ entailed. “I’m coming with you.”

“No.” Frank’s tone was firm, indicating he wouldn’t budge an inch. Cleared his throat. “You’d only be in my way, Red. You gotta heal up first.”

Matt was too tired to protest against it. Knew Frank was right. Could hardly walk in this state, let alone maim. “No killing.” He sighed, though he knew it would be useless.

Frank hummed in response, the sugarcoating unnecessary. They both knew what was what. Wrapped his arms around Matt’s waist instead, the scent of him comforting. That familiar cologne, lingering blood, the beer from a few hours ago. 

“Seemed like you were getting it on with Rebecca.” Matt suddenly spoke up, remembering. Just words to fill in the silence, really. Allowing himself to be held.

The corners of Frank’s mouth twitched. “Christ, what — what are you... jealous, Red? Is that what the temper tantrum was about?” 

“What?” Matt huffed. “No.”

Frank grinned, noticing how defensive Matt suddenly became. “Lying is a sin, altar boy.” He tutted, voice low. 

“And chastity is a virtue, Frank. You should try it out sometime.” Matt argued, though his eyes were shining with humor.

Liked this side of Frank Castle more than he should’ve. One playful and endearing. Affectionate. Filled to the brim with gallows humor.

“Think I’ll pass.” Frank drawled, the irony not lost on him. Poked Matt in the side. Waited patiently.

Matt turned around, so that he was facing the wall. Knew what it was that Frank wanted. The Punisher was a glutton for cuddles. Tried not to smile at the thought. Felt Frank adjust himself, so that his chest was against Matt’s back, biceps tightening around him, proving to be an impossible grip to escape from.

Not that he wanted to, anyway.

“Do me a favour?” Frank murmured against Matt’s flushed skin, head buried in the crook of his neck.

“Anything.” Matt exhaled.

“Taking down the Russians on 42^nd, tomorrow. There’s a shit ton of them. Armed like the goddamn SWAT headquarters.” Frank began.

“If things go to shit..." Cleared his throat. "And you find my body, can you – ” An intake of breath. “Will you bury it? Next to… them?” A crack in his voice. “Don’t need a headstone or any of that crap. Coffin would be alright, though. Can’t stand the thought of being without one.”

Paused, then, as if deep in thought. “As if it matters, huh? I’d be fucking dead.” Frank shrugged, trying to make light of an entirely heavy situation. Swallowed. Washed away the taste of death and decay, chasing away formidable images.

Matt stilled at the words. The thought of death chilled him to the bones, like a premonition. For a second, it was all he could do to keep breathing. Had to remind himself that the man behind him was alive, had a beating heart, corded forearms wrapped around his waist. Stay alive, he thought. Stay alive like you are now. Never wanted to know what Frank’s lifeless body felt like, a sharp contrast to the warm and chiselled one now.

“Them?” Matt couldn't help but question, voice hoarse with emotion he failed to conceal.

A breathless chuckle left Frank. “Yeah. My wife and kids.” Frank’s hand stopped Matt from turning over fully. Fingers digging into the muscular thigh.

Matt had to close his eyes, felt the anguish wash over him, the indecipherable emotion. Heart breaking for the man beside him. Recognized the bitterness within Frank’s tone. Words that hurt worse than a goddamn bullet.

Didn’t know what to say. What – tell him that he didn’t have to worry about death - a man like Frank Castle? Someone who challenged the Grim Reaper every single day? There was no way that Matt could say something like that and mean it.

“Alright.” He finally muttered. Reluctant words. Words that held weight to them; made his heart sink as he said them. You won’t die. Lips pressed together, his own hands now wrapping around Frank’s. Tell me you won’t die.

Frank placed a fleeting kiss on Matt’s skin, where his jaw met his throat. Silent acknowledgement.

Matt pressed back against him, fought the dread, the nameless, unspeakable dread of death. Wasn’t afraid to die himself, would be a walking contradiction if he was. A pressure on his shoulders that grew everyday. But to fear that somebody else might die? That was an avalanche – one he was unable to protect himself from.

Friction, yet not enough. Needed to be closer. Needed the reminder of life – the reminder that Frank was alive. Felt Frank’s hands tighten once more, holding him, grip unyielding, but it was insufficient. Wanted, no, needed more. “No.” Matt breathed. “Not enough.” Wanted to turn around.

Didn’t notice that Frank couldn’t bear facing him.

“Not enough.” Matt repeated, voice grave. Placed a hand over Frank’s, and lowered it with his own, until it rested above his groin.

An indication of what it was that he wanted.

Frank stilled, lips still against Matt’s neck, heard the lazy thudding of his own heart. Aroused by Matt’s need, his own. Didn’t understand the sudden change, the shift within Matt’s demeanour, the difference, that ‘something’ in Matt that was unlike his usual self. Couldn’t grasp the meaning but sensed the desperation, fuelling his own.

Frank moved closer, teeth now digging into the muscle between shoulder and neck, knew that was where he’d once caused a scar to form. Immediately placing his lips over where he’d bitten, soothing. Hips inching forward, hands now trailing even lower, fingertips brushing past warm skin.

Matt’s lips parted at the pain, how delicious it was, how it went straight through him, to his stomach, his cock. Tilted his head to the side, almost asking for more of it – the pain, the pleasure that accompanied it, the distracting quality within the hardened body behind his own. Moving against that hand, leaning into the touch, tempted to roll on top.

“Yeah.” Matt murmured appreciatively. Could no longer remember how to form words, and hell, who needed them anyway. Senses intensified, every minute movement sparking something within him, causing him to inhale sharply.

“I know.” Frank whispered hoarsely against Matt’s skin. Biting deeply, sharply, tearing at skin when the heat rose again between their bodies. Pushed Matt down when he tried to change their positions by rolling on top of him; wouldn’t allow it. Had to be on their sides. Had to be equal.

Hand now pushing Matt’s boxers down, meeting the hardening length with his palm, gripping his cock firmly – some attempt at chastising. A smile ghosting his lips when he heard Matt groan softly underneath the touch. Desperate to feel more of that body so much like his own.

Matt felt the hot hand wrap around him, the strong grip that slowly drove him insane, too slowly, in fact. Had a feeling that his pleasure wasn’t what Frank was aiming for. Left him with too much capacity to feel. Thrusting involuntarily into that hand, almost painful against the strain. Goddamn difficult to voice a protest, difficult when he felt skinned alive, raw with emotion.

There was a time where he’d loathed the man behind him, had hated that body. Kicked it, smashed it, beat it into a bleeding pulp. But now, he wanted to crawl into it. To possess it, tear it, destroy it. Take it and never leave it again. You won’t die. You’re here with me. I won’t let you.

Frank felt himself grow hard, but knew he had time. Feeling Matt shift, and move, and get close like that. Like an extension of his own body, warmth kept between them.

Matt pushed back slightly, as if to close a distance that wasn’t there. One hand over Frank’s, on his own cock. Please.

Frank allowed his hand to be moved, increased his pace, the lazy stroking motions, but then took over once more. His own cock now between Matt’s thighs, feeling this impossible need overwhelm him. The need to possess, to take, to enter. Had to close his eyes. Couldn’t cross a boundary like that. Though, he was no longer sure of which ones existed and which ones didn’t.

“Do it.” Matt answered the question for him, voice hoarse.

Frank froze. Didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Do….it? There was no way. No way he could do something like that, and recover from it. Heart closing like a fist. Thudding out of his fucking chest. Some sick thought. Grew even harder from the thought alone, if that were possible.

Matt felt Frank’s bulge against his ass, impossible not to. Could hear every muscle within Frank shifting, the thudding of his heart. Had meant every word, just didn’t realize he’d voiced it out loud. Remind me you’re alive. Almost dead yesterday, maybe dead tomorrow, but alive, gloriously alive today.

“Please.” Matt uttered again, eyes closing. Wanted to remember, wanted to forget.

The word that had always been Frank’s unravelling. The way it was always said with such conviction, such earnestness. Please. Could no longer bear the heat, the lust that overwhelmed him to the point of no return, how he could practically see stars in this position, pressed against Matt, against his ass, head buried in the crook of his neck.

“Never done this before.” Frank rasped, entirely honest. With women, yes. But with someone like Matt? Strength paralleling his own? Never. Knew with complete certainty that Matt would be the only one. “Want to make it good.” Whispered the last few words into Matt’s skin, would engrave them there if he could. Want to make it good for you.

“You will.” Matt murmured. Could guarantee it, if his own need betrayed how he felt. Raw with emotion, lightheaded from the desperation. Wanted to feel Frank, goddamnit. In every way possible. Wanted him here, to never let him go.

Frank had to force himself to breathe. Nodded. Spat into his hand, lubricated it. Knew this kind of thing usually required prepping, something that took time, which neither of them could afford – not right now. Shot through with fucking lust. Need. Impatience. But would wait. Placed a hand between Matt’s ass, fingering the crease there, testing.

“Frank.” Matt exhaled, couldn’t bear waiting. Lips parting at the finger pressing against his crease. Invasion. Invasion, and in a good way. The warm, slick touch, which catapulted him into emotions he could no longer decipher. Feeling pressure, and closing his eyes, knew he was even harder now, against Frank’s other hand.  

Frank would never tire of the way his name rolled off Matt’s tongue. Lifted Matt’s leg slightly, guiding his own cock towards the impossible heat, the warmth. The position not allowing much leverage nor entrance at all. Cock merely teasing. Lips still pressed against Matt’s skin, all the parts of him that he could reach. Shoulder blades, nape, lateral muscle. Eyes following every movement of Matt’s, ensuring he was alright.

Needed leverage. Inched forward, felt the resistance. Pushed Matt’s leg up a bit higher, gripping the muscled thigh. Heard Matt hiss with pleasure.

Manipulating the body, finally able to do more than tease. Both of them on their side. Equal. Frank concentrated on the position, eyes closing, relishing the indescribable sensation of breaching slowly through muscle, gently coaxing Matt to accommodate to his cock, instead of battering down, and fucking him raw. One hand still guiding his cock in further, the other wrapped around Matt’s, increasing the pace of his hand, properly jerking him off, hand slick with precum. Bodies so close, not an inch of skin that wasn’t touching.

Matt stopped breathing when he felt the cock between his legs, slicked up, mounting pressure, and he pressed against that, half-expecting Frank to enter quickly, thought that was what he wanted. But no such thing. Instead, it was slow, intimate. Hands clenching into fists. Tensing in all the good ways.

Felt the burn pulsate through him when he felt more of Frank enter him, but it mingled with the pleasure from Frank’s hand on his cock, causing him to groan instinctively. Straining against the pressure, the invasion. Frank now completely taking control, causing his mind to go blank, couldn’t push back any further because Frank’s weight kept him pinned there.

Frank was taking his time, as if he was expecting resistance, or bolting, or maybe just wanted to drive him insane. “I’m alright.” Matt could only exhale. Waves of both anguish and euphoria. Had expected more force. Almost relieved when it wasn’t received.

“I know you are.” Frank murmured, hand gripping hard around Matt’s cock and squeezing for a second, and when he returned to stroking him, the movement was as slow and deliberate as his body, which was rolling with waves of constant lust. Had entered a space in his mind and body that he’d never been in before. Aroused, and arousing, but slow and tender, taking his time tenfold. Revelling in the soft skin and sharp angles.

Felt connected, in some twisted, fucked-up way. Connected to Matt Murdock. An extension of his own body, his own need, his own destruction.

“You could kill me now, and I wouldn’t give a shit, as long as you stayed close until I died.” Frank whispered, voice husky and low, lower than ever.

Excruciating. Matt had expected intense discomfort, but there was none of that, or maybe he just didn’t notice. Previous pain now becoming a dull ache. Those sliding motions, Frank thrusting into him, languid. Reaching deep inside, deeper than he had thought a cock could reach. Eviscerating the agony, the inner torment, weakening his usually prattling senses. Needed it. More than his next breath.

“Would never… do that.” A small protest, the words breaching his silence, followed by a groan as he tried to move, to greet, to get the other to fuck him mindlessly, but there was little he could do. Even that hand on his dick was controlled, the pleasure almost unbearable. Matt’s eyes were closed, focusing on every motion, every breath. Could feel him up to his throat, could feel Frank’s pulse inside him and against his back. Wouldn’t do that, because I need you. Nothing but safety, darkness, warmth, and their bodies.

“Need you.” Frank voiced the only thought within his mind. Uncensored words. Escaped before he’d realized what he said. Rumbling voice, barely above a whisper. Altering the angle again, shifting Matt’s leg forward. Entrance now steeper, sharper, deeper.

“You have me.” Matt shivered, was being driven up the walls, teetering on the edge of sanity itself. Tensed, body trying to come, to release, but not quite there, not quite enough intensity to lose it, and it grew more and more difficult to develop a singular clear thought. All body, all want, nothing else.

Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.

“Not yet.” Frank replied mindlessly, breathing ragged. But his own body had different plans, and he increased the pace a fraction. Still slow, the warmth and heat within Matt akin to fucking heaven itself, but the strength and force of his measured thrusts were growing. Stroking remaining the same.

Matt swore, barely coherent, the rhythmic entering and exiting, the thrusting of Frank’s cock within him. How could someone like Frank unravel him completely – something he’d never understand.

Nearly convulsing, every thrust touching something raw and primal within him. Wanted to come, needed to come, but couldn’t – not like this. And Frank's hand denied it. The bastard. Lips parted, eyes shut, groaning, fingers gripping Frank’s hand around his own cock, forming fists, but couldn’t bargain. Couldn’t force. Trapped, under control.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Frank breathed, incoherent, sensations centred in his mind. More than just mere bodies. Sounds, feelings, steady rhythm, human. Body and mind on the edge of letting go. “Matt.” He grunted. Reverence. Words, unthinking.

Matt’s head was spinning, all thoughts bleeding into one need: Frank. Couldn’t answer, an urgent need that was growing painful. Everything blurred, darkness, a place inside that only held him and Frank.

Finally, Frank’s need matched Matt’s, and he allowed himself to disintegrate within the desperation. Hand around Matt’s cock matching the strokes, faster, harder, still tender, but more pressure and friction. Lazy kisses on Matt’s nape. Lost, and yet completely there and with the other. Thrusting harder, slamming into Matt now, nothing left to give, nothing left to take.

No one else, not right now, only Matt. That man, the darkness and light, hatred and passion. Mirrors of each other, each the same, and both the opposite.

“Shit.” Again, no meaning. Breathless exclamations. Closer, too intense. Release creeping upon him with sudden force, drawn-out, different. The parts of himself he’d left behind with Matt all those months ago. More intense, all encompassing. Felt as if a sob was being torn out of his chest. He came without warning, without any further restraint. Trembling, holding, feeling, and needing to feel. Release that seemed never-ending, as if eternity itself was blanketing him.

Matt came the moment the grip around his cock tightened, incoherent pain and the tension of an orgasm, tightening, clenching, breathless, grunting, still trying to get closer to the body behind his. Came, helpless, feeling some sort of twisted gratitude, entirely vulnerable. Frank still inside him as he convulsed, eyes closing, mind eradicated of all thoughts. Focusing on nothing but the sensation itself. Freeing, in some way.

Understood why he’d rather fight, kick, and pull a knife to Frank than to have allowed something like this happen earlier. Because it caused this, for him to be completely helpless, at another man’s mercy, bared to the soul if there were such a thing. Felt the sweat burn on his face.

“Stay.” Matt could only manage. Let me feel your weight. Feel you here, like this.

Frank could barely speak, hand letting go of Matt’s softening length, slicked with his come. Biceps tightening around Matt’s waist once again. Holding tight, would be crushing the other if Matt wasn’t so goddamn strong himself.

“Won’t… go anywhere.” Frank finally whispered. Would stay in this room forever if he could, would forget about the world outside, about killing and surviving, duties and missions.

Bamian, Nangahar, Kandahar, Herat. Villages, valleys, mountains and rocks, most of which had no name he knew. Deployments. The familiar feeling of being stranded in unknown territory.

Could forget it all. Immobile, softening now. Heartbeat slowing, breathing with the other. In sync.

Matt felt himself relaxing, strength and tension seeping from his pores. Legs straightening now, hands wrapped around Frank’s arms, keeping him there. Sated in ways that would’ve once made him uneasy, but now felt natural. Alive.

Alive, alive, alive.

“I’m tired, Red… inside.” Frank croaked, voice brimming with honesty. Unearned mercies abound. The grittiest of confessions feeling like weight that lifted off his shoulders. Another kiss. “Want to be better.” He murmured into the dip of Matt’s neck, where throat met collarbone.

Matt turned his head to the side. “I know. Christ, Frank, you deserve more.”

“I want to get better, Matt.” He repeated, voice barely above a whisper.

Matt had to gather his bearings at the use of his name – unlike Frank to call him anything other than a silly nickname, or his last name if he was irritated. Had to close his eyes, had to admit that it stirred something within him: the way that it rolled off Frank’s tongue with such ease, as if it belonged to him, and him only. How much he liked the sound.

“I know. You will. We both will.” Matt said softly. Someone like Frank wasn’t meant to carry so much anguish within him. The burden on his shoulders.

He deserved better, and something about being with him made Matt foolishly believe that he deserved better too.

Chapter Text

A bullet could kill a man in three different ways.

The first being through extremities. Briefly miss a major artery, whiz past it, and you’d have ten to twenty minutes before you’d bleed out.

The second way, less common, but did the trick: anywhere in the tens, centre chest. The bullet would tumble, cause bone to splinter, heart or arteries get hit, blood pressure drops to zero. Would be more convenient to arrange the funeral, then and there, rather than bothering with the national emergency line.

The third way, and the quickest: middle of the skull, any angle. Dead as a doornail, before you could even blink, before you could even hit the floor.

Frank preferred the third. Difficult to achieve at times, because human beings were naturally a species that never stayed fucking still, which usually caused him to hold his breath and hope for the best. No fuss, no mess, no second thoughts. If he was quick with it, he could cap six men within two minutes. Not a single bullet wasted, though the gun itself would require thorough greasing afterwards.

Not that it mattered how long it took, it wasn’t as if he’d be late for a meeting with the goddamn president.

There was reason behind his hurrying today, though. A reason behind his impatience. It was because of something as simple as this: if he didn't make it quick, he’d miss the drugstore’s opening hours. And, if that happened, he’d have to wait until the next business day to grab those stupid painkillers for Matthew Murdock.

So, yes, the Russians. Fifteen men. Calculations amounted to roughly thirty seconds per man. Give or take another five minutes, caused by each of them being alerted by the death of the other – they really did fall like fucking dominoes – and there you had it. The fall of an organized syndicate within ten minutes, fifteen if he felt like getting his hands dirty.

And it just so happened, that the pharmacy was across the street from their warehouse. A coincidence, or whatever people called it.

Frank exhaled, his back against the wall of the local drugstore, eyes darting around the street that surrounded him, a hand still on the gun hidden underneath the hoodie he’d thrown on over his vest.

The hoodie was one of Matt’s. Would have to ask Matt to invoice him for that one, because it was dripping with blood now, practically red, as opposed to the black it’d been earlier. Though, it’d match Daredevil’s body armour if Matt decided to wear it himself. Snorted at the thought.

Frank waited for the lingering adrenaline to subside. Heard sirens somewhere in the background, fuck those. NYPD was always late to the party. Fingers still twitching, mind empty. Closed his eyes briefly, catching his breath, some attempt at resolve. Wondered lazily which alphabet agency would take over the case this time; one including fifteen men, linked to seventy percent of recent crimes within Hell’s Kitchen, now dead.

Homeland, maybe? CIA never liked getting their hands dirty with shit like that.

If it went straight to Homeland, then Madani would be all over it – would know instantly it had been him. Might as well have left a note: Greetings Madani, love from Castle.

His twisted version of a postcard entailing bleeding bodies, and deformed faces.

He had a feeling she wouldn’t like that one.

Finally, he leaned away from the brick wall. Tucked his hands into his pockets. Walked into the drugstore.

Yeah, everything was good. Save for the terrified look the cashier had on her face, and the way she reluctantly asked why he was bleeding so much once he’d made his way over to her with all the stuff he needed.

“Walked into a pole.” Frank grinned, wiping away the blood that trickled from his nose. Decided against reassuring her that it wasn’t his own blood, because frankly, that’d be an asshole thing to do. Dropped the various bottles of pills near the register, zipped up the hoodie so that it covered the vest entirely. Had since disposed of his M60, and his handgun had been tucked away.

“Do you need medical assistance, sir?” She breathed, her hazel eyes now averted, brows furrowed. Scanned the items as quickly as she could, fumbled for the receipt.

She was hardly over twenty, and most likely on minimum wage, considering the state of the drugstore itself. Encounters like these had definitely not been mentioned on her job description, if her horrified expression was anything to go by.

“Nah.” He declined both, and accepted the paper bag with a grateful nod.

Frank paid with cash, stifled a smirk at her reaction, and left the way he’d came, camouflaging himself with the pedestrians of Hell’s Kitchen.

The knock on Matt’s door alerted him, though he already knew who it was, had heard the familiar footsteps from a mile away.

He’d been on his couch, a hand lazily nursing his abdomen, eyes closed, all attempts at healing. Had returned to his own apartment only a few hours earlier – something about being in Frank’s apartment without him seemed unsettling. Reminded him of how empty spaces could be, without their designated people within them. 

Frank had woken him up before leaving, as he’d promised him the night before. Sometime after midday, he couldn’t remember, had been in too deep of a sleep. Between the sheets, as the first light of the afternoon filtered from underneath the drapes, and their bodies lay heavy with sleep against each other. Matt had felt the touch of a hand on his hip, of lips upon his shoulder, those same lips then grazing his temple.

“See you soon.” Frank had said. Matt had only nodded, before falling back asleep, the pull of sleep impossible to resist.

He’d had that familiar feeling, the thought of Frank not returning, of disappearing once again. Couldn’t bear to imagine its consequences this time.

Now, the knocking became louder. Impatient, almost. Like the man himself, standing behind the door. A smile played on Matt’s lips as he walked towards the door, not bothering to throw a shirt on, and finally opened it.

“Took your sweet time to answer the door, didn’t you?” Frank grumbled, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. Eyes falling upon Matt’s bare chest, the pectoral muscles, the shape that was created by his lower abdomen meeting his groin. Drinking in the sight of him. Almost had to drag his gaze upwards to Matt’s face again. Reluctant.

Matt raised an eyebrow, mirroring Frank by crossing his own arms in expectation. Didn’t step away from the door, didn’t ask him to come in.

A beat of silence, as the Punisher stared at him, confused. Finally, he sighed.

“Hey.” Frank murmured softly; a proper greeting this time. Dug his hands into his pockets, shoulders squared.

“Hey.” Matt replied, smiling lazily. Knew Frank was dripping with blood, could smell the tobacco from one of the men that Frank had killed, and the vodka from one of the others. “Think you’ve got the wrong apartment. I don’t offer dry cleaning services.”

“Is that right?” Frank shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Wanted nothing more than to faceplant into the nearest bed, adrenaline having long since been replaced with fatigue, the strain within every muscle. “See, I heard a lawyer lived around here. Really good one, apparently. Thought I’d need one, you know, after what I just did.” He smirked, allowing his gaze to roam freely now.

Matt felt the gaze on him, definitely not one with innocent intent behind it. Knew Frank was eyeing him leisurely now, tracking his every movement, those dark eyes landing on every inch of bare skin. Had a feeling Frank was practically undressing him, in that head of his.

“But, hey, guess I was mistaken. Might take my business somewhere else instead, if you don’t mind.” Frank continued, voice like gravel, grinning now. Stretched, then made a move as if to leave.

“Shut up.” Matt reached for his forearm, stilling him. Couldn’t resist the smile that spread on his own face. “So, you’re alive?” His hand not leaving the corded forearm, feeling the familiar skin underneath his own. Could hear Frank’s steady heartbeat, the muscles shifting within him every time he moved, almost taste the adrenaline within his veins. All of which merged to announce that Frank Castle was indeed alive, and here, in the flesh.

Faint memories of the night before. The thought of death lingering above them, as if eagerly waiting its turn, almost anticipating its next opportunity to strike. Spent the entire day burying those thoughts, trying to wash away the taste of the premonition, and could only hope that Frank remained unscathed.

“You sound a bit disappointed there, Red.” Frank drawled, switched the paper bag from the drugstore from one hand to the other. Pulled Matt in closer, by his waist, until their noses were practically touching. Eyes landing on those rosy lips of his – fucking irresistible, really.

Matt stilled underneath the touch, the same hands that were his goddamn undoing. Hated how all it took was one touch, one word from the man that faced him, to send him spiralling once again into his own emotions, regurgitating them. Had foolishly thought he’d gotten better at disguising them over the years, but it proved impossible to do that around Frank Castle.

Last night was burned into his brain, and even its memory caused a shiver down his spine.

“I might be. Not many newspapers articles mentioning Daredevil anymore, you know that, Frank? It’s always ‘the Punisher’ this, ‘the Punisher’ that. Gotta say, I kind of miss all of the attention.” Matt deadpanned, hand dropping from Frank’s forearm, now resting on his door.

With a singular swift movement, Frank stepped into the apartment, pushing Matt backwards, and muscled him to the adjoining wall. Impatient. Dropped the drugstore bag onto the floor somewhere, no longer gave a shit about that.

“Yeah? Well, you’ve got all my attention.” He murmured into Matt’s ear, teasing the most delicate of his senses. Hands roughly grasping his face, tilting it upwards. Lips trailing past his cheekbone, jaw, that broad chin of his, before he pressed them against Matt’s throat. Had since learnt it was where Matt was most sensitive, and planned on using that to his advantage.

Matt met the frantic kisses with his own, no longer cared about where it was that Frank had just returned from – couldn’t bring himself to care about what he had just done.

Justice, served the Punisher way. A contradiction in itself, one that only scrambled his mind if he spent time contemplating it. Could only focus on the sensation of Frank, here, within his arms. Fingers now tugging the bloodstained vest off him, some attempt to rid him from his title.

Frank strayed away from Matt’s lips, didn’t meet them with his own. Couldn’t. Couldn’t let Matt taste the blood on him, knew that his vehemence was almost tangible, his destruction with its own distinct scent to it. Wanted to keep Matt away from that – keep him clean, pure. Breathed raggedly as he pulled away, frowning. Wanted to kneel to personhood itself, but couldn’t bring himself to do so. Not like this, not in this state.

Matt already knew why Frank had pulled away, and again, found himself no longer caring; some selfish desire, the twisted urge to be one with the man that faced him. Screw the preliminaries. They were past that, always had been. Knew each other like no one else ever would.

He succeeded in tearing the vest away from Frank’s body, let it drop to the floor. Hands now trailing underneath Frank’s shirt, felt the man shiver underneath the touch, and pulled that off too, over his head, until Frank was left shirtless himself.

“Matt.” Frank breathed, bare chest rising and falling underneath the hands.

Matt quietened him by holding him still, his own arm tightening around Frank this time, and tilting his face upwards. Gently, he pressed his lips against Frank’s.

All he could taste was blood. Everything tasted like blood. The familiar copper; the metallic tang to it.

And hell, lately, he liked how it tasted. 

Especially now.

Matt wasn’t sure why Frank thought he’d ever resist against this, those lips against his own, wasn’t sure what bullshit Frank had convinced himself of. Only knew that he was determined to erase it.

As a child, Matt was light. The darkness didn’t matter too much; he slid through it, and maybe it even felt like a game, as if he were just playing in the mud and that grass, like nothing about that slipperiness would ever change, not really. But as the years passed, the same mud began drying on him, and heaviness found him. Couldn’t do anything about it. Couldn’t shake it off; couldn’t eviscerate it, evaporate or evict it. Feeling as if concrete was dragging the flesh off his bones.

In some twisted way, it was as if Frank could lift that heaviness from him, perhaps even absorb some of it himself. Elektra had been able to, in her own way, but Frank? Frank took every blow, accepted every lashing, and simply soaked it up. As if it were nothing to him.

The only man that had done… that to him, last night. Knew with complete certainty that he’d be the only man to ever do so. To possess him, take him, own him in that way. The same man who’d once driven him to near-death, had once tied him up with chains and left him on a rooftop, the same who he’d saved countless times for some inexplicable reason, and in turn, the same who’d saved him – over and over, until it became a game of owing, with neither of them willing to let go.

Frank tensed, hesitating. Eventually permitted the touch, those lips against his own. Ran a hand through Matt’s hair, comfortingly, almost, and brought it downwards until it rested against Matt’s jaw. Pulled away, still nuzzling his cheek, but couldn’t bear the intimacy of an act like kissing. Not now. Not after what he’d done earlier. Didn’t deserve it. Could only hope that Matt would understand why.

Matt didn’t question it. Instead, he held his arms open. “Come here.” He sighed.

Frank lowered his head, eyes closing briefly, before obliging. He stepped into the embrace, felt Matt’s arms snake around him, until they held him close to his chest. Tensed at that, slightly awkward. Until, finally, he rested his head on Matt’s shoulder, reluctant with every movement. Relaxed.

“You’re acting as if it’s my first time.” Frank muttered, referencing the killing, every word muffled against Matt’s skin. Though, he didn’t make a move to step away. Rather, he buried his face further into the crook of Matt’s neck, if that were possible. “I don’t give a shit about them.” Dripping with conviction. 

“I never said you did.” Matt replied, not missing a beat, tightening his arms around Frank. Placed a fleeting kiss on the top of his head, couldn’t resist it.  

“Do you?” Frank had to ask.

“I don’t know yet. I’ll decide later.” Came the honest answer.

Frank stepped backwards then, smiling at the lack of disingenuity. Faked a gasp of surprise. “Father Matthew doesn’t like it when I splatter someone’s brains, huh? That’s a headline.” 

“Don’t call me that.” Matt argued, though he knew it’d be useless. He moved towards the kitchenette, had to sort something out to eat.

Frank yawned, heading towards the couch. Lay down on it, arms behind his head. Squinted at that stupid neon light that filtered into Matt’s apartment. Hadn’t missed it. At all.

“Can’t you wave your lawyer wand around, and threaten ‘em with property abuse, or some shit?”

“Who?” Matt reached into one of the cupboards, finally dug out what it was that he was feeling around for.

“People behind that goddamn neon sign.” Frank leaned over and grabbed a bottle of painkillers from the coffee table. Tossed it into the air, and then caught it again. Continued the little manoeuvre, because it calmed him down in some way. The rattling of the pills within the bottle as they rose towards the ceiling and fell back into his hands. Wanted a shower, wanted to wash the day off himself, but the ache within his body insisted against it.

“That’s not how it works.” Matt explained. “Besides, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Yeah, no shit.” Frank hummed distractedly. Eyes on the painkillers. Up. Down. Up. Down. “Got you some more of these, by the way. Different types for different hours. Take ‘em.”

Matt raised an eyebrow at the command, could only imagine what Frank was like when he was in charge of his unit, back when he was still serving. Continued his search within the cupboard. “How’d you get here anyway?”

“Caught a cab.”

For some reason, Matt found that the most ridiculous thing he’d heard all week. He chuckled, incredulous, turning to face Frank. Or wherever his voice came from, anyway. “You did what?”

“Yeah.” Frank grunted non-committedly, unable to understand the amusement in that. “Poor cabbie, though. His team lost. Talked about baseball.” Caught the bottle one last time, before settling it down beside him. Peered over at his leg to see whether he’d been shot, felt some strange sense of burning.

The fact that Frank was being completely serious caused Matt to lose it entirely, until he was laughing, head lowered, the imagery making it impossible to stop.

Frank raised an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”

“You…” Another chuckle. Shook his head in disbelief, trying to weave the words together. “You killed a dozen men, took down their entire syndicate, set fire to the warehouse, and then got into a taxi, and started talking about baseball?”

Frank listened to the words, before shrugging again. The corner of his mouth lifting at the sound of Matt’s laughter, how contagious it was, genuine and deep. The humor was lost on him, but he liked the sound anyway.

“What, a man can’t talk about baseball anymore?”

“Frank…” Matt had to catch his breath, couldn’t explain the sudden lightness in his chest, the entire world itself not so intimidating anymore. “It’s not about the baseball.” Had to force the words out, because as each second passed, the more comical the thought became. “It's…” In midst laughter. He gave up on trying to explain how ludicrous the situation was, altogether.

“Just come here.” Matt finally breathed, unable to stop the persistent grin from spreading on his features.

Chapter Text

His head was a kaleidoscope. Turning and turning, the shards of colour tumbling and arranging themselves differently each time. At some point, those coloured patterns organized themselves into the shapes of people and things.

Matt found himself at Frank’s apartment again, originally only to pick up his body armor from that night, but ended up staying over instead. Not that he minded, hell, he preferred the company. Liked it better than the lack of it, at his own, sullen apartment.

And now, he leaned against the headboard, eyes closed. Heard a crash, something falling, and then Frank swearing underneath his breath. Knew instantly that it had been a book, could almost feel its crinkly pages underneath his fingertips; the scent of paper and wood.

“What book's that?” Matt asked. Was more curious, than anything else.

Frank paused, before glancing at the book in his hands. “Persuasion by Jane Austen.” He answered honestly. Had no reason to lie. Slightly sheepish, all the same.

Matt laughed then, shaking his head. When would he ever stop being so surprised by everything Frank did? The man was a walking contradiction.

“Planning to recite one of the paragraphs once you’ve got your barrel down someone’s throat, Frank?” Matt snorted.

“They should be so lucky.” Frank scoffed, noncommittal.

He’d been about to rest the book back on the nightstand, before Matt interrupted again, clearing his throat. A thought that’d just occurred to him. “Read it to me?”

“What, you want a bedtime story, Murdock?” Frank raised an eyebrow, a smile ghosting his lips.

Matt shrugged, unbashful.

“Guess honesty’s a virtue, huh?” Frank reached over for the book again; the paperback that Curtis had lent him. Curtis had told him he ought to give it a go, humor in his voice when he handed it over. Frank had shrugged then, didn’t really give a shit, any distraction was still a distraction, and brought it home – let it sit on his nightstand, gather dust for months.

Frank shuffled next to Matt, on his bed. Then, he hesitated. Remembered what it was like, to read his kids a story, back when he’d been able to do so. How there were times when he had to refuse, because he’d just returned home from a deployment, mind haunted and body numb.

Now, he glanced at the book in his hands thoughtfully.

Oh, fuck it.

He began reading. Curled up next to Matt, a forearm lazily slung around Matt’s waist, cheek grazing Matt’s temple. Held the book steady, found it easy to recite the familiar paragraphs, had begun from the beginning: the first page. Liked to believe the book was about second chances, but there’d been a time where he’d scoffed at Curtis for even recommending it to him.

Matt listened, had to bite back a smile at the beginning, because in what universe did Frank Castle read Jane Austen?

Yet, he found himself paying attention to the story, latching onto every word that Frank said. Smiled at certain parts, frowned at others. Chuckled when Frank gruffly asked him what a particular long word meant, and then received a thump on the back of his head when he’d teased Frank about his lack of vocabulary. Muscles slackening, mind drifting, no longer tormented.

Language too, was a form of sight. Frank brought the story to life for him, and Matt found his voice comforting, though it’d be a cold day in hell if he ever admitted that. Voice like gravel, how Frank drawled certain words, native accent making its appearance. Easy to imagine the characters, this way, Matt realized.

Reminded him of the way they’d watched films back in his own apartment, all those months ago, and how Frank would lazily narrate what was happening on the screen; how he’d describe the setting of the scene, the clothes each actor would wear.

Patient, and unbashful.

Frank now rested his hand in Matt’s hair, smoothening the strands mindlessly, running his fingers through them. Heavy-lidded, words now becoming a blur on the pages. Had long since forgotten the storyline, hell, didn’t give a flying fuck about the plot itself, but knew that Matt was invested. And, because of that, he continued reading out loud.

“Your voice’s too deep for the female characters, Frank. Can’t really picture them that well. You've got to make it higher.” Matt teased, cheeks dimpling.

They were an hour in, and Matt could feel the exhaustion creep up to him, accompanied with a state of sated comfort.

Frank laughed, deep and husky, the sound wrapping around Matt, hugging him, caressing him, comforting him like the fingers massaging his scalp and the warmth around his chest.

“Yeah? Well, you’re shit outta luck, Red.” He closed the book, placed it back on the nightstand. “We’ll finish the rest tomorrow, huh? Get some sleep in.” Pressed his lips against Matt's forehead without thinking, almost as if it were instinct.

This lingering tenderness, one Frank was unaccustomed to.

And, how to explain that?

How to explain what it was like, having to steel yourself once the plane landed in your homeland; an aircraft filled with weary, wartorn men in camouflage uniforms, only identified by the last names stitched to the lapel of their front pocket? Wanting to remain rooted to his seat, some pathetic attempt at willing himself to return to where he’d come from – forget all the other bullshit. Difficult to return to civilisation when you’d spent your entire time deployed witnessing the fall of it – the fall of villages, homes, lands that people had once loved.

Shit, there was nothing that he loved more than his kids, even back then. Had traced their familiar faces on the only photograph he held, in the temporary tents and sometimes bunkers if they were unlucky. Saw their characteristics mirrored within the tiny Afghan children, draped with shawls, eyelids darkened with kohl in some attempt to evade the heat of the relentlessly burning sun above.

And fuck, how generous those little kids were, breaking their bread with the soldiers, no matter what side of the war they were on. Had steeled himself then, had to close his eyes briefly when he saw one of those children dead amongst the terrain, protectiveness rising within him, flashing images of his own kids in that position: lifeless.

Empathy. Had to learn how to bury it.

Drives home that consisted of Frank tracing his pocketknife mindlessly, agitated. Torn between two sides: one wanting nothing more than to smell the sweet scent of his kids’ freshly washed hair, his wife’s familiar cooking, candles that burned in their living room – and the other wanting to return to the place he knew best, unnamed terrains during deployments, the smell of gun oil penetrating his nostrils, and the rigidness of that uniform: that familiar MARPAT material.

Became more difficult, over the years, to become accustomed to a domesticated lifestyle, until eventually, it unsettled him. The love for his family remained persistent, never-ending, but seemed inadequate to fuel him during his weeks off.

Two worlds, bleeding into one another. Until the former had been torn away, from his blood-stained hands, that day at the carousel.

Could never go back, not now. The feeling had long since disintegrated within his fingertips; the tenderness, the love, accompanied with certain discomfort.

Needless to say, he was fucking surprised to feel traces of that same feeling: the affection, the endearment, arise during something as simple as reading a goddamn book to Matthew Murdock. Frank buried the thoughts. Knew they’d amount to nothing good.

Had to close his eyes to maintain his resolve, fingers twitching.

“There was this stupid song that Curt would sing when we were drivin' through some of them deserts, you know?” Frank said suddenly, dark eyes fixated on the ceiling.

Matt listened, attentive.

“He’d look at all those people dying, people past saving, just… just dead bodies everywhere, yeah, and he’d just shake his head, as if he couldn’t believe the world had come to this.”

“He learnt the song back when he was a gospel kid, and shit, it was so effin’ annoying, got into my head until even I was singin’ along. Had all of us guys singin’ along to it, until it became a habit, something that got us through the days and then some more.” Frank smiled faintly at the memory.

Frank cleared his throat, lips now against Matt’s temple. “I’m comin’ up the rough side of the mountain, on my way home.” He recited, closing his eyes briefly. Could almost smell the dust, the decay, the piercing breezes of Afghanistan, as he said the familiar words.

Matt smiled softly at the thought.

“Yeah. Asked him what it meant, once, cause a guy can only sing something so many times without wanting to know the meaning behind it. And, Curt – well, he just smiled, you know? Said that if he could survive through this, he could survive that rough side of the mountain, could survive anything.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “A fucking optimist. You’d like him, Red. You could both sit down and find the good in Hitler, or some shit.”

“That’s not true. Hitler had no redeeming qualities.” Matt countered. “Though… he did lower unemployment –”

“Oh, stop that.” Frank groaned, dragging a hand over his face exasperatedly, mouth twitching with humor. Clamped his other hand over Matt’s mouth to prevent him from saying anything further. “Bet the jurors find you real funny, huh?”

Matt pulled the hand away from his mouth, cheeks dimpling. “Naturally.”

“Cocky bastard.”

Comfortable silence blanketed them. Moonlight diffracted into the bedroom, causing various shadows to form. Passing the walls, wearing the sky outside. The slight bow and rising of nearby trees. Leaves rustling audibly. For once, it seemed as if the entirety of Hell’s Kitchen was quiet.

“Hurts to walk around.” Matt eventually murmured, reminding them both of the night before. And, hell, he could only hope that his limp wasn’t visible when he made his case in court tomorrow.

Frank paused, unable to decipher the meaning behind the words. What, was Matt complaining about his stitches? Hadn’t the drugs worked? Frowned. Didn’t know how to relieve Matt of that.

That is, until he remembered, and it was as if there was a sudden lightness in his chest, mingling with the growing lust at the thought alone. Felt the memory course through him. He lowered his head, couldn’t muffle the laughter. Arms tightening around Matt, lips pressing against his flushed skin.

“Is that right?” Frank rasped, teasing.

Matt could practically hear the affection dripping from Frank, and he felt the heat creep up to his cheeks. “Yeah, yeah, laugh away.” He grumbled, but there was no real spite behind it.

It was as if the night before had been burnt into him, into his every nerve, his every blood cell, not a minute passing by without the thought of it – the physical consequences remaining a sharp, and grounding reminder.

As if he still had a part of Frank within him, carried it around wherever he went. More uncomfortable than anything else, though he didn’t necessarily mind it. Just found it… embarrassing, almost.

Frank was smiling against Matt’s temple, shoulders still shaking from the laughter. “What, d’ya need a walking stick, Red?” He offered sweetly.

“Hold on, you already got one of those.” Snickered again, hands now trailing upwards, fingertips grazing Matt’s bare chest. Lazy kisses near Matt’s jaw now, some attempt at an apology for the pain he’d caused. His grip possessive, unyielding.

Matt stilled Frank’s hands, tilting his head to meet Frank’s lips. Knew Frank was being playful, but he was too impatient for that, restless, wanted the side of Frank that drove him insane, made him kneel to his sanity itself. The affection burned him, maimed him, was unfamiliar.

Frank leaned away, distracted. “Knowing that drives me crazy, you hear me?” Lips now teasing, straying away from Matt’s mouth, knew what effect it had. “Christ. Imagining you limp around in court, cause of me.”

“Glad I’m able to entertain you.”

“More than that.” Frank murmured, lips now meeting Matt’s, only briefly. Tightened his hold again, adjusting himself until it was his chest against Matt’s back, his groin against Matt’s ass.

“Sleep. I’ll keep watch.” Familiar words, usually reserved for back when he'd be on night duty with those in his unit. Graveyard shifts. Didn’t know why he was saying them now, but knew that Matt needed to hear them anyway.

Matt found himself drifting off, tried to resist it, but his body gave in to the exhaustion. Let go of the arms wrapped around him, though a voice inside him wanted to ask: how do I know you won’t leave, again?

Sleep. Just needed sleep.

Birds chirping lazily outside, indicating that it was that time of the day where even they were undisturbed. A lack of pedestrians, bums still asleep on their designated streets, coffee carts still being set up. Squawking eagerly when some passing schoolkid threw a few breadcrumbs their way, some attempt at disposing of the homemade sandwich their mama had made for lunch.

The sun, having since made its appearance, left lasting imprints on the insides of Matt’s eyelids. He rubbed a hand over his face wearily, leaning back into the faded booth seats as he did so.

“Alright, alright.” He heard Frank say enthusiastically. Knew he was rubbing his hands together, some attempt at keeping warm.

“It’s seven in the morning, Frank.” Matt sighed. Would never understand how Frank was so… alive in the mornings, considering he himself felt as if he had a foot in the grave.

“Too late, if you ask me.” Frank replied, reaching for the menu. Eyes skimming past the various offerings. “Christ, she knows how to run a business, doesn’t she? Check out these prices.” He whistled appreciatively, now glancing upwards. Pushed the laminated paper towards Matt before thinking.

“Can’t really do that.” Matt deadpanned, a smile ghosting his lips.

Right. Frank pinched the bridge of his nose, looking away, trying to stifle his smile. Struggled with it.

“You’re laughing, aren’t you?” Matt could tell Frank’s shoulders were shaking, some attempt at disguising his snickering. 

“Nah.”

“Oh, no, carry on, I insist. I’m glad you can find some joy at my expense, Frank.” Matt grumbled, eyes sparkling with humor.

Frank was in the middle of reading the menu out loud, a possessive arm slung around Matt’s waist, when they were interrupted.

“Sorry I’m late.” A familiar voice rung out.

Karen Page slid into the booth opposite them, resting her notepad on the table, smiling at the sight of the two men facing her.

“If it isn’t my favourite two vigilantes.” She murmured dryly. Raised the untouched glass of water to her lips, breathless from the quickened walk to the café, in heels no less.

Frank pretended to gag. “Yeah, nah. Think you’ve got the wrong guy.” Visibly shuddered, sipping his own coffee. “I’m not the one that runs around with red underwear, acting all high and mighty.”

“Hey!” Matt reprimanded. “How many times do we have to go over this, Frank? It’s armor.” Emphasised the last word, though he couldn’t care less about the digging, was more than used to it by now, especially from the likes of Frank Castle. “Good to see you, Karen.” He greeted, smiling lazily.

“Oh, and, what? You couldn’t have picked a better color?” Frank continued, gave Karen a nod in greeting. Glanced at Matt again, who sat beside him, his thighs grazing his own. “One less flashy? Like, I don’t know, black, maybe? Christ, I know you’re blind, but the rest of the world isn’t.” Peered at the menu again.

“Yeah? Maybe you’re just jealous, Frank, because all you can manage is a spray-painted skull.”

“Oh, come on.” Frank drawled. “That bright red is how you take most of your guys down, ain’t it? By burning through their eyeballs?”

Matt remained silent, shaking his head in exasperation, grinning now. 

“You see, Karen?” Frank piped up again, the corner of his mouth lifting. “You ever get injured, you know what to look out for. Not the ambulance, no, but Matthew Murdock, cause once he puts on those little panties of his, it’s game over, right there. Even the goddamn space satellite can see him coming.”

“They’re supposed to see everything, you know, that’s kind of the point – ”

“Oh, is that right? Didn’t know you were an astronaut too. What, you go to night classes, huh, Red, is that what it is? Fly there with your little cape?”

“I’ve got to say, I’m surprised you even know what that word means, Frank. Don’t you think that it’s a little too big for – ”

“Guys.” Karen interrupted, eyes flickering between the pair, as if she couldn’t believe what it was she was hearing. Amused, but thoroughly confused. “Is everything okay? We can do this another time, if you like?” A pen poised over her notepad.

“Sounds great.” Frank began, but Matt interceded. “Everything’s fine.”

“Right.” Karen murmured, unconvinced. “Well, let’s get to it, then.” She had to gather her bearings for a second, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. Another glance at the two men that sat opposite her. Unused to the sight. Was surprised, really. Both of them alive, and in one piece? Had to be some sort of miracle.

“I told you about the article I’m writing, right? It isn’t often that a dozen men, all linked closely to a seemingly indestructible syndicate, are found dead in the warehouse they operate from.” She narrowed her eyes at Frank. “Most government agencies are scrambling for answers, and I’ve been…” Cleared her throat. “Strongly advised to not write about this, not yet. But Hell’s Kitchen needs to know.”

Karen knew it had been Frank, was willing to bet her life against it, but had been thrown off guard. The Punisher had been keeping a low profile, had been keeping his head down, nothing out of the ordinary. Bodies occasionally turning up in the Hudson, sure, but it’d been a while since something like this had happened – something with such magnitude. It had only been days since the infamous drug smuggler, Flavio Bianchi, had been found dead, along with those he operated with.

Crime in the neighbourhood hadn’t been this high in months.

She observed Frank carefully, but his face remained clear of all emotion. He met her gaze, unrelenting, the slightest traces of a smirk.

“Frank?” Karen eventually prompted, raising an eyebrow.

“This person, whoever it is that you’re looking for, I’ve got a feeling that they don’t do it for the public eye, yeah?” Frank murmured, deliberately evasive. Glanced at her notepad, and then back upwards at her familiar features.

Matt scoffed at that, but said nothing.

“Then, tell me, Frank, what it is that you feel this person does it for.” She cupped her chin in her hands, staring at him expectantly. Pushed the notepad away. Off the record.

“Sounds like a lunatic to me.” Matt offered. Felt Frank’s glare upon him.

“Huh. Maybe they were just cleaning up the shit that the fresh-faced rookies over at NYPD weren’t able to.” Frank shrugged. Rubbed his stubbled jaw wearily, stifling a yawn.

“You don’t think the police are able to do their job properly? They need others to intrude?” Karen was in journalist mode now, had to supress whatever it was that she knew about Frank as a person. No bias. Was determined to get him out of this, to lead the article to point at some other force of nature, to not even allow the title of the ‘Punisher’ cross anyone’s mind when it came to the case.

She needed Frank Castle to keep a low profile – for his own sake. Even if he was too ignorant to do so himself.

“Putting words in my mouth.” Frank tutted, leaning back, arms crossed over his chest.  

“I don’t suppose you know anything about Flavio Bianchi, either?” Karen responded, not missing a beat. Leaning forward now, forearms resting on the table, gaze penetrating.

Matt tensed at the name, but Frank remained indifferent. “Didn’t know you were seeing someone, Karen. Your boyfriend’s got quite the unusual name, huh?” Raised his coffee to his mouth.

“He’s not my – ” She began, before exhaling wearily, placing a hand over her eyes in exasperation. Turned to face the other man. One that she expected more from.

“Matt?” She prodded, hopeful.

“Some things are better left unsaid, Karen. I think you know that by now.” Matt murmured apologetically, felt her eyes on him, searching.

Karen scoffed in disbelief. Closed her eyes briefly to compose herself.

“So, this is it? The Punisher and the Devil have nothing to do with either of these? And, what, you expect me to believe that? I’ve got to say, I’m insulted, really.”

Frank let the words wash over him, nodding towards Karen’s notepad. “You do what you gotta do.” Implication laying between the words. If Karen had to write the newspaper article, and mention him, then he’d have nothing against it. All was fair.

“Where does it stop, Frank?” Karen blurted. “Really, Frank, help me understand. Don’t you think you’ve done enough? How long does this go on for?” She continued, defeat lingering within her tone. Shut the notepad for good this time, now irrelevant. Concern flickering in her eyes.

Frank glanced at Matt, whose expression remained unreadable. Had to suppress the memory of Matt strapped to that damned chair, bleeding. A fist clenching involuntarily at the thought. Knew he’d turn the world upside down if he had to see it again.

“As long as it needs to.”

There were days where Frank wouldn’t see Matt. Hell, sometimes, even weeks passed. Matt spent them not knowing whether he was even alive, incapable of gauging as much. Had to fight the impulse of listening for his heartbeat, amongst the millions of others within New York.

Silent, silent days, both of them consumed within their own grief, unable to do anything more than survive.

Matt felt the endless hours wash over him, found himself easing back into his life once more. Paperwork for upcoming cases was no longer daunting, but rather, comforting. Proved to be a distraction. Knew he was scoping the streets more than usual, lately, was always covered in one bruise or another. Was running out of excuses to explain them, really.

Never bumped into the Punisher, and knew it was only because the Punisher didn’t want to be bumped into.

It was simple. If Frank wanted to see him, he’d do so on his own terms.

The only reassuring thought was that Frank would return. Those were the only days that Matt felt steadied, as if he had both feet on the ground.

Frank had since made himself a key to Matt’s apartment. Didn’t say anything, most of the time, when he did come over. Eyes glossy, mind haunted, covered in blood. Would dispose of the bloodied body armor, would shower, and then, only then, would he allow Matt to lay his hands on him. Would reluctantly sit still whilst Matt stitched him up, mostly unwilling to part with any details.

Spent those nights with his arms around Matt tighter than usual, head buried in the crook of Matt’s neck, limbs tangled with the other. Curled into a tight embrace, unwilling to let go of Matt, relishing his body heat in the cool of the spring nights.

Tonight was one of those nights.

The jangle of a key into his lock startled Matt awake, and he realized he hadn’t meant to fall asleep – meant to have only laid down for a second or two. Was conscious immediately, but a leaden tiredness told him that he hadn’t actually rested much, might have even been dreaming bad, something dark lingering on the edge of his mind, like a stale taste.

Matt stretched, and then inhaled sharply from the pain that shot up his torso. Right. Had forgotten about the men he’d taken down yesterday. Neck cramped. Sighed wearily.

Heard the footsteps approach, heard the shower being turned on. Matt closed his eyes again. Minutes passed. Only opened them again when he knew a figure had approached the bed.

“You okay?” Matt had to ask. Had been days since he’d heard from Frank last. Tried not to notice the days that passed by, but it was difficult not to. Goddamn difficult.

“Same shit as ever.” There was a tired smile in Frank’s voice. Audible, but not visible. Bare-eyed and bare-souled with tiredness, as he turned towards Matt, armor undone and discarded, vest flung into a corner. Reaching out with a calloused hand, fingers eager to touch. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” Voice hoarse, as if he were afraid of interrupting the silence of the night itself. Had to clear his throat.

Matt took the hand, placed his own over it. Then pulled himself up, helping Frank undress. “Don’t worry, I wasn’t really asleep anyway.” Reached for Frank’s belt buckle, but Frank stilled him, pulling Matt into a tight embrace instead. Suddenly feeling that fucked-up tenderness again.

“Good to see you, Red.” He whispered, breathing in the familiar cologne, the aftershave, something else entirely Matt. Vulnerable. Fingers threading through Matt’s hair. Tilted his head slightly upwards, placed a fleeting kiss on his temple.

Matt remained silent, allowing himself to be held, his own biceps tightening around Frank’s waist instinctively, head against his chest. The strange disorientation still clinging to him. Fought the impulse to ask where Frank had been, where he’d come from, what he’d done. Didn’t want to think about it. Frank’s hair was still damp, still wet from the shower he’d taken. Smelt like the shower gel Matt kept in there. Something intimate within that.  

“Kept the bed warm for me?” Softly teasing, Frank made his way over to his side of the bed.

Frank was in a better mood today, Matt realized. Less formidable, less restricted. “Yeah.” Made room for Frank, who stretched with a sigh of satisfaction.

Turning to his side, Frank could hardly make out Matt’s features in the darkness. “Got into another playground fight, huh?” He murmured, noticing the developing bruise on Matt’s jaw. Traced it with the pad of his thumb. 

“What can I say? There’s a lot of bullies around in the neighbourhood.” Matt deadpanned. The touch was like a cauterization to his mind, to his heart, and he had to steel himself underneath it. Good that you’re back. Was what he wanted to say. Good that you’re mine, for now. Had to bury the thought. Swallowed roughly.

“Yeah.” Frank scoffed. “Damn right.” He murmured in agreement. Knew something was off, but too tired to sense every shift and change.

“Still saving the world and putting all the bad guys in the slammer, Red?” A lopsided smirk.

The dark irony that lay in between them.

A breathless chuckle escaped Matt. “Trying to. One step at a time, Frank.”  

“Atta boy.” Barely stringing the words together now, fatigue settling within him. Gun underneath the pillow. Eyes closing, breathing steady.

“Karen was right, wasn’t she?” Matt broke the silence, the quiet that had begin to settle. The words from that interview in the café, all those weeks ago.

He had to understand. Wanted to understand.

Frank sighed wearily, knew where the words were going. A broken fucking record.

“It won’t ever stop, will it, Frank? You’ll keep going, and going, until there’s no longer anything within you left. That, or someone kills you.”

“Christ.” Frank groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. Some attempt at evading the subject.

“It doesn’t always have to be about killing, Frank. You can still… still deliver justice in other ways. You can let yourself off the hook.” Matt continued, grave. Closing his eyes briefly. “You won’t be able to stop otherwise.”

“That what you tell yourself, Murdock?” Frank grunted, noncommittal. Irritated, now. Too damn exhausted to get his thoughts straight. Struggled to keep up with the whole thing, which seemed to be this great big fucking problem, just not within in his own mind.

Matt smiled bitterly at that, the sharpness within Frank’s tone prickling him. “It’s not me that we’re talking about.”

“We? As far as I’m concerned, I’m victim to another one of your goddamn sermons. Suggest you save those, yeah? For a worthy cause, maybe.”

You are a worthy cause, Frank. “Is that how it is? Alright, I’ll recite them over your grave, considering that’s where you’re heading – what, practically asking to die.” Words that hurt to say, words that stung. Had to spit them out, anyway, needed to.

Frank remained silent, face erased of all emotion. Accepted the lashing.

“Yeah.” He finally responded, jaw clenched. “You do that.”

He wasn’t made for it. Wasn’t made to be good for Matt, or to meet his expectations, or whatever it was that Matt wanted from him. Human feeling. It was beyond his range.

“I need to understand.” Matt murmured, shuffling closer, impossibly close. Until his lips trailed Frank’s cheek, could feel the stubble. Mouth near his ear. “You want the pain, Frank, is that what it is?” Knew Frank was tensed, no longer languid, no longer easy-going. Couldn’t bring himself to care about that.

He wrapped a hand around Frank’s throat before thinking, rising so that he was straddling him now, the grip one impossible to escape from. “I can give you pain.” Matt gritted, feeling the flushed skin underneath his palm, the Adam’s apple. I want to give you the pain, said some small resenting voice within him. Can destroy you, if you want me to.

Frank closed his eyes, feeling the hand around his throat, the pressure of it intensifying. Almost leaned into it, almost willing for Matt to act on whatever impulse it was that he had. Drew in a ragged breath.  

“You feel alive, now?” Matt asked, grasping Frank’s face roughly with his other hand. Hand around his throat now tightening, fingertips digging into the muscle there. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes.” The answer came too fast, too true, voice hoarse. Losing, unless he had already lost. As if that body that crushed his own forced all the layers and lies away, everything he knew, everything he thought about.

Matt had to close his eyes, knowing that it was the truth, and that he’d touched darkness at the other man’s core. Feeling the shift in the other’s body, the yielding, on such a primal level that there really was no thought to describe it.

Seconds passed, each of them as heavy as the ones preceding it, if not heavier.

The quality of Matt’s touch changed. “Had a feeling.” Inhaling deeply, then, very carefully moving, lifting some of his weight off Frank, removing his hand from Frank’s neck, knowing he’d left marks there.

Now stilling Frank’s arms, to prevent him from lashing out. This familiar position – groin against groin, and yet there was nothing sexual about it, not now. Vulnerability. Wanting, shielding, and feeling that deep, impossible connection.

There was no need for him to restrain Frank, though, because Frank remained still, eyes still closed. Unwilling to think, unwilling to feel.

Matt let his hands trail the powerful body, kneading and touching, chest, thighs. All with time, leisure, tenderness, but still firmly. “Gotta learn to move on, Frank.” He said softly. “It’s time to move on.” Reassuring, now. Fingertips attempting to heal, to soothe, to absorb the ache from Frank somehow, if he could. 

Frank leaned towards the touch, as if he were only reacting. A body, nothing else, allowing himself to listen. Shivered, as if cold.

“You want to get better? Then, this might be a good day to start living.” Matt kept his voice low, just between the two of them. Realising he was starting a massage, deciding it was a good idea, and Frank’s body responded on its own, when cramped muscles were stroked. He took more of the tension out, ignoring his own for the moment. Digging into the shoulder blades now, kneading. His own need didn’t matter, not like it once had. “Took me a long time to learn that.”

“Fighting’s easier.” Frank brought out, barely more than a whisper. He’d already seen Hell himself, had already died, and fuck, the world was just a big old Catherine wheel, still spinning.  

His own hands reached for Matt. Felt the thighs underneath his fingertips, the way that Matt pressed against him.

“Guess it is. A habit, huh?” Matt reached over, worked his way down from the neck and shoulders, down the swell of his biceps, the hips. Firmly stroking. Would need oil for a proper massage, but couldn’t find it within himself to get up and grab some.

Wanted to touch instead, stay close, listen to Frank’s heartbeat, him breathe. Gradually relaxing himself, still straddling the man underneath him, focused on the other’s body. Arousal lingering, would take little for it to flare up once again, but he had no interest in that.

With every touch, every minute longer, every connection of hands on skin and flesh, something fell apart within Frank. A faint tremble in his fingers. Head relaxed. Neck muscles, abused and tortured, losing their tightness. Adjusting Matt over him, steadying Matt’s waist, feeling the comfortable weight of the man upon himself.

“You’ve got no idea.” Frank chuckled weakly in agreement. Speech becoming easier, despite the parched throat.

“Think I do.” Matt smiled softly, stretching out now. Moving up and towards him, placing his lips on Frank’s swollen, bloodied ones.

The response was slow, but no less intense. A different kiss, without the watchfulness, without intent. A manifestation of sensations, taste and feeling, tongues touching, lips moving slowly. Matt kissed him like only Maria ever had before, and Frank felt some part of him shatter at the realization, something within him aching.

As if a part of himself had been torn away from him. With utmost focus, and completeness. And it went straight through Frank, the unexpected intimacy, the feeling in this. Soundly beaten and destroyed, but at the same time, in the moment. Allowing his hands to roam now, to explore, feeling the familiar hardened body above his own.

Matt’s breathing was ragged when he pulled away, forehead resting against Frank’s. “Are you alright?” He asked, voice somewhat strangled by need. If he had to stop, he would. The alternative, he couldn’t bear thinking about.

Lips parted, Frank opened his eyes at the question, looking at Matt. Truly looking, not using the faintest amount of control. All gone, all given up, and he smiled.

A rare smile, one that Matt didn’t need to see to feel. A smile that belonged to him.

Frank's hands moved slowly, with effort, head lifting. Fingers travelling across Matt’s face, tracing, touching. “Yeah.”

“Okay, Frank.” Matt could only reply. Saying his name felt like aching, a river of fire coursing through his veins. Thought of it as heavenly, because deep down, somewhere, he believed that the divine was meant to hurt.

Maybe this was the burning away of his sins. Maybe this was absolution.

And if it was, he’d bathe in the flames.

Chapter Text

To anyone else, he was just a regular guy on a lazy Thursday afternoon. Hood drawn over the beanie he wore, hands deep into his pockets. Questionable scrapes and cuts scattered on his face, sure, but he’d cleaned up today. No worse than usual. Had even rubbed some of that stupid antisceptic shit on, though he was convinced it did jackshit. Week old stubble that he’d have to shave soon, wasn’t trying to turn into one of those hippies again.

The courthouse gleamed ahead of him. In all of its glory, with the familiar government engravings upon it. Adorned with bronze plaques that boasted of the Constitution, or whatever the hell it was. American flags flapping underneath the slight breeze.

Its once pearly white steps now appearing as more of a dulled grey, having been since polluted with dirt and grime by the thousands of people that stepped over them every day. The weather itself wasn’t too bad either – shit, it was what others may have called ‘picnic weather.’ Not a cloud in sight, the sky a vivid blue.

Frank rubbed his jaw, distracted, posture rigid as he leaned against the lamppost. A vigilant eye on the sight that he faced.

A man in his early fifties. Laughing – the type of laugh that was incredulous, as if even he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Balding, with the remaining hair greying near his temple. Wore a checkered shirt, tucked into a pair of well-worn Carhartt pants. Kneeling on the concrete.

His arms were outreached. Arms that held a babbling toddler to his chest, his eyes still not averting from the little girl beside him – a little girl both wet and muddied from having played in a nearby puddle, but her face contorting into an expression resembling pure happiness. Grinning, until it reached her eyes. Running towards the man, squealing.

Frank didn’t have to crane his ear to know what it was that she said.

“Dad!”

The man caught her in his other arm, still chuckling, his mouth finding the top of her head. Placed a fleeting kiss there, his eyes sparkling with affection. “Let’s go home to your mommy, huh, honey?” Standing up now, clasping her tiny hand – almost negligible – within his large one. Clasping it tight, the toddler still against his chest as he lifted him up too.

Frank tore his gaze away, swallowing roughly. Dragged a hand over his face, eyes closing briefly.

Felt as if he’d intruded, somehow. Even more fucked-up the way that he could almost visualize himself in that position, a toddler in one hand, and a kid in the other. Once upon a time, maybe. A sight that brought memories to the surface, memories that now felt like a lifetime away.

His memory was a field of landmines. He’d blink, and everything he’d previously tried to forget would blow up in his face. Lived within the shrapnel. In the rations of everything that had ever happened. Found it easier, that way. Somewhere between death and freedom.

Had thought he’d been getting better with that shit. Better at seeing families spending time with another, better at averting his gaze from every father with his kids in tow, better at… suppressing those thoughts. Better at ignoring his ghosts, allowing them to slip through, like sand in a closed fist.

But what would he be without his ghosts? The opposite of haunting was something lonely, an edge of a cliff that promised desolation, despondency, all of the fucked-up shit that he didn’t want. Or need. The rage, the fury, the resentment was what fueled him. Kept him going. Kept the blood flowing in his veins. Wouldn’t recognize himself without it, not anymore.

Frank was able to put a leash onto it. Tame it. Had since learnt how to strap it to his chest like a ticking time bomb. Fucking explosives. Goddamn suicidal – who gave a shit. 

Love? Shit, love was what degraded a man into a beast. Love was what tore a man away from his sanity; was what ripped the roof off his common sense. The type of love that burned, maimed, and twisted a man inside out. Love that made monsters. He knew it. Had known since, deep down, that his heart was goddamn abused by now. Bruised, scarred, scored, torn. Patched by the force of character.

There were bigger things in the world, things that needed tending to, things more important than his own grief, or whatever sappy name those government-employed psychologists back in the USMC had given it.

“Castle, you’re a sharp guy, so I’m gonna spare the kind words. They’re gonna try and get into your head. Those bastards will claw their way in, use anything you got against you. Make sick jokes about your wife, tell you the twisted shit they’ll do to your kids. Fucking meaningless shit, you know that? Don’t matter what they say. Matters what you do. You gonna let them get into your head, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”  He’d drawled lazily, back then, as if it were obvious. Common knowledge. Never gonna let them in my head.

Couldn’t let it get to his head.

Anything but that.

His heart, though? A different matter. His heart, like something dead, lay within him. Felt shallowly planted. Fuck, a black hole, maybe. An endless, dark void. A heart that felt as if it were in his mouth. And Frank couldn’t tell if he was spitting it out, or swallowing it.

When he opened his eyes again, they were clear. He watched the three of them walk away, now, camouflaging themselves within the crowd of New York. To most likely never be seen again. Frank smiled weakly at the sight, feeling the familiar weight upon him, but there was something – something lighter, that now replaced the void, that dark pit within his chest.

And it was because of the man now walking down the stairs of the courthouse. Frank felt him before he saw him – had always had that ability, to sense people from the corner of his eye; recognize them by their gait. Knew instantly who it was.

Knew, because it was who he’d been waiting for.

Matt Murdock.

“Hey, counselor.” Frank called out, a smirk ghosting his lips. Remained where he was, unwavering gaze on the figure that approached.

Matt walked up to him, an eyebrow raised. “Frank.” He greeted, more confused than anything else. Rubbed the back of his neck, his briefcase in the other hand. “What are you doing here?”

He found himself smiling, despite himself. Frank Castle at a courthouse? Something that usually only happened over Castle’s cold, dead body. Two things that just didn’t look good together. The Punisher, and the building that represented law itself.

That, and the fact that he just hadn’t… expected to hear from Frank this soon. Had thought it would be another few weeks before the man came to see him again. Frank had slept over at his only the night before, so it didn’t make sense. Especially not now, after a case he’d presented in court, after months of preparation.

Frank pushed himself off the lamppost, the corner of his mouth lifting. Drinking in the sight of a flustered Matt, in a suit, his tie slightly loosened. Dark glasses averting his eyes from the world, with an expression that indicated his surprise.

“Had a spare cup of coffee, thought I’d do my charitable act for the day.” Frank shrugged, the humor in his voice apparent. He held out a blue takeaway cup, the familiar Anthora design upon it, flat lid, filled to the brim with good brew.

“Because you thought that I so clearly needed it?” Matt teased, accepting the coffee with a grateful nod. “Did you tell him to put sugar in this?” Didn’t really need to ask, knew that his was made just the way he liked it.

“Yeah.” Frank scoffed, tempted to roll his eyes at that. “Every last grain he had. New York’s got a shortage in supply, apparently, cause of the amount of that shit you put into your coffee.”

“Real funny, Frank.” Matt muttered, though he had to stifle a smile. He matched Frank’s pace as they began walking.

“How’d it go?” Frank tilted his head towards the courthouse.

Matt sighed. “Judge’s dirty. Her heart was racing when the defense counsel came up. They keep filing for a motion to dismiss, and I’ll bet she’s already scrambling for grounds for dismissal. Perez deserves more, though, Frank. There’s already too much at stake.”

Frank made a face. “English?” 

"Could’ve gone better.” Matt smiled, nudging Frank’s shoulder with his own, indicating for him to walk faster.  

“Perez?” Frank questioned, huddling closer to Matt as they headed towards Matt’s apartment. Occasionally bumping into passers-by heading the opposite direction, being met with scowls. Didn’t give a shit about them, though. A hand on Matt’s elbow, leading him.

Matt explained the details of the case as they walked. No real intent behind the walk, no real rush to get anywhere. Easing into the afternoon.

Found it easy to speak to Frank, somehow. Found himself noticing how attentive Frank was when he listened, how he made hums of approval every now and then, never interrupting, only intervening when he had something of substance to say. Noticed the way that Frank gave him every last drop of his attention, as if there were nothing else he’d rather be doing, even if law itself bored him to death. Had to bite back a grin at the way Frank acted like a human shield, stepping in between him and everyone else that was on the sidewalk.

“I’ve been thinking.” Frank said, a few minutes later, once he was satisfied with the details he’d been given.

“Sounds like trouble waiting to happen.” Matt ribbed.

Frank gave him the side-eye. “Some shit turned up. Karen wasn’t wrong about the articles. Bianchi’s everywhere. Christ, I can’t even read the newspaper without seeing that asshole on page two.”

“Not front page?”

“Nah, the Russians are front page, sweetheart.”

“Of course they are.” Matt muttered, the dark irony not lost on him. Reminded himself to tell Frank to keep those little nicknames to himself, though that particular one caused heat to creep up to his cheeks.

“Don’t want this to blow back on you, you hear me? Lay low.” Frank continued, hands deep in his pockets now, eyes ahead.

“Good thing it won’t, then, because NYPD can’t make a move against me without jeopardizing themselves.” Matt countered. Knew he’d been careful – not a single fingerprint that he’d left behind at Flavio Bianchi’s warehouse. His blood, however? That was a different matter. It wouldn’t take long for them to connect the dots between him, and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

“Not them that I’m worried about.” Frank stilled Matt, a hand grasping his forearm. He glanced at both sides of the footpath, before drawing Matt in close, head lowered. “The feds are gonna be all over this. ATF, DEA, shit, they’ll all come crawling. You know where that goes.”

“You really think they care about him going down? They’ll count the bodies, count their blessings, and close the case.” Matt sighed.

“Yeah?” Frank challenged. “Those dirty cops just took a huge hit in their income, Red. Massive cut in the petty cash that Bianchi kept ‘em flushed with. Something tells me that they won’t be too happy with that.”

“They don’t have to be.” Matt pulled Frank forward, implying for them to keep on walking. Tried to make his peace with the fact that Bianchi was now dead. Because of him. He’d wanted to drag the bastard in, have the rest of his life be spent in jail, find some solace within that. But Frank had turned up to the warehouse, and he’d ended up on that chair, and things just didn’t turn out the way he’d wanted them to be.

“Where’d you bury him?” Matt couldn’t help but ask, in a closer proximity to Frank than what should’ve been reasonable in public.

“You know where.”

“Are you serious?”

Matt stopped when Frank remained silent. “There were two of us, that day, Frank.” He hissed, reaching out to grasp Frank’s face, some attempt in getting him to understand. Tilted it upwards. “Whose blood do you think stained that floor?”

“I took care of it.” Frank repeated, drawing each word out slowly, tone indicating that there was no further room for discussion. Shoved Matt’s hand off him, now glowering.

Matt scoffed in disbelief. The gesture was touching – as touching as it could be, considering it did entail of burying bodies and getting rid of all traces – but he didn’t need it. Never had before, didn’t know why he’d start to need it now. “And, what, you call me stubborn?”

“Hey, hey.” Frank interrupted. “Who said I was doing this for you? Maybe I’m selfish, you know, maybe I don’t want my lawyer to have a homicide charge hangin’ over his head.” Tried to make light of the situation. NYPD connecting the mask to Matt Murdock? It’d be a cold day in hell. Wouldn’t let that happen.

“Your lawyer?” Matt raised an eyebrow. “Remind me, Frank, who was it that had a sissy fit about being represented by Nelson & Murdock, all those months ago?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Frank hummed, his hand on the small of Matt’s back as they continued walking. Words washing over him. “What’s that they say about smartasses?”

Matt chuckled, shaking his head. “You know, no one stepped foot into the office after you pled guilty? They’d hear that we represented you, and scramble for the exit.” Smiling faintly at the memory.

Frank rubbed the back of his nape, sheepish. Mouth twitching with humor. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“Oh yeah?”

Frank pulled Matt closer towards him, an arm slung around his waist. “Got a couple of ways in mind, actually.” Voice lowered, just between the two of them. Smirking when he saw the interest flicker on Matt’s features, knew exactly what was on the man’s mind.

“Get your head outta the gutter, Matthew.”

"Can’t make a promise like that and not deliver, Frank. Gives you a bad rep."

The smile reached Frank’s eyes, and he tightened his grip around Matt, couldn’t give less of a shit about the world around them. “How ‘bout Lou’s tonight?”

“You asking me out on a date?” Matt grinned. Revelling in the lightness within his chest, the simplicity within the moment itself. Enjoying the fact that he’d gotten Frank flustered, his cheeks dimpling when Frank took a few seconds to recover from the question.

“Not asking. Telling.” Frank finally rasped, though he had to look away, eyes sparkling. Knew he’d dug his own grave with that one, but hell, couldn’t find it within himself to care. Realized that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind losing when it came to Matt Murdock.

“That makes no – ”

“Shut it.” Frank immediately interrupted. “You talk too much, you know that?”

Matt laughed then, amused by how defensive Frank had suddenly become. “Aww, you’re blushing, aren’t you?” He could practically feel the heat from Frank’s face.

“I'm – ” Frank began, before groaning. “You’re not blind, are ya, Red? Whole thing’s just some master plan to reap all the government benefits, ain't that right?” Only half-joking.

Matt opened his mouth to counter against that, but stopped. Stilled.

The sounds surrounding them had so far been immomentous; nothing worth his attention. Kids squealing with laughter in local parks, espresso grinds being thumped out in nearby cafés, old men arguing about the latest headline in their political newspaper, teenagers gossiping with one another – the usual.

But there was something else now. The familiar clang of steel and aluminium, metal fibres knocking into one another. An object tucked into someone’s waistband. Could hear muscles shifting as a hand reached for the same object.

Matt grabbed Frank’s forearm, stopping him from going any further. “Guy behind us. About 5’8, wearing a few layers. He’s strapped.”

Frank kept his eyes ahead. “Yeah?”

“He’s after me.” Matt could feel the gaze on his back, penetrating. Closed his eyes briefly, knew that this would only end in one of two ways.

Frank didn’t question that, didn’t need to. Already knew that Matt was rarely wrong. Cracked his knuckles as he waited for the figure to approach them, alerted.  

Fluent Spanish assaulted Matt’s ears, and he felt arms reaching out to shove him. He had to resist rolling his eyes at that. Yeah, shove the blind guy. And they said chivalry was dead? Stepped backwards, facing the shorter man. Tensed, wondering whether his cover had been busted. There was no way. Surely not.

“You drop that case, gilipollas. You got no idea who you’re messin’ with.” The man spat, eyes flickering between the two of them. Hadn’t expected the lawyer to have… company. And what company it was – company in the form of a well-built man. Tall, biceps bulging with his arms crossed, several healing bruises on his face, a penetrating gaze, a hood over his beanie. Looked familiar. He let his eyes linger on him.

“You come for my brother, you come all of us.” He continued, though hesitancy now strained his voice. Clenched his jaw, reaching for the gun tucked into his waistband.

Matt found himself almost slumping with relief. About the case. Not about the mask. Right.

Frank’s eyes instantly followed the movement, and he suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at it. Glanced at Matt, who appeared thoroughly disinterested.

It took everything within Frank from reaching out and knocking the bastard out cold, but there were two things going against that. One, they were on a crowded street, which meant there’d be high risk of civilian casualty. Two, he’d have to put his goddamn coffee down.  

Yeah. Sticky situation. One that did him no favors. The man was short, had his hair cropped close to his head, wore a large chain with a cross dangling against his chest. Adorned in a white wifebeater, denim pants, and an obnoxious belt buckle. All in all, one ugly motherfucker.

“Hey, hero. You pull that out, and you’ll be seeing God real soon.” Frank rasped, arms by his side, eyes never leaving the man.

Matt frowned at that. “Don’t take God’s name in vain.” Ignoring the flustered Mexican that was threatening to shoot him. Could be dealt with later.

Frank paused, as if considering it. Shrugged as he faced Matt. “Didn’t.”

“Hey! Shut the fuck up! I’ll kill the both of you, right here, right now. You want that, pinche pendejo?” The man hollered, stepping closer towards Matt.

“You got the wrong guy.” Frank warned, stepping in between them.

Matt stepped forward again, ignoring Frank’s attempt to shield him. Crossed his arms.

“Mind your business.” The man was practically frothing at the mouth now, overcome with irritation. English heavily accented. Took him a minute to gather the words he needed to say, translate them into a language other than his own. “That’s him. That shitbag Perez’s lawyer.” Nodded towards Matt, who had his head tilted in expectation. “Hey, you listening to me? You deaf? You drop the case against my brother, or this ends badly."

People were starting to notice now, paying attention to the commotion that took place. Three men in the middle of the street, blocking the path.

Thing about New York and its five boroughs, though, was that no one stepped into matters that weren’t their own. It was common knowledge that doing so would only lead to their own downfall. They knew to mind their own business, to keep on walking, to keep their eyes ahead. Clutch their handbags closer to their chest, their briefcases closer to their sides.

The man shoved Frank backwards, now raising the gun to Frank’s chest, but Frank remained where he was, unaffected. Only took him a few seconds to toss the coffee cup aside, point the gun downwards, grab the Mexican by his neck, and muscle him to the nearest alleyway, slamming him against the brick wall. Knocked him into a nearby fire hydrant as he did so, for good measure.

Matt sighed, dragging a hand over his face. So much for not causing a scene.

“Guess you’re as dumb as you look.” Frank growled, the gun now in his hand. Other hand holding the man to the wall, not straining underneath his struggling. He glanced at the gun – could it even be called that – now turning it over, looked for a serial number. A small shiny thing, most likely a custom piece. He tutted. “What, you steal this toy off your lady?”

“I’ll cut your throat.” The man snarled. Each word carefully drawn out, heavy with implication, as if he meant every syllable. Reaching for Frank’s throat, now without a weapon, but Frank pinned his other arm to the wall.

“Dare you.” Frank positioned the gun underneath the man’s chin, now, finding the fleshy area underneath a person’s jaw that led to instant death, if he did shoot. Lights out, and it’d only take a finger on the trigger.

The man swallowed roughly, feeling the weight of the gun underneath his chin. Knew it was locked and loaded because he’d been the one to do so. “This got nothing to do with you. You give me the lawyer.”

“You really think you’re in a position to be makin’ demands, asshole?”

“Frank.” Matt interrupted, could hear the man’s heart pounding now. Had since stepped into the alleyway himself, had made sure no one else had followed them. “Let him go.”

“You stay out of this.” Frank spared Matt a glance. Knowing Matt, he'd probably recite a Bible verse to cool down the situation. “And, you – ” He smirked at the asshole he had against the wall. “How ‘bout you tell your brother that he’s knocking on the wrong door, yeah? Or, you want me to do that for you?" Raised an eyebrow. "Shit, I got plenty of time on my hands.”

“Tell him to drop the charges he’s filing against my brother.” The man forced the words out, eyes darting everywhere, now beginning to struggle. To no avail. Both arms pinned to the wall, the man in front of him akin to a tank, impossible to move away from, impossible to shove away. Beginning to ramble in Spanish now, words tumbling over one another, fast and fluent, each syllable exaggerated. Felt the gun against his throat every time he swallowed.

Matt kept up with the Spanish anyway, the words sinking in. Stepped forward, until he was shielding the sight of Frank and the man from any passers-by.

“That’s not happening, Ramos.” Matt replied, swiftly knocking the gun out of Frank’s hands. It clattered to the floor.

Frank narrowed his eyes, reaching for it again, but Matt stilled him.

“You want the charges dropped, you get it done in court. Threatening me isn’t going to get you anywhere. Though, I’m guessing you’re only doing it because you know that your brother’s guilty?”

“Listen carefully, it only ends good for you if you let this go, lawyer. Fuck Perez. Motherfucker deserves it.” Ramos responded, eyes alight with aggravation.

“I disagree.” Matt smirked, leaning against the wall himself. Knew everything there was to know about the Ramos’ brothers. Should’ve known that this was coming. But, damn it, he couldn’t step in, not physically, not if he wanted to keep up appearances.

Ramos reached for him, some attempt at causing harm, but Frank had a hand around his throat before he could even move an inch forward.

“That brother of yours?” Frank prodded. “I’m thinking I’ll pay him a personal visit. Y'know how to make leather? Maybe I’ll cut him, watch him bleed out ‘til he’s all dry. Hang him on your clothesline. Get some sun on him. Strip him into pieces, and then mail those to the judge looking over your shitty little case.” He continued, voice low, fingers digging into Ramos’s neck.

The words ignited something within Ramos, and his gaze landed on the hand around his throat, before he glanced back upwards at Frank. The words sounded… familiar, almost.

And, that’s when he realized. Placed the name to the face. Remembered the headlines in newspapers, the broadcasts on the local televisions. The Punisher. Fear seizing him whole at the realization. He spluttered, trying to shove the hand away from his throat, but the grip remained unyielding, and his panic settled in. “You’re… you’re – ”

“Yeah.” The Punisher hummed. “You come for him, you come for me.” Leaned in closer. “Now, you nod if you got that.”

Slowly, Ramos nodded, a difficult feat with the scarred hand that was wrapped around his neck. Arms dropping by his side. “Shit, shit, shit. Let go of me, man. I got it, I got it. Just… let go. I’ll tell him, yes? This is just… a big misunderstanding.”

Frank paused, as if considering it. Glanced at Matt, who nodded. Finally, he stepped back, letting go. Picked up the gun from the concrete, emptied the magazine, not tearing his gaze away from Ramos. Tossed both parts into the nearest dumpster.

Ramos slumped to the floor, still struggling to catch his breath, no longer paying attention to his surroundings.

“Had fun?” Matt raised an eyebrow as Frank nudged him back towards the sidewalk again. They continued walking, picking up the pace they’d had before the interruption.

“Was, until you got rid of the gun.”

“Yeah, because you were gonna kill him, Frank.”

“Nah, nah. Too messy.”

“When’s that ever stopped you before?”

“Hasn’t. Except, I can’t really go out to get a drink with blood all over me, can I?”

Matt felt the resolve within him slowly fade, the sudden intrusion that’d occurred no longer as formidable. A drink? 

“So, it is a date?” He couldn’t help but smile, poking Frank in the side.

“Don’t hold your breath.” Frank replied, gruff. But Matt’s smile was contagious, and before he knew it, he was grinning himself.

A week later. More grueling paperwork. More long nights he spent at the office, which was the only place he could think, lately. Knew their lease was coming up, and that he’d have to give it up soon, or ask for another contract – but that could be dealt with later.

Matt was exhausted. And when the body was weakened, the mind was, too. Sleep deprivation. Fueled only by coffee and sheer adrenaline, most days.

Which was also why he hadn’t expected Frank to be in his apartment. He’d only realized once he was halfway up his stairs, had heard the familiar heartbeat. One he’d never fail to recognize. Hadn’t been honing his senses, dismissing all the sounds he heard as a dull buzzing. Truth be told, it got tiring, having to crane his ears to catch any potential movement, any conversation from miles away.

Matt unlocked his front door, pushing it open with a shoulder. Walked into the apartment, dropping all of his stuff in a pile. Would pick it up later. Headed straight to the fridge for a beer.

“Hey, Frank.” He called out in greeting, knowing that Frank Castle was sprawled on his couch.

Then, and only then, did he figure out why his mouth was watering. He paused, and it hit him, all at once. The slowly simmered sauce, melted cheese, the zest of the meat tossed on top, hints of oregano, dough that was equal parts chewy and crusty.

“Is that Lombardi’s?” Matt asked, mostly in disbelief.

“Yep.” Frank drawled, sounding slightly smug. He held out his own beer as Matt walked towards him, incredulous. Swatted him away, in midst a chuckle, as Matt leaned over and kissed him to express his gratitude.

Matt raised Frank’s beer to his mouth, swallowed a mouthful. Handed it back, and then loosened his tie. “Do I even ask?”

So much for that speech that Frank had given him, all those months ago, about not being the type of person to have food waiting on the stove for him when he got back from work. Because that was exactly what Frank had done, and he hadn’t even realized it. Matt smirked at the thought.

“Rented that shitty movie you like so much.” Frank continued, making room for Matt as he sat down next to him, immediately slinging an arm around his waist. Instinctively drawing Matt closer towards him, the solid body near his own.

“Casablanca?” Matt grinned, stealing the beer from Frank again. Felt Frank’s lips graze his temple, and relaxed into the touch. Felt himself unwind, for the first time in the day.

“Still don’t get why you like the black-and-whites. Not like you can see ‘em, might as well watch something with color, huh?” Frank replied, a smile ghosting his lips. Didn’t really give a shit about what movie it was that they watched. Or in Matt's case, listened to.

“That, Frank, is something that has to be understood, not explained.” Matt ribbed, making himself comfortable. Knew deep down, somewhere where his feelings came to life, that he could get used to this. More than that. Could grow to love evenings like these, and hell, he happened to like the fact that they happened more often than not, lately.

Frank wasn’t paying attention to the words anymore, though. Eyes on those lips of Matt Murdock’s, how tempting they were. Took the bottle from Matt, rested it on the table. Pressed his mouth against Matt’s – no second thoughts, no more doubts. Fucking craved the touch, was no longer able to deny that.

Matt’s hand was already in Frank’s short-shaved hair, feeling the familiar buzz on his palm, interest sparked by the promise of lips and the body underneath his. Could feel himself hardening slowly, but steadily, without so much as a touch. Other hand on the back of Frank’s neck, fingers tightening around his nape.

Frank’s breath caught at the force he could feel against the back of his neck. Strong fingers. The promise of strength, of that edge between pain and naked lust. A sudden hunger that overrode the teasing, prompting its shift to greed.

Frank took Matt’s hand, brought it to his groin, pressing it against his own bulge. “I brought you something.” Smirk growing wider.

“Good.” Matt’s voice husky, ragged breath against damp skin. Tugging Frank’s pants down, unbuckling his belt. Helped Frank tear his shirt off. Then, unbuttoned his own, until it was just skin against skin. His hand didn’t just grope and squeeze, familiarizing itself with that cock, because he wanted more. Wanted to remind Frank of what it was like to own, to possess. His hand already slick with precum, mouth already against the dip of Frank’s neck, teeth against flesh.

Frank bit back a groan, felt the rough hands upon himself, sweat, heat, tensing lightly when Matt squeezed his shaft, almost painful. An echo, almost, of the other’s motions, mind blank, tuning into the moment, the desire, raw and pure. Anguish that turned into desire, raging through his body, made him bleed just like any other knife, gutting him, until there was no resolve within him left – no restraint.

His own hands now trailing down Matt’s lower abdomen, unbuckling his belt for him, never once pulling away, rather – drawing closer, if that were somehow fucking possible. Dragging Matt’s clothes away from him, shedding him from the layers, all the bullshit, until his palm wrapped around Matt’s own hardening length.

Matt’s strokes matched Frank’s. Like his lust, fierceness, the anger that fueled more lust in return. Believed in the intensity of what was once hatred, transmitted through his teeth and lips, assaulting skin and flesh, could taste sweat and blood, and hell, there was nothing that was better. Nothing in his mind but the need and greed to feel a man’s flesh, to taste his lust. This man’s. Couldn’t get enough of the body he was crushed against, the strength that matched his own.

Fixated and focused, on smell and taste and sensations, until he was able to recognize what reaction caused what, and how he could get Frank to groan or inhale sharply. Felt his cock twitch when he squeezed his balls in just that certain way, lips still landing chaste kisses on Frank’s hot skin. Goddamn addicting, really, the sounds that Frank would try to repress, and the way he’d tense underneath Matt’s touch.

Frank felt the tension build, simmer within him. Body burning, melting, beginning to get there, friction, heat. Felt the way Matt’s fingers dug into his skin, the calloused hand on his cock, the way Matt was pumping his shaft, a grip entirely possessive, unyielding, slick with pre-come and spit. The lips against his own, the kiss one that was full of greed, searching for answers neither of them could provide.

Couldn’t find support, nor leverage. Felt his body wanting to slump, then tense, turning rigid, before trembling underneath the familiar touch, now. Entirely at Matt’s mercy, and maybe it was that fact alone that brought him to the edge, because his thick spurts coated Matt’s hand, and it was all he could do to keep fucking breathing. Heaven and back, or whatever the goddamn saying was. Meeting Matt’s kisses lazily now, no real intent behind them, the sated satisfaction crawling up to him.

The way that Frank handled Matt bordered on pain, too much force with just enough sweat between the rough skin and his cock, and when that border to pain was crossed – he could feel something break, something give in, and a moment of fear, of being without defenses. Vulnerability that blanketed him, darkness that enveloped him, waves of bliss that crashed through him. And, shit, pain shouldn’t have done it, but Matt came. Couldn’t seem to breathe enough air into his lungs, breathing hard, feeling sweat run down his neck, pain that had become heat and glowing.

Matt lowered his head, until it was against Frank’s chest, something entirely unintentional. Knew Frank was wiping them both down, and maybe he’d find the words to thank him for that later, but there was nothing he could think of, now, senses dulled in the best way possible.

Cherished it. Cherished those few seconds, seconds where no transgressions held him back. He felt Frank’s arms then wrap around him, bringing him closer to his chest, biceps tightening as if he were too precious to let go. And, Matt rested his cheek against the warm skin, fingertips mindlessly tracing scars on Frank’s abdomen. Healing stitches, most of which he’d sutured himself. Allowing himself to be taken care of.

Frank let his lips rest on Matt’s temple. Closing his eyes briefly. Silent gratitude. Matt, in his arms, felt like sunlight through a window. And, he stood in it, warmed.

“I’ve come to a conclusion.” Matt began, barely able to string the words together.

“Yeah?” Frank murmured, eyes still closed.

“I think you’re alright. Might even like you.” 

Frank chuckled at that, lowering his head, the laughter reaching his eyes. Glancing downwards at the man in his arms, as if he couldn’t believe what it was that he was hearing. Sinking within the feeling, some semblance of rapture washing over him, something that had once been entirely unfamiliar. A feeling he was still growing accustomed to. Wanted it to last, as fucked-up as it was.

“You know what, Red?" Frank tilted Matt's face upwards. "I don’t think you’re all that bad either."

And, that smile? That smile of Matt Murdock’s?

For the first time in a long time, it felt like coming home.

FIN

“Tell me how wrong it is: I’ve made a home of your mouth. I shiver for this. I asked for this. Take out your sharp, as if it were the good silverware. The night stretched thin, but I never forced you to stay. We were believers once, to something that took up residence below the ribs. I thought I knew my survivor’s guilt, the day we ran out of hot water.
How we were always running out of things, like what to say, and time, and yellow light.”

— Ana Carrizo, “Survivor’s Guilt”