Work Text:
Matt hated fear above all other things.
He hated the feel of it. He hated the way it made his actions jaunty. He hated the way it made his chest ache. He hated the way it forced him to hesitate, to wait, to risk one more person’s life.
He didn't trust his body anymore. He didn't trust his own mind.
He was beating out his fear on the streets, earning more bruises and broken bones than ever before.
Matt barely knew who he was. When he woke in the confines of his former orphanage, he didn't even recognize his name; not as Father Lanton said it to him over and over.
When he ran out, he still hadn’t remembered his last one.
So he was in the streets dressed in black, all traces of his former self boiling down to a monosyllabic identifier -- one he wasn’t sure he identified with anymore. People called him the Devil. It felt more right than the former.
Most of his actions felt robotic, instinctive. Habits drawn from years of brutal training. He wielded those habits like a blade, not sure where they came from but only knowing he needed them more than he needed air or water. He needed pain. He needed to cause pain.
Minutes blurred to hours and hours blurred to days.
Matt hadn’t killed anyone.
He’d hurt them, put them at the brink of death, but he never finished the job. He wasn’t sure why.
As he approached the ringleader of the gang he’d just taken out, he decided that maybe he ought to try.
Something snapped, then.
His body was broken, but it was also honed for death. Honed to kill. He knew this, now.
The ringleader seemed to sense it. “Wait, wait, wait,” he said, his voice coming to Matt’s ears in wavering gasps; whisps of effort that were promptly forgotten.
The pleas kept coming, but Matt descended upon him. Grabbed his head in his hands. Tears soaked his shirt.
Matt went to give it a sharp twist.
Bang!
It hit him in the shoulder and threw him backwards.
Matt fell to the floor hard, head banging against the concrete enough to fry his senses for a moment.
As the world swam around him in a pool of red, Matt remembered his last name. Murdock. Matthew Murdock.
He groaned as he attempted to stumble to his feet. A bullet to the shoulder was better than a bullet to the chest, but this one seemed well-placed, expertly guided to do minimum damage.
Someone was watching out for him.
Matt growled until he was finally standing, shook his head until his surroundings gained angles, and searched for his target.
The ringleader was on the floor bleeding.
The man who put the bullet in him and Matt jumped down.
Matt recognized him. A man from his past.
Frank Castle glanced around, gun held relaxed yet capably in his hands.
Matt was panting, head bowed, hands in fists by his side.
“Hey, Red,” he said. It was slow, careful. Spoken to be noticed, spoken to avoid letting it pass Matt’s ears in whisps.
A small whine escaped his throat. It came unbidden. He wasn’t sure why it came, what it was addressing. He shook his head again. Everything was wrong. He was wrong, and Frank was wrong, but he didn't know why.
“Red,” Frank said again. “You’re alright. Understand me? You’re alright.” He moved forward. Three steps. Calm, careful. Loud enough to avoid prowling.
“I’m…” he began, but he didn't know where he was going. He wasn’t sure why he’d bothered to speak at all. “I’m Matt,” he said, a bit more resolutely.
“Okay. Matt.” He took one more step. “You were hurt, Matt. Do you remember?”
Pain. Matt was familiar with pain. Pain laced his memories, the glimpses into his past. The glimpses into his life as the Devil.
Matt remained still, looking downward, hands still in fists.
“I was worried ‘bout you, R-- Matt. Didn't think you’d made it.”
Made it.
The building. The fall.
He’d tried to die. He’d been trying not to make it.
He exhaled. It came out a quick sob. His fingers dug deeper into his palms. “I didn't…”
“You don’t kill people, Matt. Do you remember that?” Another step. This one was slower. Matt didn't like it.
He retreated one step.
Frank stopped moving. “We fought about that. Feels like a long time ago. You never kill people, Matt. I used to.”
Matt grew in his brows. That wasn’t right. “Used to?” he parroted.
“Not since I thought you died.”
Died. Frank thought he died.
Matt or Red? Both?
Frank moved forward again. “People care ‘bout you, Matt. They think you’re still gone.”
Wasn’t he?
Another memory surfaced, an image of Matt on a building, Frank covering him on one over. He’d lost someone that day. He’d lost the same person in the Fall. Elektra.
“Gone,” he said.
“You aren’t, Red. Neither am I.” Two steps.
Matt lifted his head. “I can’t-- too much is lost, I can’t--” Another sob escaped his throat, and suddenly Frank was there, arms wrapping around Matt’s form, Matt’s head against his shoulder as he cried, fingers curling into the fabric of Frank’s shirt.
“We’ll get you back, Red,” he said, pulling him tighter. “We’ll get you back.”
But Frank was still wrong, and Matt couldn’t tell if it was good or bad or neither because Matt couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
“But I don’t--” he began, before his sob erupted in a hiccup.
Frank brought a hand to Matt’s hair and planted a soft kiss to Matt’s forehead.
He dissolved beneath the touch.
Matt wasn’t sure where he was.
He knew Frank brought him here, knew that it smelled and tasted empty. Dusty. People walked in and out over the months, but no one stayed.
It was familiar.
He brought his knees to his chest as he sat at the furthest end of the couch. A billboard was blasting the sounds of light, and he was reminded of neon, of telling people to turn it off.
It was his. The place was his.
He was Matthew Murdock, and this was his apartment.
Frank was leading someone up the stairs.
Another small whine escaped him, and he tucked his face against his knees. This wasn’t right. He was vulnerable. He needed pain, and he needed to cause pain, but Frank was good and stopped him and helped him and took care of his injuries and
The door opened.
The other person was mad, anxious. Their heart was all over. They didn't trust Frank. Matt vaguely remembered feeling the same once.
“Why are you taking me to Matt’s apartment? You think I haven’t been here? You think I haven’t-- haven’t checked on it? I should call someone, y’know. Tell them you’re here and--” The man stopped.
Matt’s heart fluttered. Fear. He hated fear. He didn't know why he was afraid.
“Matt?”
Foggy.
Foggy Nelson.
“Avocados at law!”
The memory was ridiculous; its reared head earning a snarl from Matt. The pleasantness was unwelcome, the laughter echoing in his ears sounding foreign.
“Easy with him,” Frank was saying softly. He knew Matt would hear him. “He’s still… figurin’ everything out.”
“What do you-- what does that mean? What’s wrong? I…” Foggy shook his head. His eyes were watering. Matt didn't like that.
“He almost killed someone. He’s traumatized -- forgot a lot of his past. The building did a number on him. I’ve seen this before. Happens to a few veterans. He needs time. Someone willin’ to give it to him.”
Frank sounded caring, sounded familiar, the deep tonals of his voice relaxing him.
He could do this.
He wasn’t afraid. “Foggy?” he said.
There was a brief silence.
Matt winced and drew himself in further. Was he wrong?
“Yeah, buddy. It’s me. I’m here.” Foggy turned briefly to Frank, who was staring at his shoes. He was nervous. Something was wrong. “How are you feeling?”
Lost. Confused. “Scared,” he said. It was barely a whisper. He wasn’t sure it passed his lips.
Something inside Foggy seemed to shift, and he immediately ran to Matt’s side, immediately knelt in front of him and grabbed his hands and comforted him.
Frank left a few moments later.
Matt was staying at Foggy’s place.
Karen came and went pretty regularly, usually bringing Matt a cup of coffee. They were working to jog his memory. Every time Karen got frustrated, she left. Matt was pretty sure she only left because she didn't want to trigger him.
Nice in theory, but it always frustrated him because he felt like he was the one to blame.
Especially when it came to her feelings for him.
He remembered listening to her heartbeat at the pool table, remembering the heat that spread when he touched her. He didn't remember feeling the same.
“Don’t worry,” said Foggy, touching his arm. That was something they focused a lot on -- touch. Matt liked to be tactile. It was grounding. He’d grown so used to fists and kicks that he forgot about everything else, forget that there were touches that didn't bring pain. “She understands. It’s just hard for her.”
Matt frowned. “But that’s the problem. She can’t understand. She doesn’t know what I…” He shook his head. “Neither of you can understand.”
Only Frank did.
In retrospect, Matt knew that Frank was in pain, could finally see where all the wrongness he’d detected was coming from. Frank wasn’t killing anymore. He was barely active as the Punisher anymore, and Matt knew it was because of him.
“Then help us understand,” said Foggy. He squeezed Matt’s hand.
“Can I… can I go out for a bit? Get a breath of fresh air?”
He should feel bad. He remembered the last time he hid something from Foggy, remembered the hurt, the tears, the anger, the betrayal.
“Yeah.” Foggy’s breath hitched. “Be careful, okay? Please?”
Matt nodded. “I will be. I promise.”
He knew Frank’s smell, knew how sounds echoed off the curves and edges of his body. He knew his heartbeat, knew his footsteps.
He also knew Frank could’ve hidden from him if he really wanted to.
He knocked on the door.
Frank’s heartbeat didn't display any surprise. Not even after he opened it to reveal Matt dressed as he did before, back when he was taking cases, defending people like Frank in court.
Foggy was hopeful that Matt could start doing some easier work by next week.
“Red,” said Frank.
Matt gave a half smile and tilted his head. Frank heart shifted at that. “Can I, uh--”
Frank opened the doorway.
As soon as Matt was through, he shut the door. “How’re you feelin’?” he asked.
Matt leaned his cane against the wall. The room smelled of gunpowder and dog fur. “You left,” he said.
Frank swallowed. “Yeah.”
Matt drank in the silence, letting air settle around him. He took off his glasses and folded them into the pocket of his jacket. “Why?”
Frank sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He was being less careful now, but it was thoughtless. The nervousness from before was back.
“I know you’re in pain,” Matt said. “You’ve been hurting, and I know for you that hurt doesn’t leave easily.”
Frank looked off to the side, took a deep breath, then turned back to Matt. “Yeah,” he said again, the gravel lower this time, hesitant.
Matt’s own heart was racing. “Can I help you? Can I… is there a way I can help?”
Frank studied him. Sighed. “Red, I… I don’t know. It helps that you’re alive. But…” He shook his head, mouth twitching upward in a self-deprecating smile, “but I’m about as broken as you are. Neither of us can be whole again.”
Matt set his jaw. Took a step forward. “That’s not what I asked. I asked if I can help.”
Frank’s heart jumped. He took a step forward. Matt did the same.
They were standing mere inches apart. Matt could feel Frank’s warm breath against his face, leaking beneath his skin.
He moved first, lifting a hand to Frank’s jaw, tracing his fingers along its edges. He moved the other to hook around Frank’s waist, drawing him in closer. Frank obliged, moving forward a half second and, after a moment, putting a hand to Matt’s face, drawing a thumb along his cheekbone.
They moved together, pushed into each other, pressed their lips against each other. Frank was gentle, delicate as though if he moved too fast, Matt would run off scared.
Matt didn't blame him. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if they tried to move fast.
Instead, they molded together for only a few seconds before coming apart.
Matt hovered there, bowing his head toward Frank’s chest. “Maybe we can help each other.”
Frank tipped a hand under Matt’s chin and lifted his head only to press his forehead against his. “We can try.”