Chapter Text
It's been a brutal summer, thick with humidity that settles on the skin like a second layer. The temperature has soared past one-hundred and ten degrees more times than Frank can count. The sun rises before five, and the light lingers long past seven in the evening, stretching the heat into every corner of the day.
In short, it's fucking hell.
And still, Red is pressed against him, clinging like he belongs there. Like a fucking octopus or something, a mess of warm limbs and bare skin, his breath soft against Frank's throat. Usually, Frank would be irritated by the stickiness, by the way their bodies trap the heat between them, even when they're just lying in bed. They aren't even moving, but the sweat pools between them, slick and slow.
But he doesn't complain.
Not when Red lets out a pleased little sigh as Frank's fingers slide into the damp curls at the nape of his neck, stroking gently, without any real thought behind the motion. The air conditioner hums nearby, a small mercy. Frank thinks, just for a second, about giving him shit for needing it, for the expensive sheets and fancy soaps and high-maintenance comforts.
But he stays quiet.
He's starting to understand that these aren't indulgences, not really. They're ways to survive a world that screams too loud and touches too sharp. Frank doesn't need silk sheets. He doesn't need designer shampoo or eucalyptus-scented body wash. But he's not about to push any of it away. Not when Red shifts against him, warm and half-hard, and presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw.
Frank sets the book aside and reaches up to cradle Red's face, pulling him in without a word. The kiss starts soft, easy, but it deepens quickly. Red's tongue finds his like it always does, without hesitation, and Frank groans low in his throat as he lets him in.
It's not a kiss meant to lead to sex. But it might. Red's tongue finds his with practiced ease, unapologetic, direct. Frank likes that about him—how Red never leaves him guessing. At least, not when it comes to touch.
That's the language they speak best.
They've been trying to move beyond it lately, taking small steps into more dangerous territory. Vulnerability. Trust. Red still keeps parts of himself locked away, and Frank doesn't push—he has his own scars, his own quiet corners he's not ready to show.
But they're trying. That has to count for something.
Words don't come easy for either of them. They're both shit at it—talking, explaining, opening up. They've gotten good at pretending that doesn't matter, with each other and with everyone else. Maybe one day, they'll get better. But when Red kisses him like this—hungry, wet, purposeful—there's nothing left to figure out.
"What were you reading?" Red murmurs as the kiss breaks. His hand moves up Frank's side, fingers slipping under the fabric of his t-shirt, finding bare skin.
Frank shivers at the contact, goosebumps prickling against his skin despite the heat. It's the strangest feeling, to crave Red's touch even in the thick of summer. "Curtis' book. That self-help shit he sent. Said it would help me make sense of things."
Red chuckles, low and soft and breathless against his ear, and Frank feels the words more than hears them. "You think it will?"
"Nah. But he seems to think it'll do something. Might as well humor him."
"If you ask me, it's not worth the effort. But I know the feeling. Foggy's been pushing some of the same stuff on me lately."
"Yeah?"
Red sighs, shrugging as he props his chin on Frank's chest and peers down at him with sightless eyes. Even now, those unfocused irises are still enough to take Frank's breath away.
"Yeah." Red smiles as he shifts, settling his full weight in Frank's lap like he owns the place. Frank's hands move on instinct, gripping his hips, thumbs brushing along bare, overheated skin. "You still leaving for that thing in Philly today?"
"Tomorrow morning," Frank says. "Should be back in a week or so."
Red hums. "I know you don't need me to say it, but—"
"Try to keep the body count low. Yeah, yeah." Frank sighs, catching the shit-eating grin on Red's face. "Jesus, Red. What the hell are you doing? If you keep that up, what leg do I have to stand on?"
"You've still got the moral high ground," Red answers, lifting one hand to point at himself. The shit-eating grin on his face is entirely too damn charming for Frank to bother pretending to be annoyed.
"That so?"
Red nods and, just to make his point clearer, rolls his hips deliberately. "We've got time until morning. Do you want to sleep, Frank?"
The look in his eyes makes the answer obvious. Frank doesn't even try to fight it. He pulls Red in closer, and any words between them melt into the growing heat of their bodies, into the low sounds of breath and want, into the rhythm that only they know.
By the time Frank is ready to leave, Matt is still half-asleep, sprawled on his stomach. The thin sheet barely covers him, draped loosely over his lower back and doing nothing to hide the rest of his body.
Leaving feels harder now. It keeps getting harder. Frank leans down and kisses the top of his head, slow and careful. He tells himself it's okay to do this. Red is too groggy to notice, too deep in sleep to remember.
But Frank will remember. He'll carry this moment with him like a brand on his memory.
*
The mission ends unfinished. The cartel is still out there, alive and running poison into Philadelphia and everywhere nearby, because Karen called. She called and said things went south. Said Red got hurt.
"It's bad," she whispered through the phone, voice shaking. Frank might have had it in him to feel sorry for how broken she sounded, but the moment she said Matt was in a medically induced coma due to brain injury, his world narrowed to a single point of focus.
One part of him wanted to demand more details, press her for every scrap of information. The other part—the one that always moves first, the soldier in him—was already packing, already turning back toward Hell's Kitchen before Karen could ask him to come.
She didn't need to ask.
Of course he would go back. The question was never if, only when.
Maybe at the start of it all, Frank would have finished his mission first. Put a bullet through every last bastard's head and then thought about checking in on Red. Just to see how he was doing.
But today, his instincts are louder than logic. Fuck the cartel. Fuck the meth and coke hitting the streets. None of it matters, not when Red is in a hospital bed, unconscious and hurt.
Because this is his second chance.
It doesn't look like what he once imagined. There's no white picket fence, no kids running around, no wife waiting at the door. Not the soft version with Sunday lunches and quiet park strolls. Although sometimes, maybe, they manage a glimpse of that.
No. His second chance came soaked in blood, shaped by anger and violence, born from the kind of sex that leaves bruises and momentarily quiets the screaming in his head. It's an anchor when the darkness starts pulling him under again. He doesn't name it. Neither of them does, and maybe, they never will. But Frank knows it's real.
And the idea of losing it—of losing Matt, after everything—rips open a part of him he thought had long since gone numb.
He remembers that pain now. The grief, the sorrow. Not because he ever forgot, but because for a while, it had stopped being the thing that defined him.
And now, it threatens to again.
His vision narrows as he parks and leaves the van, and he tries to calm his mind. Focus on the facts, he tells himself. Take deep breaths. Count to ten. Find his calm. He's a soldier. He's used to this. He's got a fucking doctorate in it. But, fuck, if it isn't hard not to expect the worse as soon as he finds Karen and Nelson.
Karen's eyes are bloodshot, her mascara smeared over her cheeks, like she's been crying. Her hair is up, held in a messy bun, but pieces of it are falling around her face in uneven chunks, as if she hasn't taken the time to brush it since Red got hurt.
Nelson is beside her, looking like he's aged about a hundred years since Frank last saw him, a hand on her back. The worry in his eyes is painfully obvious. He glances up and makes eye contact with Frank as he walks down the hallway of the ICU, but his expression doesn't change. There's no judgment or suspicion or even mild surprise in his gaze, not like before.
His relationship with Red isn't a secret to either of them, even if Frank knows Nelson doesn't fully approve of him. Still, Nelson understands now that, in some strange way, he and Red found balance in each other.
Nelson doesn't look at Frank like he's corrupting his best friend anymore, even if he still jumps every time he walks in on Frank half-naked in Red's apartment. It's fucking hilarious, and Frank never gets tired of busting his balls over it.
When their eyes meet again, Nelson looks at him with a mix of sympathy and a whole lot of pain. If it were anyone else standing there as Red's... romantic partner, Frank's pretty sure Nelson would get up and offer a hug. But he doesn't, and Frank can't tell if that disappoints him or comes as a relief.
The hug does come, though. It comes from Karen's slender arms as she walks up to him without hesitation, as if pulled toward Frank by gravity itself. She's trembling, clearly seeking comfort in his presence.
"What happened?" Frank asks, his voice low, buried in Karen's blond hair. Straight to the point. It sounds cold, maybe, but there's no way in hell he has the patience for small talk.
"The case we were working on. The ex-accountant from the Chinese mafia. He was about to expose a trafficking ring forcing women into labor in underground factories. I think Matt mentioned it to you?" Foggy answers, his voice hoarse and tired, like someone who's been up all night chain-smoking.
Frank nods. "Briefly. Said something about confidentiality."
"Yeah, well. He was the only one who could put Lau on the stand. Prove he's not just some friendly, charitable man, but a monster. He runs guns, coke, and slave labor." Nelson pauses. There's a crack in his voice now. "Sniper shot. I don't know where from, I don't know who. It all happened fast. Matt pushed me out of the way before I even saw it coming. Next thing I know, there's a fucking hole in his skull and blood's spraying everywhere."
Foggy's eyes well up, and Frank has to look away. It's too much.
"The bullet hit his temporal lobe. There was swelling, internal bleeding, and a portion of his hippocampus was destroyed," Karen adds quietly. When she steps back, tears streak her face too. "Matt probably won't remember much. The doctors aren't sure how far the memory loss goes."
She explains that, along with memory issues, Red will likely face emotional instability, speech and communication problems, and possible dissociation. No one says it out loud, but the question lingers in the room like smoke.
Will Matt remember he's Daredevil?
Silence falls over the three of them. Frank loses all sense of time. Hours could have passed. Days, maybe. He doesn't know. Eventually, Nelson convinces Karen to go home and rest. He offers to drive her, but she refuses, promising to return in a few hours.
Even now, Karen's tough as hell. Maybe tougher than Frank and Nelson, who sit there, drowning in misery and going over endless what-ifs. Each one darker than the last.
"I know what you're thinking," Nelson says finally, breaking the silence. He's holding a coffee cup, probably cold as ice by now.
"Go on, Sherlock. Entertain me," Frank mutters, eyes fixed on the sterile white wall in front of him.
"Don't go after them, Frank," Nelson says. There's a plea in his voice Frank can't ignore. "It'll only make Matt feel worse. If he remembers."
"He'll remember," Frank says, like it's law. "He's too fucking stubborn not to."
"That doesn't mean this is the answer. If he finds out you went on a killing spree because of what happened to him, it'll eat him alive."
"What do you want me to do, huh? Sit on my hands? Pretend this was just some random goddamn accident? He didn't 'get unlucky.' He was hunted. The three of you were. And that son of a bitch that pulled the trigger deserves a bullet in his throat."
The rage comes back hard. Sharp and fast, like it's been living in his bones this whole time, just waiting for a reason to explode. His chest tightens, heart pounding, blood singing with the old fire.
Rage is clean. Rage makes sense.
"I'm gonna find the bastard that pulled that trigger. I don't care how far I have to go. I'll drag him out of whatever hole he's hiding in and rip him apart piece by piece." Frank's voice drops to something cold and final. "He'll wish he never got out of bed that day. He'll wish he'd stayed home watching goddamn reality TV, because soon, he won't be able to watch shit ever again."
"Frank, this isn't your fight," Nelson snaps. The mask of calm finally cracks. "Matt's in that bed because of me. And I'm the one who's going to take down Lau! The right way. In court."
Before Frank can bite back with something cruel, the ICU doors open with a hiss. A doctor steps out, clipboard in hand, face carved out of stone.
"Are you family of Mr. Matthew Murdock?"
"Yes." Nelson answers. "I'm his friend and he's... his partner. Franklin Nelson and Pete Castiglione. How is he? What's his condition?"
The doctor explains. The operation was a success. Matt is breathing on his own now and no longer on life support. They brought him out of his coma and, although it might take days to know for sure, his vitals look stable.
But.
"As we previously said, there is a chance that the swelling and brain trauma caused permanent damage. Memory loss, communication issues. Possibly emotional instability."
Nelson sucks in a deep breath, clearly shaken.
The doctor goes on, explaining the long list of things Matt may face as he recovers from brain surgery, as his brain begins healing. They aren't sure how severe his memory issues will be yet. But if they exist, he might experience problems remembering names and places, understanding new information. He may lose specific memories, or just struggle with general recall. There's no telling for sure until he wakes up.
"If he doesn't remember something or someone, don't try to force him," she explains. "Re-experiencing an event from the past or feeling confused about time might trigger his emotional response, and it's important to keep his anxiety low to minimize his blood pressure."
"Can we see him?" Frank asks.
"Five minutes each. No more. We're still monitoring his brain activity."
Nelson and Frank don't argue. When it's his turn to walk through the door, Frank hesitates, taking a breath to try to settle himself. It doesn't help much. The room is dimly lit, and Matt looks paler than the sheets under him. They shaved his head around the bandages and he looks small and thin without his hair to fill out the pillow around his face.
He looks breakable.
The machines beep steadily. Frank moves to stand by the bed, trying to focus on that—the sound of his breathing, his heart beating. Not the fucking tubes in his mouth and the bandages covering part of his head, not the scars, or the dark bruise that spreads along the right side of his face like a cloud of smoke.
It's okay, he tells himself. Frank's seen Red bleed a thousand times before. He's been to Hell's Kitchen when Red's been on his knees, on all fours, barely conscious and coughing up his own blood. This isn't new, but Frank feels the ache in his chest all the same, the old pain that feels like someone reached into him and ripped out his heart.
"Don't die on me, Red."
He says the words and immediately wants to kick his own ass. He can hear the tremor in his voice and hates himself for it. Red's breathing. He's going to be just fucking fine.
The first night passes.
And then another.
On the fifth night, Red opens his eyes.
They moved him out of the ICU and into a regular room. And if Frank is practically living there, sitting in the same goddamn chair with a cup of cold coffee that he doesn't drink, at least no one's had the balls to say anything.
Nelson and Karen are both there when Red finally wakes up. The moment his eyelids twitch, it's like the oxygen gets yanked straight out of the room. Frank doesn't even notice he's holding his breath until Matt's eyes start fluttering, unfocused and lost, and his face tightens. Not in pain, exactly—more like he's being pulled through something thick and disorienting.
"Matt?" Karen takes a careful step forward, voice quiet like she's afraid she'll spook him.
"Karen?" Matt mumbles, barely getting the name out before he's hit with a wave of nausea.
Nelson moves fast, snatching the trash bin and shoving it in front of him just in time for Red to vomit. There's barely anything in his stomach, just bile and spit, but Frank still grimaces as he watches, fists clenched on his knees.
"I'm sorry,” Matt mutters when the retching stops. "That perfume you're wearing is unbearable."
Karen looks like she's been slapped. Her face twists through guilt, confusion, and something like heartbreak. She takes a few steps back like distance will help, but Red's senses don't give a shit about space.
"How you feeling, buddy?" Nelson tries to change the subject and keep his voice steady as he moves in closer.
"Like shit." Matt answers without hesitation. He tilts his head again, eyes darting toward a part of the room he doesn't quite recognize. "Is there someone else here?"
"Hey, Red." Frank finally finds his voice, and it comes out painfully soft. He hates himself for it.
Matt's head turns, sharp and searching, but his face is blank. Not neutral—lost. "Who's this?"
"It's… uh… Frank." He answers awkwardly.
Matt squints. His nose wrinkles like the name's supposed to mean something. But nothing clicks. The confusion curdles into something darker—frustration, anger, fear.
"Frank who?" he snaps. "There's gotta be at least a thousand goddamn Franks in this city. You wanna be a little more specific before I start assuming the worst?"
Frank doesn't answer. He watches it happen—the moment the puzzle pieces start falling into place in Matt's head, out of order and soaked in panic. It's not recognition. It's instinct.
"Frank Castle?" Red's voice cracks, part disbelief, part dread. "The Punisher?"
Then the horror hits him full force.
"What the hell is he doing here? Foggy, have you lost your goddamn mind? Did you forget this lunatic left half the city bleeding in alleys? He strung people up by their tendons in meat hooks and called it justice!"
Frank doesn't flinch. Not once. He just sits there and takes it, because Red has every right to scream. Every right to panic.
He doesn't remember.
It hits Frank hard and fast—an oncoming truck that leaves nothing in its wake.
He doesn't fucking remember.
"Matt," Foggy cuts in. He sounds pained, on the edge of tears. "You're going to want to calm down. The doctors said—"
"No." Matt's face is twisted into something that could have been rage or grief if not for the fear in his eyes, wide and unseeing. His hands shake as he tries to rip the wires and IVs out of his arm, but Nelson rushes over and stops him.
"You can't do that, buddy. Please. Your brain—"
Matt jerks out of his grasp, desperate now. "What happened, Foggy? Where's Elektra and Stick? Why am I here? Why can't I see!?Why is everything so fucking loud and—and—"
Red starts crying. He's full on sobbing, hyperventilating as he tries to make sense of his body and his world, and Frank has to look away. His hands ball into tight fists as he waits, praying the pain of his nails cutting into his palm will keep him calm.
Because the doctor is right. They can't tell Red. Not now. Not when he's still half out of his head. The shock could be enough to push his heart into arrhythmia.
"I'll leave. Okay, Red?" Frank says when his throat feels clear again. His voice doesn't even crack, which surprises the shit out of him. He stands and walks out, taking the sound of Red's crying and Karen's sobs and Nelson's words of reassurance with him.
It only really sinks in now, like a goddamn punch to the gut.
Frank had been so fucking worried about whether Red would remember Daredevil. The mask, the mission, the late-night beatdowns, the Catholic guilt that clings to him like a second skin. That guilt that sometimes needs Frank to fuck some clarity into him or drag him down into the same goddamn pit. Because Frank's no saint either, and they both know it.
But of course Red forgot Frank. Forgot how they went from trying to kill each other to watching each other's backs to something else entirely. The gaps in Red's memory are a fucking mess. No logic, no mercy.
He remembers being trained by that blind bastard. He remembers the woman who died in his arms. But he doesn't remember kissing Frank like it was the end of the world. Doesn't remember saying Frank was the only person who made him feel like he could breathe, like he didn't have to lie or hold anything back. Not one fucking piece of himself.
The only thing he remembers about Frank is the violence. The blood. The monster Frank can be when he's cornered, when someone crosses a line. The rage that comes from having everything ripped away and knowing there's nothing left to lose. He remembers the Punisher. Not the man.
And once again, something's been stolen from Frank. Still there, maybe, but just out of reach, like a cruel fucking joke.
"He's confused," Karen tells him a few days later over coffee. She looks tired. Her voice is soft like she's scared of saying it too loud. "He remembers a lot, but it's all scrambled. Sometimes what he remembers isn't even real."
Frank nods, staring into his coffee like it's going to tell him what the fuck to do. His reflection looks like shit. Old, worn the hell out. Too fucking tired for this kind of pain.
"He doesn't remember the Devil," she says, fiddling with her cup. "But he remembered Elektra was gone. He didn't seem sad, just… blank. He knows Fisk is dangerous, but it's like he doesn't know how to feel about it. It's—"
"Fucked up," Frank cuts in.
"Yeah. Yesterday," she says, her voice shaking, "a kid screamed in the hospital hallway. And Matt just lost it. Started screaming for his dad. When it passed, he told me he remembered the day he was murdered."
"Jesus Christ," Frank mutters, dragging his hand down his face, exhausted and angry and useless all at once. Silence hangs heavy between them until he finishes the bitter coffee and looks up.
"I think I should step back for a while. Give Red space to figure his shit out. If I tell him about us now, it's just going to fuck him up more. He's already pissed. It'll push him over the edge."
"Frank, come on," Karen says, her voice pleading. "Matt needs us. He needs you."
"I know," Frank says, low and bitter. But deep down, some ugly part of him whispers maybe Red forgot because he didn't matter that much in the first place. God. He's turning into a fucking soap opera. "But he doesn't want me there. And right now, that's all there is to it. I'll keep my distance. For his own good."
When she opens her mouth to argue, he stands, putting his empty cup in the trash. "You call if you need anything. If he needs anything. Anything happens, anything at all, you call me."
She promises. Then, to his surprise, she leans in and kisses his cheek, pressing her palm against it for a few seconds before pulling back.
"Matt doesn't know what he's missing." She says. "But I'm sure he'll figure it out soon enough. You deserve better than this. So does he."
Frank pretends to believe. A part of him still clings to the idea that he might actually deserve something good, but he's not sure of anything anymore.
His misery ends at Red's apartment.
He didn't come here to wallow, though he lets himself sink a little anyway. Hell, there's no one here to watch. No one who'll hold it against him. So he sits on the couch. The same goddamn couch where they fucked to forget, or to celebrate, or just because they needed each other. The couch that's soaked up blood and sweat and quiet afternoons with limbs tangled together like it was the most normal thing in the world. He stares at the ceiling and tries not to think.
When Frank first started coming here, most of the lights were out. Burned bulbs, busted lamps. Red didn't need them. But they started getting replaced. Slowly. Quietly. Frank didn't ask for it, never asked why. He never had the balls to. He never questioned why there were working lights now. Why there was a lamp next to the bed. Why Red started buying books that weren't in Braille and casually leaving them on a new shelf that hadn't existed in that living room at the start of everything.
None of it was ever said out loud, but Frank noticed. Just like Matt must've noticed how Frank stopped going for the kill. How he started shooting to slow down instead, just like he noticed how Frank's shit started showing up in places that used to be empty. A drawer or two in the bedroom. A second toothbrush. A goddamn coffee grinder. A fucking chest with Punisher gear tucked in the corner like it belonged there.
Now, Frank's packing it all up, one by one. Tossing it in the van like it's nothing. Like it never meant a damn thing. He does it with the same cold efficiency he used when he was clearing out dealers in alleyways. That was before Red.
He turns on the air purifier, sprays the whole place with scent killer. Hopes it's enough to wipe away every trace of him. If Red was at full strength, it wouldn't do shit. But now? Red's all scrambled. Confused. His senses are shot to hell. No way he caught Frank's scent; no way he could hear the weight in Frank's chest, even if Frank knows the bastard could once track his heartbeat from a rooftop across the goddamn city.
Frank doesn't know why that thought pisses him off so much. Why it burns like some twisted emotion he doesn't want to name. He blames the shitty past few days. The exhaustion.
Going back to Philly sounds good. Putting a bullet in some piece of shit and calling it a day sounds even better. It'd be easier than this. Easier than sitting here, waiting on something that might never fucking come.
But… soon, he tells himself. Not yet. Not while Red's still healing. He can hold out. Just a little longer.
For his own sake.
For Red's.
The emptiness of his safe house is nothing new. It never used to bother him before. Now it feels like something is missing, and shit, he's got a long fucking list of missing things to worry about.
The fact that this empty box has him more on edge than anything else should scare him. Instead, he feels hollow. Tired. He just wants to close his eyes and let it all stop, but this ain't what he does. It ain't how he lives. It ain't his life.
Work helps, to an extend. There are still bad guys to hunt. People to take down. That part of him never really goes away. It's familiar, in some fucked up way. Frank's on autopilot. It's his old MO. But this time, there's no end in sight. Weeks go by. A month. Two.
Curtis doesn't pity him when he tells him, doesn't even act like it's something to feel sorry about.
Hell, Frank's been through worse. His whole family getting slaughtered, and his goddamn best friend being the reason why? Yeah. Red losing memories doesn't hold a goddamn candle.
But still.
Still.
He thought he was done losing people.
The problem is that he didn't exactly lose anything. Red is alive. Red is walking around. But it feels like losing a part of himself, some kind of life-changing amputation, like a part of him had been removed with surgical precision, and he was left to deal with the pain without a word of warning.
And if it's bad for him, what about Red? He was shot goddammit, nearly killed. His head is all fucked up now. He can't remember.
Sometimes, he can't even remember why he has those freaky senses, or why the hell he bothers using them at all. He remembers Elektra, sure. Remembers Nelson and Karen, and some of the cases they took together. He remembers he's a lawyer and his dad used to box, that he grew up at an orphanage, that his mom is alive and that his dad isn't.
But he can't remember what he likes for breakfast or if he has allergies. Can't remember if he has hobbies or fears. If he can even fucking cook.
These are updates Karen gives him, and Frank listens because he can't do shit otherwise. Even so, he's sure Karen still keeps a lot of it to herself, for his own good, probably. And Red's.
It feels like he's stuck watching someone else's life through a fucking screen, like he's not part of it anymore. Just some asshole on the sidelines, waiting to see if things get better or if they finally fall apart for good.
He doesn't know which one it's gonna be. But something tells him he'll find out soon enough.
*
The night at the Liebermans' had been good. Frank still lets himself have those sometimes — nights without blood, without rage, without the weight of everything crushing his ribs.
He made it back to the safehouse earlier than usual, a book under his arm that Leo swore was amazing. He promised her he'd read it and talk about it when he finished.
Sarah bought a bottle of rosé just for the occasion. Zack told him he was getting old and not in a cool way. David offered to check the cameras near Nelson and Murdock, looking for the sniper who put a bullet in Red.
Frank had promised Nelson he'd stay out of it, but fuck that. He can at least help out. Maybe beat the son of a bitch within an inch of his life. It won't fix shit. It won't bring Red's memory back. But it might let Frank sleep at night.
He steps out of the shower and throws on a t-shirt and sweatpants, thinking about starting Leo's book when soft knocks at the door pull his attention. The gun in his hand is pure instinct, same as the careful steps he takes to the entry.
The camera feed shows Red standing outside. His cane's in one hand, but there are no red-tinted glasses.
That part catches Frank off guard. Red never lets anyone see his eyes, and the way he's dressed feels off too. When Frank opens the door, he notices Red's shirt is inside out. No jacket either, even with the early autumn cold biting the air.
"Little cold to be out dressed like that, Red," Frank says, stepping aside, but Red just stands there. "Come in." He says and this time, Red complies.
His movements are wrong too. Not clumsy, but cautious. Slower. Like how an ordinary blind man would move if he didn't have all those sharpened senses Red has.
"This is where you live," Matt says, staring into the apartment like he can actually see it.
"Sometimes."
A pause.
"Have I been here before?" Red asks, and Frank can hear the edge in his voice. He sounds almost offended.
"You're here now," Frank answers, vague on purpose. "How'd you find this place?"
Red opens his mouth like he's gonna say something, then just closes it again. He tries again. Same thing. Finally he breathes out, frustrated as hell. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I said I don't fucking know, alright?!" he snaps. "I don't know how I got here! My body just moved on its own and the next thing I knew, I was here!"
"Hey. Hey," Frank says, stopping himself from touching Red because he doesn't know what it means right now. If Red will accept it or take a swing. "Easy. Breathe."
Red does. Then he squeezes his eyes shut and winces, bringing a hand to the side of his head, pressing at the scarred skin with trembling fingers. It's another goddamn reminder that Red's still healing, still suffering. The hair on his head is starting to grow back now, but Frank still sees the scar when the light hits just right. It makes him nauseous.
"Do you know why you're here, Red?"
Matt nods.
"Okay," Frank says. "Then say it."
"I... ask." Red stops, then shakes his head and tries again. "Ask... you." He says. "Why..."
The silence feels heavier with every second. Red is shaking. He looks so damn helpless it breaks Frank's fucking heart.
"Why... why..."
Aphasia, the doctor told them, or difficulty forming speech under pressure.
His mind knows the words, but his mouth refuses to obey, Karen told him. Now, Frank understands.
"It's okay, Red. Just breathe."
"No! It's not fucking okay, Castle. Why isn't this working?" he yells. "It's... you... smell—" he pauses. "You... you..."
Matt's frustration is obvious as he moves a hand over his face and tries to pull his hair, but there's barely anything there. "I just need to... fuck," he growls and presses at his eyes.
Frank doesn't know what the hell's happening, but he moves closer and stops him before he hurts himself.
"Come on, Red, look at me," he says. "Let's get you something to drink, yeah?"
"Why do you call me Red?"
The question makes Frank's throat feel like sandpaper. It feels like something he's not supposed to answer, but fuck if he knows what else he can do. "It's... I didn't know your name. Back then."
Suddenly, like a flicker of lightning, the look on Matt's face changes. His head tilts again like it's some goddamn habit and his brow furrows.
"You were there. When E... Elek--" he pauses and lets out another frustrated breath. "When Elektra died. Did you kill her? Is that why you won't tell me?"
Frank has no answer, but suddenly, Matt's expression falls into something like pain and disappointment, like Frank let him down in the worst fucking way.
"No. You... you helped me." Matt says and the confusion's clear as day. He doesn't sound angry, or pissed off, he sounds fucking hurt, and Frank wants to punch something until it stops hurting, but he keeps it in. He clenches his teeth and his fists, trying not to say a fucking thing. "Why were you there? What was I doing?"
Frank has to look away. Has to focus on something else, anything else. The blood on his knuckles as he flexes his hands is good, grounding, but it still makes his stomach twist, and Red notices.
"She... she was in trouble." He says. "Black Sky... Nobu... and the Hand, they..." He shakes his head, trying to organize his thoughts. "There were so many people... and they weren't human... not like us..."
Matt takes a step forward. His hands are shaking, and his vacant eyes are so fucking beautiful and tragic that it takes Frank's breath away.
"Why do I want to kiss you right now?" Matt says, voice barely a whisper.
That question is Frank's fucking limit, and he steps back, turns away like that might stop something that's been burning under his skin for weeks now. He knows that this Matt has no clue, doesn't know what happened or how Frank's in his head all the time. Doesn't remember that they've touched before, that Frank knows how Red likes it when Frank puts his teeth to his skin, when Frank tells him that he's beautiful, when Frank wraps a hand around his neck and keeps him there until they're both sated and worn out.
"Apartment. Smells like you," Matt says again, like he's not already got his hand halfway through Frank's ribcage, trying to rip his heart out just to watch it bleed on the floor.
Frank bites his lip until he tastes iron, struggling to come up with something—anything—that doesn't sound like a flat-out lie. Something close enough to the truth that it won't set off any alarms.
But this version of Red… he's off. His senses aren't all there. So Frank just shrugs, even though he knows Red won't catch that.
"You broke into my apartment? I'm not rich, Castle."
Frank almost laughs. Would've, if Matt didn't sound so fucking sincere. So completely lost.
"I didn't break into your place, Red," he says, and it's all he can give. "Where's Nelson? Or Karen? I can call her, have her come pick you up. It's late. It's cold and—"
"Fuck off! I don't need a babysitter!" Red snaps, swinging the cane until it finds Frank. "Sick of it! Everyone... eggshells! Foggy and Karen… lying through their teeth!"
"How do you know they're lying to you, huh?" Frank asks, watching how Red's face twists, like he's trying to solve an enigma.
His brows knit together, head tilting slightly. In that angle, the scar from the gunshot is visible—still red, still angry, even if the skin's closed. Frank stares at it, and the fury bubbles up in his chest like it never left. The need to find whoever did this and end them, slowly, methodically, surges back with full force.
"Heartbeats. Elevated," Matt says at last, but it's more guess than certainty. "Foggy's spikes when I ask why you were at the hospital. Karen's does too when I ask why my body's covered in scars."
So, he doesn't remember the Devil. Doesn't remember the years in red leather, the rooftop talks, the blood, the war.
Frank understands. That sense of being fucking adrift—he's lived it. Waking up alive when you're not supposed to be, surrounded by the pieces of a life that's not yours anymore.
"They keep leaving people with me. People I don't even know. Say I can't be alone. Jessica, Luke, Danny… who the hell are these people?" Matt asks, and this time the anger fades into something heavier. Something cracked. "Why do I call my own mother by her name?"
Fuck, he sounds like he's going to cry. And the only thing Frank knows is that he's gonna kill everyone in the city if Red's heart breaks anymore than it has.
"You're recovering, Red," he says, softening his voice. "It takes time. Your memories will come back, they're just slow right now."
He hates it, but the lies keep spilling out of his mouth. They don't sit right. Don't settle in his bones. Frank's always been honest with Red, even if the truth was painful. This shit... it makes him feel like he's a different man. Someone who can't even give a goddamn straight answer when asked, who can't look Red in the eyes, can't tell the truth about who the fuck he is to him, because what they are—whatever the fuck that is—can't be explained to this Matt.
It's just fucking wrong.
Red moves, so he's in front of Frank again, cane dangling in one hand as he moves closer and brings the other hand to Frank's face, palm flat against his cheek, like he's feeling. Like he's seeing. Frank stays still, waits to see what Red's doing, but the answer never comes. Red's brow is still furrowed, head cocked to the side like he's trying to put puzzle pieces together that won't fit.
"My bed. It smells like you," Red says at last. "It... you were in it."
Fuck. Fuck, shit, damn it. He didn't think this would come back to him.
"Did we have sex?" Red muses, but his face shows no trace of the usual teasing, or the smirk Frank has gotten used to. It has... sadness to it, a tinge of longing and hurt and frustration, like he's not sure if he wants to remember it. Well, not that Frank can really blame him. Who would sleep with the fucking Punisher and actually be proud of it? "Do we still... are we fucking? How did that happen?"
"That's..." Frank starts, but there's nothing that makes sense.
Fuck. He hates this situation so goddamn much. Hates the fact that he has no fucking answer, that Red's not well enough for him to explain anything. That he can't tell him who he is and why he's important. Can't say a damn thing except lies.
He wonders if Red would hate him for that too.
"No." He lies again, hating himself a little more each time he does. "Don't worry, Red. The gunshot fucked with your senses, made you see shit that ain't real. You'll be okay. Soon, you'll be fine."
The words land wrong. They don't help. They don't calm Red down or make him feel better about any of it—about the fact that Matt Murdock is too fucking good for Frank Castle, and that maybe he hasn't fallen far enough to end up tangled in the sheets with a man like him.
The truth? Hell, it's messier than that, but now's not the goddamn time to dig it up.
Instead of easing the tension, Frank's words strike a nerve, and Red snaps like a fucking live wire. In an instant, the confused man fumbling through a fog of broken senses is gone. What's left is sharp, dangerous, and fast. Red moves like a weapon—like the devil he forgot he is. His weight crashes into Frank, full force, and the two of them hit the floor. Frank grabs at the edge of the table for balance, knocks a glass off. The sound of it shattering gets swallowed up by the wet crack of a fist against his face.
The first punch dazes him. The second splits his lip. Blood starts dripping from his nose, but it's the sight of Red's face above him that forces his brain back into gear.
"Liar!" Red shouts, again and again, each accusation slammed into Frank's face with another blow. But somewhere in the violence, it breaks. The fury starts to shake. Tears spill down Red's face, and then it's not rage anymore. It's grief.
Red stumbles back, off of Frank, and drops hard to the floor beside him. He doesn't flinch when his body hits the broken glass. He doesn't care. He curls in on himself, pulling his knees up to his chest, hiding his face between them as his shoulders shake with sobs.
The doctor had warned them about emotional instability. About how his filter would be gone. About the way impulse would take over where control used to live. But hearing it in some sterile room and watching Red unravel on the goddamn floor were two different things.
Frank can't help but wonder if Matt's snapped like this in front of anyone else, or if he's the only bastard who can drag the worst out of him without even trying.
Red was never someone who let his emotions slip like this. Anger? Sure. That was always close to the surface. But this kind of unraveling? Never. Frank saw Red fight, bleed, and cry. Saw him beaten and broken and shot. But not like this. Never like this.
Fuck, Frank wants to reach for him, wants to hold him and promise he'll never let anything happen to him again. He wants to pull him in and press him against his chest, wrap him in his arms and keep him safe, tell him it's okay, he'll get his memories back. But it's not a promise he can make. He can't make a damn promise if he can't even keep it.
"Red." He tries again and Red lets out another sob, one hand pressed against his ear, the other scratching at the scar angrily, as if trying to get rid of the goddamn thing, to tear it away and maybe that'll get rid of the fog.
"Red, hey. C'mon." He tries and moves closer, but Matt flinches back. "Matty," Frank whispers, trying again and reaching for his face, cupping his cheek to get him to stop scratching at the wound, stop trying to pull the goddamn scar out.
He stops and finally, finally, lifts his head from between his legs. There are tears streaming down his face. Frank wipes them away as carefully as he can, but Red still shakes against the touch like he's fighting his own body, like he can't trust anything.
"Why... doing this? What did I do? Why can't... you tell me? Why... won't... tell me?" he says, his voice shaking so hard he can barely speak.
The anger's still there, but the fight's gone from Red, like the world's pulled all the strength from his body, leaving nothing but grief. It makes Frank's chest feel too fucking small to contain his own heart.
"Don't wanna hurt," he says and lets out another choked sob. "Want this... go away. I just wanna remember..." he sobs, his voice broken, barely audible, but it hits Frank so fucking hard his body aches with it. "I'm not supposed to... cry. Am I? I... never cried. Even when no one else came, I didn't... Why can't I stop? Why am I crying?"
Frank swallows thickly, struggling to push down his own grief as he stares at Matt's tear-stained face, his broken eyes and trembling hands, and pulls him against his chest without thinking twice about it.
"When my family died, I didn't cry either." Frank says, and Red looks up, as if he can actually see the way Frank's mouth moves, trying to put words together that might mean something.
"They... died? Your family?" Red asks.
Frank nods. "My old lady and kids. Murdered right in front of me," he says and lets out a slow breath, trying to keep the flashbacks at bay, keep himself here in the safehouse. "My best friend was involved. My kids loved Bill. Called him "uncle" and Maria? She trusted him with her fucking life. But she was wrong. They were wrong. We were all wrong. They paid for it with their lives."
"What... happened to him? Your friend?" Red asks and it takes every damn thing Frank has not to look away.
"Put a bullet in his skull."
"How... did you feel? After it happened?" Red says, voice low and sad and tired as his fingers curl into Frank's shirt.
"I didn't." Frank says, "Didn't feel anything at all. Guess I'm that kind of monster. When I finally ended him, I... I didn't have anything left, you know? Part of me died with my family, and part of me died when my best friend--my brother--betrayed us and got them all killed."
He isn't sure why he's telling Red this, not really. But if his fucking tragic story is enough to distract him from this bullshit, it's worth the cost.
Of course, the peaceful moment doesn't last, because when does it ever?
When Frank's blood drips from his busted lip, Red notices it and looks like he's about to lose his fucking mind all over again.
"I did this," Red says and scrambles back, away from Frank's touch. "I hurt you." He's trembling so bad Frank's afraid he might just shatter to pieces, like the glass under his knees. "I did this.. Monster... I'm... I'm..." he shakes his head. "Monster. Monster. Monster..."
"You ain't a monster, Red," Frank says, trying to sound reassuring, but Red just flinches. "Red. Hey, hey. Matty. You ain't a monster." He says and grabs his hands, but Matt's still shaking, his voice growing louder, and louder, repeating those goddamn words like they're his new mantra.
Before Matt can reach the door, Frank catches him. His grip is strong, desperate, not letting go even as Matt thrashes in his arms like a wounded animal. He fights him hard, chest heaving, fists weakly pounding against Frank's body while broken words fall from his mouth over and over again— Monster. Disgusting. My fault. Penance.
Frank holds on anyway. Holds on tighter. Because someone fucking has to.
Eventually, the fight drains out of Matt like blood from a wound. His body goes limp, but the tears don't stop. They spill down his face without shame, raw and relentless, and he doesn't try to hide them. There's nothing left in him to fight with.
Frank doesn't say a damn thing. Words are useless. Nothing he could say would reach the part of Matt that's breaking apart in front of him.
He pulls him gently to the couch, like handling something fragile and already cracked. He sits down, easing Matt close until his head is pressed against Frank's chest. Frank lets him stay there, arms wrapped around his shaking body, listening to the uneven rhythm of his breathing. His eyes land on the bullet scar right in front of him, and it takes everything not to fucking scream. Not to rip the world apart until the bastard who did this is nothing but bones and dust.
The sobs taper off slowly, becoming shallow, broken hiccups of breath. Then Frank hears Matt's voice. Barely more than a whisper, incoherent at first, just fragments of thought spilling out like blood from a fresh cut.
But then, piece by piece, the words begin to take shape.
"And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, 'Behold, the dwelling of God is among humanity, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death will no longer be. There will be no more mourning or wailing or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.'"
Red pauses to breathe. Frank just stares.
"But... He won't... He won't take me back. No matter... no matter what I do... how much... I pray, he... won't forgive me. He won't take me back," Red says, like the words hurt more than a hundred punches, his hands gripping onto Frank's shirt with all their strength. "He won't forgive me..." he repeats again, his voice small and desperate and sad and fucking broken, and Frank feels it, feels every inch of it, every fucking crack, every drop of blood spilling from the wounds. "Please, don't..."
Frank can only hold him tighter, can only do his best to keep Red's broken heart inside his chest, trying not to break too, trying not to spill all the emotions bubbling in his gut out on the floor.
Red keeps crying for hours. Until his eyes are swollen and he has no tears left. He cries until he falls asleep in Frank's arms, until there's nothing left for his body to give.
Only when Frank is sure Red won't listen, he allows himself to cry too.