Crash

5. IN WHICH FRANK FREAKS THE FUCK OUT

“Somehow it was worse than if he’d just been angry-”

“I knew I wasn’t getting out of Midland-”

“You ain’t ever gonna be whole again, not after that, so no point pretending-”

It’s Pi who wakes Frank up - with a flailing start at four in the morning - when the dog gets up from where he was sleeping nestled behind Frank’s knees and decides the most direct route to the floor is right across his stomach.

“Shit!” he hisses - and then doubles over, clutching his head, because that is one hell of a God damn hangover.

It takes him a second to figure out where he is - the world slowly swimming back into consciousness around him as his head continues to pound like a blacksmith’s forge.

He’s on a couch. It’s dark, except for city lights spilling in from a window somewhere behind him. It’s not his couch. It’s Karen’s couch - in Karen’s apartment, and that’s right, they were all here, weren’t they? They were drinking - a lot - and he can’t quite remember where things went after that.

He swings his legs over the side of the couch and knocks over a bottle. It rolls across the floor and hits another with a glassy clink. As he squints, eyes adjusting to the darkness, he realises there is a mess of alcoholic paraphernalia scattered across the coffee table.

He rises. Turns. Pi’s standing, head tilted up, staring at the window.

The window which Matt’s standing at. Or more accurately, standing halfway out; his head and shoulders are stuck through the window, hands braced on the sill. Frank stares at him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he growls.

“Shhh!” Matt hisses, and Frank’s mouth snaps shut. He stands for a moment, trying to get his bearings. A glance around the room reveals a pile of couch cushions in the corner - was Murdock sleeping on the fucking floor? - and no sign of Karen.

Call Frank paranoid, but a jolt of concern strikes him. He heads quickly to her bedroom, just to check, and sure enough, she’s lying on her side, out like a light. He lets out a breath he barely realised he was holding, and stands for a moment in the doorframe, watching her.

She invited us over, that’s right-

Because it was Father’s Day. Because it was Father’s Day and she knew how fucked up I’d be. And the memory comes swimming back to him, now - sitting in the corner of his apartment, nursing his bleeding knuckles, feeling like his chest was tearing itself apart, and happening to glance up and see that vase of bright yellow flowers on the grainy security cam footage of his computer monitor.

The warmth that’d flooded through him, just at the thought that she was thinking about him, that he wasn’t so alone…

He’s hit with a surge of affection for her, and he moves closer and pulls the blankets up over her shoulders before heading back out to the living room.

Matt’s just pulling his head back in through the window. Frank comes up by his side and looks out, but he can’t see anything except an empty road.

“Trouble?” he asks, carefully - trying to ignore the way his stomach jolts at the thought - he sees Matt hesitate. He hasn’t got his glasses on; it’s still fucking weird, seeing his whole bare face. The eyes had been unsettling at first, but the more Frank stares at him, the more the whole thing just gives him a sort of helpless vibe. It’s a far cry from the Daredevil he was up against a year ago - that guy had the sort of self-righteous confidence that used to actually piss Frank off, reminded him a bit of all those idiots who preach on street corners, who shove a Bible in your face and try to save you.

Not any more.

“Not the sort you’re thinking of,” Matt replies, finally.

“The fuck’s that mean?”

“We’re not in danger,” Matt clarifies - Frank’s shoulders relax a little - “I’ve been tracking that meth gang lately. You’ve probably seen them in the news. I’ve been trying to figure out who their main players are so I can take them down. I heard a commotion and I’m pretty sure it’s them, but from the intel I’ve gathered I wasn’t expecting anything to go down tonight.”

“What street?”

Matt tells him, and Frank lets out a low whistle. That’s not close by, how the fuck did he hear something like that from here?

“Jesus Christ,” he says. Then, as Matt starts for the door, “You’re going to check it out?”

“I have to. Can’t risk missing whatever this is. There’s no time to waste.” Matt pauses at the table. He starts feeling around and it takes Frank a second to realise he’s looking for his glasses. They’re right at the edge of the table; he grabs them and hands them to Matt and when their hands touch the other man freezes.

“Thanks,” Matt says, a bit uncertainly. He jams the glasses on his face and chews at his lip. There’s something very awkward in the way he’s holding himself, something a bit closed off.

And honestly? Frank should want no fucking part of this; he’s out of messing around in the various criminal underworlds of Hell’s Kitchen. He’s not sure what it is, maybe some sort of morbid curiosity, that makes him step towards Matt as he makes for the door.

“You don’t have your suit,” he says, a bit stupidly.

“My real superpower is the ability to make a mask out of anything,” Matt informs him. “Karen’s gotta have a scarf around here, right? Maybe a teatowel?”

For a second Frank thinks he’s being fucked with. When he realises he isn’t, he rolls his eyes so hard they nearly roll right out of his God damn head.

“Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ, you’re not leaving this apartment with a fucking tea towel around your head - what the fuck, Red. I know you’re blind but do you not care about how stupid that looks?”

“My flat’s in the opposite direction. It’ll take too long to walk back from here, even if I go by the roofs-”

“For fuck’s sake. I’ll drive you.” He heads for the door, muttering, “A God damn tea towel, are you fucking kidding me.”

“Frank.”

When he turns, Matt looks - uncomfortable, arms hanging by his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“What?” Frank demands. He doesn’t know why he feels almost nervous, suddenly. It’s not like he’s actively helping out Daredevil, it’s not like he’s sliding back towards getting involved in anything. He’s just driving Matt Murdock to his apartment so he can get changed. If you ignore the weird vigilante-costume part, that’s a relatively normal thing that people do for each other.

But Matt chews his lip and suddenly says, a bit defensively, “You don’t have to help me. It’s fine.”

“I’m not helping you, I’m helping the poor motherfuckers who actually have to see what your idiot ass looks like. I’m doing the world a favour here.”

“Just because last night we-”

“What happened last night?” Frank snaps, his blood suddenly running cold.

He’d thought they just got really fucking pissed and then fell asleep. Like if there was anyone he trusted himself to get blackout drunk around without having to worry something awkward would occur, it was Karen and stick-up-the-ass Choir Boy here. What the hell could’ve even happened?

The worst case scenarios flash through his mind. Did he make a move on Karen? Also, why is that the first thing that pops into his head? Did he and Matt get into a fight or did he start rambling about Billy or did-

Matt’s staring at him. Or at least, staring in his direction, head tilted and lips twisted into a little frown.

“You don’t remember,” he says.

“Obviously,” Frank snaps. He steps closer. “What happened, Murdock?”

Matt hesitates, and it’s enough to make Frank’s heart jolt. Whatever it is, Matt doesn’t want to talk about it, which isn’t a good sign.

“The last time I got this hammered with someone,” Frank adds, slowly, “He started telling me what a big dick he had.”

“What.”

“Like a moose, he called it. Then he whipped it out to show me. What, you do something like that?”

Matt’s mouth has dropped open. After a moment of very stunned silence, he holds up a hand and shakes his head.

“I am exiting this conversation,” he declares, and starts to push past Frank.

Whoops. Should not have brought up David’s dick. He’s too Catholic.

Still - Frank grabs his arm, tugs him to a halt.

“Seriously, though, Red,” he says, “What happened? Look, if I was an asshole to Karen or, or to you-”

“Frank.” Matt’s hand is on his suddenly and Frank isn’t sure if it’s meant to be reassuring or if he’s trying to pluck him off. “No, it - it wasn’t anything like that. We just got really personal, is all. Nothing happened, just - we all said some shit. It’s no big deal. I shouldn’t have brought it up, I just - I assumed you were just trying to help because you felt sorry for me. I don’t need anyone’s pity. And I don’t want you getting dragged back into this shit when I know you’re trying to leave it behind.”

Frank stares at him. He doesn’t need superpowers to tell that Matt’s not lying. No one could fake that sort of martyred sincerity.

Personal? If anything, that’s more horrifying than the prospect of one of them whipping out their junk. What the hell did I say to them? And what did they say to me?

Still - Matt’s heading for the door again, and Frank shakes himself.

“Well, it ain’t pity,” he grunts, “So I’m giving you that ride. Don’t make it weird by arguing.”

“What about Karen?” Matt asks.

“It’s a couple hours ‘til dawn. You usually wrap your vigilante shit up at night, right? We’ll be back before she wakes up. Pi,” he adds, turning - the dog’s watching the two of them, tail thumping where he’s sitting on the floor. “Stay.”

Pi whines, but after a moment hops back up onto the couch. Frank lets himself out of the flat, feels in his pocket for his car keys. His head’s still throbbing and he’s vividly aware that it’s fuck-o’clock in the morning and that this will probably end badly, but for some reason he can’t stop himself. Feels like he’s on a bike racing down a very steep hill, no fucking point hitting the brakes now.

Matt’s still hesitant, and Frank turns to look back at him.

“Well?” he barks, “You fucking coming or what?”

There’s something very surreal about driving through the nearly-empty streets of Hell’s Kitchen this late at night - or this early in the morning, depending on how you look at it - with Matt Murdock in the passenger seat next to him, head leaning against the window. The shadowed alleyways, the red wash of light from bars and casinos, the occasional babbling gather of nighttime revellers, all of them slip past like ghosts.

Frank drums his fingers against the steering wheel and tries to remember.

He remembers a feeling in his chest like a clenched fist and the burn of straight vodka down his throat. He was sprawled on the couch and Matt-

(Matt’s beside him, and now and then their knees bump together, and it would be awkward if they hadn’t both had a good few drinks already.

Karen’s sitting on the floor - yes, that part is clear as day. She’s sitting on a cushion on the floor because Pi’s next to her, head resting in her lap, and she’s scratching him behind the ears and gazing down at him and Frank can’t help but think she looks so fucking adorable like that, he’s probably staring way too hard at her but she’s not looking at him so it’s fine, it’s not like Matt’s gonna notice-

And who’s speaking? They’re all drunk by that point, all their tongues getting way too fucking loose. Someone’s talking and everyone else is listening in an intense silence. And they all feel very close - close like you get on a battlefield, like you’re clutching your mates’ hands sticky with blood, close like you can only get during war.

It’s Karen.

Karen’s talking, she’s telling them about her father - yes, he remembers. Her father.

“The way he looked at me - like he was looking right fucking through me. Like I didn’t even exist to him anymore. And somehow - somehow it was worse than if he’d just been angry. Angry I could’ve dealt with, because I was angry. I hated myself. But his eyes, they were just - dead. And I think that’s when I knew that we would never get past this. That something shattered in that crash, something more was killed than just Kevin. And even now when he speaks to me, it’s just - empty. Like I’m a stranger to him. Less than a stranger, a ghost.”

She’s crying.

She’s crying and Frank wants to get up and go to her, but he can’t. He’s sitting there frozen, feeling her pain in his own chest, an aching throb. But the couch shifts next to him, and Matt’s rising - going to the floor and kneeling next to her and folding his arms around her, and Karen rests her head in the crook of his neck, and he watches the two of them, fitting together like puzzle pieces, and something curls in his gut, something not quite like jealousy. Something more like longing-)

“Frank! We’re here.”

Frank jolts. He pulls up by the side of the road and looks up and realises they’re outside Murdock’s apartment. He swallows hard, mouth suddenly very dry.

So we did get pretty personal last night. But okay, so Karen told us why she hates her Dad. That can’t be all that happened.

What the fuck did I say to them?

“Alright?” Matt asks, and Frank glances at him.

“Fine,” he snaps, a bit flustered - wondering what sort of things Matt can hear or sense that Frank would really rather hide. He’s not sure how he feels - anxious? Maybe a little. Scared - never. Just… unsure. “Just real fucking hungover. How are you fine?”

“Paced myself and drank a lot of water,” Matt informs him.

“Wait, I actually remember that,” Frank says, “You spent half the night going to the bathroom.”

“Glad the important details are returning to you,” Matt says dryly. He unbuckles his seatbelt and starts to get out. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Wait.”

The word’s out of Frank’s mouth before he even really realises what he’s doing. Matt hesitates, turning back towards him, and Frank takes a moment to gather himself.

Thing is.

Thing is, he keeps thinking about the news he’s seen lately. The assholes roaming the streets without a care how many civilians get caught in the crossfire. He thinks of what happened to his family, thinks of husbands losing wives, mothers losing children. Thinks of how someone needs to stop it.

And Matt will go out tonight. Crack a few skulls together. Bring these people down, best as he can. And probably without taking a life too, so he can still hold onto his soul. It makes something surge in his veins, makes his fingers twitch, wanting to grab a gun or a knife.

He wants to be out there.

There’s no point denying it. He wishes he could put a bullet in those fuckers, stop them hurting anyone else. And thing is, Matt ain’t ever gonna stop. He can see it in the other man’s face - Daredevil is part of him. He’ll never sit idly by as long as there’s crime in this city, will always be trying to do his part. It’s in his blood and bones.

And Frank…

His identity is full of bullet-holes.

He is no longer the Punisher. No longer a soldier.

No longer a father.

And it’s all left him more lost than he likes to admit, and the thought of this - of heading down there tonight, of beating some gang member senseless - it’s more appealing than he wants to admit. Which is fucking terrifying because no, leave all this behind-

You don’t need it anymore-

You’re out now, you fought your way out and it’s time to come home.

Except home doesn’t exist anymore, home has very little meaning. This, what Matt’s doing - that means something.

“I’ll drive you there,” he grunts, “It’ll be faster.”

“Frank.” Matt sounds very pained and okay, maybe Frank is being super fucking unsubtle about this, but he really doesn’t care.

“Don’t,” he says, holding up a hand. “I don’t need your pity either, Red. And I don’t need you up in my business. I’m not getting involved. I’m just taking you there. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Matt asks, but Frank lets out an annoyed growl.

“You’re wasting time. Go put your stupid mask on.”

Matt bites his lip, but he gets out of the car and heads up to his apartment. Frank watches him leave. His heart’s hammering and he thinks of the gun in the glovebox and the other one in the trunk.

This is probably a very, very bad idea. He’s hungover and messed up from yesterday and is he really about to throw away all his progress just because he’s having an identity crisis?

You’re just giving him a lift, just helping out in your own little way. Don’t go any deeper than that. You don’t gotta kill anyone. In fact, you shouldn’t.

He thinks of the look on Curtis’ face if he ever finds out about this. Thinks of how disappointed Sarah and David will be. Thinks of Leo and Zach.

No, you won’t kill anyone tonight.

Still. It’s left him rattled, left him with a funny, looming sort of dread. But he can’t back out now. He feels almost hypnotised, like he’s watching his body under someone else’s control.

Part of him expects Matt to ditch him and head out via the roofs instead. But he doesn’t - he comes back to the car soon after, dressed in black now, and tugs a mask onto his face as he slides into the passenger seat. Maybe they’ll both regret this. Or maybe he can sense that Frank needs this.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Matt wrapping his hands with tight, practiced motions, his lips downturned in a little frown, probably still listening out for whatever shit-storm they’re hurtling towards.

Frank’s had three of these espresso lollies that he found in his glovebox and his head’s feeling a bit clearer. He stares at the side of Matt’s face, and wracks his brains-

And remembers-

(They’re sitting on the couch and Karen’s on Frank’s other side now. She’s leaning right up against him, and his arm is around her shoulders, pressed up all close and warm like.

He can’t bring himself to push away. Finds he doesn’t want to.

They’re both leaning forward to look at Matt. He’s perched on the edge of the couch, leaning forward with his hands wrapped around his glass. Staring sightlessly into it and his voice is so low they gotta lean in to hear it and he’s telling them all sorts of fucked up stuff about his life.

He’s drunk.

He’s pretending not to be but Frank knows he wouldn’t ever let them hear his voice shake like that otherwise. Because it is shaking, hard, and his hands are shaking around the glass and he’s describing finding his Dad’s dead body and it’s making Frank’s heart pound rabbit-fast, bringing back too many memories of his own past horrors.

It’s funny, the way Matt describes things. It’s all in sounds and smells and sensations. Like the cold road under his knees, cold flesh under his fingers.

“People always tell me,” he says, “Always tell me he did it for me. Like it’s something fucking heartwarming. Just wanted to make his little boy proud. But it’s not. I... I would rather he have thrown a hundred fights just to still have him here with me.”

“Matt…” Karen whispers, and her hand’s gripping Frank’s arm. Matt doesn’t look up, but his voice is breaking with every word.

“Makes me think sometimes if I hadn’t… if I hadn’t made it seem like it was shameful to keep losing… maybe he wouldn’t have done it.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Matt.”

“Didn’t matter if he kept going down. As long as he got back up after.” He reaches up, swipes at his face, and Frank’s sitting there frozen. After a second he reaches out, clumsily, gets a fumbling grip on Matt’s shoulder and squeezes-)

“Pull up here,” Matt says abruptly.

Frank swings the car to the side of the road. They’re in a quiet side lane in an industrial area down by the harbour. A number of abandoned warehouses stand by the roadside. From here Frank can’t see anything, just a quiet, dark lot behind an old chain-link fence. Matt winds down the window and listens intently.

Frank stares at him - the tight line of his clenched jaw, his whole body a live wire, coiled in concentration, ready to burst into action at a moment’s notice. Remembers when he used to be like that. Misses it suddenly, the adrenaline of a fight, like a drug he thought he’d stopped needing.

God, he thinks with a flash of sudden horror, he was falling the fuck apart last night-

Because he remembers, now. After that first story Matt just kept fucking going-

(“They nearly killed Stick once before, you know.”

Frank doesn’t know at what point they all sat on the floor, but for some reason they’re here, sitting cross-legged like primary school children. Pi’s head’s in his lap, a warm, reassuring weight-

And they’re all so drunk now, so drunk none of them care that they’re all way too close, shoulder-to-shoulder pressed up against each other. So drunk they don’t care that they’re close to tears.

“The Hand got him. I had to save him ‘cause Elektra wanted to kill him - not for them, for her own reasons. I think part of me didn’t want to believe she’d ever go through with it. Stick figured me for the loyal one. He cared about both of us, in his own fucked up way. Always told myself I hated him, but I don’t think part of me ever did. Just always wanted to make him proud. Show him I was worth all the effort. At the end, it all happened so fast. Barely had time to grieve for him. But there was still Elektra and I-”

Here’s where he breaks. He darts a look at Karen, an almost guilty sort of look - she reaches towards him, her own eyes swimming with tears, but she’s the most hammered of all of them and Frank doesn’t know how much is sinking in and how much of her is just upset to see Matt upset.

“-it didn’t matter anyway.” And his voice is shaking hard now, like the words he’s giving voice to are too heavy to name. “Even before I went in, I knew I wasn’t getting out of Midland.”)

“Shit,” Matt mutters, and Frank turns to him.

“What?”

It comes out sort of - numbly. That’s really all he can feel because it’s… weird, seeing Matt now. Holding together on the surface, but last night…

Frank’s not sure what he was trying to admit to last night. Because as hard as he tries to remember what else Matt said or did that evening, all he’s coming up with is that dead-eyed look on his face and how his whole body seemed to fold in on itself-

And yeah, maybe he’d been onto something before, because Frank had pitied him. He hadn’t known much about Daredevil’s personal life before all this, hadn’t wanted to, but it was clear that this was someone who had lost a hell of a lot, and whatever freaky ass ninja crisis Frank had waded into the end of last time had pushed him to his breaking point. And Wilson Fisk probably pushed him past it, if Frank’s understanding is anything to go by.

He doesn’t know what he’s meant to do with this.

“Thought I was just dealing with one of the gangs,” Matt explains. “But there’s a second group here. They’re trying to make a deal, but tensions are high.”

“How many men?”

“Altogether… twenty-five, thirty maybe.”

“You’re not fucking going in there alone,” Frank snaps. Matt’s head twists to look at him; the black cloth over his eyes is disconcerting, somehow even more than the devil mask was.

“I’ve faced worse odds,” he starts. Frank reaches out and slaps his chest; Matt hisses, rearing back a bit.

“Yeah, wearing a bulletproof fucking suit. What the fuck is that, cotton? You think that’s gonna stop a knife, let alone a bullet?”

“What the hell do you expect me to do? Leave them? I’m gonna have to take them out eventually.”

“Let them take each other out. Sounds like they’re about to. At least do this smart.” He’s unclipping his seatbelt, reaching for the gun in the glovebox. “We sneak up, see what they’re doing, how things play out. Didn’t you say you needed intel anyway? Their boss here or are these just grunts?”

“Grunts,” Matt admits.

“Great. So we do some recon. See what we’re actually up against.”

“We?” Matt points out, and Frank freezes.

Shit. Stay out of this, Castle. Don’t get dragged into the middle of a gang war. Don’t throw it all away like that.

But he wants to. God, he wants to.

“Karen will kill me if I let you throw yourself into danger alone,” he points out.

“Karen will kill me if she thinks I made you break your no-more-Punishing rule.”

“I’m not fucking “punishing” anyone,” Frank snaps, and gets out of the car just to escape the argument. Matt follows him out; crowds him up against the side of the vehicle, grabs his wrist.

“Then what’s with the gun?” he demands.

Frank shoves him hard in the chest with his free hand.

“Get the fuck off me. I won’t kill anyone, you happy now?” A gunshot rings out in the lot and they both whirl around. “Fuck, we wasted too much time- let’s see what’s happening.”

Matt’s already turning. He scrambles his way up the chain link fence and drops nimbly down on the other side. Frank clambers after him.

Matt seems to know where he’s going. He veers towards one of the warehouses, vaults his way up a dumpster, a pile of crates, a fire escape and a drain pipe before hauling himself up onto the roof. Frank follows him a little less gracefully, cursing under his breath. Construction work’s kept him fit enough and he boxes when he gets the chance, but it’s been a while since he had to do this sort of gymnastics shit.

They cross the roof of one of the warehouses, and peer into an old parking lot below. It’s so dark Frank can barely see a thing, the only light coming from the beams of the cars’ headlamps. He crouches next to Matt and squints down into the shadows.

It looks like two gangs are facing off against each other. One group is clearly outnumbered and there seems to have been some sort of struggle. Whatever it is, it’s over now.  The leaders of the two gangs are having a heated discussion - standing in the centre of the group. One of them, a big, burly man with a bushy ginger beard, has a fistful of the other’s leather jacket. From here, Frank can’t hear what they’re saying, but from Matt’s tilted head and how intently he’s concentrating, he figures he can.

“That the guy you’re looking for?” Frank grunts. “The big boss?”

“No,” Matt whispers back, “He’s maybe the third in command, if that. Their big players haven’t come out of hiding.” There’s a frustrated note in his voice. “That’s what I need to find out. Especially since it sounds like they’re joining forces. Or rather, one group’s bullying the other into working for them.”

“Consolidating power.”

“More like absorbing all the other groups. Hey,” Matt adds, shifting, “Do me a favour.”

“What?”

“Left of the group. Far left. There should be two guys. One of them’s whispering in the other’s ear. Describe them to me.”

“I can barely see,” Frank grumbles, “It’s so dark.”

“Welcome to my life,” Matt mutters, and Frank scoffs out a surprised almost-laugh. Still - he squints. It’s hard; the two guys are standing right in front of one of the car headlights and they’re so backlit that they’re barely more than silhouettes. His eyes hurt from staring into the light.

“One’s part of the gang, if his jacket’s anything to go by. Big guy, shaved head, ratty looking beard. He’s holding some other guy - smaller, scrawny, middle aged, glasses.” He glances at Matt, not quite sure if that’s the sort of thing he’s after. Frank’s always been a man of few words, so he probably wasn’t the best person to ask if Murdock wants a fucking novel about what these guys look like.

Matt just hums.

“Thanks.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

Matt opens his mouth - then freezes, head whipping around. Frank is suddenly, absurdly reminded of Pi when he catches the scent of a raccoon outside, or hears someone approaching the door. His hand goes to his gun, instinctively.

“Well shit,” Matt whispers, “This’ll be interesting.”

“What?” Frank snaps, a bit sick of being left out of the loop.

“Someone’s sold them out. Police are just around the corner, about to raid them.” His fingers drum agitatedly against the tin roof under them. Frank can practically hear the cogs whirring around in his head.

“You got a plan, Red? How you wanna play this?”

“I…”

Matt trails off. He’d been… not calm before, not really, but focused. But suddenly he seems unsettled.

“I have a plan,” he says slowly. He starts to rise and Frank grabs his arm.

“Care to fill me in?”

Matt tries to shake him off, absently, but Frank yanks his wrist so hard that he drops back to the roof next to him.

“Ow! Jesus, Frank-”

“Let the cops take care of it,” Frank hisses, “That’s their fucking job, right?”

Look at him. Karen would be proud. Matt shakes him off irritably, but it’s too late now.

Yelling. Gunshots. The blare of sirens. They peer over the edge of the roof and see a swarm of uniforms descend on the gang. The few of them that have time to react barely get a shot off before they’re being taken down. Matt’s so tense he’s nearly shaking.

“The guy I asked you about before,” he hisses.

“Thought you could see this stuff. Sense this stuff - whatever.”

“It’s chaos down there. Hard to tell people apart from a distance when I barely know them. The little one with glasses, you said - he alive? Is he the one the cop just slammed against the car?”

It takes Frank a second to work it out. Matt’s right, it is chaos down there. But after a second, he picks out the guy - he seems to have surrendered easily and is now bent over the hood of the car, hands cuffed behind his back.

“Yeah. He’s alive. Just got arrested.”

“Good,” Matt says. He rises again and this time Frank lets him. He gets up too - Matt’s paced to the edge of the roof. He’s frowning, seems worked up.

“This whole thing good or bad for your plan?” Frank asks carefully.

“Good,” Matt replies. “I have a solid plan. Really solid, actually.”

“So why you pulling that face like you just got a mouthful of piss?”

For a second he thinks Matt’s gonna ignore him. Then he hesitates, turns towards Frank a little, and admits - the words coming out in a shaky, vulnerable rush - “Because Foggy is really, really not gonna be happy about it.”

Frank stares at him.

“Wait, what?”

“That guy didn’t want to be there,” Matt blurts out. “He was being threatened. Something about a girl. Clearly a civilian being pressured into working for the gang. So he’s our key in. And now he’s been arrested, which works out pretty perfectly because he’ll need a lawyer. Except,” and his fists clench, shoulders hunch, “That means dragging Nelson, Murdock and Page back into all my Daredevil shit. Which is something I’ve been trying not to do.”

“‘cause Nelson’s not a fan,” Frank grunts.

“Yeah.” Matt swallows, hard. “I’ve been… trying… trying to do this the right way, to balance everything - I just - it can’t all fall apart again-”

“Murdock.” He’s breathing too fast, he’s on the verge of freaking out, and it - scares Frank, almost, seeing him like this. Unsettles him. Last time he ran into the Devil, it hadn’t seemed anything could rattle him.

“-and I don’t want to get them involved. I can’t put them in danger, but I don’t see any other way-”

“Let the police handle it.” He’s clenching his own fists, if only to stop himself from grabbing Matt by the shoulders and shaking him. “They arrested the guy. Hell, they’re here now dealing with it! Look, there’s some pretty competent agents out there. Trust me, I met a hell of a-”

“Can’t trust the police.” There’s a frantic, panicked note in his voice now. “If you’d been in Hell’s Kitchen when Fisk was out you’d know. Police can be bought. And a gang with as much reach as this one is sure to have a few of them in their pocket. That sort of corruption, it spreads fast, and next thing you know…” He throws his hands up. “Yeah, there’s good men out there. I’ve met them too. You know what happens? They wind up dead. Just like everyone else. I can’t, Frank - I can’t trust anyone else, I have to do it myself, and if I don’t no one else will-”

Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, Red. There is just - so fucking much to unpack there, from the trust issues to the weird self-importance to the weight of the world on his shoulders. But before he has the chance to even gather his thoughts, Matt’s head snaps around again.

“Two of them are getting away,” he says, and next thing Frank knows he’s running to the edge of the roof and leaping off.

“The fuck, Matt,” he snaps, and when the shock wears off he staggers after him. It takes him a second to even realise where Matt went. It’s so fucking dark around the warehouse that he’s forced to fumble his phone from his pocket and use the flash as a torch to even figure out the path that Matt used to parkour down off the roof. Then shove it back in his pocket, lower himself over the edge and drop down, because not all of them have super-balance and the last thing he wants to do tonight is break an ankle.

“Idiot,” he mutters under his breath, as he jogs off in what he hopes is the direction Matt went, “Fucking idiot.”

The path they take winds around the parking lot, down a narrow path between two other warehouses and through another lot that’s become a dumping ground for broken machinery. He hears yells, thuds, the clatter of boots on metal - and veers around a pile of junk to see Matt in the thick of it with the two guys.

He skids to a halt and pauses a beat, watching them. Matt seems to have it under control - as Frank watches, he yanks one of them down, lifting a knee to drive it into the man’s gut before ducking a swipe from the other guy. He swings a leg around, kicking the man in the stomach before catching the first one in the face with a left hook that sends him to the ground. Smooth, fluid motions, seeming to react to his opponents’ movements a second before they even make them.

It’s admiration, Frank tells himself, that makes a sudden heat spread through his gut. Been a while since he’s seen a good fight. Matt’s not holding back; they’re sharp, brutal moments that make Frank’s blood surge in his veins, make his own fists ache.

Matt must hear footsteps, because his head whips around a second before a bunch of men run up from the other side of the lot. Reinforcements, or gang members who hung back - Frank’s running forward, lifting his gun before he even has a chance to think about it.

“Get down!” he yells.

There’s no way Matt doesn’t hear him. His head turns towards Frank - and then he just fucking stands there, still pummelling the one guy’s face into oblivion before turning as though he’s gonna launch himself at the half-dozen men with guns.

Jesus fuck-

Are you fucking serious-

“I said get down!” Frank screams. As they open fire his mind goes into overdrive. It’s a split-second in which he has to make a decision. Fire back, or-

Or-

He seizes Matt’s arm, yanks him back towards him. Caught off balance, Matt topples onto him; they both go down, falling back behind a sheet of metal junk. Bullets ring out; they tear into the man left standing where Matt was, and he falls with a scream.

Frank’s on the ground, the wind knocked out of him. Matt’s weight’s on top of him, elbow digging into his stomach, and the panic and adrenaline is racing through him-

And with gunfire ringing in his ears and his mouth and nose filled with dust and blood, he feels instinct take over. Feels a sudden calm rush over him, a sense of everything falling back into place. Here he is, on the battlefield. Here he is, in a world he can understand. Where he belongs.

Matt starts to sit up and Frank snaps back to attention. They’re in a precarious position here. He grabs Matt’s arm, yanks him close. Their faces are barely an inch apart; he can feel Matt’s breath against his lips. Stares at the contours of the black cloth covering his eyes.

“I said to fucking get down,” he hisses. “What, you got a deathwish?”

“Maybe,” Matt snaps back - then freezes, like he hadn’t meant to say it.

Frank stares at him. Processing. Ain’t even sure where to start with all this. Thinks with a flash of last night, of all of them drunk and shaking, of those weird dark admissions, the things they’re not meant to actually say out loud.

Thinks of where they are now. They’re outnumbered and those guys have guns and stupid Red’s not wearing his suit, has nothing but his bare fucking fists and if he steps out there now - and he’s gonna step out there in about two seconds, Frank can feel it in his gut - he’s gonna get torn to shreds and apparently that’s something he’s cool with.

It doesn’t take long to make his decision.

He gets to his feet. Matt’s halfway up too but before he can so much as move, Frank grabs his shoulder and hauls him back, practically throwing him to the ground again. Pauses for a second, shoulder against the cover of the metal sheet, and takes a deep breath.

Then, with a soldier’s focus, he leans out and fires.

He’s aiming to kill. Of course he is - it’s instinct. No half measures here. You don’t put them down, they just get back up again. The pull of the trigger, the jolt that thrums up his arm, feels like a missing piece falling back into place. He watches the man’s head snap back, watches the spray of blood from the neat bullet-hole in his forehead-

And like a wave crashing against the shoreline, he remembers, in a sudden consuming rush-

(He’s standing, pacing around the room, bottle hanging from his fingertips, drunk as all fuck.

On the couch Matt and Karen are sitting, his arm around her almost protectively. Her mouth is open, eyes wide with sheer horror. Matt’s staring blankly at the opposite wall, but his lips are a grim slash cut across his face.

And Frank-

Frank, his voice thick, is describing in extraordinarily vivid detail the murdered bodies of his family. He remembers feeling oddly detached as he talks about his daughter’s ruined face. About skull-shards shattered like broken glass. About Maria’s flat, empty eyes.

“After that,” he remembers saying, “After that, I didn’t give a shit. Sometimes still feels like that. Like I don’t feel anything at all. World’s just nothing but grey. Only colour you get’s when you kill something. That’s why I did it. All of it. To fucking feel something. Maybe that makes me a monster. Maybe it ain’t right, maybe it’s no way to heal. But after you’ve seen your baby girl’s head blown to pieces right in front of you-”

He chokes, throat closing up. On the couch Karen makes a high, distressed noise, and he sees Matt’s arms tighten around her. 

“You ain’t ever gonna be whole again, not after that, so no point pretending.”)

And now-

His eyes are hard and cold, and his heart is steady as he fires again - and again, and again. One batch, two batch-

(“Not when every time I close my eyes I see that shit replay in the back of my head, over and over and over-”)

Bang! Bang!

Watches them fall one after another. Doesn’t think of David, or Sarah, or Leo and Zach. Doesn’t think about Billy and how he let him go. Doesn’t think about Curtis.

Just lets himself relish the satisfaction as each of them drops like a stone, as their blood spills dark across the concrete-

(“You know the worst part?” he demands, and turns towards them, and as drunk as he is, he remembers thinking how, of everyone, these two will understand. With all their own broken pieces, everything they’ve done - they’ll understand in a way none of the others can.

“You’d think I’d be glad to be out. To have something to live for again. But sometimes - sometimes I miss it. Miss the way it made me feel to be the Punisher. Worst part is, sometimes I almost resent everyone trying to save me. I know they mean well. Know it’s out of love. Know at the end of the day, they’re right. But I don’t want them to be.”

“Frank…” Karen whispers, and it’s almost hurt in her voice, and he turns towards her and gives a tight, bitter smile.

"Can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me, Karen. And I could never hate you, or any of them. It’s not all of you. It’s me. Sometimes things just get fucked up beyond repair. And sometimes people just deserve to die. Acting like I don’t believe that? It’s just acting. Just playing a part. Not really me.”

Matt shifts, and Frank glances at him. His teeth are worrying away at his bottom lip; he hasn’t chimed in, but he’s definitely listening. Definitely got some sort of thoughts about all this.

“Not really me,” he whispers again, and shakes himself. “Shit, ignore me, Karen, I’m drunk. We’re all so fucking drunk-”)

The gunshots cease.

Silence.

A thick, heavy silence. No cop sirens wailing in the background, not so much as a rustle of the wind. Frank stands, gun hanging at his side, heavy and warm in his fingers. He’s breathing heavily, adrenaline rushing through his veins.

And then it hits him.

Shit. He drops the gun, clenches his fists, again and again. Shit, what have you done, what have you done-

You got one fucking chance, Castle, one chance for a new start-

“What have you done?”

He turns. Matt is standing there, shoulders heaving. He steps forward and Frank moves to meet him.

“What the hell was that before, Red?” he demands, ducking the question as easily as he’d dodge a punch.  

Matt jerks a furious hand towards the bodies.

“You killed them!” he hisses, furious, “What the fuck was that, Frank? Do you have any fucking idea the shit you’ve just started-”

“What did you mean, maybe you got a deathwish-”

“Don’t you dare try and turn this around on me when you just killed half a dozen guys! What the fuck are the police gonna think when they see this mess? What’ll they do if they figure out it was you-”

“They’ll think they turned on each other. Plenty of people around want these guys dead.” He tries to ignore the way the blood’s rushing in his ears; jabs a finger dead-centre of Matt’s chest. Tries not to think about how he’s needling him to avoid having to face this, to let it hit him what he’s just thrown away here, “Your turn. The fuck was that back there?”

“I’m serious,” Matt tries, “You can’t just ignore this-”

“You tryin’ to get both of us killed-”

“You said you weren’t gonna kill anyone! What happened to ‘no more Punisher’-”

“You wanna die, Murdock, is that it?” Frank growls, getting up in his face, “You think I ain’t seen that before, think I don’t know what it’s like to throw yourself into danger ‘cause you think it don’t matter either way? Is that right? You wanna-”

Matt grabs the front of his shirt and yanks him so close their noses nearly bump together. He’s breathing harshly through clenched teeth and when Frank reaches up and grips his wrists, he can feel him trembling.

“Yeah,” Matt barks out, his voice raw and hoarse, and Frank knows he’s hit a nerve, knows he’s snapped. “Yeah, maybe I do, Frank. What’s your fucking point?”

Frank slowly lets him go, raises his hands. Matt shoves him roughly back and turns away, shoulders shaking. He reaches up and, to Frank’s surprise, yanks his mask off. Runs his hands through his hair, over his face, again and again. Frank tenses, worried, but figures if anyone’s boutta sneak up on them, he’ll hear it coming a mile away.

“Maybe I fucking do,” Matt spits again, “God, you don’t know the half of it. Yeah, it doesn’t matter either way. Dead, alive, not like I’m actually really saving anyone. Not really. Not Elektra, not Stick, not Father Lantom or, or Ray Nadeem. I can pretend I’m a hero but that’s just it. Pretend.”

Frank stares at him, silently. The raw hurt in his voice. His own sentiment from last night, half-forgotten, thrown back in his face.

“I can’t sleep,” Matt admits, shakily, “And I feel like I’m drowning all the time, God, none of you know-” He pulls at his own hair and Frank starts forward, alarmed, thinking he’ll hurt himself - “Feels like I’m going crazy, being able to - to hear every siren, every scream in the city. The… the sort of depravity that goes on out there, it’s endless. What can one man do? And when I do nothing, the guilt is overwhelming. And when I do go out, it’s never enough. There’s always something else. Something I wasn’t fast enough, smart enough, strong enough to stop. Fisk was just the start of it.”

“Murdock,” Frank starts, quietly - not sure what he’ll say, where he’s going with this-

Matt turns towards him then - mask clutched in his hands, a desperate look in his face. There’s blood running down the side of his head. His eyes are huge and dark and something about their flat, empty stare makes Frank’s stomach drop - but everything about his face is torn, vulnerable. A sort of animal desperation in it.

“So what am I gonna do, Castle?” It’s almost a plea. “Stop? Keep going? Start killing like you do? The only time - the only fucking time in the last few years I’ve ever felt sure of myself was… was at the bottom of that building, with Elektra, and knowing we’d stopped the Hand, and knowing she wouldn’t be alone. For once I felt at peace with my decision. Thought the war was finally over - that’s what you called it, right?”

Frank feels sick. He doesn’t know what to say.

Matt barks out a harsh laugh.

“But then I woke up. Couldn’t even have that. That one chance to escape this shit ripped away from me. And I was furious. And the real fucked up part is, sometimes I still wish it’d all just ended there. That what you want to hear? So no, I wasn’t trying to get killed back there. But yeah, maybe I wasn’t trying very hard to stop it, either.” A miserable shrug. “Can you blame me?”

And the worst part is-

The worst part is, Frank can’t. Can’t, ‘cause he knows that same feeling himself, all too well. Knows what it is to dread waking up in the morning, to feel like even just to go on breathing is a weight he doesn’t think he can carry any more.

But Matt has Karen and Foggy. He’s not alone, not like Frank was-

But, he thinks with a horrified jolt, you’re not alone now. You got friends like he does now, friends close enough to call family, a second chance-

And you still gone and killed these men. You still can’t stop yourself throwing away the one chance you have to move forward.

His heart’s beating faster now, faster-

Matt steps towards him. His eyes are red, his expression wrecked.

“But you know what, Frank?” he says. “I’m still gonna go ahead with my plan even though I know it’s gonna tear me and Foggy apart. Even though I know it’s gonna kill me to do it. Because I can’t stop doing this. Daredevil’s part of me, maybe one of the only things I’ve got left. But sometimes I wonder if it’s all worth it. That’s why,” and he flings a hand out towards the men, “You can’t do shit like that anymore. You got out. And you know what? I envy you, because I didn’t. I can’t. Don’t throw that away. Don’t. You have this chance. You need to take it.”

Frank’s heart’s nearly pounding out of his chest. He thinks suddenly that Matt must be able to sense it - that frantic hammering against his rib cage, the way it feels like his lungs have squeezed out every last drop of air and he can’t seem to suck in any more.

I fucked up, he’s thinking, with a rising sort of panic, I fucked up, I fucked up, I fucked up-

And everything he’d repeated as a mantra before floods back in, everything he’d been clinging to-

Let go-

Don’t bring the war home with you-

What terrifies him the most is how easy it was to throw it all away. And what scares him even more is that he doesn’t regret doing it, not for himself, not for his own soul. He only regrets it for Curtis and how disappointed he’ll be. He regrets it for the potential it has to fuck things up for the Liebermans if this all goes sideways.

This was a bad idea.

Oh, you fucking think? You knew that from the second you got in that car with him, hell, you practically dragged Murdock along for this fucked up ride. Wake the hell up, Frank.

He needs to get out of here. He’s freaking out, he realises that distantly. Sure, he’s standing there, not giving it away, but one look at Matt and the soft, almost sympathetic twist of his mouth and he knows the other man must be able to somehow sense the way that inside everything is falling the fuck apart. The way his mind is writhing around as he tries to wrap his head around all this. He lifts a hand and watches the tremors run through it and thinks, dispassionately, get to the car, you’re like fifteen seconds from having a fucking panic attack-

It’s five fucking am and you’re hungover. Get home. Just get the hell away from all this.

Suddenly he can’t stand to be here. Not with the blood and the bodies, not with Matt and all his own issues, holding up a mirror to how fucked up both of them are.

“Don’t tell me what I fucking need,” he says, but his voice is shaking hard. “This was a bad idea. I’m out.”

He picks up the gun and shoves it back in his belt.

“Castle!” Matt starts to call after him, but Frank’s already turning to run.

The sun’s rising. He passes three police cars on the way home, their sirens wailing. His hands are shaking so hard that his wedding ring rattles against the steering wheel. He hasn’t felt this bad in a long, long time.

It was last night, he keeps telling himself, shouldn’t ever have gone over there-

Shouldn’t have gotten so drunk-

And maybe it wasn’t even just him but a combination of the date, of Father’s Day ripping the wound open again, and Karen and Matt telling him their stories. Of realising how much brute pain there is in this city, making him think why the fuck should any of us try to be good, we just end up broken anyway.

Still.

You got out, Matt’s voice keeps ringing in his head. Heavy and bitter. Jealous, he’d said. You got out. You got out. You got out.

And before. Makes it easy to tell when people are lying to me.

He doesn’t know what’s true any more.

So here’s how the rest of Frank’s morning goes.

He arrives back at his flat. The sun’s casting a weak, vapid light over the city and he heads up to his apartment and kicks his boots off. He collapses to his knees in the middle of the carpet - avoids the broken glass that he threw across the room yesterday afternoon, before he went to Karen’s place - and yanks open the top three buttons of his shirt because it feels like he can’t breathe, and has a big ol’ fucking panic attack for about twenty minutes. Pretty fucking standard. Brings him right back to those early days after he got back from the war, and again after his family were killed, and again after he took down the people who did it. Ain’t that just how it goes.

When he finally stops feeling like his chest’s being crushed in a vice and his throat’s closing up, that’s when the guilt hits. With the guilt comes the anger.

He punches the wall three times and feels a knuckle fracture.

He pours a shot of vodka, thinks better of it, and then downs so much black coffee that he can tell himself his hands are shaking and his heart pounding for an entirely different reason.

Curtis calls him, and he throws his phone across the room and ends up shattering the screen.

It’s been two hours, two hours of trying to tell himself to pull it together, to figure out exactly how he wants to move forward after last night, when he’s like, wait.

Where the fuck is my dog?