bang.

The day, it seemed, couldn't have gone any worse. 

It had begun with Foggy snapping: "What the hell is going on with you and Castle?" as he walked through the door, followed by a series of curses and a final: "are you fucking the fucking Punisher, Matt?". It was followed by Karen giving him what was possibly the world's pettiest cold shoulder because come on, Frank was never hers in the first place (he was, intrinsically, Matt's after all). It ended with the abusive ex-boyfriend of one of their clients storming into their office and punching Matt square in the face. He was so preoccupied with the Karen-and-Foggy shitshow, he hadn't even heard the angry man stomp up the stairs. 

Luckily, Karen carried mace. 

By the end of the day Matt was bruised, frustrated and the word on his wrist itched like he'd dragged it through a patch of stinging nettles. His split lip and bloody cheek smarted a little as it was buffeted by an unusually strong wind that had decided to sweep through Hell's Kitchen, and he was doggedly tired. All he wanted was to curl up beneath soft blankets and shut out the world. The moment he entered his living room, however, he knew that wasn't going to happen. 

The sharp, harsh way Frank's lungs filled, mouth pausing in whatever word he was going to shape, as he looked up and saw the violence evident on his face, told Matt that someone was going to end up yelling. And if history was any indicator, it was going to be him. Within a second, there were fingers cupping his cheeks, thumbs brushing carefully and hesitantly over his skin. The rough pads of his fingertips should have felt like sandpaper to his cuts and the dark colour splashed over his features, instead they felt like silk.

"Matt."

The name seemed punched out of Frank, like the fist had landed in his stomach, or on his still healing leg, and not the lawyer's flaring cheekbone. It was agonisingly desperate, but layered by something haunted that Matt didn't particularly want to explore. Then every muscle in Frank's body locked. His arms coiled and it became glaringly obvious as to the power that lurked beneath the man's skin. Even though his touch remained gentle, the tension - the sharp stretch of each muscle as it began preparing to attack - rippled his arms where they were practically caging Matt in. A half pause before: "Who?" Frank snarled, voice filled with ice and pain and a violence Matt hadn't heard since bang. The man standing in front of him, surrounding him, wasn't Frank, it wasn't even Castle, it was him: The Punisher. "Who, did, this...?" he asked again, practically shaking with rage. As soon as the trembling started, Matt could smell it: the burnt tang of adrenaline saturating the air, the bitterness of his blood as it flooded his system, and the sheen of sweat that lightly covered his forehead.  

"Frank -" Matt's voice cracked, breaking his plea. Please stop, Frank, it's not worth it - it's not worth you going to jail for this. 

"Who?" he demanded again. 

"It was, was just a client's old boyfriend," Matt replied quickly, "it doesn't matter," he gasped when the man pulled away harshly, leaving him a little unsteady on his feet. "Frank, Frank," he called, "stop!" He could hear the man scrambling around the living room, overturning the blankets and his book, almost knocking over his mug, as he searched. After a few moments he grunted in satisfaction and began pulling on his boots, eyes swinging around wildly as he looked desperately for a gun. "Frank, stop," Matt repeated, emotionally exhausted. Why couldn't he just sit, quietly. There was no change in the ex-marine's movements, no indication he'd heard Matt, let alone had any intention to obey him and stop. Instead, he grabbed his coat from where it was hung over the back of the dining chair, and moved towards the door, boots like thunder-claps on the ground. 

"Stay here," he ordered, tone leaving little room for argument.

But Matt was a lawyer. Arguing was what he did best. 

"FRANK!" Matt shouted harshly. "Stop! What the hell are you doing?!"

The man whirled on him suddenly. "He hit you Matt," the Punisher spat. "He's gonna eat a fuckin' bullet."

Matt felt cold. His face paled and his stomach dropped to his feet. Suddenly, the reality of who the man was - what he was - rose up before him. No matter what domesticity they had found, nor the gentle kindness that he had for him, a blind lawyer with little to offer, Frank was, and always would be, The Punisher. He was a killer. A murderer. The other half of him yes, but a half that could never truly be whole. Matt was sure then, that God had intended to use Frank to punish him. Showing him what he could have, before reminding him starkly why he couldn't, why he never would.

"You do that, Castle, then don't bother coming back."

The words felt like dust in his mouth, but the blue-eyed man forced himself to turn his back and move away, tossing his cane onto the sofa and toeing off his shoes as he went. He moved to the bathroom, diligently ignoring the rapid beat of his Soulmate's heart. He shrugged out of his suit, grabbed his first aid kit, and began wiping away the remaining mess that was his face, taping up what he could. He couldn't do anything for his lip but the cut where the asshole's ring had split his cheek could be dealt with. It was methodical work and helped calm the rage in his chest.

He wasn't sure how long ago their argument had been before heavy footsteps echoed on the floor and the smell of Frank was invading the bathroom. 

"He hit you," he said, as though that was all the explanation he needed. 

"A lot of people have hit me Frank," Matt returned without missing a beat. Including you, he thought wryly.

"But -"

"No buts," and suddenly the shorter man was angry, pushing his fear and longing into a red rage, because it was so much easier than dealing. "No buts. You can't kill someone because they punched me. How is that justice, Frank, huh? How is that fair? He deserves to go to jail for his crimes against Rita. He doesn't deserve an execution because he punched a lawyer." Matt shook his head. "You have to have some faith in the system."

Frank stepped closer. "He hurt you," he whispered. 

Matt snorted. "A lot of people have done that too," he bit out bitterly. 

Another step. Then, hands, framing his face and a light, but warm, puff of breath fanning his lips. "He hurt you," the man ground out, as though the words pained him. And suddenly, it made sense. Because Frank hadn't been able to stop some lowlifes from hurting - from killing - his wife and kids... and it seemed he didn't want to make the same mistake with Matt. Oh, he thought, suddenly dizzy. Oh. 

"Frank -" Matt began, feeling gutted. He didn't finish because suddenly Frank's lips were on his and he was being crowded against the bathroom sink, powerless to stop the man who possessed every inch of his heart. It wasn't desperate, or mindless, but it was thorough and claiming, demanding not only Matt's attention, but his devotion too. The lawyer replied, matching the pace as best he could, but eventually realising that there was a demand that he could never match, because Frank didn't know they were marked for one another. For Frank, this was his opportunity to establish that they belonged to each other, regardless of what the words said; a way to tell the shorter man, and the world, that Matthew Murdock was Frank Castle's. By the time the older man pulled away, Matt's lips felt swollen, bruised even, and there was a warm, buzzing feeling beneath his skin. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that Frank had just officially cemented their bond. They were it for each other now. Forever. Walking away would be disastrous. Maybe even death-inducing (Matt had heard horrifying stories about separated Soulmates who couldn't touch or see one another, and how they'd both wasted away and died from longing). But that hum, that glowing sensation in his core? How could it be anything but the final piece of their bond snapping into place. 

Which meant Frank loved him too.  

Which meant Frank loved him. 

Him. 

Daredevil. 

The reason his children were dead.

And everything hit him at once. 

Matt didn't realise he was tearing up until a sob broke free and ruptured the silence that had settled around him. His knees buckled next, Frank barely catching him before he hit the ground, surprise and fear bleeding through the soldier's skin. The blind man scrabbled for grip in Frank's shirt, pulling him closer and burying his face in his chest, opening crying now as his shoulders heaved with the weight of his sorrow. Because he was loved, but he shouldn't be. And Frank? Frank would hate him if he knew. And he could never know, but he could never be with Matt and not know. So they were never going to be together. And that burned.

Frank was swearing under his breath, wrapping as many limbs around Matt as he could to try and soothe him, and a half rock had begun in an effort to keep him calm. Nothing was working. It made him feel dirty - taking Frank's affection, his love, without consent. He wouldn't hold him, calm him, if he knew. If-he-knew, if-he-knew, it was a tattoo in his mind. 

"...h-h-how c-can you l-l-l-love me?" Matt heaved eventually, words garbled by the tears now soaking his face and a hysteria climbing into his throat. "...howcanyouloveme? I-I'm n-n-not worth it, 'm, 'm, not, 'm notworthitnotworthitnotworthit..."

The grip around him tightened and suddenly he was in Frank's arms, being carried to his bed, soothing kisses pressed to his temple, overwhelming his sensations. The gentle, steady reassurances were barely there but over and over and over again Frank said them: "You're the best thing that could'a happened to a broken thing like me."

He fell asleep to the trace of them on his skin.

*   *   *

There was a radiating heat smothering his body when he woke. Matt didn't remember much of how he got into bed but he knew there was only one person that could own the warmth beside him. 

Frank shifted in his sleep, muttering under his breath that the lawyer didn't catch. His face felt blotchy and sore, while his skin felt just a touch too tight for his body. The perks, he remembered suddenly, of bawling like a baby before his Soulmate. Part of him couldn't believe he'd lost control so spectacularly. Part of him couldn't believe he'd lasted as long as he had. In a way, they were doomed for some form of implosion, Matt just hadn't suspected he would be the cause of it. 

The ex-marine roused sluggishly, blinking a few times as though trying to gather himself before shifting the arms that had wrapped themselves around Matt and dragged him into the curve of his body. They tightened, almost as a reassurance to Frank that Matt was still there, before relaxing again. 

"I know you're awake, Blue," Frank rumbled softly, leaning forward to brush a hesitant, feather-light kiss to his temple. Matt hummed in reply, not quite trusting his voice. There was another hesitation before: "I gotta ask," he began. 

"...I know," Matt rasped. He sounded even worse than he thought he would. It was like sandpaper scratched against a wire brush in his throat. 

"Last night," Frank said slowly, "when you were...upset. Ya said things, Blue." Matt stiffened but the ex-marine pushed on. "Ya said you weren't worth lovin'..."

"'m not," the lawyer returned, squeezing his eyes tight. "Everything I touch turns to shit."

"Matthew."

"Don't," the shorter man snapped, pulling away and sitting up, his back to Frank as he tried to regain composure. The silence loomed large around them. 

"...Is this 'bout ya Soulmate?"

Matt could have laughed. In fact he couldn't be entirely sure that a choked, half-snort didn't burst free from his lips. "You could say that," he eventually replied. A hand settled on his shoulder. 

"Whatever that bastard said, Murdock, he was wrong, ya hear me?" There was such conviction in Frank's voice, such certainty, that his heart twisted just a little - as did his stomach.

"How do you know? How, Frank?" He was standing, something angry and bitter driving him to his feet. 

"Cos you ain't a bad person, Blue."

"And who would be a bad person in your book, Castle?"

"Any of those shitheads that hurt my family, those corrupt cowards in Washington, that lunatic Fisk - all of them are bad people, darlin', and you're good, Matt, you ain't a monster like them -"

"Like Daredevil is?"

Admittedly, those were not the words that were supposed to leave his mouth. In fact they weren't even close to the: "I'm not good Frank, and this is never going to work" that he had intended to say. But somehow the sentence spilled forth, sitting heavy on the now tension filled room, because that was the root of all their problems: The Devil of Hell's Kitchen. 

"Daredevil ain't got shit to do with this conversation, Blue, and no, you're better than Daredevil - and yeah, he may be better than those shitheads, but only because he's a holier-than-thou prick - and I -"

"He's your Soulmate," Matt pushed. 

"He ain't shit to me," Frank spat. 

"We can't be this, Frank," Matt shouted, hands in his hair, tugging madly. "It can't work, it can't."

"Why not?" he snarled. "Because of this...?!" Matt had no doubt that the mark on Frank's wrist was being brandished in his face, but he didn't have the energy to conjure up any focus to try and see it. "I don't want this, Blue, I don't want to be bound to him." He strode around the bed, coming to a stop beside Matt, hands framing his face in a tender, loving hold. "I want you, Blue, damn it, I just want you."

There was a long heavy silence. 

"But you have Daredevil's words," he replied finally, pulling away and walking into the living room. 

"Matt -" Frank never managed to finish his sentence because suddenly Matt was throwing up his hand, stopping him from speaking.

"You have Daredevil's words, Frank," Matt repeated, turning to stare him straight in the eyes. "And I? I have The Punisher's."