bang.

"He really gone?" Foggy asked as he walked through the door for the first time in weeks. 

Matt heaved in a breath, lungs burning at the motion. "Yeah," he muttered, voice cracking, because it had been five days and he still couldn't shake the ill feeling that notion brought. 

Foggy frowned a little. "Good," he replied with a sharp nod before a smile broke free and he lifted the bag he was carrying to almost head height. "I grabbed our favourite Indian," he grinned, bubbly. "And you better share this time," he ordered, "because I'm starving. And after the day we've had with the Penelope's redundancy package, I'm looking forward to just stuffing my face." Foggy seemed happy. Happy for the first time in a long time.

Because Frank was gone.

He'd fought the truth at first. His "Bull. Shit," had rung around the deadened air of the apartment. Matt had quickly dismissed that:

"You called me Red," he croaked. "After you chained me to a roof." 

The rage under Frank's skin burned for a second, before he'd gritted out "Prove it."

He'd left the moment Matt showed him the suit. The lawyer hadn't even gotten around to showing him his Soulmark and the first word Frank had said to him. Instead the ex-marine had turned on his heel, gathered up his gun, coat and pulled on his boots before stalking out the door without a single word. Matt let him go. He was always supposed to let Frank go. It was his punishment after all. His cross to bear. His Soulmate destined to make him atone for his many, many sins. The following silence had been deafening. In fact, for a moment, Matt was sure that he'd lost his hearing once more, but the sudden sound of Frank screaming as he drilled his fists over and over into the brick wall of an alley three streets away told him he hadn't. The pain made Matt cry once more, because everything he'd feared had happened. Everything Frank thought about him was true. All the bullshit about him being good? About Frank wanting him? - it all went away with the revelation that he was Daredevil. Because he wasn't good, and he didn't deserve to be happy. In the days that followed his Soulmate's departure, he wondered whether he even deserved to live.

He'd spent an hour staring at one of the guns Frank had left in his apartment, the damning words The Punisher had spat about Daredevil swimming in his brain, before finally driving himself to his feet to see Father Lantom. When he returned, the priest following close behind, he let the man take the gun, the bullets, and even the hunting knife that belonged to his other half, and dispose of them as he saw fit. He didn't ask what the Father did with them, but his appreciation was overwhelming the following morning. The Priest had only smiled worriedly and insisted he come to mass. He didn't feel better, but there was no longer the itch to do something permanent when the service finally ended. Lantom was thankful for that, he'd said, but told Matt repeatedly to surround himself with friends - that he'd feel less alone when surrounded by the people he loved.

It was only that morning, however, that he gathered enough courage to finally mention anything to Foggy and Karen, saying as casually as he could that Castle was better and had moved on. Karen had frowned. Foggy had taken that as an open, and welcome, invitation to return things to their previous state. In a way Matt was grateful, but with his bones feeling like lead, it was difficult to muster up anything particularly stronger than a halfhearted wince of a smile.     

"Come on, my friend," Foggy laughed as he dished out the food, grossly overfilling his own plate, "dig in."

And Matt did. He did as Father Lantom told him. He immersed, he surrounded, himself with his life. He pretended that his heart wasn't aching and that the smell of Frank didn't still linger on his bed-sheets. He went to work, ignoring the pains that flared up in his bones. And when that didn't work, for the first time in over a month, he donned the suit and went on patrol. Kicking criminals in the teeth, punching flesh and hearing bones crack had made his blood sing, but now it just made him feel only a little more human. It dulled the ache, but never fully eradicated it. He supposed he'd better get used to the sensation, though, given that it would stay with him for life. He hoped Frank didn't feel it, or at least that he took the worst of it (but after being rejected by his Soulmate not once, but twice, he figured he'd endure the worst of the sensations). Daredevil, ironically, after all the trouble he had caused, was the only thing keeping him sane.

And so it went.

For twomonths.  

And with each day he grew worse. He got weaker, which forced him to train longer and harder to keep in shape, and the world slowly dimmed of colour. He lost his appetite, keeping very little down, and the bouts of deafness grew more and more frequent, with attacks coming twice, if not three times, a week. He grew used to screaming into the dark, lost and confused and blind. He barely slept, haunted by nightmares of Frank dying, Frank screaming, Frank holding his dying children, Matt standing over Frank's broken body with blood on his knuckles and the war-drum tempo of his heartbeat in his ears. They cycled over and over again, changing just enough that they weren't predictable. After all, if they were predictable then he knew what to expect and he could prepare to some degree. They never allowed it. God's punishment was thorough, and relentless, never ceasing in using the Punisher to effectively break Matt down over and over again.

The lack of rest, though, had begun to worry outside forces. Father Lantom, again more than just a little concerned, had somehow joined forces with Foggy, both convinced he was pushing himself too hard to defend the Kitchen. If only they knew he could barely stand after a couple of hours on patrol. If only they knew that the Devil was barely a threat. Matt thanked God everyday that his name and the mere sight of him was enough to scare most of those eager to break the law, especially with the disappearance of the Punisher. Once again, Daredevil was the primary force of vigilantism in the city, and most ran scared before they could engage him.

And he would be, for as long as he could...Which probably wouldn't be much longer. 

Matt wasn't an idiot, he knew the signs. He knew he exhibited every symptom of Soul-Separation-Sickness, that vile disease that was rare enough to be glamorised in movies and almost always ended with a mad dash to the hospital to reunite a separated pair. He knew that he was being slowly pulled apart. What he had hoped, though, was that Foggy was an idiot...at least an idiot when it came to this. Unfortunately he wasn't.

The man was quiet, too quiet, for six days; contemplating something that Matt couldn't muster the energy to listen for. Eventually he began to stare. Openly, brazenly: it was more than just uncomfortable, it unnerved him. Matt Murdock was unsettled by his best friend. He realised then just how quickly he was wasting away. It came to a head two months, one week, four days, sixteen hours and forty nine minutes after Frank had left. Matt, struggling with another bout of deafness, was curled up, sobbing against his wall, hands tugging at his ears as though he hoped to pull them off. There had been nothing but ringing and a whiteness he associated with being vulnerable, when a hand clamped down on his arm. Then he began to scream in earnest, flailing as he did, a panic thrumming through him he'd never felt before, because anything could happen, and he was powerless to stop it. He tried to run, only to trip and fall, leaving him scrabbling away across the floor like a frightened child, backing himself into the corner where the television had once stood. He kept screaming. He screamed until his voice cracked. Instead he began to speak; words falling from his lips without permission, but nevertheless falling.

He spoke quickly. No-one touched him again. 

Eventually the ringing stopped, as it always did, and he became aware of two voices angrily talking. Foggy, he was sure, was one, the other he didn't fully recognise. 

"F-F-Foggy?" he asked, still frightened but desperately hopeful his friend was there. 

"Oh thank God," Foggy exhaled all in one breath. "God, Matt, are you okay?!" He was beside him in an instant. "You couldn't hear me Matt, what happened?"

"'m okay," he croaked. 

"No, no, no, no, you are so very far from being okay, Matt? What the hell's going on...? This looks like the...the Sickness, Matt."

Matt took a moment to compose himself, wetting his lips and pushing back the pain strumming through his body. He shouldn't say anything, but there was no way his friend was going to let this go, not now. Not to mention, of course, it wasn't like he could actually hide what was happening to him anymore. "It, uh, it is Soul-Sickness, Fog," he breathed, before chuckling wryly. "'m dying."

The air could have shattered like glass it was so still. 

"But...Who?" he eventually asked, tears in his voice, "Matt, who?"

"Bang," Matt muttered in reply, flashing his wrist and releasing a breathy chuckle. "...said it...when he shot me...in the head."

Foggy's lungs inflated as though pumped up like a balloon. "The Punisher?!" he asked hoarsely. "Oh Jesus."

Matt chuckled in reply, a wet, heavy thing that tasted like blood. "Yep."

"What happened?" Fog breathed. 

"Left," he rasped. "Frank...hated Daredevil. Liked Matt, though...he wanted... I told him. Then -"

"He just left?!"

"Deserve it, Fog...to be 'lone. 'm not...good."

"You're better than that asshole," he swore, before: "Sorry Father."

"Lantom?" Matt asked. 

"I'm right here, Matthew," Father Lantom replied, kneeling down beside him. "I'm sorry we didn't come to your aide sooner."

"...nothing you could'a done, Father."

"Nevertheless -" He was cut off by Foggy's phone. 

"Shit, it's Karen," he said. "I told her I was coming to check on you. Hang on." He answered, not moving his hand from its place on Matt's knee. "Karen, this isn't really a good time, can I call you back?"

"Foggy, listen!" She sounded panicked. "The shoot-out downtown, remember? Three dozen dead, and they put six bullets in the guy who did it! I know who it was!"

"Who?" Matt asked, dread crawling up his spine, because he hadn't heard about that: too lost in the fog of his mind, and no-one, no-one, could take down three dozen men in a gunfight, other than Frank. 

"Who Karen?" Foggy asked.   

"Frank Castle," she replied, "it's the Punisher."

"Help me get dressed," Matt demanded, trying to stand.

"Wait -" Foggy started. 

"Matthew," muttered Father Lantom. 

"What hospital?" Matt asked, wheezing slightly. 

"Don't even think about it Matt," Foggy hissed, "we -"

"They'll...they'll g-give him the c-chair, Fog," he paused, "and then...won't matter."

"Shit," he cursed. "Karen, go to the hospital, text me the address, we're on our way."

Maybe they would have a mad-dash to the hospital, Matt chuckled to himself as he was helped into his bedroom so he could pull on his suit. 

"Your ears are bleeding Matthew," Father Lantom murmured, bringing a damp cloth to wipe away the blood. It was clear the man wanted to say something, although was unsure as to whether it would be welcome. Matt must had jerked his head or looked at his just right because suddenly he was speaking. "Whatever you may think of this match, Matthew, I will say this: while I do not know God's intentions, I am sure he is not punishing you." The vigilante laughed hoarsely. "Listen to me, son. Have you considered, perhaps, that God sent you Mr Castle because it was Mr Castle in need of saving? And that you, Matthew, were the only one capable of doing so?"

"Father -"

"Just because you assume the worst, does not mean that the worst is His intention. There is nothing that cannot be redeemed, Matthew, and who better to help such a man on the path to redemption, than you?"

There was a long silence. Then:

"Matt! You okay?!"

"Coming Foggy," he replied, fidgeting with his tie and ignoring the growing lethargy in his bones. "Thank you Father."

"Be careful, Matthew," he replied.

Then Foggy was leading him away, onto the street, into a cab, to the hospital, through the ID check with Karen hanging over their shoulder. Through Brett, through, "the man's already got a lawyer" and Matt was grateful Foggy did most of the talking. But he couldn't help the shake in his hands, the slowly growing sensation behind his navel, pulling him closer and closer to the door. Frank was there.

Frank was there. 

Matt could smell the antiseptic, the blood from his wounds, the surgical gauze, and the cold chink of metal on his wrists. He could hear the laboured breathing, a mirror to his own. Shit, he realised, Frank was suffering too. Not as badly, but he was. Matt was stepping forward before he could think. 

"Matt, the tape," Foggy called out. He stopped. Not that he wanted to. No, he wanted to map out every wound on the man.

"Frank Castle," he said, voice wavering. Who knew who was listening.  "My name is Matthew Murdock," be began as Frank's eyes fluttered open. "These are my associates, Franklin Nelson and Karen Page."

The Punisher met his gaze straight on, a half snarl curdling on his lips. "Yeah," he ground out, angry but catching on quick, "I know who you are." A pause. "You protect shitbags."

Matt didn't waver, instead he scoffed. "Then I suppose today is your lucky day Frank," he said. "You see I came here today to make you an offer-"

"I don't want shit from you, Murdock." There was a gasp behind him. Then Karen was charging toward, talking about conspiracy and not at all sticking to the script. 

"This is bullshit Frank," she snarled, pulling out a photo of Frank's family. "Don't you want to know what really happened?"

"Where'd you get that...?!" 

There was arguing and a lot of noise outside the door and suddenly the ground moved beneath Matt's feet. "Shit," he muttered, knowing exactly what was about to happen. He'd experienced it enough times. His knees buckled suddenly and he crumpled in a heap to the ground, ringing returning in full force.

"...Matt? Foggy what's happening?" Karen shouted through the haze. Then nothing.

Nothing but silence.

There was a hand on him, he knew it was Foggy, but that still didn't stop him from hyperventilating. Breath shuddering in and out of his mouth, sharp on his teeth. He was groaning, he knew, from the half rumble in his chest. Foggy's hands left him for a moment and panic set in. A scrambling then they were back on him. His hands were tangled in his hair, fingers digging into his scalp as he waited out the pain. He didn't realise he was praying until he noticed his mouth shaping words, whispering pleas to make it stop, end it, take the pain away.

Suddenly half a dozen hands were on him and he started screaming, thrashing as they tried to pull him to his feet. He struck out his an elbow, catching flesh, before there was a pinch in the side of his neck. 

The black overcame the white.