bang.

When the hospital finally released them, Matt was sure that Frank would disappear. Instead, much to his surprise, he followed the lawyer home like a lost puppy. It wasn't even as though they needed to stick together for appearances sake: the rumours surrounding The Punisher having finally been brought to justice had been dismissed as false. It seemed not even the DA wanted to admit that they may have been chasing a man twisted by the loss of his Soulmate - that wouldn't encourage any reelection hopes. In fact, those who had celebrated Castle, and his actions, would no doubt grow in voice when hearing about the situation with Matt. It didn't matter that it was all bullshit, after all, and that the one-man-army that was Frank had devolved months before meeting Daredevil on a roof in Hell's Kitchen. Frank was matched and injured, while Matt had been afflicted with chronic Soul-Sickness, it tallied up as far as they could see. There would be fewer questions for them now. 

Claire had come personally to wish Matt goodbye, dropping a kiss on his cheek and smiling softly. The blind lawyer ignored the sudden stiffness in Frank's body at the motion, because they hadn't said a single word to one another since Claire waded into their relationship several days previously, and he had no intention of having it out in front of other people. Especially as both he and Frank knew the burning questions were about Daredevil, and why he lied about who he really was.

Foggy and Karen had lingered in Matt's apartment, setting themselves the task of distributing food for the four of them, while Matt changed and Frank stood scowling in the corner like a comical gargoyle. They had been slowly inching closer to each other once more, finding reasons, and ways, to stay within the other's orbit. Although the forced proximity of being hospital roommates had helped, the medically mandatory touch had been the most influential aspect in reestablishing physical closeness. Sat, minding their own business, while the lengths of their sides were pressed against each other, ankle to hip to shoulder, had quickened the healing process for both, but still they hadn't spoken. Foggy had said that was weird, Matt had barely chided him: he too was unsure as to where he stood with Frank. He wasn't too keen on finding out either - especially as the last time they'd attempted such a conversation, the ex-marine had turned tail and run away, hiding for two months until Matt was barely strong enough to stand, and Frank himself resembled a sieve far more than a soldier. 

The other two members of Nelson and Murdock kept the conversation flowing as best they could, although it was difficult with half of the group being less than eager to engage. By the time they'd finished, washed and stacked the plates, Foggy and Karen were exhausted, and more than ready to leave. Karen left first, dropping a kiss on first Matt's and then, much to his surprise, Frank's cheek, before disappearing into the night. Foggy lingered, set himself to be as threatening and broad as he could be, jabbed a finger in the Punisher's face and spat: "You leave, I hunt you down. You try and shoot my best friend in the face again, I'll make sure they never find your stupid ass body." Then he turned, gave Matt a hug and he too was gone. 

"Kid's a maniac," Frank said, breaking the self-imposed silence he'd hung around himself like a cloak. Matt only hummed, not willing to sacrifice the quiet he'd kept religiously for several days. It was more because he knew he had very few boundaries when it came to Frank and the more they began conversing, the quicker those walls would crumble to ash piles at his feet. He knew he wouldn't survive another bout of Soul-Sickness as serious as that again if he let himself fall back into old routines, so keeping his distance was no doubt for the best. For all of them, really.  

"I'm-a go wash up," Frank drawled, heading for the bathroom without preamble and giving Matt a moment to himself. The lawyer found himself taking in a long, deep, slow breath to settle himself before he drew out the warmest blanket he had and draped it over his body, wrapping the fabric around his face too so only his eyes and the crop of his hair remained. It was warm and smelled very faintly of Frank - no doubt where the man had sat down earlier in the evening - which made it even more relaxing. It wasn't difficult to let himself drift. 

His dreams were bloody and fragmented: his father, hands raised in triumph and the crimson still slick on his face, after his final match, victorious and unknowing. His gaze found Matt in the crowd and something animalistic hung around him - the Devil rearing its head as it burned through the veins of the Murdock family. There was pride, too, bleeding through his pores, so heavy that Matt could taste it; the same way he could taste the cool, sharp air of the alley, the tang of the trash and the iron of his father's blood. He was screaming, running forward, only to be struck backwards. The rolling, densely packed shoulders of the Kingpin as he punched downwards again and again and again, striking the flayed wounds that Nobu had carved into him, emerged before him. He tasted iron in his mouth and bile in the back of his throat once more, pain lancing his nerves. Everything burned, and there was only one person he wanted to call out for, to help pull him from the fight - to help save him. But the dream shifted again, and it wasn't the Kingpin he was defending himself from. Instead he was blocking the punches of the one person he'd been calling for: Frank. Frank who was kicking out at him on a rooftop, grunting and peeling back his lip in a half-snarling grin that bared his teeth like a dark, feral thing. A twisted, bitter half chuckle fell from his mouth as he pulled his gun, inched it just a little to the right. "Bang, Red," he said with a smile, "you lose", then he pulled the trigger.

Matt woke, shaking, and it took him a moment to realise he'd fallen asleep on the couch, not in his bed, when he rolled only to find air, space and then the hard of the floor. "Fuck," he cursed, trying to quell the trembling sensation in his limbs, as he dragged a hand through his sweat soaked hair. He'd hoped proximity would get rid of the nightmares, but so far the only thing it had helped with was his hearing and his fatigue. Physically, he was better; mentally, he was far from it. That was more or less the story of his life, he realised.

"You were screamin' 'gain," a voice muttered and Matt jumped, startled, because he'd forgotten that Frank was there. He dug his fingernails into the arm of the chair and focused on his breathing, stemming the panic still swirling in his chest, before heaving himself back into the seat. "You screamed my name," Frank added after a few seconds of silence. 

"Sorry," Matt murmured, ducking his head and thumbing at his eyes. They were wet - he'd been crying.  

"Ya screamed it," he repeated, as though he couldn't help himself. "How long ya been like this?"

"Does it matter?!" Matt snarled, lurching to his feet with a sudden burst of rage, because how dare Frank ask that...

The stance his Soulmate adopted wasn't defensive, but the lines of his body spoke of his suspicions and the slight worry - he was clearly unnerved by the situation. "Yeah it matters," he retorted, voice flat and unreadable, but his heart was beating much too fast to be nonchalant. The only problem was Matt didn't know if Frank's heart-rate denoted anger, fear, frustration or concern.

"I don't know," the younger man bit out, suddenly feeling incredibly uncomfortable. "I -"

"Look Murdock," Frank cut in, voice cold. "We're goin' to have to be 'round each other, alright? We ain't got a choice," he made some gesture with his hand at the empty space between them and then awkwardly at their wrists. "How 'bout we cut the bullshit an' just deal? I may not like ya, but ya are useful at times."

There was an ugly silence. 

"Useful?" Matt asked. His voice was icy but his stomach had dropped to beneath his feet. It sat like a stone and pulled sharply at all his other organs, and while Matt was in no way interested in pursuing a relationship with his other half under duress, the words that Frank kept using were going to kill him if he didn't return to the affectionate tone and language he had used with Blue. 

"Yeah," Frank ploughed ahead. "Let's jus' push through, alrigh'? An' then everyone's happy," he nodded, almost prompting Matt to do the same. When the blind man didn't, Frank sighed. "Look, I don't give a shit about Daredevil," he said, "bu' Matt Murdock ain't tha' bad a guy."

What. The. Fuck. 

"You know they're the same person," Matt replied, deadpan. 

Frank snorted darkly. "Not to me."

The silence was broken by his phone. Text from Foggy, it chanted. Frank got there first. 

"'Matt'," he read, "'don't worry about Castle. Medical came back. His blood work showed the Sickness too. Judge ruled he be cleared of charges. But he has to meet with a therapist once a week for the next six months'. Huh." There was a pause. "So I ain't going to jail then."

"Looks that way."

Frank huffed out a laugh, grin almost feral. "See," he nodded, jerking his head to his wrist once more, "useful."

Matt felt sick. But nevertheless he didn't disagree. 

And so Frank reintegrated back into his life. 

There were more boundaries this time. There was a clear definition between Matt's belongings and Frank's. There was no pre-dinner banter - in fact there was no banter or fooling around of any kind. They were, as far as anyone might see, acquaintances. Barely that. They exchanged words when they had to. After a few days, Matt returned to work and Frank returned to doing whatever he wanted to. If he came back in the evenings, scent saturated in blood and gunpowder, then that was something that Matt had to deal with. The Punisher didn't make excuses and only snarled at Matt when he brought it up. So Matt, angry and bitter, climbed back into the suit. He made sure to stay out of Frank's way, in fact often staying ahead of the man. There had been more than several occasions where the ex-marine had followed a lead, only to find a warehouse already swarming with police and tied up, unconscious criminals. He'd shouted at Matt for interfering when he'd returned to the flat, swearing colourfully at the nerve of him. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, however, replied the same way Frank had, with a simple: "It's none of your fucking business." That had made the man more than furious, in fact he was sure that the soldier might shoot him again. Instead he'd stormed off to a safe house for three days until he began to shake when aiming his rifle, returning with little other than a glare and rooting through Matt's fridge for a beer.

His Soulmate really was a piece of work, Matt thought. Unyielding, stubborn and bull-headed - there were so many words he could use. But everything he said, he cut deep. Every blow tended to be below the belt. No punch was ever pulled. Frank punished Matt constantly. Repeatedly. For being who he was. Because not even his halfhearted attempt to compartmentalise the situation by separating the lawyer and the vigilante into different people could fully rid him of the torrent of emotions he no doubt felt. There were few hints to the man who had held Matt when he cried, or tenderly cupped his face, or let him rest his feet in his lap. Every hard, cold inch of Frank Castle was a war-torn soldier still fighting. 

Father Lantom said it wasn't Matt's fault. That Frank had to make the journey - the discovery - for himself, and that all Matt could hope to do would be to guide him. But how could it not be? Because even with the pain that Daredevil caused Frank, Matt still pulled on the red suit, strode out onto rooftops and beat down criminals. Because the truth was Daredevil was a part of Matt - a part that he needed. Something that, without, he could barely count himself alive. It gave him purpose, strength, focus. It was something that he'd hoped his Soulmate might understand. Frank understood, he just chose not to care. Frank ripped out his heart, tore it apart, stepped on it, crushed it, fed it to a dog. He was ruthless. He was pain. And he did it all with an icy tone and a flat heartbeat. 

And for the first time, Matt didn't want a Soulmate. He didn't want words. He didn't want that. But he couldn't ignore Frank. And, well, he was selfish. And Frank was Frank. So he'd take what he could get. If that was it, then fine. He could be an acquaintance. He could be a punchbag. He could be the thing that centred Frank's hatred and bitterness. 

But he sure as fuck wasn't going to be anything other than himself. And Frank or no Frank, he was the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.