bang.

Had anyone told Matt months ago that the Punisher would make a good ally, he would have thought them insane and dropped them off at the nearest hospital so they could get the treatment they so obviously needed. The fact that he had perched on a rooftop clad head to toe in red, Frank by his side, tracking some misled youths back to the warehouse where the Albanians kept most of their product (both of the narcotic and human kind), was more surprising that he cared to admit. After weeks of arguments and screaming at the top of their lungs about what the other did, why they did it, how they did it, there finally came a case they neither could tackle alone. Daredevil, despite all his effort, blood and sweat, couldn't connect the dots and Frank, well Frank had finally realised that killing people didn't actually allow them to lead you to the next piece of the organisation. It was still only by chance, though, that the pair realised they were working on the same investigation into the Albanians. Matt had begun chasing down what was left of the Russians; Frank had butchered his way through a rival gang and found his way to them. It was only on a downtown rooftop that their paths crossed and Frank's fingers twitched, as though reaching for his gun.

"What ya doing here Red?" he spat, rolling his shoulders. 

"They're trafficking girls, Frank," Matt replied. "Some are as young as thirteen," he paused, tone turning scathing. "You going to tell me to go home?"

There was a moment where the lawyer was sure his Soulmate was, but then a half-exhale rattled through his teeth. "No," he bit out. 

And so began the tentative, shaky partnership of The Devil of Hell's Kitchen and The Punisher. It wasn't filled with anything other than arguing - mostly about the methods they wished to use - although marginal compromise had been taken, if only to stop Matt from kicking Frank's guns out of his hand. The ex-marine took kill shots at those he had a true hatred for: child killers, molesters, anyone, really, who hurt children or the particularly vulnerable. He also did it when Matt wasn't there to stop him, but more often than not he was aiming for painful, non-fatal areas. Recently he'd gained a habit of shooting for the spine, shattering the vertebrae and crippling his targets so they were more or less useless to the gangs as runners or hit-men and able to spread fear into the underbelly of New York that the Punisher was at large once more. It was a compromise that Matt wasn't comfortable with, but as it was a compromise, he didn't push the unstable, unspoken deal they had reached. A deal that had not only persisted in the dark, but had somehow migrated into the day, interweaving its way into all aspects of their lives.

It was, perhaps, for that reason that Matt had settled on calling Frank 'partner', rather than Soulmate... at least in his head. It encompassed much of what Frank was to him: someone who shared his home and his space in the light, albeit silently (Matt hadn't yet decided whether he preferred the insults, because at least then Frank was speaking to him), then sometimes came patrolling with him at night. The non-acceptance was hesitant, the obvious dislike somehow mild and passive, a shift in Frank's approach that only added to the shit-show of emotional turmoil, confusion and ridiculously comical misunderstandings that had become Matt's life. Because at the end of it all, he was in love with his...partner...despite everything.  

And when the Albanians were finally taken down - although Matt was nearly one hundred percent sure they didn't get everyone - via three gunfights and a particularly brutal fistfight that had him wheezing for the next two weeks through bruised lungs, another villain took their place. There was always someone, some group, for Matt to defeat, and for Frank to use as target practice. After the Albanians, the Russians grew cocky, re-emerging into Hell's Kitchen like a weed. They were relatively easy though. With no real authority structure, they quickly dispersed in the face of The Punisher and Daredevil. The one that followed, however, was more difficult. Some unknown, deranged psychopath belonging to the Cesare crime family who decided that calling out the Punisher was the smart way to guarantee long-term survival in the Kitchen. He'd been more than just a little surprised when Daredevil appeared too, even with the rumours floating around about their team up, to barely stop him from shooting Frank in the stomach. Matt might not have got involved had the man not desecrated the grave of Frank's ex-wife and children. Soulmate or not, behaviour like that deserved more than just one kick in the teeth from the Devil.

Then, finally, there was him. 

The reason they were once again sat on a rooftop, tolerating each other in a way they hadn't been since before Frank found out.

Frank had never mentioned anyone else from his life before The Punisher, but the way he'd inhaled sharply, a choking noise spluttering in his chest and his hand suddenly white-knuckled as he gripped onto the nearby wall too tight told Matt that the man on the other end of his scope - the man gun running up and down the north end of the east coast and shooting people in the face with alarming regularity - was somebody he knew. And knew well. It had still taken four days before Frank revealed a name. Billy Russo. A soldier. They served together. Old friend. His words were clipped and laced with a tone that eerily resembled that of Frank's "Stop digging, Red," the night Matt spoke his words. He'd not said much else. Matt could hear though, and hear well. It was much more than that. There was something important about Billy Russo, something that spoke of family and longing and a desperate, volatile desire to burn down the world so there'd be nothing left to hurt him.   

But Billy Russo was a criminal. He was a murderer. He was a thief. And even the war raging inside of Frank came to an abrupt end when Russo shot the elderly mother of a man who got too cocky in cold blood. To stop anyone else getting ideas, he'd said as they dragged the body away, across the concrete floor of the warehouse, the stark red blood smearing against the dark grey. There was no discussion after that. Frank even started calling him Russo, with a biting venom and dogged determination. Matt ached in places he didn't know he had when that happened, because something told him Billy had just died, and Frank had lost family yet again. Not that he would talk about it, of course. 

There was a shipment coming in at just before two, according to Frank's source, but it was still only half one and the cold was beginning to seep into Matt's bones. While it stopped a knife, his suit did little to help protect him from the heavy damp of a New York evening in the late autumn. Not to mention the chill rolling off the water from the docks beneath them, washing over the pair with every tide, reminding Matt constantly of how desperately he wanted a coat and a warm blanket. 

"Can ya not stop ya teeth from chattering?" Frank sniped, not looking up from his scope.

"It's. Cold."

"It's. Distracting." Frank replied. 

"You've not complained before."

"Ain't been doing this for long enough for me to complain."

"We've been working together for two and a half months, Frank," Matt snapped.

"Must'a been warmer," he muttered.

"Incredibly, Castle, the seasons change. Nights get colder."

"Maybe if you wore more than jus' ya pyjamas, Red, ya wouldn't get cold."

"Maybe if you didn't insist we were here three hours in advance, I wouldn't have to wait around in 30 degree weather," Matt hissed.

"Fuckin' child," he said, shaking his head a little. The blue eyed man went to reply before pausing. 

"He's here," he whispered, sitting back on his haunches and into a crouch. "There's a SUV," he continued, "with four. There's another six coming on bikes, from the east."

"'Bout fuckin' time," Frank muttered, rolling his shoulders and taking long, slow steady breaths. 

"Stick to the plan, Frank," Matt said, pulling down his mask and hopping from roof and running along until he could jump onto a nearby shipping container. He kept half his attention on those around him, but made sure he could hear the steady thump of the partner's heart. 

The cars came to an abrupt stop, people piling out, but the time Matt had crept the length of a dozen containers to get a better position. The click of metal and the scent of gunpowder reached Matt's senses. They were armed not for a fight, but to take down an army. A one-man army perhaps. But even if Frank's name had circulated around the Kitchen, it was clear that Billy didn't know just who the Punisher was - or that Frank was the Frank he'd fought with. Surely he'd have been more careful if he knew.

"Hurry up," he barked, slamming the door shut and glancing around with an almost bored look in his eye. "Now!" His minions scattered, each hurrying to fulfil whatever orders they'd been given by their boss. Matt waited, listening closely. He could begin to hear the faint noise from the ship no doubt hauling Russo's cargo. The disturbances in the waves were small, but enough to tell him that Frank's source was more than accurate about the timing. Suddenly, with a burst of adrenaline in his veins, he didn't begrudge Frank's insane need to be three hours early for a stake out. 

He was so focused on the boat, however, that it took Matt a moment to register the familiar hitch of his partner's breath before: "One batch, two batch, penny and dime."

Then Frank pulled the trigger. 

What the fuck was he thinking...?

Even suppressed, the shots still cracked open the sky in the quiet of the New York night. And while the first three of the bikers were down before anyone reacted, suddenly everything was happening at once. 

Diving for cover, Russo and the remainder of his men opened fire, blindly shooting in any direction they felt like, desperate to defend themselves from every angle. Billy's voice was echoing out over the gunfire, directing orders but even hearing their next intentions, Matt was too heavily pinned down by bullets to move, and while Frank was still taking shots at them from his place on the roof, they were too well hidden for him to do enough damage. Not to mention, of course, that every time he pulled the trigger, the flash of the muzzle was like a flare signalling his location. Even scared and confused, it wouldn't take Russo's men - or Russo himself - long to find just where The Punisher was perched. Which meant that Matt had to act. 

The noise was deafening, like hail on a tin roof that had somehow played over a roaring lion. Part of Matt wanted to shut it all out; another part of him wondered how the whole of Manhattan wasn't deafened by the calamity. Bullets ricocheted off the shipping container for what felt like hours but a series of clicks and a pause told Matt they were reloading. He took the chance. Clenching his hands into fists, he flung himself from the container and forward, sprinting quickly across the docks and sticking as close to shadows as he could. The gunfire had struck up again, but he pushed on, finally reaching the first of his gunmen and launching himself forward. The man went down relatively easily, although having his head stuck against the ground by the Devil of Hell's Kitchen encouraged the matter. The second and third, hiding behind an oil barrel, went down just as quickly, leaving only Billy and four others, unless he called for backup that was. 

Frank, clearly watching Matt through his scope, had begun to lay down some cover fire, essentially sacrificing his position in doing so. All attention from the remaining criminals turned to the rooftop, peppering the brickwork with bullets. A palm strike to the chin followed by a knee to the groin and a hammer strike to the back of the head had bad guy number seven dropping to the ground with a groan, before falling instantly silent. With only four left, Matt was beginning to feel strangely optimistic.

A sudden punch to Matt's chest had him falling backwards, stumbling and pitching. His hand threw itself out to catch him but he only succeeded in jarring his wrist. It took him a second to realise that it wasn't an assailant with a fist and a grudge, but rather a bullet that had gathered up his tissue, veins, blood and skin and spat it out on the concrete behind him. 

In a way it was probably some twisted sense of Fate that it was Billy Russo on the other end of the gun, but Matt didn't like to think about that. Not when he tasted blood and bile in the back of his throat and he was stumbling for cover, dragging himself away as Frank shot bullet after bullet and the blurring screams of another dead criminal overlapped with the eager exclamations of Russo, telling the two left that they all should get the fuck out of here; then more firing and the smell and burnt rubber and the squeal of tires. 

The world seemed to shudder around him, seconds sliding into minutes, with time becoming mercurial and disconnected. Chaos was opening up its veins and bleeding into the world.

Footsteps.

Matt pressed down on the ragged wound in his chest with a shuddering gasp, his free hand scrambling to find leverage to pull himself up, to defend himself, to do his job, to be what he was. There were hands on him suddenly, then came the smell: gunpowder and coffee... Frank. He clutched on to the ex-marine tightly, fingers wrapping themselves over the top of the Kevlar vest, the other, slick with blood, tangling itself in his coat. 

"I...told you," Matt breathed harshly, brain not really registering the words but somehow determined enough to get them out, "to stick...to...the p-plan." He could feel himself losing consciousness. There was a heavy weight settling on his shoulders, his ears were beginning to ring and a painful burning sensation had struck up on his wrist. "You're-a, a crappy...partner," he slurred, the numbness spreading faster now, chasing down his limbs and seeping into the gaping hole that had carved open his chest. He heaved in what little breath he had, clutching tighter and forcing out the words he'd been holding in for weeks. He was spluttering, choking on blood, but still his lips moved. "An'-a prett' shitty S-Soulmate, t-too."

A sharp inhale.

Then everything went black.