bang.

Anyone who said that relationships didn't need work because they were Soulmates were, Frank thought, full of shit.

Soulmates were hard. Really hard. The very idea of a Soulmate was difficult. A person existing solely to finish your sentences and to slip seamlessly into your life might, for some, be a dream; but for anyone with a sense of independence and an idea of romance that existed outside rom-coms, it was tragically difficult. Then, to actually meet such a person, to be with them, get to know them? It was almost impossible.

At least for Frank.

In the movies it was easy. Falling into each other's arms, a person's other half was perfect and impossibly flawless. They saw you the way no one else did, and they completed you, filling in the cracks in your soul with gold and joy. They were calm, kind and careful, minding the ragged edges of yourself and smoothing over the boiling anger and fear that simmered beneath your skin. For Frank, he'd thought, once, that he'd want that. He'd want that more than anything else in the world. Selfishly, he'd wanted it when he was in hot, dirty sand, with the pop-pop-pop of gunfire and the chattering screams of dying soldiers playing like a soundtrack in his ears - despite already having a wife at home. He'd wanted the owner of his words to reach out and fill in what was left, so he could ignore the despairing, volatile panic that gripped him beneath canvas tents, and the bile that claimed his throat when he scrubbed his hands red raw to rid them of blood after killing. He'd wanted it. He wanted it more than Maria. The need had been so overwhelming, he often thought it might choke him out. Sometimes he wished it would. At least then he wouldn't have to stare down a scope and watch shit hit the fan again and again and again as his brothers bled out into dirt and civilians burned in bombed out houses. He wanted his Soulmate, eagerly and with no thought of the ready-made family waiting at home for him.

He'd wanted it right up until he realised his Soulmate would destroy him. 

Because despite that want, he did love his Maria, and a Soulmate would burn through that love like tinder. It would obliterate it, as though it had never been there. And that wasn't fair. It wasn't fair to a woman who was honourable, and good, and didn't hate Frank for screaming himself awake at night. Who helped him through the terrors and never judged him when he curled up in the bathroom, paralysed by fear because his mind told him that only dangers lurked outside. Maria, who smiled, laughed as though on a fair ground ride and held his hand when he'd turned to her, panic-striken, after swerving the car across three lanes to avoid a paper bag he thought might have been an IED.

So he took an oath.

After all, what better way to prove that he truly loved his wife that to swear he would never, ever love another, regardless of the words stitched into his skin and soul?

Then Maria was dead. 

...and Lisa. 

...and Frankie. 

And his head pounded with blood and rage and fear and desperation, and a howling struck up in his ears, driving one foot in front of the other and demanding blood as payment. 

It stopped when he heard them. 

The words. 

"Why didn’t you take my mask off?"

He knew then that the movies weren't just wrong, they were delusional. Because having a Soulmate was hard. Hard on his heart, hard on his head and hard on the promises he'd given to a woman and their children. 

Because Matt was everything. Matt was justice-incarnate and equality wrapped up in soft lines and charm. He was beautiful and fierce, but strong. And fuck he was smart - smarter than Frank could ever hope to be - but too humble to ever lord that intelligence over him. He made Frank feel at home, at ease in his own skin in a way he hadn't since before he deployed. For the first time since picking up a gun, Frank Castle had the overwhelming urge to put one down for the final time. And it was all because of Matt. Matt who he was falling in love with so, so easily. Matt who soothed the broken parts of him with kindness and calm. Matt was his centre. Matt was his everything.

Matt, who was not his Soulmate.

Who was his Soulmate. 

Because he wasn't, then he was. And love turned to fear turned to anger turned to rage.

Soulmates were hard. 

But when his, after months of tentative co-existence, lay bleeding to death in his arms, there wasn't anything other than undiluted and blood-saturating terror. Because Matt could not die. It didn't matter that they were barely speaking, floating around each other in some unspoken truce neither party knew the rules of. Or that months after kissing the man he wanted to spend every waking second of the day with had revealed that he was the one person he couldn't have, Frank still couldn't accept Daredevil as a Soulmate. The only thing that mattered was that Matt couldn't die. Frank would open his own wrists and bleed into the wound if he had to, but the blue-eyed man was not dying in Frank's arms. He would save him. He had to. 

In the end, though, it wasn't Frank that saved Matt. 

It took a single phone call and then she was there: Claire. 

She was calm, but the shake in her hands spoke volumes of her concern. Eventually, after doing as best as she could, they redressed Matt, Frank changed, and they raced to the hospital. Sixteen hours, several berating, furiously whispered lectures from Foggy and two tearful breakdowns from Karen later, they finally piled into the lawyer's room, watching monitors beep and Matt's heavily bandaged chest rise and fall sluggishly.

It was then, staring at the smudged taupe walls of that shit-smelling place, that Frank had the thought. A single thought that slotted everything into place. That he might be in love with Matt Murdock, but he would burn down the world to save the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, because he loved him too.

Frank loved every part of him.

Which meant he loved Daredevil: his Soulmate. Because Daredevil was a part of Matt - an embodiment of the furious morality and strong sense of justice that Frank adored - and no denial would change that. Daredevil was a part of Matt the same way the Punisher was a part of him. And how could anyone who wouldn't kill be responsible for death? How could his alter-boy, who helped old women cross the street and let the vulnerable pay him in pineapples and prayers ever be held accountable for his family? How could Matt, who was still by his side despite everything, be anything other than the purest soul there was? 

And how had Frank allowed himself to be so cruel?

He was a monster. He had been monstrous. Fear and panic aside, he was heartless and demonic. 

He'd been... a  devil.

There was a movement to his right. Foggy and Karen, passed out in their respective chairs, didn't stir, but a slow groan and shift and his eyes turned to the bed-bound patient. Frank reached out, taking Matt's hand and laced their fingers together with little fanfare. Even drugged, confused and half asleep, the surprised jolt followed by the sudden stare to the side of Frank's head told him that the lawyer not only knew just who was holding his hand, but was more than just a little taken aback my the action. 

"It ain't your fault, Red," he began gently, squeezing the fingers just tight enough to convey his point. "It never was. And it weren't right for me to say it was," he continued. The ex-marine took in a long breath. "It would'a been crueller to send ya my way when Maria and the kids were still alive. Especially 'cos I know I'd-a picked you in a heartbeat."

"Frank -"

"I owe ya an explanation, I know. And ya right, I was shitty. Real shitty. But I gotta try an' tell ya why," he took a long, deep, steadying breath. "Ya know, when Daredevil said ma words, it all made sense. It made sense that this was the one for me, because who else could understand something this broken? Who else could accept a crappy soldier whose too good at killing? But, shit, Red, it hurt. Cos I loved my Maria, and well, she never got me. She never made sense. But I figured it didn't matter, because I loved her, and I told myself that no matter what happened, I weren't ever gonna love my Soulmate, because that would make what I felt for Maria like puppy love, right? So I blamed the Devil for what he could be - what he could do by makin' me forget about ma wife, ma kids - and that the man upstairs likes fuckin' with people," he paused, inhaling deeply. "Then I meet this blind punk who stitches me up and meets me quip for quip, who don't take any of ma shit, but still lets me be me. It doesn't matter who I am, or what I done. I'm still trusted to get milk, or clean the fucking bathroom. And I get days into it and I think, fuck, I ain't even thought about criminals. I ain't thought about war. And inside I'm panicking, because you made me breathe a little easier, but ya weren't ma Soulmate, so I figured, shit, I got a second chance here. I got a second chance with someone who didn't make sense, but still felt like home, right?" He stopped again, dropping his gaze. "When you told me about Daredevil, I was so angry, Red, but not because you lied. I know why you lied. But because suddenly you made sense. Suddenly I realised tha' you were like me, right? A soldier. But you were also a man, who wanted a life away from the war, and who hadn't really found it. And when you made sense, I realised that while I hadn't thought about criminals, I hadn't really thought about Maria, either. The kids, yeah, but not Maria. And then I realised that what I had with Maria couldn't touch what I could have with you, something that ran deeper than passion and all that shit. An' it scared me. It scared me 'cos I can't have another family just t' lose 'em and hell, the Devil's practically askin' to be lost. I was scared because I didn't want to love anyone more than Maria, I didn't wanna betray her like that...and I realised I already had. I didn't wanna do it, to love someone more than her, but I already did. An' so I punished myself, an' I punished you. Tried to pretend tha' I didn't have the feelings, that it wasn't important, and I could choose to feel." His eyes were suspiciously damp and he took a moment to recompose himself, throat suddenly incredibly thick. He didn't want to bawl in front of Matt, but something told him he might not be able to avoid it. "But I didn't realise that jus' cos I love someone else, don't mean that what I had with her is gone. It's always gonna be there, always." He paused again, swallowing. "You're a good man, Red," he stated. "You are," he insisted before turning a little to meet the gaze searching his face imploringly. "And ya don't deserve a bad one as ya Soulmate."

A crease settled between Matt's eyes. "You're not bad Frank," he replied softly, his own eyes wet.

The Punisher chuckled wryly, shaking his head. "Sure, Red," he smiled, gripping the hand beside him even tighter, as though afraid Matt would wrench it back at any moment. "I know I got a lot to make up for, Red," he began, "an' hell ya might not even want me to try. I'd sure as shit tell someone like me to take a hike. But I wanna try. I wanna start over. And unless ya tell me to go, 'm gonna be here, always. Cos I may be a shitty person, but I ain't never lied about...feelings. I'm six-ways broken, Blue, and ya deserve better, but shit I ain't got a name for the way I love you."

The slow, hesitant smile that stretched across Matt's features - his Soulmate's features - was glorious. It was radiance, and joy, and a tentative, hopeful eagerness that the soldier wanted to lose himself in. For the first time in a long, time, there was something filling his chest that had nothing to do with rage or bitterness, no hatred, spite or even loss. For the first time, the red haze that enveloped him wasn't fury, it was a soft, orange-pink-red sunset. And as cheesy as it sounded, Red, his Red, was the only colour he wanted for the rest of his days (although he wouldn't say no to some Blue every now and again).

He'd been more than just a little wrong. He'd be too twisted and wrapped in the self-hatred and fear that had driven his actions as a one-man army, he forgot that Frank had been destined for something more. He missed his family, and he always would, but he had a new family now. A family that saw the ugly, dirty parts of him, and still embraced him lovingly. That stood by him even when every part of them disagreed. That still let them share meals, even after screaming for hours until their voices went hoarse. Who, even after ranting on the morality of killing, allowed Frank to stack his guns in the closet. Who still made him tea when he came home covered in blood. If that wasn't what a Soulmate really was, Frank didn't have a clue how to define it. 

Maybe he wasn't supposed to. 

But when that grin began to shape words, he realised that, in the end, it didn't matter. Because Matt slowly reached out his free hand and said: "Hello, 'm Matthew Murdock. It's nice to meet you."

"Frank Castle," he replied softly, accepting the hand, shocked that such a man would willingly offer to start over. "I hear ya ma Soulmate."

Matt huffed out a weak laugh, tightening his grip just a fraction. "Who knows?" he smiled. "I prefer to let things take their natural course." 

Frank huffed out a laugh. "Ya the best thing that could'a happened to a broken thing like me, Red, an' I'm gonna make sure I spend every day makin' it up to ya, makin' sure ya know it."

A pause. "I like lasagne."

Then Matt smiled brightly and Frank grinned carelessly in reply, finally, finally, coming home.