Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Matt heard the heartbeat three blocks away, as steady as a homing beacon parked on the rooftop of his building. He wondered at its presence and suppressed a sigh. It was Christmas Eve, goodwill to all men and all that . . .

All men, Matt reminded himself, as he leaped across an adjoining building. In a few minutes, he’d be home. And for some reason – Matt was hoping it wasn’t to pick a fight, either physically or verbally – Frank Castle was waiting for him. When was the last time he’d seen Castle? Not since before a building in midtown Manhattan had fallen on top of him, before a psychopath had impersonated him as Daredevil, before Castle had made his own headlines coming back from the dead in New York City.

It’d been a while.

“Figured the Devil wouldn’t take the night off, even on Christmas Eve,” Frank said, when Matt landed on his own roof. Frank was speaking normally, as though Matt were standing right in front of him and not yards away on the other side of the rooftop.

Matt raised an eyebrow beneath the black mask. That was the most loquacious greeting Frank had ever given him. The scent of hard liquor drifted over, the vapor an echo that followed Frank’s words.

Ah, well. That would explain some things, Matt thought, a little unsettled by the idea of Frank drinking, of the thought that the Punisher might be drunk, and waiting for him, on Christmas Eve. He kept his body and his actions relaxed, but his senses were on high alert, reaching out and processing the myriad details that surrounded him. Frank was armed (of course). Three guns and three knives. Extra ammunition. Two grenades.

Frank pulled out a bottle from the inside of his coat. A bottle of . . . the other man uncapped the lid . . .

Macallan.

Matt’s preferred poison. The question, ‘Did Frank know that?’ quickly transformed into ‘How did Frank know that?’

Matt heard Frank pouring two fingers of the Macallan into a tumbler (an actual glass tumbler). There were two tumblers beside Frank on the ledge on which he was sitting. Frank held one tumbler out to Matt, and Matt had no choice but to walk over and accept the drink.

“Cheers,” Frank said, knocking his glass against Matt’s and downing the amber liquid in one go, as if it were a shot of tequila instead of a high-priced scotch.

Matt could see why Frank had chosen to wait for him here. The ledge and access stairway that led to his apartment provided some cover from the cold December wind. Yet, he stood motionless in front of the other man, tumbler in hand.

When Frank noticed that Matt wasn’t drinking, he looked up. “What?” he said. “You wanted the 25?”

“Fifteen’s fine,” Matt answered, “especially since it’s sherry oak.” He took a long draught. Unlike Frank, he savored the burn. He could sense the other man smiling. He wondered if Frank would still be smiling if he knew that Matt could ‘see’ the expression. He pushed the thought aside. “What’re you doing here, Frank?” he asked, instead.

“Can’t shoot the breeze with the Devil on Christmas Eve?”

Matt bit back a smile. Alcohol had different effects on different people. Somehow, Matt had expected Frank to be the quiet, morose drunk. He seemed the type. Frank was laconic on the best of days. It seemed logical that alcohol would enhance that reticence. Instead, it did the opposite. This time, a grin tugged at the corners of Matt’s lips at the thought of Frank as a chatty, happy drunk. Well, ‘chatty’ by Frank’s standards.

The other man was looking at him expectantly, waiting for a reply.

“Nope,” Matt said, matter-of-factly. “Shooting the breeze with the Devi isn’t something the Punisher would do.” He held up his glass. “Now, bribing the Devil . . .” he trailed off.

“Is it working?”

Matt shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “You haven’t asked me for anything yet.”

“Scotch’s supposed to soften you up first,” Frank retorted. He paused. Matt could feel Frank giving him the once-over. “How the hell ain’t you freezin’ in that get-up?”

Matt took another sip before he replied. “Lots and lots of thermal underwear,” he deadpanned.

Frank snorted, pouring himself another two fingers. “Thought we were gonna have a white Christmas,” he continued in that same chatty manner that was silently flabbergasting Matt. “Forecasters sure as hell got that wrong. Your voodoo senses tell ya when we’re gonna get snow?”

Matt gave up trying to figure out what was happening and took a seat beside Frank on the cold ledge, the bottle of Macallan between them.

“January,” he said.

“New Year’s?” Frank offered, and damn he sounded hopeful.

“Probably a little later,” Matt said, feeling inexplicably bad for disappointing Frank. “Does the snow mean so much to you?” he asked, after a pause.

Frank shrugged. “The holidays don’t seem right without it,” he said, and left it at that. Matt didn’t push.

Even without snow, it was cold up on the roof. Frank couldn’t have been out there long, otherwise he would’ve turned into an icicle, protection from wind chill or not. Matt stood up abruptly. He still had no idea what Frank was doing here, but he needed to change and get ready. He’d ended his patrol early so he’d have enough time to prepare for midnight mass. He hesitated before saying, “You want to come in?”

The question seemed to jolt Frank out of his stupor. “No,” he said quickly. He stood up as well. “Came by to ask if you were busy on New Year’s Eve.”

Matt couldn’t help the grin that broke out. “Is the Punisher looking for a date?” he teased.

“A special kinda date,” Frank said, a little darkly. His tone had shifted, as had his body language. This was the real reason that he’d shown up on the Devil’s rooftop. “The Owl’s hosting a big party on New Year’s Eve,” Frank explained. “Double celebration. He’s bringing in the kind of drug shipment that’ll change the criminal landscape of the city. He’s got some new partners down in Miami. Thought you and me could go in there and bust up that party. That is, if you ain’t got other plans.”

Matt remained silent. So, he wasn’t the only one who had been tracking the Owl’s movements, but Frank had obviously put more work into it than he had. Since Fisk had been put behind bars again, a vacuum had opened in the criminal underworld. The Owl was looking to step in and fill that void. He thought he could fill the shoes of the Kingpin. Matt didn’t know whether that made him delusional or just foolish. Whatever the Owl was, consolidating the drug trade through new suppliers would go a long way to claiming the Kingpin’s throne.

He nodded, slowly. “All right,” he agreed. He took a step toward Frank, his own body language firm but not yet aggressive. “One condition,” he stated.

“Here it comes,” Frank muttered.

“No killing.”

“Still a goddamned Boy Scout.”

“I mean it, Frank,” Matt said, his voice taking on a harder edge. “You came to me tonight,” he reminded the other man. “That means you know that the operation’s too big to handle on your own. You need my help. If we’re gonna do this together, then we’re gonna do it on my terms. That means no killing.”

It was Frank’s turn to take a step toward Matt, bridging what little distance was left between them. This close, Matt’s senses were enveloped by the other man’s nearness. He could smell the old gunpowder residue that clung to Frank’s Kevlar, the acrylic of the paint that was used to make that ridiculous skull logo, the worn leather of his long coat, the cheap liquor that now mixed with the rich tones of the Macallan on his breath. And underneath all that was Frank’s heartbeat, steady and sure, as it always was.

“Two conditions,” Frank said in return. “No killing and . . .”

Matt waited as Frank purposely drew out the second condition. “And?” he eventually said, a little testily.

“You wear the red suit.”

Matt was about to protest, but Frank cut him off. “No buts,” he barked. “You know how heavily armed Owl’s goons are. For a shipment this big, there’s gonna be double the security and no fucking around. You’re gonna need more than thermal underwear for protection.”

Matt’s protest died on his lips. Every now and then, Frank made a lot of sense. To his chagrin, this was one of those times. He exhaled, hearing the irritation in the sound.

“’Sides,” Frank was saying, a smile back in his voice. “It’s the holidays, Red. You can at least look the part.”

“I’m the Devil, not Santa Claus,” Matt stated flatly.

“But ya both wear the same color,” Frank pointed out with too much good humor. He turned away suddenly, abruptly drawing their conversation to a close. Matt felt off-kilter as Frank began to walk away, gloved hands buried in the pockets of his long coat.

“What about the details for New Year’s Eve?” Matt called after him.

“I’ll contact you,” Frank replied.

Matt remembered the two tumblers and the bottle of Macallan on the ledge. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.

“The tumblers are yours,” Frank said, basically admitting that he’d broken into Matt’s apartment to get the glasses.

“I suppose the Macallan’s mine too?”

“Nah, that’s a gift. Merry Christmas, Red.”

Matt picked up the tumblers and the Macallan and headed inside. He hit the voice activation button on his clock, heard the voice chime out “11:18pm,” and ducked into the shower. He made it to midnight mass with five minutes to spare.

He spent Christmas Day with Foggy and his family. Karen was there, too, of course. The Nelsons had adopted Matt years ago, but since their newly reconstituted firm had moved into the space above the butcher’s shop, the Nelsons had adopted Karen as well. Throughout the day, Frank would cross his mind every now and then. He vaguely wondered how the Punisher was spending Christmas. He almost asked Karen about it. Matt wasn’t sure what was going on between them, but he knew that something was. They were close. Was it the same kind of closeness that he had once shared with Karen? Matt didn’t want to think about that. Those thoughts and feelings were too confusing to unpack on the best of days. He wasn’t going to ruin his Christmas by dwelling on the Punisher.

The Punisher wasn’t being easy on him, however. When Frank said that he’d be in contact, he hadn’t specified how. Matt soon figured that part out. Frank began leaving packages on the roof for him, neatly and securely wrapped. They were also water-proofed, in case it rained before Matt was able to pick them up.

The packages contained Frank’s reconnaissance, all the details that he’d learned about the Owl’s operation, which Matt was able to corroborate through his own research and experience. The information stunned Matt in two ways. Not by the level of detail in Frank’s work – that was to be expected from a professional like Frank – but the mere fact that Frank had so willingly shared his information with Matt. No prompting, no requests, no beating the answers out of him. This was true collaboration. The second, possibly more shocking detail about Frank’s reconnaissance was in its presentation. Most of the information was encoded in Braille, and whatever wasn’t encoded in Braille had been transferred into an easily digestible audio format. Matt was blown away by Frank’s thoughtfulness, not to mention the time it must have taken to transcribe the information into Braille or into audio. Did that mean that Frank had access to a Braille printer? Did he pay for the transcription? And who on earth could you trust to transcribe information about the Owl’s criminal activity? That was the kind of thing that people got killed over.

Matt tried not to think about those details either. He focused on the reconnaissance itself, not on the hows and whys. Frank was behaving a little strangely. Maybe the guy was going through some things (wasn’t he always going through some things, not that Matt was much better in that department) and the holiday season was compounding it. The last time they spoke, Frank had been grumbling about snow.

Instead, Matt did some reconnaissance of his own. It wasn’t enough to verify Frank’s information through research. He wanted to get his own sense of the layout of where the shipment was coming in, the sort of people the Owl had hired, the type of security onsite. His senses could pick up details that Frank may have missed. He visited the Owl’s headquarters twice, the site of the drop-off three times. He listened to the conversations among the Owl’s men. He also kept an ear out for a distinctive heartbeat, but he only encountered it once at the warehouse where the drugs would be dropped off.

A strange tension had filled the air when Matt heard that heartbeat somewhere behind and above him. He knew with certainty that Frank was on-site, just as Frank must have known that he was there too. There had been no direct communication between them since Frank had turned up on his roof with a bottle of Macallan and a question about New Year’s Eve. Since then the communication had flowed one way, from Frank to Matt. And yet, Matt could sense a shift happening between them. It wasn’t just the recon. It was the idea that Frank – the lone wolf – had wanted to team-up with him, had chosen him specifically for this job when he probably had other options. And Matt, to his own surprise, had agreed with minimal fuss. They were going into this as partners, as strange and alien (and possibly as thrilling and exciting) as the idea was to Matt.

Matt waited, maintaining his position, wondering if Frank would approach (wondering if he should be the one to acknowledge the other man first). Time stretched out, but it was barely a handful of minutes. Frank’s footsteps faded in the opposite direction, his steady heartbeat fading with them. Matt exhaled, unsure of what to make of his vague feeling of disappointment.

New Year’s Eve came soon enough and Matt was at the appointed place fifteen minutes early. He’d left the planning to Frank since he felt like this was Frank’s mission and he’d been asked along as back up, even if he’d painted it as an equal partnership to Frank. He came to the realization as he was preparing for this mission that team ups were generally not his idea. They weren’t his forte. The few team ups that he’d participated in had been instigated by others, by people equally skilled as himself and whom he’d trusted, people like Stick and Elektra. It was disconcerting to think that Frank fell into that category now. (Did he?) While the one team up he’d reluctantly lead hadn’t been a total disaster, having a building fall on you and failing to save the love of your life wasn’t exactly a rousing success either. Maybe Matt wasn’t made for team ups, but he was giving it one more shot with the unlikeliest of partners at the unlikeliest of times.

Goodwill to all men, indeed.

Frank joined him on time. “Any changes?” he asked, by way of greeting. He was carrying three, heavy, black duffel bags.

“All quiet,” Matt answered. “As quiet as can be for New Year’s Eve,” he added.

It was true. New York City was alive with celebration. The air felt charged. Even in the relatively abandoned warehouse where the shipment was being delivered, there were still a handful of partygoers on the streets, headed to wherever they were going.

“If everything’s on schedule, we got an hour until the shipment arrives,” Frank said brusquely. He was all business now.

Matt listened attentively as Frank ran through the plan that he’d devised. Matt was already familiar with it through Frank’s notes, but it was a little different hearing it from the man himself.

“All good?” Frank said, when he was done.

“All good,” Matt confirmed. He was about to turn away when Frank suddenly gripped his arm.

“You’re wearing the suit,” Frank stated.

“That was part of the deal,” Matt reminded him. “No killing,” he added, after a moment. Frank grinned in response, releasing Matt’s arm at the same time.

The truth was, it felt good to be wearing the suit again. And it wasn’t just because Melvin Potter had made more than one suit for him. Matt actually had two suits to choose from, depending upon the season. Potter was that considerate. The winter suit had two extra layers of insulation while providing all the customary protection and mobility. He remembered telling a dismayed Foggy why he’d abandoned the red suit. The easy answer was that Poindexter had corrupted its meaning, that Matt had to rebuild the trust that had been lost. But the truth was, it had been more than that. Matt hadn’t felt like he was worthy of the suit anymore, that he had failed the city and the people whom he’d loved. Could he still claim to be Daredevil after all that had happened with The Hand, after his repeated failures? Was he really the Man Without Fear?

He’d had to learn how to be Daredevil again and what that meant. He’d had to go through the re-training and the practice. He’d started small, building up his confidence and his skills, re-learning his limits and then pushing beyond them, until he knew he could protect his city from people like the Owl and the Russians, and the Algerians, and the Kitchen Irish. It had taken months and months, but now, standing on a rooftop overlooking the warehouse where the Owl thought he could remake the criminal landscape, Matt could truly say that he was Daredevil again. And he was wearing the red suit to prove it.

“Damn stupid place to put that.”

Matt paused, his senses assessing the area, trying to catch what Frank had noticed. “What?” he finally said, turning around. He had his hand on the doorknob and he was about head downstairs.

Meanwhile, Frank was going to set up the heavy artillery on the roof: automatic weapons placed on a timer to create the distraction that they’d need to enter the warehouse vicinity. While Owl’s guards were occupied by the gunfire, Matt would disable the security system. He could bypass security more easily than Frank could, but he’d have to be on the ground to do that.

“What?” he said again, when Frank didn’t respond. The other man had approached him, practically crowding him in the space in front of the narrow doorway. His sudden nearness made Matt a little antsy.

Frank pointed up.

Mistletoe.

Matt hadn’t missed the sprig hanging there (Frank was right. It was an unusual place to hang mistletoe. Who was trying to catch someone up on the roof?), but he hadn’t given it a second thought either.

Matt soon realized that perhaps he should’ve given the mistletoe a second thought when Frank grabbed the doorknob that he was holding and yanked the door shut. A second later, Matt found himself uncomprehendingly pressed against said door with the Punisher kissing him. The kiss didn’t last very long because Matt’s self-preservation instincts kicked in and he was shoving the other man away from him, striking him in the chest with a hit so hard that a bruise would’ve formed if Frank hadn’t been wearing his Kevlar.

“What the hell, Frank?” Matt said, trying to catch his breath.

Frank was impassive, standing in front of Matt as calmly as ever, as though the kiss hadn’t just happened, as though Matt hadn’t just tried to break his ribs in response.

“What was that?” Matt ground out, flustered by the other man’s actions, confused by the kiss and the strange warring emotions that had suddenly come to the surface.

“Tradition, Red,” Frank said plainly. “See you on the ground.”

Before Matt could say anything else, Frank had turned away. Matt honed in on Frank’s retreating form, trying to read the other man as best as he could, looking for a clue to explain what had just happened. Nothing, but the steady drumbeat of Frank’s heart, the certainty of his footsteps, the evenness of his breathing. If that kiss had meant anything to him, Frank wasn’t giving it away. (But it had to mean something, right? Otherwise, why do it?)

Matt wasn’t about to give anything away either, especially since he didn’t know what anything meant. There was a plan. A mission. An objective. That was what he needed to focus on. He’d deal with Frank’s BS when the job was done.

Even with the best planning, things could still go wrong. Matt was fully aware of that as he dived behind several large packing crates, bullets pelting the wall behind him. Most of the Owl’s men had already been disabled. Owl himself – the coward – had made a beeline for the exit, surrounded by his most loyal henchmen, as soon as Matt and Frank crashed the party.

Frank had been the one to make the grand entrance, although technically Matt had been onsite first disabling security. Outside the warehouse, the Owl’s men had been pinned down by the rapid weapons fire. By the time they figured out that none of them were being directly targeted, it was too late. Matt had already disabled the system and Frank had simply strode in through the front, picking off the Owl’s men one at a time. (True to his word, he was aiming for kneecaps and shoulders, disabling the goons instead of gunning them down.) Matt came from the opposite direction, breaking bones and leaving unconscious men in his wake. Those who saw him coming recognized the suit. There were shouts of “Daredevil! Daredevil!” that soon mixed with the panicked cries of “The Punisher!”

The warehouse had devolved into chaos, but it was an ordered chaos controlled by Frank and himself. Matt drove the rest of the Owl’s men forward, but that only served them up to the Punisher. Unfortunately, Frank had been occupied when three stragglers had managed to pin Matt down behind the packing crates.

Matt waited, crouched, as the gunfire stopped. He tracked the three men approaching his position, their firearms still raised. They were waiting for Matt to slip up, so they’d have a target to aim it. Two men broke right, the third broke left. They meant to flank him. Matt wasn’t about to let that happen. He moved toward the single man, keeping low as he rushed around the corner of the large crate. He kicked the goon’s legs out from under him, grabbing hold of the automatic rifle just as the man fired so that the bullets deflected away from them. On the other side, he sensed the two men coming around their corner. He would have just enough time to knock out the man in front of him before dealing with the two others. He struck the man on the floor twice with the butt of his own rifle. He heard the crunch of fine bones breaking in the goon’s nose, and the blocked passageway as it filled with blood. The man was out cold, but he wasn’t about to suffocate on his own blood.

Matt, however, had underestimated the speed of the man’s companions. He leaped onto the crates as more gunfire erupted and then flattened himself against the crate’s surface.

“He’s up there!” one of the men shouted.

“I can’t see ‘im, dammit!” the other one cried.

Matt grinned, tasting the blood on his lower lip. Idiots. He crouched, ready to drop between the two men.

It was a case of bad timing. Matt had lost track of Frank during his own fight and didn’t realize that Frank had come to help him. He understood his mistake as soon as he made it, the sudden shots that rang out as he leaped. He felt a bullet puncture his calf (at least, Frank was still aiming low) as he landed and then pitched his body into a roll to avoid the rest of the gunfire. The two men were now on the ground, gripping their bleeding knee caps as Frank kicked their weapons away from them. Then Frank was the one knocking the two men out, as Matt gingerly stood up.

“Dammit, Red,” Frank griped, his annoyance sharp and palpable to Matt.

“You didn’t give me any warning,” Matt fired back, annoyed at his own lapse. He brushed back Frank’s arm when the other man made to reach for him. “I’m fine,” he said testily. “It was a clean shot. Bullet went in and out.”

“You still need to bandage that,” Frank pointed out, gruffly.

“Later,” Matt said, cocking his head as he tracked the progress of police sirens. “We need to leave. The police are three minutes out.”

“Pretty good response time for New Year’s,” Frank noted.

“Where’d you park?”

“Hang on. Somethin’ I gotta do first.”