Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Punisher is half laying against a gravestone, face so swollen Matt can practically feel the heat radiating off of it. He doesn’t know what it looks like, but this isn’t one of the times he wishes desperately that he could see.

His foot is messed up—not just broken bones, but even the blood vessels are all twisted up, the muscles all shredded, tendons and ligaments torn and stretched.

He sits there, and in the cool New York night, he tells Matt about his family.

Matt doesn’t mean to cry. It’s been a long time since he’s cried—the last time was when Stick had been in his apartment, leaving behind that damn bracelet he’d made for him when he was just a kid. That had broken his heart, as much as he didn’t think he had much left there to break. But he’d sat on that sofa, touching the folds in the paper and remembering how meticulous he’d been with them, his small fingers, asking the nuns if it looked okay—why had he done that? it wasn’t as if Stick would see it—asking Sister Ellen if she thought Stick would like it.

He’d cried for that little boy, who didn’t deserve to be abandoned by the closest thing he had to family after his father had died, and he’d cried for the man he’s grown up to be, with one old friend, one new, and somehow still feeling achingly alone.

Now here he is in a graveyard, crying again, for Frank’s daughter, for his son, for his wife. But that’s not quite right—he cries for Frank, mostly, for having had to see it.

He’d been made an orphan after his father had been killed. There was a word for it, for a child who had lost his parents.

There was no word for a father who lost his children.

“I’m tired.” Frank sounds wrecked, as if he’s just on the verge of breaking, or maybe he’s already broken. “You ever get tired, Red?”

“Yeah,” Matt says softly, because god, he does, he does get tired. He tells Foggy he has to go out every night, and he means it. If people get hurt because he’s not out, that’s on him, he truly believes that. Even when he rests, even when he stays in because he can’t so much as fill his own lungs with air without his eyes tearing up, he still gets tired, from the weight of the guilt.

“Yeah, Frank, I do get tired,” he repeats, because this is the first person who might be able to understand how that kind of tired works.

“Yeah.” Frank says slowly, each breath a little wet, a little wheezy, because he’s got broken ribs and Matt can hear them shifting as his chest rises and falls.

“I think I’m done, Red. I think I’m done.” He’s fading, and Matt can’t even tell how he can tell, only his heart is slowing down, so is his breathing, and he slouches maybe a little lower, vitality slipping from his body as if it’s nothing.

Matt hears the sirens—he always hears the sirens, there’s nearly always some going somewhere, but this time, he hears them approaching and knows who they’re here for.

It feels wrong, suddenly, to let them take Frank away. Frank, the only other man in the city—maybe the only other man in the world—who knows what it means to be tired, to carry guilt around with you. A man who maybe carries an even heavier weight than Matt does.

There isn’t much time to make a choice—hardly any time to realize that there’s even a choice to be made, honestly—but Matt’s about as good as jumping into bad decisions as he is at falling half-dead into dumpsters.

“I know you don’t trust me,” he says haltingly, “but can—can I take you somewhere? Get you away?”

“You kiddin’ me, Red? You’re all about truth and justice, aren’t you? I thought you’d be happy that they were coming for me.”

“I’m not.” Matt leaves it at that, doesn’t add that he doesn’t like the idea of helping him escape justice, but knows it’s the right thing—or is that backwards? Maybe he likes it and it’s the wrong thing—that sounds more like him. A sinner, through and through.

He doesn’t say that the offer of escape comes at the expense of his better judgment, that his brain is probably addled by adrenaline and pain hormones and sympathy (or just plain repetitive blunt force trauma), like the fucking pussy Frank had accused him of being. He can hear Stick in his mind, telling him he cares too much, that he’s being blinded by his emotions.

Frank takes a long, slow, shuddering breath. “Well, job’s not done yet,” he says finally.

Matt knows that’s probably the best he’s going to get, so he moves fast, gets under one of Frank’s arms and pulls him up to his feet, careful to lay most of his weight on his good leg.

“Please don’t throw up on me,” he mutters, inhaling deeply before bending and maneuvering Frank so he’s on his shoulder. Then he’s walking, as fast as he can, because Frank is a big man. He gets into a building through the alley exit, near a dumpster that smells of rotting fish and fetid meat and nearly makes Matt stop and throw up.

He takes the stairs slowly, one floor, then a few seconds rest. Frank’s heartbeat is slower now, his breathing steady, and he’s quieter than he’s ever been, and Matt realizes he’s unconscious. He takes one last deep breath and then climbs another flight of stairs, ignoring the burning in his thighs. He keeps going like that, a flight of stairs and then a break for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath while he listens intently for the police—

Brett and his partner arguing about which way the Punisher went, whether Daredevil was with him, reinforcements on the way, the bodies of the Irish found, the living and the dead, calling in to headquarters to report it—

Finally, he’s pushing the roof access door open with the arm that’s not holding Frank steady.

He wants to drop Frank right there, but instead he kneels, quads groaning from the effort, and lays him down gently.

“Red?” Frank asks groggily.

“Rest, Frank,” Matt says absently, arranging Frank’s body so his head is on Matt’s thigh—he figures it’s better than the concrete, at least.

“Where’re we?” Stubborn son of a bitch, Matt thinks, lips twitching in amusement as he pats Frank’s shoulder reassuringly.

“A block away from the graveyard, waiting for the cops to leave and trying to figure out what to do with you.”

“Not—not gonna bring me home, altar boy?”

“You haven’t bought me dinner yet, and I’m not that kind of boy, Frank.” There’s a hint of a joke in his voice, levity he didn’t know he could even come up with, given that his legs still ache.

Frank manages a huff of laughter, more of an exhale than a sound. “Fair ‘nough, gotta do more to get a good Catholic boy to bring me home.”

“That, and my ex has a nasty habit of breaking into my apartment and just waiting for me to get back,” Matt says absently, weighing up the probability that Elektra will be at his place against the urgency with which Frank needs to be somewhere safe so they can administer at least rudimentary care to his wounds.

“Yeah? You need help gettin’ rid of ’em?” It sounds like a joke, given who Matt is, given what he can do, but there’s a hint of seriousness in his voice, as if Matt’s a helpless little kitten.

Handsome wounded duck, he remembers Foggy saying. He smiles a little at the memory, and maybe a bit of it is due to the Punisher, laying his head in Matt’s lap and offering to help him get rid of his ex.

“Rest, Frank. We’ve gotta wait a few minutes—if the cops leave, then we’ll make our move. Otherwise, I’ll get you hidden somewhere and distract them, draw them away and then come back for you.”

“No splittin’ up,” Frank protests weakly, the instinct to never leave a man behind ingrained deep into his psyche.

“I promise I’ll come back for you if it comes to that,” Matt promises, laying his hand idly in Frank’s hair, trying to reassure him.

Frank mumbles something, turning his head up to look Matt in the eyes and not realizing how utterly unnecessary that really is.

Anybody else wouldn’t have caught it, but…

“What about me? Frank, I’m gonna be just fine, I can take care of myself.”

I would tell you that I’m a big boy and I can take care of myself. He remembers the softness of her skin in his hands, the gentleness of her fingertips, the way her heart always picked up with worry when he left—

It had felt like a gift, being able to touch her with his damaged hands.

They wait for another fifteen minutes, when Matt has an idea.

Probably a bad one, but that’s the only kind he’s got at the minute, and so he picks up his burner, dialing 9-1-1 and shifting his voice, until it sounds like he’s panicking, out of breath from fear or exhaustion or from having run for his life, and he rattles off a street address as far as he can think of off the top of his head. “It’s—it’s the Punisher—“ He ends with a weak gasp.

Frank looks at him, either amused or unimpressed or both. “D’you go to drama camp, Red?”

Matt rolls his eyes and lifts him up. “My place is too far, but I need you to hold on, I know a place,” he mutters.

St. Agnes isn’t far, and he knows where the first aid kit is. Frank manages to limp most of the way there, Matt taking more and more of his weight as he grows tired and his weak leg starts to buckle.

“Come on, Lieutenant,” Matt urges, but as soon as the words are out, he knows they’re wrong. The tone’s too soft, nearly pleading, and Frank just barely grunts an acknowledgement.

They approach the church and Matt pulls him around to the back of the building.

“Stay quiet, I’m going to go check the building, we’ll take you inside once I get some supplies,” he mutters. St. Agnes is the next building over, and it doesn’t take much for him to break in through the kitchen door, which still creaks like a bitch, and grab the first aid kit before darting back out.

Frank’s still on the ground when he gets back, looking a little more alert, as if he’d been trying to keep watch.

“Alright, let’s get you inside, patch you up,” Matt murmurs, easing him up. The weight of him feels familiar now, after hauling him all over Hell’s Kitchen.

They enter the church through a side door, shuffling until Matt can settle Frank down on the pew furthest in the back.

“Jesus, Red, you sure you’re not taking this redemption thing a little too seriously? I’m not gonna be asking forgiveness, y’know. So unless we’re here for confession—“

“Shut up,” Matt snaps, with hardly any venom in his voice. “Shut up, Frank, and keep a lookout.”

“Yessir.” Matt wonders if Frank’s capable of saying anything without a faint hint of amusement or derision or anger or pain, if he can just say something normally, keep his emotions hidden for once.

Matt works at Frank’s shoe, pulling it off and carefully removing the blood-soaked sock—the fabric sticks to the open wound and he has to pull at it.

Frank groans. It’s just a small sound, pretty quiet where other men would be screaming their lungs out. But they’re in a church, with church acoustics, and the sound is magnified, bouncing between the walls and the ceiling.

They both freeze, even more as they hear the creaking of a door open, slow footsteps. Matt puts a finger to his lips, listening as hard as he can.

There are footsteps, coming closer. Frank gestures at the pew, as if he’s thinking of diving under it.

The heartbeat is familiar, but nearly everyone at this church and St. Agnes are. He filters through the heartbeats he’s got memorized, and finally it clicks into place. He lays a hand on Frank’s chest, pressing gently to let him know to stay down.

He stands up.

“Father.”

“Matthew. Confession or a latte?”

“Neither. Sanctuary. Just for a few minutes.”

“You hardly need to ask, Matthew,” Father Lantom says, coming closer, “are you hurt?”

He’s there, practically on top of them, and the police has been diligent about blasting Frank’s face on every television channel they can think of, though he doesn’t know how recognizable he is now, with the bruising and the swelling.

“Sanctuary for him,” Matt amends quietly, “I don’t need long, we’ll be gone in just a few minutes.”

“This man is wanted by the police,” Father Lantom says, heartbeat picking up as he processes who Frank is, what he’s done, “he’s a murderer.”

“Sanctuary,” Matt begs again, running through Scripture in his mind, trying to find a passage that would support his case. “Please.”

“Red, we can go,” Frank says, struggling to sit up. Matt presses against his chest, pushing him back down.

Father Lantom studies the two of them, eyes lingering where Matt’s hand is pressed against Frank’s chest.

“Fine,” he says quietly, “but on your conscience be it, Matthew.”

Matt grimaces.

“Don’t do that,” Frank says suddenly, “don’t do that to him, man, he’s already tying himself up into knots over every little thing.”

“I understand,” Matt interrupts, “I understand that I am responsible, and I’m willing to account for it, when the time comes.”

Father Lantom goes quiet for another long moment. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Antiseptic, bandages, painkillers—but not aspirin, it thins the blood, he’ll only bleed more,” Matt rattles off, feeling the weight of Frank’s gaze on him. “Just a few minutes,” he repeats, “and then we’ll be gone.”

Lantom nods, then realizes who he’s talking to and gives a verbal response. “I’ll see what I can find,” he says finally.

Frank stays quiet until he’s left the room, gone off into a back room or his own living quarters.

“Sounds like he knows you.”

“As much as anybody does.” There’s no doubt in Matt’s mind that Frank’s a smart man, but he doesn’t have to be for this. He’d have to be an absolute moron to not pick up on his name.

“So, Matthew, huh?”

“Y’know what, Frank, you can go with Matt, seeing as how we’re friends and all,” Matt says lightly.

“Dunno, I might stick with Red. At least that won’t give you away if you’re in your red pyjamas.”

Matt feels his face twitching up into a crooked grin, the one that Foggy always says is charmingly dangerous and dangerously charming at the same time.

“Yeah, well, I’m starting to think you’re a teddy bear in disguise, Frank. Sticking up for the Devil? To a priest? Honestly, try to play up the fact that you’re a lapsed Catholic, I don’t think anyone can tell.”

Frank grunts a laugh that fades as Father Lantom returns, holding a bottle of antiseptic and some gauze.

“Thank God,” Matt murmurs. He takes off his glove and hands it to Frank. “Bite on that if you need to, this isn’t gonna tickle.”

Frank nods, putting the glove into his mouth as Matt pours the antiseptic onto his foot, holding on to the fine bones of his ankle to keep him from jerking away or kicking him in the face.

“One more time, I don’t know how deep they got you.” He feels himself stroking the skin of Frank’s ankle, as if he’s trying to soothe him, and remembers touching Claire’s elbow as she stitched him up.

Frank nods again, and Matt pours more antiseptic over the wound, listening to the way it bubbles, to the pained hitch of Frank’s breath as he bites on Matt’s glove.

“Alright, I’m gonna wrap it up, we’ll see about fractures and setting it when we get h—back to my place.”

“You know it’s a terrible idea to bring me back to your place, right?”

Father Lantom coughs pointedly. “Your friend has a point, M—Daredevil.”

“Well, I can’t exactly bring you anywhere else, so that’s the only option we’ve got, and the heat should’ve died down enough that we can get there.”

Frank just sighs, looking up at the sound of pills rattling around a bottle.

“Ibuprofen,” Father Lantom says, to help Matt catch up.

“Well, thank fuck for that,” Frank mutters, sitting up and opening the bottle. He dumps out pills, double the recommended dose, but Matt doesn’t have the energy to tell him off for it. He probably deserves straight up opiates for this level of pain, anyway.

Matt flicks him on the ear. “We’re in a church, Frank.”

The man just shrugs. “Not for long, we’re not.”

Matt exhales slowly, because he isn’t wrong. “Right, get ready, it’s the last leg, get to my place, then you can rest for the night, we’ll figure out a plan tomorrow.”

Frank nods. He’s a man of many nods and not too many words, Matt is realizing. If he finds out—when he finds out, because Frank is more persistent than a bad rash—there’ll be a lot of explaining to do.

He remembers the sound of Foggy’s voice—more agonized than after any breakup, torn apart at the thought that Matt had been lying to him for the entirety of their friendship. But—what else could he have done? He can’t exactly tell everyone about his abilities—he’d be tossed into a lab for experimentation before he could even finish.

But that’s a pathetic excuse. He’d owed it to Foggy, at least. Foggy wasn’t just anyone. He was—hell, he is—the person that Matt loved the most in the whole world, in the simplest way.

“We need to keep moving,” Matt says, already dreading getting back to the apartment, because at some point, he’s going to have to take off the suit, trying to think ahead to what he could do to help keep his identity a secret at his apartment, where every paper is in braille, where none of the books have words that Frank can read.

It’s a problem for future-Matt to deal with, though, so he helps Frank up, pulls his arm around him, and helps him limp through filthy alleys in between old buildings.

He always starts out strong, Frank, but he fades as the effect of the second—third—fourth?—wind fails him, and Matt takes more of his weight.

“Piggyback or over the shoulder?” He asks shortly.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb, Frank, it doesn’t suit you.”

“Piggyback, then. Less likely to puke that way.”

Matt nods, and he takes the last bit of the walk with Frank on his back, Matt’s hands under his thighs holding him up. They go like that until they’re at the bottom of the fire escape of his building.

He takes a breath, relegating the pain to a distant corner of his mind, his body making itself aware and his mind ignoring it.

“Please tell me your place’s on the ground floor.” Frank’s breath is warm around his ear. He’s not holding his head up as high as he normally does—blood loss or fatigue? Matt takes a moment and listens to the beat of his heart, the sluggishness of it.

“Red?”

“Not exactly.” He climbs the stairs as quickly and as quietly as he can, about ready to go back to just carrying his own weight—he can almost imagine the microtears in the muscles of his lower body. Even when he’d trained, it was nothing this strenuous, nothing this long.

That’s your fault for being soft while you train, Matty, Stick’s voice scolds in his head.

Finally he gets outside of his window and lets Frank down, leaning him against the wall while he opens the window and helps him in.

“No wonder you stick to the goddamn rooftops, Red. How’d you manage when you’re injured?”

“Usually I promise myself that I can pass out when I get back, that and not dying are pretty good incentives.”

Frank whistles in grudging admiration.

“I don’t know if there’s anything I else can do for your foot. I had a friend—she’d patch me up, but we—well, I don’t know if she’d even pick up the phone anymore.”

That’s not fair, Matt, Claire’s voice whispers in his head, velvet-soft and smooth as running water. I would come if you’d call.

Then again, that’s why he doesn’t call anymore.

“Why, d’you break her heart?”

“Broke my own first,” Matt says, and he can hear the weight in his voice, knows he’s oversharing with someone who could probably weaponize this information, and god forbid if Frank Castle got to Claire, somehow—

But he won’t, Matt, Karen whispers in his ear. He’s not like that, and you know it. He has a code—he hasn’t killed a single innocent.

He grimaces a little and gets Frank settled onto the sofa, fetching his first aid kit to try to clean up some of the other cuts and bruises, there are probably at least a few fractured ribs in there, and Matt knows firsthand that those hurt like a bitch.

Frank stays quiet as he stitches up a cut on his left side, a graze on his right shoulder, only the hitching of his breath to give away the burning of the hydrogen peroxide or the pressure of hands against deep bruises.

“You’re real good at torturing yourself, Red. Maybe that’s why you’re so good out there, nobody can beat up on you as much as you beat up on yourself.”

“You sound like her,” Matt murmurs, thinking of her hair where it was buzzed short on one side, wondering if it’s grown out by now. “Or like him.”

Foggy, sitting up at night, watching the news and falling asleep with his phone clutched so tightly in his hands that his fingers ache when he wakes up.

“Him?” Frank’s voice ticks up slightly, clearly interested in what he thinks he’s learned.

“I’ve slept with men before, but he isn’t one of them,” Matt says, trying to be matter-of-fact.

Trying not to think of the dozens of times they’d fallen into bed together after long days and longer nights, the smell of alcohol and the soft hum Foggy would let out when Matt buried his face against his neck and passed out.

“Straight?”

“Not your business, Frank.”

“Come on, gimme somethin’ here, I need a distraction—“

“Well, I’m not gonna tell you about everyone important in my life just so you can use them against me!”

“You think I’d do that?”

Matt inhales sharply, sitting on the coffee table and wishing he could run his hand through his hair, but he’s still wearing the damn cowl.

“Honestly, Frank? No, I don’t. But I’ve been wrong before, and they’re too important. You—you kill people. I think you’re a good man, probably, but I barely know you and the first time we met, you shot me in the head and knocked me off a rooftop.”

Frank sits up. “Fuck you for thinking that I would use your friends against you, after what you’ve done for me. I wouldn’t do that, Red. But I get it, you can’t be sure, and it’s not worth the risk, when they’re that important.”

Matt breathes quietly, in and out once before leaning back in, trying to sense any other injuries. There’s one more cut on his cheekbone, and Matt’s still trying to figure out if it needs stitches or not, when—

“What about that ex that breaks into your place? She your medic?”

“Nope,” Matt says shortly.

“How do you even have the time?” Frank mutters, “you’re out there every night, how do you make two women fall in love with you and still do this and whatever the hell you do during the day?”

“Coffee, mostly. Cold water helps. Cat naps, when I can.”

Frank grunts a laugh. “Maybe God helps you, you ever think of that?”

Matt shrugs up one shoulder. “I don’t have that much of an ego, Frank. Now stay here, I’m gonna get you some clean clothes—you’re bigger than me, but loose sweats and a t-shirt should be good. Bathroom’s just through that doorway, if you want a shower, the towel on the shelf is clean. If you wanna run—“ Matt shrugs again. “If you want to run, do it quietly, and try not to die.”

“Nothing about how much work you put into keeping me alive and away from the cops?”

Matt shrugs yet again—his shoulders ache from the effort of carrying Frank across Hell’s Kitchen. “Figure you already know.” He says quietly. “You should take the bed, it’s more comfortable than the couch.”

“I’m not gonna take your bed—“ Frank starts indignantly.

“I’m a big boy, Castle. I can handle a night on the couch. You’re the one who’s beaten to hell. You take the bed. After you take a shower—I don’t need your blood on my sheets.”

He’s using his lawyer voice, he realizes a little too late, firm and unyielding, like when he stands up to opposing counsel and backs them into a corner. So much of the law is just posturing, and he’s damn good at it when he’s awake enough to string a sentence together.

Frank stays for a moment, reaching up to touch the horns on the cowl. “’m I ever gonna see your face, or you gonna wear this to bed?”

“We’ll see.” Matt says, fighting the urge to smile like he does whenever he uses the words see or look.

“If it’s a scar, you don’t have to be ashamed of it,” Frank offers quietly, squeezing Matt’s shoulder as he gets up and limps to the bathroom.

“Hang on—let me get you some plastic wrap, or your foot’ll get wet and I’ll have to change the bandages.” Matt goes into the kitchen and finds the plastic wrap—he doesn’t have a ton left, since he’s been using it to protect stitches and cuts for awhile now, but there’s enough to wrap around Frank’s bad foot several times.

Frank looks at him, and for a moment, the quiet and the steadiness of his heartbeat makes his face inscrutable to Matt. He wonders what he looks like, what his expression is.

“Thanks, Red,” he says finally, and then he’s in the bathroom, the quiet sound of clothes hitting the floor as water starts to run.

Matt listens to him for a moment, his heartbeat, the rush of the water through the pipes, droplets of water falling from his body and hitting the tiles. After a minute or two, he goes over to the closet and fetches the clean clothes he’d said he’d have for Frank.

He knocks on the door and calls out that the clothes are just outside.

He heads back to the closet, eager to get out of the suit for tonight. It’s comfortable enough, and good to fight in, but hardly good for sleeping. He strips off the top half, sliding it over his thighs and carefully stepping out when the water stops. He freezes, and remembers too late that he left the door to his room open.

Frank comes out with a towel wrapped around his hips, holding the clothes in his hand, and stops when he sees him.

His heart starts to beat a little faster, and Matt knows that he’s seen the scars. He turns around, glad he’s still wearing the cowl, and does his best to meet Frank’s eyes.

“The mask’s bad at the best of times, but it just looks ridiculous when you’re not wearing the costume.” His voice is a little lighter, not as condescending as it had been on the rooftop, when Matt had been chained to a chimney.

Matt tilts his head to the side a little bit, listening to him, smelling his soap on Frank’s clean skin, the smell of him that lingers underneath, and the alcohol from the mouthwash he must have swished since Matt hadn’t thought to offer him a toothbrush.

“Well, you already know my name and where I live, so I guess it’s pretty pointless to try to keep it from you—you could just look me up on Google,“ He reaches over his head and takes off the mask, smoothing his hair back down nervously.

“No scar, then,” Frank says lightly, stepping in a little bit closer to get a better look at him.

“Not on my face, at least.” Frank glances down, at the scars under his collarbones, on his side, the rainbow of bruises on his torso, and hums in acknowledgement.

“It’s so fuckin’ dark in here, how do you see anything—“

Matt sighs, taking Frank’s arm and leading him to the window, lit up by the bright light of the billboard.

“I don’t,” he says bluntly.

Frank looks at him before taking his jaw in his hands and gently tilting it towards the window. Matt gives up any effort to focus his eyes, lets them drift. He wonders how they look to other people. He can feel how his eyes move, still knows vaguely what direction he’s looking in, but he has no idea what it looks like to someone who looks at him. It feels like a disadvantage, when he doesn’t normally consider himself disadvantaged compared to most people.

“If I didn’t have a hole in my foot right now, I’d have a hell of a lot of questions. But I’m dead on my feet, and so are you.”

Matt nods, closing his eyes. He makes his way back to the bedroom and comes back wearing his glasses and feeling slightly better about everything, now that Frank can’t see his eyes anymore.

Matt collapses onto the sofa, covering himself in a fleece blanket. “Go to bed, Frank. Run, if that’s what you want, but get some rest first. And I make a pretty decent breakfast, if that affects your decision.”

Frank shakes his head—disbelief or rejection?—and walks into the bedroom.

Matt considers getting in the shower, washing off the sweat and dirt and blood, but can’t really be bothered. He runs his fingers over his skin, torso first, because wounds there are more serious, and then each arm and then each leg. He hadn’t always done this, but sometimes, he’d woken up with blood-soaked sheets. He wasn’t trying to be a tough guy, he was just a little too good at blocking out pain, and it took awhile for the adrenaline to fade and for his brain to listen to the pain receptors again.

He finds a slice along his meat of his left calf, where something must have gotten through the seam of the suit. He sighs a little and grabs the first aid kit from where it’s still sitting on the coffee table, wincing as he cleans the area with antiseptic. He probably could do the stitches himself, but he’d have to bend to an uncomfortable angle, and he’s too damn tired. So he just wraps it up, tight but not so tight that it’ll cut off his circulation, and lays back on the sofa.

He adjusts the pillow under his head, feeling the way the cotton scratches at his skin.

Silk sheets, Matty? You’re goin’ soft, Stick’s voice whispers in his ear.

He tells it to shut up before he closes his eyes.

It feels like only seconds later that they open again, hearing a sound on the roof. At first blush, he suspects it’s just Frank, making his getaway, but as his mind clears away the fog of sleep he hears Frank’s heartbeat, steady and slow with sleep, still in his bed, and the footsteps are too light to belong to such a large man.

He sighs and sneaks into the bedroom to grab his batons. No rest for the wicked.

He takes the stairs quickly, arriving onto the roof only a moment later.

“It’s not a good time, Elektra,” he says quietly, smelling her shampoo and her body wash and her perfume, the heady cocktail of scent that’s permanently engraved in his memory.

“It seems as though it’s never a good time for you, Matthew.”

It’s the way she says his name—it still takes his breath away. He’s lucky that she can’t hear changes in his heartbeat, because every time she says his name, he imagines the way her lips form an o. Her voice is so beautiful—

What are you looking for, my young Padawan? He remembers Foggy asking him.

I don't know. I guess just someone I really like listening to.

He remembers even then thinking about Elektra’s voice, the way her accent caressed certain syllables, the way it felt like being touched by soft hands.

“I have company.” He can feel the sternness in his voice, something he must have learned from Stick or the nuns at St. Agnes, because his dad never really talked to him that way.

“Oh, the blonde from your date the other night? Good for you. I thought your type was a bit darker, but she’s very beautiful.”

“It’s not Karen.”

“Then?” There’s an expectant pause, as if she expects him to spill the details, tell her exactly who’s in his apartment, who she presumes is in his bed. Elektra’s always felt entitled, when it came to him, to his life, to his privacy or the lack thereof.

“Then it’s very much not your business, and this is not the night for me to get dragged along on some adventure that nearly gets me killed. Go—go wherever the hell you’re staying, and call me in the morning. I’m too tired to be useful anyway.”

Elektra looks him over, her eyes probably lingering at the blood-stained bandage on his calf, or on the bruising on his ribs, or on his scars, or somewhere else. Elektra is so fucking unpredictable that she’s probably interested in the few parts of him that aren’t damaged.

“Tomorrow, Matthew. And I want to know the whole story.”

Matt nods irritably and makes a shooing motion, waiting for her to leave before he finally goes back inside, allowing himself to limp a little bit now that he doesn’t have to project strength in the same way.

As he walks through the roof access door, he nearly walks into Frank.

“You okay, Red?” he asks, one hand on Matt’s arm, steadying him. He leans around Matt’s body and takes a quick look through the open door before he decides there’s no threat and sticks the gun—where had he hidden a gun? Matt had carried him across Hell’s Kitchen and he hadn’t thought to look for one, or feel for one—back into the waistband of his sweatpants.

“Don’t do that, you’ll shoot your ass off,” Matt grumbles.

“Yeah, ‘cuz it’s amateur hour and I, a goddamn Marine, don’t know how to handle a goddamn gun,” Frank mutters, “who the hell was that?”

“My ex, coming to pay me a visit. I told her I had company and she needed to go.”

“So you used me to get rid of your ex?” The hint of amusement is back in Frank’s voice. Matt finds he kind of likes it.

“Didn’t say what kind of company. Not my fault she thought you were a woman.”

“Gotta admit, Red, that’s a first for me.”

Matt chuckles a little. Frank is the epitome of masculinity, his big, thickly-muscled frame, the short-buzzed hair, the gravelly voice, the violence he deals in, distant and brutal.

“So she doesn’t know?” Frank presses, an edge in his voice that suggests concern for his security—and maybe even Matt’s, but he isn’t ready to go that far quite yet—and not just idle curiosity about Matt’s crazy ex.

“That the Punisher was in my bed tonight? No, she doesn’t.”

Frank shakes his head. “You’re a piece of work, Matt.”

Matt thinks about the way Frank says his name. He isn’t used to it quite yet, and it’s day and night from Elektra’s smooth voice. Frank’s voice is anything but smooth, but there’s a weight to it that there isn’t in Elektra’s voice. His name sounds more real when it’s in Frank’s mouth, always feels slightly mocking in Elektra’s voice, as if she knows that that isn’t who he really is.

“So I’ve been told,” Matt mutters, “so is she, though. It’s like she has a sixth sense for when I’m sleeping so she can come bother me.”

“Better get to bed then, altar boy.”

Matt heads down the stairs and as he gets closer to the couch, the billboard changes and there’s more light pouring in.

“You didn’t say you got hurt.” He can hear the frown in Frank’s voice.

“Didn’t really feel it until after you went to bed. Not too bad, I’ll figure it out in the morning. Maybe you can stitch me up, if you’re still around. Or I’ll call my friend in the morning, see if I can get her to fix me up.”

“I could do it now, if you want.” The offer is hesitant, as if Frank can’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth, as if he isn’t quite sure how to help someone after so much time spent hurting.

Matt makes a face. “It’s not that serious.”

“You don’t strike me as an idiot, Red. Well, you did, but not so much anymore.”

Matt sighs. “You can take a look at it. If you really think it needs stitches, we’ll do it, but if it isn’t urgent, I’d rather just sleep. I’m tired down to my fucking bones, Frank, and you must be, too.”

Frank looks around until he finds the light switch and turns it on while Matt flops onto the couch on his stomach and regrets it when his perpetually sore-if-not-fractured-if-not-actually-broken ribs ache in protest.

Franks settles down near his feet and carefully unwraps the wound.

“Probably shouldn’t go out again until this is healed,” he says absently, cleaning a needle with antiseptic and threading it.

Matt wonders if he’s making a face as he threads the needle, wonders if there are lines at the corners of his eyes as he squints at the eye of the needle.

He knows he’s going to be going out tomorrow, regardless of what Frank has to say about it. Elektra will make sure of it, even if the streets are somehow quiet.

There’s a prick at his skin—the first stitch going in, and Matt closes his eyes and tries to meditate through the pain of it. Frank’s got a surprisingly gentle touch—he hadn’t seemed like he was being too gentle when he’d stitched himself up before, when Matt was chained against the chimney and straining uselessly to get free. But the more Matt thinks about it, the less surprised he is. He thinks about the pain in Frank’s voice as he had talked about his family, his daughter, and he isn’t surprised at all that a man capable of such violence has such a gentle touch.

It reminds him of his father, his bruised, broken hands stroking his cheeks, laying on his shoulders, ruffling his hair. He’d gotten even more tactile after Matt had lost his sight, after he couldn’t catch his eye and smile at him the way he used to.

Frank doesn’t say anything as he does the stitches, and at the end, he wraps the leg up again and Matt says a thank you that’s probably swallowed by the pillow.

“You’re welcome, Red.” Frank says, heading back to Matt’s bed to sleep.

This time, nothing wakes him.

Chapter Text

The morning sun warms his skin as he surges back into consciousness, and he can hear the quiet alarm on his cell phone going off and telling him it is 6:45am. He wonders what time it had been when he’d finally gone to sleep, and knows it wasn’t early.

He feels only marginally better than when he laid down. He’s just so fucking exhausted now. All the time. Foggy’s taken to quoting sleep statistics at him, talking about how enough sleep deprivation slows the reflexes, causes hallucinations, paranoia, weight gain, tachycardia…

When his alarm goes off every morning, his heart races, as if he’s having a heart attack, as if he’s back in college breaking up all-night study sessions with all-night bar hops and parties and Foggy’s arm around his shoulders, guiding him when they’re both a little unsteady.

This morning’s no different. He wakes up, gives himself a minute to calm down, heart race slowing a little but not so much that he’ll drift off again. Instead he sits up, rubbing at his tired eyes and listening for the city to wake himself up.

He half-expects Frank to be long gone, but he hears the slight whistle of air passing through his nose—broken so many times he’s probably got a deviated septum at this point—and the steady, slow beating of his heart, still sleeping in Matt’s bed. He can’t blame him—it’s a comfortable bed, and who knows when last the man had gotten a decent rest.

He gets up and drags himself to the shower, not realizing until he’s in and the water’s soaking the bandages at his calf that he even has bandages on his calf. But at that point, it’s too late to save them, so he stays in the hot water, gingerly reaching up to wash his hair, keeping his touch light on his torso where pressure only brought pain.

He brushes his teeth and combs his hair and hopes for the best, leaving the bathroom feeling almost like a normal blind person with a normal job and normal after-work activities.

He has to sneak into the bedroom to get a suit and tie, and he can’t stop listening for Frank the whole time, which is why he’s unsurprised when he wakes.

He stays quiet, pretending to still be asleep, probably assessing possible threats and not wanting to give away any advantages.

“I’m not going to suffocate you with a pillow, Frank,” he says dryly, clutching a little tighter at the towel around his hips. “I just need clothes.”

Frank grunts, sitting up slowly. He pauses, probably looking at Matt, studying him.

He’s not wearing his glasses. He usually doesn’t put them on until he’s at the door.

“You’re really blind,” Frank says.

Matt flips through the various responses he has to this statement.

So they tell me

Oh, so the world isn’t just a black void for you?!

No shit, dumbass

But he’s too tired even for sarcasm.

Not a good sign, buddy, Foggy’s voice whispers to him, you’re never too tired for sarcasm, Matty.

“Yeah, I’m really blind.”

Frank nods. “I thought you might be, last night, but I couldn’t see well enough—“

“Neither could I,” Matt quips, grinning as Frank laughs. “See, my friends hate the blind jokes, it’s nice to have a receptive audience.”

“So how the hell do you fight, then? I get it, hearing can help you compensate a bit, but you move so—“ Maybe Frank can hear the admiration in his own voice, because Matt feels the rush of heat to his face, and hears him clear his throat awkwardly. “You move pretty well. For a blind guy, and all.”

Matt listens to his heartbeat. The first part rings true. The second part, where he’s trying to downplay the compliment? Frank’s heart says that’s a lie, and Matt feels himself smile.

“Long story,” he says after a moment, “and not one that I can squeeze in before I need to leave for work.”

Frank hums a little, reaching out towards him before stopping and pulling his hand back. “You’ve got some pretty nasty scars, Red. I knew people who served three tours and didn’t have scars that bad.”

Matt shrugs. “There weren’t any others when I started,” he says quietly, “no playbook for how to do this. The body armor was… a recent development. Besides, a lot of them are from the same guy, hell, a lot of them are from the same fight.”

“Must’ve been a hell of a fight.”

Matt shrugs. He doesn’t like to think about that night. Foggy, finding him half-dead on the floor of his apartment, how his voice had shaken as he’d called Claire, begging her to come, please, Matt needs you—he’s, I think he’s dying, please, I can’t lose him, he can’t die, please—

He’d never heard Foggy’s voice sound like that before.

“I’m going to make breakfast,” he says abruptly, “then I’ll check your stitches, make sure your foot isn’t infected, and then I’ve got to go, Frank. You can stay here for awhile, but my ex is coming by tonight, and you don’t want to run into her.”

“Maybe I do, if she keeps botherin’ you like this,” Frank mutters.

Matt brings a hand to his mouth to cover his smile, thinking about Frank meeting Elektra—earth meeting water.

He’s still holding the suit in his hand, still wearing nothing but a towel, and he needs to get dressed, but it feels strange, to strip off in front of Frank, and stranger still to run away to the bathroom to change like a shy schoolboy.

Frank makes it easier, getting up and hobbling over to the bathroom. Matt sighs a little and gets dressed quickly, pulling on his boxers and his suit pants and working at the buttons of his shirt before Frank gets out of the bathroom.

“Breakfast still on the table?” he asks, as Matt leaves his room, setting his suit jacket and his tie carefully on the sofa.

“Yeah, but I don’t have time for anything fancy.”

Frank accepts that, looking at him as if he’s wondering what exactly Matt does during the day. “So you work in some soulless corporate office?”

“One out of three. I work in an office,” Matt confirms. He goes to the coffee machine first, setting it to brew before cracking some eggs into a bowl. “Can you do the toast?”

Frank does, but he’s limping and the reminder that he’s injured hits Matt like a punch in the gut.

“Never mind—food can wait,” he mutters, setting the egg mixture down, “let me check your stitches and your foot, God only knows what was on that fucking drill—“

Frank grins. “Taking the Lord’s name in vain, Red?” He clicks his tongue in reproach.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be sure to confess to my priest next time I see him,” Matt grumbles, kneeling in front of Frank and undoing the bandages on his foot.

“How does it look?” He’s a little bit surprised at himself, because he doesn’t usually rely on other people’s eyes, except for Foggy, who’d always stepped up without needing to be asked.

“Look pretty fucked up. But not infected, at least not yet.”

Matt nods—he hadn’t smelled any infection, either, but if he’d said that, Frank would want to know more about his senses, and he just didn’t have the energy to explain how he navigated the world.

“I’ll clean it up again, more antiseptic so we can kill anything that’s thinking about growing in there.”

“Not against your moral code to kill bacteria, then?” Frank teases.

Matt rolls his eyes, hearing a surprisingly hearty laugh coming from the man in front of him.

“I’ll confess that to my priest, too. He’ll probably say you’re leading me astray, being a bad influence on the innocent little Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”

He pours the antiseptic into the wound and holds Frank’s foot steady as it jerks against the pain. “One more,” he mutters, pouring more of the hydrogen peroxide onto the area and giving it a moment to do its work before wrapping fresh bandages around his foot.

“’S like Jesus, washing feet,” Frank says quietly. There’s no mocking in his voice, just quiet gratitude.

“I wouldn’t go that far, Frank. Now sit, put your leg up on the other chair, and I’ll get the food.”

He scrambles the eggs quickly, throwing in salt and pepper until it smells good. He doles out most of the eggs onto a plate, and puts two toasts next to it.

“What about you?” Frank asks, looking a little perplexed.

“I’m running late,” Matt mutters, folding a piece of bread in half and stuffing scrambled eggs in the middle. He wraps the whole thing in foil and sticks it into his bag, pouring some piping hot coffee into a travel mug.

“Glasses, glasses,” he mutters, “cane—“

“Here,” Frank says, holding out his glasses, “cane’s near the door.”

“Thanks. You take care, okay? Grab something else from the fridge if you need it, you’re welcome to the shower, the bed for a nap, you know where the first aid kit is—“

“You know, I did manage to survive for awhile without you looking after me, Red. Go to work.”

Matt nods, and he’s heading for the door.

“What about your stitches?” Frank calls after him, rising and hobbling across the floor.

“They’re fine,” Matt says absently, opening the door, “not infected, it’s fine.” He’s out the door a second later, when he hears Frank muttering about what an idiot he is.

---

Frank isn’t there when he gets back from work. The clothes Matt lent him are gone, which is good—his other ones weren’t exactly fresh as a daisy. His bed is made perfectly, with military precision, and the plates are neatly washed and stacked next to the sink. The first aid kit is there, too, packed up and left on the counter, and there’s hardly any sign that he was ever here.

Except for a scrap of paper on his nightstand, with a phone number written with enough force that he can read it by brushing his fingers over it. It isn’t signed, but it has to be Frank, offering to return the favor if ever he needs backup or gets injured.

He adds a third phone number to his burner phone, under just the letter F.

He settles on the sofa and changes his bandages. The stitches still aren’t infected, but that’s luck more than skill. He hadn’t realized until he’d gotten down a couple of blocks that his pant leg was wet—his bandages had gotten soaked in the shower and he’d never changed them.

Maybe Frank had been right, when he’d called him an idiot.

Chapter Text

The night Frank Castle gets arrested, Matt’s pants are around his knees, his shirt is half-unbuttoned, and Elektra is between his legs, laying back on a conference table and kissing him. It’s fake, yes, but they still have that searing chemistry between them, and Elektra’s mouth falls open and Matt dives in. He knows her body, knows the feel of her thighs around his hips, the press of her breasts against his chest, but it’s almost better than he remembered.

He puts one hand on her hip and feels the fabric of her underwear through her dress, probably silk or satin, because as much as this is a mission, she would take any goddamn opportunity to tease him, and she knows exactly how to do it—

He hears the heartbeats of the guards, hears their voices as they mutter to each other, disgusted at the two sloppy drunks about to have sex in a conference room.

Or maybe they’re disgusted that someone as beautiful as Elektra is making do with a blind man, who can’t even appreciate her good looks. There’s a abrupt spike in Elektra’s heart rate, as if she’s suddenly furious at something, but she disguises it well, digging her nails deeper into Matt’s shoulders and gasping. He wonders what she heard them say, wonders when she’d learned Japanese in the first place. Had she known it when they’d been in Spanish class together, or was it after them that she had learned?

Elektra giggles as they pull apart sheepishly, Matt apologizing profusely as one of the guards shines a light into his eyes, watching his pupils fail to dilate.

---

“Why does everyone think I’m faking being blind?” he complains to Elektra in the car as she flips through the ledger they’d stolen from the Yakuza.

Elektra just hums sympathetically, focusing on the ledger when Matt’s phone buzzes.

Text Message from: Foggy, his phone announces quietly.

Matt puts his phone away, deciding to leave it until he can listen in relative privacy in his apartment.

“Drop me off at home,” he says quietly, “I have work to do.”

“I’m your most lucrative client, Matthew,” Elektra purrs, “shouldn’t you be working hard for me?”

“Yeah, I guess I should, but I can’t exactly read Japanese,” Matt mutters, “you look through it, call me tomorrow and we’ll plan our next steps.”

Elektra looks at him, and he senses her displeasure, the huff of air leaving her lungs, annoyed that Matt isn’t at her beck and call twenty-four hours a day.

“Fine,” she says, voice clipped, instructing the driver to go to Matt’s address.

He’s stepping out of the car when her hand wraps around his wrist, holding him with a deceptive strength.

“Expect my call, Matthew,” she says softly.

Matt nods once, sharply, heading into his building and going up the stairs. He listens to Foggy’s message as he strips out of his tux.

The Punisher has been arrested. Good riddance, right?

Foggy knew that Frank had shot him in the head. He didn’t know that Matt had brought him into his home, let him see his face.

His heart starts racing, and he knows he’s got to talk to Frank somehow. But his number one plan involves looping Foggy in, at least partly. He sits on his sofa for two hours, considering arguments and counterarguments—weighing which will be most effective on Foggy and which will be least likely to sway him.

It’s a familiar process, one that he and Foggy usually went through together, where to play the judge they’d be facing, how to dismantle opposing counsel.

It feels strange to prepare like this to convince Foggy, though.

He’s alone much of the time, but suddenly, the feeling of it swallows him up, and he wishes there was someone there with him, someone to talk to, to touch.

But there isn’t, and he keeps rehearsing arguments in his empty apartment for another couple of hours. He feels himself getting antsy and pulls on the suit. It feels practically like a second skin at this point, and as he runs across the rooftops of Hell’s Kitchen, he feels almost whole, almost free.

---

He hadn’t counted on Karen making it all a thousand times easier. Maybe he should have, given that she was the first to defend the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, too.

“Come on, Foggy, there’s more to the story,” she insists.

The shocking boom of Frank’s startled laughter after Matt made a blind joke.

“He shoots people,” Foggy rebuts easily, “he’s a serial murderer. Everyone’s lost someone, not everyone flips out and starts massacring people.”

“Everyone has the right to counsel,” Matt tries quietly.

The way Frank had had a gun ready in case there was a threat, in case Matt was in danger. It shouldn’t have been reassuring.

Shouldn’t have been, but it was.

“He has counsel. A public defender.”

“Oh, come on!” Karen says, voice rising in frustration, “that asshole who came to me with a doctored statement, basically saying he was shooting at me?! You know he isn’t going to do jack shit—he’s just gonna sit there and bend over for Reyes to screw Frank over—“

“Justice is not about screwing people over,” Foggy says stubbornly, “he broke the law, he’ll go to prison. He didn’t steal a loaf of bread, Karen, he’s not Jean Valjean—he’s murdered dozens of people.”

“Bad people!” Karen insists.

“It’s not for you to judge,” Matt says sharply, “and it’s not for him to decide who lives and who dies.”

The abrupt silence of Grotto’s heartbeat when it finally stopped.

Hearing the echoes of a dying man’s voice in his head for minutes, hours, days afterwards. “Why didn’t you stop him?”

Matt didn’t have an answer then, and he doesn’t have an answer now. Maybe if Frank hadn’t told him about the people Grotto had killed, he would’ve done something different.

Maybe he was exactly the same as Frank, making the decision of who he’d let live and who he’d let die.

“But it works!” Karen bursts out, and suddenly the office is very, very quiet.

He can hear their heartbeats, both elevated, feels the heat on Karen’s face and spreading down her neck as she gets passionate.

He remembers feeling that heat on his skin, on his hands, pushing back the soft curtain of her hair to press his lips against hers—the unsteadiness in her voice as she asked him to come upstairs.

“Do you really believe that?!” He asks quietly, firmly, like his dad had asked him when Matt had made some bullshit argument about why it was okay to lie.

The heavy stench of blood in that room where the Irish were massacred, choking him, filling his lungs with nothing but death, perforated bowels and gallbladders spilling bile out onto the tile floor.

“You want to defend him!”

“I do,” Matt agrees, fighting to keep his voice measured, stomach roiling at the onslaught of memories, “but not because he had the right to do what he did, or because I think it was right. I want to defend him because he deserves a good defense. Everyone does.”

The sudden jolt of horror as he’d walked through the butchershop and realized that he had stopped walking past pigs and started walking past men—men who had lives, who had families, who may have been doing the only thing they could to survive, men who might have dealt drugs, but also sent money back home, to their wives, to their children—

More fatherless children in the world. Dozens more Matt Murdocks, missing their dads.

“Whose side are you on here, Matt?” Foggy demands.

My own, Matt wants to say.

“You’re just one bad day away from being me,” he remembers Frank saying quietly, with a measure of certainty in his voice that had frightened Matt more than the bullet bouncing off his skull.

He wonders whether Foggy would defend him if he crossed that line. Would Matt even want him to? Would Foggy still be the same man that had been his best friend, if he defended him, even knowing who he was, what he was capable of?

“I’m just trying to do what I think is right,” he says finally, looking up at Foggy. He can’t see him, so it’s not really eye contact, but it’s usually effective—Foggy’s always more likely to give in when he feels like Matt is looking at him.

“Fine, but we’re getting him to plea,” Foggy says decisively, “Reyes has so much evidence, an L1 could wipe the floor with us in a courtroom.”

“Done,” Matt agrees. He leans down and rubs at his calf, where there’s a fresh scar from the stitches that he’d just pulled out that morning.

Frank’s fingers on his skin, so gentle, despite the callouses on his fingers.

“Let’s go see him, then. Let’s go to the station,” Matt says decisively.

Frank’s large, warm hand on his jaw, turning it towards the light to see his vacant, unseeing eyes.

“Not the station. The hospital.”

His veins turn to ice. Had Frank’s foot gotten infected after all?

“Hospital?” he asks, hearing a faint breathlessness in his voice, hoping Foggy and Karen won’t hear it.

“He’s at Metro General,” Karen pipes up helpfully.

Foggy sighs. “Okay, let’s get this over with, then, and try not to die.”

The slight uptick of his voice when he thought Matt had slept with a man.

---

Frank’s room is heavily guarded. They get checked at the entrance of the hospital, and then Brett meets them in front of his room, where they get patted down all over again. They even take Matt’s cane, so he walks into the room on Foggy’s arm.

Foggy stops first, Karen right afterwards. Matt steps furthest forward.

“Mr. Castle,” he says quietly, “My name is Matthew Murdock, and these are my associates, Franklin Nelson and Karen Page.”

“Yeah. I know who you are. You protect shitbags.”

Matt grins crookedly. “Guilty,” he says lightly, before growing serious, “and we came here today to make you an offer. We don’t want money. We don't have to be here. But we're the only ones who are. You have a long list of enemies. A lot of people want you dead, and we’re your best shot to stay alive.”

“Is that right?” Frank asks, voice gravelly.

“You tell me,” Matt says levelly, “the DA is going to push for the death penalty. No matter how good you are at… self-defense, you can’t beat that.”

“That what you’re callin’ what I’ve done? Defending myself?”

Matt shrugs. “We’ll have to get more information from you to decide whether that’s an appropriate description.”

Frank doesn’t say anything, and Matt feels the weight of his gaze on him. He wants to twist his hands around his cane, but that’s not a good idea—Frank can probably sense nerves from a mile out, but even still, it’s not great to be an open book.

He wonders suddenly if it was wise to bring Foggy and Karen. He should’ve come alone, he realizes. He’d tried so hard not to tell him any specifics about the people that he cared about, and now he’s here, bringing in two of the only people in this world he loves.

God, what was he thinking, bringing Frank Castle into his home, showing him his face, letting him know that he’s blind?!

It’s so goddamn quiet. It isn’t absolute silence, not to Matt—but it’s not informative, either, the buzz of the IV machine pumping pain meds into Frank’s blood, the steady thumping of his heart, the slow inhale and exhale as he lays there, looking at him.

Foggy’s heart is beating faster—nervous, but even that isn’t new information. Karen, maybe more of a surprise, is also nervous. She takes a step forward.

“There’s more to the death of your family than you know,” she blurts out.

Frank’s heart skips a beat, and Foggy’s heart is starting to race.

Karen takes another step forward, rummaging in her purse and coming out with a photograph.

She steps in closer, but Matt puts out an arm.

“Let me have it,” he says quietly.

“I don’t need protecting, Matt,” Karen hisses.

He remembers how soft he thought she was when he first met her, how unlike him, unlike Elektra, so innocent. He doesn’t think that about Karen Page anymore. There are sharp edges to her, and there are sharp edges to him, and he wonders whether they’ll cut each other to shreds or fit together perfectly.

“It’s not protection. It’s plausible deniability,” Matt rebuts, taking the photograph and stepping forward until he’s right next to Frank. “Oops, I guess I didn’t see the line, huh? Anyway, here, this is what Karen has for you.”

“Where the hell d’you get this?” Frank snarls.

Matt clears his throat, a warning to both Frank and Karen.

Karen completely ignores the warning. Typical. She even steps up closer, until Matt puts up his arm again. “Plausible deniability,” Matt repeats, letting his voice get a little sterner. Karen is a part of the firm, and they treat her as an equal partner, but sometimes it’s helpful to reassert some sort of authority.

“Your house,” Karen admits.

Matt sighs.

“You were in my house?”

“Goddammit Karen, you’re breaking and entering now?” Foggy sounds more than annoyed, he sounds furious. “And into a—“

“Later, Fogs,” Matt says softly, “we’ll discuss that later. At length.”

Foggy’s jaw shuts with an audible snaps. Audible to Matt, at least. Also audible is the grinding of his teeth.

Frank doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “I want to talk to Murdock alone,” he says finally.

“No way in hell,” Foggy spits, “absolutely not.”

Matt wonders whether Foggy’s afraid for his safety or whether he thinks they’ll somehow get into a fight in a hospital room when Frank’s restrained to the bed.

“Fine,” Matt agrees.

“Five minutes. If I knock and he doesn’t come out within ten seconds, I’m sending the cops in,” Foggy says.

He’s being so brave. He’s fucking terrified, Matt can hear it, but he’s still being so fucking brave. Matt loves him so much it makes his chest ache.

“How’s your foot?” Matt asks, after the door clicks shut behind Foggy.

“How’s your leg?”

“I’m walking around on it just fine, and you’re in a hospital bed. I think my question is more pressing than yours.”

“Foot’s fine. Bullet hole’s what I’m concerned about.”

Matt had been distracted before, trying to monitor Foggy’s rage and Karen’s recklessness and Frank’s restrained brutality. He hadn’t reached out to sense injuries, only to forestall an argument.

(Speaking of which, Foggy’s giving Karen an earful in the hallway about being stupid and reckless—all in generalities, of course, since the cops were there too.)

He filters out the familiar sounds of their voices and analyzes Frank’s body. Cracked ribs—more than he had a few days ago, busted up face—practically normal, at this point, foot still bandaged, but not infected… Bullet hole on the right side of his chest. Matt takes a moment to listen to the inflation of Frank’s lungs, hoping they’re not full of fluid or punctured. But they sound okay, and Frank’s in a hospital, so he’s in better hands than he was at Matt’s place, at least.

“Who got you?”

“Some of the Dogs of Hell were outta town, got back and decided to dish out some revenge. Passed out, cops showed up, and they ran before they could finish the job.”

“Leg’s fine,” Matt says in return, “took the stitches out this morning.”

“Your medic friend?”

Matt shakes his head. He’d done it himself. It was probably easier for him than for a sighted person, since he didn’t have to contort himself to see the back of his own calf, just had to feel for it with his fingers.

“You okay?”

“We’re not here to talk about me, Frank.”

“Bullshit. Who’re you takin’ on now?”

“Yakuza, not that it’s any of your business,” Matt mutters, “my ex dragged me into it, we’re gonna take them down. Now can we please focus?”

Frank looks at him and shakes his head. “I gotta meet this ex of yours someday.”

“You really don’t.” He thinks about it and shivers—either Elektra would kill Frank for shooting Matt in the head, or Frank would kill Elektra out of some misplaced sense of chivalry, trying to save Matt from his crazy ex. Even worse, they could join forces and completely monopolize Matt’s nights as Daredevil, and that’s the last thing he needs.

“Frank. I really need you to focus,” he says again, quietly, “please. All the other stuff can wait. Let us represent you, give you a fair shot at a fair punishment. The DA wants to extradite you to Georgia, since New York doesn’t have the death penalty anymore.”

“I haven’t been out of the city in months.”

“Some Dogs of Hell in Georgia wound up dead, they’re gonna try to pin it on you. Please let me help you, Frank. Please. As a favor.”

“What would I owe ya?”

“As a favor to me,” Matt clarifies.

“Goddamn choir boy,” Frank mutters under his breath.

“Can’t carry a tune to save my life,” Matt responds promptly.

“That blond guy—Nelson? He doesn’t want this case, Red.”

“If he really didn’t want it, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Not even you?” There’s something in Frank’s voice that bears a passing resemblance to vulnerability, but Matt doesn’t pause too long to examine it.

“He’s my partner. If he insisted I couldn’t take this case, I… wouldn’t take it.”

“But you’d find some other way to meddle.” Frank doesn’t sound like he’s guessing, and Matt can’t argue—it’s true. “Maybe give a statement to a cop that shows that I’m just a teddy bear, maybe even put on the pyjamas and talk to a camera, if that’s what it took. Your opinion carries weight here. It would carry weight with a jury.”

“I wouldn’t perjure myself for you, Frank.” Matt is dead serious. Lying is one thing—and already not a great thing, but lying under oath is a red line.

Like the one he’d crossed just minutes ago to stand at Frank’s bedside.

Maybe he would. He just hopes he doesn’t have to find out.

“So? What do you say?”

Frank looks at him, considering. Matt stands patiently by, waiting for an answer.

“You really want my case, Murdock? Fine, you got it.”

Matt lays his hand on Frank’s shoulder, not feeling any swelling or heat to suggest that he’s hurt there, too, and squeezes gently. “Thank you.”

Frank clears his throat. “Can you send the woman in again? I—I want to talk to her. I haven’t been in that house since the day before—I wanted to ask her some stuff.”

“Karen. Her name is Karen. I’ll send her in. Make sure she stays behind the line, okay? She already plays a little fast and loose with the rules. I don’t think you’re gonna hurt her, but if she keeps going this way, she is going to get hurt.”

Frank looks at him for a moment, inhales sharply in realization, and chuckles. “Her too? Damn, Red, you’ll have to tell me your secret sometime.”

“Secret is be blind and helpless and get beaten to shit all the time so people feel bad for you.” He hears a venom in his own voice that he hadn’t mean to let out, but he can’t take it back now.

“That’s not fair, Matt,” Claire whispers to him, “I cared about the man who helped people. That was what I saw when I looked at you. A man who helps people, even if it gets him hurt. A man who helped me.”

“You wouldn’t be nearly so interesting if you were helpless, Matthew,” Elektra purrs in agreement, “your senses are… fascinating, but you match me, that’s why we worked so well.”

“You saved me,” Karen says, in that soft voice that Karen uses with him when they’re alone, “that first night we met, you brought me back to your apartment, gave me your shirt to sleep in, and said you’d keep me safe, and I believed you.”

Matt shakes his head. Claire had left because he was too self-destructive, Elektra had left because he wasn’t nearly self-destructive enough, and Karen—well, Karen was still around, because she didn’t really know him yet.

He reaches out, finds Frank’s fingers, and carefully wraps them around the photograph.

“You are the furthest goddamn thing from helpless, Matt,” Frank says quietly.

It’s true—for the first time in a long time, Matt feels seen, and it doesn’t rip him up inside.

He smiles weakly as he heads towards the door. “I’ll send Karen in. And Frank? Karen—she doesn’t know about Red.”

“Secret’s safe with me, altar boy,” Frank says, voice low.

Matt believes him. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he grimaces, knowing exactly who it is, summoning him like a dog.

---

“He wants to see Karen,” he tells Foggy when he gets outside. “I think—why don’t you go in with her, Fogs? You can leave if he asks you to, but maybe go in with her at first.”

“And what about you?”

“I have to go—that private client I mentioned, she needs me. Talk to him, get him to take the plea, then we can just move on.”

Foggy sighs. “I’m nodding,” he says, sounding disheartened.

Maybe one of these days he can stop breaking Foggy’s goddamn heart.

Today is not that day.

Chapter Text

Foggy calls while Matt’s in the car with Elektra, about to go beat the shit out of some scumbag professor who encoded part of the ledger.

He’s frantic. “He said no to the plea!”

“What?!”

“I got them down to one life sentence, with chance of parole, and he said no, Matt—Karen, what the hell did you say to him? We’re going to trial—Reyes is going to kick our asses—nobody’s ever going to hire our firm again, I can’t believe we’re defending a mass murderer—“

“Foggy, Foggy, calm down—“ Matt says, feeling his own heartbeat start to pick up in his chest.

One life sentence, with chance of parole? Foggy must’ve pulled a fucking miracle out of his ass to get that kind of deal, and what the hell is Frank thinking, pleading not guilty?

“Go home, Fogs. Have a drink or two, go to bed, and we’ll figure out our strategy in the morning.”

“The press is all over this,” Foggy moans, “I’m literally watching our reputation tank on live tv—“

“Foggy? I need you to listen to me, buddy. Turn off the TV, stay home, have a couple of drinks, and go to bed. We’ll figure it all out tomorrow.”

“My mom wanted me to a be a butcher—I should’ve been a butcher, Matty, honestly, fuck—“

“Hey. Fogs, put Karen on for me, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Foggy grumbles, handing the phone over.

“Karen, I need you to get Foggy calmed down—put on Remember The Titans, take his phone away, give him no more than two beers, and dig out an Ambien from the second drawer of his bathroom vanity, and have him take it about half an hour before the movie ends. I’ll come by tonight to check on him.”

“Uh, yeah, sure, okay. Come on, Foggy, let’s sit down and watch a movie, okay? Matt’s gonna come over and join us when he can, so let’s just sit tight and wait for him.”

“Thanks, Karen. Take care of yourself, too—we’re all gonna need to be at our best during this shitshow.”

“Sure thing, Matt. Guess our second date is postponed for now, huh?” She laughs a little, awkward and uncomfortable. She clearly understands that work has to come first for now, especially since she seems to be on Frank’s side even more than Matt sometimes, but she isn’t happy about it.

“Just for now,” Matt echoes, letting his voice grow a little softer, feeling Elektra’s keen gaze on him as she hears the promise in the words.

“Still hoping for a white picket fence, Matthew?” she asks, sounding almost sad, “people like us don’t get to have that kind of life, you know that.”

He faces the window and doesn’t respond. She’s right, of course, but he wants to live in the delusion for just a little while longer. Maybe, somehow, it can all work out, and she won’t hate him for being what he is, and she won’t mind that he throws himself in danger every single night, that he needs to do it, that nothing else—not even kissing her, not even the idea of having sex with her—makes him feel that alive, maybe he can have something good, something pure, something untainted.

“Why, so you can dirty it with your bloody hands, Matty?” Stick mocks in his head. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about it.

The professor—a genuine asshole—bears the brunt of his emotional turmoil. Each punch to the plate glass window is powered by shock at Frank rejecting the plea, by worry for Foggy and their firm, by anger at himself for wanting to be normal when he knows that’s never going to be possible, by anger at Elektra, for pointing it out.

---

They strategize all morning, starting with a PTSD defense. Karen volunteers to go present it to Frank, but Foggy vetoes that idea, still annoyed that whatever she’d said to Frank had caused him to reject the plea deal.

So instead Matt goes, hiding his bruises under a crisp white dress shirt and a tie that the sales associate had told him was navy blue, tied into a knot that feels right.

Frank’s been discharged from the hospital, and he’s currently in jail awaiting trial. The guard at the entrance of the prison lets Matt take his cane, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of stripping a blind man’s mobility away. But the guard in front of the visitation room coughs and takes it from him with a quiet word and the offer of an arm to lead him into the room.

Matt shakes his head and walks in on his own, arms cautiously extended to feel for the table.

“Table’s four paces ahead of you,” Frank says quietly, “chair’s dead center.”

“Thanks.” Matt gets settled, pulling out his files. Suddenly, feeling Frank in the same room as him, hearing the steadiness of his heartbeat, he’s angry at him. More than angry, he’s irate, he’s furious, he’s fuming at him—

“So what happened yesterday?” He breathes slowly, trying to control his voice, trying to stay calm. “Foggy worked his ass off getting you that plea, why did you say no?”

“Need more information. Couldn’t get it from behind bars. Reyes knows something, Karen said so, and I need to know what the hell happened that day.”

Matt exhales slowly. “You killed all those people, Frank,” he says quietly, “you deserve to be in prison.”

“If you really believed that, then why’d you come running the second they caught me? If you really believed that, then, that night at the graveyard, why did you—“

Matt coughs pointedly. Unbidden, the memory of Frank’s hand on his jaw returns, gently angling him towards the light.

“I’m an idiot, that’s why,” Matt mutters to himself, before speaking up. “Just so you’re aware of the situation, Foggy and I are very good lawyers. We were top of our class, and we received several offers before we started our own firm. Even considering that, our chances of winning this trial are about one in five, and that’s being generous. We don’t have many resources, because we’re a small firm. All we’ve got in our brains, publicly available information, our limited networks, and whatever Karen can dig up.”

“Well, seems she’s pretty good at digging.” Frank sounds so goddamn calm, almost distant, as if he’s not even seeing Matt anymore. It irks him, reminds him of that first night, on the rooftop, when there had been times where it seems like Matt wasn’t even there.

Frank’s busy obsessing over the mission, trying to figure out how to achieve his objectives, even now, in jail, facing terrible odds.

“I need you to be here,” Matt says abruptly. He feels Frank’s attention shift, feels his gaze sharpen, grow more focused.

“You need me, Red?” It’s that same tone again, as if Matt is a kid that’s said something so stupid it’s hilarious. There’s something in it, something that reminds Matt of Stick, laughing at the idea that there’s anything he needs, let alone something this dangerous. But there’s something else, too, something that verges on flirtation.

“Gonna bring me home, altar boy?”

“We have two weeks until we go to trial. When someone from our firm is in here talking to you, I need you to be present. Not off thinking about how you’re going to complete your vendetta against the gangs. You have the other twenty-three hours a day for that.”

Frank shifts in his chair, the metal squeaking under his weight.

“Fine, you got me, counselor. I’m here. What’s the plan?”

“We’re thinking—we’re thinking of starting with PTSD.”

“Not happening.”

“It’s a real thing, Frank, it is, and there’s no shame in it! Lots of veterans—“

“Stop talking, Murdock.” There’s a hint of violence in Frank’s voice—this is the man who shot him in the head, Matt remembers abruptly. He’d compartmentalized that, somehow.

He’d felt himself screaming, felt the strain in his vocal cords, felt himself going hoarse, brought down so terribly, pathetically low—sitting on the floor of his apartment, his back against the bricks, hands knocking at them until his knuckles were bloody and bruised—finally giving up and just sobbing, tucking his head against his knees and waiting for it to be over, wordlessly praying that it would eventually end.

The world had never been so terrifyingly silent before. It was like being in a black hole, empty of light and sound, nothing but the sensation of pain in his head, the inescapable thought that he would rather be dead than live like this, he’d rather be dead—

“It’s an insult,” Frank says.

Matt struggles to pull himself back to the current moment. He can hear the heartbeat of the guard standing outside the visitation room, can hear Frank’s heart from across the table, the metallic sound of shackles as a prisoner walks down the next corridor. He can hear. He can hear. He’s not deaf. He can hear.

“What, so I gotta be here, but you don’t? That’s bullshit, Red.” Frank mutters.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I’m here, I’m here Frank.” He can hear the fatigue in his voice, feels the minute shift as Frank abandons his train of thought and pauses to reassess.

“You good, Red?”

“Burning the candle at both ends, that’s all.”

“It will not last the night,” Frank mutters.

“Hm?”

“Nothing, it’s a poem. In the poem, the candle that burns at both ends is bright, but it doesn’t last long.”

He pauses and Matt imagines he’s being given a meaningful look.

“Point taken,” he says eventually. “Why is it an insult to go with a PTSD defense? It has nothing to do with how strong you are, anyone can get it—“

“You think I don’t know that?” Frank asks, voice serious, “the things I’ve seen, the people I’ve seen survive combat only to come home and blow their brains out six months later, the people who can’t sleep through the night because they wake up screaming, the people who don’t know how to be civilians anymore, who go to the grocery store and fucking cry because they remember the kids over there that were fucking starving? It’s not an insult to me, Matt, it’s an insult to them.”

“You’ve been through as much trauma as anyone,” Matt says gently.

Frank waves a hand dismissively. “I know where my life went to shit, Red, and it wasn’t out there. It was when I got back, when I was supposed to be done fighting. Even when I was over there, I never thought they would be in danger—I thought I’d be the one to go first. Goddammit, I still feel like I should have gone first, Matt, and I have to live with that, every single day—“

“That sounds a lot like post traumatic stress to me, Frank.” His voice is so quiet, like when he’d finally found that little boy the Russians had taken, when he had held that small body in his arms and carried him out of that building, giving him back to his tearful father and trembling mother.

“I’m not going with that. End of discussion. I’m not just another combat-crazy vet, and we’re not going with that story. Find something else.”

Matt sighs. He wonders how that little boy is doing now, wonders whether he wakes up at night, whether he struggles to be apart from his dad when he goes to school.

“Daddy! Daddy! Wake up! Wake up, Daddy, please! Please wake up, I promise—I promise I’ll be good, I’ll do all my homework, go to bed early, please, please just wake up—“

The arms of the police officer wrapping around him, pulling away from his father’s body, the blanket they wrapped around him as if it would make his father come back to life, as if a fucking blanket could hold even a fraction of the warmth his father had had, in his voice, in his eyes, in his arms—

The grief hits him like a sucker punch for the first time in a long while. It’s always there, but it’s usually quiet. Now it’s screaming in his chest.

“Emotions are weakness, Matty. Distraction. They’re going to get you killed.”

“Can you at least give me a character witness? The Devil isn’t exactly going to be able to show up at the courtroom in broad daylight.”

“My old CO. Colonel Ray Schoonover. He won’t tell you I’m crazy, and I’m shutting down this PTSD crap, but he’ll testify to my character.”

Matt nods, sitting back and feeling the cold metal of the chair against old bruises on his back.

“How’ve you been, Matty? Really. You look like shit.”

Matt shrugs one shoulder. His dad used to call him Matty. Stick too, back when he’d actually been around. Even Foggy, when he’d been tired or drunk or tenderer than usual. But he hasn’t heard that name from him in awhile now, since he found out about Daredevil. “You’d know better than me.”

“Still doing that thing with your ex?”

“Job’s not finished.” The words sit heavy in the air between them. Less than a week ago, they’d been tacit permission for Matt to get Frank away from the cops—and since when did the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen get mass murderers away from the cops?—and now, they were an admission of exhaustion, a man bent on swimming against the tide until his muscles gave out and the water pulled him down.

“Which one?” Frank asks, voice low and almost tinged with concern.

“Either of them.”

“I’m shaking my head,” Frank says, after a moment, “can you sense that sort of thing?”

“When I have the mental energy to try, yeah.”

“You are the furthest goddamn thing from helpless.”

Matt can’t help it. He feels helpless when he thinks about Frank’s case, like a mouse already caught in the cat’s jaws, in those seconds before an inevitable death.

“Maybe take a break from it,” Frank suggests, “you really look like crap.”

“I really feel like crap,” Matt mutters, slipping and letting his hand go to his aching ribs.

“Broken?”

“Just bruised,” Matt lies, “what about your GSW?”

“Not infected, that’s about the best I can ask for. Healing’s gonna be slow.”

Matt nods. “We’ll come back to you with more ideas for the defense. We might need to dig deeper into what happened, especially if they tried to cover it up, so one of us will come back and talk to you about it. We’ll have to rip apart any weaknesses in their evidence, that might mean going through forensic evidence, the medical examiner’s report, ballistics—and you’ve got all of us beat on most of that stuff. Take care of yourself, okay?”

Frank chuckles a little. “Feels a little like I should be telling you that.”

“Why bother? You know I won’t,” Matt quips.

“You’re an idiot. How the hell are you going to keep doing this forever?”

“I don’t think I’ll be doing this forever,” Matt says carefully. It’s something that he thinks about all the time, but never deeply. It’s just a fundamental truth. He fully expects to die one night, when a bullet hits the suit just right, or a knife splits a seam, or he just gets beaten so badly that the internal injuries are too much.

“Sure, there’ll be other cases, and once you finish with this thing with your ex, there’ll be other groups out there, but—“

Matt coughs quietly. “No, Frank. I don’t think I’ll be doing it forever. Any of it.”

Frank exhales sharply through his nose—frustration, not fatigue.

“You wanna be a martyr? Fine, just know that they’re the most goddamn selfish people in the world. They don’t give a shit about the people who care for them, they’d rather die and have their legacy live on because it’s easier. It’s so easy to die, it’s fucking hard to live. And I guess in the end, you’re just a goddamn coward.”

“I guess, in the end, I am,” Matt agrees softly, “take care, Frank. I’ll be back when we have a new direction for the defense.”

Chapter Text

Matt dreams of his father. It starts off in bright, vivid color. He normally dreams in sounds and scents now, dreams where he sees are few and far between.

He dreams they’re at the park, his dad taking him to ride on the carousel, standing close by Matt’s horse with a hand on his back. Matt feels small, his dad is huge in comparison and he feels completely and utterly safe. He leans over the side of the horse, knowing his dad will catch him, pulling him up into his arms.

“Come on, Matty, if you’re not gonna ride the horsey, what did I pay the man for, monkey?” He leans down and gives Matt a kiss on the cheek. Matt beams up at him, looking at the red-purple bruise on his dad’s cheek.

“You sit too, daddy!” Matt demands, and so his father, Battlin’ Jack Murdock, sits on the carousel horse, Matt settled cozily on his lap. He looks at his dad’s hands, the knuckles that are always bruised, no matter how much he wraps them up. Matty’s so perfectly happy, he wants to live in this moment forever.

Even if it’s not real, and he suspects it might not be real, because he doesn’t have too many memories of this age, he wants to keep it.

There are gunshots, and suddenly Matt’s not in his body anymore. He’s watching his father, watching him hold his little body, his face gone—

He knows it’s a dream—his vision fades and he dreams like he usually does, in scents and sounds and touches. So he stays in the darkness and hears his father scream, hears him sob, hears him pray for the first time, frantically, desperately, a man whose only hope is God.

He hears the crack of bone as his dad starts taking harder beatings, smells the sharp scent of scotch as he starts drinking more, feels his hands trembling as he stitches himself up haphazardly.

He hears his dad flirt with death—cross the street without looking, serenaded by car horns, talk back to the monsters that pay him, talking shit to men twice his weight, looking for a fight.

He watches the day his father finally manages to end it, picking a fight with the wrong guy, a guy who has a gun in his pocket and shoots him point blank before fleeing the scene.

He feels his father bleed, feels the warm tackiness of it on his fingers, hears his heart slow down like Grotto’s before it stops—

He wakes gasping for air with tears on his face, and he can’t do anything but curl up into a ball and cry.

---

Karen, in all her brash overconfidence and frankly irresponsible recklessness, goes to the DA’s office to strong-arm Blake Tower.

It’s not much, but it gives them something, at least.

“The bullet in his head, that’s what we’re going with. Not PTSD, he shot that one down—“

Foggy grimaces at the words. “His habit of shooting people down is what got us into this mess,” he mutters under his breath.

Matt ignores the words, but does hold up a hand in vague apology.

“I’ll go talk to Frank, ask him what he remembers,” Matt says with a sigh, “maybe he’ll find a problem with the ME’s report.”

“I’m going with you,” Foggy declares.

“What? You don’t need to do that.”

“He’s my client, too, Matt. I can’t be scared of my own client. I have to give this my best, and I want to try to see what you see in him.”

Matt coughs a little at his choice of words.

“Shut up, Matt. We get it, you’re blind, you don’t see anything in him.” Foggy says dryly. “Besides, I can’t just rely on you and Karen to do all the legwork. I need to figure out something for the closing statement.”

Matt nods. “Can we stop for coffee first?” he asks hopefully.

“I can make some!” Karen offers.

“No.” Foggy and Matt say it in unison, and Matt aims a smile at him, feeling one coming right back at him.

“Jerks. I work for ungrateful jerks,” Karen mutters, but even she is smiling, just a little bit.

---

“I’m sorry I got you involved in this,” Matt says quietly, sipping on his double shot of espresso. It makes him jittery, makes his heart race and his hands shake, but at least he stays awake after he has it.

“But you’re not sorry you got involved?” Foggy asks, a weight to his voice that suggests he already knows the answer to the question.

“He doesn’t deserve to die, Fogs. I would’ve done anything I could to make sure he doesn’t die.”

“Because he’s a person, and you believe in the sanctity of human life, or because he’s a vigilante, and you have a vested interest in protecting vigilantes?”

Matt shrugs. “Maybe a bit of both.”

“What is it with you and Karen, always giving bad guys the benefit of the doubt,” Foggy mutters.

“He’s not a bad guy,” Matt says softly, recognizing immediately the way it sounds, “if you talk to him—really talk to him, without antagonizing him—he’s actually pretty decent.”

“And do I have to be chained to a roof to have this kind of conversation?”

Matt makes a face. “He stitched me up once. He always asks how I’m doing. Both of me. And he listens, as if he cares about what I say.”

“Oh, Matty.” Foggy sighs a little bit. “Sometimes, you’re pretty fucked up. Only you would have a crush on a guy who shot you in the head and tried to make you kill someone.”

“It’s not a crush—he belongs in prison, I honestly believe that.” Liar, Stick whispers to him, if you believed that, why did you hide him from the police? How will your mind control your body if you don’t even know it yourself? “It’s just… recognition, is all.”

“Honor among vigilantes?” Foggy asks dryly.

“Something like that.”

“My ex breaks into my place sometimes and just waits for me to get home.”

“You need help getting rid of ‘em?” Even as he’d had his head on Matt’s thigh, bleeding onto the concrete rooftop.

“Well, I’ll take your extremely questionable judgment into consideration,” Foggy says finally, “Karen’s way worse than you, so it’s nice to have someone who actually admits that what he does is wrong, even if you’re hell-bent on redeeming him somehow.”

There’s an idea. Redeeming Frank Castle—the kind of Sisyphean task that only someone as utterly foolish as Matt would take on. He considers it, puts it away in the back of his mind to ponder in more depth later.

“I dreamed about my dad,” Matt says quietly, “I could see him, for a bit. I dreamed that it was him, the I was the one who died, and I watched him chase death until it finally caught up to him.”

Foggy swears under his breath. “Jesus, Matt, that’s—that’s fucking awful.”

“He told me about his family, Fogs. He told me he held his daughter’s body in his hands—but her face was gone. And I dreamed that it was my dad, holding me.”

“Matty, listen to me, okay? That’s a fucking terrible dream, I completely understand that it’s weighing on your mind—but Frank Castle is not your father, okay? You need to recognize that. Go into this case with a clear head, or let me pull in Marci or call in a favor, get someone else to help me handle it.”

“What? No, I can do it—I have to do it!”

“Why?” Foggy’s voice is so gentle. “Why do you have to do it, Matt? Why does it have to be you?”

“He—he trusts me. As much as he trusts anyone, I mean. He’ll shut down if it’s someone else—he deals with Karen because she’s got information he needs. He doesn’t have anybody else and because he’s got a thing about women, chivalry or whatever.”

Frank standing before him, one hand on Matt’s shoulder and the other holding a gun steady, scanning the rooftop for threats.

“Okay, Matty. Just—just don’t take it personally. You know what our chances are, here, don’t let it eat you alive if it doesn’t go our way. If it doesn’t go his way.”

Matt wants to make an excuse, but he doesn’t. Nothing would hold any water. Foggy Nelson is a damn good lawyer, and he also happens to be the person who knows him better than anybody else in the world, who loves him more than anybody else in this world, and Matt’s getting pretty tired of lying to him.

---

“Hey, Matt,” Frank says. His voice is steady, but his heart skipped a beat when he saw Foggy there with him.

“Hi Frank. The last time you met my partner, you were probably a little out of it—“ Lie, Matty. He’d been too focused on Matt, and then on Karen to pay any attention to Foggy. “This is my partner, Franklin Nelson.”

Frank nods.

“He just nodded,” Foggy says quietly.

“Right. Now, what do you remember from being at the hospital after you got shot in the head? You were in a coma, you woke up, you asked the nurse to take you home, right? Can you tell me anything else? Did they show you any charts, any test results?”

“I—I don’t remember. It was fuzzy.”

Foggy takes the x-ray out of the envelope and lays it carefully on the table. “Do you recognize this at all, Frank?”

“’S that me?”

Matt nods. “It’s still in there, the bullet. I want to be really clear—we are not going with a PTSD defense. PTSD is a psychological condition with physiological symptoms, this is a physiological condition with psychological symptoms.”

Frank is quiet, not responding at all. Matt reads some confusion coming off him, wonders why when he’d explained everything so clearly.

“What Matt’s trying to say is that PTSD is from the shit you experience. What you have is from the fact that you have a bullet in your brain. You’re wounded, not traumatized.”

“Okay. Fine, I guess, just don’t get too close to PTSD, I’ve already told Murdock I don’t want to go that route.”

“And we understand that—we do. We’re not going to say that this is because of the war, or what you saw there,” Foggy starts.

“Your life didn’t go to shit over there,” Matt says softly, “it went to shit here. When you lost your family—already an unimaginable experience—and also got shot in the head.”

“We’re going to show this to some top physicians, ask them what they think, see if they can serve as expert witnesses, testify on your behalf.”

It’s so nice, getting back into his rhythm with Foggy, the way they bounce off each other effortlessly. It just makes everything a thousand times easier when they’re together.

Frank frowns a little. “Okay,” he says again, softer. Matt can read reluctance, resignation—he’s not a hundred percent on board, but he’s letting Matt have this one.

“Matt? You, uh, you doing okay?” He’s tense, like he’s been wanting to ask, but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed—

“Hey Frank? Karen—she doesn’t know about Red.”

“Secret’s safe with me, altar boy.”

“I’m fine, Frank,” Matt says with a smile.

“You still look like shit.”

“Not sleeping much,” he admits.

“Matt Murdock not sleeping enough, stop the presses,” Foggy mutters, “honestly, you could be a case study, see if blind people can have visual hallucinations from sleep deprivation.”

Frank chuckles. “Still burning that candle at both ends, Red?”

“Red?” Foggy asks suddenly.

Foggy is soft. He has long hair, round cheeks, a sweet, sweet smile, and his body is soft and warm and completely nonthreatening.

But he is also so fucking smart.

“Uh, yeah, Red. I call him Red,” Frank says awkwardly.

“Think I’ll stick with Red. At least that way I won’t give you away when you’re in your red pajamas.”

“Why?” He can hear Foggy’s heart starting to beat faster, suspicious but not certain, not quite yet—

“His glasses.” Frank’s voice is a little stilted, as if he’s thinking on his feet.

Foggy sits with that for awhile before shaking his head.

Little did Frank know that he’d give him away when he was in a suit and tie.

Matt waits for the soft voice narrating the movement, but it doesn’t come.

“He knows, doesn’t he.” It’s not a question. Foggy had been top of their class at Columbia. Matt had been eighth, clawing his way back after his near catastrophic performance for the month after Elektra. He was good with his words, but Foggy had these incredible instincts, these moments of absolutely uncanny insight, somehow just knew things.

Matt sighs. “Yeah. He knows.”

“Are you blackmailing him?” The question is very clearly aimed at Frank.

“No! I asked him to let me take the case,” Matt explains, “I thought they were going to give him the fucking chair, Fogs—I couldn’t let that happen. I thought we’d negotiate down, get him a decent plea, and it would all be over.”

“Well, good work, Matt. That’s a great plan, I’m so glad you discussed it with me, especially the part where you disclosed your—thing—to a man who kills people—“

“Oh, come on, Foggy—“

“—and decided to bring him into my life! And Karen’s life! Did you talk her into this, into pushing us to take this case?”

“No, of course not—“

“Great, so that’s all her, which might actually be worse—“

“Do you two need a minute?” Frank asks. Amused again, as always.

“What’s so fucking funny?” Matt snaps.

“You two. Arguin’ like an old married couple, it’s fuckin’ adorable.”

Matt does his best to glare at him, but between his unfocused eyes and the dark lenses of his glasses, he’s not sure Frank’s getting the full effect. “Foggy? Glare at him for me?”

“Already on it. And you’re not getting out of this that easy. We’re having dinner tonight and you’re going to tell me everything.”

Matt nods. “How’re the foot and the bullet wound?” he asks Frank, because it’s becoming a bit of a tradition between them, and he can’t feel as much heat radiating off of his face—he must be healing.

“I’m just fine, Red, don’t you worry about me.”

“Yeah, he should be worrying about you,” Foggy mutters to Matt, “after I’m through with you, Murdock—I thought we’d been through this whole keeping secrets thing—“

Frank’s tense, clearly caught between wanting to interject and wanting to assess the situation further before he makes a move. But patience is perhaps not Frank’s strong suit.

“Watch how you talk to him,” he warns.

“Or what, you’ll punish me?” Foggy snipes back.

“He’s just tryin’ to do the right thing,” Frank says, voice quiet.

“You know what, tell me more. I’ve known him for eight years. He is my best friend. Tell me more about him. You met him, what, last week?” Foggy’s genuinely riled up, annoyed that Frank’s presuming to tell him about his best friend.

Matt suddenly realizes what it must look like to him. Foggy’s right—they’ve been best friends for years, and he only found out about Matt’s nighttime activities after he found him half-dead on his apartment floor. He’d let Frank know after barely a few weeks of knowing him. The circumstances were different, but he can imagine Foggy wondering what the hell he sees in Frank that warrants that kind of trust.

“It was a Claire-type situation,” Matt tries to explain, “only I was Claire, and he was me.”

Frank’s practically exuding curiosity—Matt’s always excluded names when he talked to him, and he’s probably wondering who Claire is.

“Matt—“

“We’ll talk about it over dinner. And not in front of a client.”

“Yeah, God forbid the fucking Punisher think we’re being unprofessional,” Foggy mutters, rising to his feet, “I think we’re done here for today.”

Matt stands up too, fighting back the instinct to reach for Foggy’s arm.

“Take care, Frank,” he says with a nod, turning to follow Foggy out of the visitation room.

“Hey, Nelson,” Frank calls as they exit, “keep an eye on this asshole, yeah?”

Foggy lets out a soft disbelieving chuckle, anger receding for the moment, and it feels like a miracle. He nudges closer, offering Matt his arm.

Matt’s never loved anybody the way he loves Foggy Nelson, and he’s never deserved anybody less.

Chapter Text

Walking with Foggy’s always easier than walking on his own. The cane makes people uncomfortable, some people come up and grab his arm to help him cross the street, and he just has to put more effort into navigating. But Foggy walks at the right pace.

“Let’s go to that Chinese place near Columbia,” Matt says quietly, tightening his grip on Foggy’s arm for just a moment, “let me buy dinner tonight.”

Foggy sighs. “You really know how to win a man back, Murdock. You’re still not forgiven, though.”

“I know, I know, just—I know I should have told you and I didn’t, and I’m sorry.”

“The grand gesture gets you some points,” Foggy admits after a little while, “I’m just—Matty, I’m tired of being blindsided by important information that you could have told me, but chose not to.”

“I know. I know. You’re right, Fogs, I should’ve told you,” Matt admits. He should leave it there, but—Matt tries to bite it back, but can’t quite resist.

“Blindsided, huh?”

“Shut up before I ditch you and eat delicious Chinese food on my own.”

“I made a blind joke to Frank once. He laughed.” Matt’s not above being petty now and again.

“Yeah, well try one in eight years and see if he’s still laughing, asshole,” Foggy mutters, “I used to think they were funny too, the first couple hundred times.”

---

They get dinner, and head back to Matt’s place, Foggy flopping onto the couch while Matt gets plates and beer and forks. There’s silence for a few seconds while they tuck in. It’s been a long day—hell, for Matt it’s been a long couple of weeks—and Foggy loses his appetite when he’s nervous, so he must not have eaten much for lunch if he’d known he wanted to go with Matt to see Frank.

“So. Explain to me how you got the fucking Punisher to defend your honor,” Foggy demands, sitting on the couch next to him, mouth full of chicken fried rice.

“It’s the handsome wounded duck thing,” Matt says calmly.

“Fuck off, Matt.”

“Am I not handsome?”

“You’re very attractive, but the man shot you in the head not too long ago. What the hell changed?”

Matt chews on some shrimp for a moment, trying to think about how he’s going to tell the story. “I saved him,” he says finally, “though I’m pretty sure he would’ve gotten out himself in another couple minutes if I hadn’t showed up. But the Irish got him, they—god, Fogs, they drilled a fucking hole into his foot—and he was beaten to shit—“

“So you two were a matching set, then?” Foggy asks dryly.

Matt lets one corner of his mouth twitch upwards. “We weren’t completely not matching,” he admits, “but we got out, I got him to this graveyard, and he just—it was like he gave up. He told me about his family—it was awful, Foggy, I can still hear his voice, the way he talked about his daughter—and I kept thinking he’s a dad without kids and I was a kid without a dad, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it—“

He inhales slowly. “The sirens were getting closer, and I just—I don’t know if it was the right thing to do, but I just couldn’t let them take him, not right then. Maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly, but I got him away, did some preliminary first aid once we got away, and then I brought him here, to recover.”

“Only you, Matt.” Foggy says. He’s leaning over, eyes closed with fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Only you would bring a serial murderer into your apartment.”

Matt smiles a little, sheepishly. It seems so different than the Stick-voice in his head. Only you would be soft enough, stupid enough to bring an enemy into your home.

“Yeah, well, he went to bed, somebody came by, I told them to fuck off, and then he saw that I was bleeding.”

Foggy’s heart speeds up a little bit. “I’m guessing not from, like, a paper cut?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Knife wound on my calf. I just shut down the pain until I got him here, I was checking myself out and bandaged it, but I was too tired to stitch it, and the angle would’ve been weird—I just didn’t care enough. Frank stitched it up for me.”

He sets his plate down on the coffee table and pulls his pant leg up, so Foggy can see the neat line of stitches and the small scars they left behind.

“Just checking, but he wasn’t the one who did that to you, was he?” Foggy asks, still a little bit skeptical.

“No, I’m pretty sure it was one of the Irish getting in a last hit before I knocked him out, Frank was pretty busy trying not to pass out and also trying to kill them and I was pretty busy trying not to let him, and they were busy trying to kill both of us, so it was kind of a mess, but it definitely wasn’t him.”

Foggy sits with it. Matt pulls his pant leg back down and picks up his plate again, leaning back and eating quietly while Foggy thinks. He doesn’t feel angry anymore—his heart is a little slower, and Matt reads frustration, yes, but mostly sadness. Disappointment. Resignation. He wonders if Foggy knows that disappointment hits him a hundred times harder than anger. He wonders how many more times he can disappoint before Foggy gives up on him.

He wonders if eight years sunk into a friendship is enough to make up for the shit he’s putting him through now.

“Was it Karen?” Foggy asks eventually.

Whatever Matt had expected—and he’d been prepared for a lot of different responses, including a face full of fried rice and his best friend storming out—it was not this.

“Huh?”

“Was it Karen,” Foggy repeats, “who came by, that night Frank was in your apartment.”

Matt shakes his head, feeling a pit of dread in his stomach. “Nah, wasn’t Karen.”

“Who was it, then?”

“That private client, remember? The one who pays? It was her.”

“And who is she? I’ve had enough of the secrets. Tell me who this woman is and what she wants from you.”

“It’s—fine, but try not to kill me, okay? It’s Elektra.”

“Elektra who almost made you flunk out of law school Elektra? Elektra who broke you so bad I had to make sure you were eating and sleeping? Elektra who was so fucking awful that I had to throw out all our alcohol so you wouldn’t drink yourself to death? Elektra who was so fucking toxic that you crawled into my bed one night, crying? That Elektra?”

Matt smiles wanly. The breakup had been—well, it was only marginally better than when he had first lost his sight, constantly overwhelmed from the input his other augmented senses were taking in. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t think Frank likes her very much either.”

“Frank’s met Elektra?”

“Not—not in person. She was on the roof, I was there telling her to go, and Frank was by the door, ready to fight, but we didn’t end up fighting, so it was fine!”

Foggy’s heart rate is steadily picking up, and his breathing is following, the sharp inhale-exhale of the air in his lungs almost painful to listen to.

“She’s been—okay, this isn’t going to sound good, but don’t freak out okay? She’s been breaking into my apartment and just waiting for me to get home? And he offered to get rid of her for me.”

Foggy curses under his breath. “Okay, new plan, you’re coming to stay with me, we are calling the police, we are filing for a restraining order—“ He mutters under his breath. “Can’t believe I fucking agree with Frank Castle—but if there’s someone who deserves punishment, it’s her—“

Matt reads truth in his heartbeat, but it’s muddled—he probably does think Elektra deserves to be punished, but not the way Frank would do it. He and Elektra had never really gotten along.

“Foggy, Foggy, please, I really need for you to calm down a little bit—“

Foggy stands up, agitated as he starts pacing around the coffee table. “Well, you know what, Matt?! I’m kind of struggling to calm down, considering that your sociopathic ex-girlfriend is stalking you, and you never bothered to tell me!”

“It’s not like that! She’s not stalking me—well, she kind of is, but it’s about work!”

“Our work or your work?”

“Mine. She wants to take on the Yakuza.”

“Christ, Matt, she’s dragging you into a suicide mission and you—wait, do you still love her?”

“What?! No, no, it hasn’t been like that—we’ve just been working. She’s been flirting too, but—I’ve just been working.”

Foggy gives up on the pacing and throws himself into the armchair.

“I hate her,” he says quietly.

“I know you do, buddy—“

“Matt, you don’t understand. I hate her. With every fiber of my being, I despise that woman for what she did to you. Do you remember how bad it was? Because I do, Matty, I do, and I don’t understand how you could get involved with her again after that.”

“I’m not involved, it’s just—it’s just work.”

Foggy sighs heavily. “I fucking hate your other job.”

“I know.”

“How the hell did she even know that was you?”

“She said she recognized my, uh, silhouette.”

“Silhouette?”

“One part of it specifically?” Matt offers, feeling himself blushing, “she recognized my ass, Foggy, I don’t know what else to tell you.”

Foggy laughs, bitter and high and sharp, verging on hysterical. “Of course she did. She comes into your life like a goddamn tornado, leaves it in ruins, and she recognizes your ass in spandex six years later and decides to drag you in for round two of emotional manipulation, only this time, with an extra helping of mortal danger.”

Foggy sits in the armchair for a long time, head in his hands before he gets up, heading towards the kitchen.

“I know you’ve got something stronger than beer. I need it.”

Matt doesn’t have to say anything—he already knows where the scotch is, and he can hear Foggy’s footsteps as he comes back to the couch, holding a bottle and two glasses.

“Still mad at me?” Matt asks tentatively.

“Yeah.” He sounds tired. “But honestly, maybe Frank Castle isn’t all bad if he hates Elektra. At least he watched your back in a fight instead of stabbing it. I might take him up on that offer to get rid of Elektra, if you don’t. And now I have even more incentive to win the case, I might need him to kick her ass for me.”

Foggy sounds morbid, forlorn.

Matt hesitates a little bit, unsure of how it’ll be received, but he shifts closer to him on the couch, laying his head on Foggy’s shoulder.

“That night in the graveyard, Frank asked me if I ever got tired,” he says softly, “I think it was the first time anyone’s ever understood. I know you see it, but he feels it, he lives it—I’ve never met anyone else who does.”

“Oh, Matty.” Foggy’s voice is warm, empathetic, and Matt knows in that moment that even if he’s not quite forgiven yet, he’s still got this man on his side, and that is everything.

“Yeah.”

Foggy wraps an arm around him, and Matt falls asleep to the smell of Chinese food growing cold and Foggy’s mild cologne, the familiar lullaby of the rhythm of his heart.

---

He wakes up a couple of hours later, his head still on Foggy’s shoulder and one arm wrapped around his middle to keep him from leaving. Foggy’s got one hand in Matt’s hair, and the other on the keyboard of his laptop, typing away.

“Sorry,” Matt mumbles, pulling away, “shit, I always leave you to do all the work—“

“It wasn’t long, and you get tired. I may not feel it the same way Frank does, but I know you need rest when you can get it.”

“Thank you, for being here. For always being there. I know I don’t deserve it.”

Foggy makes a face. “We’re going to put a pin in that last part, because I think that’s better suited for a therapist, but you’re welcome. Just—let me in from now on, okay?”

Matt nods.

“Is there anything else I need to know? Major mental, emotional, physical stuff that you haven’t told me?”

Matt hesitates, thinking through things. “Uh, I really like Karen?” He offers weakly.

Foggy honest to god laughs. “You know what, buddy? That one I can handle. And I was talking about things I didn’t already know.”

“I think I like her because she’s—not like me? Elektra said I wanted the white picket fence, and I dunno, Foggy, I think I do, and I don’t know if I like Karen for being Karen or if I like that she lets me have that dream?”

“That is a tough one,” Foggy says thoughtfully, “but luckily, you don’t have to know the answer right away. You’ve had one date. She might find out that you can’t stop making blind jokes and decide she’s not ready for a lifetime of you making fun of yourself.”

Matt smiles.

“Anything else?”

Matt is about to shake his head when he remembers being pressed against the brick wall, surrounded by utter silence, waiting to die, wanting to die, knocking his hand against the bricks—

“I lost my hearing after Frank shot me. Not permanently, but—I’ve had an episode of deafness. That’s probably important, in case you find me and I’m… awake, but not responsive?”

“Dammit Castle, right when I was starting to warm up to you,” Foggy mutters.

Matt lets out a choked laugh. “He didn’t know I was blind or had augmented hearing, in his defense.”

“Save the ‘Frank Castle is actually a good guy’ argument for court, Matthew. Now, I’ve been looking through these documents, and one thing stood out to me—you said Castle was holding his daughter, right? He said her face was gone?”

Matt nods, grimacing at the memory. “He said there was meat pouring out of her.”

Foggy grimaces too. “Jesus. Well, this medical examiner’s report doesn’t seem consistent with that. So that might be something we can work with. Maybe you can go in tomorrow and talk to him about it?”

“You could come too, Fogs.”

“I think he’s more comfortable with you, Matty. Plus he got so protective, I was almost scared he was gonna punch me in the face. Honestly, man, the nerve—you deserved it!”

“I did.”

“He had no right!”

“He didn’t.”

“Protecting you from me?! Don’t make me laugh! I’m the one who dragged you off that rooftop after he shot you!”

“You are.”

“Are you just humoring me?”

“I am.” Matt finally lets out the smile he’d been trying to suppress.

“Fuck you, Matt.” Foggy shoves at him a little, playful, and Matt lets himself fall away, laying on the other side of the couch.

It feels like they haven’t laughed this hard since law school.

---

The visitation room is familiar now, and he walks into it confidently, even without his cane.

“Hey, somebody moved the chair a bit to your left,” Frank says quietly, “it’s not dead center anymore.”

Matt finds it and there’s something nice about the metal against his bruises. It’s hard, and it aches where he’s sore, but at least it’s cold.

“So, d’you and Nelson kiss and make up last night?”

Matt laughs. “One of the two,” he says vaguely.

Frank doesn’t take the bait. “You love him.” His heart isn’t quite right—not rushing, but just not right—like he’s putting in effort to stay calm.

Matt shrugs. “Irrelevant to your case.”

“So you do.”

“Like a brother. He’s a brother and a friend and my partner. I don’t have many other people in my life,” Matt admits finally. “Only four people know both sides of me.”

Frank’s heart jumps a little bit, probably recognizing that he’s one of them. “What about Claire? She your ex?”

“My medic. And I don’t know that she counts as an ex. It was over almost as soon as it began, she didn’t want to be with someone who does what I do.”

“Her loss,” Frank says gruffly.

“Mine, too,” Matt admits with a sigh. He and Claire, if they’d stuck it out—maybe it would have worked. She was so easy to love. It was just a shame that he wasn’t. “Now, let’s focus. We can catch up once we get you out of here.”

“Who’re the other people who know, then? Other than me and Nelson.”

“You’re a smart man, Frank, I think you already know.”

“Your ex and your medic. Claire.”

“See? The bullet hasn’t damaged your ability to figure shit out, at least, that’s something, right?”

Frank grunts in acknowledgement.

“And Foggy’s even more motivated to win your case now.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“I told him you weren’t a fan of my ex. Which might be overstating it a bit, but, well, he’s not a fan of hers either. I think he insinuated he wouldn’t mind if you beat the hell out of her.”

Frank furrows his eyebrows. “Sorry, that cupcake who was in here yesterday said that he wouldn’t mind if I beat up a woman?!”

“He’s protective, and it didn’t end well between us. He was the one who picked up the pieces. And Foggy—well, he loves me. He might be the only person that does.”

“That sounds like bullshit.”

Matt shrugs. “Can we stop talking about me and my shit and start talking about your case? Please?” He hears the vulnerability in the last word and hates himself for letting it be there.

He starts with the medical examiner’s report on Lisa. He keeps the Braille copy for himself and hands the printed version to Frank to read. He monitors the way he grows more and more tense as he reads through it, the way his heart starts going faster, radiating pain.

“That’s—that’s not right,” Frank says softly, looking at the words. “My baby, she wasn’t—they shot her in the head—Red, I remember, I was holding her, and in the middle of all of that, you remember what I thought?”

“What?”

“I thought—I thought it would take so long to wash the blood out of her hair,” Frank chokes out, “Maria would wash it, but I’d dry it afterwards, sit on the carpet with her and blow dry her hair, make it into two little braids before she went to bed—she had my hair, thick and dark, and Maria used to get so fed up with it—threatened to cut it, but then my baby girl cried, and—and Maria just let it go.”

Matt carefully reaches across the table and lays his hand over Frank’s wrist, behind the cool metal of the handcuffs. “We’re going to bring them to justice,” he promises, “I’m going to get you out of this.”

Frank swallows, the click of his throat loud to Matt’s ears. “You gonna let me kill ‘em, Red? You gonna let me kill the men who killed my girl?”

Matt freezes. In the moment, he thinks he might just let Frank do it, no matter how wrong it is. He remembers Roscoe Sweeney, the feeling of his throat under Matt’s hands, the way Elektra had handed him the knife, waiting eagerly for him to take a life—what had she seen in him when he couldn’t do it? Weakness? Cowardice?

“I have to try to stop you.” Matt’s own heartbeat says lie. If you don’t know your own mind, how will you control it? Stick asks.

“But you know me now, Frank, my weaknesses, my… other commitments. If it came down to it, your odds would be better than most.” Matt says quietly, hating himself for it.

Frank leans in close. “So what, I’m supposed to take advantage of the fact that you’re blind to beat you in a fight?” He hisses.

Matt gives Frank his best unimpressed look. “You can certainly try, Frank.” He’s got steel in his voice. Good. “But remember who I am. Remember what I can do. You’re good, but so am I.”

He squeezes Frank’s wrist a little bit, gently, before going to pull his hand back, a little bit surprised when Frank grabs his fingers.

His heart is beating fast again, out of nervousness. Matt doesn’t say anything about the fact that they’re now holding hands in a visitation cell.

“Are you ready to look at the other ME reports?” he asks, “I’ve written down that Lisa’s is inconsistent with what you remember. We’ve got to go through these two, and then we can be done for today.”

Frank nods, and they go through Maria’s first, and then Frank Junior’s.

Frank’s breathing a little unsteadily by the time they’re done, his fingers clammy against Matt’s.

“He would’ve liked you,” he says softly, “Frankie, I mean. He would have loved you, would have wanted an action figure or something, would have you beating up on Lisa’s Ken dolls.”

“I would have liked to meet him. He sounds like a good kid,” Matt offers.

“Got into a fight with someone in Lisa’s class once, because he said something mean to her. Maria was furious, but I was just—I was just so proud, Red. He fought a kid bigger than him to protect his sister, I mean what else could I have asked for out of my boy? Lisa was the one who broke it up and then she got involved and punched the other kid in the nose before dragging Frankie to the nurse.”

“Must have gotten that from her dad,” Matt says softly.

Frank laughs. Matt can taste salt in the air, from tears gathering in his eyes but not quite falling yet. “No, that was all Maria. She’d—god, she’d gut you with just a look, she was incredible. Had to be, she was raising them alone, most of the time.”

Matt swallows. “Talking about them, does that make it worse? Or does it make it better?”

“Doesn’t make a difference,” Frank says blankly, “I think about ‘em all the time anyway, whether I say it or not.”

Matt extends his other hand and lays it on top of the one Frank had laid on top of his.

“I don’t—I didn’t have much of a family, especially after my dad died. So I don’t really know what you lost—the enormity of it—but it sounds like it was pretty amazing to have them, Frank.”

Frank nods. It’s quiet for a moment, and then he sighs. “I’m nodding,” he says thickly.

Matt just sits there for a little while, holding Frank’s hand in both of his own. His hands are big, warm, and rough with callouses.

“I’m going to get you out of here, Frank,” he promises, and Frank grunts, pulling away from Matt’s hands.

Matt packs up, listening to the quiet rustling of paper against paper against the backdrop of Frank’s congested nose and his aching heart.

“Take care, Frank. I’m going to come back tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay, Matt. And tell Nelson—just tell him thanks, for agreeing to take my case.”

Matt leans across the table and squeezes his shoulder, unable to find the right words.

Oh, Matt. Only you would have a crush on a guy who shot you in the head.

Chapter Text

He’s practicing arguments on Foggy, who’s playing a recalcitrant medical examiner, when Elektra shows up.

And in typical Elektra fashion, she comes in through the window.

Foggy’s heart starts racing in shock, then settled into an elevated beat, but he’s not afraid anymore, he’s fucking pissed.

“Elektra.”

“Franklin,” she says levelly.

“I hate that name.”

“I recall, yes.”

“I heard you were stalking Matty these days. Maybe if you didn’t treat him like shit last time, you wouldn’t have to break into his apartment when you wanted to see him,” Foggy says with a saccharine smile.

Matt and Foggy had been at the Nelsons’ Thanksgiving, the full extended family, and Foggy had been going at it with his far-right supporting uncle, and he’d muttered something to Matt under his breath.

“I didn’t know you could be so catty, Fogs.”

“I have sisters, Murdock. That’s basically free lifetime training in cattiness and gossip.”

“We’re going to Midland Circle tonight, Matthew, get dressed.” She never asks for things, she just gives orders and expects Matt to follow them.

He supposes it’s partly his own fault, for always going along with her.

“I can’t do tonight, Elektra, I have work.”

“This is more important than whatever papers you need to push,” Elektra insists, voice dangerous.

“I believe Matthew said no, Elektra,” Foggy says, steel in his voice.

“I believe he’s about thirty seconds from getting dressed, Franklin. Matthew, I’ve given you days for your precious cases, you can get back to trying to free criminals tomorrow.”

“We have the trial of the century tomorrow,” Foggy says, outraged, “and your hitting people can also wait. Or better yet, you can always go on your own!”

Matt sighs and he walks over to Foggy. “Stand down, Fogs, I’ll go. But I have to get back soon, Elektra, I know you think I can just drop everything when you call, but there are other things that are important, too.”

Foggy follows him into his bedroom, watching him get dressed and reaching down for his helmet. He wraps his arms around it and holds on while Matt pulls the rest of the suit on.

“Be careful,” he says softly, earnestly, “yes, I am worried about the trial, but Matty, I’m more worried about you—text me when you get back here, okay? Let me know you made it back in one piece. And call Claire if you need her.”

Matt nods. “I promise, Fogs, I’ll text you tonight when I get home. Now, do you wanna do the honors?”

He bends his head down and Foggy smiles, careful of his ears as he slides the cowl down over his head.

“With this… devil helmet, I dub thee Sir Matthew, Knight in Red Body Armor.”

Matt chuckles as he turns towards him. “Go home, Fogs, get some rest. Big day tomorrow.”

Foggy shakes his head a little, smiling his goofy smile. “Go on, go save the world, Daredevil.”

“I’m aiming a bit smaller than that, but sure.”

---

The warehouse is dark, which Elektra finds annoying, and unnervingly silent, which Matthew finds both suspicious and alarming. He gets hit before he even knew there was someone else in the room. When he and Elektra manage to get away for a moment to regroup, he grips her shoulder hard.

“We have a problem.”

“I can see that, Matthew.”

I can’t. Matt thinks, and this would be funny except for the fact that he actually feels properly blind now. “I can’t hear them,” he whispers urgently, “I can’t hear them! I’m going to be useless in a fight when I can’t sense them—“

Elektra pauses, and she is still familiar. The scent of her washes over him and he relaxes a little bit, even as he realizes that he might die here tonight.

And then who’s going to give the opening statement tomorrow? he thinks manically to himself.

“Their weapons. Listen for their weapons,” she says suddenly, and Matt almost wants to cry, he’s so relieved. He won’t be useless, he won’t get her killed, he won’t leave Foggy in the lurch tomorrow, Frank won’t die in prison—

Hearing the weapons is all well and good, but it’s a very different thing from actually fighting. He and Elektra gel well on the battlefield—they always have. Their chemistry in a fight is second only to their chemistry in between silk sheets. It’s effortless, the way they cover for each other, but even as good as they are, Matt realizes quickly that their chances aren’t great.

There’s just too many of them.

Suddenly there’s the slam of feet on the ground, belonging to someone else, someone familiar, and if Matt wasn’t in the midst of battle, he would have recognized that heartbeat from a mile away.

As it is, he just waits to see if the new player is going to try to kill them or try to help them, and when it’s the latter, he doesn’t give a fuck who it is.

The new player fits with them. His style is more brutal, but it works with both his and Elektra’s, so well that Matt’s in the middle of trying to knock a ninja out when he realizes that it’s Stick.

I thought you were supposed to have decent senses, boy, the Stick-voice in his head says mockingly, I could have been anyone, could have killed you and your little girlfriend here.

The realization hasn’t quite sunk in when Elektra lets out a sharp cry, one that sinks into Matt’s skin, settles in his bones like electricity. Suddenly he’s fighting more viciously, breaking more bones, kicking men into the hole that’s seventy stories deep without caring what could happen to them.

“Matthew,” Elektra gasps, and suddenly it’s quiet—there are no more enemies, just his Elektra, the warm tackiness of her blood, pouring from the wound in her stomach.

His dad on the pavement, body already lukewarm, growing colder every minute, the way Matt had felt for his facial features and found them covered in blood—the way he’d smelled that blood on his hands for days afterwards, no matter how much he washed them.

“Hey, hey, sweetheart, stay with me,” he says softly, pressing into the wound, trying to push all that blood back where it belongs, inside the body of the woman he still—and what a time for the realization, when she could die any minute—oh, god, he still loves her.

He still loves her. She’s a jerk sometimes, presumptuous as hell, vicious, unyielding, manipulative, but he’s never felt more alive than when he’s next to her, fighting, just the two of them against the world.

“Pick her up, Matty, we don’t have much time,” Stick says sternly. Matt lifts her up into his arms and follows him.

She bleeds and bleeds, and the blade that cut her was poisoned, and Matt’s sure he’s going to lose her.

But then Stick’s barking orders, and he’s following them, the sticky residue of her blood on his hands making him want to vomit, every beat of his heart screaming that he should be there with her, not running around the apartment fetching toilet bowl cleaner—

Stick doesn’t even use the fucking tea, just takes it in his hand and blows on it before taking a sip. Matt hates him for keeping him away from Elektra for even a handful of unnecessary seconds.

He sits there, holding her hand, whispering prayers, talking to her, begging her to stay, to come back, promising her the world and more, promising her his life, his heart—

He remembers her laugh, high and sweet, like birdsong, one day when they’d been walking in the park, breathless and interspersed with snorts another day when they’d been sparring together.

The shape of her lips against his skin, against his mouth—he hadn’t had any scars then, just smooth, unblemished skin. He wonders if she’d like the way he looks now, the white scar tissue in jagged lines on his chest, along his side, on his forearms, the puckered flesh from gunshot wounds.

He sits there for hours, and eventually, he crawls into the bed with her and dozes, still holding on tight to her hand, waking every time she lets out a cry of pain to soothe her.

---

The courtroom is full, but the seat next to Foggy is empty, and there are no new texts on his phone.

“C’mon, Matty,” he mutters, “please, come on, be here, be okay—“

He’s panicking for about four different reasons at once—the fact that he has to wing an opening statement is the least of them.

Coming up with an opening statement on the fly is stressful, but he’s lived with stress for years on end.

But every time he blinks, he sees Matt’s body laying on the floor of his apartment, blood soaking into the floor, the way he’d called Claire, falling apart even as he was furious at Matt for doing this, for not telling him, for getting himself hurt—

Or worse, maybe he’s dead. Maybe Claire won’t be able to bring him back this time. Maybe he’s gone, maybe Elektra took him—which is better because at least he’s still alive, but still bad because Elektra is so toxic, she’s going to break his heart all over again, and then how is he going to live—

That part? That’s not stress. Stress would curl up into a ball and start crying at this—this is agony.

“Ma’am?” Frank asks Karen quietly, “could you go get me a cup of water, please? I wouldn’t ask, but they won’t let me go out to the water fountain.”

“Of course, Frank. Foggy, don’t worry, you can do this, he’s going to be here.” She presses a hand to his shoulder and squeezes reassuringly before he leaves.

“Nelson.” Frank says, voice low, “is he okay?”

“Honestly, Frank? I have no idea. He went out with that fucking woman last night. I told him not to, I told him to be careful—“

“This his ex you’re talking about?”

Foggy closes his eyes and nods. “She’s—she’s toxic. And dangerous. And she’s going to get Matty killed one of these days. And he’s no better. Such a fucking idiot, going out with broken ribs—“

Frank grimaces, looking almost pained. “He’s a tough guy too, you know. Uh, I’m guessing you’ve never seen him fight, he’s, uh, he’s pretty good. Probably the best I’ve seen when it comes to hand-to-hand. He can take care of himself.”

Foggy aims a wan smile his way. “Let’s focus on you for now,” he says, feeling his heart race anxiously in his chest, “we’re going to get through this, and then I’m going to kill him once I get my hands on him.”

---

Matt stays with Elektra all day. The trial completely slips his mind when she wakes up and says his name, voice so frail it tears him up inside.

“I’m here, baby, I’m here,” he repeats all day long, all those endearments that had been locked away flooding out now that she’s—oh, God, please don’t let her die, please not her, don’t take her, too—

He goes out to the kitchen to get some coffee and a bite to eat, trying to figure out something that Elektra might like to have. Stick’s sitting on the sofa, cutting up an apple with his pocket knife.

“I wouldn’t worry, Matty, Ellie’s pretty tough,” Stick says, and the world kind of just… stops. “I’ve known her to pull through worse.”

“What?”

“Oh, come on, I know you heard me. Ellie. She’s tough as nails, she’ll get through this.”

His heart isn’t working right. Matt’s heart isn’t working right. “Uh, you know her?”

“Well, obviously. She wasn’t born knowing how to fight, you know.”

The truth sinks in slowly, like the poison coursing through Elektra’s veins and the desperate MacGyver shit that Stick had pulled to try to counter it.

“You—you trained her.”

“Yup.”

“As—as an adult?”

“Don’t be stupid, Matt. Why would I bother with adults? Clumsy, slow, takes them forever to learn one kick—“

Matt’s heart cracks. Oh, Elektra. He did it to you, too.

He wonders what she was like as a little girl, if she was softer then, sweeter. If she cried when Stick left her, because in the end, Stick always left.

Matt had cried, when Stick left.

Suddenly more ominous possibilities suggest themselves. What are the chances that Elektra, a beautiful Greek heiress who just so happened to be trained by Stick, ended up at Columbia, where poor, blind Matt Murdock, who also happened to be trained by Stick, happened to be studying?

---

She wakes up in the afternoon, and he doesn’t even bother asking her how she feels.

“When we met, was it fate?” he asks her, sitting on the floor next to the bed because he can’t quite handle being on the bed with her right now. “Was that fate? Luck? Or was it—was I—a mission?”

Elektra’s heart speeds up, weak as she is, and there are tears in her eyes, salty and unshed. “Mission,” she whispers, “he—he trained me, but he never forgot about you. He thought I could bring you back into the fold.”

Matt feels sick to his stomach. He thinks back to those early days, when he’d shown her Fogwell’s, when he’d jumped up into the ring and she’d followed, only to throw a punch at him. He should’ve suspected then—nobody would throw a punch at a blind man unless they were a) an asshole or b) reasonably sure that he would dodge it. Or c) both, in Elektra’s case.

“He wanted you to forget about law, forget about your friends. He thought I could distract you.”

Foggy’s arms around him, pulling him out of the hallway when he’d been too drunk to open the door to their dorm room and passed out in the corridor.

Foggy, taking the bottles of alcohol to the bathroom and pouring them down the sink.

Foggy, who would wake at night to the sound of Matt’s quiet, pathetic crying, and would come sit next to him and hold his hand.

Foggy, who held him at night when he felt like his body would be ripped open from the pain of losing her, from the pain of not being enough, yet again.

Foggy, who’d gone with him to the professor to beg her to let him take the tortes exam a day late, who’d sat up with him all night to cram, even though he still had exams of his own.

“He was right,” Matt croaks.

Pathetic, weak, unfocused. If you really wanted it, you would’ve stayed focused. The only reason you allowed yourself to be distracted is because you know that you’re meant to be a warrior, not a pencil pusher.

“I’m going to go out.” His voice is vacant, blank, emotionless.

“But I failed,” Elektra continues, “I fell in love with you, Matthew.” The words sound so beautiful in her voice, and even if her heart is steady, he still can’t figure out if she’s lying to him. He wants them to be true, so desperately. He wants to have been enough for her, for someone. He wants her to have hurt, after she left, wants to know that she hurt at least a fraction of the way he had. He had loved her so much, once upon a time. If he closes his eyes, he can almost will himself into loving her again. It would be so easy—

“I—I can’t—“ He flees.

Always running, Matty. You know you can’t ever get away from yourself, right?

He goes up to the roof, tries to meditate. He listens hard, but it’s not dark yet, and there aren’t any crimes being committed.

He stays in the cold air until he can’t feel his fingers, and then stays a little while longer, until he can’t feel his ears or nose, either.

That’s when he goes back inside, ignoring Stick entirely and going into his bedroom. He settles on the bed and takes Elektra’s hand. Her pulse is stronger now than it was a few hours ago—she’s going to make it, and it feels like he can finally breathe again for the first time in hours.

“We can fight the Hand without doing it Stick’s way.” He didn’t expect to hear himself say that. He didn’t expect to offer her absolution, he’s pretty sure he’s not even qualified to do that, not when Elektra has almost certainly killed people before.

“Not everyone can be saved, Matt,” Foggy had said to him once, about Frank.

“But everyone deserves a chance,” he’d replied.

How fucking predictable.

“Be with me. We’ll fight them our way, without killing, we’ll watch out for each other, we don’t need Stick—“ Matt can feel himself speaking too fast, but Elektra is listening. He reaches out and takes her hand—it’s warmer now, her grip stronger.

“Last night, when I thought I might lose you, I—I felt hollow. I have no reason to trust you. You've lied to me the whole time we’ve known each other. But if you leave Stick... be with me. Fight this war by my side. My way. Our way.” I can save you, Matt thinks, desperately, I can help you, I can bring you back from the darkness. Please, let me.

“You’re hell-bent on redeeming him somehow,” Foggy says, about Frank.

Is that such a bad thing? He’d asked himself later, when he was alone with his thoughts.

“Why are you so good?” Her voice is so soft, so tender, gentler than those first few days, when she’d consumed his entire life in her flames and he’d let her, enjoying the warmth.

“I'm not.” How can she not see it? How can she not see that he’s just being selfish, wanting to keep her close, even when he shouldn’t. How can she not see that he’s broken, that he keeps attracting other broken people?

“Yes. There's a light inside you. I tried to snuff it out in college. I'm so lucky I failed.”

Matt smiles—feels it twitch, because she will never know how close she got to snuffing out whatever light she thought she saw—and brings her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles tenderly.

There’s an abrupt knock on the frame of the door before it slides open.

“Company, Matty,” Stick announces callously, probably fully aware of the fact that he’s burning Matt’s life to the ground, weakening its foundation.

Karen’s there, her heart racing at the sight of Elektra in Matt’s bed, Matt sitting beside her and holding her hand to his lips. He drops it awkwardly, hearing the soft sound as it falls back to the mattress.

“Karen, I can explain—“

“I really don’t want to hear it, Matt,” she says, voice shaking, “and honestly? I don’t give a shit.” Lie. “You didn’t show up today, and you made Foggy do an opening statement on the fly, you’re lucky—Frank’s lucky he’s brilliant and made it work! Was it worth it? Taking the chance that a man would spend his entire life in prison, for a hook up?”

“I beg your pardon—“ Elektra starts, straining to sit up and probably ready to let Karen have a piece of her mind. Matt shakes his head, just slightly.

“Foggy might seem to think you still deserve a chance, but I am done relying on you, Matt. I’m done. You—me and Foggy are one thing, but you’re letting your clients down, too. And they don’t have anyone else. I thought you cared about Frank—I thought you took this seriously!”

“I do.” It’s all that Matt can say. No number of excuses or explanations are going to help now, but he does care. That’s the problem, he cares about too many things at the same time.

“Still burnin’ that candle at both ends, Red?”

Oh Frank, you have no idea.

“It will not last the night, you know.”

I’m sorry.

“I’m tired of the bullshit,” Karen says, voice growing louder, angrier. “I’m so fucking tired of your bullshit, Matt, your—your drinking problem, or your secret fight club, or kinky, violent sex, or whatever—I’m tired of it.”

“Drinking problem?” Elektra asks, sounding a little amused, “surely Franklin can come up with something better than that.”

“Elektra, please,” Matt mutters.

“You didn’t show up today, Matt. Don’t bother showing up tomorrow, either. Shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

She turns and she’s gone, leaving behind nothing but a whiff of her perfume and shampoo.

Matt lets out a slow exhale.

“Matthew, I’m sorry—“ For once, Elektra sounds sincere. Like she actually regrets causing him pain. There’s a first time for everything, he supposes.

“I need to make a phone call.” Matt says abruptly, remembering with a pang of guilt that he’d never texted Foggy last night.

The phone rings twice before Foggy picks up.

“Oh, Matt, thank god you’re alive—“ he breathes, “I was so worried—wait, this is Matt, right? It’s not just Claire, calling to tell me Matt’s d—“

“It’s me,” Matt promises, “not dead, I promise. Can I come over?” Matt asks, knowing that if he stays close by, Stick will eavesdrop on every word.

“Only if you tell me everything when you get here. And let me yell at you for not showing up today.”

“Yeah.” His voice cracks, “Yeah, I want to tell you everything. And you can yell at me as much as you need. I know I deserve it, for not showing up today.”

---

Foggy opens the door and the smell of him washes gently over Matt, the bell peppers and onions he’d had in his taco for lunch, the coffee—his best friend almost always smells of coffee, these days—and underneath it all, his normal bread-and-butter scent—cologne, shampoo, two types of conditioner.

“Matty, you look like you’ve been run over by a truck. Only, like, emotionally.”

Matt laughs and steps forward into Foggy’s apartment.

“A ninja sliced Elektra open last night,” he starts, “she was—god, she was bleeding everywhere, I carried her to the cab—did I ever tell you about Stick?”

“Please tell me that isn’t the name of, like, a cane that the nuns would use to beat you.”

Matt laughs. “Not too far off,” he says darkly, “when I first lost my sight, I was overwhelmed, but my dad was there, and I’d focus on him most of the time, and that… helped. But then after he died, I didn’t have the good drugs from the hospital to keep me out of it, and I didn’t have him to focus on, and everything was so loud—I didn’t have an anchor anymore, to keep me from getting lost in all the stimuli.

“The nuns brought Stick to help. He was—well, first off, he’s a guy, not an actual stick. He trained me, helped me manage my senses, taught me how to fight. Pretty much all the things I can do now, listening to heartbeats, smelling hormone signals and translating them into emotions, hearing broken bones, all of that I learned from him.”

“Is it good that he’s here, then?”

Matt shakes his head a little. “He was the first person I loved since my dad died,” he says softly, “he understood me, and I just wanted to make him proud. But he said that emotions were weakness, and I couldn’t have nice things, or I’d go soft. I—the first time we met, we went out for ice cream in the park. I saved the wrapper from the ice cream cone, folded it up to make a bracelet for him. He, uh, crumpled it up? And then he just left, just like that, out of nowhere, and I was back to being alone.”

Foggy moves closer to him on the couch and wraps his arms around him.

“I was just a kid,” Matt whispers, “and I used to ask myself what I did wrong, what made him leave—“

Foggy squeezes tighter. “Well, Matt, once we get Frank cleared of all charges, I know who I’m sending him after.”

Matt chokes on a laugh. “I’m not even done,” he says, marveling at what his life is, what it has always been. “You know the worst part?”

“Tell me.”

“He sent Elektra. Back in college. He sent her to—to distract me. And it worked—it was all just a mission for her.”

Foggy’s heart picks up—indignation, rage.

“Had to come here,” Matt explains, “if I tried to talk, he would have heard, and I just—I didn’t want him to hear everything. He already thinks I’m weak, don’t want to prove him right.”

Foggy swallows hard. “I feel like I suddenly understand why you get so much joy out of beating up people who deserve it. I wouldn’t mind throwing a couple of punches at this asshole.”

“He’d kill you with one arm behind his back,” Matt says bluntly, “he beat me to hell a few months ago, trashed my apartment while he was at it.”

His friend’s heart and his hormones read of sadness. Such terrible sadness.

Matt is almost sure he’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to Foggy. He’s absolutely sure that Foggy’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“Do you wanna stay here tonight?”

There he is, offering shelter, because it’s all he can think of.

“You love him,” Frank whispers.

I do, he thinks in response. It’s more than brotherhood, more than friendship. Foggy is his heart, his platonic soulmate.

“No, Fogs, I gotta get back—Elektra’s still recovering. She’s gonna pull through, but I’ve gotta be there for her, just in case. She—so it turns out the Yakuza have been infiltrated by a group called the Hand, and she’s going to fight them. I’ve been trying to get her to do it my way, without killing.”

Foggy sighs. “Oh, Matty, why can’t you have good people in your life?”

“Good people are kind of hard to come by, doing what I do,” Matt says dryly, “morally ambiguous is easier. Besides, I already have you, and they don’t get any better than you.”

Foggy flushes a little, pleased at the compliment, and walks him to the door. “We’ve still got you scheduled to question witnesses, are you going to be able to do that?”

Matt nods, biting back a yawn. “I got it. Let me close, too, since you had to open today. And I’m sorry I fucked up.”

“We’ll get dinner after this whole thing is over, you can buy me pizza to make up for it. Besides, the opening statement was less awful than thinking you were dead in your apartment and I had to get through a whole day of court before I could come check on you.”

Matt grimaces, heart clenching at the thought that Foggy had thought he might be dead, had had to go to court when he was feeling that way.

“I’m—“

“Don’t say sorry,” Foggy says quietly, “don’t say it, Matt. I know you are. You always are. But a text? A text wasn’t too much to ask, was it?”

There’s a pit in his stomach. “No,” he admits, “it wasn’t. And anything else is an excuse. I just forgot, and that’s my fault. I shouldn’t have forgotten. I need to prioritize letting you know what’s going on.”

“Do better next time, hm?”

Matt nods, and Foggy wraps his arms around him.

Absolution, he thinks, reminded of crying babies dipped quickly into water.

Chapter Text

He’s on his way back to his apartment when his phone buzzes.

Text message from: Foggy

He has his phone read it while he’s still a couple blocks away from home.

There’s someone else you owe an apology to.

He frowns a bit and texts back quickly.

Karen doesn’t want to hear from me right now.

Someone much scarier than Karen. Stitched your leg up once.

Shit. Frank. He’d trusted Matt—as much as he’d trusted anybody, anyway, and he’d let him down. Worse yet, he’d left him with just Foggy, which couldn’t have been reassuring when the last time they’d seen each other, they were sniping at each other. They’re starting to grow on each other, Matt thinks to himself, but not enough for him to pull something like this.

“Dammit,” he whispers to himself.

---

He walks into the visitation room and Frank’s heart skips a beat.

“You’re not dead, then,” he says.

“Not yet, no.”

“Nelson was worried. Said your ex would end up getting you killed, more or less.”

Matt hesitates, shifting slightly in the chair. “He’s not—he’s not wrong, that’s definitely possible,” he says finally.

“So what happened?”

“Someone got El—my ex. Sliced her stomach open with a poisoned blade. I spent the night and most of the day praying for her to stay alive somehow.”

“Is she?”

“Yeah, she is, thank God.” Matt feels himself smiling at the thought of it—he marvels at his own capacity to forget betrayal.

“You still care about her a lot,” Frank says, a question in his voice.

“I do.”

“Nelson says it ended pretty badly.”

“I almost drank myself to death and flunked out of law school, so it was pretty bad, yeah.”

“And you still love her, even after all of that?”

“I’m going to love her until I’m dead and in the ground. Probably even after that, if there is an after.”

“You’re not sounding like a great Catholic there, Red.”

Matt shrugs. “It’s a belief system. Gives me structure. And doubt is part of belief. It’s nice to think that the people I’ve lost are looking down on me. And once I’m dead, it won’t matter if it’s true or not, I won’t need it anymore. Belief is for the living, Frank.”

“Have you always had such shitty taste in women?”

Matt sits and ponders that for a moment. “No, she’s definitely the worst out of the bunch. The others have all been very nice, very sweet, very… willing to help a blind man get through his life.”

Frank grimaces. “Well, shit.”

“Yeah. Elektra, she threw a punch at me on our first date, and we sparred. It was the first time since Foggy someone didn’t treat me like I was less than them.”

He remembers what happened after, too, the way she’d stripped off his shirt and then her own, the way she’d shoved his shorts down, sinking down onto him with a sweet gasp, riding him on the floor of the boxing ring.

“You’re blushing,” Frank informs him.

“Am not.”

“Since I’m the one out of the two of us that can see, I think you can take my word on this. You’re blushing, Red.”

The sounds she made when she finished, squeezing him tight until he fell over the edge, too, then collapsing onto his chest and giggling breathlessly.

He’d been so utterly, unconditionally happy, with his arms wrapped around her back, her lips at his neck and jaw. I think I could love this girl, he’d thought, knowing even then that it was a lie, that some part of him already did.

Suddenly he wonders whether she’d been asked to sleep with him, and the fondness for the memory curdles into something sour.

“You know what’s funny?” he asks Frank, “I don’t know if she ever loved me at all, and I still—I’d still die for her, in a heartbeat. When she got cut open, I just—I just wished it was me, wished they’d gotten me instead.”

“Eh, you’d probably die for a stranger on the street,” Frank mutters, “ain’t nothing special about that when it’s coming from you.”

Matt can’t help but laugh, and feels the surprised warmth of Frank’s smile in response.

“You’re not wrong, Frank. Anyway, I just came to say I’m sorry I didn’t show up yesterday. I promised you I’d get you out of this, and I didn’t hold up my end.”

Frank shrugs. “Nelson’s pretty good at improvising. Got a cupcake face, but he’s smart as hell, huh?”

“He was top of our class,” Matt confides, “people always underestimate him because he’s adorable, but he can be a fucking shark sometimes.”

“How would you know he’s adorable?” Frank asks. Matt can hear the smile in his face.

“He’s my best friend, I just know! Plus when he gets really drunk, he lets me touch his face, so I can see him. And he’s smart and funny and kind, even if he didn’t have a great face, he’d still be adorable.”

“You’re biased,” Frank mutters, “out of the two of you, you’re more… conventionally good-looking.” Frank’s heart picks up a little bit, maybe embarrassed at having said that, though nothing suggests that it’s a lie.

“Not very good at looking at all, actually.” Matt grins.

Frank chuckles.

“Foggy hates the blind jokes,” he informs him, “he says that after the first couple hundred the charm wears off.”

Frank scoffs a little, and Matt wonders what he’s thinking.

“Anyway, I’m sorry. And I’m going to make sure I’m there for the rest of your case, and I’m going to make sure we give you the best possible chance to get out of here.”

“Okay,” Frank says quietly, “but if you can’t—if you need to be with your girl, I get that, I do. Just let me and Nelson know, yeah? Let him prepare.”

“I think she’s going to be taking it easy for a bit, so I can really dedicate myself to your case,” Matt promises.

“And you? You gonna take some time off, or you still doing your rounds?”

Matt purses his lips. “I’ll be here for your case, and I’ll do all the prep work I need to. We’re going to do your damnedest to get you out.” He goes to pack up.

Frank jerks, hand reaching forward and stopping abruptly when the handcuffs pull him back.

“Frank?”

“Gimme your arm,” Frank says gruffly.

Matt listens to him, offering him his forearm. “Anything you need? Complaints about how you’re being treated in here?”

Frank wraps his fingers around his forearm and squeezes just a little bit. Matt can feel the heat of his fingers, even through two layers of suit jacket and dress shirt.

Frank shakes his head, then curses softly. “Nah, nothin’ like that. Just—you can’t do your best to get me out of here if you get yourself killed taking on muggers’n shit. So take care of yourself, yeah? Don’t die.”

Matt pulls away a little, finds Frank’s hand and squeezes it in return. “I won’t,” he promises, knowing full well he has no way to guarantee it.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I promise. I’ll try my hardest and hey, I haven’t died yet, and I’ve been alone. I’m safer when she’s at my back.”

“As long as she doesn’t stab you in it,” Frank mutters.

“Foggy’s biased,” Matt says with a little smile, “I hate most of his exes, too. So don’t take his word as gospel on this. She’s not that bad.”

“You ever missed court because of your second job before?”

Matt hadn’t. He knows that. As much as Elektra isn’t the she-demon that Foggy thinks she is, she also isn’t a saint, and business with her is not like his regular Daredevil business.

“No. She’s different, I’ll give you that. Demanding and persuasive and manipulative, and strong and so fucking beautiful—but I’m wrapping things up with her soon. We might even be done before the trial’s over.”

Frank’s heart is beating faster than usual. Maybe he’s uncomfortable with Matt, with how far he would go for Elektra. Matt’s uncomfortable with that too, if he pauses long enough to think about it.

“Taking down the Yakuza in what, two weeks? That normal for you, Red?”

“I’ve had some experience in the area.”

“Sometimes, I really do think you are the Devil,” Frank mutters.

Matt smiles—the one Foggy says is brooding and mysterious, and tells him to take care.

---

He goes back home and wishes for the first time that he didn’t have a studio apartment. There’s no space to be by himself. Stick’s still sitting on the sofa like he owns the place, and Elektra’s still in his bed, so he claims the dining table and prays that they both know well enough to leave him alone.

He’s working on the case, and time passes him by without his even realizing it. He runs through dozens of scenarios in his head, tries to make sure that the medical examiner will crack, tries to figure out how to portray Frank in the most sympathetic light possible. Focus on his family, on what he’s lost, on the way it feels as thought he’s actively still losing them every single day, unable to move on.

Elektra comes out of the bedroom eventually, pads across the floor in his dress shirt, strips of his bed sheets wrapped around her torso. She sits in the other chair at the table, waits for him to finish reading the page he’s on, and then carefully rests her hand on top of his.

“I’ve made my choice, Matthew. We’ll fight them your way. Without Stick.”

It takes a moment for Matt’s brain to switch tracks, but when it does, he feels euphoric, he leans across the table, finds her shoulder, and pulls her in close, careful not to jar her wound. He presses his lips to hers, kissing her tenderly.

“Our way,” he corrects softly, feeling the way she smiles at him, her hand on his cheek.

“Don’t be stupid,” Stick mutters, “you’re going to get yourselves killed.”

“I think it’s time for you to go, Stick,” Matt says firmly.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking—you don’t even know how much I’ve protected you—both of you.”

“Leave, Stick. I’m not going to ask you again.” Matt stands up, muscles tense in anticipation of a fight.

Stick’s better—Stick will almost always be better, but he’s also older. Matt’s probably faster at this point, definitely stronger—

He’d just gotten around to replacing his coffee table from the last time he and Stick had had a disagreement in his apartment. Good thing the replacement had been pretty cheap.

Stick doesn’t put up a fight, though, doesn’t say a single word as he walks to the door.

“You are the biggest disappointment of my life, Matty. And Ellie’s right behind you.”

He closes the door behind him and Matt tries to breathe.

It’s nothing he didn’t already know, of course, but hearing it is just so much worse—

Elektra walks over to him and wraps her arms around him from behind, holding him, and suddenly the air comes easier into his lungs.

He’s still up prepping for Frank’s case when the ninja attacks.

The only thing Matt can think is not in my home. Not when she’s just behind the door.

He’s got the situation well in hand when Elektra shows up and slits the attacker’s throat. In the silence that falls after his heartbeat stops, Matt processes exactly how young he is, smells his blood mixing with Elektra’s scent—she wears the scent of blood comfortably, doesn’t make any move to wipe it off her face.

“Do you still love me?” she asks, and this—not killing a man who’s barely more than a boy—but this—is what makes her heart beat fast.

“Yes,” Matt says honestly, “I still love you. But I don’t know if this is a good idea—“

“Because I killed him? He was about to kill you, and I couldn’t let that happen!”

Matt shakes his head. “Not because you killed him. Because you liked it. Your pheromones spiked, you were taking nice, big breaths, almost like you were—almost like you were turned on by it.”

“I couldn’t let him kill you.” She repeats the sentence, more desperately, pleading for him to understand.

“We bring out the worst in each other,” Matt whispers, remembering the feeling of the knife in his hands, Roscoe Sweeney’s hair in his fingers, the sharp tang of his sweat as he beat him until his face was unrecognizable.

Elektra shakes her head. “You bring out the best in me,” she says softly, “the very best. You make me better.”

You make me reckless, he wants to say, you make me want to throw my life away, just to hear you laugh. You make me want to kill people, you make me want to hurt people, you make me want to do unspeakable things just so you will love me.

You bring out the very worst of me.

“We’re fire and gasoline, Elektra. We always end up exploding.”

Her lips are trembling. “Was that an innuendo?” she teases, voice ever so slightly unsteady.

“If you’re well enough, you need to leave, Elektra.”

She does and then the apartment is too quiet and empty, and there is a dead man on his floor, his blood sinking into the wood.

Matt sighs and puts on the all black suit he used to use, picking up the man and opening the window to head to the Hudson.

He almost vomits as he sets the boy—he’s just a boy, after all, and it breaks Matt’s heart—into the river, and then he goes home and pours bleach onto the floor and scrubs the bloodstains out.

He crawls into bed and tosses and turns for what feels like hours, the scent of Elektra so deeply embedded into the fabric it feels like she’s just on the other side of the bed instead of maybe the other side of the city.

It’s two in the morning when he gets up and puts on the suit, going up to the roof to listen to his city. He hears a mugging, a guy holding up a bodega, and an attempted assault, and he beats the hell out of the men responsible hard before coming back home and falling asleep on the couch.

He wakes feeling more exhausted than when he went to bed, the faint smell of bleach still lingering in his nostrils as he makes his way out of his apartment, stomach too unsettled to eat anything. He grabs a coffee near the courthouse and meets Foggy and Karen, hoping he looks better than he feels.

---

As soon as Frank comes into the courtroom, Matt’s instincts start screaming. Something’s wrong, the bailiff that brought him in, his heart is racing, and Frank’s—Frank’s is too. Did someone make a threat on his life?

But there’s nothing Matt can do at the moment other than wait for him to be escorted over next to Karen and seated.

As soon as he is, the judge calls the trial to order, and that’s when he leans across Foggy.

“Frank, is everything okay?” he asks softly as the crowd settles.

“Fine.” Frank says curtly, and that’s all he gets.

---

The medical examiner cracks easily.

Far too easily, actually, and Matt’s heart sinks as the judge orders the jury to leave and the crowd to vacate the courtroom. The ME spills a ludicrously far-fetched tale about a European woman who had tied him up and threatened his family if he didn’t come clean about the fraud in Frank’s family’s files.

It sounds completely beyond the realm of possibility, and yet the pit in Matt’s stomach tells him it’s true. Elektra’s twisted attempt at an apology.

The judge tosses out all the evidence from the ME, and their case hinges entirely on Frank’s testimony and Matt’s closing statement.

Frank’s on the stand when it all gets (even more) fucked up.

Matt doesn’t know what happened—he turns back to Foggy and Karen to try to read them, but neither of them know what’s happening either.

Frank’s screaming in a courtroom about how he killed those people and he liked it, and he’s going to keep doing it, and Matt knows that they are completely and utterly fucked.

The bailiffs come to take him away, and Frank pauses in his tirade to look over at Matt. He doesn’t say anything, but his heartbeat slows for a moment, and his pheromones say regret.

They drag him away, and just before they get to the door, Matt hears Frank mutter something under his breath.

“I’m sorry, Red.”

Chapter Text

He pulls out all the stops on his closing statement—he can hear that the jury wants to be on his side, that they would be if Frank hadn’t gone and done something so calamitously stupid—

It wasn’t all pure shit—they have the doctor’s testimony about the way the bullet in Frank’s brain affected his emotion regulation, the way he felt as if he was in the midst of trauma all the time, that losing his family wasn’t something that happened to him, it actively was happening to him, all the time.

Schoonover was good too, painted Frank as a war hero who stopped at nothing to save his men—Matt’s got his own doubts about what the American army’s done in Afghanistan and Iraq, and their basis for being there in the first place, but it does sound pretty good for Frank, having Schoonover’s word that he’s mentally sound.

But the scales are weighted against them. Heavily.

The evidence from the medical examiner had been thrown out, there had been a young man who’d yelled in the middle of cross-examination, screaming that Frank had killed his dad, and then there was the pièce de resistance of Frank himself, killing his own case as quickly and efficiently as he’d killed the Kitchen Irish.

The jury finds Frank Castle guilty. Matt has a feeling it wasn’t even close in the deliberation room.

---

Matt goes out at night and beats up criminals, some more than they deserve. He lets his guard down, takes hits he doesn’t need to, lets his ribs ache.

He should be happy, he thinks to himself. Frank Castle has been nothing but a pain in his ass since day one.

Elektra texts him the day after the verdict and he has to fight the urge to call her and scream at her on the phone, tell her that her help wasn’t wanted and had actively fucked up his life more. But in the end, it’s Frank’s own words that did him in, and it’s his own deeds that landed him in prison.

Yes, Matt had been going for a not guilty verdict, but in no world was Frank Castle innocent.

He wonders at the sort of lawyer he’s become, defending serial killers and feeling this horrible devastation when they go to prison, where they belong.

He sighs and picks up the phone. It’s an address, where she thinks the Hand has their headquarters, and a date.

He misses the sound of her voice, and one day, he slips and tells Foggy so.

“That’s pretty fucked up, Matty,” Foggy says to him after work, sitting on his couch and sipping on beer.

“Yeah, I know.” Matt sighs and lays his head on Foggy’s shoulder.

At least he gets to keep this.

---

In the office one day, Karen mentions that Frank’s in cell block D, and Matt’s heart stops.

“Cell block D? Are you sure?” he asks. The urgency in his voice scares Karen, her heart beating faster.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure.”

“That mean something to you, Matt?” Foggy asks.

“Yeah, and it should mean something to you, too. I try to keep tabs on people who wanna kill us, you know.”

“What do you mean?” Karen’s heart is beating even faster now.

“Wilson Fisk’s in cell block D. That’s it—Frank was off, that last day. We had a chance, the jury was with us, war hero who couldn’t see the lines between good and evil anymore, needed help, not prison—and then Frank went and ran his mouth—he’s not stupid, he did it on purpose! Fisk’s behind it all, it’s all his fault—“

“Matt,” Foggy says gently, “that’s a theory. Gimme some evidence for it? Because from the outside, it sounds a little paranoid.”

Matt shakes his head, frantic. “He doesn’t leave evidence. He’s too good for that.”

He heads for the door, only to find Foggy gripping his arm.

“Where are you going?”

“To go get coffee.”

“Bullshit, Matt. Sit in your office, sit with this for awhile before you go and do something stupid.”

Matt sits in his office for the rest of the day, and the next day, he does something stupid.

---

Fisk is a massive man, and his strength always takes Matt aback. He brings up Vanessa’s name, knowing it’ll set Fisk off.

But he’s Matt Murdock here, so he lets himself get slammed into the table, lets himself get punched until he tastes blood and can’t get any oxygen.

He’s gotten a leg up, bringing up Vanessa, and he’s a little smug about having gotten under Fisk’s skin, until—

“I will ensure that the people who brought me down will pay,” Fisk thunders, “You, Mr. Murdock, and Mr. Nelson—“

“Leave him out of this—I’m the one who brought you down, not him,” Matt snaps, heart beating out of his chest. Not Foggy, not Foggy, not Foggy, I will kill you before I let you get to him, I will end you—

“Oh no, Mr. Murdock. You shared the credit, and you will share the consequences.”

“I’ll make sure your Vanessa never steps foot in this country again,” Matt snarls, “one phone call, that’s all it takes.”

“And I’ll put your Mr. Nelson in the ground,” Fisk roars, slamming Matt down into the table one last time before backing up, “we shall see who will prevail.”

Matt wipes away the blood dripping from his nose and sniffs, catching his breath before finding his way out of the visitation room, snarling at the attorney who mockingly offers him his arm.

---

The next day, there’s news of a massacre in the prison, and Frank Castle has escaped.

Matt sits on the edge of the roof, half-listening to his city. He opens and closes the burner phone aimlessly, until finally, he finds the contact labeled simply F, and presses call.

The number you have called has been disconnected, the electronic voice tells him.

He sighs and puts the phone back into his pocket. He tracks down the financier—the weakest link. The Hand has his son, because that’s what the Hand does, and so he takes off on a rescue mission with a quivering, corrupt accountant.

The room stinks of blood—there are all these tubes, and it’s as if these people are being kept in cages just to be drained—but who needs this much blood? And for what?

Matt calls Mahoney with the address and orders him to bring ambulances. He hangs up before he feels his lunch coming up. He shakes his head firmly—get your shit together, Matty, Stick warns him—and works on unhooking the patients from their tubes.

He arranges to have them taken to Metro General, arranges to have Claire take care of them with no paperwork. He stays at the hospital for hours, waiting for something to happen. Claire gives him some coffee and some aspirin.

“Catholic morphine,” she says.

He hadn’t quite realized how much he’d missed her.He’d forgotten how funny she was, how soft her voice was, like velvet where Elektra’s was satin. She was the middle ground—a voice of sanity, but still recognizing the importance of what he did at night, still supporting him.

Why couldn’t it be you? Matt thinks wistfully. Why couldn’t I have fallen in love with you?

The truth of the matter is that of course he could have. But Claire was too smart to get caught up in his crossfire… again. He can’t even be upset at her about it.

If he had a sister, or a friend, or a lover, he wouldn’t want them getting caught up in a vigilante’s trail of blood and violence, either.

---

Reyes invites them to her office the next morning.

It’s the sort of invitation that’s delivered by a SWAT team, fully armed, who refuse to take no for an answer.

So Matt pours his extra-strong coffee into a travel mug and gets in their car. He meets and Karen at the DA’s office, wishing he’d gotten more than a couple hours of sleep. Reyes is a shark—she’ll smell his weakness from a mile away.

Only today, Reyes is not a shark at all. She’s shaken—her heart is rabbiting in her chest, she’s fidgeting, she’s in a sweatshirt and jeans rather than a suit. She’s not a shark. She’s a lamb, quivering, seeing the glint of a predator’s fangs as it gets closer and closer.

“I need to know where Frank Castle is,” she says, voice shaking. “I found this in my daughter’s backpack—“

“It’s a note threatening her,” Foggy says softly, “threatening to get her daughter if she doesn’t cooperate.”

He reads confusion coming from Karen.

“This isn’t Frank,” she says, “this isn’t his MO, he doesn’t target innocents—“

Privately, Matt agrees, but he’s also aware that Frank is smart enough to make a threat he has no intention of following up on. The power isn’t in hurting the child, it’s in strong-arming her mother, and Reyes believes it, which means it’s working. It’s a cruel play, but it might be one Frank is capable of.

Reyes starts talking, finally, about the Blacksmith and the sting, and her deliberate decision not to clear the area of civilians, and Matt didn’t think he could hate her any more than he already did.

Frank would be justified in killing her, Matt thinks. Not by Matt’s moral code, though Matt does get a glimmer of satisfaction from imagining her in prison, but by Frank’s. She’s the reason his wife is dead, the reason his kids are dead. In his eyes, she’d be fair game.

That’s when the bullets start coming through the window.

Matt hears the first shot when it’s fired, not when it hits the glass, so he has enough forewarning to scream at Foggy and Karen to get down.

He covers Karen with his own body, feels the minute tremors racking through her, fear and adrenaline.

Foggy lets out a pained grunt next to him, and Matt’s heart stops. He barely waits for the shooting to stop before he’s scrambling off of Karen, shoving Blake Tower aside to get to Foggy.

Reyes is dead on her desk, the room full of the stench of her blood. Only there’s also another scent, in amongst the panic sweat and sharp fear. Foggy’s blood.

“Get outta my way, Tower,” Matt barks, settling next to Foggy.

“Hey, Fogs,” he says softly, “you’re okay, you’re going to be okay.”

“I—I got shot,” Foggy says blankly, “Matty, there’s a hole in my shoulder, I got—I got shot—“

“Yeah, Fogs, you did. You did get shot, buddy, but it’s going to be okay—Karen, call 911 right now—I’ve got you, I’ve got you, Fogs, you’re going to be fine—I’m going to apply pressure and it’s gonna hurt, okay? But I need to do it.”

Foggy nods, and Matt presses down on his shoulder.

Foggy screams. He screams in pain, and it’s a sound that Matt’s going to have nightmares about for the rest of his life.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay,” he hears himself babbling, “it’s going to be okay, we’re going to get you to the hospital—Karen, what’s the ETA on the ambulance?—hey, stay with me, Fogs, stay awake, I need you to stay awake for me.”

Karen’s on the phone with the operator, her voice shaking as she tries to keep it together. Blake Tower’s going into shock, staring at his dead boss and hyperventilating.

But Matt doesn’t care about any of them.

“Foggy—you’re the only family I have,” he whispers, “come on, come on—“

---

The paramedics say it’s a straight through-and-through. Matt already knew that, but hearing it from someone else makes him feel irrationally calmer. He knows he probably overreacted.

On TV—at least based on Foggy’s narrations of TV—a shot to the shoulder isn’t even that bad. The guy usually gets up and throws another punch a second later, hardly even aware of it until the bad guy digs into the wound.

But Foggy had bled so much—Matt still has his blood on his hands.

His father’s body, blood all over his face, where Matty’s trembling hands traced and hoped, selfishly, that this dead man was not his father, even if he smelled like him and felt like him.

Elektra in his arms, bleeding all over the suit, pressing onto her stomach so hard he thought he might break her, trying to force the blood back inside, where it belonged.

“Only family can ride along,” the paramedic tells him, holding up a hand.

“He’s my fucking brother,” Matt growls, and he doesn’t take any further questions as he settles in the back of the ambulance, taking Foggy’s hand, whispering prayers and trying to hear Foggy’s heartbeat through the blaring of the sirens.

They don’t let him in for the surgery, so Matt goes home, packs a bag with singleminded focus, and returns to the hospital just in time to see Foggy settled into his room.

He sits there with him, listening to the football game he puts on TV and waiting for him to fall asleep.

He keeps an ear on his heartbeat, but mostly, he listens for the near silence of ninja footsteps.

Once Foggy’s asleep, he changes quickly in the bathroom and heads up to the roof, leaving behind a duffel bag full of his regular clothes in Foggy’s hospital room.

Claire comes to give him a lecture, but he’s still busy thinking about Foggy.

“He got shot because of me,” he says abruptly, “I got him into this mess. And I’m not risking him again. Or you, or Karen. I have to be—I have to cut ties.”

“Oh, fuck that. You think playing loneliest little soldier is going to save everyone? The only thing that’s going to do is get you killed. You think you’re protecting me and Foggy and Karen, but no matter what happens, we will still love you. We will still care about you. And you will still care about us. You think they—whoever the they of the week is—won’t figure that out? If it’s not going to be us, it’ll be whoever you saved last. Or kids—you’ve got a soft spot a mile wide for kids and the Russians already used that against you—“

“Claire, I’m not going to change my mind. Thanks for being here, but—I know I’m right on this. I’ve got to cut ties. Just now, I was in Foggy’s room. What would’ve happened if the Hand had come? I was distracted from the mission, because I care about him! People could have died!”

“So you think it would’ve been better to leave your best friend alone in the hospital after he got shot? Huh, you think it would’ve been better if you just sat up here and listened to his intestines digest food or whatever shit you do? Would that have made him feel better?”

“I’m done talking about this, Claire. Go inside, it’s freezing out here.”

“You know what happens to a ship that cuts away its anchor, Matt? It goes adrift,” Claire says softly.

Part of her is glad that she’s not his anymore, Matt suspects. The kiss had been good, and the sex would have been better than good, but she’s better off without him.

“Her loss,” Frank whispers in his head.

“Mine, too.” he whispers back.

He thinks about Frank, replays all of their interactions in his head. He’d been lulled into a false sense of security—he’d assumed that saving him from the police one time had made them something—something other than enemies.

He’d been so open with him. God, he might as well as stripped off his armor, put a loaded gun in Frank’s hand, and pressed the barrel against his heart, waiting for the shot.

Maybe he’d been swayed by Karen’s good opinion—maybe he’d been swayed by the deep, gravelly voice, the gentle touch of rough fingers, the shock of laughter, the warmth of his smiles—

He can’t let this happen again. If Frank’s the one responsible for Foggy being in the hospital, he’s going to learn, one way or another, not to fuck with Matt Murdock’s friends.

Oh, Matty. Only you would have a crush on somebody who shot you in the head.

Not anymore.

“You know what? I don’t know if she ever loved me, and I’d still—I’d still die for her, in a heartbeat—“

Foggy’s right about one thing, at least. He doesn’t get to meet many good people. He was just stupid enough to think that Frank Castle, for all the blood he’d shed, for all the pain he’d caused, was one of them.

The ninjas come. He fights them as best he can, but between their training and their sheer numbers, he doesn’t have a chance. They take the patients, and leave a nurse dead on the floor.

His priority shifts abruptly once they get the patients out, and all he can think is not Claire, not Foggy, not Claire, not Foggy—

He finds Claire and shoves her into a supply closet, muttering to her to close and lock the door, and he goes to clear up.

The ninjas have no reason to stay, though, so they all just leave, having gotten what they came for.

He knocks on the door of the supply closet.

“Claire? You can come out now,” he calls softly.

She does, and he hears the sharp intake of breath as she sees the blood on his cheekbone.

“Matt—“

“Go check on Foggy for me? Please, I wouldn’t trust anybody else with him.”

“Where are you going, then?”

The police are arriving, and he can hear the sounds of the scanners, chatter saying that something big is going down at the docks.

“Would you believe me if I said I was going to be a good boy and go home and rest?” he asks, smiling a little.

He’s already on the stairs when he hears her mutter a reply.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

---

He overhears more police chatter, which leads him to the docks, and the docks lead him to a boat, and on the boat, he hears a very specific heartbeat, thumping steadily as its owner beats the shit out of another human being.

Matt runs, hardly processing anything as he gets onto the boat and below deck, disabling attackers without even being aware of it.

Then it’s just him and Frank and the guy in Frank’s arms, struggling to breathe.

He launches himself into Frank, and it’s surprising, how easy it is to take him down. The other guy pulls a gun, but Frank shoots him instantly, barely even looking. Matt lets out a vicious sound and disables him—it’s too easy, again, bend the wrist, kick the gun away. Matt’s never been this angry before, never been this close to the edge before—he thought he had been, with that junkie that killed Elena, but god, that pales in comparison to this.

“The Murdock boys, they’ve got the Devil in ‘em,” his grandma whispers.

“Let the Devil out, Matthew,” Elektra purrs, and he does.

There’s something at the back of his head, some warning that’s going off. Frank’s letting him, is hitting him back, yes, but Matt’s been on the receiving end of one of those punches before, and he knows that Frank’s holding back now.

It only makes him angrier. Frank shouldn’t be pulling his punches. Matt doesn’t need it, he can handle himself, even when Frank’s at his best.

“Was it you at the courthouse?” he growls, fist cocked and ready to send Frank into the next dimension. His other hand is wrapped tight around Frank’s neck, ready to crush his windpipe.

“No.”

“If you lie to me, I will know. Were you the one who killed Reyes?”

“No, but I ain’t crying over her,” Frank grumbles.

“Was it you that shot—were you the one who shot Foggy?”

“What? No!”

“Did you shoot my best friend?” He’s nearly screaming the words now, “because I was in there, Frank, I was in there, and I covered Karen—and I—I didn’t cover Foggy, and he got shot. So if you were involved with that, I need—I need to know.” His hand clenches on Frank’s throat, and he doesn’t know if he could loosen his grip even if he wanted to.

Frank’s grasping at his arm. “Red—I didn’t—“ He gasps and reaches out with his other hand, clumsily landing on Matt’s jaw, fingers gentle when they should be punching him, clawing at him. “Matt—I didn’t. I swear—I swear to God, I didn’t—“

Matt lets him go and staggers back. “Fine. Good. Because if you did—I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

“I think you might’ve killed me, Matt,” Frank says quietly.

Matt hears a sound like a wounded animal backed into a corner and it takes a moment to realize it came from his own throat.

Oh God, I nearly killed Frank—

“Father, I’m asking forgiveness. Not for what I’ve done, but for what I’m about to do.”

“That’s not how this works, son.”

He backs away until he finds the nearest wall and sinks down to the ground.

“Is he okay?” Frank asks, crawling over and sitting next to him, gripping his shoulder, keeping him grounded. “Nelson, is he okay?”

Matt nods. “He will be,” he says roughly, “through and through, missed his lung. ‘s my fault. God, how am I ever going to make it up to him? It’s my fault, and he got shot—“

“You the one who pulled the trigger?”

Matt shakes his head. “I was the one—I begged him to take your case. He only did it for me and Karen, and that’s why we were there—they wanted to know if we’d heard from you, and they shot him. He was right next to me, and he got shot—Jesus, what kind of vigilante am I, that I can’t protect my best friend from two feet away—“

Suddenly, he wrenches himself away from his own impending psychological breakdown, tilting his head towards the sound.

“What?”

“Someone’s coming. They’re coming—fifteen or so, armed, we need to get off this boat—“

“I’m done runnin’, Red. Some people you just gotta put down, and I’m gonna put ‘em down.”

“Fine—just this once, fine, we’ll do it your way—“

Frank goes still, and this, this is what makes his heart race, even more than when Matt had been throttling him.

“What did you just say?”

“I said it’s fine—we can do this your way, you can kill them, you can!”

“This isn’t the sort of thing you can come back from, Red,” Frank says quietly, “once you let me kill them, once you cross to that side, you can’t come back.”

“They shot Foggy,” Matt says softly, “he’s all I have left, Frank. Look, we can talk about it later, but for now, we need to go—“

Frank nods, and they get to the deck. Matt puts an arm out to keep Frank from moving any further and sniffs the air.

“Explosives! We need to jump—“

Frank nods. “You do need to jump. Take care, Red.” He reaches out and Matt feels big, strong hands on his chest, pushing him over the edge of the boat. He hits the water on his back and it takes him a moment of flailing before he can process that he needs to swim.

He’s never been good at swimming, his dad used to take him to the pool sometimes in the summers, but after he’d lost his sight—they stopped going. Jack would just train all the time, take more fights, trying to find ways to pay for Braille books and adaptive equipment.

The boat explodes, sending the water surging outwards, carrying Matt along, and he can only think one thing.

Oh God, Frank’s dead.

Chapter Text

The water is cold. He can’t stop himself from shivering when he gets out of it, feels the bite of the wind on his skin as he walks across the rooftops on his way home. He can’t exactly take a cab, but it’s not particularly enjoyable, either, walking home in the frigid air when he’s soaked through to the bone. The suit was designed to fend off blows. It’s good enough in rain, but it wasn’t meant to be completely and utterly submerged in water.

He’ll be happy if he doesn’t die of an infection—the Hudson isn’t known for its cleanliness, and who knows how much of that water he’d inadvertently ingested along the way.

He finally drags himself through the roof access door and into the shower, and then throws himself into bed to sleep.

He dreams of Frank.

The feeling of his fingers on Matt’s calf, stitching him up.

“Nelson, how is he?”

The muscles of his shoulders.

“You are the furthest goddamn thing from helpless, Matt.”

The bright burst of laughter.

“Sometimes, I think you really are the Devil.”

His throat under Matt’s hand, feeling it move as he swallowed.

“Once you cross that line, you can’t come back.”

His gait that night in Matt’s apartment, lopsided as he limped over to him.

“Don’t die.”

The sound of the explosion—

Oh God, Frank’s dead.

He wakes with his heart racing. It was just a dream, he thinks to himself, just a dream, just a dream—

Oh God, Frank’s dead.

He shivers when he realizes it’s true.

---

He tells Foggy most of the story. He leaves out the part where he almost killed a man for hurting his best friend.

He doesn’t tell Karen—she’s convinced he’s still alive because they haven’t found a body. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that they might only ever find little pieces of Frank Castle.

---

Elektra shows up at his apartment and offers her condolences. He doesn’t really know why. Maybe it’s a pretense for seeing him, maybe it’s an attempt at starting over fresh.

Maybe she feels responsible, for having gotten all the ME’s evidence thrown out, letting Frank get convicted—really, letting him? Is that the story we’re going with, Matty? Thought you were supposed to be smart, kid.—and letting him get to Fisk, letting him get beaten to hell and then let out so he could be on that boat when it exploded.

Maybe she’d seen that it was more than just a case, that he’d cared about Frank, more than he should have.

Or maybe she’s just manipulating him again. He’s too tired to figure it out.

With Foggy in the hospital, he’s been carrying most of the case load on his own—Fogs had tried to bribe Karen into bringing his laptop into the hospital, but Matt had shut that down immediately, telling him to prioritize recovering.

After a day, though, Foggy’s called and all but begged for something to do. He was bored and antsy and his shoulder itched and he wasn’t allowed to scratch it, and his parents were smothering him, and Matt, please?

So Matt agrees. Karen goes in sometimes and types for Foggy, gives him cases to chew on while doing all the writing herself. She curates the cases, too, only soft things, like adoption papers, custody agreements for amicable divorces, visas for people coming over to join their families or their lovers.

---

Foggy gets discharged after just a couple of days in the hospital, and Matt greets him with a hug that’s careful of his bandaged shoulder and a little smile.

“We can’t do drinks while you’re on painkillers, bud, but we can do dinner?” he offers.

Foggy grins. “Yeah, okay, I’ll let you buy me dinner, Matt, you flirt, but only because you’re pretty.”

“Don’t let Marci hear you, Foggy-Bear.”

Foggy laughs, and the quiet knot of tension in Matt’s stomach eases.

---

He starts tracking Elektra. It’s easy when he knows her phone number, her scent, the beat of her heart, the sound of the blood flowing through her veins, the rush of air in and out of her lungs, every scar on her body, every strand of her hair—

He knows it all.

And he tracks her.

She leads him to Stick one night, angry, lashing out.

He wonders if it’s his fault, whether she’s only doing this because he’d turned her away.

“Not everybody can be saved, Matty.”

“But everyone deserves a chance.”

They’re going to end up killing each other. He doesn’t want that.

He knows Stick—he knows what it’s like to have had Stick be there for so long, and then suddenly not be there anymore. He knows how much it hurts, how much anger it creates, anger that just sits in your chest and simmers for years on end.

He knows Elektra, too. Knows her taste, her scent, her skin, the softness of her hair. He knows how intoxicating she is to be around—how much fun she can be, how she managed to make him let go of every inhibition but one, let him unleash any hidden desires he thought were shameful.

He knows them both.

He loves them both, albeit in very different and extremely messed up ways.

He thinks they may both care for him, too.

And he can’t let them kill each other. He just can’t.

He has the advantage—neither of them want to kill him, and they strike where his armor is thickest, aim to disable. He doesn’t have to worry about protecting his gut from Elektra’s sais, or his neck from Stick’s sword, and that makes it easier.

He’s used to fighting with these limitations—he never wants to kill. It’s second nature now, to find and hit joints, to deflect hits, to aim for unconsciousness rather than death.

Stick and Elektra are not used to it, and even though they’re both incredibly good, it adds just a tiny bit of strain, slows their decision-making infinitesimally, and sometimes, all you need is that one microsecond to gain the advantage.

Matt’s completely in it when he hears it and throws his arms out to stop Elektra and Stick. “Incoming,” he mutters, and just like that, allegiances shift.

Stick and Elektra still want to kill each other, but they know that killing the Hand is more important than personal grudges.

Matt considers, for a moment, a lifetime of this, fighting by Stick and Elektra’s sides, taking on people who truly deserve it.

One of them’s about to gut Elektra, when Stick slices his head clean off.

Another tries to hamstring Stick, and ends up with a sai buried just below his sternum and swiftly yanked downward.

The ones that attack Matt get the harshest treatment, since both Elektra and Stick want him alive for their own (probably nefarious) purposes.

He and Elektra are working together on a particularly tough one, and Elektra manages to slit his throat. The room stinks of blood, many of the bodies on the floor dead and the rest unconscious.

The ninjas melt away as he and Elektra are trying to catch their breath—Matt’s reminded of them after doing other strenuous, but much more pleasurable, activities—when they realize that Stick is gone. They took him.

“Daddy! Daddy! Please wake up, I promise I’ll be good—“

The tackiness of blood on his hands, how he could still smell it for days, until he thought maybe it was in his head, an olfactory hallucination.

Some part of Matt that he keeps until tight control almost all of the time whispers I can’t lose another one.

He hates himself for it.

---

Elektra is the Black Sky. This is supposed to mean something to him, probably, given that Elektra’s heart is racing and even Stick isn’t his usual level self.

Matt doesn’t really know what it means, but it sounds like they’re trying to get her to join them. It seems pretty pointless. Elektra’s trained her whole life to fight the Hand, why would she go and join them now?

But he remembers the rush of pheromones after she’d slit that boy’s throat, how excited she’d been by it, and he hears her hesitation.

“We’ll do this our way, Elektra,” he promises softly. She looks at him, really looks at him, and then they’re fighting the ninjas until they find a way to get Stick up from the chair where he’d been tortured.

She gets him up, but there’s a moment of hesitation—he can feel her looking at him, knows they’re both thinking that they can’t win this fight while saving Stick’s life.

“Go, I’ll hold them off,” Matt orders. It might be the first time he’s ever given Elektra an order, and she hesitates. She doesn’t want to leave him, and that realization makes Matt’s stomach go warm and melty for a moment.

Then he realizes that maybe she just wants to fight, to kill, and the warmth abruptly stops.

“Go, Elektra, I’ll catch up to you!”

She hauls Stick’s arm around her shoulders and wraps hers around his waist and half-carries, half-drags him out, leaving Matt surrounded by ninjas who, unlike Stick and Elektra earlier, don’t have the slightest compunction about killing him.

Fortunately, Matt Murdock’s pretty handy in a fight.

He staggers back home, and Elektra and Stick are there, waiting for him.

“Just like old times, huh, Matty?” Stick quips, even as Elektra wraps his fingertips in gauze.

“Wouldn’t mind a change of pace now and again,” Matt mutters in response.

He goes to sleep with Elektra in his arms, and for a moment, he can forget the sharp scent of her adrenaline spiking as she slit the boy’s throat. He can forget the betrayal, the worry that’s been eating away at him, wondering whether she loved him at all, ever, wondering whether she only slept with him because Stick asked her to, wondering what kind of idiot he is, to fall for that kind of trick. One would think a blind man would be more immune to the charms of a beautiful woman.

---

The reprieve is brief, as it always is.

The Hand want them, badly, and they’re not pleased with Daredevil. So they steal the police files on him, and they kidnap all the people he’s ever saved.

Out of all of them, all Matt can think is not Karen, not Karen, not Karen—

He’s so utterly and irredeemably selfish like that.

---

Elektra wants to go after the Hand, but Matt insists on getting the hostages first. One of them is already dead by the time they get there, but they manage to get the rest out.

Karen lingers, the last to leave, and Matt feels her eyes on him, feels a spike of arousal, feels her eyes tracing his body from head to toe and back.

“Go, Karen,” he says softly. “Go.”

She does.

He thought having more eyes on it would fix the problem, but the police are busy—they’re trying to get the hostages taken care of, and Brett’s running interference that Matt certainly didn’t ask for.

So it’s just him, and Elektra, and the Hand, barreling up the stairs, more than a dozen of them, all highly trained, more coming every second.

They fight, and they run up, and they bar the door to the roof and the door to the rest of the stairwell, and he hears her sink to the ground. They can hear the pounding coming from below them.

In this moment, he and Elektra are just animals, trapped in a corner, predators on either side and nowhere to run.

He can’t confront the reality of the situation without completely losing his shit, so he focuses on her instead. She’s there. Her hair still smells like coconut.

She’s shaking, breathing fast, adrenaline high, but there’s something else, too.

For the first time, Elektra’s scared. She’s scared, and she doesn’t want to die, and Matt wants to wrap his arms around her until they’re safe again, but he can’t, because they aren’t.

He doesn’t want to die, either. He’d thought he was ready, he’d really thought he was, and now that it’s here, now that it’s upon him, he’s just not ready, and it’s tearing him apart—he thinks about it peripherally, like looking at something from the corner of his eyes—and even then it’s massive, completely overwhelming, like a tidal wave about to break over his back like a ton of bricks.

He can’t think about it anymore, or this will end more like Romeo and Juliet than the war it’s meant to be. He can’t think about it, or he might beg Elektra to do it, to just stab the sai into his carotid and hold him while he bleeds out.

He can’t think about it—he has to think about something else. Even if it’s something stupid and impossible.

“Even if we survive, we may not see each other again,” she says to him.

If he wasn’t about to die, he’d consider making a blind joke, but the love of his life is sat on the ground in front of him, and they’re both going to die, and he can’t disrespect her by making light of it.

“What if—what if—after this is over—if we make it—what if wherever you run, I run with you?” he offers softly.

Her heart rate can hardly get any faster than this, but she lets out a soft sigh.

It’s such a pretty dream for such ugly, broken things like them.

“You’re not serious.” She’s smiling, because she’s on the verge on tears.

“I’ve never been more serious.” It’s true. He’d thought for so long that he was just waiting for death, waiting for it to catch up to him, after all of these near misses.

But now he has someone to live for, someone to live his life alongside him, and the thought of losing that life is unfathomable.

“This—this, Elektra—“ How many more times will he get to say her name before he dies? “This is a part of me that I need, and you’re the only one who gets it. Without this, I’m not alive, not really. And I know that now, thanks to you. I don’t know—I don’t know what we are, together, or if we have any chance in the future—but I do know that I’m free with you, like with no one else. ”

“You hide from yourself,” Elektra whispers, and for the first time, Matt wonders how much he’s hurt her, instead of just considering the pain she’s caused him. “You don’t let anyone in.”

But he does. “You. I let you in.”

She’s crying, but even in this she’s so fucking brave. Even in this, her tears are silent and Matt needs to taste the salt in the air before he realizes they’re there.

“Think about it,” he pleads, “what if this isn’t the end? What if it’s just the beginning?”

She reaches out, touches him with her gloved hand, and he wishes for her skin, wishes for each individual ridge of her fingerprints on his face, where he can hold onto their memory for the rest of his life, however short that may be.

“They’ll find us,” she points out.

“No,” Matt insists, “we’ll keep moving, we’ll change identities, we’ll hide from them, and they’ll never catch us.”

Two children holding hands, hiding from the cruel, bitter world, only knowing love and patience and understanding.

He’s a foolish child dreaming foolish dreams.

“What do you say?”

She huffs a breath of laughter. She’s going to humor him, going to indulge his little fantasy, because what harm is there in it now? What have they got left to lose?

“I say… let’s go to London. Madrid, Tunisia, there are sexy places to hide.”

“I’ve never been further north than 116^th Street,” Matt volunteers, just to hear her laugh.

But she doesn’t laugh. “Because you love New York,” she says.

She might be the first one to recognize it in him. For so many people, even the people who’ve lived here their whole lives, it’s just a place.

“And I’d give my life for it,” That’s not saying much, Frank whispers to him, you’d probably give your life for a stranger on the street—“but there’s one thing in this world that makes me feel more alive, and that’s you.”

She wants to be gentle, wants to bring him back down to earth but without hurting him.

“I’m the Black Sky, Matthew,” she says gently.

“And I’m the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.” This is what makes her laugh, and it is the most beautiful sound that Matt has ever heard, the most beautiful sound he will ever hear.

“The airport’s only a cab fare away. All we have to do is survive whatever’s on the other side of this door.” A bribe, like a parent offering candy to a child to reward good behavior. Just as empty, just as hopeless, just as ineffectual.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says, and he can hear the smile on her face. She isn’t shaking anymore. He takes her hand and pulls her up to her feet.

She goes to pull up her mask, but he knows they might both die, and he can’t let her go without one last kiss.

He presses his lips to hers, firm and tender and wishes he could have had more time.

He’s just a foolish boy, dreaming foolish dreams, but there is a beautiful girl dreaming them with him.

---

She takes a blade that was meant for him and bleeds out in his arms.

He can’t breathe. He barely registers anything, he’s so focused on her heartbeat, slowing, slowing, the taste of iron in the air as her blood pools on the cement of the ceiling.

He’s whispering Hail Marys and pressing harder on her stomach than he’s ever pressed on anything before, trying to save her.

“They have nothing now. I took it all away,” she says to him, and he wants to scream that she took it all away from him, too, wants to ask her how he’s supposed to go on, wants to tell her that it was supposed to be him dying, her escaping, living a wonderful, adventurous, wild life with someone beautiful by her side who could see her smile instead of just sensing it.

“Try not to talk, sweetheart,” he urges, but she doesn’t listen. Why would she start now, of all times?

“Now I know what it feels like… to be good,” she says to him. He prays that they won’t be the last words she ever says.

“It’s okay—it’s okay, please, try not to talk—“ he’s babbling and lying to her and she knows. She must hate him. He hates himself. If he’d just been faster—she wouldn’t be in his arms, bleeding to death.

“Does it always hurt this much?”

This is it. This is the love of his life, making him laugh while she dies. He hates her for it, wants her to let him feel the pain in peace, doesn’t want her to try to ease it, because she is dying and nothing can ease the pain now.

“Yeah, it always hurts this much.” He brushes a strand of hair away from her face.

He’s lying. It has never hurt this much before, not even when Nobu had cut him to ribbons.

“This is not the end,” she whispers, one last lie for the foolish boy who loves her, one last thing to hold onto.

She exhales, and Matt waits, and waits, and waits for her to inhale again, but she doesn’t.

He sets her down, and wants to lay his head on her chest and cry, like he’d done with his father, when he died.

He stands up, ready to kill.

He doesn’t have to, though. There’s the pop of a sniper rifle from across the street, muffled because all Matt can really hear is the blood rushing in his ears.

All of the ninjas drop dead, except Nobu.

Nobu is Matt’s, and Frank knows that. It has to be Frank, because nobody else would even bother—

He beats the living hell out of Nobu and launches him over the side of the building.

“Try to come back from that one, asshole,” he mutters, and then he’s back with Elektra, holding her, whispering to her.

He barely has the presence of mind to put his mask back on before the cops show up, and when they try to take her body from him, he snarls at them, hunched over her protectively.

Brett talks to him for over an hour before he manages to let her go.

“Take me, too,” he says to Brett, “I want to be with her. Please.”

“I get it, man, you cared about her—“

“Maybe I was being hostile, you had no other choice, you had to put me down,” Matt says flatly, “it was self-defense. Nobody’d press charges. A lot of people would be happy, probably. Please.”

His burner rings, and he snaps it in half and throws the damn thing as far away as he can.

“Leave me here, then—just leave me here—“ Matt mutters, “I can’t go—I can’t leave, just fucking go, Mahoney, just fucking go—“

One of the paramedics wraps him in a blanket, for shock. Brett barks stern orders not to touch the mask, and the paramedic sits in front of him and asks if he has any injuries.

He shakes his head, and she tries to get him to go to the hospital, but he just keeps shaking his head.

A couple of officers take his arms and he shoves them off roughly.

“LEAVE ME ALONE,” he screams, “LEAVE ME ALONE—“ He’s sobbing, have a full-on meltdown in front of the NYPD, but they pretend not to hear him. Maybe it’s because Brett is standing guard over him.

He doesn’t know how long it takes, but eventually, they do, and he is alone on a cement rooftop with the taste of her blood in his mouth. He stands up shakily and walks over to the edge.

“That’s not what she would’ve wanted for you, Red,” Frank says quietly from behind him. He hadn’t heard him coming. That should alarm him, but he doesn’t feel anything at all. “How about we go back to your place, huh?”

“I don’t want to be here, Frank,” Matt admits.

“So let’s go home, yeah?” He’s being so gentle. God, Matt is so fucked up the goddamn Punisher is treating him with kid gloves now.

“I don’t want to be alive, Frank.”

“I’m going to take you back home, Matty. I’m not letting you die on me, you hear me? I’m gonna take your arm, okay?” He does, and Matt lets him pull him back from the edge.

He lets Frank guide him, stumbles over the curb as Frank takes him to a car.

He doesn’t say anything, not even when Frank pulls up to his building and drags him up the fire escape. He’s not injured, he just—can’t walk under his own power.

Frank gets him into his apartment, sits him on the bed, and takes off his helmet, and struggles with the suit, but he gets that off, too, and Matt is in just his boxers. He lies down and smells her on his pillow, and he scrambles back up.

“You take the bed,” he mutters, “I’m going to sleep on the couch.”

“You’re taking the bed, Matt.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re taking the bed.”

“It still smells like her,” he snaps, “my bed, it still smells like her, and she is dead, and I’m not, and we were—we were going to run away. We were going to hide from them, for the rest of our lives, and they were—they were never going to find us—“

He’s crying and Frank Castle is holding him, making soft shushing noises while Matt acts like a stupid kid.

He falls asleep in Frank Castle’s arms, on a pillow that still smells of Elektra’s shampoo.

Chapter Text

He jerks awake a couple of hours later, still hearing her heart, beating slower, slower, and then going quiet. He presses his face to the pillow and he can smell her scent, under the gunpowder and coffee smell that clings to Frank.

He thinks about where she must be now, her body in the morgue, some medical examiner with his hands on her cool skin—it makes him sick, suddenly and viscerally.

He shakes Frank’s arms off of him and runs to the bathroom, falling with a crash to his knees and throwing up bitter bile.

He just sits there, and he thinks about her, and then he’s crying again, on the cold tile floor of his bathroom.

He feels a warm hand on his back.

“That’s it, get it out,” Frank murmurs, and he can sense the heat of him, settling down on the floor next to him, “that’s it, Matty, it’s okay.”

He shakes his head, because it’s not okay. It’s not okay—Elektra is gone. The most alive person he’s ever met is just—not alive anymore.

“Why wasn’t it me?” he asks Frank, after swishing some water around his mouth to lessen the feeling of bile clinging to his tongue.

“Sometimes there isn’t a why.” Frank says after a moment. “Why wasn’t it me instead of my wife and my babies?”

Matt nods. “I’m glad you’re not dead,” he says finally, “this life—I can’t imagine how painful it is for you, but I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“I’m glad you’re not dead, too. Not for lack of trying, though. Shit, Red, you really gave it the ol’ college try.”

“Yeah. I basically asked a cop to shoot me. After they took her body.”

“Jesus, Matt.”

“He’s, uh, He’s nowhere to be found,” Matt says, smiling weakly, “spent my whole life believing, and when I prayed to Him to save her, prayed that she’d make it, even if I didn’t, He didn’t come through.”

Frank rubs his arm briskly. “Sometimes, He doesn’t. Just the way of the world.”

Matt goes quiet and lets himself lean on Frank a little bit. “Are you gonna run?” he asks, his voice muffled by Frank’s shirt.

“Not for a little while. Need to make sure I get all the loose ends tied up, which means calling in some favors, tracking down some contacts. But I’ll have some time until then.”

Matt nods. “You can stay here,” he offers, “just until—until you find your leads?”

Frank rests a hand on the nape of Matt’s neck, feeling strands of his hair damp with sweat. “Might take you up on that.”

Matt doesn’t smile, doesn’t have the energy for it, but it’s better than the alternative, and that is… not enough, but it is something, at least.

“Come back to bed,” Frank says quietly, nudging him towards the door.

Something about the words feels intimate—a recognition of the fact that Matt had spent hours in Frank’s arms, that they had slept side by side in the same bed.

“I won’t be able to sleep,” Matt mutters.

“Try.” He makes it sound so simple. Frank can’t rest easy at night, can he? He must have nightmares too, must wake with his heart beating out of his chest.

Matt wants to say no, but he is tired, and maybe when he wakes up, Elektra will be alive, and this will all have been a dream.

“Okay.”

Frank pulls back the covers, and Matt lays down. Frank hesitates for a moment, clearly unsure of whether he’s welcome or not.

Matt reaches out and takes his hand. “Please.”

That’s all it takes, and then Frank’s walking over to the other side of the bed and laying himself down, near enough that Matt can choose whether he wants to touch him or not.

“What do you do, when you can’t sleep?”

“I clean my guns,” Frank mutters, “so probably not a viable solution for you.”

Matt hums.

“Or I read. I can do that, if you want, read something to you?”

“It’s okay, you go to sleep, I’ll listen to an audiobook or something.”

“I—I don’t mind reading, if you’d prefer that to listening to a recording.”

“I’m fine,” Matt lies.

“Bullshit. Sometimes it’s okay to let people help, Matty.”

Matt nods and turns towards him. “Most of mine are in Braille, but you can—you can get the classics for free, right? On your phone?”

“Sure. Any preferences?”

“Great Expectations,” Matt murmurs, inching a little closer.

He hears Frank tapping on his phone, pulling it up, muttering about tiny fucking print. “Alright, you good?”

Matt nods, closing his eyes.

“My father’s family name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip…” Frank starts.

Matt closes his eyes and listens to the story until his eyes get heavy.

He wakes in the morning with Frank sprawled out next to him.

He sits in the situation for a little while, hearing the sound of his breath, refamiliarizing himself with the beat of his heart, before his mind presents to him the incredibly distressing thought that Elektra’s smell is mixed with Frank’s and the salt of his own sweat and tears on his pillow.

He wants to go back, wants to keep either of them from muddying her scent, wants to hold it to his nose and smell her again without either of them getting mixed in.

He realizes that his body hurts. Head to toe, it all feels like one giant bruise. It’s strange, because he can’t quite remember getting hit anywhere in particular, or at least not anywhere that left an impression on him. His ribs are still aching, probably a little more broken than before—he feels a sharp pain on his right side when he inhales, so that’s probably not good. He feels for his face—some tenderness that’s probably going to show as bruising.

He hopes it’s not too colorful.

He’s still laying in bed when he hears Foggy’s heart thundering up the steps of his building, racing in exhaustion and anxiety and fear.

He sits up and tries not to groan, rising to his feet and carefully closing the sliding door behind him as he heads over to the door to meet his friend.

“Matt—Matt, I didn’t see all that shit that happened yesterday—“

Matt opens the door wider and lets him in, feels his friend scanning him.

“How do I look?” he asks, aiming for playful and falling well short.

“You’d be more attractive if you didn’t look beaten to shit,” Foggy mutters. “How are you? I heard—I couldn’t exactly call Brett to confirm, and the police are keeping it pretty quiet, but—“

“Elektra died,” Matt says softly.

“Fuck.” Foggy doesn’t like Elektra, has never really liked her, but he radiates such profound sympathy that Matt can almost forget that they hated each other. “Matty, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I was holding her,” Matt says, because he needs to tell someone, because it’s the only thing he can think about, and he needs someone else to think about it too, or he’ll go crazy. “I heard it—her heart slowing, her breath stopping.”

Foggy sits on the sofa next to him and pulls him in tight for a hug, and Matt can’t help but start crying all over again.

“I wanted it to be me,” he admits into Foggy’s damp shoulder, “I would have, if it meant she was okay.”

“Shh, I know, Matty, I know,” Foggy says softly, running his hands through his hair, holding him tight.

“I wish it was me—the knife was meant for me—she got in front of it. She saved me.“

Foggy’s shaking his head. Actually, Foggy’s just shaking, in general. “I’m so glad, I’m so glad it wasn’t you,” he mumbles, “you’re my best friend. I know you loved her, but I love you, and I’m so fucking glad you’re still here.”

The pain feels more bearable when he’s in Foggy’s arms, when Foggy’s telling him he loves him.

“I loved her—I loved her, Fogs—“

“I know, Matty.”

“The guy who killed her—Nobu—I threw him off the building, oh, God, I killed him—“

“Nobu?” Foggy asks, more focused, “the guy who gave you all those fucking scars? Good riddance.”

This new edge to Foggy, this new anger? This is what Matt has done to the best man he has ever met. He’s ruined him.

“I killed him,” he says again, voice low and shaky. “I killed him, Foggy—“

Foggy shakes off his own personal satisfaction at hearing that Nobu’s dead and focuses on comforting him again.

“Shh, shh, don’t think about that right now, just focus on me,” Foggy murmurs.

“You didn’t kill ‘im, Red,” a quiet voice says from the bedroom door, tired and sleep-rough. “The old man did. Sliced his head off.”

Matt can feel Foggy jump, startled at seeing the Punisher in his best friend’s apartment. Matt should pull away, pretend he’s startled, too, but he just wants to be held, just for a little longer.

“Frank? I thought—I thought you were dead?” Foggy stutters, looking up at him, arms still around Matt. “Matt said you were dead!”

“He saved me,” Matt whispers, “shot the others, so I could focus on Nobu. They would’ve killed me, Fogs. And then he brought me home.”

Foggy nods, though Matt can still read confusion coming off of him. If Elektra hadn’t just died, there would be more than just a faint hint of curiosity, too. Frank had come out of Matt’s bedroom, and Foggy probably wants to know if they’d slept together or slept together or neither.

“I’m gonna make coffee,” Frank says, a little awkward. “Nelson, you want some?”

“Yeah, please—Matty, you good here, bud? I’ll go help Frank with breakfast, I know where the stuff is. Why don’t you go take a shower, hm? Freshen up a bit.”

“Gonna be late for work.” Matt can hear the fatigue in his own voice, the shame, wishing he could put as much of himself into Nelson and Murdock as he does into his work as Daredevil.

“Don’t you dare come to work today, Matt Murdock,” Foggy says sternly, “you are going to stay here. You are going to take the day off, I’ll go in for the morning, take care of everything, then come back in the afternoon to check on you and hang out.”

“What about Karen?” Matt asks. He remembers the spike in her heartbeat as she’d seen Elektra in his bed, her knuckles against his lips, the anger as she’d yelled at him. He hears Frank’s heartbeat stutter, knows he cares about Karen, too.

“She called me last night, said she was in that hostage situation and you saved her. Well, the Devil saved her, but you know. And she was in a car accident just a couple days ago. She’s had a hell of a week, so I told her to take the rest of it off.”

Frank’s heart is beating faster now, clearly uncomfortable with this topic of conversation.

“Wait, what? A car accident? You’ve gotta go be with her, Fogs—how bad is it? Is she concussed?”

“She’s fine! I talked to her on the phone, and you talked to her last night, remember? Did she seem not fine to you?”

Matt shakes his head a little. She’d seemed shaken, scared, but not physically hurt, as far as he could tell.

“Besides, I’m more worried about you—“

Matt pulls back and lays his head against the sofa. He can’t argue with that logic, considering he courted death on two separate occasions last night.

Last night.

Elektra, playing along when he’d offered up that soft little dream for them, making him laugh and cry at the same time as she faded, whispering his name as if it was salvation, as if he was anything other than a broken, bitter thing.

It rips him open again, and he wants to cry with frustration.

“Do you think she loved me, Fogs?”

“Of course she did, bud.”

“I mean really. On her own, not because Stick told her to. Do you think she loved me?”

“Yeah, Matty, I really think she did. You’re a easy man to love, blind jokes and all.”

“She took the hit for you, Red, she must’ve cared, at least.”

Matt nods, and he hears Frank’s heavy footsteps drawing closer. “Did you manage to get any sleep last night?”

“A bit before I got up to vomit,” Matt admits, feeling Foggy’s heart uptick in concern, “a bit after. I don’t remember much past Pip getting the convict the file he needed.”

Frank squats down to his haunches in front of him, looking at him intently. “Nelson’s right. Shower’s a good idea. And brush your teeth, I still smell bile on your breath.”

---

Matt stands under the hot water for a long time before he reaches for the shampoo.

Frank and Foggy are talking outside. Foggy’s voice is raised—he must be angry that convicted felon Frank Castle’s hanging around with Matt, or that Matt will be implicated as an accessory for hiding him in his home.

Frank responds with a level voice, then a very quiet one. “D’you know how far out he can hear?” he whispers to Foggy.

“Pretty far,” Foggy says, sounding utterly unimpressed.

Frank lets out a noise of frustration and takes Foggy to the corner of the kitchen, as far away from the bathroom as they can get while still being in the apartment.

“We need to talk,” he mutters, “Alone. There are things you need to know.”

“Please, by all means, educate me on my best friend,” Foggy says dryly.

Frank lets out a growl, clearly impatient. “Do you love him?” he snaps.

Matt winces, knowing this isn’t going to go well.

Foggy’s heart skips a beat, and another. “What?”

“Do. You. Love. Him. It’s not a hard question, Nelson.”

“Of course I fucking love him,” Foggy says, his sarcasm traded for genuine anger. “Who the hell are you to ask me—who gave you the fucking right—“

“If you love him, you’ll find a time and place for us to talk in private,” Frank says quietly, “it’s important.”

Matt knows full well that he can’t let that happen, knows that it will be an utter disaster if it does—he’s already hurt Foggy enough, he can’t let him suffer any more than he already has.

Foggy goes quiet, heart racing anxiously in his chest. “Gimme your phone,” he mutters.

Frank gives it to him and Foggy taps it a few times, probably entering his phone number.

Damn, of course Frank would want to warn him to be more vigilant, and of course Foggy would agree to it in the end—

Matt inhales slowly and tries to slip into the breathing pattern he favors when he meditates. After a moment, he turns off the water and wraps a towel around his hips.

By the time he’s back out in the living room, Frank and Foggy are quiet, both standing in the kitchen. Foggy’s got his arms folded as he leans against the counter, Frank’s frying up some eggs and bacon.

“Nelson, can you get the bread?”

Foggy nods. “Matty, get dressed, you’ll catch a cold,” he orders, “besides, I think you’re dripping on the floor, and I don’t want you slipping and getting concussed.”

“I’m not a child, Foggy,” Matt snaps, because he’s maybe not doing as well at managing his emotions as he would like.

He hears Foggy’s footsteps approaching him, the quiet pressure of his socks against the wood floor.

“You’re not a child,” he admits readily, reaching out and touching Matt’s shoulder. “When I was in the ambulance, I heard them say that only family could ride along. I heard you say something to them. Do you remember?”

He’s my fucking brother, Matt had snapped at the paramedics, stepping up into the ambulance and taking Foggy’s hand, ready to threaten seriously expensive litigation if they didn’t leave right that minute.

“Let me take care of my brother, just this once?” Foggy asks softly. “Please?”

Matt doesn’t realize he has tears in his eyes until he blinks and nods, stepping forward into Foggy’s arms and accepting the hug.

Foggy clears his throat after a moment, voice thick with emotion he doesn’t want to show. “Go get dressed, okay? Breakfast is almost ready.”

Matt doesn’t have the heart to protest, and he goes to his bedroom to get dressed.

Emotions, attachments, they’re going to get you killed, Stick whispers to him, or you’re going to get them killed. You don’t want that, Matty, do you?

Elektra in his arms, her warm, thick blood on his suit. He sniffs the air and catches the scent of it, where his suit had ended up on the floor after Frank had gotten him out of it.

He walks over to the suit and sinks down to the floor, bringing the fabric to his nose and inhaling. It’s such a thick, rich scent, and it’s the only thing he has left that’s purely her. The sheets are tainted now, with his sweat and blood and Frank’s smell mixed in with hers.

“The coffee’s going to get cold, Matt,” Foggy calls out, shaking him out of his thoughts.

He stands shakily and goes to his closet, finding something soft and comfortable to wear without thinking much about it, and joins Foggy and Frank for breakfast.

---

Foggy hugs Matt tight before he heads off to the office to take care of business.

Frank doesn’t leave, just sits on the sofa and leans forward to clean his guns on the coffee table.

Matt sits at the table and wonders what the hell he’s supposed to do, exactly. He’s not allowed to go to work, he can’t go out as the Devil during the daytime, and he can’t stop thinking about Elektra’s voice, or her skin, or her blood.

He ends up fetching a bottle of scotch and bringing it to bed with him, sitting and remembering and wishing he could forget.

At some point, Frank comes into his room and sits next to him on the bed.

“Talk to me?” It’s a question, and Matt knows he can tell him to fuck off if he wants to and Frank will.

“About?”

“Tell me about her.”

Matt sits in silence for a little while, lets Frank take the bottle from his grasp and gulp down some of it, putting it back in his hands afterwards. He drinks too, two long draughts, feeling Frank’s eyes on him, watching the way his throat moves.

“You ever done drugs, Frank?”

“Uh, some of my friends in high school smoked a little pot. I wasn’t into it, but I’d take a hit at a party or somethin’.”

Matt laughs. “Pot doesn’t count. I mean real shit. Like cocaine. You ever done coke, Frank?”

“Uh, no.”

“I have.”

“Bullshit.” He can hear the disbelief in Frank’s heart, not just his voice.

“I was with Elektra. We—we broke into this house, this fancy mansion, she said it belonged to one of her dad’s business associates. She said he was away in Milan seeing his mistress, wouldn’t be back for awhile—and we were in there, playing.

“That’s what it was like with her—we were just two kids playing—I laid down on the counter and she put some cheese on my stomach and got this huge knife and started cutting it, feeding it to me, you know? We’d drink expensive scotch and throw the glasses down onto the floor, smash them—

She found the coke in the bathroom—she grew up with rich, privileged types, she’d seen it before, but I hadn’t. Still haven’t, I guess.”

Frank chuckles softly, more to acknowledge the joke than because it was funny. He’s invested in this story, body angled towards Matt, waiting for him to continue with baited breath.

“Anyway, she did a line, then she used a razor blade to cut me one, and I did it too,” Matt says plainly, “and you know what the kicker was, Frank?”

“What?”

“My body reacted—my heart beat faster, I was sweating, senses were more sensitive, harder to filter. But I didn’t feel any different. It was just what being around her was like. Being around her was always like being high, that state of unnatural, heightened arousal.”

“I bet,” Frank mutters, but the sex joke is halfhearted at best.

“That’s what it was like, with her, it was always—we never planned it out. She stole a car the night I met her, we drove out of the city and she was going—felt like she was going a hundred miles an hour, and all I could do was just breathe, y’know?”

“I can imagine, I guess.” His heart says lie. Frank is an exceptional man in virtually every sense of the word, but he can’t relate to this.

“I was an addict,” Matt says quietly, “and I was in recovery, for years and years, and I thought maybe I could have something that wouldn’t hurt for once, with Karen. But then she came back. She came back, and I did what addicts do, Frank. I went back for just one more taste. And now—now I’m in withdrawal. And I’m going to be in withdrawal for the rest of my life.”

Frank doesn’t say anything for a long while. Eventually, he does speak, slowly, having thought about the words for a long time.

“She was lucky to have someone like you, Red. Not everyone gets to be loved by a man like you.”

“So lucky it got her killed,” Matt mutters, feeling tears well up in his eyes and raising the bottle to his lips.

Chapter Text

Foggy comes back a few hours later, and Frank takes off. Matt doesn’t expect to see him again.

He sits on the sofa with his best friend, sipping at his beer. He hears it, when Foggy’s eyes find the empty bottle of scotch, heart speeding up. He knows what kinds of memories that drudges up, knows Foggy’s remembering pouring alcohol down the drain so that Matt wouldn’t give himself liver failure.

“I’m not gonna drink myself to death, you know,” he says casually, making a point of taking the tiniest possible sip of his beer before putting the bottle down.

“That’s good, Matty. Because unless I move in here, I won’t be able to stop you like I did last time.”

“I’m not the same man I was six years ago,” Matt says, closing his eyes and thinking about the time she was gone. He considers the women he’s slept with, the men he slept with, the high of finding a breakthrough in a case, the euphoria of winning…

The rush of adrenaline as he punches and gets punched, paints his city in his own blood like a dog marking its territory, trying to do some good.

“I know you’re not.” Foggy sounds tired, and maybe he’s thinking about the same things Matt’s thinking about. Maybe he’s thinking about that night, finding Matt on the floor of his apartment, too weak from blood loss to get himself to the couch. “Sometimes I wish you were. It was easier, then.”

“Sometimes I wish that too,” Matt agrees, “I used to think that law school would be the hardest thing ever, y’know? I thought after that I’d go home at night, get seven hours of sleep every night, settle down with a good woman, maybe have a couple of kids—“

“And here we are, still single, drinking together on the couch,” Foggy mutters.

“You’re not really single, Fogs,” Matt says pointedly, “yeah, maybe you and Marci haven’t put a label on it, but she’d cut your dick off if you slept with anyone else.”

“You’re not the only one who has a thing for dangerous women,” Foggy mutters in response, body going still as soon as the words slip out. “Fuck, Matt, I’m so sorry—“

Matt tries to smile, but he can’t quite manage, so he shrugs instead. “We knew we were going to die,” he says after a long, quiet moment. “We were in the stairwell, barred the door on the bottom and the one on the top, and we just… we knew we were going to die. I just didn’t think I’d be the one left behind, that’s all.”

“Jesus,” Foggy mutters.

“She was shaking,” Matt whispers, “she was shaking, and I told her—I told her that if we made it, wherever she went, I’d go with her. All around the world. They wanted her, they’d never stop looking for her. And I told her we’d spend the rest of our lives running and they’d never find us.”

Foggy leans into him. “Sounds like a lonely life, Matt.”

He smiles a little. “I’m used to it. She made me feel alive, Fogs. And now she’s gone.”

“I would’ve missed you, if you ran with her,” Foggy says softly.

“I would’ve missed you, too.” The words he doesn’t say hang in the air between them—but I still would have gone.

Foggy wraps an arm around his shoulders and they sit in silence for a long while, not moving until Matt hears someone approaching the door.

He’s up in half a second, baton in his hand by the time the person knocks.

Foggy, shockingly, is fairly calm. “Lemme go get the door, Matt,” he says firmly, “put that away.”

Matt shakes his head and moves, making sure he’s in between Foggy and the threat, yanking the door open and pulling the baton back, ready to strike—

A bag of groceries falls to the floor, an apple rolling out across the hall, and a hand shoots out to wrap around Matt’s wrist, holding tight.

“Hello to you too, Red,” Frank says calmly, “we gonna do this in your hallway?”

It takes a moment for the situation to sink in, and Matt steps back. Frank lets go of his wrist and bends down to pick up the groceries, returning the errant apple to the bag before coming in.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” Matt admits, “Foggy, it’s fine, it’s okay—“

“I know that, dumbass,” Foggy mutters, “you’re the one who jumped in front of me to protect me from fruit.”

“Right—uh, sorry.”

“Nothin’ to apologize for, Red. You lost someone, overprotectiveness is normal.”

Matt nods and goes back to his room to put the batons away.

“Has he been jumpy like that all day?” Foggy asks Frank quietly as they stand in the kitchen.

“Nah. But he loves you, Nelson, makes sense that he’d be more protective of you than he would of me.”

Foggy lets out a hum. “And did you—did you help him with the scotch, or was that all him?”

Frank hesitates, and Matt wills him to cover for him. “It was mostly him,” he admits, “but I helped.”

“Fuck,” Foggy mutters. “Okay, are you—heading out soon, or staying here, or…?”

“He said I could stay until I need to leave,” Frank says, prompting Foggy to let out a huff of breath that expresses exactly how unhelpful that is.

“Right, if you’re staying, watch his alcohol intake. That was an issue last time. He said he’s different now, but…”

“But?”

“But it’s Elektra. She fucks him up,” Foggy says softly, “normal rules don’t apply. He’s not my smart, funny, incredible best friend when she’s around. He’s darker, sadder. More lost.”

Matt drops the illusion of privacy and walks over to them.

“I’m not going to drink myself to death,” he repeats. “And thanks for backing me up there, Frank, that was really great.”

Frank makes an aborted gesture and sighs. “Red, I—“

Matt ignores him completely and turns towards Foggy’s heartbeat.

“Can I come back to work tomorrow? Please?” Matt isn’t used to begging.

“Matt—“

“Foggy, all day today, I sat here, and all I could do was think about her,” Matt admits, “and I just—I need something to do. Some sort of distraction, something that’ll actually make a difference in the world—“

Foggy sighs. “Can you promise you’re not going to work yourself to death?”

Matt shakes his head. “That’s what I need right now. Please, Fogs. Let me take some new cases, let me do something useful—“

The discussion proceeds in the way their discussions normally proceed—two lawyers fighting over something they both have firm beliefs about doesn’t normally end in one of them rolling over.

In the end, Foggy agrees to let Matt work half of the next day, with full return to work conditional on his performance and his continued mental and emotional health.

“Jesus, I didn’t know you two were fucking maniacs,” Frank mutters under his breath. “Are all lawyers like this? How’d you even pick a paint color for the office if you argue like that over everything?”

Matt can hear the smug little smile in Foggy’s voice, even in the way he inhales before speaking.

“Matt let me have that one, seeing as I’m a little more qualified to pick colors than he is.”

Some part of Matt is relieved to find that he’s still capable of laughter.

---

“Go to bed, Red,” Frank says finally, “you’re not doing anything.” Foggy had stayed for dinner and he’d offered no hint that he was planning on leaving, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt.

He’d yawned four separate times when Frank had told him to just go home, had said I got him tonight, Nelson, get some rest, as if they were teammates or something.

“You take the bed, I’ll take the couch tonight,” Matt suggests.

“Are you going to sleep?”

“I don’t know if I can. I’ll meditate for a little while, then see if I can. You go back to sleep, okay?”

“I can read again.”

Matt shakes his head. “I’ll be fine, Frank, I promise. I just need to meditate. It’ll help me heal faster, too, fix up my ribs. Maybe by the morning, seeing me shirtless won’t make people sad.”

“Your body definitely does not make people sad, Red,” Frank mutters, his body betraying exactly how true he thinks that is. The Punisher thinks he’s attractive. This is Matt’s life, somehow.

He shrugs. “Foggy doesn’t like seeing the bruises. So I’ve got to meditate, get rid of ‘em, y’know?”

“Does it actually help?”

“Yeah. Would’ve died without it, probably a long time ago. I don’t have enhanced healing, I just… meditate.”

Frank hums, clearly interested—and appropriately so, considering how useful it could be for helping his own healing, since he’s always in some state of busted up. Matt doesn’t provide any more details, and Frank nods and heads into the bedroom. He clicks on the lamp and reads—he must have gotten a book, because Matt can hear the soft rustle of paper as he turns the pages.

He reads for awhile, and Matt listens as he turns the pages slower, getting tired, getting sleepy. He waits, hears the pointed absence of sound as the pages stop turning, respiration level and heart slowing.

He sits still for a little longer, waiting, considering each floorboard in between him and the closet, thinking about which ones creak. The issue is that Frank left the lamp on—instant advantage to him. There’s no hiding in the light.

He inhales slowly, willing his heart to calm down, and sneaks into his own bedroom. There are minor creaks, but nothing too bad, and he stops after each one to wait, see if Frank will wake. He doesn’t.

He’s tired, too, Matt realizes with a pang. He thinks back to that night in the cemetery.

You ever get tired, Red?

I think I’m done, Red. I think I’m done.

Frank Castle deserves to rest, and if he does it in Matt Murdock’s bed, well, no one is any the wiser.

He grabs the suit and returns to the living room, stripping efficiently before cracking open the window—the stairs to the roof access door are too squeaky, and the door’s heavy enough that Frank might wake.

He inhales again, deeply, and then the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is out, perching atop the roof of the building, looking for a fight.

In Hell’s Kitchen, there is almost always a fight to be found, and tonight’s no different. He starts small, petty theft, attempted muggings, a pair of guys trying to hold up a bodega. He hears more dangerous sounds as the night grows darker, attempted rapes, attempted murders, domestic violence.

There’s a kid in the apartment, scared out of his mind, trying to be brave, trying to protect his mother from his drunken father.

Matt swallows hard and gets in through the window before subduing the man, asking the woman gently if she wants to call 911.

They don’t always, this sort of thing. They love him, he has priors and they don’t want to risk him being taken away, it was just a mistake, how is their baby going to grow up without a father… But this woman, trembling and furious and humiliated, has some sort of inner resolve. She pulls her son to her chest and nods.

“Will you stay until they get here?” she asks, and Matt promises her he will.

He drags the man into the bedroom and closes the door behind him, heading back to the woman and child. He’s six or seven, skinny for his age, the way Matt had been back then.

“I promise you’re going to be okay,” Matt tells him, sitting on the floor with him, taking off his gloves to hold his shaking hands.

The boy throws his arms around him and cries—even this, he does silently, not wanting to burden his mother with his fear. Matt rubs his back and thinks at least he’s here, thinks at least he saved them this time, thinks maybe he can help them, maybe there is a point to all of this.

Maybe there is a reason he didn’t die last night.

There is a light inside you, Matthew, Elektra whispers to him, the memory tender like a kiss on the cheek.

He hears the police coming up the stairs and talks quietly to the mother, telling her a cover story about how he heard what was going on and came to help. He tells her to call some lawyers, see if they can help with a restraining order, even offers up Foggy’s name.

He kneels onto the floor and puts his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

“You were so brave tonight,” he says gently, “I’m so proud of you. But you don’t have to protect everyone, okay? If you’re scared like that again, call the police, they’ll help you and your mom.”

The boy’s settled down, heart no longer racing faster than a hummingbird’s.

That ends when Matt makes his way to the window. “They’re downstairs,” he tells the woman, “they’ll be here in two minutes. I’ll wait outside, make sure everything’s okay before I go, but they can’t find me here.”

She nods.

“Wait—Daredevil, don’t go—“ the little boy pleads, reaching out and catching his hand. His hand is so warm against Matt’s skin.

“I gotta go, bud. Other people need help, too,” he says softly, “but I’m always here if you need me, okay? Remember, if you’re scared or somebody’s getting hurt, you call the police, got it?”

“But—“ He’s holding Matt’s hand so tight, small hand damp with sweat, and he doesn’t let go until his mother wraps him in her arms, nodding at Matt and brushing her hand through her boy’s hair.

Matt slips out the window and waits for them to arrest him before he moves.

---

There’s a woman being robbed at knifepoint, only by the time Matt hears it, he already tastes the iron of fresh blood. He sprints over to them, pulls the robber away from her, punches him hard—cross, left hook, uppercut. He takes a few hits too, sore ribs and bruises making themselves known as they flare up in pain. But he doesn’t care, keeps fighting until the guy’s down and unconscious.

He turns back to the woman, and that’s when he has the awful realization that her throat’s already been slit. She’s still breathing, wet, gurgling breaths, and all he can do is sit next to her and hold her hand and tell her it’s going to be okay. He takes off his mask, lets her look at him, and listens to her heart go quiet.

He calls 911 from his burner and calls it in, says that the woman’s already dead, the mugger’s unconscious. He doesn’t wait for the police to arrive.

His senses suddenly flare—he can hear the cats fighting in the next alley, the couple having loud, vigorous sex in the apartment building, the woman trying to calm her baby back to sleep while her husband snores.

He can hear the heartbeat of the rats as they scurry around the dumpster.

Loudest of all is the silence of her heartbeat.

He blinks and it’s Elektra’s heartbeat, her blood on his hands, on his suit—the last pure thing of hers he has left, gone in a mess of his sweat and a stranger’s blood. He gets himself behind the dumpster and retches, feeling his dinner coming back up again, the world tilting on its axis, the brick wall moving to greet him like a lover.

His lover is dead.

He pulls himself up onto a fire escape and moves, trusting his body to know which direction is right.

---

He expects relief once his feet touch the roof of his own building, but there isn’t any.

He rips off the mask and staggers in through the doorway, barely waiting for the door to close before wrestling with the zipper of the suit.

He can’t quite breathe, and he doesn’t know if it’s because he’s dying or because he has broken ribs or because Elektra took all the air with her when she left—

“Fuck you, Matt,” Frank says tiredly.

Matt suddenly tunes into his heartbeat—sluggish with exhaustion. He’s holding the shirt Matt had stripped off before he left, and he’s exuding resignation.

That’s Matt’s fault, too, along with the woman whose blood is on his hands.

The women whose blood is on his hands.

“Sorry,” Matt gasps, left in nothing but his boxer briefs, “I’m sorry, Frank—she died, I was holding her and she died—why do they always die, Frank, why do they always—“

He can feel his heart, pounding so loudly it drowns out all the other sounds. He can feel himself starting to slip, starting to lose his sense of equilibrium, and he launches himself blindly towards the bathroom and pushes at the door weakly. His heart cannot possibly keep racing like this—at some point the muscle will give up. At some point, he will finally die.

He collapses against the wall, pulling his knees up to his chest and trying to breathe, trying to breathe—

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and he flails mindlessly.

“It’s okay—you’re having a panic attack, Matt,” Frank says clearly, firmly, “you’re not dying, this is not a heart attack.”

“You gotta breathe slowly.”

What Frank doesn’t understand is that Matt is not capable of breathing slowly right now. He doesn’t have any air, he can’t breathe at all except in tiny, rapid breaths.

“Listen to me, Matty, come on. Try to slow down, listen to me, okay?” He takes Matt’s hand and presses it to his chest. “In, slowly, hold, now let it out nice and slow. Five counts, okay? In two three four five, hold two three four five, out two three four five, in.... hold.... out...”

On the inhales, Frank’s chest expands, pressing against Matt’s hand. The pressure is steady while he holds, and when he exhales, he starts to pull away from Matt’s hand. Matt’s mind floods with panic at the brief loss of contact and he reaches out, presses against Frank to maintain contact.

Matt settles a little bit, following Frank’s breath, letting his voice wash over him.

Finally he comes out of it, feels his heart taking its cues from his lungs instead of his stupid broken brain and slowing down.

Frank sighs, shifting until he’s sitting next to Matt against the wall.

“How did you know? I thought—I thought I was having a heart attack.”

“I’m a vet, Red.” That’s all Frank says, all he needs to say. Of course he knows what panic attacks look like.

His hand is still on Frank’s chest, and he feels the rumble of his voice as he speaks. Matt snatches his hand back as if he’s been burned, tucking it around his knees.

“Come on, get up, let’s take a look at those ribs, hm? And then you can have a shower and come to bed.”

Matt lets Frank pull him up and look at his rib cage, palpating briskly and waiting to see if any of the bones give. His tenth rib on the left moves slightly, but he can’t be sure whether it was already broken before he went out or just bruised.

“There was a woman,” he says quietly, not understanding why he’s speaking at all. “Her attacker—it was too late, Frank. By the time he was out, she was already dying. All I could do was hold her hand so she wouldn’t be alone.”

Frank takes the weight of the story with a quiet hum, turning on the shower.

“Just a few minutes before... I did something good, helped people, and I thought maybe there was a reason I didn’t get to go with her, maybe I’m supposed to stay, to help, but then—she died anyway.”

“That doesn’t undo what you did before, Red. You still helped those people, you still saved them.”

“But if she doesn’t press charges—he could hurt them again. And what if I’m not there?”

He knows Frank would’ve killed him. He considers that, tries to imagine killing that boy’s father, tries to imagine how traumatizing that would be for him, for his mother, whether they’d have enough money to get by without him, whether they’d be able to make rent and still have enough for food.

“Your job isn’t to save everyone,” Frank says carefully, “your job is to save as many people as you can.”

It’s almost exactly what he told the little boy, and Matt can’t help but feel his eyes well up. He clears his throat and stands up, feeling his legs shake a little.

“I’ll just—“ he gestures towards the shower and Frank nods, closing the door behind him and leaving Matt alone.

He gets out of the shower and pulls on some soft, comfortable sweats before slipping into his bed.

“You don’t have to keep watch,” he says to Frank quietly, “I’m not going out again.”

Frank sighs and makes to lie down on the sofa.

“You—“ Matt’s voice catches in his throat, the offer awkward in his mouth, “you could—uh, never mind.”

“Say what you wanna say.”

“You could come here, if you want. The couch isn’t that comfortable, and I know you’re tired.”

“And?”

Matt shakes his head and reaches for his headphones, sure that there’s a decent audiobook of Great Expectations out there somewhere.

Frank sighs and carries a chair over to his bedside, flicking on the lamp and picking up a book from the nightstand.

“…Feeling it a dreadful liberty so to roar out her name, was almost as bad as playing to order. But she answered at last, and her light came along the dark passage like a star…”

In Matt’s mind, Estella smells of coconut shampoo and sandalwood, like blood on metal and a cold smile. She has a rich, silky voice, low and sultry—the sort of voice he could spend the rest of his life listening to.

He drifts off to the thought of her, young Elektra being trained by Stick, covered in bruises, bleeding from the corner of her mouth, hiding her pain, sitting on the floor with Miss Havisham in her dusty wedding gown, drawing nearer to him. Estella kissing him, his back against the floor of a boxing ring, yanking at his shirt and her own and his own hands on her hips, guiding her up and down.

---

“What if wherever you run, I run with you?” he asks, whispering the words into her ear as she’s pressed against the conference table, the heat of her legs around his hips.

He hears the men behind them chattering in Japanese, sounding disgusted.

Elektra laughs, pulls him even nearer, hot breath pressing against his ear. “Why would I run with you, Matthew? I could have had anyone. Why would I choose the man who got me killed?”

He jerks awake, chest and neck damp with sweat, face damp with tears.

Frank’s asleep in the chair, head thrown back in a way that’ll definitely hurt in the morning, but he stirs slightly at the sound of Matt’s panicked breathing.

Matt sighs, trying to calm himself down.

“You good, Red?” Frank murmurs, shifting and rolling his neck. Matt grimaces at the loud cracking.

“Nightmare,” he mutters in response, “and you should sleep on the couch or the bed, your neck will hate you if you stay in that chair all night.”

“Not much more of the night left, now.”

Matt grunts and pulls back the covers on the other side of the bed in silent invitation. “And turn off the lamp—I go through enough light bulbs as it is, forgetting when they’re on.”

There’s a quiet click and the sound of footsteps as Frank walks over to the other side of the bed, sliding under the covers.

Matt lays there, awake, waiting for the sound of his alarm and listening to Frank’s heartbeat.

Chapter Text

Frank stirs a little at the sound of Matt’s alarm, but he turns it off right away, slipping out of bed and tucking the duvet down so Frank doesn’t get cold, only realizing afterwards that that’s far too tender a gesture for him to be pulling with the Punisher.

He’s in the bathroom washing his face when he hears Foggy’s heartbeat approaching. He opens the door before he can knock and greets him with a hug.

“Keep it down, Fogs, Frank’s still sleeping.”

He can hear it when Foggy scans the room and sees that Frank’s not on the sofa.

“In your bed?”

“He slept in a chair for who knows how long, then I woke him up and told him to get into bed before he fucked up his neck any more.”

“How terribly considerate of you, Matthew.” He can hear the smirk in Foggy’s voice. “I really don’t know how you do it, you know. They’re always hot. Always! Do hot people sound different from us normal folk?”

“You think Frank’s hot?” Matt asks placidly, feeling the heat of Foggy’s blush.

“Yeah, if you’re into people who can kill you.”

Matt shrugs. “It does seem to be a pattern.”

“I want it on the record that I object to my best friend sleeping with the Punisher.”

“Objection noted, counselor. But irrelevant. He’s not in that kind of place right now.”

“Which one? My best friend or Frank Castle?” Foggy asks, another of his uncanny insights.

“Either of them.”

---

Foggy walks Matt to work, and walks him to a little Mexican place for lunch, and then walks him back home. Frank’s gone to wherever he goes during the day, hopefully not plotting murder.

Foggy mentions that he has an appointment with a client at 3, so by 2:45, Karen is knocking on his door and Foggy’s pretending that just because Matt’s blind means he can’t glare at people.

Matt is glaring in his general direction as hard as he can.

“I do not need a babysitter,” he hisses, “tell her to go home! She hates me, Fogs, this is a terrible idea—“

Foggy puts his hands on Matt’s shoulders. “Look, you don’t have to talk to her. She doesn’t have to talk to you. She’s just gonna sit around here for a little while, and you can do some work, read a book, take a nap, whatever.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of!”

“I know, I know. You don’t need to be taken care of.” Lie. “But please, I’d really appreciate if you’d just do this for me, okay?” Truth.

Matt gives in with a sigh and Foggy grins.

“You’re my favorite person, Matty,” he says with a smile, and Matt has to pretend like he’s still cranky, even though all he wants is to smile, because he’s got an amazing best friend who still sticks around, who still cares, even after all of this.

“Alright, alright, go meet the client. And pray to God this one can actually pay us in money instead of cake. Or, like, roasts, or casseroles, or something. Anything other than baked goods!”

“You got it, bud, anything you want!” Foggy practically bounces over to the door, opening it and getting a hug from Karen.

She walks in, looks at Matt, and her heart picks up.

“I’m here because Foggy asked me to be,” she says flatly.

“Understood.”

“I’m still pissed at you for fucking up Frank’s case.”

“I get it.”

“You’re still an asshole who lies to his friends. You’re still unreliable and you have some kind of problem and you drag other people down with you.”

“Why would I want to be with you, Matthew?” the Elektra from his dream whispers. “Why would I choose the man who got me killed?”

Matt feels a squeezing in his chest, his heart skipping a beat and not quite recovering.

The scent of Foggy’s blood on his hands as he wrapped his fingers around Frank’s throat, squeezing.

He looks down. The thing is, it’s all true. She doesn’t know everything, but she’s still right.

“Karen,” Foggy says, warning in his voice, heart picking up in anger. “You don’t know what he’s dealing with. Back off.”

“Oh, please, as if he’s told you what he’s dealing with,” Karen mutters.

Foggy goes quiet, and Matt hopes his expression doesn’t give them away. He doesn’t want to mess up Karen’s friendship with Foggy on top of everything else.

“We’re fine here, Fogs. Go get that client, okay? And remember, no more baked goods!” He smiles and hears Foggy’s heart settle a little in response.

The door closes behind him and Karen strides over to the sofa, pulling out some papers and not saying a single word to him.

“I’m gonna take a nap,” Matt mutters, heading into his bedroom and sliding the door shut.

He lays down for a few minutes, trying to rest, but he’s too restless. He sits up and goes to the closet, trying to find the suit, needing to bring it to his nose and smell Elektra, even if it is her blood, mixed in with that of a stranger.

He leaves again, ignoring Karen’s brief look at him as he goes through the hamper, looks under the sink, through the washing machine—as if he would machine wash the goddamn suit—

Karen’s curious, but she’s too proud to ask.

He’s thinking back to last night, to stripping out of the suit on the stairs while Frank sat on the sofa—

Frank.

He’s punishing him for going out last night.

Goddammit, Frank. Matt thinks viciously, already imagining how good it’ll feel to throw a punch at him, if he ever comes back. Even if he doesn’t come back, he’ll find him. He knows Frank Castle now, at least superficially. He knows his smell, his heartbeat, the sound of his footsteps.

Fuck you, Frank. I am not your brother, or your lover, or your child. I am not yours to punish.

He goes back to his bedroom, ignoring Karen’s mutterings about fucking drama queen.

He paces in a tight circle around the room, feeling like a caged animal. Without the suit, the only evidence he has of who he really is is written across his skin. He inhales and steps out, not stopping until he’s in front of Karen, across the coffee table. She tries not to look up at him, tries to ignore him altogether, but her heart picks up in anticipation of an argument.

“I know you’re mad, and I don’t expect anything from you, especially not forgiveness. But I do owe you an explanation. I’m the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, Karen.”

He takes off his shirt and lets her see the old knife wounds, the rainbow of bruises on his ribs, the puckered flesh of scarred over gunshots. Her heart picks up, and he wonders whether its worry or revulsion or realization. He doesn’t even let himself consider that it might be attraction.

“The first day of Frank’s trial—the woman who was here, she fought with me. She got stabbed the night before, and I didn’t want her to die alone. So I stayed with her.”

Karen’s still quiet, a sort of stunned silence.

“She died two nights ago, after we saved you and the other hostages. That’s why Foggy asked you to come—he doesn’t want me to be alone right now.”

“And you—were friends with her?” It’s so obvious what Karen wants to hear, that Matt didn’t love her, that it was just a professional partnership. The truth is so much more complex, so much richer, and she can’t possibly understand. Besides, Matt wants to keep Elektra for himself—can’t he keep something in his life for himself? Does he owe everyone everything?

“I loved her,” Matt says plainly.

“Are you actually—“

“Blind? Yeah. My other senses compensate.” He doesn’t really feel like going into all of it in gross detail. He’s just exhausted, and a little bit irritated at the question.

You move pretty well, for a blind guy, Frank had said that first night.

They’d checked his pupils that night with Elektra. He’d felt the phantom of her body heat against him when the Yakuza (the Hand?) shone a flashlight in his eyes, watching his pupils fail to dilate.

He’s not faking it. When will people understand that he’s not faking it? Isn’t it enough that he already feels like an imposter, being able to get around on his own without a dog or a cane? Isn’t it enough that he already feels like he’s not really blind? Does everyone else have to make him feel that way, too?

He pulls his shirt back on, suddenly feeling exposed, glad he’s wearing his glasses.

“That first night, when I stayed here…” Karen says slowly, trailing off.

“I followed you.” He sounds like a creep, but hopefully Karen doesn’t see it that way.

“Where’s the suit?” This is Karen Page, investigative journalist in training, professional at digging into things she shouldn’t.

“Not here.” Better to keep it vague. Especially since he doesn’t actually know where the Daredevil suit is at the moment.

She goes quiet, not pushing, perhaps because she realizes he isn’t going to give up any more information.

“I need—I need time. And space.” There’s the rustle of papers being shoved haphazardly into her bag. “To process all of this. I can’t be here—I’ve gotta go.”

Then Matt’s alone, for the first time in days. He lays down on the sofa, smells Karen’s perfume on the cushions, and hopes against hope that he won’t dream.

---

Foggy agrees to meet a serial killer, because having his blind best friend parkouring around rooftops and beating the hell out of bad guys somehow isn’t crazy enough.

He can almost hear his mother shrieking at his poor decision-making, but there had been something about Frank that he’d trusted, for whatever reason. He blames it on Matt and Karen, who are both ridiculously intent on saving the Punisher.

But he goes to the coffee shop in the afternoon, at three o’clock, as they agreed. Frank had wanted to meet sooner, but he’d also insisted that somebody had to be with Matt, and if neither Foggy nor Frank could be, that meant they had to wait until Karen was free to go watch him. She’s still pretty pissed at him, so she’s not happy about it, really, but Foggy calls it a favor to him, and she finally agrees.

Foggy can tell his best friend is chaffing from the kid-gloves treatment. He gets this irritable look. He’d snapped at Foggy twice in an hour, which was a new record for them, and immediately afterwards fallen victim to his good old Catholic guilt.

Foggy’s taken to saying things that had never needed saying before, things like I love you, and please let me take care of you, and you’re my brother, and please do this for me. Part of him feels bad, because it’s hyper-targeted at Matt’s weak spots—being loved, being cared for, having a family. But it’s all true, so that probably makes it less awful that he’s manipulating him, right?

At 3:05, Frank settles down across the table from him.

“You’re late.”

“I know. Matt went to take a nap, I watched for a few minutes to make sure he wouldn’t try to sneak out the window.”

“Karen’s there,” Foggy points out mildly.

“Yeah, and she’s neck deep in shit she shouldn’t be looking into, as always. She barely looked at him when he said he was going to sleep.”

“Why do you think he needs to be supervised all the time, anyway?”

Frank doesn’t meet his eyes, instead looking around for a waitress and signaling to her. “Ma’am? Could I get a black coffee over here? And, uh, whatever my fr—whatever he wants.”

Foggy wonders which of his life choices had led to the Punisher almost referring to him as a friend. “A caramel latte, please,” he says to the waitress, smiling at her.

She smiles back and promises the drinks will be right out.

“He’s not okay,” Frank says quietly, still looking at the table.

“No shit.”

“I was there, Nelson. I saw the whole thing—I was on a rooftop across the street, saw him holding her, saw him get up after she was gone—there were seven guys on that rooftop. Highly trained. One of them was the one that killed her.”

“Nobu. Yeah. You’ve seen all the—“ Foggy gestures under his collarbones, across his forearms, on his right side, all the places Matt has thick, raised scars. “Those are his work.”

Frank lets out a quiet and fervent fuck, and Foggy can’t help but agree wholeheartedly. “Anyway, he was going to go after them all on his own. I shot down all the others, left Nobu for him, figured he needed to take care of him on his own.”

Foggy sighs. “That’s what he does. He fights.”

The waitress brings over their drinks and Frank wraps his fingers around his mug, looking into it as if it would give him some sort of insight into Matt Murdock’s mind.

Frank shakes his head. “I don’t think he was planning on winning, is the thing.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“The cops showed up afterwards, he—he wouldn’t let her go. He just held her, Mahoney had to talk to him for awhile before he let them take her, and then he was yelling at the paramedics.”

“He was in shock,” Foggy says, though he’s not quite sure of it himself.

“He asked Mahoney to shoot him. Said he was being difficult, left him no other choice, nobody’d blame him for it.”

Foggy’s heart stops, and he looks up at Frank, hoping that the shock isn’t showing in his face. “How—how do you know that?”

“Matt told me. And even if he didn’t—the cops left, and when the area was clear, I went up to him, went to bring him home, y’know? And he was just standing on the edge of the building, looking down.

“Looking down?” Foggy sounds skeptical. “He can’t see.”

“Fuck, fine, not looking, I get it, he’s blind, but he was thinkin’ about it! I know he was. And when I asked him to come home, he said he didn’t want to be alive anymore. Nelson, this ain’t a joke. You’re glad your friend’s alive? Well, you better work to keep him that way, because if you leave that to him, you’ll be burying him sooner than you think.”

“Oh my god,” Foggy mutters, “oh my god, he’s suicidal? Jesus, he was always—look, he’s always been reckless, especially in the suit, but he’s never looked for it—“

“He said she was the love of his life.”

Foggy closes his eyes. “That doesn’t mean he gets to go,” he snaps, “that doesn’t mean he gets to leave—“

Frank sighs. “Even before that, he said that he expected to die, wearing the suit, y’know. He’s been expecting it, but now—now I think he wants it. And I can’t do it all on my own. He doesn’t care about me like he cares about you.”

“He cares about you,” Foggy says quietly, looking across the table and meeting Frank’s face, shadowed under his baseball cap.

“Not like he cares about you, Nelson.”

Foggy can’t argue that point. He knows Matt well enough to know that he’s always been one of the two most important people in the world to him, and now that Elektra’s gone… well, he’s almost definitely number one now. Even if it is by default, since Matt’s so damned good at pushing people away.

“Anything else?” he asks, hoping that there isn’t.

“He had a panic attack last night. He went out in the—out for his second job. He found a woman and she… she didn’t make it. Triggered him to hell and left him hyperventilating on the bathroom floor.”

“Jesus Christ,” Foggy mutters, “can he not take one goddamn day off?”

“Well, he will be taking some time off, from now on. I’ve brought his—work uniform.” He pats the duffel bag next to him and Foggy grimaces at the thought of the Daredevil suit being in public. “You need to hide this somewhere he can’t find. If you can’t do that, let me.”

“Don’t destroy it.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. He can have it back once he figures out how to behave. Snuck past me last night when I fell asleep, went out while he was compromised, and he could’ve gotten himself killed. It’s just luck that he ran into things he could handle last night.”

“I fucking hate him sometimes,” Foggy confesses in a whisper, rubbing his eyes.

“Bullshit.”

“No, I really do. Sometimes… the De—his night job’s going to get him killed, and my best friend will be gone, and then what am I supposed to do?”

Frank sighs, taking a long draught from his coffee cup. “Try not to let that day come anytime soon, Nelson. That’s all you can do. He’s stubborn as fuck, won’t listen to reason, but he might listen to you.”

It’s hard sometimes, being Matt Murdock’s best friend.

It’s harder still, being his brother.

“I’ll take the day shift, you take the night shift? You’re staying there, aren’t you?” It puts a heavier burden on Frank, since Matt’s more likely to get himself killed at night, but Frank’s way more qualified to handle that part of his life than Foggy is. Hopefully if they hide the suit, he’ll just listen and stay in. Foggy almost chuckles at himself, at his own willful idiocy. Matt Murdock being sensible and staying in? Not a fucking chance.

Frank nods. “For now. Might need to go at some point, in case there’s too much heat—I can’t bring him into my shit.”

“He’s already in your shit.”

“I can’t let him get caught in the crossfire, then. Or indicted, just because he’s a good guy and a sucker for lost causes.”

Foggy nods. He’s not going to argue that point. Anyone trying to protect Matt is alright by him. “I’m gonna give you Claire’s number,” he decides, taking out his phone, “she’s his—“

“Medic and ex, I know.”

“Right. If he gets himself hurt and you can’t handle it, you call her. She’s saved his life before, a couple times already.”

“Does he listen to her? If she, uh, told him not to go out, would he listen?”

Foggy laughs, hearing the bitterness in it. “No, but he’d feel bad about not listening. He cares about her.”

Frank pauses. “So, was it—with Claire, was it serious, or…?”

“It never had a chance to get serious. But he does care about her.”

Frank looks thoughtful at that, looking down at his cup of coffee and draining the last of it.

“You better get back to him. I’ve gotta go take care of some stuff, stash the suit, and then I’ll come back.” Frank throws down a twenty, and Foggy doesn’t even get the chance to say thank you before he’s striding out of the coffee shop, nodding politely at the barista as he goes.

---

Frank times it well. Matt and Foggy are making dinner when he shows up, and it reminds Matt of their first apartment, a tiny little shoebox they’d gotten junior year of undergrad. Matt adds the pasta to the salted boiling water, and there’s a knock at the door.

He goes to open it, waving Foggy away when his weight shifts, ready to get it himself.

Frank is there, and Matt takes him in, opening the door silently.

He closes it before he says anything.

“Where’s the suit?”

“In your closet, with the others?” Frank says with a little smile.

But this isn’t funny, is the thing.

“This isn’t a fucking joke! The people of this city need me,” Matt hisses, “where’s my goddamn suit, Frank?”

“You can have it back when you’re steadier.”

Matt scoffs, feels himself veering out of control.

“Is this you punishing me? Because in case you hadn’t noticed, Frank, I’m not fucking yours to punish!”

Foggy’s heart picks up a tick, and he promptly steps out to diffuse the situation.

“Matty?” His voice is so cautious, and yet it goes ignored by both of them, standing close enough that Matt can feel the heat radiating from Frank’s body, can feel the puff of his breath when he speaks.

“I wasn’t yours to save, that night in the graveyard,” Frank rebuts, voice so even it grates even more on Matt’s nerves.

“Everyone is mine to save! That’s my job!”

“Everyone is mine to punish, then. That’s my job, Sunshine. A calling, if you will.”

“Fuck you, we both know that’s different—“

“Why? Because I kill people and you just go out looking to hurt them?”

“Yes!”

Frank shrugs. “You were being an asshole last night. I didn’t know where you were, and you’ve had issues with keeping your head on straight before. Figured it’d be less of a temptation if the suit wasn’t here for a few days. I’m not saying you gotta give it up, Matt, just take a few days off. Otherwise I’m gonna have to stay up all night keeping watch, and I will be the biggest pain in your ass, I promise you that.”

“Foggy, tell him to bring my suit back,” Matt demands furiously. “You’re not my father, Frank, you’re not my brother, or my husband, or my anything—Bring. Back. My. Suit.”

“Maybe it’s not the worst idea in the world to take a couple days off,” Foggy ventures cautiously. “You just lost Elektra, Matty, you’re not in a good place.”

“Goddammit,” Matt curses, and it’s instinct, to throw a punch at Frank. It’s instinct, for Frank to block it, for Matt to throw another, and another, and another, until he feels Foggy’s arms wrapping around him and dragging him back.

He flails, but it’s Foggy, and he can’t hurt him, so he doesn’t lash out.

He breaks Foggy’s hold, and he’s pulling back his fist to go at Frank again when Frank throws a punch at him—the first punch he’s thrown at him in a long time. Matt hadn’t been expecting it, feels it as his head snaps back, and in that moment, Frank gets down low to the ground and sweeps his legs out from under him, climbing on top of him and straddling him, his arms trapped between Frank’s thick, strong thighs.

Matt can’t help it—he kicks his legs up, bucks his hips, anything to break the hold.

“Cool it, Red. You’re not getting the suit back, and attacking me ain’t gonna make me wanna tell you where it is.”

“Fuck you,” Matt snarls, feeling dangerously out of control, like he’s watching himself make these awful decisions from a distance.

He’s still hissing obscenities, snarling and fighting to get free when suddenly there’s a blur of movement he isn’t focused on and cold water is poured over his face.

He freezes, spluttering as he tries to make sense of what just happened.

“Calm the fuck down, Matt,” Foggy orders, “Frank, let him up. Matt, don’t fucking attack him. He’s just trying to look out for you.”

Frank’s oppressive heat lifts off of him and Matt pushes himself up until he’s sitting.

Foggy turns to check on the pasta, cussing colorfully when he sees that the water’s boiled over. He dumps the water out of the pot and Matt can sense he’s still fuming as he tries the pasta.

“It’s overcooked,” he mutters, “but we’ll just have to deal with it, since you decided to solve your problems with your fists, Matthew.”

Uh oh. The full Matthew. He is in trouble.

Matt lifts up the hem of his shirt and wipes at his face and hair, ignoring the way that Frank looks at him, the tiniest flicker of attraction, and Foggy’s horror at his bruises.

They sit at the table and eat in silence, Foggy and Frank looking at each other. Matt hates that he can’t see them, can’t see whatever silent conversation they’re having.

Foggy scrapes his fork on his plate before eating the last bit of his pasta.

“Right. Time for apologies. Matt?”

“I’m not sorry,” Matt says defiantly.

“You’re not sorry for attacking the person who’s been here for you this whole time?” Foggy asks him, with the sort of calculated softness he uses on plaintiffs when he’s about to rip them apart.

“That’s you,” Matt says softly, “and I didn’t attack you.” Foggy’s not the only lawyer in the room, Matt knows how to play an audience just as well as him.

His best friend softens minutely, but tries not to let it show.

“What happened last night?” He asks, his heartbeat going a bit strange.

Like it does when he asks questions he knows the answers to.

“He went out for hours, came home and had a panic attack,” Frank reports promptly.

Matt glares at him, angry beyond words, feeling a sense of betrayal he has no right to.

“And do you really think it’s unreasonable to ask you to not wear the suit for a few days?” Foggy asks, still gentle, still pushing.

“Yes,” Matt bites out, “it is.”

“And why is that?”

“Because that’s the only thing that makes me feel alive, now that she’s gone!” The words are out before he has time to bring them back in, and he senses the hurt radiating from Foggy, the implication that their work at the firm isn’t enough.

But it isn’t, not for Matt.

Either way, Foggy’s stunned into silence, trying to fathom how incredibly fucked up Matt is. Good luck to him on that—Matt’s been trying to figure that out for years and still hasn’t managed it.

“Well, then you don’t get to feel alive for a couple of days,” Frank says brutally, “until chasing that feeling doesn’t get you killed.”

“Why do you even care?” Matt snaps at him, “I’m sure your life will be easier if I’m dead, nobody’ll try to stop you from killing every gangster in the city!”

“Matthew,” Foggy says again, “don’t be an asshole.”

“I don’t know why I care,” Frank snaps, “I just fucking do, okay? Jesus, Matt, you don’t make it easy, do you?”

“No, I don’t.” Matt wants to keep fighting, he wants the suit back, wants to make up for his failure the night before, and the night before that, for the stranger and the love of his life. But the fight drains out of him. It’s hard, when you know the other person cares about you. Even when you’ve given them no reason to.

“Apologize, Matt,” Foggy says again. He sounds tired. His best friend, his saint of a best friend, is tired. Matt’s almost sure it’s because of him. He sighs. The other shoe will drop, one of these days. But there’s nothing to suggest that today will be that day.

“I’m sorry I went out last night without telling you. I’m sorry you worried. And I’m sorry I punched you,” Matt says quietly, “it… wasn’t unreasonable, to take the suit away for a little while. I’m not—not in great shape.”

“Frank?”

“What’m I supposed to apologize for?” Frank asks, clearly annoyed.

“Taking the suit instead of talking to him! Honestly, you vigilante types are so fucking dramatic, you’re going to make me go grey—and Matt, for your information, I’m still beautifully golden-blond, so that is saying something!”

“Point taken, Fogs,” Matt accepts, “and you don’t have to, Frank, it’s fine.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve talked to you, Nelson’s right. You’re fucked up, I get that. I was fucked up when it was fresh, too—hell, I’m still fucked up. And I’m not—I’m not used to living with someone, anymore. So yeah, I maybe overstepped, so. Sorry.”

Matt smiles at him. “Apology accepted,” he says finally, “I know I’ve been… difficult.”

“Understatement,” Frank mutters.

“Great! So if I go meet Marci for a drink tonight, am I gonna walk in tomorrow to find the place trashed and both of you bleeding?”

“Probably not,” Matt says, sensing Frank nodding in agreement, “give Marci my love.”

“I’ll pass, given your weird voodoo with women, Murdock,” Foggy teases, “don’t go stealing the one woman who actually likes me, okay?”

Matt laughs and walks him to the door, not asking the questions he doesn’t want to know the answer to.

Why weren’t you surprised when I started arguing with Frank?

Why weren’t you surprised that he took the suit?

Why did you take his side?

---

Matt sits cross-legged on the floor and tries to meditate. He smells her blood, feels the silk of her hair, the deafening silence after she’d died, no heartbeat, no breathing, no blood pumping through her veins.

He tries to clear his mind and thinks about the night he’d met her, Foggy eating leftover caviar in the kitchen, the sound of her smile as she’d saved him from being thrown out.

“What if, after this, wherever you run, I run with you?”

He doesn’t know which he hates more—that he made the offer in the first place, that he let himself want it, or that he can imagine it now, even after having held her corpse in his arms.

“This is not the end,” she whispers, and he has to sit with the pain of it. He has to sit there, and try to clear his mind, when all he has left are thoughts of her.

He considers getting up, going back to bed, slipping under the covers next to Frank and using him as an anchor. He’s reading, turning the pages at regular intervals, heartbeat steady but not slow with fatigue. Matt imagines focusing on Frank’s heartbeat to forget the absence of hers, focusing on his scent to forget that he will never smell hers again—

He can’t breathe. Suddenly, he just can’t breathe, and he rises to his feet and goes up to the roof, sitting on the edge of it and listening. It’s easier here, to lose himself in something other than his own mind.

He sits there for a few minutes before he hears someone behind him clearing their throat.

“You’re not gonna pull a repeat of the other night, are you?” Frank asks him gruffly, sitting next to him, close enough that Matt can feel his warmth even though they’re not quite touching.

Matt shakes his head. “Not now,” he says finally, because the option is still appealing. He’s just tired of hurting.

“Come inside, I can make some coffee, you can take the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“I can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Course not, Matty, it only just happened. But come inside, okay? You’re making me nervous, and I’m going to turn into a huge asshole if I’m out here all night watching you.”

Right. Because Matt is a stupid child and nothing more. He needs to be watched. He feels a frisson of anger, and he’s grateful for it, because it’s not pain.

“You don’t have to watch me, Frank. Nobody asked you to.”

“Nobody asked you to take my case,” Frank says quietly, “nobody asked you to get me outta that graveyard, bring me to your house, show me your face, cook me food. Nobody asked you for that, either.”

“So this is about debt now? Look, you don’t owe me anything—we lost your fucking case anyway, and I didn’t do any of it so you could repay me.”

Frank sighs. “I know that. This is about you being a good guy, that’s all.”

There’s a skip in his heart, something small and pained, and Matt doesn’t know why, because the words all sound true enough.

“And I remember what it was like,” Frank says finally, “being alone, when I found out, surrounded by strangers. You don’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t deserve it, either,” he says after a moment, “you’re a good guy, too.”

Frank laughs. “I’ve killed more men than you can count. I don’t know what I deserve, but I know I sure as hell ain’t a good guy, Red.”

“You’re not an angel, but you’re a decent man. Honorable.”

“Agree to disagree, Matty. Now, come inside?”

Matt nods. “Just—gimme a few minutes. I’ll come back in after.”

Frank’s heart is steady as a metronome, and he sits next to him. “I can do a few minutes,” he says softly, “let me know when you’re ready to go back inside, okay?”

Matt nods and closes his eyes, enjoying the cold air in his lungs and trying not to fixate on the fact that Elektra will never breathe in cold air again.

He hears the rustle of cloth, more of Frank’s smell in the air. Frank drapes his sweatshirt over Matt’s shoulders and Matt can’t help but savor the residual body warmth trapped in the fabric.

“It’s cold,” Matt says quietly.

“Make sure we go inside before I freeze, then. ’Sides, you’ve been out here longer than I have.”

Matt waits a couple more minutes, taking in the cool air with his eyes closed—not that it makes much of a difference. He stands up, hearing Frank do the same, and they go back inside.

He falls asleep to Dickens, long, beautiful sentences in Frank’s coarse, gravelly voice. He falls asleep to Pip and Estella and Miss Havisham and Joe and Pip’s sister, and as brutal as she is, he wonders what it must be like, to have a sister. Joe reminds him of his dad, and the image of him floats in Matt’s memory, the last thing he had ever seen.

Chapter Text

Foggy offers to go to the funeral with him, but Matt opts to go on his own. He only wants people who loved her to be there, and Foggy loves him, will go for him, not for Elektra.

So he goes alone, surprised when he hears Stick’s heartbeat at the cemetery, standing near the grave and not saying anything.

“Stick.”

“Matty.”

“I thought you’d be gone by now.” Matt says ruthlessly. “Sticking around’s not really your strong suit, is it?”

Stick doesn’t say anything, lets him stew in his own shame. It’s Elektra’s funeral, for God’s sake, and he can’t stop himself from sniping at Stick even now.

“What was she like as a child?” he asks instead, because he can imagine a world in which he and Elektra trained side by side, sparred as children. He can imagine being pinned by her skinny legs, feeling the first stirs of attraction in the press of her young body against his own. He can imagine her pulling him aside one day and demanding that he kiss her so she could know what it feels like. He would have done it, would have pressed his lips clumsily to hers for a moment, unsure of what he was meant to be doing. He would have done anything she asked of him, would have followed in her wake, the thunder following the blinding flash of lightning.

“Ellie was never a child.”

See, that’s where Stick is wrong. She was a child. She was just good at pretending she wasn’t, just hid the soft parts of herself from Stick, protected herself. Matt wonders if she would have shown him her soft parts, if they’d been together then.

She used to do that with Matt, too, when they were in college. She’d tell him some story about herself, about her youth after she’d been adopted by the Greek ambassador. He’d fall more and more in love with her with every word, and she’d curl away from him, protecting her stomach as if she was expecting a blow.

He’d kiss the back of her neck, then, curl around her but keep his arms to himself, so she wouldn’t feel confined.

Stick stands next to him at the funeral. It’s just the two of them—no priest. Elektra was never particularly religious, and Matt knows full well it would have been more for his benefit than for hers to have one.

“I feel like I should say a few words,” he says to Stick, resigned, “but I just—I don’t have any.”

“God rest her soul. That should be enough.”

Matt wonders if Stick believes what he’s saying—he’d never seemed particularly religious before, but maybe he genuinely wants her to be at peace. Elektra deserves a little peace. She’s always been a force of nature in a too-small package—a tornado in a glass bottle. The world had never known how to handle her, and she had never really known how to handle it, except with blood and violence. Maybe she’s better off, wherever she is now.

“You know once in college, I brought her roses.” Matt admits, wondering why he’s sharing this at all, why he’s giving up this memory to someone else when all he’s wanted lately is something of hers to keep for himself.

They had smelled so nice in the store. It was a cliché, but clichés were rooted in something, right? Elektra was no ordinary woman, but surely even she would like roses, with their velvet-soft petals that reminded Matt of her voice and their sweet, sweet scent.

“She hates roses.”

She’d tried to be polite, tried to accept them with a smile, but he’d known from the beat of her heart and the sound of her voice that she wasn’t enthused and later that night, sweaty and naked in bed, he’d asked her, and she’d admitted it, unguarded, muscles loose with post-coital relaxation.

“You wanted her dead.” He tries to keep the accusation out of his voice, tries not to let on that part of him hates Stick for that, even as much as some small, damaged part of the child he once was will always love him.

Stick exhales, and in it, Matt reads all the things he isn’t saying. He had wanted her dead, he genuinely thought that was the best strategy, but part of him didn’t. As much as Stick pretends not to have a heart, he still does, and one of the few people who’d made a home in that atrophied old muscle was in front of them, six feet down, buried under fresh dirt surrounded by snow.

He doesn’t make any excuses, and Matt considers for a moment whether he feels guilty about it. He’d said he should’ve killed her long ago. Does he feel guilty for not killing her then, when Matt didn’t know her, didn’t love her? Does he feel guilty for feeling relieved that she’s gone? Does he feel guilty that he wasn’t honest with her from the beginning?

Is Stick capable of feeling guilt at all?

“Was it worth it?” Stick asks him, pulling him from his train of thought.

“What?”

“Loving her.”

Matt pauses, thinks about it. He hasn’t felt pain like this since the day his father died, but this is different, there’s so much lost opportunity here, so much damage they could have worked to heal…

“You taught me to cut all my ties to humanity, to other people. I had only a few moments with her. Amidst all the noise, and the chaos, and the violence. We were together only for moments, that was all.”

He thinks back to that night, tracing patterns onto her shoulders and whispering a question into her ear, wanting to learn so he could do it right next time.

“Orchids. She likes orchids.” He still talks about her in the present tense sometimes. Foggy’s noticed, too, his heart goes up when he talks about her, but he doesn’t have it in him to confront him about it yet. Maybe he thinks Matt just needs time, maybe he thinks Matt can eventually wake up and understand a world in which the most alive person he’s ever known is suddenly in the past tense.

He remembers her turning towards him and leaning in, whispering the answer into the air between their lips.

He remembers going to the store and asking for orchids, leaning in to smell them and being disappointed because they didn’t have much of a scent beyond generic plant-smell. He’d asked the florist what they looked like, and she’d said they were beautiful, and he’d taken her word for it and brought them home.

She’d kissed him so sweetly, so tenderly, as if she’d been genuinely moved. And then she hadn’t let him out of bed all night, not until they ordered pizza at midnight so they had something to sustain themselves for rounds three and four.

He remembers that first date, at Fogwell’s, having an inkling even before their clothes came off, when they were sparring playfully with each other, that he was going to love her. He’d known even then that she was going to leave a mark on the man he would become, that his life would be full to the brim with her, and lacking without her.

He considers the pain he’s in now, the one he wakes with, the one that stays with him through meals and showers and sleep and work. Was it worth it, to have loved her? To love her even now, now that her body is cold and surrounded by soil?

“Yeah, Stick, it was worth it.”

Stick smiles, lets out a little huff of disbelieving laughter.

“Matt, you are the toughest son of a bitch I have ever met.”

Matt wants to shrug his shoulders, wants to say well, you’ve got yourself to thank for that, but then he remembers his father—Murdocks always get back up. Maybe it wasn’t all Stick after all.

“Let’s go home,” Stick says, the moment clearly over, turning and leaving and knowing Matt will follow.

She used to do that, too, leave without him, know that he would be right on her heels, unable to stomach the idea of being left behind.

He follows his old teacher into the car, trying not to think about what home is, and how impossible it feels.

---

Frank’s in his apartment when he gets back from the funeral.

“Hey, Red,” he says, voice a little softer than usual.

“Frank.”

Frank takes his arm and leads him over to the sofa, puts a glass of scotch in his hand. Matt doesn’t point out that he doesn’t need guidance, that he’s perfectly fine to navigate around his own fucking apartment, thank you very much. The contact is nice, grounding, a reminder that he is real and corporeal and a person in a world that contains millions of other people.

You know what happens to a ship that cuts off its anchor, Matt? It goes adrift, Claire whispers to him.

Frank doesn’t say anything, lets them sit in silence, letting Matt decide if they’ll talk or sit quietly.

“I understand why you did it,” Matt says eventually, taking a long sip from the glass, “after you lost your family. When I was holding her, Frank, I could feel it—her heartbeat getting slower and quieter, the blood pouring out of her, and it was so warm—and I wanted to kill them. I would have killed them all if you hadn’t been there.”

“You would’ve gotten yourself killed.” Frank points out.

Matt shrugs. “Probably.” He pauses. “Maybe they would’ve buried me next to her.”

He can imagine it, Stick coming to the funeral, standing in between their graves, looking at the children he helped raise, for good or for ill, hearing them be lowered into the ground, sighing before he headed off to continue working, preparing for the war.

“What was she like?” Frank asks, gentler than Matt had ever heard him, “sounded like a hell of a story, the way Nelson talks about it.”

“That woman—god, Frank, she isn’t a story, she’s a goddamn novel. And not a short one, either. War and Peace length, at least.”

“Good ones usually are.”

Matt hums.

“You still love her?”

“I’m going to love her until I’m in the ground with her,” he says, an echo of what he’d said in the visitation room so long ago, when Elektra was still alive.

“I know the feeling,” Frank says quietly.

Matt shifts a little, until their shoulders are pressed together on the couch.

“So, what was she like?” Frank repeats, turning to look at him.

“She was rich, I was poor. She was adopted by diplomats, I grew up in an orphanage. She was beautiful, I was blind. In more ways than one, it turns out. We were practically a cliché.”

“Didn’t sound particularly… healthy, the way Nelson talked about it.”

“Healthy?” Matt hears himself laughing, hears the bitterness of it. “Frank, I wouldn’t know a healthy relationship if it punched me in the face.”

“If it punched you in the face, it wouldn’t be that healthy of a relationship,” Frank rebuts.

“See? Don’t know the first thing about ‘em,” Matt mutters. “No, it wasn’t particularly healthy. But I loved her and she—she cared for me. In her own way.”

“She loved you too,” Frank says, voice ticking up at the end, as if he’s not quite sure of what he’s saying, whether he should be saying it at all.

“She may well have,” Matt agrees. “But I can never be sure. Not with her.”

“Why’s that?”

Matt shrugs. “We got involved on… false pretenses.”

“What, like she gave you a fake name or something?”

“Like the guy who trained us when we were kids sent her to come after me and bring me back.”

“Shit.”

“And she got me to fall in love with her and then left when I wasn’t willing to kill someone on her orders.”

“Shit.”

“It was—the guy who she wanted me to kill, he killed my dad. I don’t know if he pulled the trigger, but he gave the order.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Her idea of a gift. She also threatened that medical examiner in your case, trying to make things easier for me so I could spend more time with her on the Yakuza and the Hand.”

“Should’ve stuck with a goddamn tie or somethin’.” Frank mutters.

Matt huffs out a laugh. “You remind me of her, you know.”

“What part of me reminds you of your girl, Red? Is it the hair? My build? My girlish good looks?”

Matt chuckles. “None of the above. Did I ever tell you about when she left me the first time?”

“I know it wasn’t pretty.”

“That’s generous, Frank. But I meant before, before she handed me the knife. She took me to his house, a mansion the likes of which I’d never seen before. We drank champagne and scotch and then this guy came in. She’d told me that he was out of the country. And we fought him. She told me who it was, then, knew that—well, blind guy, grew up with a single dad and then in an orphanage with only nuns around? It wasn’t much of a stretch to assume daddy issues. So she wrapped him up, like a cat bringing its owner a dying mouse. She put the knife in my hand and told me to end it.”

“But you didn’t.” There’s a note of uncertainty in his voice, as if that’s what he hopes happened.

“I—I wanted to,” Matt admits, “my dad—I still wake up at night, dreaming of the night I found his body. I wanted to, pressed the knife against his neck—I could hear his heart racing, he was fucking terrified, even if he was trying to hide it. But in the end, I couldn’t. So I called the police, he was wanted for fraud and embezzlement, and by the time I hung up the phone, she was gone.”

“She sounds like a real piece o’ work.” The way Frank says it, voice dripping with disgust, makes it clear that the words are in no way a compliment.

Matt shrugs. “Anyway, that’s what I thought about when you taped that gun to my hand and told me to kill Grotto. I thought about her handing me that knife and telling me to kill Sweeney. That’s how I knew I wouldn’t do it. I want to, I just—something in me never lets me cross the line.”

“You didn’t have to kill Grotto,” Frank points out, “you could’ve killed me.”

“I could have slit Elektra’s throat. But it wasn’t an option, not to me. Killing you wasn’t an option, either.”

“I’m not her.”

“I know.” Matt lets a sigh slip out. “But you’re like her. She would’ve liked you.” He gets up and goes to the kitchen, reaching up to find the bottle only to find it’s already on the counter. He sighs and pours more into his cup, leaning on the counter as he sips at it.

“Probably not, if she knew where I was sleepin’ these days.” Frank mutters under his breath, still sitting on the sofa.

---

It hits him harder than he thought it would, those words. He considers it, the fact that Frank stitched him up, that he was in Matt’s bed, that night Elektra came by. He considers the comfort of Frank’s voice, how it compares to the velvet of Elektra’s. Frank’s voice doesn’t caress his ears in the same way as Elektra’s, isn’t as obviously beautiful, but it’s comfortable, too, in its gruffness and its grit.

He considers the smell of Frank mixing in with the last of Elektra’s scent on his sheets, feeling Frank’s warmth on the other side of the bed, or next to him on the sofa, and he wonders if he’s using him as a crutch. He wonders if using Frank as a crutch is better or worse than using him as a replacement for this woman he’s claimed he loves.

If he truly loved her, how could he tolerate sharing a bed with someone else? If he loved her, why would he be so hyperaware of Frank’s proximity to him, his scent, his heartbeat? Why would he fixate so much on the way Frank’s body reacted to his bare skin? Why would he find Frank’s bulk, his heat, his nearness so reassuring?

Why would he remember the feeling of Frank’s chest from weeks ago, the curves and ridges of his muscles, the softness of his skin, the rough scars that had caught at the ridges of Matt’s fingerprints? That night he’d brought Frank to his home, shared his secret, touched him to sense injury… maybe he had come away with more than just blood on his hands.

Maybe he never loved Elektra at all. He wonders now, because he’d never loved before, and how could he know that this was it? How could he know that this feeling was love, and if it was love, how could it be true, how could it be pure if he remembers the contours of someone else’s body?

---

He tries and fails to meditate at night. He’s stayed in for a few nights already, and Frank’s let his guard down. He reads, same as he does most nights. Tonight it’s on the sofa, head against the armrest and body sprawled out over the length of the cushions.

Frank reads himself to sleep pretty regularly, wakes with a book in his hand, or on the floor, or shoved under the pillow.

Matt sits there and waits for it. He knows the minute it happens. He’s had days now, to recognize the shift between consciousness and unconsciousness, even for a heart as steady as Frank’s.

Frank knows Matt pretty well, considering how recently they met. He knows Matt Murdock the blind attorney. He knows Daredevil, with his custom-made body armor, horns on his helmet, and fancy billy clubs.

He does not, however, know the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen as he started. He doesn’t know about the simple compression shirt and black pants, or the plain wooden sticks.

Frank had thought that taking the suit, taking the clubs, would be enough to stop Daredevil from making an appearance.

He didn’t account for the fact that Matt’s just as comfortable in his humble origins as in his newer, fancier gear.

He lays snoring on the sofa while Matt changes into all black, sticks the wooden batons into the holster he’d painstakingly sewn himself, long ago.

Matt opens the window, offers a silent apology to the man left inside, and then he’s gone.

---

He looks for the Hand, first. Anything to find justice for Elektra.

Justice or revenge? A voice suspiciously like his own asks him. He ignores it.

He looks for them, but they’ve gone quiet, probably disorganized after the death of Nobu and the loss of their Black Sky.

She was so much more than that, and he’s so fucking angry that they will never recognize that, that nobody will ever know her in her full complexity, not even him.

He’s so frustrated he wants to scream into the sky, beg for some ninjas to attack him just so he can hit them back. He almost yearns for the chance to face Nobu again, to take his blade, to feel the resounding crack of bone under his fists.

He yearns for the chance to do something, to prove that he’d happily shed his blood for her.

But the Hand is predictably uncooperative, and he moves on, searching out the Yakuza, and then the Chinese. He and Madame Gao had a sort of uneasy truce, while he figured out where the Hand was operating from, but that truce is over now.

He doesn’t even need to enter the warehouse to know that it’s empty. Gao may have heard him out, may have held her men back, but as soon as he was gone, she’d probably prepared to move her operations elsewhere.

Hell’s Kitchen always has a fight, and he can’t believe that this night, the one night he needs it, he can’t find one.

The Irish are gone, so are the Mexicans, and the Dogs of Hell, all thanks to Frank, so that’s three fights that he can’t go pick. He’d taken care of the Russians himself, with Fisk finishing the job. In Fisk’s absence, they’re rebuilding, trying to grow their numbers, take back the business that Fisk took from them and build up some capital. But as of now, they’re just biding their time for now, so they’re out of consideration for tonight, at least.

There’s going to be a hell of a power vacuum after this, Matt thinks with a sigh of resignation, perched on a rooftop. There’s a police car parked not too far from him, and he listens in to their radio.

The Italian mafia… young man shot at point-blank range… untraceable gun found at the scene, no fingerprints…

Looks like the Italians will be dancing with the Devil tonight. He grins. His city never lets him down.

When he gets there, he finds a brawl already in progress, and wishes the police had been a little more on top of the situation so he could have gotten in on the action sooner.

It’s a classic leadership struggle, and Matt shrugs and jumps into the fray.

The North Italians and South Italians aren’t fond of each other, by any means, but once the interloper arrives in their midst, they unite to end him, and Matt relishes the challenge.

They don’t take him on one by one, like they do in the movies Foggy narrates for him. He picks a target and aims to get him unconscious, but even then, he’s aware of punches coming at his kidneys, at his ribs, the crack of a pistol across his head. He tastes blood and doesn’t know if it’s from his nose or his mouth, and he doesn’t care.

He gets a few of them out of commission, some unconscious, some with broken arms or dislocated shoulders, the crack of bone the best sound Matt’s heard since Elektra’s voice.

This is what he is. This is where he belongs.

One of them has a knife, and Matt gets sloppy—he wants to blame it on being out of practice, but he knows he’s just not at his best. He takes the long, deep cuts with a grunt and prioritizes disarming them.

That lasts for all of a minute and a half, when he feels the barrel of a gun press neatly against his head, as if the cold metal was meant to press against his skin.

“Try it,” the man behind him hisses, “I’m beggin’ you, gimme an excuse.”

“Your suit in the laundry, Devil?” another taunts him, tracing the sharp edge of the knife along his jaw.

“Didn’t figure I’d need it against two-bit criminals like you,” Matt says, heart racing. This is it, this is it.

“Wise guy, huh? We’ll see how well that works out for ya. Cut him, Gino.”

He’s going to see his dad again. He’s going to kiss Elektra. He’s going to watch sunsets and sunrises until he gets tired of them, spend hours looking at Elektra’s face, tracing her features with his eyes. He’ll look down on Foggy, finally see his best friend. He’s finally going to get a chance to rest.

The knife leaves his jaw and goes down to his bicep, cutting into his flesh. The guy holding it? He’s breathing in deep, leaning in, adrenaline flowing, clearly excited that he gets to do this, that he gets to spill some blood tonight.

Elektra, slitting the boy’s throat, wearing the blood comfortably on her skin, asking if he still wanted her, if he still loved her.

Matt closes his eyes and feels his body relax, feels his fists unclench.

He’ll finally see what color her eyes are.

There are more cuts, in between two of his ribs on the left, diagonal across his abdomen all the way to his left hip, his right thigh. The smell of his blood is thicker in the air, until it’s the only thing he can taste, the only thing he can smell, the metal of the gun barely even registering as a blip.

He’ll watch the waves of the ocean for days, sit on the beach and watch the water reflect the sunlight.

“We owe you a thank you, y’know. You took out Fisk for us, got rid of the Yakuza, the Russians, we really ‘preciate that, don’t we, boys?”

There’s an obedient chorus of agreement.

“We might’ve even let you live. Payment for services rendered, and all that. But then you decided to come and fuck with us, and now… well, you really leave me no choice, do ya? I’m guessing Fisk’ll offer us a pretty sweet paycheck for sending him your head, too, and we could always use a little more capital…”

Gino suddenly stabs the knife into Matt’s left thigh, and he can’t help it. He screams out into the night.

“Scream all ya want, ain’t nobody comin’ to save the Devil,” the gunman says with a saccharine smile.

Gino pulls the knife out of Matt’s thigh with a wet squelch and hums, considering where next to place it.

He’s going to hug his dad. He’s going to hug his dad for hours. He’s going to feel those strong, warm hands holding him, running through his hair, bringing his head close for a kiss.

Maybe he’ll even get to meet his mom, if she’s up there—

But something’s wrong. Matt hears it, that familiar heartbeat, slow and steady.

He realizes with a sinking feeling that he won’t get to hug his dad anytime soon.

“If you’re going to kill me, you better get it over with,” he mutters, “you don’t have much time.”

“Hear that, Sal? We don’t got much time. Look here, pal, I wouldn’t worry about how much time we’ve got—“

The crack of a gunshot, and the man behind him drops, his heart continuing to beat for a few seconds before it stops.

Matt misses the pressure of the gun against his head.

He’s never going to see Elektra’s eyes.

Gino stabs him through the side. Matt nearly bites through his own tongue trying not to scream, but a strangled sound escapes anyway.

It’s the last thing Gino ever does, because he’s dead a second later. The others load up their guns, start firing at Frank, but Matt can’t let that happen, so he throws himself at them, throws slow, uncoordinated punches as his body starts to register the blood loss.

His mind runs a constant loop of Elektra, Dad, Elektra’s lips, Dad’s eyes, Elektra’s scars, Dad’s smile, Elektra’s voice, Dad’s arms, holding me…

The mind controls the body, Stick intones in his head. Not the other way ‘round, Matty.

They drop one by one, until only one is left. He panics, grabs Matt around the neck and holds a knife to his throat.

“I’ll kill ‘im! You shoot and I’ll kill ‘im!” he shouts. He’s afraid, heart rabbiting in his chest.

But only for a moment, because a moment later, there’s a hole in his head and his brains are splashed on the ground. Matt almost vomits at the smell, and he decides—mind controls the body—he decides to give his body permission to pass out.

Elektra’s smile, Dad’s hands…

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare, Murdock.” Frank pinches his trapezius hard until Matt opens his eyes again, feeling the cold air against his forehead and panicking for a moment before he realizes that nobody else is close enough to see.

Nobody who’s alive, at least.

“I’m going to get you home, and then I’m going to kill you myself,” Frank mutters, “what the hell were you thinking, going after the Italians like that? Did you do any recon at all, or just go in blind?”

“Blind,” Matt tries, though he slurs the word somewhat.

“Fuck you for making a joke right now,” Frank says tightly, “this is gonna hurt—“

There’s another wet squelch, and Matt realizes that there was a knife in him, had been for a little while now.

“Oh.” Matt meant to keep that a thought in his head, not a thought on his tongue that spilled out into the air.

“Oh. That’s what he goes with, is fucking oh. Nelson’s gonna kill you, Red, and then after that, he’s gonna kill me. We had an agreement, sure, but how the fuck was I supposed to know you were this much of an idiot—“

There’s more cold air, and Matt hears the ripping of cloth, feels it wrapped tightly around his leg and around his waist.

“You don’t get to bleed out yet,” Frank says sternly, “you hear me? You are not allowed to die, soldier.”

Not a soldier, Matt thinks. Never wanted to be part of Stick’s war.

The world goes dark as Frank hauls him up and throws him over his shoulder.

He comes to, now and again.

A few times, he’s conscious of the swaying of the earth below him before he realizes that the earth isn’t moving and the waves are from Frank’s footsteps.

He knows the moment they return to his apartment, feels the familiarity of it in his bones.

“Uh, hi, ma’am, this is… a friend of Matt Murdock’s. Can you come to his apartment? If you can’t, say so now, so I can call someone else.”

“No, he doesn’t know anybody else, but I’ll figure something out. Sorry, ma’am, but I can’t waste time talking to you, I need to get him taken care of, so just tell me one way or the—okay, good. Uh, stab wound—two stab wounds—bunch of cuts, possibly a concussion, possibly broken ribs, blood loss, nasty bruises on his back—“

Matt lifts his head and promptly throws up onto his carpet.

“Oh fuckin’ hell, Red, you really have the best timing—sorry, he just threw up.”

There’s a pause, and Frank mutters a quiet fuck.

“Yeah, there’s blood in it. You gotta hurry, Claire. I’m gonna get him cleaned up as best as I can, try to keep him awake.”

He hangs up the phone without saying goodbye.

“You’re staying awake,” he says simply, an order that he expects to be followed. He wears command well. Matt doesn’t take instruction particularly well, and even he shifts, trying to sit up straighter, keep his eyes open even when they’re so heavy.

“Tell me something. Anything, you gotta stay awake until your medic gets here, Red.” Frank’s got a wet cloth and he’s trying to clean him up, wipe up the blood so he can at least figure out where it’s coming from.

Matt thinks for a moment. “’re not the first guy I’ve fought that I tr-tried to save,” he says finally, smiling a little.

“Real martyr type, huh? Turning the other cheek?”

“Needed—needed information, and he wasn’t allowed—not ‘llowed to die ‘til I got somethin’.”

“Who was it?”

“Vladimir Ranskahov.”

“The fucking Russian? You saved him?!”

Matt tilts his head a little and smiles crookedly.

“He thought—thought I killed his brother, put a hit out on me.”

“Y’know what, you’re almost puttin’ my war stories to shame.”

“Died an hour and a half later. Holding—holding up Fisk’s guys, so I could get away.”

“Only you, Matty. Only you could make a Russian mobster turn into a self-sacrificing idiot after he tried to have you killed.”

Matt shrugs his shoulders. “You—you shot me, ‘n gave me stitches. ‘N off—offered to get rid o’ Elektra for me if she kept—kept buggin’ me.”

Frank humphs. “That’s me,” he grumbles, “I’m not a Russian mobster.”

“No.” Matt wants to say more, but his tongue is heavy and his eyes are heavy and he can’t see anyway, what difference does it make if he closes his eyes for a moment?

“Eyes open,” Frank orders. “And I knew the shot wouldn’t kill you.”

Matt hums. “Fogs found me on the roof, brought me home.”

“Nelson’s a good guy,” Frank admits, “cupcake, but he’s got balls of steel.”

“Loves me ‘n I love ‘im.” Matt says, feeling himself smiling dopily. He loves Foggy. Foggy’s the best. He always gives him good hugs. Matt hadn’t gotten too many good hugs since his dad was alive until he met Foggy.

“Yup, you’re obnoxiously cute together, so stay awake for him, okay?”

“Not—not t’gether,” Matt says, frowning. “Where ‘s he?”

There’s a knock on the door.

“Oh thank god,” Frank breathes, walking over to open it.

“He’s here—“

There are different hands on him, a different smell in the air.

“Claire?” Matt asks, lifting up a hand.

She catches it in her own and presses her lips to his bloody knuckles. “Yeah, Matt, it’s me. Let’s get you patched up, hm?”

She’s not usually so affectionate. Matt must be pretty bad.

“Woke you?”

“No, mi diablito, I was up,” Claire says softly, “it’s been a while.”

He manages to smile at her before losing consciousness. This time, no matter how much Frank yells at him, he doesn’t wake up.

---

He wakes up in his own bed, to the sound of low, angry voices. There are three heartbeats in the apartment, one right next to him, but the two he’s interested are outside, Frank pacing restlessly, Foggy sitting on the couch, head in his hands.

“You didn’t get rid of the old suit?!”

“I didn’t know about the old suit!”

“How could you not know about the old suit?!”

“Oh, I dunno, maybe because I was in fuckin’ Afghanistan!”

A sigh. Foggy’s heart acknowledges Frank’s point, even if he doesn’t say it. The anger’s melting away, leaving resignation in its wake. Matt wonders what it says about him that he hates causing Foggy so much pain, but does it anyway.

“It’s not your fault. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch.”

“I trusted him, that’s the issue,” Frank mutters. Matt feels a pang of guilt, even worse than the last time he went out and ended up having a panic attack in the bathroom. “Well, fuck that, I’ll chain him to the bed if that’s what it takes, see how he gets out of that.”

“I dunno, Frank. Maybe—maybe this is the wrong approach.”

“So we, what, just let him go out and get himself killed? That’s what you’re suggesting here, Nelson?”

“Is that what I said?” Foggy asks, patient, but firm. “No, I don’t think we should just let him get himself killed. But maybe-maybe if he wasn’t alone out there, he’d be safer.”

“You want me to babysit the goddamn Devil of Hell’s Kitchen every night?”

“Hey, man, it’s up to you, either go with him or shackle him to the bed. I could make some sort of argument about personal liberty, but at this point, I just want to keep him alive.”

“So, are you gonna just keep listening in on them?” Claire asks, from where she’s laying next to him. She’s on top of the covers, clearly a deliberate choice, and Matt acknowledges the message, a blanket draped over her.

“You stayed the night, just for me? Better watch it, Claire, I might get the wrong idea.”

Claire huffs a little laugh. “It was late and your boyfriend asked if I wouldn’t mind staying. Offered to walk me back home if I said no. Apparently he was concerned I’d get jumped or something. And then he said I should take the bed, get some rest, insisted on taking the couch.”

“He’s good like that,” Matt agrees, “not my boyfriend, though.”

“Oh, so I don’t have to give you a talk about dating the Punisher and why that’s such a terrible idea for you?”

“Nope. We’re not dating. My... someone, Elektra, she just died, he’s been staying around. He and Foggy have me on suicide watch or something.”

“I’m sorry she died,” Claire says softly, reaching out and intertwining her fingers with his.

“Yeah, me too.”

Matt swallows hard. Claire’s the first woman who’s been in his bed since. It’s not the same, but if he closes his eyes and ignores the differences in their voices, the way Claire’s hands are dryer, more worn, he can almost pretend...

But Claire’s hair smells of lavender, not coconut, and her hands are used to work, strong like Elektra’s, but without the obsessive application of cream to stay soft.

“Thank you for coming,” Matt murmurs, “I’m sorry—he shouldn’t have called.”

She turns to lay on her side and looks at him, and Matt stays still under the scrutiny.

“He did the right thing. You can always call, Matt. I’m always here. I’d rather get up in the middle of the night and haul ass over here than wake up to hear the Devil’s dead.”

“Was it that close?” Matt asks her. He starts to turn his body to face her, but she reaches out and presses a hand to his chest.

“Don’t. You’re more stitches than skin right now.”

He turns his head. “What’s the damage?”

“It’s about on par with that night with Nobu,” Claire says softly, sighing, “blood loss, so don’t exert yourself too much, you could pass out. I think your boy’s considering robbing a blood bank, which… professionally, I can’t recommend, but personally? Probably a good idea to keep some around, it’ll come in handy, that’s for sure.”

“Foggy wouldn’t do that,” Matt mutters.

“Not talking about him.”

Oh. Frank Castle wants to rob a blood bank so he can make sure Matt’s okay. He should feel absolute revulsion, not this… this strange warmth in his belly.

Matt inhales deeply and sits up, and then he throws his legs over the side of the bed and stands, only to have the world come in and out of focus.

“Bad idea, Matt!” Claire’s scrambling across the bed, feet touching down next to him and pulling his arm around her neck.

“Oh,” Matt murmurs, letting her take some of his weight. “But—I need to go to work—“

The door slides open with deceptive quiet. Foggy rushes in and ducks under Matt’s other arm, helping steady him and easing the weight on Claire. But Frank just stays in the doorway, watching impassively.

“Sit down, Matty, you’re gonna undo all of Claire’s work, and then she’ll kill you and I won’t stop her,” Foggy mutters.

“Yeah, because he’ll be joining me,” Claire mutters. “Jeez, Matt, haven’t you put yourself through enough? Haven’t you put us all through enough?”

The words hit him like a gunshot, the sudden, sharp pain, the shock accompanying it, the way it feels like he’s bleeding out.

Matt lets himself be guided back into bed, laying back. “You believe in what the Devil does, Claire,” he reminds her quietly.

“I do,” she agrees, “but I believe in what Matt Murdock does, too. And I believe that the Devil can’t do much good when he’s in this kinda shape.”

Matt tilts his head at her, sensing the worry under the burst of anger and the cool professionalism that replaced it. “I’m okay,” he says to her, taking her hand and pressing it against his heart.

“For now.” She leans over and presses her lips to Matt’s forehead. “Take care of yourself, diablito, hm? You took such good care of me that night, with the Russians. Pretend it’s me you’re looking after, okay? Me, or Foggy, or Karen. Give yourself some of that love, Matt. You deserve it. I promise you, you deserve it.”

He tries to smile at her, feeling the way it wavers, feeling his eyes fill. He tries to clear his throat, swallow past the lump, but he can’t. He takes her hand and presses his lips to it.

She strokes his cheek and then she’s standing up, her weight gone from the bed. She puts her hand on Foggy’s shoulder and squeezes, tells him how to clean the stitches, how to change the bandages, to get in touch with her if he needs help.

Frank stays silent in the doorway. If it weren’t for the steady thump of his heart or the slight whistle of air through his nose, Matt wouldn’t even know he was there.

He clears the doorway to let Claire out and walks her to the front door.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, “for coming, last night. I was… I was out of my depth.”

Claire tells him he’s welcome and turns to leave.

“Uh, ma’am?”

She turns back in the hallway, waiting expectantly.

“Do you ever have patients where they don’t care whether they live or die, and you start to wonder, why the fuck do I care, if they don’t?”

“I treat the same four crackheads every other night, man. And I’ve had that thought—why am I here, wasting my time on these guys, when they’re going to go out and do the same shit all over again tomorrow. But… sometimes they stop coming to the ER, and it might be because they’re dead, but maybe it’s because they got help, y’know? We keep going so they have a chance to make a choice every single day.”

“Redemption? You sound like him,” Frank mutters. “Fairy tales and rainbows and shit.”

Claire laughs. “We’ve had drunk drivers come in and walk out while their victims leave in a body bag. I’ve had tiny babies so strung out on the heroin their mamas did while they were pregnant that they were born jonesing for a hit. I’ve had kids that ‘fell down the stairs,’ and mom’s crying through her black eye in the back. I’ve done more rape kits than I can count, on women, and men, and children. The only thing that gets you out of bed in the morning, after seeing all that shit, is the thought that they might end up okay. That there are good people out there, like Matt, trying to make this world better.”

Frank doesn’t say anything, and she sighs.

“I know it’s hard sometimes, caring about him,” she says quietly.

He waits.

“But?” He prompts.

“No buts. It’s hard. You need to decide whether it’s something you can do or not, because he isn’t going to stop, and chances are, he’s not going to die of old age, either. So think hard before you make that choice, Castle.”

Her footsteps recede down the hallway and Frank closes the door quietly.

Chapter Text

Foggy doesn’t say anything as he sits next to Matt on the bed, and the silence is how Matt knows how badly he’s fucked up.

“I’m—“

“If your next word is sorry, you can shove it up your ass,” Foggy says harshly.

“Foggy—“ Matt starts, hearing the helplessness in his own voice, not sure what else to say.

“I get it, you loved her, and she died. But you said you loved me, too! And you care about Karen, don’t you? And Frank? The firm? Your precious fucking city? How could you care about us if you keep trying to die? Do we all matter so much less than she did?”

“I’m—“

“Your life is not yours,” Foggy hisses, “you don’t take it away from yourself, you take it away from me, from Karen, from Claire, from Frank, from all the people you help every night, from all the people that love you.”

“You—you shouldn’t,” Matt whispers.

Emotions, attachments, make you weak, Matty. They’ll get you killed. Or worse, you’ll get them killed.

Oh God, Stick was right. This whole time, Stick was right.

“It’s a little too fucking late for that now, Murdock,” Foggy says, voice edging into hysterical, “but congrats, you’ve officially gotten yourself out of work, per our agreement.”

But they had agreed he would be allowed back full time…

Conditional on his continued mental and emotional health.

Sometimes he forgets how good a lawyer Foggy Nelson really is.

“That’s not fair!”

“To who? Who is that unfair to, Matthew? You? You’re really dying to go out and represent our firm with your battered face, bleeding through your dress shirt? Is that it?”

“It’s not fair to you,” Matt says softly.

“No shit. None of this is fair to me! It’s not fair that I got a call at three in the morning from Frank Castle and rushed over here, hoping that I’d at least have a chance to say goodbye, to tell you I love you, hoping I wouldn’t be too late—“

Matt’s eyes fill and there’s nothing that can stop him from crying.

“The city,” he starts weakly.

“Bull. Shit. This wasn’t about the city, Matt. Last time, with Nobu, sure, you went to take down the Yakuza, you went to take down Fisk, that was about the city, you just got in way over your head. This time, this was about you and Elektra and the fact that you don’t give a shit about anybody else in this world.”

Matt shakes his head, desperate to make Foggy understand. “That’s not—that’s not true!”

“Are you sure? Because I can’t hear your fucking heartbeat! I don’t know if you’re lying to me.”

“I’m not!”

“That’s what you’re saying, and maybe—fuck, Matt, maybe you even believe it! But Jesus Christ, look at your actions! Don’t you see how they make it seem an awful lot like you don’t give a shit?”

“Foggy, please—“

“Right now, there’s a serial killer in this apartment, and I trust him more than I trust you,” Foggy says bluntly, helplessly, “he’s honest with me. He cares about you, and he shows it. He’s killed people, yeah, but he told me this was going to happen, he told me he’d taken the suit, to try to keep you safe, and fuck, he was right! He just didn’t know how far you’d go. And I—I didn’t want to believe you would—but that was on me. I let my emotions get in the way. I should have seen this coming.”

“Foggy, I really am—“

“No, Matt,” Foggy says softly, “you’re not. You know how I know? Because you’ve apologized for being reckless about a dozen times, but if you really meant it, you’d change your behavior, and you haven’t cared enough to do that.”

“I can’t change who I am—“

“So Daredevil doesn’t work unless he bleeds all over Hell’s Kitchen? It doesn’t work if he texts me that he’s home safe at night? It doesn’t work if he lets people know he’s going out, if he wears the right kind of armor? It doesn’t work if he thinks for half a second before jumping into a fight?”

Matt stays silent.

“You’re out of control. You have been ever since she died,” Foggy says quietly, “we’ve tried to help you, me and Frank, but you don’t want to be helped.”

“Since when is there a you and Frank anyway?” Matt mutters, seizing on the only thing he can.

“Since you told him who you were? Since you convinced me that we needed to defend him? Since you saved him, and he saved you, and he came and told me what I needed to know to look after you? Since he called Claire and me last night to let us know you were bleeding out on the couch? Take your fucking pick.”

“I—“

“Just stop talking, Matt. Just… just stop. I can’t deal with any more excuses. Just—just do whatever the hell you want. God knows I can’t stop you.”

With that, Foggy stands up and walks out of the room, sliding the bedroom door shut behind him. He throws himself down onto the sofa, letting out a quiet sigh. His breath is quiet, and it hitches so softly that nobody else would be able to hear it.

Matt hears Frank approach cautiously, not saying a single word, just being there. There’s the quiet clink of glass bottles, a muttered thank you as Foggy downs a beer faster than he has since undergrad.

God, in some weird way, they actually deserve each other. They’re both steady, faithful, loyal to a fault.

Matt closes his eyes and tries not to drown in his own guilt, tries to be quiet as he cries, unable to even curl into the fetal position like he wants to.

---

There’s food on his bedside table, delivered by a silent Foggy, who takes his hands and guides him to where the plate is, where the mug of coffee is, but doesn’t say a single word. He offers him a couple of painkillers, but Matt shakes his head, and Foggy doesn’t even bother trying to convince him, just sighs and leaves the bottle of aspirin nearby with a glass of water.

He eats the food and closes his eyes, wills himself to sleep.

Foggy leaves to go to work and comes back early in the afternoon, tired.

He doesn’t say a word to Matt unless he has to.

Frank is gone during the day, but back at nightfall. Foggy’s heart rate increases when he sees him, but it’s not fear, like it used to be. It’s relief. It’s the knowledge that backup is here, that he’s not in this alone anymore.

Foggy leaves his apartment that night as if the place is on fire, eager to get out from under the black cloud of Matt’s temper and his stupidity.

Frank doesn’t say much at first, but he’s building up to something. Matt can tell, in the way his silence seems to be amplifying, in the way that he inhales, as if to say something, then thinks better of it and closes his mouth. He can hear it, in the way Frank’s heart beats in anticipation.

“Just say what you wanna say, Frank,” Matt says eventually. He can’t take the waiting anymore, lowers himself carefully into the chair across from the sofa and imagines Frank raising his eyebrow. He hears the quiet of a makeshift bookmark—probably a receipt, the paper sounds slick and thin—into his book. Matt wonders if he’s reading Great Expectations or something else.

“You proud o’ yourself, Red?” Frank’s voice is tight, restrained. He’s trying to control himself, doesn’t want to give too much away.

“What?”

“I said, are you fucking proud of yourself? Jeez, I thought you cared about Nelson, man. I didn’t realize you were lyin’ about that, too.”

“Too? What else was I lying about?” He can feel his jaw clenching, not happy with the accusation.

“You kept goin’ on about the sanctity of life before. I thought you actually meant it.”

“That’s rich, coming from someone who loves killing,” Matt snaps.

“I’m not the one who said it. You did. A Catholic who wants to die. Now that’s rich.”

“I don’t want to die,” Matt says, almost believing himself.

Frank laughs, all sharp edges.

“You think your God is that much of an idiot, huh? You think He doesn’t recognize this as suicide?”

“It’s not suicide, I’ve always known I’d die doing this—“

“You’re pulling punches. You’re giving them chances. You think I’m stupid? You think I can’t fucking see it? No way in hell were those guys better fighters than you. No way in hell.”

“I was injured.”

“You were sloppy,” Frank snarls, “you were sloppy and you let them cut you. You let them hold a gun to your head, you got in the way when I started taking care of them—“

“They were shooting at you,” Matt protests, “I went to protect you!”

“Oh yeah, protect me by catching all the bullets yourself, you goddamn moron. I wear a fucking bulletproof vest. They didn’t know where I was. And you’re not an idiot, you knew all that. Don’t you dare feed me that shit.”

Matt knows how to play fair. He also knows when not to.

“Where is all this coming from? You sure seem to care a lot about me not dying, for a guy who shot me in the head!”

“That was different, and you know it!”

“How? How was that different? You’re the only one allowed to kill me, Frank? Why don’t you stamp that on the ass of the suit, hm? Only Frank Castle’s allowed to kill Daredevil! Call the press! Or Fisk, I’m sure he’d like a word with his little pet murderer—”

“I knew that shot wouldn’t kill you,” Frank roars.

Matt laughs harshly. “Well, good work, Frank. It didn’t kill me. Just made me wish I was dead, that’s all.”

His bloody hands, knocking against the brick, his voice hoarse, as he screamed and couldn’t even hear it, waiting for it to end, praying it would end, that either the sound would come back or he’d die…

“As if you didn’t already! As if you haven’t been planning on being a martyr since the day you put on your fucking black t-shirt to go off and fight crime!”

Matt laughs again, louder, and something in it makes Frank uncomfortable. Matt can hear it.

“If I wanted to die from day one, Frank,” he says, voice smooth as silk, “why would I have gotten the armor?”

Frank pauses, stumped. Matt presses his advantage.

“I’ve always known I’ll die in the suit. But I wasn’t looking forward to it. I did my best to protect myself. The suit is knifeproof, mostly, bulletproof in certain spots, the helmet saved my life when you shot me point-blank. I didn’t always want to die, Frank.”

“So what changed?” Frank asks, almost desperate for an answer.

“I wanted to protect this city.” Matt says quietly, “I wanted to protect the people I loved. I haven’t been able to do that. Karen’s been in a hostage situation twice, Foggy’s been shot, Elektra—“ He’s said it a hundred times already, but this time, the word gets caught in his throat and sticks there.

“If I can’t even protect them, if I’m such a fucking half-measure, why should I keep going? Why would I keep doing this, when I can be with her, when I can hug my dad again? I’m almost the same age now as when he died, you know that? And I—this is who I am. The Devil, that’s who I am. That’s my birthright. It’s in my blood. And if that’s not enough, then I don’t need to be here anymore.”

Frank’s heart picks up. Maybe he feels guilty, having his words thrown back at him, facing the thought that the man he shot might actually die one of these days. But he rallies. He’s Frank Castle, he always rallies.

“Do you know how many people I have left in this world that I love, Red? Not one. Not a single fucking one. Nobody’d care if I dropped off the face of the earth. But you—you do! Karen’s in love with you, d’you know that? She might be pissed right now, but it’s true. And Nelson! That boy would walk barefoot across broken glass for you. Claire—she puts on a brave face, and she’s a goddamn professional, but she hates seeing you broken like that. You didn’t see her face when she walked in, but I did! She ran over to you, kissed your hand—And you just—how can you not care about any of that? How can you just throw that away, as if it’s nothing, when it’s the only fucking thing that matters?”

“Being in love with me will get Karen killed. Being my friend has already brought Foggy so much pain. Claire—you have no idea what she’s been through because of me, the things I have asked her to do for me. Why is it so fucking wrong that I want to spare them any more? Why is it so fucking wrong that I want to cut ties, save them while I can?”

“Because you don’t get to choose! You don’t get to choose who fucking loves you!”

“There’s always a choice,” Matt says. He has to believe that. He has to, because otherwise he will have nothing, not even the weakest semblance of control. “When you pull the trigger, you choose. When I pick a fight, I choose.”

“So you choose to hurt the people around you, then,” Frank says wearily. He scrubs a hand over his face, and Matt can hear the rasp of skin on stubble. “You choose to hurt Claire, to hurt Nelson.”

“I—I guess I do,” Matt agrees, because he’s always known that he’s responsible for the pain he causes them. He’s always known that his ability to disappoint them again and again means that the responsibility lies on his shoulders.

“And you can live with that?” Frank asks him softly, “because I’ve seen the look on your face when you know Nelson’s hurting, and I don’t believe you can.”

“I can’t! That’s the whole fucking point,” Matt shouts.

“Look, Red, you loved your girl, yeah? You loved her enough to wanna die for her. That’s sweet’n all, but dying’s easy. I’ve watched hundreds of people die. Some were enemy soldiers, some were in my unit, some were civilians, some I put down myself. My wife, my babies. The thing is, I could’ve killed myself once I woke up in that hospital room. And believe me, the thought crossed my mind.”

Frank’s stressed, his chest heaving.

“But I owed it to them to stay alive, to get them justice. So I am, and I’ll tell you what, Red, it’s a hell of a lot harder than dying. So you love your girl, you love Nelson, and Karen, and you’d die for any of ‘em, I know that. But do you love any of them enough to live for them? Because that’s the real shit, Red, that’s the real shit.”

Matt knows what the right answer is, and he knows what the truth is, and they’re not the same. “How do you go on?” He asks softly, “I just—maybe I’m just not strong enough—“

“You’re one of the strongest men I’ve ever met. You’d put most Marines to shame, Matt. If you choose to take the easy way out, it’s because you chose it. You don’t get to blame it on not being strong enough. You don’t get to have that excuse.”

“Then I’m just a coward! I’m a coward, Frank, just like you said! Congratulations, you were right, I was wrong! My way doesn’t work, and I can’t do it your way, so I’ll just stop—“

“Then you’re not the man I thought you were,” Frank says, a sort of finality in his voice that suggests the conversation is over. Matt wonders why it hurts so much, that he’s disappointed him. He wonders why he cares that Frank Castle was wrong about him, when he’d only met the man a couple of months ago, when their first encounters were all blood and violence.

Frank takes out his assault rifle from under the sofa, where Matt’s let it stay all these days without complaining, and begins disassembling it, cleaning it.

You don’t know me, Matt wants to scream, but he’s tired, too, and sore, and sitting in the chair doesn’t help. He heaves himself up, stumbling slightly as he goes into the bedroom.

Besides, it wouldn’t have even been true. Frank probably knows him better than any person alive, other than Foggy. And isn’t that just the icing on the cake—that a serial murderer he met two months ago now knows him as well as his best friend of almost a decade.

He lays himself down in bed and his body nearly cries in relief, from not having to sit, from not having to fight, from the almost-quiet of the apartment. He lays down and waits for sleep to find him.

Foggy dies. Fisk doesn’t even do it himself, sends some lowlife to do it for him, and Foggy dies, because Matt didn’t get there in time, couldn’t save him. Karen stands over his grave and weeps, and Matt hears Fisk in the background, the sound of his triumphant laughter hanging heavy in the air. The world is too quiet, without Franklin Nelson’s heartbeat. Foggy’s parents are there, and his sisters, and his uncles and aunts and cousins, all the Nelsons he’d met at Thanksgivings and Christmases over the past decade, crying over the man he let down.

It’s all your fault, Foggy whispers to him, it’s your fault I died, Matt. You could have saved me, if you were better.

He ends up staggering into the bathroom at some ungodly hour to throw up, sitting back on his haunches before he realizes that there are tears running down his face.

Frank walks in, sets a glass of water down next to him, and leaves, closing the bathroom door behind him.

---

He wakes to a thump on the other side of the bed. He can’t hear fabric on fabric too well, doesn’t quite know how to distinguish between them, so he reaches out cautiously, finding a duffle bag. It’s unzipped, and he reaches inside, going still as he feels the familiar material, smells the fading scent of blood.

“Get yourself killed, if you want,” Frank says quietly. “I’m done tryin’ to stop you.”

Then he turns and walks away, and Matt hears his footsteps, as he pauses and squeezes Foggy’s shoulder, as he goes to the front door and leaves the apartment, as he walks down the stairs and leaves the building, heading up the street.

Matt knows, with a sinking feeling in his gut, that he won’t be coming back.

When he has the strength to check, he runs his hand under the sofa and finds that the assault rifle is gone. He brushes his hand across the coffee table and there’s no book, no duffle bag full of clothes, no spare toothbrush in his bathroom.

Foggy moves in for a few days. He sleeps on the sofa, sets medication and food on the nightstand. He helps Matt get to the bathroom, washes his hair for him in the kitchen sink, because he can’t take a shower without being covered in plastic wrap to protect all his injuries, and then there’s hardly any point to it. His hands are gentle and thorough as he changes Matt’s dressings and cleans his stitches. Claire must have left pretty good instructions. Either that, or Foggy’s had far too much practice cleaning stitches these past few months.

He doesn’t say a single word to Matt if he doesn’t have to.

Matt spends lots of time meditating. His mind has probably never been this organized, this clear. The hours slip by, the only thing in his mind the rhythm of his breath.

Occasionally, he’ll remember Foggy’s voice, how full of pain it had been, or Frank’s anger. It takes a lot, to make those sorts of men, men as tenacious as Foggy, as determined as Frank, give up on you. Matt must be exceptionally awful to have managed it twice over.

The first night, he listened to the audiobook of Great Expectations for six minutes before he realized that he’s tuning out the sound. He turns it off and lets himself focus on what he really wants to, the beat of Foggy’s heart as he shifts uncomfortably on the couch.

Foggy has nightmares. Matt hasn’t slept in the same room as him in a long time, and he never used to have nightmares. Now he wakes once or twice every single night, heart racing so loudly and so fast, so full of panic that it rouses Matt from his sleep, too.

He suspects—more than suspects, really—that it’s all because of him.

Foggy’s there with him most of the time—he only leaves to go to work, and even then, he comes back for lunch before going back to the office in the afternoon. He seems tired, all the time, carrying the firm on his own, taking care of Matt nearly full-time now that Frank’s gone. Matt feels the weight of Foggy’s fatigue. He drinks, sometimes, when Foggy’s gone, trying to numb his emotions enough that he can ease off the self-loathing, at least for an hour or two.

“I get tired, Fogs. I know you see it, but he feels it,” he’d said to him once, about Frank. But now—now it seems that Foggy feels it, too.

The sweet, sweet irony is that Matt has his best friend living in his apartment, but he still feels so fucking alone.

He dreams of them in college, hugging and joking and dreaming together, because the future was so bright and full of possibility. He dreams of them walking into the office for the first time, imagining the kind of good they’d be able to do for their community.

He dreams of Foggy’s laugh, of quiet half-asleep conversations in their dorm room at two in the morning, where they told each other everything, all their fears and their hopes and things too tender for the daylight.

He dreams of Foggy saying I thought you loved me, Matt. I thought you loved me.

I did, he aches to say, I do. But in the dreams, as in real life, Foggy doesn’t believe him anymore.

---

Claire comes by a week later to give him the all-clear to go back to work—his day job, not his night job.

It’s the first opportunity for conversation he’s had all week.

“Hi, mi diablito, you been doing okay?” she asks him, sitting down next to him on the bed. She treats him like she still cares, as if he’s not the asshole who ruined Foggy’s life, who destroyed Frank Castle’s burgeoning almost-healthy relationships with other people.

It makes him want to cry.

“No,” he admits shakily, taking her hands in his own. Her hands are so warm, so gentle.

“Hey, what’s going on?” she asks him, tender and concerned. God, he adores her.

“I messed everything up,” Matt confesses, pressing his face against her thigh, “I fucked it all up, Claire.”

She lays her hand in his hair and strokes softly. “You’ll figure it out, okay? We’ll see if we can find a way to fix it.”

We. Just the thought of Claire offering him even more than she already has nearly overwhelms him.

“You were right,” he admits, voice muffled by her leg, “I—I’m adrift. I need people. But it’s not—it’s not fair, because I just hurt them, and that’s not okay—“

“Oh, diablito,” she says softly, “you’re hurting too, aren’t you? You hurt them, but you’re hurting too, I can see it.”

Matt wants to protest, wants to say that he hurt them first, that he deserves to be hurt and they don’t, but he stays quiet, reveling in the sympathy and the scent of lavender shampoo.

“Some people are worth hurting over, Matt. I knew when I became your friend that there’d be pain, but I decided that you were worth it. But I couldn’t be more than a friend, because that—that would have been too much for me, letting myself fall in love with you and then worrying about you every night. Why don’t you let them make those choices, decide where they want to draw those lines?”

“Frank’s gone,” Matt admits quietly, nuzzling against her leg and hoping she doesn’t call him on it.

“Then he’s made his choice, diablito. But Foggy’s still here. He’s mad and he’s hurt and he’s upset, but he’s still here. And I’ve seen him, Matt, I think if you really tried, really made an effort—“

“He doesn’t believe anything I say anymore,” Matt whispers, “doesn’t trust me anymore.”

Claire goes quiet for a moment. “Well, trust is hard to earn and easy to lose,” she says thoughtfully, “you need to earn it back. Make concessions—you can’t stop being the Devil, but you can do it in a way that is safer, right? You’re right, Matt. He’s hurting. Show him that you take that seriously, and show him that you’re taking real, actual steps to stop him from hurting as much.”

Matt turns his head up and pulls her hand out of his hair, bringing it to his lips.

“You, Claire, are a genius. Why can’t I—something about you, you always make things seem so clear, when I’ve been confused and lost—and then I feel like an idiot, because it sounds so obvious when you say it—“

“Sometimes it’s easier to see things from the outside,” Claire says with a little smile, shrugging her shoulders. She doesn’t want the praise. Matt wants to compliment her even more, until she accepts that she makes his life so much better, just by being there, even without all the times she sewed him up and splinted his broken bones and saved his life.

“How did I ever do this without you?” he asks, hearing the wonder in his voice.

“Eh, maybe you’re actually not that bad at your job,” Claire teases, “and I came into the picture right when you started messing with the real tough shit. Convenient, huh?”

Matt smiles at her. “I just—you’re the only one who takes me as I am. You knew, right from the beginning, what I was, and you still stuck around. You’re so fucking brave, Claire.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be upset if you were more careful,” Claire says firmly, “and I wouldn’t mind if we could just go grab a drink at happy hour instead of having late night heart-to-hearts while I try to keep your blood inside your body. Those concessions I was talking about, for Foggy—I don’t need them. I’ve come to accept what you do, and the risks involved—but I’d really, really like to have them. It’s easier for me, because I don’t love you as much as he does, and because I’ve seen—I’ve seen a lot of death, in work and out of it. It’s harder for him.”

He pauses, taking some time to think it over. It makes sense. The people he loves the most have the most power to hurt him.

Stick, the closest thing he’d had to a parent after his dad died.

Elektra, the love of his life, the person who made him feel so alive that without her life was dull, uninspiring, empty of passion, empty of fire.

Foggy, his best friend, his platonic soulmate. His family. His brother.

Claire, his guiding light, someone who could have been one of the great loves of his life, but now feels more like a sister, holding his hand no matter how badly he messes up.

Karen, the manifestation of an impossible dream, the heat of a spark that could have been fanned into a flame. The hope of a softer life, with softer things.

That just leaves Frank Castle. Their relationship is strange and complicated and difficult to define, and Matt considers it while Claire removes stitches from the more superficial cuts, while she checks on the dressings for the stab wounds and the deeper lacerations.

Ultimately, he decides it doesn’t really matter anyway, what he would label Frank. He’s gone now.

Claire kisses his cheek before she stands up, heading out of the apartment, and for the first time in days, Matt has a purpose again, has a mission again.

For the first time in days, he remembers the feeling of hope.

Chapter Text

On Monday morning, he wakes up on time, checks the dressings and bandages to ensure he’s not bleeding anywhere, sits down and eats breakfast, and goes to work.

Karen’s so surprised to see him that she forgets to be cold for a moment. “Oh,” she says, because that’s all there is to say.

“Morning, Karen.”

Foggy comes out of his office at the sound of conversation, heart picking up for a moment before he settles again.

He nods at Matt, pausing a moment. “I nodded, Matt,” he mutters.

Matt smiles at him. “Morning, Fogs. I brought coffee.” He holds up the cup, the caramel latte from their favorite place.

Foggy takes it with a sigh. “Thanks. Still mad, though.”

“I know,” Matt says quietly, “just—I wanted to thank you, for helping me these past few days. I know I haven’t been… easy to be around lately.”

Foggy doesn’t say anything, and Matt can feel his gaze, heavy on the parts of his body that are wounded.

“Take off your jacket,” Foggy orders suddenly.

Matt does, hoping that he hasn’t missed anything. Foggy’s heart slows in relief, and Matt smiles.

“Trying to get me undressed, Fogs? Better watch it, Marci won’t be too happy about that!”

Foggy huffs a little laugh. “Get to work, Murdock. Karen, get him up to speed on the Gonzalez case, and give him the Williams custody battle, and, uh, maybe the divorce agreement for the Lees, if he wraps up the other stuff.”

Karen murmurs her agreement, and then Foggy’s gone, in his office with the door closed.

Matt works his ass off, gets the Gonzalez case rolling, even though immigration court is a ridiculously long shot and basically purgatory on earth. He works through the Williams’ claims for why they should each have sole custody of their children, and figures out a fairly equitable division of assets for the Lees, ensuring that the opposing lawyer might actually accept the offer and neither of the Lees will struggle with food or housing.

He comes in day after day, brings Foggy coffee every morning, works through cases and meets with new clients, some of whom can actually pay. At night, he goes home, and as much as he aches to put the suit on, as much as his fists ache for the crunch of bone and the give of flesh, he doesn’t. He eats dinner in his apartment alone, instead, and listens to audiobooks read aloud by men with deep, rich, rumbly voices. He takes melatonin at night to trick his body into sleeping, to fool his mind into relaxing enough that he can ignore the sirens, the itch in his muscles, the tug of guilt in his chest.

He goes out to Fogwell’s, once, when the itch gets to be too much, and goes at the bag for a little while, trying to focus on his form instead of counting down the days until Claire clears him to go out again.

He brainstorms a list of things he can do to make it up to Foggy, now that he’s allowed to leave his apartment. He wants to go and talk to him every time he sees him, wants to beg for forgiveness. He wants to hug him and apologize—but Foggy thinks his words are empty, now. He needs to have evidence before he can go see him. He needs to show that he’s changing, not just demand that Foggy stop worrying.

On Friday, a gift basket arrives at the office.

“Foggy, Hogarth sent another one,” Karen calls.

“Take what you want, give the rest to the food bank,” Foggy calls back. He doesn’t sound particularly surprised.

Matt frowns. He goes over to Foggy’s office and knocks, waiting until Foggy tells him to come in before doing so—he’d always just barged in, before—and closing the door behind him.

He sits himself down in the chair, not quite managing to hide the wince of pain—his thigh still hurts from where that fucker had stabbed him that night.

“Matt?” Foggy’s voice is expectant, waiting for Matt to say what he wants to say.

“Jeri Hogarth is sending you gift baskets? Regularly?”

“Uh, yeah. She offered me a job,” Foggy mutters, “told her no, but she’s… persistent. Marci works there, she’s been working on her side, too, telling me how great the firm is, how much I could learn from Hogarth, the amount of pro bono stuff I could do. The fact that I’d have a retirement plan, health insurance with dental and vision, get paid in cash instead of food, that kind of stuff.”

“Oh.” Matt hurts, thinking about it. “Have you—have you thought about it?”

“I have. Especially this last week.”

Matt nods, aware that he doesn’t have the right to pry any further, and eases himself up out of the chair.

“Hey.” Foggy pulls a bottle out of his desk drawer, rattling it gently, “take an aspirin.”

There’s another bottle inside the drawer, the pills sounding unfamiliar—not as big as standard painkillers.

“I don’t need—“

“Don’t be a hero,” Foggy mutters, rising to his feet and pressing the bottle into Matt’s hand. “Take an aspirin.”

Matt nods, and when he gets to his desk, he actually does.

---

He calls Claire, asks her if she’d like to get a drink with him at Josie’s. He can hear her smiling ear to ear across the line as she agrees.

“I’m trying,” he tells her quietly, at their little table in the corner. “I’m trying to meet him halfway. I haven’t gone out at all this past week. I’m trying to take better care of myself. I’m putting in the work at the firm.”

“I know you are, Matt. I’m really proud of you,” she says, laying her hand on his arm.

Matt can feel himself smiling dopily at her. God, the high of someone telling him they’re proud of him could get him through a month of misery. He focuses hard, wanting to save the memory for when he inevitably fucks up again. Claire Temple is proud of him. She sees him, making an effort, and she cares about him, and she’s proud of him.

Maybe he’s not all that bad, then. He has to be honest, though, about everything.

“But I do miss it,” he admits, “is that—does that make me a bad person, that I miss it so much?”

Claire takes a sip of her beer, pausing to think it over. “No, Matt, it doesn’t. You’re one of the best people I know. You loved it, you want to get back to it, but you’re taking care of yourself, recovering before you dive in again. That’s great—that’s growth.”

“Aw, stop it, my head’ll be too big to fit through my door by the time we’re done,” Matt mutters, feeling himself blushing. He’s still smiling like an idiot, doesn’t really know how to stop.

She squeezes his arm, trying to get him to refocus on her, and he does.

“When you fuck up, I tell you, don’t I?” she asks gently, waiting for him to nod before she continues. “So when you’re doing well, I’m gonna tell you, Matt. Not everything is about punishment. Sometimes a little positive reinforcement goes a long way.”

Matt makes a joke about being Catholic, about positive reinforcement being a sin, and she laughs. It’s a light, joyful sound, and he thinks about Elektra’s laugh, when they’d walked through the park and he’d made a stupid joke, so different from her snorting, helpless guffaws when they sparred and he suddenly tickled her instead of hitting her.

He asks her about the job hunt, since she’d left Metro General, and she deflects, tells him funny stories about patients instead.

“People will stick anything up their ass,” she says solemnly, grinning as he chokes on his beer. “And the thing is, you can stick a lightbulb up there, sure, but then how the hell is it gonna come out without breaking?”

She asks him about his cases, too, things that he can discuss without breaking privilege. She eases him into asking what the office has been like.

“How’s Karen doing?” Claire asks him, carefully casual.

“She’s, uh, she’s fine. Very… professional. We’re very professional with each other. You don’t have to be friends to work together. As I’m finding out.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, she’s still mad.”

They go quiet for a moment.

“Hey, Claire?”

“Hm?” They’ve been out for a couple of hours now. He should get her a cab or walk her home after this one. He’s starting to get a little loose-lipped and his muscles are relaxed, and he should probably get back to his own place soon. He’s tired, too—he’s been coming into the office early and leaving late, hoping to demonstrate his ability to give his all to his day job as much as he does to his night job. But first, there’s something that’s been preying on his mind, ever since that day Hogarth sent the gift basket.

“Is Foggy—is Foggy sick? Has he mentioned anything to you?”

Claire’s heartbeat wavers, but just a little bit. She composes herself quickly.

“What makes you think he’s sick?” she asks, redirecting.

He’d always known she was smart as hell, it was one of the things that had attracted him to her in those early days, along with her gentle hands and her nerves of steel.

“He—there are pills, in his desk drawer.”

“You went through his desk?”

“No! I just—he gave me some aspirin, once, and I heard another bottle rolling around in there, and I just—is he sick? Has he talked to you about it?”

“I think this is probably something you should talk to him about,” Claire says gently.

“So you do know something!”

“Nurses are bound by confidentiality, too, you know.”

“But he’s my best friend—“

“So talk to him about it.”

“Please, Claire—please, I just—is he okay? God, is it—is it serious? Please, God, please don’t let it be serious, I can’t lose him—“ He can hear himself panicking, working himself up into a frenzy, already imagining the worst, cancer, some sort of debilitating terminal disease, heart failure...

Apparently, Claire can hear it too. She reaches out and takes both his hands in her own, slightly cool from the condensation on the bottle.

“Breathe, Matt,” she orders. He closes his eyes, and does.

“He called me a couple of weeks ago, asked if I could recommend any psychiatrists or therapists.”

Matt’s blood runs cold.

“The doctor I recommended, she suggested he might have a bit of anxiety, gave him some meds to help. He called to ask me what I thought about the meds, and when I gave him the go-ahead, he started taking them.”

Matt pulls his hands out of hers and holds his head. “I gave him an anxiety disorder? Jesus Christ, I really am the worst thing that’s ever happened to him—why wouldn’t he tell me—does Karen know?”

Claire rises, shifts over to where he’s sitting and pulls his head until it’s against her shoulder. She wraps her arms around him and holds him.

The contact is bracing. He’d missed it. Foggy had always been tactile, before, and last week, he’d certainly touched Matt a fair bit, but it had always been clinical, brief. He’d missed the warmth that used to come with it, the affection.

What an idiot he’d been, to think he could go through his life alone. He’s nowhere near strong enough for that, not like Stick, or Frank.

“Matt, listen to me,” she says firmly. “You made mistakes, we both know that, but you are not the only thing responsible. There’s a lot of stress in his life that isn’t you-related. He’s got the firm to think about, he had the Castle trial to deal with, he got shot not too long ago… His girlfriend’s trying to push him into joining her fancy-ass firm. Look, I love you to death, diablito, but it’s not all about you, okay? His life is not all about you.”

Matt nods.

“You need to say it. Go on, ‘I’m not the only one responsible, it’s not all my fault.’”

“I’m not the only one responsible. It’s not all my fault,” Matt repeats obediently, almost believing it. The thing is, if he’s not the only one responsible, that still means he’s part of it, part of what’s messed Foggy up so much he’s turned to medication. And what kind of best friend is he, anyway, that Foggy’s got a newfound anxiety disorder and is on new meds and Matt didn’t even know?

“Good. Now, you gonna be a gentleman and walk me home, or you gonna be an asshole?”

“Gentleman,” Matt mutters, “but my place is closer—you can crash there tonight if you wanted.”

“It’s very sweet of you to offer me your bloodstained couch, but no thank you,” Claire teases.

He huffs indignantly. “I would have taken the couch,” he says, feeling the pressure in his chest ease up just a little bit, “and my bed, as you know, is incredibly comfortable, so your loss, really.”

“Oh yeah, I’m definitely gonna go home and cry about the fact that I’m not sleeping in Matt Murdock’s bed.” Claire laughs and he pecks her on the cheek before he pulls away from the hug.

He pays for their drinks and offers her his arm as they leave the bar, feeling the cold air as they walk to her apartment.

---

He almost turns around and goes home three separate times along the way. It’s scarier than anything he’s ever done, but he raises his fist and knocks on Foggy’s door. He shifts the weight of the pizza box in his left hand, a six-pack from the bodega in a plastic bag hanging from the crook of his elbow. He’s stone-cold sober, and he very much wishes he’d partaken of a little liquid courage before leaving home.

But that would have sent the wrong message, and he’s all about trying to prove himself to Foggy these days.

“Foggy?” he calls, “it’s me—look, please let me in? Just five minutes, and then if you want me gone, I’ll go—“

Foggy opens the door. It’s the first time he’s seen him outside of work since he’d moved back into his own apartment.

“I brought pizza,” Matt offers, as if Foggy’s the blind one, as if he can’t see the huge box in his hand.

He doesn’t say anything, just opens the door wider and steps back.

Matt puts the box on the counter and the six-pack next to it, but doesn’t make a move to open either. Instead, he stands up straight and looks in Foggy’s direction, aiming at his eyes.

“I miss you.”

Foggy sighs. He’d always been susceptible to this particular brand of emotional honesty, especially when it came from Matt.

“You’re getting to be good at groveling,” he says quietly, “I can’t—I can’t keep doing this, Matt. I just can’t.”

“I know. I talked to Claire, and she helped me figure some things out. You—you know that I can’t stop being Daredevil. You know that I don’t want to stop.”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘the only thing that makes you feel alive anymore,’ I remember.” There’s an ache in Foggy’s voice.

Matt nods. “See, the thing is, maybe—maybe I was wrong about that,” he says carefully, “maybe it’s the most exciting thing in my life, the adrenaline and the pain and the satisfaction of hearing the other guy go down… But it’s not the only thing I like doing. I like doing our work. I like settling cases, I like helping people our way, too.”

Foggy doesn’t say anything.

“Look, I’m being selfish,” Matt admits to him, “I—I wish I could be like Frank, y’know? I wish I could do this alone, not need anybody else in my life, not care about them—but I can’t. This last week, Fogs, it was one of the worst weeks of my life. You’re—what did they say on that medical show you used to watch?—you’re my person. If I was as good a man as people think, I would let you hate me, and it wouldn’t bother me, because I would know that if I let you hurt a little bit, right now, it won’t hurt as much, when I make a mistake out there and it ends up costing me.”

“Matt—“ Foggy’s voice is pained, his weight shifts and he takes a step towards him, arm out.

“But—Foggy, I can’t do this alone. I just can’t. And I don’t want you to hate me.” His voice is shaking, and god, Stick would be so disappointed in him. Or maybe he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have expected anything other than weakness.

“Matty—“

“Please—please,” Matt begs, holding out a hand, “I’ve gone through this over and over in my head, and you’re not supposed—you’re not supposed to feel sorry for me. You’re supposed to be angry, and I’m supposed to tell you how I’m going to change. Because I will, Foggy, I’ll change! I’ll be better, I promise, just—just don’t leave me. Please.”

Foggy steps forward and wraps him in his arms, holding him tight, and Matt cries quietly into his shoulder for a moment before pulling back.

“No—Foggy, I didn’t mean for it to go like this,” he says, wiping his face. “I didn’t mean to—look, my actions cause you to suffer. I am recognizing that, and am taking steps to make you suffer less.” The words are odd, stilted, clearly rehearsed.

“Okay,” Foggy says, clearly humoring him, “what kinds of steps?”

Matt has a list. He pulls it out of his pocket and sets it on the table. He’s got it memorized, mostly, but just in case he loses his nerve…

“Um, before I start, I just want to point out that I haven’t gone out at all this last week, even when I really wanted to. And I’ve been working hard at the office, trying to make up for not being there before.”

“I noticed that. You get into the office even before I do most days, and you’re there late,” Foggy says, a hint of concern in his voice, “do you—you do go home every night, right?”

“Yeah! Yes, I do,” Matt says quickly, “that’s part of it—part of my concessions.”

“Okay, tell me about these concessions of yours, then.”

Foggy steps forward, takes his arm and leads him to the sofa—it’s the same one they’d had in their apartment in law school. Foggy’d won the coin toss for when they were getting separate places, and he’d won the sofa. Matt had won the armchair in his place.

“First, I’m going to take better care of myself,” Matt says quietly, “that means no pushing past my limits. I wait for medical clearance before I go out—Claire knows I can handle more than most people, she knows what I can and can’t take, and if she says I can’t go out, I—I won’t.”

Foggy’s heart skips a beat. “Are you sure? That’s a big promise for you to make, Matt.”

“There’s nobody else I’d make it for. I don’t expect you to believe me. Claire and I—we talked about trust, and I know I lost yours, and I need to earn it back, so you can wait for me to prove it. I’m gonna prove it, Fogs.”

Foggy smiles a little, but doesn’t say anything, and Matt takes it as a signal to continue.

“When I go out at night—sometimes I have a fixed objective, like when Elek—like when Elektra and I were tracking the Hand. In that kind of situation, I know roughly where I’ll be. If that’s the case, I’ll text you before I leave, with the address or rough area of where I’m going, just in case. Would that—would that help you worry less?”

Foggy’s heart squeezes in his chest, but Matt can’t tell if it’s affection or frustration. It doesn’t feel like anger, though.

“Yeah, Matty, that would help me worry less,” he says softly.

“Good. Sometimes—sometimes I just listen, and if I hear a mugging or an assault or domestic violence, I just go. If that’s the case, I’ll text you that I’m on patrol or doing my rounds. I know—I know that’s not helpful, but I honestly don’t know where I’ll be some nights. I just follow what I can hear.”

Foggy thinks about that. “Counterproposal,” he says carefully, “that’s fine, if you’re dealing with petty crime, small numbers. If you go out and find out about mafia or gang shit, you let me know. Text me in the middle of the night, I don’t care. Tell me if you’re going up against the Italians, or against the Chinese, or the… or the Azerbaijanians, I don’t know. If there’s a big group, and the numbers are bigger, then you let me know.”

Matt considers it. “Deal, as long as it doesn’t immediately compromise someone’s life. If the Russians have a gun to a kid’s head, I’m going to get the gun away before I text you. If it’s just recon, or I’m planning an ambush, I’ll text you first.”

“I accept,” Foggy says calmly, though he sounds a little unhappy with the caveat. “Next?”

“I’ll text you when I get home at night. Every single night. If I don’t, I’ll take the shittiest cases for a week each time.”

“I propose an amendment. Yes, you text me when you get home, but you also tell me how badly you’re hurt.”

“If I’m hurt. And only if it’s serious. I’m not going to worry you over cuts and bruises.”

“Stitches and above are considered serious, then. If you need medical attention beyond cleaning and bandaging, even if you’re capable of doing it yourself, you let me know.”

“But if it’s just stitches, I still get to come to work,” Matt says firmly.

“You get to come to work as long as Claire says you’re able,” Foggy agrees.

“Done.”

“And you call her when you need her. If you’re close to passing out from blood loss, if you get drugged, if you dislocate your shoulder or break your arm or puncture your lung or have a concussion or anything, including, but in no way limited to the previously detailed circumstances, you call her.”

“I accept your terms, counselor.” Matt smiles at him, and Foggy punches him lightly in the arm, careful to avoid where the cut was.

“Great. Let’s eat—“ Foggy goes to stand up.

“Uh, I’m not done,” Matt says quietly, “I won’t—I won’t go out looking for a fight I can’t win. You were right. This life—I wouldn’t take it away from me, I would take it away from you, and that’s not—that’s not acceptable. I’d take out anyone trying to kill your best friend, so that should apply to me, too.”

Foggy lunges across the sofa and wraps him up in a tight hug, and it feels like Matt can breathe for the first time in weeks.

“Thank you,” Foggy whispers, “oh god, Matt, thank you! I know—Christ, I don’t know, but I can imagine how fucking hard it is for you right now, I know you loved her, but—fuck, this means—this means a lot.”

Matt hugs him back. It feels like the world had been spinning the wrong way for a couple of weeks and now it’s back to normal. He inhales deeply, refamiliarizes himself with the scent of Foggy’s shampoo, his conditioner, his cologne, his soap.

“Are you done?” Foggy asks him, pulling out of the hug. He’s sitting closer to Matt now, the careful distance he’d kept between them when they’d first sat down gone.

“Almost,” Matt says with a sheepish smile, “I promise, almost done, then we’ll eat. I’ll also take my responsibilities to the firm of Nelson and Murdock seriously. I will not allow my activities as Daredevil to detract from my work for the firm or its clients. They deserve to have me at my best.”

“You know what, Murdock, you really do know the way to an attorney’s heart, don’t you?” Just like that, Matt knows he’s forgiven, at least provisionally.

“Talk legalese to me, baby!” Foggy cheers.

Matt bursts into laughter and Foggy joins him.

They eat pizza on the sofa, pressed shoulder to shoulder as they watch (well, Foggy watches, Matt listens) to Foggy’s medical drama. He focuses less on the sexually promiscuous doctors and more on Foggy’s voice as he narrates, sometimes with his mouth full. He focuses on the beat of Foggy’s heart, steady and relaxed and maybe even happy.

“Hey, Fogs?” he asks, after the episode is over, and he can hear the slowing of Foggy’s heartbeat as he gets sleepy.

“Hm?”

“I—I can’t make any guarantees, you know that, right? I’m going to try my hardest, but I could still get hurt, I could still die.”

Foggy turns and nuzzles against Matt’s shoulder. “You’re good at this,” he mumbles, “trust you not to.”

The words do something strange to Matt’s insides. It’s a weight lifted off him and a new burden settled on his shoulders at the same time.

---

Foggy wakes him in the morning with the smell of coffee and quiet humming, padding along the kitchen barefoot.

Matt revels in the softness of the morning sun on his skin before he realizes he’s overslept and jumps to his feet.

“I’m gonna be late—fuck, Fogs, I’m so sorry, I just told you last night that I was gonna make more of an effort—“

Foggy’s heart is still beating slow and steady and he smiles as he lifts the coffee cup to his lips, taking a slow sip.

“It’s Saturday, Matty. Besides, I’m your partner, and if you hadn’t noticed, I’m still here too, how late do you think you could’ve been?”

“Oh. Right. Why didn’t you wake me—didn’t mean to spend the night,” Matt mutters.

“I was just as tired, man. I’m pretty sure I fell asleep next to you on the couch last night. You started spreading out, getting comfy and elbowed me in the gut, so I got up and went to bed.”

“Sorry,” Matt mutters.

“Why? That’s what the padding’s for,” Foggy says, patting his stomach.

Matt grins at him. “Did you make me any?” he asks plaintively.

“Why would I?” Foggy teases, “are you difficult in the mornings, Matthew? I hadn’t noticed, you know, all those years sharing a room.”

Matt scrunches up his face and Foggy laughs, walking over to him with a mug in his hand. Matt takes it and groans at the first sip. He has no idea how, but Foggy’s coffee always turns out better than his own.

“God, Fogs, I love you,” he mutters, sinking down onto the sofa to have a moment alone with his coffee.

Foggy’s heart is all light and happy, and it makes Matt smile at his mug. “I know you do,” he says, settling next to him, “you proved it, last night, coming over and offering me those—what did you call them? Concessions?”

Matt shrugs a little. “You make sacrifices for me. Figured I should make some sacrifices to you. Claire helped me figure it out.”

Foggy hums. “You know, the fucking incredible luck you had finding that woman—it’s nearly enough to make me go back to church.”

Matt smiles. “She is pretty incredible, isn’t she?”

“And gorgeous! Too bad she’s too smart to date you, buddy. I’d totally make a move if it weren’t for Marci.”

Matt lets out a long exhale. It’s one of the smaller regrets of his life, that he and Claire never really made a go of it, but at the same time, he wouldn’t trade what he has with her now for the world.

“Hey, Matt?”

“Hm?”

“Yesterday, you said you didn’t wanna be like Frank, that he doesn’t care about anybody. I think—I think you’re wrong about him. He cares about you, about Karen, hell, maybe even about me.”

That last part is what causes Foggy’s heart to beat a little faster in disbelief, and Matt wants to protest, wants to say that Foggy is incredibly lovable, and how could anyone not adore him—But Foggy’s not done, and he clearly feels like he needs to say this, because he doesn’t let Matt get a word in edgewise.

“That night—the night with the Italians, when I got there, when I saw you, he—he apologized to me, did you know that? He thought he let me down or something, said he was sorry. He puts up that front, y’know? Like he doesn’t care, but he does, deep down. About you, at least. Maybe don’t write him off just yet, okay?”

Matt considers it—Foggy’s completely right, of course. Frank does care, he’d said as much to Matt’s face the other day, with Foggy there to witness the whole thing. But he didn’t have to say it. He showed it, in the way he acted, in the way he held Matt at night when they slept in the same bed, in the brisk way he’d rubbed Matt’s arms after the panic attack, or his back after he threw up.

It had been conspicuous in its absence, after the Italians, in the way that Frank stopped talking to him. It sheds new light on that desperate conversation they’d had the night before Frank left. Matt realizes now that that was Frank’s last stand, his last shot at trying to get Matt to change. And when Matt fought him every step of the way, Frank had accepted that he would die, and he’d pulled back to spare himself the pain of having to watch it.

“He’s made his choice, then,” Claire had said to him, kind in the way she was when she was trying to break bad news.

He wishes Frank’s patience had held out a little while longer.

He sits there next to Foggy, each sipping their coffee in comfortable silence.

Chapter Text

Claire clears him to go out again a few days later, when the last of the stitches comes out. He’s not fully healed, but he’s getting there—the bruises are ugly, based on Foggy’s reaction to them, but they’re all pretty superficial. The stab wounds are closing up nicely, and the lacerations are in various stages of thin scabs turning into thin scars.

He’ll never have sex with the lights on again, he thinks to himself one day. He tells Foggy, who punches him in the shoulder and asks what difference it would make to him anyway, whether the lights were on or off.

It’s a fair point.

“Besides, you’re still stupid hot, buddy, so don’t worry too much about it,” he adds afterwards, because he can sense that maybe Matt does have some feelings about his body, how it used to look to others—or how others reacted to it, and how they might react to it now.

---

He meditates for a little while before he goes out at night. It clears his mind, centers him, so he doesn’t get distracted or caught off guard during a fight.

He remembers Frank’s voice, angry as he’d yelled at him that night.

“You were sloppy! You were sloppy and you let them cut you. You let them hold a gun to your head!”

A disordered mind will get you killed, Stick’s voice drones in his head.

They’re both right. Matt’s made a commitment to his family, and he’d die to—

“Dying’s easy,” Frank whispers to him, “living? That’s the real shit, Red. That’s the real shit.”

He’s made a commitment to his family, and he’ll live to uphold it.

“There’s nobody else I’d make that promise for,” he’d said to Foggy. He remembers the way he’d held him afterwards, like he was scared that Matt would dissolve into thin air.

So he meditates, to help ensure he can keep his promise.

Once he’s done meditating, he stands up and changes into the suit, pausing to text Foggy. He starts off small, going on patrol each night, letting himself get back into the swing of things. He texts Foggy every night, before he goes out and after he comes back, mostly uninjured now that he’s got the suit again.

Matt realizes anew exactly how good Melvin’s work is, and makes a mental note to drop in on him soon, check up on him and Betsy. He’d made him a promise, too. For the first time in a long while, he wakes up in the morning and his ribs aren’t sore.

Word gets out that the Devil’s back in the Kitchen, after being quiet for a little while. Things are good.

He keeps an ear on the pulse of the city, but steers clear of the gangs for now. Nobody’s planning anything anyway, everyone’s too busy being terrified of the Punisher.

---

The Irish are the first to regroup, and the minute Matt hears about it, he knows there’s going to be trouble. They’re better organized than the Russians were, and they rebuild faster than the Mexican cartel, who seem to have moved out of the Kitchen (or gone extinct). The Dogs of Hell are pretty much gone, too, shifting to other cities, not held together by bonds of national loyalty like the Mexicans or the Irish.

None of the new Irish that are coming in were responsible for Frank’s family’s murders, but if Matt had to guess, Frank doesn’t give a shit. If he’s in the city, he’ll exterminate the entire Irish mob all over again. If he’s gone, he’ll have kept an ear to the ground, and he’s probably on his way back… to exterminate the entire Irish mob all over again.

He texts Foggy, lets him know he’s checking out the Irish, gives him the address of their new base. He’s just planning on doing recon, but… he doesn’t know what could happen, and Frank’s a wild card. He changes the calculus, whether he’s there or not. Firefights, stray bullets, Frank himself turning on Matt, even, if he catches him in the wrong mood on the wrong day.

He remembers the horror show that was Frank’s foot, the twisted, torn ligaments, muscles frayed and exposed to the air, bones not simply broken, but drilled through, fragmenting in every direction. He remembers his secret conviction that he’d never walk the same way again, proven wrong by Frank’s superhuman ability to overcome the limitations of his body.

The way he’d screamed, but didn’t break, not until they brought the dog out and put the drill to his head.

He crosses himself before he makes his way to the roof, prays that he can keep the promises he’s made Foggy.

He’s not surprised that the Irish are already drowning in chaos by the time he arrives—if he’d heard they were rebuilding, it wouldn’t take much for Frank to have heard the same thing. He’s not surprised, but he does find himself a little nervous. Not at the prospect of the fight—he lives for that, deals with it every day—but at the prospect of having to see Frank again.

Well. Not see. He smirks a little to himself, but then he hears the crack of gunshots, followed by screaming and the scent of blood, so strong it permeates the walls and reaches him, even outside the building.

Behind it all is that sure, steady heartbeat that Matt has had memorized for weeks now.

He sighs and heads to the roof of the building, figuring it’ll be good to have the high ground, even if it is just for a moment.

He starts in with the batons, with his fists, hears one of the men scream that the Devil is here, hears another curse at their luck, having to deal with both Daredevil and the Punisher on the same fucking night.

He gets through the guards, only to find that they’ve captured Frank, that they’ve taken off the vest, thrown it to the ground, and are punching him over and over again. Ribs, face, ribs on the other side, face.

“Get outta here, Red,” Frank mumbles, so quiet that the people beating him think he’s losing it.

The head of the Irish—some new guy, younger, eager to prove himself to be just as sick as the last one, who’d drilled a hole in Frank’s foot—looks up, catches Matt’s movements and cocks his gun, pressing it against Frank’s temple.

“How ya doin’, Frank?” Matt asks, carefully casual.

“Been worse,” Frank rumbles, earning himself a punch to the gut.

“Come now, boys,” the leader says, standing tall and brash. “The whole city knows that the Punisher and Daredevil don’t get on, let’s stop pretending you give a shit whether this trash lives or dies, yeah? We’re doin’ ya a favor, taking him out. You can repay us by turning around and walking out of here.”

“Not gonna happen. Kind of a personal policy not to do any favors for criminals,” Matt says quietly.

The guy shrugs, doesn’t seem to care much either way, and leans down to shoot Frank in the thigh.

“Got a few more in here. Next one’ll be in his skull. It’d be a mercy, wouldn’t it, Frankie? You’ll go join your bitch soon enough. And the little brats, too.”

Frank’s heart pounds at the insult, and he lets out a roar and leans over to smash his skull against the other man’s ribs, can’t do anything else, but can’t let them use that word about his wife, either.

Matt uses the distraction and launches a club at the guy’s hand, knocks the gun out. He starts with him, leaves him unconscious on the floor. He turns to free Frank, but the others attack before he can do much more than wraps Frank’s fingers around a knife he’d lifted from one of them. He lets himself slip into a fighting stance, senses the way they all move, cautious but confident in their advantage. What they don’t know is that Daredevil and the Punisher against five guys is hardly an even fight, but not in the way they think. He ducks and weaves and punches and kicks and throws elbows, yanks heads down onto his knees. The sharp crack of broken nose and burst of blood in the air is one of the best things he’s ever felt. He takes on most of them, until there’s only one left, holding a knife to Frank’s throat.

“Bad idea,” Matt says, sensing that Frank’s hands aren’t tied down anymore.

“What—“

Frank breaks his wrist, takes the knife and shoves it into his throat.

He cuts his feet loose and looks down at the leader of the Irish.

“I’m gonna kill ‘im,” Frank says, voice rough, “and if you try to stop me, Red, I’ll kill you, too.”

“The police are on their way,” Matt lies, “we’ve got to move, we can’t be here when they show up.”

“We have enough time for this.” Frank doesn’t brook any argument, and Matt hears him take the gun from the man’s limp fingers, hears him thumb off the safety, and closes his eyes when he hears the shot, smells the brains spilled onto the floor.

“Talk about my kids like that again, asshole,” Frank whispers, “talk about my wife like that again, you fucking piece of shit.”

The strength he’d found through pure, unadulterated rage and a bone-deep drive to survive fades now that the leader of the Irish is dead.

“Frank,” Matt says helplessly.

“If you’re goin’ to tell me that I shouldn’t’ve done it, I’ll remind you now that there’s more bullets in this gun, and I know your helmet can take it.” He sounds like he did that night in the graveyard, wrought with pain and grief, old wounds rent open all over again.

“I wasn’t going to say that. Just—come home, Frank. You’re hurt. I know you can manage on your own, but—let me help. Please. As a favor.”

“Still an altar boy, huh?” Frank says quietly.

“Just trying to do right by you. Please. Come with me, we’ll call Claire, she can come and fix you up.”

Matt waits for Frank to nod before he steps forward, slipping under one of Frank’s arms and hearing him grunt at the way it jostles his ribs.

“Vest,” Frank says softly. Matt leans him against a wall and picks it up, slipping his arms through it before ducking back under Frank’s arm.

“We got it, now let’s go.”

Matt takes a moment to inhale deeply, smell that scent again, gunpowder and soap and coffee on his breath, and begins the process of getting them both out of there.

---

Frank’s only half-conscious by the time they get back to the apartment. Possibly even less than half.

“Eyes on me, Frank,” Matt orders him, one hand pressing hard on Frank’s leg, the other dialing Claire’s number. “Don’t let those eyes fucking close, Lieutenant, you hear me?” The rank still sits awkwardly on his tongue, but at least this time, he’s got the right tone of voice.

“Yessir,” Frank mutters, sounding as if he might be smiling a little, “’m not goin’ anywhere, Matty.”

Matt ignores the flush of warmth from the nickname and waits for the phone to ring, praying that Claire’s not working a night shift tonight.

“Hey, Claire—nope, not me this time. Look, Frank’s got a bullet in his leg,” he says quickly, “can you—oh, thank God, Claire, I love you, you’re the best. I’m putting pressure on it, I’ll keep him awake, but he’s lost a lot of blood—it smelled like a lot, anyway. Right, see you soon.”

“Talk,” he orders Frank, “we need to keep you awake until she gets here.”

“Gettin’ to be a bad habit, huh?” Frank mumbles.

“Gonna need to be a little more specific. We both have our vices, Frank.”

“Us, savin’ each other.”

Matt can’t argue, really. “I wouldn’t call it a bad habit,” he says lamely. “Tell me something else.”

Frank huffs. “Lied t’you. The night after the Italians.”

Matt perks up, suddenly interested in what Frank’s got to say. “No you didn’t, I would’ve known,” he says without thinking.

“Fine, didn’t lie, just… wasn’t honest.”

“About what, Frank? You were right, pretty much everything you said was spot on.”

“Made it sound like I was pissed off for Nelson, for Claire ‘n Karen. But mostly I was mad for me, Matty. Kept thinkin’ haven’t I lost enough? Why’s he tryin’ to leave, too? Wondered… wondered what it was about me, why my people keep endin’ up dead.”

The confession sits heavy in Matt’s stomach. “Jesus, Frank—“

“Pretty sure He didn’t have much to do with it.” Matt shakes his head at Frank’s attempt at levity—they can’t laugh it away this time.

“God, Frank, no—“ he says fervently, “no, it wasn’t—it had nothing to do with you, I swear to God. I just—it was me, it was my own head, nothing to do with you.”

“I know, Red. Just—just hard to believe, sometimes.”

“Well, fucking believe it,” Matt says, caught off guard by how forceful his voice is. “If I die—when I die, someday, that’s not on you.”

“Hypocrisy, altar boy. Ain’t that a sin?”

“Hm?” He can hear Claire, running up the stairs, clutching her bag, and he takes Frank’s hand and presses it to the wound. “Push down hard, Frank, come on. Claire’s coming, I’ve got to go get the door.”

Frank does, his other hand coming over to trap Matt’s in between.

“I was a coward. Couldn’t stick around, couldn’t watch you die. Not you, too. Shoulda stayed,” Frank says, “I’m sorry, Red, I shoulda stayed.”

“Hey,” Matt says sharply, “you’re not dying, I don’t need a sappy deathbed apology. Claire’s coming, you’re going to be fine, maybe a bit woozy, and you’ll stay here while you recover, understood?”

“You’re better at givin’ orders than you are at takin’ ‘em,” Frank says with a little lopsided smile, “but sure, understood.”

Matt pulls his hand away, ignores the fact that it’s tacky with blood, and goes to the door to let Claire in, gives her space to work.

“No exit wound. So bullet’s still in there. How do we—okay, take the bullet out or leave it in?” she mutters, asking herself more than she’s asking Matt. “Not too close to the femoral artery, not near sciatic or femoral nerves…”

“You told me to leave it in, for Vladimir,” Matt offers.

“Yeah, because I fucking hated him,” Claire says, “and you had no resources and no experience. And you didn’t care whether he’d be functional afterwards. For Frank—he’s going to want full functionality, and that means that bullet’s gotta come out at some point… now or later, and the longer it stays in there, the more risk of infection…”

Matt goes quiet. Getting the bullet out… that’s going to be messy, and Frank’s already lost what smelled like a lot of blood.

“We’ve got to do it,” Claire decides finally, “it’s got to come out. Now’s a good time to start praying, Matt. I’m a nurse, not a surgeon—this could go wrong in about a million different ways.”

Matt takes a deep breath and begins mumbling prayers.

“I might need you to hold him down—get him something to bite down on, he can’t be screaming or the cops will show up knocking down your door.” Matt grabs a clean dish towel and folds it over. He pulls down on Frank’s chin gently.

“Wha’s goin’ on?” Frank asks, “Red?”

“Yeah, Frank, it’s me. Bite down on this if you need to, okay? Claire’s got to get it out if you want that leg to be usable anytime soon.”

He can hear the fear in Frank’s heartbeat, but he doesn’t say anything, just opens his mouth to accept the dish towel.

“It’s going to be okay,” Matt promises, fully aware that he might be making a liar of himself to a man who’s never lied to him.

“I don’t have any sedatives—no anesthesia, so it’s going to be crucial that you hold him still,” Claire orders, “hopefully he passes out, but if he wakes up while I’m in there, it could do some real damage.”

She’s nervous, her heart racing in her chest. Her hands are steady, though.

“If anyone can do this, it’s you, Claire,” he says firmly, “you’re incredible. I trust you. Frank trusts you. We’re going to get through this.”

“Dios, ayudame,” she mumbles. Matt swallows hard, knowing that Claire’s faith isn’t particularly strong. She must be really scared to be invoking God now.

She inhales slowly. “Okay. I’ll start by cutting off the pant leg, then we’ll get in there.”

He nods, puts pressure on the wound while she cuts through the fabric.

“Okay. We need something—if he keeps bleeding, I won’t be able to see, we need to be able to cauterize if it comes to that—go heat up something over the fire. Uh, something that won’t burn the shit out of you. Wood or plastic handle, metal end. It’s got to be hot enough to burn flesh, Matt.”

Matt’s heart is in his throat, and it’s hard to breathe, but he finds a knife with a metal handle, heats it over the stove until he feels the heat radiating out towards him.

Please, God, don’t let us have to use this, he prays, as hard as he can.

“Red?” Frank asks weakly, through the towel in his mouth.

“He’s here, Frank, he’s just getting supplies,” Claire reassures him, “we’re going to get you fixed up. It’s gonna hurt, though.”

Frank hums in acknowledgement, fading from consciousness.

“Matt, hurry it up, we can’t wait much longer,” Claire orders.

Matt does, comes back and carefully sets it on the coffee table in case they need it.

“Okay.” Claire says okay a lot when things are not okay. Maybe it helps her calm down. “Okay. Going in, hopefully it comes out nice and easy—“

She reaches in with forceps and suddenly Frank’s yanked back into consciousness, jerking away from the pain.

“Matt!” Claire orders, and Matt doesn’t even think, swings his body over Frank’s torso and sits down, holding him down by the weight of his body and leaning down with all his strength on his shin to immobilize the knee.

Frank moans in pain, the sound muffled by the towel in his mouth.

“Shh, shh, Frank, it’s okay,” Matt lies, “it’s going to be okay, you’re fine, Claire’s just got to find it, take it out. Go back to sleep, Frank, it’s okay to pass out—“ He’s babbling, and he knows it, and Claire knows it, but Frank’s leg is still, and her hands are steady, even if her heart is racing.

“Where are you, you little fucker,” she mutters. She lets out a little grunt of frustration. “Right, I need you to hold a flashlight for me so I can see better.”

Matt goes to take the flashlight in his hand, but she moves it towards his face instead. “Open up. He’s not going to like this next part, we need your hands holding him down.”

He opens his mouth and holds the flashlight still, ignoring the taste of the metal on his tongue and how surreal the entire situation is.

She works in silence, Frank still twitching and groaning and both of them ignoring the sound of the pain they’re inflicting on him.

The forceps click against something metal, and Matt’s heart is already feeling lighter when he hears Claire’s little cry of triumph.

“Got you, you bastard,” she says, almost in disbelief, “now come out clean, let’s get him cleaned up—“

Matt exhales in relief, hears the bullet being pulled up through Frank’s torn muscle.

Claire sighs when it’s out, relaxing but only for the briefest moment.

“Keep holding him down, Matt—this next part won’t be pretty, we’re going to clean it out. Irrigating the wound…”

Frank starts jerking with renewed strength, eager to escape from the pain, but Matt just grits his teeth and bears down harder.

“One more, one more, and then we’ll stop for tonight,” Claire says quickly, repeating the motion.

“And we’re done—Matt, give me the bandages, sweetheart, let’s get this guy wrapped up.”

Matt finds the bandages and hands them to her, lifting Frank’s leg so she can get all the way around it quickly and easily.

“You did it,” Matt says a little awed.

“You sound so surprised, for someone who trusted me and knew I could do it the whole time,” Claire says dryly.

Matt laughs, relief filling his chest.

“One of these days, I might have to ask you to marry me,” he teases, “and you’ll have to break my heart and say no.”

She smiles. “Come on, Romeo, let’s get him into the bed, then I for one am getting some well-deserved rest.”

Matt bears most of Frank’s weight, but she takes his legs so they don’t have to bend and strain the wound, and together, they manage to maneuver him into the bed and under the covers.

“He’s in for a world of hurt tomorrow,” Claire says quietly, “if you can get some painkillers from somewhere… that might be a good idea.”

Matt considers it. “Foggy might have some left over from when he got shot. If not, I’ll… look into it.” He’s already considering the prescription drug dealers in Hell’s Kitchen, where he could go and make a strategic bust.

“Not tonight, you won’t. Go the fuck to bed.”

Matt smiles. “Couch is yours, if you want it,” Matt offers, “but it actually is bloody this time.”

“And where would you sleep, then, diablito?” Claire asks, voice so carefully innocent that he knows immediately she’s messing with him. Payback for the joke about asking her to marry him.

“On the floor, unless you want me on the couch with you, mi enfermerita,” he retorts, feeling himself blush. He’s never called her that before, his little nurse, and the possessive pronoun feels presumptuous, but it feels fair, given that she calls him her little devil.

“Very good, Matt. But your bed’s big enough for two,” she says nonchalantly.

“Claire,” he warns.

“I’m just saying! He up and left a couple weeks ago, and now he’s back and sleeping in your bed!”

Matt sighs. “Elektra just died, Claire,” he says quietly, “she just died.”

She softens and pulls him into a hug. “I’m sorry. I just—he cares about you. And I’d like to see you be happy with someone.”

“I was happy with her,” he says, knowing even as he says it that it’s a lie. Now that she’s gone, he’s whitewashing their time together, telling himself she was the love of his life, that she was perfect and beautiful and nobody else could ever make him feel that way. If he cares to be honest with himself, he’d think about their fights, how vicious she could be when she let herself, how she knew exactly where to hit to hurt him and never held back.

He doesn’t care to be honest with himself about that, though. He’s not ready yet. He likes living in self-deception.

“Were you? Because I talked to Foggy—“

“Foggy is not the authority on me or my relationship with her!” Matt snaps, pulling away from her, voice rising. “He never knew how she really was, he just hates her because she—“ The fight seeps from his bones. “Because she hurt me.”

Claire lays her hand on Matt’s shoulder. “I haven’t said anything out of respect for you, because she’s dead, and you’re grieving. But if she hurt you, I’m not a huge fan either, mi diablito.”

Matt sighs a little, tilting his head and listening to Frank stir—he’d been too loud, and Frank hadn’t taken anything for the pain. He’s out only at the mercy of his own body.

“Right, point taken, I should try to find someone,” he says, more to end the conversation than in genuine agreement. “Now, do you want me to walk you home, or do you want me to make up the couch for you? I’ve got clean sheets and pillows and things—once it’s ready it’s actually not half bad.”

She shrugs. “I got nowhere to be in the morning. You owe me breakfast, Murdock.”

“Done.”

“And gossip.”

“Also done. Not that there’s much going on with me at the minute that you don’t already know.”

She smiles and leans over, pressing her lips to his cheek. “And that’s exactly how I like it.”

He shakes his head, knowing full well that he’s got a fond smile on his face. He pulls out the sheets and fetches his pillow from the bed, because it’s comfier than the couch cushions, and then finds a spare blanket. He waits for her to lie down before laying the blanket carefully over her.

He finds a spare blanket and grabs one of the cushions he’d deemed too uncomfortable for Claire and squashes it into a better shape, stretching himself out on the rug next to the coffee table and closing his eyes. He opens them again a moment later, because something’s not right. He’s forgotten something—he thinks for a moment, and then remembers that in all the commotion, he hadn’t texted Foggy that he’d gotten home safe. He’s so tired, he almost considers not doing it, but he hasn’t missed a day yet, and Foggy deserves to know.

He gets up and goes to the bathroom to dictate the message without disturbing Claire.

Home safe. Sorry I didn’t text earlier, Frank got shot and I had to help Claire stabilize him. Don’t worry—I’m not injured.

He has the phone repeat it back to him before pressing send and going back out to the living room. The worry in the back of his mind eases and he relaxes against the rug. He closes his eyes, and this time sleep comes easily.

---

He wakes in the middle of the night to two heartbeats. One is steady, relaxed in sleep.

But the one in the bedroom is racing.

Matt’s first, sleep-blurred thought is oh, shit, someone broke in. He lurches up, grabs his cane, and bursts into the bedroom.

Only to hear still a single heartbeat. Then again, the Hand knew how to mask their heartbeats… if they still had them.

Frank lets out a grunt of pain, curls up to protect his leg, and Matt knows with sudden, painful certainty that there is nobody else in the apartment. Frank’s haunted by his own memories.

He relaxes, going over to sit on the other side of the bed.

“Frank,” he says softly, “wake up, Frank. It’s not—“ He’d been about to say it wasn’t real, but given Frank’s life, it very well could have been. “It’s—you’re here, you’re in my apartment, you’re safe, I’m here too, and Claire—“

Frank goes still all of a sudden, waking with a stuttering gasp.

“It’s just me,” Matt says quietly, waiting for him to reorient himself, “you’re in my place—do you remember the Irish? Claire getting here and fixing you up?”

“Remember the Irish,” Frank mutters, body relaxing and sinking into the mattress, “you gettin’ me outta there. Not much after.”

“You weren’t very awake after that, and that’s probably for the best.” Matt admits, smelling the sharp scent of fear and sweat in the air. “Are you—“ What, okay? Good? Clearly he’s neither of those things—he’s just had a nightmare, after being shot in the leg and beaten to within an inch of his life.

Frank saves him the trouble of having to answer, mutters “yeah, fine.”

Matt suddenly empathizes a little more with Foggy, realized how annoying it is to have someone tell you they’re fine when they very clearly are not.

“Do you want me to read to you?” he asks, hesitant to make the offer, because maybe it doesn’t help for Frank, not the way it does for him.

“Yeah, okay.”

Matt fetches a book and sits next to him on the bed, running his fingers over the Braille and reading it out loud in a low, soft voice, hoping Claire won’t wake up.

Eventually, Frank’s heart steadies and slows, and his respiration grows deep and even. Matt smiles a little and puts the book on the nightstand.

He goes to stand up, but Frank reaches out, finds his wrist and holds on. Matt gives an experimental tug to get free.

“Stay,” Frank mumbles, voice heavy with exhaustion.

Sleeping on a bed beats sleeping on a rug, even without a pillow, and Frank wants him there, so Matt carefully gets under the covers, trying not to think about how smug Claire will be in the morning.

Chapter Text

He wakes with his head resting on Frank’s shoulder, Frank’s arm wrapped under and around him to hold him there. His own arm is laying across Frank’s abdomen.

Matt lays there in a soft daze, lets himself rest, enjoys the freedom of waking up without an alarm, or the panic of being late, or rushing out the door, eager to show Foggy that he’s making an effort. It’s easier now, but he still has to prove himself, and he’s determined to do it.

He sits and lets the details of last night filter through his consciousness, and then he remembers the big, heavy fists hitting at Frank’s ribs, over and over.

The ribs his own chest is now leaning on, on one side. He recoils a little, pulls away, but the movement is too sudden, and Frank wakes up.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes with his free hand.

“Morning,” Matt says apologetically, “I was—your ribs must be sore, and I was leaning on them. Sorry.”

“If you were hurtin’ me, I woulda let you know,” Frank says, voice thick with sleep, “speaking of which, my leg is fucking killing me.”

Matt grimaces. “Yeah, I’m gonna call Foggy, see if he’s got any painkillers left over from when he got shot a few weeks ago, otherwise I’ll go out tonight, bust up a few prescription drug deals, see if we can’t get you something stronger than aspirin.”

“You don’t have to go to the trouble, Red, it’s okay.”

“I’ve been shot,” Matt reminds him, “it hurts like hell, even for a Marine.”

“Okay, yeah, it does… sting. You know, a bit.” Lie, his heart whispers.

“I get it, you’re a big, tough man,” Matt doesn’t bother to disguise his amusement, “but even big, strong men get hurt.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Matt doesn’t pay much attention, assumes it’s just Foggy, coming over to check on him.

He gets up, but Claire’s there first, opening the door.

“Uh, hi.” It’s not Foggy, it’s Karen, and she’s thrown off by the fact that a woman is answering Matt’s door.

“Oh, you’re Karen?” Claire says politely, “come in, I’ll go get him. He had a late night, he’s probably still asleep.”

“You know who I am?”

“Sure, Matt told me about you.”

“Oh. He, uh, didn’t mention you to me.” There’s an edge in her voice, annoyed at another secret. “Do you know why he had a long night?”

“Yeah. He tells me everything.” It’s just a statement, and it’s true, but Karen doesn’t like to hear it.

Matt panics. “Karen’s here,” he whispers to Frank, “what do we—okay, I’ll go out and talk to her, you stay here.”

“Gotta hole in my leg, Red. I might be a big, strong Marine, but I’m not super excited about running around on a fucked up leg.”

“Where did I leave the fucking suit?” Matt mumbles, scrambling out of bed. He’s wearing sweatpants—that’s something at least, but no shirt, and that’s… not ideal, considering he’s still got some lacerations and one stab wound healing up.

He bursts out of the bedroom, realizing instantly that the suit is in a crumpled pile near the couch.

“Uh. Hi, Karen,” he says, trying way too hard to sound casual and utterly failing. “Morning, Claire.”

“Morning, mi diablito,” Claire says sweetly, “sleep well?”

What is she playing at? Does she want to make Karen jealous? Maybe she wants to spur some kind of reconciliation between them?

“Karen?” Matt asks, refocusing on her. “Did you, uh, need something? Did something come up with a case?”

She doesn’t answer, and he suddenly wishes he had a shirt on—he can feel her eyes lingering on the open medkit on the coffee table, on the suit he’d stripped off in exhaustion near the sofa, on his torso, tracing the lines of scars and still healing scabs, on the gauze taped on his side, making sure his stab wound heals cleanly.

“Uh, I see you met Claire.”

“I did.” she says coolly.

“She’s my friend,” Matt volunteers, “and my nurse.”

Claire looks between them and shifts her weight awkwardly. “I’ll uh, go wait in your room.” She kisses Matt’s cheek as she passes him, slipping the door open and sliding it shut after her, so Karen doesn’t see Frank.

Matt’s not sure if her leaving to go hide in his bedroom helps or hurts, but it’s a studio apartment, that’s about the only place she can go, other than the bathroom.

“Come, sit,” Matt says awkwardly, “uh, I’m just gonna go grab a…” There’s a sweatshirt tossed haphazardly on the chair and he pulls it on, zipping it up.

She sits on the sofa—well, she perches, more accurately, setting herself down right on the edge of the cushion.

“If I’d known it was a bad time, I would have called first.”

“It’s not a bad time,” Matt lies. It’s not just a bad time, it’s just about the worst possible time. The only thing that would make this worse is if Elektra—oh, and there’s that pain in his chest again, at the thought of her being gone, never being in his home again, never hearing her voice again.

“I just wanted to say I… am coming to terms with what you told me. About what you do at night. And I know you’re trying to do better at the firm, and I believe in the work Daredevil does.” But I don’t like that you’re him, she doesn’t say and doesn’t have to. I don’t mind him putting his life in danger to make the city a better place, as long as he’s a stranger and I don’t actually care about him.

“I appreciate that,” Matt says quietly, “I meant what I said—you don’t owe me anything. Not even forgiveness. So if you give it to me, I’d be getting more than I deserved.”

“Yes, you would. Especially considering I seem to be the last person to know.”

A little dig at Claire, and Matt’s tired and he can’t quite bite back the reply.

“Claire knew me as Daredevil first, and she earned my trust in a way I hope nobody else ever does,” he says bitingly, “because I wouldn’t wish what happened to her on anybody else I love.”

She’s looking at him, and he wishes he could see her expression. Her heart is plodding along—probably not happy, but not panicked or furious, either. Heartbeats can be kind of limited in that way.

“I’ll see you at work, Matt. Take care of yourself—it looks like this takes its toll on you.”

“We all have our scars,” Matt says quietly, rising to his feet and walking her to the door. “You take care, too, Karen.”

She says a quiet goodbye and he closes the door, walking back to the bedroom. Claire’s sitting at the foot of the bed, near Frank, and it’s painfully obvious they were both listening in on that conversation.

“So,” he says, grimacing, “how did that sound?”

“Fine,” Claire says, too brightly by far, “it was… fine. It was great!” Lie, lie, lie.

“Terrible,” Frank says, at the same time. Truth. “Like you’re in love with Claire.” Truth again.

“So about what I thought, then,” Matt mutters, “at least she didn’t notice the blanket on the floor, that would’ve tipped her off to the fact that there was someone else around other than me and Claire.”

“Why can’t she know about Frank?” Claire asks.

“Because I hit her with a car,” Frank says.

“Because she’s obsessed with saving him,” Matt says at the same time. “Hang on, you hit her with a car?!”

“The Blacksmith was in the car, and I made sure she was fine before I left,” Frank offers, more an explanation than an excuse.

“And what was all that before I got out, Claire?” Matt asks, flopping down and murmuring an apology when his weight hits the bed and jars Frank’s leg. “Oh, Matt tells me everything, oh, mi diablito, the kiss on the cheek—it’s like you wanted her to think we were together!”

She shrugs. “It was the first time I’d ever met her, I wanted to see how she’d react. Besides, jealousy is a powerful motivator, I thought maybe if she was jealous, she’d get over herself and forgive you.”

Matt softens—not that he was ever really angry. “You’re ridiculous, Claire,” he says fondly, “if I didn’t love you, I might even be annoyed right now.”

“But you do, so you’re not,” Claire says lightly, “and I was promised breakfast and gossip in return for services rendered, I believe. Gossip I just got, but you better get your ass up and start working on breakfast, Murdock. And do that thing with the bacon, where you cut it up and put it in with the eggs, okay? And the herbs—cilantro, right?”

“I’ll see what I have… grocery shopping isn’t my top priority most days, Claire.”

“No, of course not. Why would it be? It’s not like you need food to live or anything,” Claire mutters, before raising her voice back to a normal volume. “Alright, Frank, let’s take a look at that leg, hm? And I’ll get you some aspirin—it won’t do much for the pain, but it’s something, and maybe placebo effect will take the edge off a little.”

“Does placebo effect even work if you tell me that’s what it is?” Frank asks, honestly curious.

“Studies have been mixed, it’s actually quite interesting…” Claire starts, and Matt takes that as his cue to get up and go to the kitchen.

Foggy shows up while he’s in the middle of cooking the eggs, and Matt thinks about the frying pan, trying to calculate the probability that they’ll burn if he runs to get the door. He’s not willing to risk it, he decides. Besides, if Foggy’s here, he should probably make more eggs anyway.

“Claire,” he calls, “get the door!”

Claire comes out a few seconds later. “Oh, hi, Foggy!”

“Hey—I got a text from Matt last night saying Frank got shot?!”

“Yeah, in the leg, he’s in Matt’s room—do you want breakfast? We’re doing late breakfast.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Is Matt making it?”

“Yup, it’s payment for fixing up Frank last night. He’s in the kitchen, if you want to check him out, but he’s really not injured.”

“You checked him over?”

“Not exactly? But I did get a pretty good look this morning.”

Matt feels himself blushing. “I’m fine, Fogs—seriously, you can look if you want, but I’m fine! I did wanna ask you, though—do you have any painkillers left from when you… hurt your shoulder?”

He still struggles to say it, still struggles to deal with it, still dreams about the bullet hitting him somewhere else, holding him as he bled out, a painful echo of the way he’d held his dead father in his hands.

“I thought you said you were okay!”

“For Frank. Claire got the bullet out of him last night, but his leg’s still a mess. It must be bad—I’ve seen him stitch up his own knife wounds by moonlight and not make a sound.”

Foggy hums—he’d picked up the habit early on in their friendship, humming in agreement rather than nodding, knowing that Matt wouldn’t be able to see the movement and not yet knowing that Matt could still sense it.

“He’s in my room, if you wanna go say hi,” Matt offers, because he can feel Foggy staring at him, can almost feel the conversation he wants to start.

What happened? How’d he end up back here? Why is he in your bed?

A memory from weeks ago floats to the front of Matt’s mind, him and Foggy in a coffee shop, discussing their newest client.

Oh, Matt. Only you would have a crush on a guy who shot you in the head.

Instead, Foggy ambles off towards the bedroom, sliding the door open and leaving it that way, so that the strains of Frank and Claire’s conversation drifts over to him unfiltered by the thin door.

“Hey Frank. Heard you got yourself shot,” Foggy says lightly, sitting on the bed next to him.

“Anything to get a pretty boy to take me home,” Frank says dryly. Over in the kitchen, Matt flushes and turns his head down to face the frying pan.

“Really? Who pulled the bullet out of your leg, Frank?” Claire scolds, “because it definitely wasn’t the blind guy, no matter how hot he is.”

“Didn’t say hot, did I, Nelson? That’s your word, ma’am. What with that and the kissing and the cutesy nickname, you two give off real couple vibes.”

“Kissing? Matt told me it was over, but you’d be great together! I totally approve!” Foggy says brightly.

“On the cheek!” Claire says defensively. She’s probably blushing, but Matt’s too far away to sense the increased blood flow heating her face. “And we’re not together.”

“Well, there goes my chance of having adorable godbabies,” Foggy mutters desolately.

“—Besides, I’ve been calling him mi diablito since before I knew his name!”

There’s a rustle—Frank moving, his clothes shifting against the sheets. “Sure got Karen’s eyes turning green,” he says, “not that Matty helped much. What happened to you, anyway? He always talks around it—“

“Nothing good,” Matt says flatly from the doorway, “it was my fault, and then—well, that was just one of many things I’ve asked of you, Claire.”

“You got to me in time, diablito,” Claire says tenderly, “and I was never angry at you. You need to stop beating yourself up over it.”

“Easier said than done, mi enfermerita.” The nickname comes easier the second time, flows a little smoother off his tongue. “I’m Catholic, remember?”

“Okay, Frank’s right, you two do give off cutesy couple vibes,” Foggy says suddenly, “no wonder Karen got all jealous.”

“She shouldn’t have talked shit about Claire,” Matt mutters.

“She didn’t talk shit,” Claire says, sounding touched at his defense of her, “she more sort of… implied shit.”

“You spend too much time with lawyers, Claire. You’re starting to sound like one.” Frank warns.

Matt feels something in him ease—Foggy, Claire, Frank, all in the same room, all talking, nobody actively bleeding… It’s actually pretty nice.

“Breakfast’s ready. Frank, you want to stay in here or come eat at the table?”

“Table—I’m not gettin’ eggs in your sheets.”

Matt ducks under his arm on the side of his bad leg. Foggy gets under his other arm just to steady him a little more.

Claire strides right over to the kitchen and starts grabbing plates and forks, setting them on the table.

“Coffee?” Frank grunts once he’s situated in his chair. There’s a slight strain to his voice. His leg had been horizontal all night—feeling the blood rush into it as he hobbled across the apartment probably wasn’t the best feeling in the world.

Matt tries to think of a way for him to prop up his leg without shifting the entire layout of the apartment in a way that’ll leave him bruised for days, walking into things that used to be six inches to the left.

He can’t think of anything—this is the problem with having what Foggy has euphemistically deemed a “minimalist aesthetic.”

There’s only one thing to be done. He leans down and reaches out his hand in Frank’s direction.

“What’re you doing?” Frank asks warily.

“Oh, I’m going to kill you, Frank. Here, at the table, with my best friend and nurse both watching,” Matt says dryly. He finds Frank’s ankle and grasps it. “Brace yourself.”

Matt shifts over on his chair so there’s a decent amount of room on the seat and picks up Frank’s foot. He sets it in the empty space, close to his thigh but not quite touching.

“Reducing the blood flow to the wound should help with the inflammation,” he says to the stunned-silent group of people eating him out of house and home.

“Right,” Claire’s voice holds a hint of amusement, “of course. Good idea, Matt.”

“Smooth,” Foggy breathes out, disguising the word as a slow exhale to cool his coffee. His voice is so quiet that only Matt’s able to hear it.

At least Matt hopes he’s the only one who can hear it.

Claire ducks out right after breakfast, pausing to press a kiss to Matt’s cheek. It might be out of genuine affection, or it might just be to make a point to Frank and Foggy.

Foggy sticks around, washes the dishes while Matt gets Frank to the bathroom and then back to bed.

“I don’t think I have any crutches,” he says apologetically.

“It’s fine—I can get to the bathroom if I need it.”

Matt nods. “I’ll come back for lunch, okay? Let me know if you feel like anything in particular, I’ll pick it up on the way back.”

“I’ll run by my place real quick before work,” Foggy offers, “pick up the pills, that way Matt can bring them to you at lunch. Cover my morning meeting with Mrs. Vasquez?”

“Sure. Because you’re so selfless, and just trying to help Frank, and totally not just because she pinches your cheeks so hard they go red for the rest of the day,” Matt teases.

“See? We’re the perfect partnership! You totally understand me, and I deal with the devastating burden of having to look at your perfect face every day.”

Frank huffs a little laugh, and then Foggy’s out the door, leaving Matt to pulls on his suit as fast as he can.

“You need anything, give me a call, okay? You’ve got Claire’s number, too, if you start to feel bad, and Foggy’s—“

“I’m good, Red, seriously. Go to work. If you’re good, I’ll save you a pain pill in case this Vasquez lady gets her hands on your cheeks.”

“Sweet talk, Frank? It’ll work every time, y’know.” Matt makes his way over to the door, grabs his cane and glasses. “Hey, that book you left here is in the drawer, if you wanna read it,” he calls out.

“Go to work!”

Matt smiles a little, shakes his head, and goes.

---

Foggy’s bottle of painkillers is nearly full when he comes into Matt’s office to hand it over. It’s good timing, just a couple minutes before he’s planning on heading back to the apartment to check on Frank. He doesn’t know why he’s so eager—Frank’s a grown man, this isn’t his first bullet wound, and he’s fully capable of taking care of himself. He isn’t sure if he’s worried about Frank’s health or just worried that he’ll leave when Matt’s not around.

“Did you even take any of these?”

“Uh, sure I did. For a couple days,” Foggy says evasively.

“A couple days? You got shot!”

“Oh please, Matt, you need to have your arm twisted into taking fucking aspirin! This is a whole new level of hypocrisy!”

“That’s me!”

“Oh yeah, Matt Murdock, superhuman masochist, he doesn’t feel pain,” Foggy says dryly.

“Foggy—you’re different!”

“Why? Because I’m weak?”

“Because you’re important! God, Fogs, it was my fault you got hurt in the first place! It was my fault we were there—and then if you didn’t even take any meds—“

“It wasn’t your fault,” Foggy says quietly, reaching out and touching his shoulder. “I didn’t want to get addicted, you know what happened to cousin Ellen. I had to watch uncle Pete and aunt Erin lose their kid. I couldn’t put my parents through that. Pain is temporary, Matt. I learned that from you.”

Matt goes quiet. “I just hate the idea of you being in pain when you don’t have to be, that’s all, Fogs.”

“Hey, that goes both ways, okay? But you’ve been doing way better lately, and my shoulder barely twinges anymore, so we’re both good. Speaking of which, I just—I want you to know that I see how hard you’re trying. I see it, okay? And I really appreciate it. I’m proud of you, Matty.”

Matt’s physically incapable of being angry at someone after they’ve said they’re proud of him. In fact, it usually brings about a swell of emotion that he’s uncomfortable expressing and earns his diehard loyalty (as if Foggy didn’t already have that). Damn Foggy for knowing his weak spots, for using them against him.

“What about those other pills?” Matt asks suddenly.

“Which ones?”

“The ones in your desk.”

“Aspirin? Sure, when I have a headache—“

“Not the aspirin. I heard another bottle in there. Smaller pills, not painkillers.” He’s not going to tell Foggy that Claire told him—he doesn’t want to risk their friendship over this, and if Foggy can trust Claire enough to be honest with her… that can only ever be a good thing.

Foggy hesitates.

“Do you take those?” Matt asks again.

He can hear it, the moment that Foggy decides to lie to him, the minute hitch in his heartbeat, before it steadies in resolve.

“Sure, when I get allergies. They’re just allergy pills. They’ve been in there since the fall.”

It hurts, knowing he’s being lied to.

“And you don’t get allergies anymore?” Maybe he’s reading into it too much, construing allergies as a veiled metaphor for anxiety.

“Matt, it’s winter. There’s no pollen in winter.” Technically true. Not an answer to the question, but true. Foggy’s a good attorney, and sometimes that means half-truths and obfuscation.

Matt smiles halfheartedly. “Good. That’s good, Fogs. I’m just gonna—I’m gonna go take these to Frank. He doesn’t like to show it, but he was in a lot of pain this morning.”

Foggy hums in acknowledgement, and leaves Matt’s office, heading back over to his own, his footsteps stuttering in the middle to smile at Karen or pick up some files.

---

“Rough day at work?” Frank asks. They’re sitting on the bed, eating sandwiches over a towel Matt had laid down to eliminate the possibility of crumbs getting into his bed.

“No, it was fine,” Matt says, a little surprised that Frank’s even asking. “Why?”

“You’re kinda pouting, a little. And you’ve been quiet. I dunno, I just thought you were thinking about a tough case or something.”

“Someone’s lying to me,” Matt says quietly, “and—and I know he’s lying, and I even know what the truth is, but I want him to tell me, I want him to trust me enough to tell me. And I know that he doesn’t, and I know that he shouldn’t—I haven’t earned it yet. But I still—I still just wish he’d tell me.”

“This Nelson we’re talking about here?”

“What? No, I never said it was Foggy!” God, Matt would destroy a witness on the stand who’d answered that quickly, that defensively. Why does that bother you? he’d ask, that your best friend doesn’t trust you with his secrets? Is it possible that you don’t deserve to know his secrets anymore? That you lost that privilege when you lied to him?

The prosecution rests, Your Honor.

The court finds the defendant guilty of being a terrible friend.

“I’m sure you two will work it out. You two are closer than brothers. Whatever it is, he’ll get over himself and tell you eventually.”

“It isn’t Foggy,” Matt repeats weakly.

“Sure it isn’t.”

Matt takes an over-large bite of his sandwich to avoid having to reply, takes his time to chew and swallow and ignores the feeling of Frank’s eyes on his face.

“It is Foggy,” he admits. “I just—I worry about him.”

“Just in general, or for a particular reason?” Frank’s sitting up a little straighter, more focused on him that on his sandwich.

“There’s a reason.” Matt sighs heavily. “Only thing is, I’m not supposed to know there’s a reason, so if I bring it up, he’ll turn it around on me and how I found out, instead of opening up. And the last thing I want is for him to get defensive. We can’t handle another fight right now. We barely made it past the last one, and I needed to pull some big gestures out to get there. I don’t have anything else left—the only card I’ve got left to play is giving up the suit.”

“Would that really be the worst thing in the world?” Frank asks cautiously.

“I’m a pretty good lawyer, you know. You might not have seen it, but I’m not too bad at this, when I put the time and effort in. I was one of the best in my class in Columbia, you know that? Would’ve done better if I hadn’t gone into an alcoholic tailspin after Elektra left me.”

“I never questioned your book smarts, Matt. Your common sense, sure. Your obsession with your arbitrary moral lines? Sure. But never your intelligence.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” Matt mumbles. “I’m good at this, Frank, and you know what? Out of the eight cases our firm’s handling right now, we’ll be lucky if we can win five. Not all of our clients are innocent, I’m not saying that.” He sighs, thinking about their current case load.

“Some got in over their heads. Some joined a gang because the kids who didn’t wound up dead. Some snuck across the border to try to find a better life, make sure their families were taken care of. Immigration court is a fucking nightmare. It’s where dreams go to die. Any defendant with a Hispanic-sounding last name? He’s pretty much DOA. Any young black man? Same thing.”

“I work my ass off. Foggy works his ass off, and he’s a better lawyer than me. There are good people out there, trying to help, and it just—it doesn’t matter! It never works. The stuff I do in the suit—half-measure or not—it works. A rape victim might never get justice in court—chances are, she won’t even get to court in the first place. She’ll be too scared, or too traumatized, or the cops won’t pursue it, or she’ll never find out who did it. And if she does, the jury just won’t believe her most of the time… If I can put on the suit and stop her from getting raped in the first place… If I can, and if I don’t, doesn’t that make me complicit?”

Frank puts his sandwich down. He brushes his hands together over the plate to clear off the crumbs, and sits back.

“Is it about you saving her, or is it about how good it feels when you feel that son of a bitch under your fists, screaming in pain?”

Matt freezes. Frank’s heart is steady—as steady as he imagines his gaze to be.

“It’s both,” he whispers, “I need it too, Frank, just as much as the city does.”

He feels like an ant under a magnifying glass. There’s a relief in being seen—at having his own selfishness recognized, at not being senselessly glorified as a hero and a martyr. But it’s uncomfortable, too.

You hide from yourself, Elektra whispers to him. You don’t let anyone in.

You, he thinks. I let you in.

It’s uncomfortable, to know that the love of his life is dead.

It’s almost more uncomfortable to recognize that someone else might have slipped through his defenses without him even knowing it.

Chapter Text

Frank stays. This shouldn’t come as a surprise—given the choice between staying and leaving, Frank has chosen to stay every single time except for after the Italians, and he’d apologized for that. While laying on Matt’s couch, bleeding. That had been what he’d thought about, with a bullet in his leg.

That it does come as a surprise probably says more about Matt and his deep-seated fear of abandonment than it does about Frank. Still, for the first few days, Matt expects him to be gone whenever he comes back to the apartment. His shoulders creep up, tensing as he gets closer to his building, until he hears that familiar heartbeat inside. When he does, his shoulders relax again, and he tries not to think too hard about why.

They fall into a routine. Matt sleeps on the couch. If Frank has a nightmare and the sound of his rushing heartbeat wakes Matt up, he’ll go in to check on him. Frank shakes off his questions about the dream, just laying there covered in sweat and saying that he’s fine.

Lie, his heart tells Matt. One of the few that Frank’s ever told him.

Matt offers to read, the words coming easier now that they’ve already been through it once. Frank usually gives a noncommittal grunt in response, which Matt opts to take as an affirmative. Frank Castle doesn’t strike him as the sort of man who struggles to say no to things he doesn’t want.

He does strike him as someone who struggles to say yes to things he does want. Matt wonders if he’d always been like this or whether it only started after his family had been killed.

When he drifts off again, Matt puts away the book and shifts to get off the bed, to go back to the sofa. He doesn’t know why it seems important to sleep on the couch, when he and Frank had shared a bed before without issue. But it feels different—before, he’d been the vulnerable one, he’d been the one asking. Some part of him still thinks that Frank was just humoring him, because he was weak, because he was needy and pathetic and Frank pitied him. Now it’s Frank, with a bad leg and nightmares nearly every night. It feels important, that Frank be the one to ask him to stay.

Sometimes, Frank doesn’t stir, lets him go, either because he’s asleep or because he doesn’t have it in him to ask him to stay. But sometimes, he’ll whisper a single word, stay or please, or silently wrap his fingers around Matt’s wrist, and Matt yields every single time, lays next to Frank on his bed, falling asleep to his scent in his nostrils and the strong rhythm of his heart.

It’s something of an irony, that the most alive man he’s ever met is one who doesn’t particularly care for life, has little reason to go on, courts death at night.

On the mornings after the nights that Matt stays, when they wake, they’re inevitably closer than when they laid down, and Matt murmurs an apology—his previous lovers had been smaller than him for the most part, and they’d always complained of his weight crushing them.

Frank doesn’t complain, just smiles, quiet and a little crooked, and tells Matt you’re not even that heavy.

Matt wants to trace the line of that smile, wonders if it’s as crooked as he imagines it.

“Eat a sandwich or something, Red, you’re practically wasting away.”

Matt smiles, and ignores the feeling of Frank’s chest hair against his cheek, Frank’s thick, muscled arm around him. He ignores the fact that he hasn’t felt this secure, this safe, in someone’s arms in a long time.

His father’s hands on his cheeks when he woke in the hospital, telling him he’d be okay, telling him he loved him, praying softly to a god he’d never appealed to before.

Elektra had made him feel many things, but security was not one of them.

One day, he wakes, and Frank’s head’s on his shoulder, a shift from how they normally are. He wonders when that happened, when there became a normal for him sharing a bed with a man who he hasn’t even kissed, a man who kills people.

A man who’d shot him in the head and saved his life time and time again.

The thing nobody realizes about Matt is how selfish he can be. So he closes his eyes, and lets his hand drift into Frank’s short-cropped hair, softer than he thought it would be, the feeling of his scalp underneath it.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” Frank mumbles into his chest, and Matt can feel his lips against his skin, and he wonders whether Frank understands what this means to him, what it means to a man with heightened senses, how much Matt is taking from him in these quiet moments in the morning.

“Morning, Frank,” he says softly. He lets himself trace along Frank’s cheek, feeling the rough stubble. The rules are different, the mornings after. He lets himself have more than he should.

“You need a shave, you’re not regulation anymore,” he keeps his voice mild, having learned by now that he can’t pull off drill sergeant unless one of them is actively bleeding out.

Frank grunts against his skin. “’S’it botherin’ you?” he asks after a moment, sounding more awake.

“No,” Matt admits quietly, letting himself trace it again. “No, Frank, it doesn’t bother me.” The hairs are sharp and course and short, and he feels every single one of them against his skin, against his chest, against his hand. But he’s not lying—it’s not a bother, exactly, though he’s hyperaware of it. Something about it is nice, the slight discomfort of it, the intimacy of having someone to wake up with when he’s been alone for so long.

Frank hums, and Matt comes to his senses, pulls his hand away from Frank’s face and carefully eases out of bed. “I’ll get coffee started,” he announces, biting back the urge to apologize and trying not to flush under the weight of Frank’s eyes on him.

---

He still goes out at night, even with the knowledge that Frank Castle is in his bed.

The first night, Frank lays there in the dark, pretending to be asleep. Matt doesn’t play along—there haven’t been any games between them before, no charades, and it feels wrong to start pretending now, when it would serve no real purpose. So instead, Matt reads aloud the text he sends to Foggy each night, about his rough location and his itinerary.

“You’ve got my number?” Frank asks him, giving up the pretense of sleep and propping himself up on one elbow.

“Yeah, Frank, ‘course I’ve got your number.”

“Call if you need to.”

Matt nods.

“If you end up dead, I’ll kill you,” Frank says, a warning that makes Matt smile.

“I won’t end up dead,” he says instead, a promise that he can’t keep.

Frank’s skepticism is almost tangible, a thing that Matt almost thinks he can reach out and touch. He wonders nonsensically whether it would feel rough, like Frank’s stubble on his hand, or smooth, like Elektra’s voice.

“Okay, I probably won’t end up dead.”

Frank huffs out a breath, amusement and annoyance in equal measure. Matt has a sudden desire to kiss him, to feel that huff of fond exasperation against his neck, but he suppresses it and slips through the window.

When Matt gets home at night, Frank’s laying in bed, one arm behind his head as he reads. The moment Matt starts to open the window, he sits up, the book forgotten.

“C’mere,” he orders, and Matt doesn’t even consider not listening. He pulls off the mask as he walks, not stopping until he’s next to the bed.

Frank’s hands come up, lay on Matt’s sides. It’s intimate, the way he’s being held, but the sensation is muted through the thick fabric of the suit.

“I’m okay,” Matt promises.

“Shut up and let me look at you,” Frank says roughly, “where are you hurt?”

Matt lays his own hand on top of one of Frank’s. “I’m okay,” he repeats, “little cuts and bruises, that’s it.”

Frank goes quiet, but doesn’t let him go, either. Matt figures he’ll have to prove it, and finds the zipper, taking the suit off until it’s crumpled on the ground, trapped around his ankles by his boots.

Frank palpates his ribs gently. It aches, old bruises and new layered on top of each other, but there isn’t the sharp pain of a broken rib, let alone the agony of a rib ripping through his lung.

Frank looks up, puts his hands on Matt’s shoulders and tugs gently. Matt sinks to his knees, so Frank can reach his face and examine it.

He tries not to think about the fact that he’s fallen to his knees in front of Frank Castle, the sensation blasphemously reminiscent of being in church, in front of the altar. He tries not to consider what else might happen, if Frank could stand up without discomfort, if he was just as unclothed as Matt.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, he thinks, and suspects he might be going to hell.

He swallows hard, wondering if Frank’s eyes flick down to watch it. He hears the way Frank inhales, and considers the unfairness of it, that Frank gets to see him and feel him, but Matt doesn’t get to do either, doesn’t have a good enough excuse.

Frank runs a finger over the bleeding cut on Matt’s cheekbone. Matt closes his eyes, tries to memorize every ridge of his fingerprint, the way it feels against his skin, but the stubble is in the way, making it harder to get a complete impression.

“Go grab the kit, sunshine,” he says quietly.

His voice makes Matt’s stomach warm and twist pleasantly. Sunshine, he thinks. Normally sunshine is saved for the morning, when the rules are softer, when he lets himself take.

He considers whether Frank wants to take, too, whether he feels self-indulgent when he lets that endearment slip, whether he thinks the rules are softer too, when there’s gentle daylight or blood involved.

“I can take care of it,” Matt says weakly.

“Get the kit, Matty,” Frank repeats. There’s no anger in his voice, not even fatigue, just something gentle and unyielding.

Matt shifts, sits down with his legs in front of him, undoing his laces and slipping his shoes off before freeing himself of the suit.

It’s awkward. If it had been sensual before, if there was tension between them—if Frank had felt whatever it was that Matt felt, it dissolves, like bubbles in champagne left out too long, in the awkwardness of sitting on his bedroom floor, undoing his shoelaces before yanking his feet out of the boots and out of the suit.

He lifts himself up to his feet, pausing to strip off his socks. It feels deeply undignified to stand on one foot to yank the sock off the other.

Another blow to any tension there might’ve been before.

He fetches the kit and hands it to Frank.

“Uh, do you want me to sit on the bed, or—“

“Bed’s fine.” There’s a shift in the flow of Frank’s blood, heating his cheeks, and Matt feels a burst of satisfaction, hot and tight in his gut. There’s a quiet rustle, as he moves over, gives Matt space to sit down.

It’s not all in his head. It’s not just him.

Matt sits next to him. “I’m gonna go get a shower after this.” It sounds like the prelude to an invitation of sorts, and he scrambles to add something to diffuse the implication.

“So, uh, maybe just clean it out? Doesn’t need stitches, does it?”

Frank doesn’t answer for a long moment. He’s leaning in close, squinting to look at the wound.

“No,” he says finally. There’s a hint of reluctance in his voice and Matt wonders at it, wonders whether Frank wishes it was deeper, broader. Does he want the intoxicating feeling of taking care of someone or just an excuse to have Matt’s face in his hands?

Frank clears his throat. “No,” he repeats, “you’re good, Red. Go take a shower.”

Matt does, and when he heads for the couch afterwards, Frank coughs.

“Let’s not do this whole song and dance tonight, Matty. Just come to bed.”

So Matt does.

Frank stretches out an arm and it’s easier than it should be, for Matt to lay his head on his shoulder, feeling that arm wrap around him. His shirt is soft and worn and it feels good against Matt’s skin.

He’s so warm. Now, on the cusp between January and February, when the air is cold, it’s nice to touch, nice to feel his furnace-like heat. Matt loosens his hold on his thoughts, lets himself wonder if maybe it won’t be this pleasant in the summer, when it’s hot and the city stinks of rotting garbage.

“Night, sunshine,” Frank says quietly, the word trailing off into a yawn.

“Good night, Frank.” He shifts a little bit, inhales Frank’s scent and finds it calms him down, helps him relax. Sleep comes easily.

He dreams of Elektra.

“You’ve moved on quickly, Matthew,” she purrs, looking down at him and Frank in their bed. “I died in your arms, and you’ve already got a new live-in lover. I’ve underestimated you.”

“He’s not—“ Matt stammers, sitting up, reaching for her, “Elektra, sweetheart, please—please—“ He remembers her scent, remembers orchids and the rose-scented hand cream he had bought her—because this way she would get to look at orchids, and he would get to smell roses.

Her sole concession to cliché.

“Does he treat you well?” she asks him, leaning down to trace his features with her hand.

The touch of her hand throws him back to another place, another time, more memory than dream.

That night, trapped in between two doors, the Hand pounding at the bottom, facing their deaths.

“What if, after this, wherever you run, I run with you?” he asks desperately.

Another cut—he never remembers the fight, only her, before and after.

The cold air on his skin, the mask lying a few paces away, the silky strands of her hair in his bare hands.

“This is not the end,” she whispers to him, the air rich with the scent of her blood pooling on the concrete.

Cut—the cold sunlight on his face, wearing a suit, carrying his cane, Stick’s familiar heart beating next to him, a little bit softer and slower from sorrow.

“I only had moments with her,” he hears himself say, “in between all the noise, and the chaos, and the violence. We were together only for moments.”

He’s back in his bed, his head in its usual place on Frank’s shoulder.

“Does he treat you well?” Elektra asks him again.

He’s a child, offering Stick a bracelet he’d folded out of the wrapper of an ice cream cone that tasted of fake vanilla and chemicals.

“Emotions, attachments,” Stick warns, “they’ll get you killed, Matty. Or worse, you’ll get them killed.”

She’s under him, on the table, the Hand behind them, disgusted at the two sloppy drunks about to go at it in an abandoned conference room.

“I love you, Elektra,” he whispers, “I love you, I love you, I love you—“

“Why would I choose you, Matthew?” She laughs, the sound sharper than the tips of her sais. “I could have any man, why would I choose the one who got me killed?”

There’s a gentle nudge at his shoulder.

“Wake up, sunshine. You’re dreaming,” Frank murmurs to him.

“Elektra—“ the word is a gasp, the only thought in Matt’s head, the only word in his mind, the rest of the world quiet. “Elektra—“

“It was a dream,” Frank says again, pushing Matt’s hair back from his forehead, not grimacing at the droplets of sweat dampening him.

Matt sits up, not quite knowing why, only he needs air.

“Does he treat you well?” the soft echo of his dream repeats inside his head.

He closes his eyes and exhales slowly.

He does, he thinks desolately. He does.

---

By the third day, Frank’s off the painkillers, though it probably still hurts.

“You’re sure?”

“I can manage,” Frank says, and his heart stays steady, because it’s true.

(Matt makes sure to inform Foggy that even Frank Castle, the biggest, baddest guy in Hell’s Kitchen, took pain meds for three days.

Foggy reminds him that Frank Castle didn’t have IV pain meds administered in the hospital, the way Foggy did, and well, Matt can’t exactly argue with that.)

By day five, he’s walking around okay. He’s hobbling a little, and he’s got quite a pronounced limp, but he’s mobile, and he can leave whenever he wants to.

Matt hopes he doesn’t want to.

Matt fully expects that he will.

He doesn’t let on that he expects things to change. That night, he gets changed into the suit, same as he always does. Any sense of modesty about his body around Frank had evaporated weeks ago, maybe when Frank held him at night.

Or when he’d dragged his broken, miserable body back to the apartment the night of the Italians.

Or when Matt had straddled his hips to keep his leg steady for Claire’s forceps.

Or when Frank had laid his hands on Matt’s sides, as if Matt’s body was meant to be held by those unwavering hands.

Or when he’d touched Matt’s cheek, told him in a quiet voice that he wouldn’t need stitches.

In any case, he no longer feels awkward stripping down in front of Frank, whose heart always gives a gratifying hitch in response to his skin. He remembers telling Foggy that he’d never have sex with the lights on again.

He probably still won’t, he reminds himself. Not everyone is Frank Castle. Most people would see his scars and run far away.

Once he’s dressed, he reaches out with his senses to find Frank, to tell him where he’s going, only to hear him coming out of the bathroom, fully geared up.

“What’s the plan for tonight?” he asks, as if it was completely normal for them both to go out together.

“You’re not healed up yet,” Matt protests.

“I’m fine.”

Again, Matt empathizes with Foggy, having to deal with a litany of I’m fines that are patently untrue.

“You can’t run.”

“Do I look like I’m plannin’ on takin’ a jog?” Frank asks dismissively.

“Hm, I don’t—“

“Make a blind joke, and you’ll eat a bullet.”

“No. You do not,” Matt says stiffly. But he can’t help himself. “I’m guessing.”

“Right, so unless we’re waiting for the bad guys to come to us, we should probably get goin’.”

Matt doesn’t budge. “You’re on backup. You stay on the rooftops unless I need you.”

“I can fight,” Frank says firmly.

“You’re on backup. You stay on the roofs. Or else we’ll see just how ready you are to fight. And no killing.”

“Jesus Christ—“

“Language!”

“—altar boy, all these fuckin’ rules, you gotta printout or somethin’? Boy Scout manual, maybe?”

The man who had cleaned the cut on his cheek feels miles away from the man in front of him, chafing at the bit, ready to recover some sense of purpose in a senseless world.

“Are we agreed?”

“Fine.” Frank walks past him to the roof access door, moving faster than he does around the apartment, just to prove how mobile he is.

Matt rolls his eyes under the mask, but follows. Daredevil and the Punisher are working together now, it seems.

They’re sitting on a rooftop, laying low while Matt listens for the sounds of people in distress or people planning illegal activity.

“If it was the other way ‘round, what would you do?” Frank asks suddenly. “Would you stay on backup if I asked you to?”

“Probably not,” Matt admits freely, “because I’d be worried that you’d kill someone, and I wouldn’t be able to let that happen.”

“If I promised you I wouldn’t, what then?”

“I’d believe you,” Matt says simply.

“Not what I asked.”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a masochist,” Matt says with a sigh. “I don’t get off on getting the shit knocked out of me. You think I’d hate having a night off without feeling like every person who dies or suffers is my fault? You think I don’t want to rest now and then, Frank? You think I don’t ever get tired? I just do it because the neighborhood’s adjusted. The ecosystem’s evolved. If I stop, crime will go way up. If you were gonna do the same work, without killing people, I’d be fine with that.”

“So you would. Stay behind while I went out there, stay on backup.” Frank’s pushing, having caught on to the fact that maybe Matt’s avoiding the question a little bit.

“Unless you needed me, or someone else needed me, and you couldn’t get to them fast enough. And unless I was actually fine and you were overreacting, in which case I’d do whatever the hell I wanted to.”

“You’re a fuckin’ handful, Matty, y’know that? You remind me of—“ He trails off.

Matt sits there in the relative quiet, takes in the sounds of the heartbeats, the rats in the alleys, the cars driving a few blocks away, the sirens in the distance.

“You remind me of Lisa,” Frank says finally, having chewed on the thought for awhile before opting to share it. “She wasn’t big on rules. Neither of ‘em were, y’know, Frankie wanted to be just like his big sister. The difference was Lisa—she knew what she was capable of. She was smart about it, pushed boundaries, but never went too far. Frankie—that kid thought he was invincible. Climbed a tree he wasn’t supposed to, fell and broke his arm, took his sister’s bike when he didn’t know how to ride a two-wheeler yet and crashed it. Me and Maria—we used to worry so much about him.”

Matt sits with that story for a moment. Frank’s never really talked to him about his family, not since that night in the graveyard.

“Are you sure I’m not more like Frankie, then?” he asks finally.

Frank laughs, quiet and genuine, and Matt gets a hint of the dad he might’ve been, the way he must’ve laughed when his kids had said something ridiculous only kids would say.

“You might be, Red. You might be.”

Trust demands reciprocation, in a world as cruel as theirs, and Matt considers it for a moment, then gives it.

“You remind me of my dad, sometimes,” he says quietly, “I think he would’ve liked you.”

“Did he have shitty taste?” Frank asks dryly.

Matt chuckles, understanding the words were meant as self-deprecation, not as an insult to his father.

“No, he really didn’t. He wasn’t super book smart, but he had good instincts about people.”

Frank hums, clearly interested. Matt’s told him a lot, often when one or both of them is bleeding, but he hasn’t talked much about his dad. He’s thought about him, dreamed about him, daydreamed about him so much over the years—it’s gotten to the point where he wonders how much of the memories of his dad are real, how many are the results of stories he’s rehearsed and embellished without realizing it, cementing the wrong details into his head.

“He used to read to me, every night. And when I got good enough at it, and he came home with a black eye—or two—I’d read to him. We’d both sit down in my bed, he’d have ice packs on his hands, or his face, or his ribs, and I’d read to him until I had to go to sleep. Sometimes he’d be tired and fall asleep, and I’d just curl up next to him and turn off the light.”

“Mom wasn’t in the picture?” Frank asks.

Matt shakes his head, feels his lower lip curling out dismissively. “Nah, she booked it after I was born. Wasn’t cut out to be a mom, I guess. But I had Dad. We were a team, me and him.”

Frank hums, and in the quiet, Matt listens for the city and he hears what he needs to hear.

“Armed robbery in an alleyway down the block. Stay on backup,” he says to Frank, not waiting for agreement before he takes off, launching himself across the narrow alley onto the next rooftop.

It’s a quick job, a few well-placed punches, a sharp hit to the back of the knee. The guy goes down easy and Matt hits him until he stops fighting back.

“Go home,” he says quietly to the young woman clutching at her purse.

“But what if—“ She’s young, younger than most of the women he encounters these days. Karen and Claire and Elektra are all strong, soft flesh with iron cores, and it’s easy to forget that not every woman is like that. Not every woman has been forced to be like that.

“If you stay here, I can walk you home, make sure nobody else tries anything,” he says quietly, “call the police, okay? And don’t get too close to him, I don’t want him getting any ideas.”

She nods and tries to follow instructions, but her hands tremble violently while she struggles to get her purse open.

“Breathe,” he tells her, “just breathe. I can call, I have a phone, it’s okay. Just focus on breathing, miss, it’s going to be okay. I promise you.”

He hears a familiar heartbeat finally settling on the next roof over—Frank’s keeping his word and his distance. It must’ve been difficult for him to stick to the rooftops with an injured leg. He’d had a different background, too, not one so heavily focused on agility and martial arts.

The woman shrieks in genuine terror, and Matt regrets the fact that he’d left the mugger conscious this one time. He’d inched himself over to where the gun was while Matt had been trying to calm her down.

Matt closes his eyes and pulls her down, making the target smaller and covering her with his own body.

“I got you,” he mutters to her, “you’re okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you—“

There’s a shot, but Matt doesn’t feel any pain, and doesn’t hear it in the girl’s heart, either. “Hey, are you okay? Are you good?” he asks her gently.

She’s sobbing hysterically, hiding her face against Matt’s neck.

He smells a scent that’s becoming sickeningly familiar—brains on asphalt, mixing in with the blood that Matt had spilt earlier.

“I got you, Red,” Frank murmurs, an eerie echo of what Matt had said to the girl. He aims his head over to where Frank is perched and nods in thanks before turning back to the girl, who’s still shaking.

“Hey, don’t look, okay? Don’t look,” he says to her, wraps his arms around her and escorts her away from the alleyway, calls the police. “You’re going to be okay.”

His heart hitches in his own chest, and it’s one thing to know that he’s lying, but another thing to hear it, the evidence of his senses overriding his ability to deceive himself.

He waits for the police, gives them a brief report on the situation, and makes his escape while they’re wrapping a blanket around the young woman, taking her statement.

He makes his way back to the roof where Frank’s still waiting.

“You still tryin’ to die, is that it?” Frank barks at him, “because that was as sloppy as I’ve ever seen you. How the fuck do you take down Wilson Fisk and then get beat by a fuckin’ nobody pursesnatcher?”

“I didn’t get beat, I was distracted,” Matt mutters, “and no, Frank, I’m not trying to die anymore. It was—I just fucked up. I forgot to meditate before I went out, haven’t done it in a few days, my head’s not—not fully focused.”

But Frank’s focused on the first part of what he said. “You’re not trying to die anymore? So you admit you were trying to die?”

Matt grits his teeth, feeling a headache building from the police sirens and the action movie some guy is watching with the volume way too loud in the building under his feet.

“It seems pretty obvious,” he says, trying to keep his voice level.

“Didn’t seem so obvious when you were denying it, last we spoke.”

“You want to do this here? Now?” Matt bites out. “Fine. Yes, I was trying to die, that night. I’ve cleaned up my act since then, I’ve made a serious effort, and this is the first time I’ve fucked up.”

“Apology accepted.”

Matt considers whether to escalate, whether to point out the fact that he very much did not apologize, but opts not to.

“And, uh, I’d really appreciate it if we could not tell Foggy about this.” His voice ticks up towards the end of the sentence, turning it into a question as his hand comes up to rub at his neck. “He’d worry, and nothing actually happened, so…”

“It wasn’t intentional this time?” Frank asks one more time, though Matt can tell he believes him.

“It wasn’t. I was trying to calm her down, I was listening for you, I didn’t pay enough attention to him. I thought I’d got him almost out, I didn’t think he’d—it was a mistake. Just a mistake.”

“Mistakes out here will get you killed,” Frank says, voice quiet.

Matt shrugs with one shoulder. “I expect they will,” he agrees, “but probably not tonight.”

Frank shakes his head a little. “Do it now, then,” he orders.

“…do what?”

“Meditate. Clear your head. Whatever mumbo-jumbo you do that gets you right for this.”

“Uh, sure. Just, can we go somewhere else? The sirens are giving me a headache.”

“Lead the way, Red.”

Matt takes them to a quieter building, where the sounds are tolerable, even if the smell of the dumpster is nauseating. “Keep watch, I’ll only take ten minutes or so.”

He clears his head as best he can—it’s easier when he’s at home, surrounded by familiar stimuli. He’s programmed to take in everything around him, and when those sensations are ever-changing and new, it’s hard to clear them out and focus only on his own breath. Also, there isn’t usually someone watching him meditate, and the scrutiny is uncomfortable.

“Uh, could you not stare at me?” he asks awkwardly, “it feels weird.”

“So you hear everything in a one-mile radius and you’re fine, feel somebody lookin’ at you and you can’t focus,” Frank’s voice has that familiar hint of amusement.

Matt pouts a little, theatrically, to show him that he isn’t happy with the reply. He closes his eyes—he doesn’t know why, but he always does, when he meditates—and focuses in on the beat of Frank’s heart. He uses the steady rhythm to guide his breathing, focuses all his senses on the man in front of him so he can clear his mind.

It feels—invasive. As if he should apologize, but it’s the easiest thing to use, to find his center.

You listened to her heart without permission? he remembers Foggy biting out, that is such a violation of privacy, Matt, are you kidding me?

“Can I use you as an anchor?” Matt finds himself blurting out.

“Uh, sure, I guess.” Frank agrees, and for whatever reason, he sits down, too, facing Matt, his bad leg extended out to the side and his good leg folded under him.

Again, Matt wonders if Frank knows, what he takes from the people around him, what he takes from them, without their permission, the way he steals their ability to lie, reads their body’s scents and sounds, feels the way the heat shifts as blood vessels dilate and constrict in strategic locations.

He wonders, but he lets himself ignore it, lets himself take, lets himself focus on the metronomic beat. The lub of the mitral and tricuspid valves closing, blood leaving the ventricles, followed by the dub of the aortic and pulmonary valves closing, blood filling the ventricles, over and over again.

Emotions, attachments, Stick whispers, they’ll get you killed, Matty. Or worse, you’ll get them killed.

I can fight, Frank says firmly. I can fight.

Chapter Text

“You killed him,” he says to Frank, once he joins him in bed.

“Yup.”

“We agreed no killing,” Matt says quietly, “we agreed, Frank.”

“You agreed to that. I never said anything,” Frank says, “if you’re gonna lecture me about it, go sleep on the couch.”

“I’m not lecturing. I just don’t understand. Just—why?”

“Why? Are you fucking kidding me? He had a gun on you, that’s why, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. That’s a new one, and God forgive him, he likes it. He’s grateful for the darkness—it lets him hide a smile that isn’t fit for a conversation about murder.

“So, it was for me?” Matt asks again, a little timid, “not—not for the girl?”

“I don’t like men who hurt women,” Frank says firmly, “but I—look, you know I don’t have many people left that I care about.”

“I know.”

“And you know you’re one of them.”

“I—knowing and believing can be different things,” Matt says quietly, “it’s nice to hear it.”

“Matty,” Frank’s voice is rough with suppressed emotion, “what goes on in that head o’ yours? I’m in your bed.”

Matt shrugs as best he can. “Maybe you feel sorry for me.”

“Why would I feel sorry for you?”

“A lot of people do, Frank. Blind orphan, remember? People pity me. They’ve pitied me for as long as I can remember.”

“You’ve been through a lot of shit, Matt. But I don’t pity you. I care about you.”

“I know.”

“You know? Or you believe?”

“I’m working on believing,” Matt says quietly. “You know I care about you, too, right?”

“You carried me across the city twice,” Frank says quietly, “you don’t have to say it, Matty, you’ve already proven it.”

Call me sweetheart again, Matt thinks fervently. Please, call me sweetheart again.

“Anyway, I’ve lost enough,” Frank says gruffly, “I’m not gonna apologize for not shooting him in the hand or the leg or whatever. He pulled a gun on you and he died for it, and good riddance.”

“You shot me, once,” Matt points out mildly.

Frank huffs out a breath. “Well, I’m different. I’m me.”

Matt smiles a little, even though he still has nightmares about that, about the sounds that make up his world suddenly falling away, losing yet another sense, being helpless, reduced to tears and screaming and—he fights to regain his composure. “That you are, Frank. You are definitely… you.”