Chapter Text
Matt Murdock. Daredevil. The Man Without Fear. Battling Jack’s son. Matty. Matt Murdock went by many names to many people. To Frank, he was Red.
The irony didn’t escape Matt, his nickname being just out of reach. Red. Something he couldn’t quite grasp, something he couldn’t slip into like he had slipped into his various other names. Frank had his alias. The Punisher. Matt supposed that in a way, he misnamed Frank too. Frank wasn’t Frank. He was, through and through, the Punisher, just as Matt was Daredevil. Matt reveled in Daredevil, as a drunk revels in booze. He longed to slip into it, into Daredevil, every waking moment, even as the inescapable guilt left him hungover.
And so, he found himself once more, fleeing the safety of his apartment into the familiar danger of the night. Hell’s Kitchen had no shortage of crime and Matt had no shortage of righteous fury. This time, he had a specific target in mind, one more addicting than booze.
Frank. He’d just missed him the previous nights as his fear of letting Foggy down in the case only barely outweighed his drive to hunt down Castle, pushing him to retreat early in the night and avoid injuries that would threaten his performance. It was the first case they’d taken in a while that stuck with Matt. A kid being… touched in a way kids should never be touched.
Matt had some choice words to have with the big, bad Punisher after he went back on their former agreement. They’d done an operation together, and it had been going shockingly well. A local gang had begun grasping at the gaping hole of power left behind by Kingpin through dangerous drugs, infused with some alien shit Matt didn’t bother to try and understand. Matt and his partner had both been targeting them, and came to a temporary truce with which they agreed to work together. Ground rules included a reluctant no-killing promise from Frank and an even more reluctant guns allowed from Matt.
“Frank, I’m not letting anyone die during an operation I’m a part of. I’d end up fighting you and them at the same time, and that’s just counterproductive, isn’t it?”
Castle’s hands actually twitched. He grumbled, “I’m still using guns. Not happening any other way.”
“Non-lethal shots only. I’m serious,”
"Have you ever met me? Cause I'm starting to think not,"
"I already have the location. Nobody said I absolutely needed you. In fact, I'm doing you a favor by allowing you to tag along," Matt proclaimed, a shit eating grin tugging on his lips.
“Fine, Red. Better than putting up with your whining about morals,”
"Whining? Didn't realize advocating for peoples' lives was whining now,"
"Shut it,"
And they’d made it to the main establishment where the drugs were manufactured in record time. Hell, they were kicking ass when it came to the security.
No operation goes that well when you’re Matt Murdock.
The alarm had been pulled by some sit who caught a glimpse of them sneaking in, blaring next to Matt’s ear, catching him off guard. Course, at that exact moment that same fucker approached and landed a blow.
With a crowbar.
To the ribs.
Matt fell to his knees, for just a second, when a sound louder than the alarm pulsed through the air. A gunshot. The poor fucker who’d had a lucky hit paid for it with his life. Matt heard the bullet splinter his skull. Still reeling from the sensory overload of the deafening alarm, Matt stumbled to regain his footing and square off with Frank. Before he got the chance, Frank punched him. In the jaw, solidly enough to knock him out. Cheap shot Matt thought as unconsciousness overtook. When Matt awoke (which had to have only been a few minutes later), all he could smell was the coppery tang of a bloodbath.
He grimaced at the memory. “Goddammit,” he muttered as a new gunshot tore him out of his useless recount of the situation. The origin wasn’t too far off, and Matt leaped from rooftop to rooftop towards it. Carefully avoiding landing too hard on his still tender ribs, he relied more on flips than any somersaults.
A voice resembling Stick’s berated him. Should’ve meditated Matty. You’re letting pain dictate your movement, letting your bodily fears overpower your mind. He sucked in a deep breath, powering forward. More gunshots rang out. Unmistakably, Frank’s ritualistic “one batch, two batch, penny and dime,” was recited. Matt leaped, morphing his position mid air into a dive and he shattered through the window of the warehouse.
He restrained a grunt as he landed in a somersault, compromising his rib. Within mere seconds, a heavy man’s fists were flying. The grunt was so obviously a trivial henchmen Matt sidestepped the overly invested swing with ease and with one stroke, landed a kick to his face. The satisfying crack sent him flying, and the man’s sheer weight took down the guy behind him as well. Matt leaped over them, flying through the hall. A sea of men crowded the hall, blocking the elevator and stairwell.
Frank’s incessant grunts persisted from the floor below, almost always preceding another gunshot. Another corpse added to the collection of Matt’s failures. He let out an animalistic bellow as he charged the solid wall of men in front. His palm first drove into the biggest one’s stomach, knocking the air out of him for a second. The second and third men swung simultaneously, Matt instinctively blocking both. His arm followed through with the motion, shoving them to the side.
Matt chose to prioritize confronting Frank, then dealing with these incompetent assholes. They posed little to no serious threat, they barely even registered as a gang. Almost comically, he slid through one man’s open stance, following it up with a split kick. It sent both the recipients stumbling. After a bit, it all became just a rhythm. The men were evidently untrained, and had little to no coordination.
He glided through the air with all the grace of a ballerina and ferocity of a demon. Matt found himself having taken out all but two men. He caught a whiff of piss from the one on the right, who’s legs trembled. He wasn’t especially tall, and judging from the sound of his whiney wheezing, he was probably no older than his earlier twenties.
The one on the left gave off a nearly intolerable stench. Heavy smoker, judging by the rattle in his lungs and cigarette smell practically wafting off of him. It worsened as Matt approached, the putrid remnants of garlic and cheap cologne attacking him in waves. God, the man’s B.O. overpowered his fading deodorant. The smell presented more of a fight than every shitbag he’d fought tonight combined. Out of pure revulsion, Matt held his breath as he knocked him out, finally turning to face the last one standing. One glare, a glare that unbeknownst to the kid was actually aimless, had him running.
He vaulted over the staircase, and landed face to face with the man of the minute.
Frank.
“Hey, Red,”