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As he sits atop a roof, late at night, Matt is only halfway paying attention to the city below. It’s a slow one, quiet and calm. Low threat, nothing really in terms of danger. Not much to do.
Achingly boring, honestly.
Of course, this isn’t his first boring night.
On boring nights like these… Matt thinks about Frank. Maybe a little too often.
And when he became “Frank” as opposed to “The Punisher”, Matt doesn't know. He doesn't want to think about him, really. Doesn't want to think about how similar they are sometimes; that one wrong move, one instance of having a different process of thought, one unfortunate accident to send him over the edge… could blur the already thin line between him and Frank. It’s a strange feeling, a difficult feeling. He doesn't want to feel anything for Frank. Not the way he is now.
Well, how do you feel, Matt? Is what he imagines a therapist might ask. Or even a friend.
And the answer is, though he’d rather not admit it, strangely safe, with him. He finds safety in how Frank understands him. Doesn't really get angry with him- not like how he does other people. Frank will get mad, upset, at what Matt does- what Daredevil does, of course, it’s a running issue. But it’s never at him. Just actions, not person. It’s always layered with that godforsaken understanding that Matt wishes Frank didn't have. It would be so much easier to hate him in that case. That’s why he did hate him in the first place, they didn’t understand each other, it was easier for Matt to see a one-sided killer.
What a weird feeling, huh? Wanting to hate someone you don't. Wanting to hate someone it’s hard to. It should be easy still, Matt thinks. The Punisher stands for most things Daredevil doesn’t. Most importantly, killing people, if you boil it down to the very core. Matt should hate Frank. He kills people, on purpose, as much as he can. But Matt… Matt, like Frank, finds that he has (maybe too much) understanding for the other. And a little resignation. Frank has experienced loss Matt can’t understand, and couldn’t even begin to try and handle. He couldn't stop Frank on a good day, and he doesn't have many of those. He knows he can give Frank some pause, on certain occasions, and that’s enough to have some hope, still.
But why? Why does he want that hope? Why does he need it? The more Matt tries to figure himself out the more questions he has. He hopes, when the time comes, he’ll be able to ask God the things he didn't figure out himself in life.
Though… that’s it, too. Why does he want to hate? He’s not supposed to. Love thy neighbor and all that- it’s not just a saying, it means something- something he’s supposed to abide by. Even when it’s hard. What about Fisk? Matt hates Fisk, he’s sure of that. Fisk is the closest he’s ever come to…
To being like Frank.
Love thy neighbor. Fear God. Condemn Evil.
Murder is evil. Frank kills, but… he’s just human.
If Matt was a different kind of man he might believe Frank was influenced by something like demons, or The Devil. He might have thought that, years ago. Not now. No, there’s a type of Devil that lives in everybody. That’s inherently human and just… flaws. Of course, Matt learned that years ago. Frank is flawed like Matt is flawed, and shit, he still wishes that wasn’t the case. He prayed, once; maybe more than once, he doesn't fully know—it’s usually after a few drinks—that the world was more black and white. That Frank was two-dimensional; no shadows to make grays. Everything would be easier. Of course it would, but he’d be out of a job if the world was like that, wouldn’t he?
He's thought about Frank in many ways. He’s thought like a lawyer, he’s thought like a catholic, he’s thought like a vigilante. It all comes around to difficult but never as difficult as just thinking like a man. Like Matt. Which is what Frank, screw him, forces him to do so often. Like all of those parts are supposed to make some sort of whole, and that’s supposed to be who he is. Like Matt isn't fragmented. Broken, he would say, if he were more blatantly self-deprecating about it.
He supposes, in some round-about, frustrating way, Frank knows him more that anyone has. Frank knows the Daredevil side of him, the Lawyer side, the Catholic, more than even Foggy did.
That’s not a pleasant thought. How did he let that happen? Maybe he talks too much.
He falls backwards, his back hits the hard concrete of the roof. It’s not like sitting and staring out into the city has a difference in knowing what’s going on down there. He can hear just fine lying down.
He wonders if Frank thinks about him like this. If Matt Murdock takes up any part of his mind. Probably not, Matt figures. What does Frank think about in his free time? His family?
Does he have friends? Anyone other than Matt? Or Karen? It’s not like Frank has ever mentioned anyone else. He’s definitely more of a loner than Matt ever was or could be. In that aspect, that part of Frank is something Matt wishes he could be. He’s not jealous of that man, not by any means, but he doesn't have anyone left to hurt. No one left to lose.
Matt doesn't, and never would wish that the people he loves would die. But sometimes he wishes he never met them in the first place. So he wouldn't hurt them. So he wouldn't see them in pain. It’s not loss if you never had it in the first place.
Maybe him and Frank are the same that way. Maybe Frank thinks like that, too, sometimes. God knows, Frank has lost so much. That’s just another annoying layer of understanding between them. Matt curses the word.
Frank lost his family, Matt lost Foggy. Frank wasn’t mad when Matt got set off, down in that bunker. He wanted it to happen, actually. What is Matt supposed to do with that? He’s just mad, if he’s being honest. And it’s irrational, he knows, but, whatever. It doesn't matter. None of this does, It’s all stupid and annoying.
Combat boots, Matt recognizes before he even fully processes it. Confident footsteps. Reckless, he knows from experience. Walking with a soldier’s gait, as if stuck on the front lines. The clatter of guns, smell of gunpowder. Soft, but sturdy swoosh of thick, dense fabric against thinner material. Then, of course, a metallic scent. Blood.
Matt sighs, not bothering to move. It’s not long until those heavy soles are pounding right next to his ear, anyway.
“Odd place for a nap, Red.”
Frank Castle, everybody.