Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The blood sticks to his hands, and he ignores Khonshu’s advice to clean it up. Why bother when he’s planning on bloodying it again? He’s supposed to “deliver Khonshu’s vengeance,” so that’s what he’s going to do. Being in New York (instead of, say, Cairo or Chicago or Mosul) doesn’t change that.

And look at him, he’s being productive. Not even a block away from the UN headquarters and he’s preventing some mugger/rapist/shitbag from holding a young lady at gunpoint. 

Well… preventing might not be the right word for it. It’s more beating up. After fighting and killing Bushman (the bastard who shot Marc at that dig site about a year ago), the prick is annoyingly easy to subdue. One punch and he’s down. Jake scoffs and kicks him for the hell of it. Twice. The second breaks a rib.

The lady runs away as soon as she has the chance to, and Jake can’t blame her (although a “thank you” would have been appreciated). He picks up the discarded gun and checks the magazine to find three shots left. 

Either the prick can’t count or he used the rest. Jake smiles and takes aim. He’ll go with the latter, just in case.

The gun is unfortunately very loud and undoubtedly draws attention. There is nothing Jake can do about it now, but whenever he has the time, he’ll get a silencer. He’s in America, so it should be easy enough.

“Oh, this is interesting,” Khonshu hums suddenly and without explanation (because the bird likes to sound cryptic and it’s not working).

“What?”

“Someone found what’s left of Raoul Bushman.”

And that strikes Khonshu’s interest, why? It’s not like Jake tried to remove the crime from the scene. He doesn’t care if anyone finds the body.

“So?”

As if to answer his question, Jake is shot in the face. 

Which, first of all, ow. Second, the suit (more like civvies with how casual the outfit is) is pretty damn reliable. 

Jake takes cover behind a building and brushes a hand against his jaw. It stitches back together and clicks into place. There’s a bit of blood but no wound when it’s done. 

Huh, neat.

With that out of the way, he berates himself for not paying attention. He forgot that every time he’s in the front, he’s at war. There is always a battle. Letting his guard down was stupid.

“How ‘bout a warning next time?!”

Khonshu doesn’t reply, and a quick glance reveals that the pigeon has up and left him. Great. 

So he can survive a bullet to the face, it just hurts like a bitch. And that’s coming from a guy with very high pain tolerance (courtesy of dear ol’ mum and the bits of Marc’s military service Jake took part in).

He leans out and ducks out of the way of another bullet. It flies through his cap and tears off a good chunk of it. Damn it. He likes that hat. 

Jake weighs his options: get close, wait it out, or run. While two of those would save him the pain, only one is appealing. He doesn’t run from fights, he ends them. And he can’t end this one at this distance.

He peeks out again, gets shot at, and curses. He can’t see shit from there, but he knows the general direction of the sniper. Add that to Khonshu’s little hint, and Jake has a fair guess for where they’re shooting from.

Back to the UN building he goes.

He dodges most of the bullets and pushes through the rest, undeterred. He’s going to take advantage of the suit now that he has it. It makes his job easier. It also comes with super strength, he realizes, as he jumps farther than he normally can. He’s by the building in no time, and just as he’s about to climb—

His attention slips.

This has been the longest he’s been in control, and as more time passes, it’s harder to focus. It couldn’t happen at any other time, could it? It just has to be now.

At the very least, the sniper lost sight of him, so whoever fronts won’t immediately be greeted by gunfire. Jake slows down and tries to keep running straight, attention flickering until the pull gets too strong. He’d prefer it if neither fronts at all and just let him finish uninterrupted.

But as luck would have it, it’s Steven who comes out. Not Marc, who has the instincts to fight and his deal with Khonshu. 

It’s Steven, who skids to a stop before he can ram into the glass wall and bumbles through justifications for wandering. Who doesn’t notice until the smell of copper hits him that there is blood on his hands. Who’s in utter horror when he finds the gun in his belt.

They both panic, but for different reasons.

He doesn’t have a suit.

Jake just barely manages to wrestle back control and shove Steven so far away he might not front for weeks (he doesn’t really know how DID works and he doesn’t care) before the sniper starts shooting again. He’d rather Steven be safe than dead, and if that means Steven gets suspicious, then so be it.

Jake’s got more pressing issues right now.

Jake finally catches up to the sniper and throws a moon dart thing (they’re new to him, alright?) at his throat. The guy isn’t at all fazed as he steps out of its trajectory and aims again. Whoever he is, he’s good. Trained. Military, judging by the haircut. Probably special ops.

Not that it matters.

He’s close enough that the rifle is more of a liability than anything, but he puts a bullet in it to stay on the safe side. The man anticipates it and chucks the rifle at him, pulling out a handgun from… somewhere. The action confuses Jake enough that he misses the next shot, rendering his own pilfered gun useless.

Fine. He’s not upset about it at all.

Military Man has all sorts of backup weapons, and Jake counters each one with a little too much enthusiasm. He knocks the arm with the handgun to the side and grins as he catches a knife in his gloved hands. There’s pain but no blood. Interesting.

It gets caught in his palm and he yanks it away from the man, letting it clatter on the ground behind him.

Military Man just frowns and sweeps him off his feet. Jake brings the man down with him. Close combat it is.

It devolves into an all-out brawl. Minus the crowd. They ditch the handguns and knives for fists and elbows and anything else they can use to get the upper hand. It’s fast and dirty and dangerous. Lose any momentum and they’ll lag behind. It’s exciting.

He keeps his punches short, blocks when he can’t dodge, and throws all he’s got when there’s an opening. Adrenaline rushes through his blood and he can’t wipe the smile off his face fast enough. It’s a stark contrast to Military Man’s stoicism (and nothing like Bushman’s mania, he promises himself).

“What are you doing?”

The voice makes Jake flinch and take a knee to the gut. He glances at Khonshu standing around like he didn’t just abandon him, and gets punched in the face. He’s dazed for a moment too long and is put in a choke hold.

Jake tucks his chin in before it gets too tight and keeps the man from closing his grip. 

“Stop playing, worm.” 

Jake snarls, earning a look from Military Man. “Shut up.”

“Didn’t say nothin’.”

“Wasn’t talking to you.”

The man launches Jake and slams him on the ground, not letting up as he pins him with his forearm. “You enhanced?”

“There is something about him,” Khonshu, the useless bird, continues with all his godly wisdom. “We could use him as an ally.”

Jake does his best to ignore him as he throws the man off. While his opponent’s disoriented, Jake rolls to his feet, picking up the nearby knife on his way up. 

The man does the same and pulls out another gun from his boot. A rifle, two handguns, and a knife? Talk about overkill. 

“Listen to me, worm.”

“Shut. up.”

The other man doesn’t attack. His mistake. Jake moves to close the distance and—

“Jake.”

That stops him in his tracks to glare at Khonshu. “What?”

And that’s his mistake, because the man hits him hard with the gun and knocks him out. 

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Marc wakes up to a… he doesn’t even know. His head hurts and his inner clock is all wrong. How long has he been asleep? Why can’t he see? What happened?

“Awake yet?”

The voice is unfamiliar and hostile. And noticeably American.

“Where am I?”

“I’ll be asking the questions.”

“What—” Marc bites his tongue and turns his head to where the voice came from. He must be blindfolded. Did Steven get kidnapped? 

“Care to explain what happened at the UN HQ?”

UN HQ? Are they in New York? Why would Steven go to New York? “There must be some mistake, I didn’t—”

“Drop the act, kid. I know it was you. Didn’t even try to hide your face when you took the other guy’s.”

Marc has no clue what he’s saying, and judging by the apprehension in his captor’s words, it isn’t pretty. All the more reason for this to be a mix up, because Steven can’t do ugly.

“Are you enhanced?”

“What? No, I’m not. Listen, you’ve got it all wrong—”

“Where’d you train?”

“—I’m not your guy.”

The man scoffs and a chair scrapes against the floor. “Yeah? You think I wanna hear this bullshit when we fought like a pair of schoolboys?”

Marc is so confused. What did this man think he did? What did… What did he do?

The man didn’t mention the different accents, so it wasn’t Steven. Did he kill someone while dissociating? It wouldn’t be the first time, but he always had a sense of what happened afterwards, and it was always for Khonshu. If it wasn’t, then… He’s almost afraid of the answer.

His silence gets him punched in the gut. 

“It’d be easier for the both of us if you cooperate.”

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about,” he coughs out. “What did I do?”

The man raises his head by his hair and a bout of vertigo makes him dizzy. Coupled with the sudden bright light and his vision swims. The blindfold’s off but it still takes him a while to see.

When he finally can, however, Marc tenses. Standing before him is Frank Castle. The Punisher. Retired marine and very violent vigilante (not that he can judge). 

Marc remembers seeing him once during his time in Iraq, in Mosul. His CO had said something as Castle’s team was assigned to some guy they called Agent Orange. The team went dark after that and Bushman’s “It pays to be a winner” was largely forgotten. Not the phrase since the marines like using it a lot, but the way he said it—as if he knew something no one else did and Castle’s position was one to envy.

In the light of what the team actually did and who Bushman turned out to be, Marc wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

But didn’t he die by fiery boat explosion?

“You skinned a man’s face off,” Castle says, snapping Marc out of his thoughts, “before he bled to death.”

He… He what?  

“You can’t be serious.” His throat is suddenly hoarse and he can’t speak louder than a whisper. “I— I wouldn’t— That can’t— There’s no way.”

Because there isn’t. It’s not something Marc would do, conscious or not. Skinning someone’s face off… There’s no way.

Castle quirks a brow and leans back. 

“You ain’t the guy I fought,” he says, as if Marc isn’t stressed enough. While the words could mean he’s letting Marc go, the look says otherwise. 

Does he know?

Marc’s pretty sure the higher ups didn’t publicize the reason for his discharge, and even if they did, Castle left the marines and became the Punisher several months before Marc was kicked out. There’s no reason he knows. 

“What is this, split personality?”

That’s an inaccurate and outdated term, Marc doesn’t correct as a pit forms in his stomach.

“How do I talk to the other guy?”

He knows.

“Bring him out—”

He knows.  

“—or I’ll force him out.”

“Don’t you dare touch Steven,” he barks, pulling on the restraints only to tighten them. “He doesn’t know about any of this. He didn’t do anything. If you have a problem, take it up with me.”

Castle stares at him, his face impassive. “Whatever you say, kid.”

He gets up from his seat and knocks Marc out.

Jake jolts awake and immediately lashes out, resulting in him tipping over. His hands and feet are zip-tied to a chair and a fucking blindfold keeps him in the dark. He struggles pointlessly for a solid minute before plopping his head on the floor.

This is just perfect.

“Are you Steven?”

“Fuck off, will ya?”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Military Man hoists him off the floor and throws him upright. Jake has half a mind on correcting him and the other on cursing. Khonshu’s probably having a field day with this.

“Is this some Jekyll and Hyde type shit?” the man asks, his voice circling around him. “Steven kills people, the other one covers it up?”

Other one? Oh, fuck, did he talk to Marc? Better him than Steven, but how dare he?

“Name’s Jake, and I only kill people who deserve it.” 

That makes the man—who’s riding pretty damn high on that list—pause. “And who deserves it?” 

What kind of question is that? This guy shoots first and asks questions later. Does he really need it spelled out for him? 

“Who d’ya think?” Jake sneers back. “Killers, rapists, traffickers, you name it. They deserve to die.”

“And have their faces skinned off?”

“That one was personal.”

“Fucking insane.”

Jake shrugs and not-so-subtly tries to lift the blindfold. 

“Where’d you learn to fight?”

“Why do you care?”

“‘Cause you look familiar, dipshit.”

Jake tugs on his restraints again. He’ll need the suit to break them. “Then why should I tell you?”

The man doesn’t answer. Jake can imagine him standing there, menacingly. Probably pulling guns out his ass and waving them at him. While that could intimidate an answer out of him, it’s kind of lost with the blindfold. 

Fuck the blindfold. It should just burn and die.

He slams back into the chair, irritated and aware that his heart is beating a smidge too fast.

He just… He doesn’t like the dark. And not being able to move. Those two together don’t do it for him.

“What’s with the silent treatment?” He concentrates on the white suit. “‘S not like you got shot in the mouth. Fuck you for that, by the way.”

“You got healing powers?”

“From a dead bird god.”

The man huffs. “Yeah?”

Strips of cloth stretch over Jake and he doesn’t think twice before snapping free from the chair. He jumps over it to gain some distance and yanks off the blindfold. 

He can see the man clearer now, and Jake doesn’t care much about fashion, but that skull is a bit on the nose. Also, he does look familiar. Wasn’t he on the news at one point? Marc, at least, thought he was important. Fred Palace, or something along those lines.

Jake dives out of the way of a bullet and flings a moon dart. It goes wide (he’ll need some practice) and hits a light instead.

Of course, Khonshu chooses that moment to appear.

“You are the worst god ever, you know that?”

“And you don’t know how to listen.”

“I was a little busy not getting shot, thank you very much!”

He flinches when a bullet gets too close to his head and retaliates with another dart. 

“If you stop fighting him, you just might find that you share a lot in common.”

“You know what? Shut the fuck up, Khonshu. You got me in this mess, you don’t get a say.”

“Need I remind you whose suit you’re wearing.”

“Piss off.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“None of your fucking business!”

" Jake. "

Another insult is ready on his tongue, and Jake is so very tempted to yell at them both to be quiet. That wouldn’t stop Khonshu from being petty and taking back the suit though, and Jake really can’t take another interruption from the pigeon. 

“Fine. Fine. What do you want?”

He swears there’s a smile as Khonshu says, “Play nice.” 

Oh. Hooohh-kay. Khonshu must think he’s so funny.

Jake sucks in a deep breath and holds up his hands in surrender. If he dies, it’s on Khonshu. 

“Hey, Military Man. How ‘bout we talk it out like two guys who don’t want to kill each other?”

That surprisingly works. Huzzah.

Chapter Text

Turns out Frank Castle (heh hey, Jake was pretty close) had been scouting a criminal operation before he caught wind of Bushman’s murder. The exchange is still set to happen in a few hours, and Jake suddenly finds himself working with the gunslinger. 

Both he and Castle make it very clear that they don’t trust each other, but they ultimately have the same goals. With interests in line, it’s only logical to enter a tentative partnership, just for tonight, then they can go their separate ways. Jake, for one, can’t wait to leave New York. 

Khonshu, on the other hand, is ecstatic that they’re working together. 

“He’s efficient. I can see why evil fears him.”

Jake doesn’t try to stifle a groan. Castle gives him a look and he waves at Khonshu dismissively. 

“He’s a fan.”

The look doesn’t waver. “Your god?”

“Yup.”

“Some god.”

“Yyyup.”

They’re staking out an old warehouse by the docks. Several very nice black cars pull up with a slew of men carrying firearms. Not everyone’s there yet, as evident by the air of tension and lack of an actual exchange, but there’s already a lot of people. 

Something’s not right.

Jake leans over the crate and squints at the newest arrivals. “They’re expecting a fight.”

“They’d be stupid not to.”

“Yeah? With who, the other side of the exchange?”

Because from the looks of it, everyone gathered so far is on the same side.

“I thought you said this was a trafficking ring.”

Castle catches on and shifts his new rifle to pull out one of his many handguns. (Jake doesn’t even question the sheer number of weapons in his possession. He saw his arsenal. If anything, Castle’s carrying light.)

He tosses the pistol to Jake who turns it over and checks the magazine. Seven rounds plus one in the chamber. Not bad, but what’s eight against the sizable army they have?

“Just in case,” he says.

A final car rolls in and there’s an immediate shift as the group stands to attention. Frank loads his rifle while Jake summons the suit. 

No one steps out of the car, and none of the goons move. The tension hasn’t settled yet. What are they waiting for?

“There he is!” someone yells, and everyone turns to where Jake and Castle are hiding.

Bullets fly and Jake is forced to retreat before he can even do anything. Of course it’s a trap. Nothing can be easy, can it?

Castle fires five times before the goons converge on their position, at which point he switches to a fucking grenade launcher and blasts the poor, unfortunate souls. Jake, meanwhile, has a borrowed pistol and moon darts he still has trouble using. Isn’t that just fantastic?

That’s not to say he can’t keep up. His aim is good and he disposes of a fair number of bastards, but he’s using the rounds up fast and there’s too many to reasonably combat. 

Soon, the pistol clicks empty and Jake uses it to bludgeon the closest person. 

His smile drops. His focus slips. 

He’s back on desert sands with nowhere to run and everything to lose. His ears ring with the sound of spilled blood and burning gunpowder. He drops out of the way of a bullet and snatches a gun from a corpse, shooting waves of the enemy with the sole focus on surviving. 

He doesn’t know how he got here, but that’s how it is. He fronts in the middle of chaos and does whatever is necessary to get them out alive. 

Everything is so loud.

Jake ducks behind a crate and uses the shadows to aim. He misses twice and succeeds where it counts. Why doesn’t he have any supplies? A grenade would be great to have right about now.

When that gun clicks, he throws it at the enemy and goes to take another from the scattered bodies. He needs to be quick. He’s journeying into no man’s land without protective gear. He has to be quick.

He doesn’t hear the gun aimed directly at him.

Someone tackles him before he can grab one and he instinctively elbows them to break free. He hits a rifle instead. He doesn’t have time to try anything else before he’s sliding on the concrete—

He’s on concrete. Not sand.

“Snap out of it, kid!” Castle pushes his head down when he raises it above their cover. Jake blinks and stares at him, his hearing coming back to him. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, “Yup. Totally.”

“Good.”

It doesn’t look like they made any progress, and the enem— the bastards aren’t disheartened by the deaths they’ve witnessed. They just keep coming.

Jake realizes that he isn’t wearing the suit and quickly summons it again. It’s then that he notices that the last car to arrive is leaving. He’s willing to bet that the head honcho is in there, and he’s not about to let them get away.

“Castle!”

The man blows a hole in a guy who got too close. “What?!”

Jake double checks the suit and makes a run for it. Every shot hurts, but he shoulders through and decides to put his trust in the thing’s healing. “Cover me!”

Honestly, he feels bad for anyone who crosses the Punisher’s path. The man clears his way and follows after him. Khonshu’s right: he is efficient. Granted, Castle shoots through Jake a few times and basically uses him as a human shield, but that’s fine. The bastards don’t expect it, and it gets the job done, so he won’t complain. Yet.

Jake climbs into one of the nice cars and starts the engine. Castle tumbles in from the other side, shooting his rifle in front of Jake and obscuring his vision. He slaps it out of the way.

“Seat belts!” he shouts as he switches to drive. He’s a cabbie, alright? Fuck off. 

Traffic laws, however, he completely ignores. They hurtle down the road a good 15 miles above the speed limit (they’re more suggestions anyway) and counting. The target car got a head start, and they are very close to the city. He’ll have to catch up soon if he doesn’t want to chase it through a populated area.

A bullet goes through the rear windshield and hits him in the chest. Jake does not swerve, he’s a professional. He does curse though. He was hoping to keep the car (maybe not bring it to Cairo with him, but having one available in New York should he ever return would be great), but he’s functionally broke and can’t afford a window replacement.

Castle leans out the passenger window and fires back, causing the car behind them to lose control and crash. See? Not professionals.

The target veers right, and Jake is going too fast for a smooth turn. It’s sharp, and Castle falls back in. 

“Where’d you learn to drive?!”

Jake shrugs and turns again, throwing the man against the door. “I’m self-taught. Seat belt.”

“We’re gonna die.”

“Put on your fucking seat belt if you’re so worried.”

And he does. Safety first.

Jake then proceeds to ram into the car trying to pass them. Castle shoots the driver (ruining yet another window) and Jake smacks the rifle up so he can see. 

“Do you want me to crash?”

“Thought that was what you’re going for with your driving.”

“Oh, you think you can do better?”

“Yeah. But who's gonna fend them off, huh? Your aim ain’t exactly stellar.”

Jake swerves to avoid another car (and for the satisfaction of seeing Castle cling to the grab handle). “I’m an excellent shot, excuse you.”

“Oh, really?”

He rolls down his broken window and throws a moon dart behind them. It doesn’t curve into the vehicle like he wanted it to. It slices clean through the gas tank and blows it up instead. He’ll pretend that’s what he meant to do.

“You were saying?”

Castle turns in his seat and snorts. “I stand corrected.”

“That’s right. So shut the fuck up.”

Without any pursuers, Jake speeds up. It’s too late to avoid the city, and if they don’t do something quick, they might lose the target. Castle aims for the tires, which have bulletproof mud flaps? He tries again, but ducks behind the dashboard when the sunroof opens and an asshole starts shooting back. With an assault rifle. 

Getting shot so many times in one night is fucking annoying.

Jake floors the gas pedal and slams into the car, knocking the asshole off balance long enough for Castle to take them out. 

“Any time now!”

Castle grumbles as he shoots the driver, using his rifle to get past the bulletproof glass. That’s a lot of protection for one person.

The car skids off the road and runs into a building. There’s screaming when they step out, and Jake notices some of the bystanders pulling out their phones. Some are filming them, others are calling the police. 

He pulls his hood up and feels something spread across his face. His eyes glow white and a black cloth-like mask hides his features. How convenient. 

Castle doesn’t have that luxury, not that he stops to care. He tears open the door and manhandles a sleazy prick out. They don’t look all that impressive.

“Where are you keeping them?”

“You ain’t getting shit from me!”

Castle punches the prick and they bend over, gasping for air. “I’m not going to ask again.”

They spit on his face. 

“Charming.” Jake goes over and holds a moon dart above their left eye. “Is it worth your sight?”

“Who the fuck are you?”

Really? Jake’s threatening to blind them, and that’s what they say? He pokes out an eye just for that. “Start talking.”

“Th-They’re gone! Shipped off this morning! Who knows where they are now?” Then at Castle. “You were supposed to die tonight!”

Having heard enough, he drops the prick and stomps them unconscious. 

“Fuck.”

He stomps again. 

“Fuck!”

Sirens blare in the distance. Now’s a good time to go.

Jake pulls him back to the car and drives off quietly. 

This has been an… eventful evening.

“Anyone you know?”

Cast— Frank. They went through a lot tonight, they better be on a first name basis. Frank shakes his head. “They took a little girl,” he says by way of explanation. “All I could think of was my own.”

“You have a daughter?”

“Had.”

Oh, shit. Maybe think before you talk, Jake. “Right…”

Well, he should get going. There’s only so much time he can spend in New York before El-Faouly gets suspicious of Marc and, by extension, him. He’s not sure if it’s a good idea to just leave Frank like this, but what can he do?

Maybe… 

“What’s this?”

“My phone. Well, Marc’s. The other guy you talked to. He doesn’t know about me.”

“What’s it for?”

Jake shrugs and flexes his fingers over the steering wheel. “Send yourself a text and delete it. If you need anything, I’ll try to be around.”

Frank scoffs but does so anyway. “And what would Marc think?”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

“That’s not very healthy.”

“What, are you my psychiatrist now? You care about me?”

“Fuck off.”

Jake smiles. “That’s the spirit.”