Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Neighborhoods like Hell's Kitchen were breeding grounds for small-time crime. Matt figured this out ever since they'd moved to the New York strip with hopes of capitalizing his dad's up-and-coming boxing career. Matt had seen the shadowed men in dark alleyways—before he'd lost his sight and his father—seen the way women travelled in groups and families shuttered their windows at night.

A neighborhood forgotten by the world was a place full of opportunity, where the Devil himself bargained with men brandishing shiny knives and little bags of powder on public streets. It came at no surprise in the wake of corrupt police, payroll politicians, and a strengthening of crime footholds across the city, that people were starting to take matters into their own hands. Matt was one of them—and was supportive, even, as people protected themselves where the government had failed them. But sometimes, sometimes...that self-defense became something twisted, bitter, vengeful...

"I don't do this to hurt people."

Frank scoffs, cleaning off blood-stained blades as though they're nothing more than dirty cutlery. "Yeah, so what is that, just a job perk?"

Matt strains against the chains wrapped around his chest. "I don't kill anyone."

"Is that why you think you're better than me? Is that why you think you're a big hero?"

"It doesn't matter what I think or what I am. People don't have to die."

Frank laughs; the sound's dark, grating, and sets Matt's teeth on edge. "Come on, Red. You believe that? 

The city's bitter chill seeps through Matt's clothes, burning his skin. He wonders if Frank's cold in that simple black-tee, if he's human under all those strapped guns and loaded bullets. "I believe it's not my call, and it ain't yours either." 

"You know what I think of you, hero? I think you're a half-measure. I think you're a man who can't finish the job. I think that you're a coward." Frank leans forward, gravelly-low voice against Matt's ear, "You know the one thing that you just can't see? You're one bad day away from being me."

Matt clenches his fists; hopes that he can somehow break free from the restraints around his wrists with sheer will alone. "I'll never be you, Frank. Never." 

The Punisher smirks. "You're right. I think you'll be worse than me. I think you're white-knuckling life right now, tryin' to convince yourself that putting these low-lives in prison is enough. But Red, someday you're gonna realize that it's not enough...that some people aren't worth your redemption or second chances." He runs his fingers across the edge of a newly-cleaned dagger. "And that day, you'll lose that moral high-ground of yours. No God'll hold you back then." 

The stench of damp wood and garbage-infested sewage and the other man's sweat makes Matt's head spin. "If that time ever comes, I'll put a bullet in my own head before anyone else's.”

"Christ, you're a stubborn fucker. You always this insufferable, Red?" 

Matt shrugs, tracking the Punisher's movements as he sets up a gun to face the rooftop entrance. "You always this unhinged?" 

"Unhinged? You ain't seen anything yet." He leans in close enough that warm breath fans Matt's cheek and presses something cool against Matt's palm. "How about this? One round in the chamber. Some things, they just feel right in your hand, huh? I know what you're thinking, Red. You could put a round in my arm, in my leg, but it's not gonna work, 'cause I'm all geared up. Only way you stop me is with a head shot. I'll give you a choice: either you shoot me, or you shoot the criminal about to walk through that door."

Matt refuses to close his hand around the gun, but the man only draws out a roll of tape from his back-pocket, cuts a strip with his teeth, and secures the gun against Matt's fingers. "Time's running out." The door's creaking; Matt can hear a man's muffled voice from inside. Frank's loading his own gun, pointing the barrel. "What kind of man are you, Red?" 

Matt curses, points the gun to where he can hear the Punisher breathing. "Please don't do this. It doesn't have to be this way." 

The door slams open and a skinny, unassuming man comes through with mousy brown hair and clothes that smell like oil, cigarette smoke, and booze all at once. Grotto. His hands jump into air as Frank's gun aims at his head. "Shit, shit, you're not supposed to be here..." 

Frank nudges Matt with his foot, "I caught this piece of shit stealing a car, trying to skip town."

Grotto's trembling, shaking so much that the lines of his figure blur against Matt's senses. "I was scared. I'm sorry, I was running for my life." 

"Stop it, Frank. He doesn't deserve to die, just 'cause you caught him stealing cars."

A scoff. "Is that what you think? Lafayette Street, 2nd floor. Why don't you tell him what happened, Grotto?"

"Please, I'm sorry, please..." 

"I'm only gonna ask you one more time." Frank cocks his gun, moves closer.

Matt can't bring himself to interrupt as Grotto answers, "I didn't know! It was an address! This guy, I didn't even know his name. He, he got wobbly with the wrong people, owed something to somebody, 'cause the order came from on high. So I killed him." 

Frank shoots Grotto in the foot, and Matt's lurching upwards at the scream that follows. He hears the criminal leaning against the rooftop ledge, the rustle of a weapon under his belt. "What else, Grotto? Tell our guest here, what else?"

"I didn't know. I didn't know the old lady was in the house. She wasn't supposed to be in the house. She started screaming. She saw my face. I had no choice."

The Punisher's looking at Matt now, gun still pointed at Grotto's head. "Old lady left a husband. Dead man left a wife and kids."

Grotto's still sniffling, "You gotta understand me. I had to do it..." but Frank's not paying any attention. "You still think this piece of shit is worth saving, Red?" And the Punisher's taking aim at the man and Matt has no way to subdue him other than a shot to the head. If Matt presses the trigger or not, someone's dying and Matt can't take that, not after his mom and dad and Stick and all the promises he made; instead Matt aims the gun back at himself. 

He shoots the chains holding him down just as the Punisher is about to take his shot. The sound is just enough for the man to falter, for his instincts to bring his gun down long enough for Matt to sweep the Punisher's legs from under him. He hears Grotto reach for his own gun, so Matt throws his baton at the guy's chest, waiting for the sound of a gun falling against cement. 

Matt scrambles to his feet—ignoring the blood rush and dizziness that came with being shot in the head only days prior—and listens for the pained grunts he should hear from the other side of the roof, listens for the Punisher's curses or Grotto's pleading, and yet...there's only silence. He can hear only one heartbeat other than his own. What? 

"Shit, Red." The Punisher's voice is quiet next to him, rough like the crunch of gravel under someone's feet. "That's one way to kill someone." 

And Matt's running, caution and bum-leg be damned, to where Grotto should've been. Matt can smell blood, but it's faint. Farther away than it should've been. "What...how, where'd you go..." 

Matt can't see the crooked, twisted body splattered at the base of the apartment complex, but he can see the warmth creeping out of the supposed-to-be bright red figure below. Shit. How could he have thrown that baton so hard, how couldn't he have considered the damn ledge, how the damn rain made everything so slippery...Matt's heading for the fire-escape, climbing over the ledge and priming himself to jump onto the staircase secured into the building's side (God, what if he's too far gone? What if he's already dead?) 

Strong arms coil around Matt's waist from behind before he can make the leap. "You can't save him, Red! Grotto's done for." 

Grotto. The slime-bag that Matt took an oath to defend because that's what lawyers do, that's what good people do, give others a chance to be good themselves...

"Hey, hey don't do that—", Matt's barely aware of how he's practically collapsed against the Punisher's chest, bum-leg finally haven given out.

He knows he should say something, stand on his own two feet, not rely on the support of this stranger who kills people (don't you too now, Matty? Ruthless, murderer, what would Dad think?) 

And to Matt's horror, he's sputtering, gasping for air because his own throat's closing up on him. The Punisher presses him upright against a wall. "Red, listen to me. We gotta go before the cops get here..."

Matt shakes his head. "No, no—let them come—let me explain what happened—"

The other man huffs, calloused hands rough and supportive against Matt's bodysuit. "They'll shoot you on sight, Red. Don't be an idiot. Can you walk?" 

Iron lingers in the air; burns Matt's nostrils. "I...fuck, I just killed him..." Matt shrugs off the Punisher's grip, lets himself sink to the ground. "I killed someone." 

The man runs a hand through hair Matt knows is inky, dark, from the descriptions Karen's given. "Red, it was an accident. I gave you a gun to use and you decided to throw a damn stick instead. You tried to save his life by damn-near shooting yourself, and in my book, that's not exactly a cold-blooded murder. Come on now; you got a place I can drop you off at?" 

"Apartment", Matt murmurs, exhaustion and shock weighing down his limbs, "two-forty centre street". The Punisher hums and slings Matt's arm over his shoulder, bringing them both to their feet. "Why're you doing this?" Matt groans as lightening—sharp and breathtakingly painful—travels up his injured leg when they take a step forward. "Why not just leave me here, get me out of your way?" 

The other man's breathing picks up, so slightly that even Matt's enhanced hearing can barely pick it up. "Because some stupid part of me thinks you're a good guy, and there's not a lot of good guys out here anymore. Now shut up and keep walking." 

Matt doesn't say a word as they limp into the night—tripping over potholes and puddles in dimly lit cobblestone streets—darkness trailing behind them both like a set of chains in their own right. 

**

Frank's a little overwhelmed by Red's place. It's much bigger than he imagined for someone who spends his nights bleeding out on New York streets, but it's still close to what Frank pictured: garage-style floors, empty walls save for a frame or two, a lone punching-bag across from a rickety-looking dinner table.

They stumble across the threshold and honestly, Frank's not sure who's holding who up. The aches and pains of tracking down Irish mobsters for weeks on end are starting to get the best of him.

"Big place for just one person, Red."

Red hums, flicks on a golden-bulb that casts long-shadows over barren floors. "Bedroom. Second room to your right." He must've caught Frank's eyebrow-raise and huffs, "Seriously? I keep all my first-aid in there." 

Frank nods. Carefully takes more of Red's weight as they change direction and step into the largest room yet, showcasing a king-sized bed in the middle with sheets so shiny, Frank wonders if they're made of silver. He's about to set them both down on the mattress, but Red’s pulling Frank back against him.

"Not here. Don't wanna get anything on my bed."  

"You're awfully picky for someone who's beat to all hell." 

Red's gnawing at his lip, hand tight around Frank's arm. "I just...have a sensitivity to smells and stuff, okay? There’s a couch behind you—go sit down, I'll get the kit." He's still got his mask on, but Frank can feel the heat emanating from his skin.

"Nah, man. You sit down. Where's the stuff?"

"Under the bed." 

He pulls out a rather-well stocked kit (reminds him of Afghanistan, how orderly the needles, medications, gauze are kept) and grabs a few things for himself before handing it over to Red. Frank swiftly treats his own scrapes and bruises from the impromptu parkour and late-night gunfights that've become his new normal, watching as Red struggles to attend to the wound in his leg. 

It's still bleeding, albeit sluggishly, and the tear in his suit looks like someone grazed him with a knife. Frank gets sick of watching Red's fingers tremble against his skin, stitches so slanted and messy that Frank's own nerves crawls in sympathy. "For Christ's sake, give it to me. This isn't the goddamn boy-scouts." 

"It's fine. I just need to—" Red cuts himself off as the needle tears through his skin, murmuring a soft fuck as the bleeding's renewed again. Frank curses and snatches it away before pressing gauze to the other's thigh. He can barely see the laceration through all the blood and torn fabric. 

"You gotta take the suit off. Keep the mask on if you need to, but I can't stitch anything up like this." Frank can see the hesitation in the other's face. "Come on, Red. You gonna bleed out to save your modesty?" 

"I'm thinking about it." Red's lips quirk up; a smile despite the blood pooling on his floors. "You don't even know my name." 

"I don't give a shit who you are, Red."

"Matt. I'm just Matt." 

Frank massages his temple, acutely aware of the blood coating his hands. "Okay then, Matt. You gonna take the damn costume off?" 

Red—Matt—unzips something from behind and peels the suit from his arms and shoulders. Frank helps the best he can, trying not to let his gaze linger on the splotches of purpling and yellow bruises around the other's ribs. Painstakingly slowly—they maneuver the dense fabric over Matt's injured thigh. It feels oddly intimate, kneeling in front of a masked, near-naked Daredevil, pressing a hand against his thigh...Frank can't remember the last time he's touched someone like this. 

Matt, for his part, is deathly still as Frank finds the wound. He's so still that Frank brushes a finger against his femoral artery, just to make sure he's not treating a corpse. "Hey, you still with me?" Frank can barely make out Matt's nod. "You got any more lights? I can barely see past my own dick here." 

Matt reaches above Frank with a quiet groan, chest brushing against Frank's shoulder as he flicks a switch. Dim, golden light bathes the room (why is everything in this damn apartment so dark?) and Frank threads the needle, wraps  thread around his own fingers.

The wound’s deep, but short, probably made in haste from some small-time criminal who couldn't afford a gun. "Christ. How'd you find time to get this between trackin' me down and representing criminals?" 

Matt makes a soft, surprised noise. "How'd you..."

"You were mumbling somethin' earlier about what good lawyers do and you've got the biggest savior complex known to man." Frank cuts the thread with his teeth, pulls it tight. "You ain't as complicated as you think, Red. Matt. Whatever." 

"Call me whatever you like." Matt doesn't wince as Frank sinks the needle into his leg. "What about you, then? Traumatized veteran gone rogue, playing judge, jury, executioner? You sound like Marvel's next superhero." 

Frank hums, secures another stitch. "My boy loved that stuff. Used to ask me to watch those movies with him all the time. I've never been into that whole superhero crap, though. They're made up by someone sitting all cushy in their fancy offices with their Starbucks lattes, far from the front lines where the real heroes live." 

Matt laughs—soft, but warm. "I hope you didn't tell your kid that." 

"Nah. I ended up watching the entire damn franchise 'cause I couldn't tell my boy no." Frank clears his throat; pushes that ugly, writhing mass of something back down where it belonged before leaning back against his heels. He admires his handiwork, scanning Matt's bare torso and legs for any other injuries (if his gaze lingers on the definition of Red's thighs or the sharp curve of his collarbone, Frank chalks it up to exhaustion). "Think you're all set, Red. What next?" 

Matt murmurs a thank you as Frank rests a hand against the other's hip, giving him enough support to stand. "Bathroom. I'm just gonna clean up." 

"Sure you're up for a shower? I'm not saving your ass again tonight." 

"I've done more with worse. There's a guest bathroom across the hall if you want to clean up too." 

Frank shakes his head. "It's okay. I don't have any clothes with me, and I've got somewhere else to be tonight." 

Matt limps into the dark bathroom with a sigh, hands cradling a head Frank knows must be aching. Was it just a week ago that they'd met, when Frank had shot Daredevil by necessity, hoping his helmet was bulletproof? "Do whatever you need to do. But a night of rest might do you some good."

A steaming-hot shower sure as hell sounds good right now. But Matt's gotta know..."I'm not going to change, Red. Showers and sleep be damned—you'll have to put a bullet in my head before I ever stop what I do." 

"Honestly, Frank, it's just an offer. I know we'll get back to standing in each other's way soon enough, but for now, I'm gonna take that shower. There's a robe in the closet if you want it; couch's all yours. If you have to leave, at least grab something from the fridge before you go." Matt's leaning against the bathroom wall, all pale skin against stained-glass windows. "Standing in someone's way comes easier after a sandwich." 

**

Chapter Text

Matt hadn't expected to see the vigilante after his shower, but there's still a pang in his chest when he realizes he's alone. There's a note in the kitchen beside a crumpled piece of stock paper; Matt runs his hand over them both, wondering if there's a threat or thanks in what feels like brashly-written words. 

The quiet of his too-large apartment provides no distraction from the stings and aches of his wounds as he heads to bed. He's never quite figured out why he keeps the place so empty; he'd told Foggy it was to make walking around easier, but some nights, when Matt's failures are splattered across his suit and skin, he wonders if he keeps his home so un-home-like because he doesn't deserve one. (Then he'd laugh in the darkness, because he's covered in blood and regret and it's all so ridiculous that it almost doesn't feel real, and remind himself about work in the morning.)

He collapses against his silk sheets, reaching a hand down to trace the stitches on his injured leg. It's going to be hell to wear suit-pants over this; he'll probably be in a suit all day, dealing with journalists and officers alike about what happened to his client—who's lying dead at the base of the federal building silhouetted in Matt's bedroom window. 

Matt falls asleep to the phantom touch of Frank's heavy fingertips against his thigh.

***

"I'm sorry, I must've not heard you correctly—did you just say that you brought the Punisher home? You know, the same guy who's also a mass murderer and the top suspect in our client's death? The same guy who's rampaging the city and killing people in broad daylight?"

Matt's biting his lip, leaning against his cane to keep weight off his bad leg and scouting the office to make sure no one else's around. "He didn't kill Grotto, Fogs. I did." 

"For God's sake, Matt, not being able to stop a murder doesn't mean—"

"Foggy..it was my weapon. My mistake. And I'll spend the rest of my life paying penance." His head's aching already, body tense as a live wire after hours of lying to the NYPD and trying to comfort Grotto's heartbroken mother, "I understand if you...need space. We've spent our entire lives trying to defend people who have no one else, and I—I killed someone who came to us for help. God, Fogs, I'd understand if you never wanted to see me again—fuck, I'm so sorry..."

But Foggy's not screaming at him, telling him how horrible and reckless and evil he is; instead he's surging forward so quickly that Matt stumbles into the table behind him. Foggy's arms wrap around his waist and pull him into a hug so tight, his bruised ribs burn. "You're a idiot if you think you'll ever get rid of me. Remember what I said at graduation, all those years ago? Avocados in law for life, man." Matt can feel Foggy's smile against his neck, "Probably shouldn't have said that in the commencement speech, but Professor Darcy said to follow my instincts, so—"

Matt laughs, reveling in the warmth of the embrace, before wrapping his own arms around the other man's shoulders. "God, Fogs, I don't deserve you..."

"I'm gonna choose not to unpack that because we've got a thousand other things to figure out with Grotto and the Punisher and the Irish Mob that's definitely coming after your alter ego now—but Matty, I wish you'd believe me when I say you deserve the world." Foggy pulls away, keeping a hand on the other's waist, "Okay. You've been using your cane as a crutch all day and knowing you, you've probably not eaten a damn thing all day, so how about we grab some Thai food and head back to my place. Then you can tell me what actually happened last night, sparing us both the self-flagellating guilt, and we can come up with a game plan." 

"Sounds great, Fogs." He steps back to hold the office door open for his best friend, feeling lighter than he had for days even with a sliced-to-hell leg. "Oh, hey, I meant to ask—could you read something to me?" He draws out a torn piece of paper from his dress-pants. "Frank left this in my apartment."  

"Jeez, we're on a first-name basis now." Something warm bubbles up in Matt's chest because even though Foggy's wary and exhausted from a  grueling twenty-four hours he didn't ask for, he's taking Matt's arm and carefully leading them down ice-coated steps. "Here, let me see."

Matt hands him the note, takes a deep breath to steel himself because he's never had good luck with hastily scribbled notes left on kitchen stove-tops. "Had someone back home waiting for me, Red. Thanks for the sandwich; sorry for shooting you." Foggy huffs. "Man, this guy's somethin' else. I can't tell if this is supposed to nice or vaguely menacing. Who's the special someone?" 

Matt hands over a tiny piece of stock paper. "He left this too." 

Foggy inhales, surprised and sharp. "A dog. The Punisher of New York City has a dog." And Matt's hiding a smile, hoping Foggy won't see, "God, Matty. You're smiling like you think the damn note's cute." 

"No, of course not—"

"Good, because there's nothing about this guy that's endearing and we're still gonna put him behind bars like he deserves, apologies and adorable animals aside." 

"I know, but," Matt shoves his shoulder playfully into Foggy's, "imagining that man with a dog? It's kind of cute." 

Foggy rattles off signs and symptoms of a traumatic brain injury all the way to the Thai place. 

***

The next time Matt sees Frank, he's trying to save him and stop him at the same time. There's half-a-dozen Irish mob cronies with their handguns and knives doing everything in their power to take a piece out of each vigilante and Frank's no less, acting as a human-shield for the unconscious animal behind him and trying to bury everyone in a sea of bullets and bitter gunpowder. 

Matt's fighting with him as much as the gangbangers, grabbing his arm to force his gun downwards at mens' legs and knees (Christ, some of them look no older than teenagers) instead of their heads, wondering how the hell Frank can be a stubborn asshole even with bone sticking out of his left foot.

Frank mutters 'alter-boy' under his breath when Matt redirects a bullet into someone's arm instead of chest. 

"Frank—" but Matt has no time to finish, shoving the vigilante behind him as reinforcements pile in. Frank huffs as Matt throws blades at men's unprotected calves, reloading the guns he managed to get after Matt broke him free from his chains...

Blood pools around Frank's ankle as they hold him down, power-drill against the meat of his foot. Matt can smell the burnt and fracturing bones, the faint scent of salty tears in the air as Frank's yelling curses, saying he'll never give them what they want, and Matt's still in the shadows, trying to concentrate on finding the right moment to attack...he hears a quiet whimper. And suddenly Frank's screaming so desperately that Matt throws all caution to the side, springing into the room and throwing a knife into the arm of the man moving that damn drill near a dog's leg...

Matt manages to incapacitate the last two men in the room. He locks the door and shoves a chair beneath the handle, stepping over fallen bodies to where Frank's whispering you're okays, and I'll kill them all to the dog cradled against his blood-smattered chest.

Matt gets on his hands and knees, presses bare fingers against the floor—the old police blue-prints he'd gotten from Sergeant Mahoney showed some kind of hidden entrance, some kind of tunnel dug from the last drug ring that used to own the place. He's quickly realizing he shouldn't have staked their lives on an out-dated map.

He finds a loose tile. "Frank! Get over here." Someone's banging against the door, hinges creaking against brute force, as Matt uncovers a ladder stretching down into narrow hole that Frank's broad frame would barely be able to fit into. "I can carry him", Matt says with a vague gesture to where he thinks the animal is, "and you focus on using your arms to carry you down." 

Frank's breathing heavily as he rests his injured foot on the ladder. Matt winces in sympathy as he takes the sedated dog under one arm, hearing the grind of bone against bone. He covers the tunnel above him and balances himself against the loose rope as they climb; Matt with one arm and Frank with one leg.

His feet thankfully reach ground just as his forearm's about to give out. "Frank? You okay?"

The man's heart is pounding, clouding out Matt's senses. "I can't see, Red. I can't see anything." 

And Matt's just realizing that there's no light down here, that Frank's experiencing the same paralyzing fear that Matt's dealt with ever since he was seven years old. "Here, hold my hand. I know where we're going."  

Frank's muttering something under his breath—one batch, two batch, penny and dime—and Matt doesn't question it, recognizes the man's effort to keep himself sane in such darkness and what must be excruciating pain. Calloused, torn fingers wrap around his own, and Frank's whispering a quiet thanks as Matt pulls him up carefully to wrap an arm around his torso.

Matt's shoulders are burning now, with both Frank and his dog's weight on either side, but Matt holds them tight and follows the sound of dripping water. He prays that it's coming from the surface, prays there aren't people with guns waiting on the other side. 

Precious minutes creep by as they near the exit. Matt listens for footsteps or voices, nearly tears up with relief when he shoves the little metal door open and finds nothing but an empty alleyway packed with overflowing dumpsters. The Punisher's huffing and puffing beside him; his dog's twitching slightly, slowly waking back up. "Frank?" 

"Yeah, Red?"

"What's your dog's name?" 

Frank's heart rate calms, just slightly, as he looks over to the animal safely tucked under Matt's arm. "Max." 

"Hold Max then; I can carry you both on my back." 

"What? Why?" 

"You can't walk here. There's shit all over the ground, and the last thing we need is an infection in that foot." 

"We don't even know where we're goin', Red, and I'm a hell of a lot bigger than any girlfriend of yours."

Matt doesn't have the energy to argue, already handing the dog over and bending down to take Frank's weight. "Just shut up and hop on." 

"Think you're superhuman, don't you..." Frank mutters even while straddling his waist from behind, warm hands on his shoulders, tucking Max in the gap between his own chest and Matt's back. "You need a break, you take one. Don't be a martyr and pass out or some stupid shit like that. We understand each other?" 

And Matt's smiling despite the almost-two-hundred pounds piling onto his back. "Careful. Don't get all sweet on me now, Frank."

Frank's quiet as Matt hefts him up and begins the trek to a safe-house Sergeant Mahoney cleared for the night.

"Not many people would look twice at Max and I, Red." He clears his throat, hot breath against Matt's cool skin. "Sue me for giving a fuck about someone who wouldn't leave us behind. I know you would've done it for anyone, alter-boy, but...thank you." 

Matt blushes, wonders how true that is. Matt's always respected life, even those of his enemies...but this, grasping at straws, forcing Mahoney's hand, risking his life and the retaliation of the Irish Mob...he's not sure if he would've done the same for just anyone. Something about Frank—how his hands can be capable of such violence and still be so gentle, how he's so full of anger and pain yet would never hurt anyone who didn't deserve it, how he challenges Matt in a way no one other than Elektra's done before—makes Matt reckless. 

Stick said to never let emotions get in the way of a mission—but as Matt struggles silently under the welcome burden of Max and Frank's weight, he thinks it's a little late for that one. 

***

11:11 pm.

Frank's somewhat certain—as Matt finally sets him down inside the safe-house—that Daredevil's superhuman.

He must've carried them both for almost an hour, weaving between empty streets and private driveways from memory alone. It didn't help that rain left both men soaked and freezing down to their underwear. Frank holds Max against his chest as Matt groans, leaning against the wall as though the exhaustion's just catching up to him. "Chivalry's officially dead", he says between heavy breaths, "I'm never carrying anyone over a threshold again."

Frank laughs, because even though his foot's swelling and sharp pain's shooting up his calf with every minute movement, he's got Max unharmed in his arms and that's more than he thought possible. Matt's lips quirk up with something akin to affection, as though he can hear what Frank's thinking (if anyone could, it'd be this man so different yet so similar it's like looking into a mirror).

He guides Frank into the cramped main-room, and Frank collapses onto a threadbare couch that nearly swallow him whole. "Okay, I just gotta find the first-aid", but in an odd twist, Matt's walking straight into furniture, cursing and blushing though the light's on. Max grumbles in Frank's arms at the noise.

"Red, your eyes okay?" He's only half-joking.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm just—", Matt's sounding more lost here, bathed in light, then in that pitch-black tunnel. "You see a kit anywhere?" 

 "Think there's somethin' under the table you just bumped into." 

Matt gingerly reaches down to pick up the first-aid. "Thanks. Can you put your foot up for me? I'm just, um, gonna dry off real quickly..."

"Do what you gotta do." Frank's frowning as Matt comes back with a towel wrapped around his shoulders after five painstaking minutes of thuds and oomphs. "The hell's goin' on, Red?"

"I think I caught a cold." 

Well, Frank muses, freezing rain and super-herculean exertion will do that to someone (even someone who faces down machine guns with batons and spandex). "What's a cold gotta do with runnin' into everything in sight?" 

Matt's blushing, arms raised defensively as though he expects to hit something. "My senses, everything gets muted, quiet..."

There's fear in Matt's voice and the man's practically fearless, so Frank’s slowly reaching out and pulling him to the couch. Matt collapses against it, light glinting against the too-opaque lens of his mask, and only then does Frank realize something so absurd, so insane, that he's brushing his fingers against Matt's cheek.

"Red, the lenses...the whole time we were fighting—how could you see..."

Matt's pulling his mask off for the first time since Frank's met him, and he somehow looks nothing and everything like Frank had expected...except for the way his eyes remain unfocused, staring off into Frank's side. "I couldn't. Not—not like that, at least."

Frank's got a million questions, a litany of curses waiting at his lips, but Matt's hands are shaking (Frank decides not to analyze the fierce urge to find and fix that nearly has him walking on broken feet), "Red, you gotta talk to me. What's wrong?"

"It's all out of balance, Frank. It's all out of balance and I can't see..."

Something makes Frank think that Matt's version of see is much different than everyone else's. "What do you need?" 

"The light, all this stuff, that damn air conditioner...I can't concentrate..."

Frank gently sets a sleeping Max down; hops up on his good foot to open the blinds so moonlight trickles in before flicking off the light, shoving the cheap furniture to the side, hunting down the AC and cutting all the wires when he can't bend down to find the off-switch. Whoever owns the place can figure that problem out later. "Better?"

Red's still tense, but he nods before Frank sits back down with a muffled groan. "Shit, Frank, I'm sorry—I don't know what I was thinking, asking you to walk around..." 

"It's fine—"

"No, it's not. You're hurt, and I'm sitting here acting like a little kid—" 

"Don't finish that sentence." Something fiercely protective's wrapping around Frank's chest. "You don't get to insult the man that's saved the only family I got left." 

"I'm still sorry—"

"You're forgiven. You gonna be okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine..." Matt's forcing his breathing to slow, unclenching those nailed-marked fists and feeling his way to the kit. "I can still fix you up—"

"You sure, Red? I'll figure myself out if you wanna get some rest.” 

"I'm not leaving you to deal with a broken foot on your own. Just, can you guide my hand to the wound?"

He takes Matt's wrist gently, places it against his heel. "They started drilling about an inch up from here", he whispers, because they're so close that Frank can make out the slight stubble on his cheek. 

Matt feels the damage with a feather-light touch (God help him, the way he furrows his brow reminds Frank of his late-wife) and grimaces. "I can splint your foot and suture up the bottom, but there's not much else to be done until the swelling goes down. There's some painkillers here, if you want them?" 

Frank hums, tries not to think about how gentle those deft fingers are against his skin. "Give me the bottle and do whatever you can." He dry-swallows a handful of pills, watches how Matt's eyes look blankly to the side as he works. "Red, should I be trustin' you with a needle?"

"I'm blind. Doesn't mean I can't see." 

"How can see without your eyes?" 

"I don't know how else to explain it other than the world's on fire", Matt gingerly reaches out to the counter, grabs stiff magazines for make-shift splint, "but everything burns differently—you and Max burn bright, your wound burns brightest, and everything else's...dim right now, until I get control over my senses again. But I can usually smell that aftershave of yours fifty-feet away, hear a heartbeat from a hundred. Hold still, this's gonna hurt." 

He winces when Matt pours antiseptic onto the wound. "Blind and somehow one of the damn best fighters I've ever seen. You might really be the devil." 

"You know...when I was little, these neighborhood kids heard about my dad, about the beatings he'd take for us to get by, and a rumor started going around...be careful of the Murdock boys," Frank's iced-over heart thaws, just slightly, when Matt smiles to himself, "because they got the devil in 'em." 

"What beat up your old man?" 

"Bad guys and bad luck." 

Frank hums. "Apple doesn't fall far from the tree. He where the name comes from?" 

"Maybe. I don't really know myself. Daredevil came to me when I was praying, ironically enough. I made the mask, got those batons and, well, some things just feel right in your hand", smirking as he quotes Frank in the first time they met, "don't they?" 

"Daredevil. At least it sounds better than the Punisher." 

 "I don't know—something about the name suits you." Matt gets up, brushes off his palms even though it does nothing against blood. "You going to run away again if I go for a shower, try to clear my head a little?" 

"That depends...am I gettin' another sandwich?" 

Matt laughs and even though Frank's got no damn clue what's happening with Matt's eyes or his own heart, it's enough to make him smile too. "I don't think there's any Subway leftovers here, but downtown's only five miles south if you're up for another walk..."

"Yeah, yeah—go take your shower, Red. I'm not goin' anywhere." 

**

1:35 a.m.

His son's welcoming him home with a smile that makes Frank's grueling day a little bit brighter. His girl takes his hand; leads him to the dinner table. He leans in to kiss his wife—

But she's not reaching out to him anymore, beautiful face contorted into something that he's never seen on her before, something so afraid that Frank's heart stops beating for a second…there's life spilling from her chest, painting her clothes red...

"Frank, listen to me, you're going to hurt yourself, don’t move—”

Red. Matt's face replaces hers, and he's dying just like she was, just like they all do.

"I can't do it again, Christ, please I can't do it again…"

Unfocused brown eyes meet his as a hand brushes his cheek; someone's draped over him, pinning him down. "You're safe. I’ve got you, nobody’s here but you and me." 

Frank grabs that wrist, holds it close to his chest as he struggles to sit up against the deep ache in his foot. "Matt? Did—did they get you, did I miss something..."

"I'm good, Frank. We're good." 

"The hell you doin' up, then? I wake you?" His voice sounds wrecked even to him. 

Matt's own fares no better; hoarse and sleep-ridden. "It's fine, I was barely asleep anyway."

"Shit, sorry..." Max, thankfully, is still sleeping on the other end of the tiny bed (Frank's double-checking for the rise of his chest nonetheless, making sure that whatever sedative those bastards gave him isn't a death sentence—)

"Don't be. You wanna talk about it?" 

Frank huffs, tries to sink further into the sheets and away from the pleasantly-warm body still leaning into his chest. "Go back to sleep, Red." 

3:33 a.m. 

Frank, somehow, manages to roll off the damn-tiny bed; agony flares up in his leg when he catches himself and he's muffling a scream into his arm, now wide awake. Someone's cursing and wrapping strong arms around his waist, carefully helping him back onto the mattress. "Red?"

"Yeah?" 

Frank groans, buries his face into the pillow. "Christ, I keep wakin' you up—"

"You didn't. Not this time." Frank realizes that Matt's sitting beside him with his legs crossed and tiny figures scattered across the blanket. There's a dozen of pieces of paper, a heap of oddly shaped forms, but one sticks out from the side. If Frank tilts his head—he can vaguely make out a swan. 

"Huh. Didn't know you were into origami." 

Matt shrugs, ducking his head as though he forgot that his craft's out on display. "It's just something I used to do as a kid—though, obviously, I'm no good at it. I'd busy myself with this when my dad was training, trying to replicate what I'd seen some other kid doing one day before—before everything...", he laughs mirthlessly and gestures at his eyes, "it's a useless habit now, I guess."  

Frank leans over carefully to pick up the swan; smiles at how many creases there are, as though it'd been redone several-times over.

"Better habit than your other ones, at least." 

3:59 a.m.

"You ever been tired?" Frank's pressing one of the pillows against his bare torso, cotton cool against his mottled skin, leaning on the creaky headboard next to Matt. They'd long given up on getting any sleep. "Tired enough that your body moves on autopilot, movin' without your mind like some kind of ghost, fighting and fighting even though..." He points a finger into his chest, "there's nothin' here to fight for anymore."

"Frank..." He looks up, catches Matt's eye. There's something oddly delicate about how the moonlight highlights his features; all flushed cheeks and big brown eyes and floppy dark hair slightly curling from the shower. His boyish features look out of place against the knife-scars and raised bullet wounds spattered across his chest and abdomen, the hard-earned muscle of his arms and exposed legs, the glassiness of his eyes...Frank wonders who the Devil could've been if his God had been a little kinder. "There's always something to fight for."

"Really? What does it for you, Red? Gettin' beat down with no thanks, hiding broken bones and bruises, suffering alone in that lifeless apartment?"

Matt's frowning, wrapping his arms around himself. "I dunno. Something about being more than myself, I guess. When I'm Daredevil—I'm more than Matt Murdock, more than some blind, helpless guy that needs doors opened for him or people to walk him across the street..."

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" 

Frank leans in closer, lets his shoulder brush against Matt's. "Break yourself into pieces. Why's there gotta be a Daredevil at all?"

"I'm not you. I've got a life outside of this," Matt leans into him too, lightly resting his head against Frank's own, "and I want a normal life, you know, with the house and job and people who care—but some part of me wants, needs to be out here. Daredevil's my way of having it all." 

Something deep aches in his chest. "You can't have it all forever, Red. Take it from me—this world isn't cheap." 

"I'm not naive, Frank. I know I'll die in this suit...but it's just easier to play pretend, you know? It helps me forget this thing inside me that's never satisfied", Matt absent-mindedly traces the long scar on his stomach, "won't be until I'm six-feet under." 

”Let’s hope that day takes its time, then. For both of us." 

Frank can feel rather than hear Matt's answering hum. 

5:57 a.m. 

Frank can't remember the last time he saw the sunrise. Sure, he'd been up at this time plenty, heading back from a night of gunfire and dead-ends or heading out to trace his newest lead...but he'd long stopped looking up. 

Frank's not exactly sure how they got here—Max curled into his side and the Devil's head on his chest—but he doesn't question his luck. Matt sniffles and Frank pulls him closer; hopes his arms can keep the man warm even in a winter-bitten room. 

Tendrils of dawn sneak through ice frosted windows, highlighting Matt's cheek and glinting off his dark strands. Frank doesn't even try to resist the urge to rest his hand against Matt's head and thread his fingers in that sun-kissed hair (if Matt's awake, he doesn't mention it). 

And in the quiet peace of a morning not spent alone, Frank keeps watch over the grass and road and trees with no doomed city in sight. 

Chapter Text

With Frank back in town, they quickly fall back into old habits. The Punisher spends more time on Matt’s couch than his own bed. Daredevil often spends his nights on the fire escape, under Frank’s arm, when both of them can’t sleep.

They rarely talk during the day—Matt keeps busy with his cases, for both his day and night jobs, while Frank chases down leads of his own.

Today, though, they’re trying something new. 

"You sure you're good for this, Frank?"

The man in question hums as he runs a hand over his still healing foot. "The cold's stiffening it up. I'll be good when we get inside." 

"Okay. And remember, we just need to tie Fisk’s wife to this small time operation. Something that could help the prosecution—documents, samples, inventory. Once we get that something, we get the hell out.” 

Frank huffs, gun raised with military precision. "I thought we were shootin’ drug-dealers?" 

He grabs Frank by the wrist before they find an entrance to the seemingly empty abandoned factory. "We’re trying not to. And you're on back-up, remember?" 

"I know, Red. I'll watch your six", Frank grumbles, climbing across broken glass and into an empty room, "but I don't know about that no shooting part." 

Matt ignores him and tries the door. Unlocked. Too easily, they make their way into the heart of the building—Matt shoves Frank into a room with stacks of crates that reach the ceiling as voices echo down the hallway. They're gruff, foreign, rife with an accent that Matt can't place. But he can smell the white powder housed in the boxes they're carrying, recognize it as a cocktail of narcotics through how it makes his head spin.

"Lots of stock for a small time operation, huh?" Frank's gravelly whisper nearly has Matt knocking crates over. "Should be easy enough to get the proof you need." 

"Not as easy as you'd think." Matt's scanning the room, searching for any possible identifiers for who these men are. "They need probable cause to get a warrant, and a warrant to get implicating proof, but anything they use to get that warrant can't imply that I've already done what the warrant's for..."

Matt can feel Frank hum against his shoulder. "Easy solution. You take out one of the guys, I talk to the other—"

"We're not torturing him, Frank." 

"Ah, for fuck's sake. First I can't shoot anybody, now I can't even ask 'em questions..."

Footsteps are heading back their way; Matt tears open a box full of little white baggies. He pockets it with Frank's gaze hot on him, "I'll make this work. Let's go." 

Matt steps out into the hallway with Frank on his heels. Someone's yelling behind them as they sprint through the dimly lit maze of ancient machinery and stray wires. Gunshots, dangerously out of control, ricochet over their heads. Matt winces as a bullet grazes his side, lets out an oomph as Frank shoves him away from the line of fire. "Jesus. What's the plan here, Red?" 

"There's an exit up ahead. Give me some cover-fire." 

"Now he wants me to shoot," Frank murmurs, firing several rounds at where bullets fly from the darkness. Matt stays against the wall, creeping out to where he can make out two heartbeats. Frank's gun clicks empty just as Matt throws his baton into one of the gunman's head. The other one faces him, gun pointed at his thigh, but Matt's shoving it out of his hands, slamming a foot into the man's nose with a satisfying crack. 

"Frank?" 

"I'm good, Red. Nice save—"

Click. Cold metal rests against Matt's head. "Don't move! Both of you, or I'll shoot—I'll shoot, I swear..."

"Easy now. I won't hurt you", he can sense the stranger's hand trembling, the powder coating his nostrils, the sweat-stained stench of panic, "but there's no going back if you pull that trigger." 

"Stop talking! Don't—don't, fuck..."

Matt winces as the gun presses harshly against his skull. "Come on, man. Police are on their way by now, you can still leave without blood on your hands." 

"What about them? They'll think this was on me....", Matt's skin crawls from where the stranger's oily hair brushes against his neck, "fuck, they'll come after me."

"We can help you, I can get you somewhere safe..." 

"I have to, I'm sorry, they'll kill me—"

"Then shoot me. Yeah, buddy, over here", Frank's stepping out into the open, hands behind his head, defenseless and stupid and Matt's heart is pounding so loud he can barely hear the barrel swivel from his head to Frank's chest, "If you need a scapegoat, you got one right here." 

Matt lunges for the gun just as it goes off. 

**

They walk home in silence. When Frank starts tripping over every nook and cranny in the road, Matt guides him through dark, winding streets with a gentle hold on his arm. Those expressive eyes give nothing away beneath his mask—but his jaw's clenched tight enough that Frank can see the muscle tick underneath his skin.

Blood seeps through the makeshift bandage on Frank's shoulder, torn from Matt's shirt.

Their typical entrance's useless; ice's bolted the window shut and the only way to get inside is to sneak through the front door and hope that everybody's still asleep. They make their way up an endless flight of stairs, Matt's arm around his waist remaining a comfortable support until they reach the right floor. Then he lets go; walks off as though he knows that Frank has no choice but to follow.

Frank can tell by the way he walks faster than any blind man could get away with (Frank tries not to fall behind, but Matt's legs are straining beneath those too-tight cargo pants and who could blame him after the night they've had...) that Daredevil's fuming.

Frank's not exactly sure why. He didn't kill anyone, they got whatever proof Matt needed to start a case against these bastards, and he played by Daredevil's rules tonight. He didn't expect a thank you, but he certainly didn't expect the damn silent treatment. "We really not gonna talk about this? Come on, Red. Don't know why you're so wound up, I was just tryin' to help..." 

Matt slows to a stop in the hallway before his apartment, anger so controlled that Frank can only tell he's feeling anything because of how he's white-knuckling his batons. Frank pictures him in court: shoulders straight, face carefully blank, keeping his emotions so tightly leashed that only his Achilles hand could give him away. "Don't say that." 

"Christ, why not? I was helpin'. I distracted him so you could—"

"No, you were being an idiot, Frank. I knew what I was doing—he wouldn't have shot me, wouldn't have fired that gun at all if you hadn't gotten in the way." 

The bullet in Frank's shoulder makes itself known with a sharp sting. "You don't know what he would've done, Red. That piece of shit was high on coke and had a gun to your head—forgive me for not putting your life in his hands..."

And Matt's throwing his sticks to the side, cornering Frank against the wall where anybody can find them and question how a blind man's pinning someone with thirty pounds on him. "So you put your life in his hands instead?"

"Sure? I mean, a bullet in the shoulder's a hell of a lot better than a bullet to the head."

"But you didn't know that."

"Know what?"

Matt pushing closer until they're almost chest-to-chest. Frank wishes that he could see the eyes hidden under that black mask. "That I'd get to him before the bullet meant for me became yours."

"So? What, I can't take risks anymore?"

"Not like that, Frank. Not like that."

And he's finding it harder to focus, because they're only ever close like this when one of them's bloody and broken and there's no light save for the damn billboard outside Matt's window. Under the bright golden bulbs of a wide-open apartment hallway, this feels like something dangerously new. "You're the only one who gets to be a martyr on God's green earth, huh?"

"My life belongs to this city, Frank. It always has." Matt's resting his head against Frank's own, like Frank had when he found Matt in the corner of Hell's Kitchen, exhausted and broken and victorious. "But yours never will, you hear me?"

"Red, where's this comin' from...?"

And Matt's lips are on his, tasting of rusted metal and mint and melted snow. It's so unexpected, a dizzying reprieve from the give-and-take dance that Frank's gotten used to, that he barely realizes when Matt's stumbling backwards, whispering an apology and turning away from him—

Now, Frank's been a lot of things in his life: a husband, a soldier, even a murderer—but he's never been accused of being a coward. He grabs Matt by the wrist, spins them around so the other man's back is up against the falling-apart plaster, and wraps a hand around the nape of his neck. "Where do you think you're goin'?" 

"I'm sorry. I should've asked, I overstepped..."

Frank shuts him up in the way he's wanted to for months; by kissing him so roughly that he has no choice but to bury those calloused hands in Frank's hair and let that iron-clad control slip, just a little.

Matt's frozen for a moment, like Frank was, but unlike him—Frank waits for the shock to fade. And the Devil of Hell's Kitchen soon gives as he good as he gets, pulling Frank flush against his chest with the same strength he'd bring to war. Frank let his hands wander beneath that tight long-sleeve t-shirt, running fingers across the grooves of the other's abdomen. 

He pulls back slightly to whisper against Matt's lips, "Why now? After everythin', Red, why now?" 

"Because this is the reason you can't be an idiot", Matt grips his cropped hair roughly; Frank's skin burns where Matt's lips have touched, "trying to take bullets meant for me." 

He unlocks Matt's door with the extra key made just for him, maneuvering them both inside with in a less-than-graceful stumble. "I can't promise I'll stop anytime soon." He hoists Matt up onto the kitchen counter even as his shoulder strains and burns. "And bullets don't belong to anyone, Red."

Matt huffs, tugs at the hem of his shirt. "Doesn't mean you should claim every one. Mind taking this off so I can see that shoulder?"

"The shoulder can wait, Red. It’s the last thing I’m thinkin’ about right now." 

He relishes at how Matt's powerful legs wrap around his waist and pull him closer. "I'm not taking any more chances tonight. Take it off." 

Frank gingerly pulls off his asphalt and rain-damp tee, placing his hands over Matt's knees as the man pulls a kit from one of the kitchen drawers beside him (Frank's quickly become aware that Matt has more needles than utensils). Matt pours antiseptic onto Frank's skin; careful hands dressing and bandaging the wound so deftly, the vigilante barely feels a thing as he catches a splotch of red on Matt's torso. 

"You're hurt, too." He lifts Matt's t-shirt, traces sluggishly-bleeding graze on his side. "I can take care of this." 

"Oh, it'll just take me two seconds…”

"I know", Frank's already grabbing gauze and wiping away blood, "but it won't kill you to let someone else take care of things every once in a while, Red." 

Matt leans back against his forearms in what Frank would think is a helpful gesture if it didn't highlight the scar tissue and hard-earned muscle that he was just running his fingers over a minute ago. "Please don't say shit like that, Frank."

"Like what?"

"Just, you can't say things like that…"

Frank huffs, shakes his head as he bends down to clean the wound. "So you can deal with cold-blooded killers and six-foot-five mobsters, but not someone sayin' they wanna take care of you?"

Matt ducks his head. "The way you say it—with such certainty you can't possibly have—you make me want to believe." 

"What's so wrong in believin' that I give a fuck about you?" 

"Because then I'll never be able to stomach someone's gun against your head again, something that's impossible with the lives we live. We'll make liabilities of each other." 

"Liability? That's a funny way to see a partner. If we want to keep each other alive and safe—something that none of the guys who're shootin' at us give a fuck about—then we're stronger for it. That lesson's saved my life a dozen times overseas." 

"But then I'll come to need you, Frank. I'll start to think that I can keep you, Foggy, Karen, and Daredevil." Matt's sighing, scars on his stomach moving along with the rise of his chest. "And if there's anything I've learned in my life, it's that good things don't last. Not for people like us." 

"I don't know what to tell you, Red, except that everyone's losin' everything all of the damn time. It's just the shitty part of life." Frank finishes up, sets the extra gauze down in that empty kitchen drawer. "The only thing we can do is choose what we wanna do now, while we've still got good things?" 

Matt sits up. Pulls Frank closer with those powerful legs wrapped around his hips. "Whatever God lets us get away with." 

And then his Devil's pressing their lips together with the intensity of a man used to treating every kiss like his last. 

**

From the first time Matt met Frank Castle, he'd imagined a myriad of possibilities. Maybe he'd be a friend against Wilson Fisk, maybe he'd be the one to finally put a bullet in Daredevil's head (this was almost made into reality that first night). 

But one possibility Matt never imagined was that he'd be sitting, boxers-and-sweater-only, back firmly against the Punisher's chest on the rooftop of his apartment. The wind's cold and refreshing against their bare skin, hindered only by a blanket that Frank had been thoughtful enough to wrap around their legs, as they perch on the rooftop's edge and look down at Hell's Kitchen. 

She's busy tonight, he muses, sirens racing in the distance as Matt's stolen dispatch radio details a wide-spread car chase most likely connected to their little tryst earlier. He lets his head fall back against Frank's chest and presses a kiss against the arm wrapped around his shoulders, ignoring the pins and needles pricking at his skin that tell him to go protect the people that can't protect themselves. 

He knows there'll come a day when he'll lose the man behind him, or vice-versa, a moment when he won't be fast enough to knock a weapon to the ground or Frank's gun will jam when he needs it most. 

Matt's 'one bad day' will come sooner rather than later, but as he leans into the Punisher's embrace and looks out into the city's burning-red skyline that flickers like a sea of flames—brought alive by the scent of melting ice and dried blood and Frank's unique mix of sweat, cologne, and gunpowder—he decides it won't be tonight.  

Chapter Text

Peter Parker never wanted to be more than friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. The suit wasn't some gimmick to satisfy his over-powered teenager-ego, or some warped representation of justice meant to devalue police (a theory the Daily News loved to tout in their papers and over airwaves).

He didn't even want to be a hero. The first night Peter realized he had powers, he'd done nothing more than skateboard across Manhattan, performing tricks with a strength that belied his boyish frame. He'd coasted through back alleyways, jumped between buildings a thousand times his size, leaped across puddles reflecting neon-billboards. 

He hadn't been looking for trouble—because these newfound abilities were a gift, not a responsibility. How could he focus on anyone else when he was suddenly powerful enough to crush steel, swing across a hundred feet, hit harder than any boxer in the UFC? 

Then his uncle was murdered. Left abandoned in the streets by someone who was just as young as him, because for all his power and bravado, Peter was still a kid with no idea of what the real world was like. 

Some horrible, terrible part of him saw himself in that trembling young man who'd just happened to find a gun—more a victim of the gun itself rather than the cold-blooded killer Peter wished he was—saw who he could've become without Uncle Ben and Aunt May. So Peter had let the boy go, held his dying father close (because wasn't that who Uncle Ben became, after so many long years of being by his side, never leading him astray...)

Then he saved the world. Found a third father in the eccentric Tony Stark. Snagged the girl of his dreams.

The sky seemed a little brighter for a while, like maybe the universe was done punishing him for his ignorance—before Thanos set off a chain of events that led to his old yearbook photo plastered across every big-screen in the city. People ignored all the times Spider-Man took a blow so they didn't have to, forgetting that he used to be theirs, and called him a monster. 

Then he lost Tony and Aunt May, cost his friends their dreams, and stopped pretending like Spider-Man didn't ruin everything he touched. 

***

Peter knocks a bottle off the high shelf, tossing it into the air with enough angled speed that it almost looks suspended in air. He lets it spin above the graying hair of his newest customers before catching the bottle by its base.  

Quiet applause briefly overshadows the football game as Peter lets the bottle tilt forward towards the man across from him. "You need another one, boss?" 

"You know the answer to that one." The man's salt-and-pepper brows rise as Peter misjudges his strength and nearly shatters the glass (sue him, he’s been flipping bottles for over six hours…).

“Son, I hate to be the one to say it, but you look like the dead thing I stepped over on the way here."

Some frequent flyer shouts from across the bar, "You sure that wasn't your dignity, Grandpa Sam?”

"Dignity's for people with cars and a retirement plan, Billy! I don’t see you with that shiny four-oh-one.” Sam huffs with hands on his hips. "So?" 

Peter runs a hand through overgrown hair that tickles his neck. "So? What do people usually say when their boss says they look like crap?"

"Well, either they give a reason or they tell me to fuck off. Depends on the reason." 

“I’m good. Just a little tired.” 

Peter can feel the old man’s warm gaze on his yellowing cheek. "You’ve been tired a lot lately, son. Everythin' good at home?”

“Yeah. Promise.” He wipes down the countertop; rings the rag over an empty sink. Still healing cuts burn under soap and spilled liquor. 

”Why don’t you go to bed, then? Get some sleep and stop scarin’ away my customers with them dark circles and black eyes." 

"You sure? I don't have coverage lined up." 

Sam ties an apron over his neck, waves over new customers. "Go home. But you're workin' double next week—and I don't wanna see any more Fight Club crap when you come back." 

Peter hums, "What's the first rule of fight club again, Sam?"

The old man rolls his eyes and pours himself a generous swig of whiskey. "Get outta here, smartass." 

"Thanks, Sam, really." 

“Yeah, yeah. You stay safe out there, son." Sam gestures at the bar window, always cracked no matter how many times he fixed it. "Lotta weirdos crawlin’ out of their holes these days.”

Peter nods, shoves open a frostbitten front door. Cold seeps through his jacket, burns against naturally-too-warm skin, and Peter wonders for the millionth time why he chose Hell's Kitchen over Manhattan (MJ, Ned, the Avengers...yeah, how could he forget? Hell's Kitchen was the only place he could be close to home without putting everyone in danger...)

He changes quickly in his usual spot behind the bar.

The suit's not nearly as nice as the pre-Green-Goblin era. It's no more than a fan-made sweatshirt from when he was popular enough to be on sweatshirts, but having a Spider on his back makes him feel like himself. Peter pulls on the final piece, a hockey mask that lends the aesthetic of someone about to rob a bank, and starts running. 

It's nice to settle into his body after a long week. He gets lost in the power of his legs, how they carry him fast enough to make damp concrete buildings and streetlights and curtain-framed windows blur into a mess of gray and dull gold. He wonders if Daredevil realizes how desolate his city is—how even with his blood staining the corner of every alleyway, the streets remain empty and windows bolted shut.

On the far wall of the next building, half-covered in frost, a spray of graffiti: a red smiley face with X’s for eyes. He's been seeing a lot of those, lately. Static seems to follow the odd faces—faint, constant, like the pitter-patter of rain against glass. It's become so constant that Peter chalks it up to the symptoms of insomnia. 

Peter slows to a stop in the alleyway next to City Hall. The building that looms above him is a rather unappealing yellow, a stark contrast to the well kept pearl of Manhattan's own. A familiar tingling sensation at the base of his skull alerts Peter to the crunch of feet on gravel. "That you, Matt?"

Peter raises a brow at the hint of red in the dark; he's known Matt for almost four months, and he still has to call him from the shadows. "Not all of us have x-ray vision, you know”, he whispers to the darkness, “Help a guy out?" 

"What'd we say about using names in the field, Spiderman?" Matt's voice is gruff as ever, though a little more strained then Peter would've liked. 

"No one's around, Mr. Daredevil. I've already made my rounds around the neighborhood; nothin's interesting tonight." 

Matt huffs, steps a little more into the light so Peter can see him clearly. Blood spatters his chest and gloved hands. "You just missed interesting." 

"Aw, seriously? You know I work the night shift, couldn't you wait just an hour..." Peter grimaces, steps closer to inspect where the blood's thickest, searching for an open wound and inspecting the bruises already forming on the other man's jaw. "I could've come as back-up, what was it? Six against one?" 

Matt lightly shoves Peter away. "Doesn't matter now. I've just gotten word that one of Fisk's old allies is going to make a power-grab tonight down south side." Matt's red-lensed gaze stops just short of meeting Peter's own. "You up for a run?”

Now, Peter's not much of a vigilante anymore. He doesn't fight bad guys on the daily, doesn't swing across buildings like he used to (his hands ache sometimes with the need, the urge to shoot and pull and fly...), but he's been in the gig long enough to recognize the slight shake in Matt's fingers, the tension running through wire-rigid shoulders. "You sure it's goin' down tonight? Cause I haven't heard anything from anyone, and I've kept an ear out for weeks—"

"I'm never sure, Pete," something silver under Matt's vest glints, "but if there's even a chance that something’s happening, and we aren't there..."

"Alright, alright, I hear you. You sure you're up for this?" 

Matt's pushing past him (it still surprises him that he's taller than the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, if only by a couple inches) and already swinging himself onto someone's low hanging balcony. The silver piece slips from under his dark red suit, hanging from his neck; a thin cross engraved with an elegant FC. 

"Race you up to the top, Spiderman." 

***

The night went about as expected: too much waiting, a lot of trying not to fall asleep. A few shots in the dark, more friendly fire than anything useful. And the cops showed up early. Nothing like the war Matt expected.

Peter squints into the snow. A flicker of movement in the alley below—maybe a shadow? It's gone before he can focus. His nerves prickle at the base of his neck, faint, half-asleep. Shit. Can spiders get frostbite? 

He's running beside Matt across some frosted over rooftop, watching police gather up those left behind. He glances at his phone. 4:45 am. Crap. Didn't Matt have work in a few hours?

Before he can ask, Matt skids after a bad jump. He nearly falls over the edge—Peter barely manages to catch his arm. "Jesus! I didn’t think ninjas could trip over their own feet. You okay?" 

"Sorry—fuck, sorry. Just a little tired.” The Devil’s pulling off his mask, exposing bruises on his cheek from loose shrapnel and stray hands. He’s breathing too hard. Wheezing. A hit to the ribs? Most likely. Broken? Most probably. 

Peter glares at him, at the slivers of skin exposed where someone slashed the suit open. "I believe it. You been sleepin' any, since Frank’s…?”

Matt stays quiet as they jog across dumpsters overflowing into snow. Eventually, “I really am sorry, Pete. This didn’t need to be a two-man job.” 

“Stop apologizing, man. There's some new faces showin' up, so it doesn't hurt to be careful." 

The neon lights from a nearby billboard cast a faint glow on Matt’s face, bouncing off the bruising on his jaw as he scopes out their next jump. “It's just kind of odd, isn't it? Those men tonight fought like they didn’t care if they lived or died.” He takes the leap, and Peter follows closely enough to see how he favors his left foot. “I haven’t seen that kind of courage since Fisk himself.” 

“I wouldn’t call it courage. Delusion, maybe?” 

“Whatever you wanna call it, it’s a symptom of hope. Means they’ve got some new ideology to wrap around. Maybe this's got something to do with those new faces?"

And yeah, the theory’s plausible. Enough that Peter’s spidey sense goes off, a soft buzz emanating from his skull. But he’s exhausted, and Matt’s still injured, and he promised Frank that they’d be home before sunrise. “Whatever it is, it can wait until later. I’m about to keel over and I won’t be much help if I’m unconscious.” 

Matt pauses, head cocked to the side, and Peter nearly walks into him. “You hurt? You’re not bleeding, no broken bones…”

He scoffs as they finally near Matt’s building. “Impressive. And seriously creepy. But nah, I’m not injured. No more than usual." He thinks of mentioning the static, but it's long gone now. "If you don’t stop talkin’ about guys who want us dead though, then you’re walking home. Capiche?” Peter punctuates the threat by shooting a web at the edge of Matt’s apartment, nearly six stories up. 

And Matt’s staring off at the general direction of the stairs like they were the ones to beat him black-and-blue. “Yeah, I’ll shut up. Just let me have my dignity, okay? Frank’s been giving me grief about you carrying me up like…well, kind of like—”

“Like what?” 

”Like some damsel in distress, okay?” 

And Peter’s laughing for the first time that night, because it isn’t as funny as it is incredulous, ridiculous, and so Frank. “So what’s the manliest way to get you home, then? Piggy back ride? I can’t promise you won’t fall a couple floors, but I’m willing to try.”

“Jesus. Fine, it’s fine—never mind. Whatever’s easiest, okay? I’ll deal with Frank later.” 

He wraps his arm around Matt’s ribs and drags him closer. “Don’t forget about the legs, then. I can’t afford to drop a lady.”

“Funny tonight, aren’t we?” But the Devil’s got a ghost of a smile as he secures himself to Peter's back. And they’re off—a quick gust of wind, a little readjusting to avoid slamming into concrete, and they’re swinging through an open fire escape. 

He helps the vigilante to the antiseptic-stained, worn leather couch. Sits Matt in the same spot he spent most Friday nights curled into. (Peter’s been spending a little too much time with Frank and Matt recently; something about getting shot every other night made swinging across the city difficult.)

(And that’s the only reason, he tells himself.) 

There’s blood on Pete’s hands. “Crap, you’ve gotta be kidding—did you get stabbed?”

”Couple nights ago”, Matt murmurs with an experimental press on the wound, “stitches must’ve reopened. I’ll fix it. You go to bed, okay? We left the comforter out. There’s a change of clothes and protein bars on the counter.” 

The man’s already getting up, no room for argument. He pats Peter on the shoulder, a kind of unspoken apology, before gingerly disappearing into the bedroom. 

Peter washes bloody hands in the kitchen sink. Waits for the voices to start; Matt’s soft greeting and Frank’s gruff ‘mornin’ angel’. He finally plops down into the couch with a bone-weary sigh, and draws the comforter tight to his chin. 

There's that odd hum of static again. Faint. A lifeline like a dying insect rattling against glass.  Just a little longer, he tells himself. Just until morning. The static's humming like it's in the walls now.

Peter falls asleep to the lullaby of that pulse, never quite catching the click click click of a lighter outside his window. 

Chapter Text

Frank wakes to a whispered good morning and the press of someone’s fingers in his hair. If it had been just a couple months ago, when he and revenge still held hands, he’d have a gun cocked. But now—with useless legs and a melted heart—he just wraps an arm around that familiar waist, dragging him into bed. 

”Mornin’ angel.” And Matt, clad only in Frank’s old army tee and silk boxers, collapses against his chest. Light floods in from that damned billboard; bathes them both in a soft blue. Even New York lets her shoulders drop—streetlights dimming, sirens fading—as the city, too, catches her breath.

Frank smells antiseptic and blood. Ignores the deep ache in his thighs as he sits up. “Where’s the hurt?” 

“It’s nothing serious, just ran into some trouble before Peter found me.” 

“That ain’t what I asked, Red. You promised you’d give me a rundown.” 

Matt burrows further into his chest. “Let me stay here. Just for a minute.” 

And Frank tightens his hold, runs a hand over the curve of Matt's hip. “Turnin’ skin and bone, aren't ya? Grandma Castle’s famous pasta ain’t doing its job.” 

“Last night’s dinner was perfect”, he punctuates with a nip to Frank’s jaw, “but I don’t think I could take another bite of cheese."

“Keep your promises, angel." 

Matt groans against his throat. Sits back enough to reveal a blooming black eye and dark marks around his neck.

And Frank sees red. He tries to sit up, to see the other clearly, but lightning strikes across his thighs as the sheets scrape against gauze. It burns—and fire’s gnawing at his skin even though he’s wrapped in layers and layers of gauze. He nearly splits his damn tongue open holding back a scream.

Matt’s suddenly at the base of their bed—careful hands elevating Frank’s legs into his lap. “I’ve got you, shit, I’m sorry, I should’ve done this earlier…” For as long as it takes for Frank to breathe again, Matt holds his legs like broken glass, easing the tight muscle above his burns. 

“I’m gonna kill that sad excuse of an arsonist all over again”, Frank whispers as the lightning fades into sharp little shocks, “but whoever did that shit to your throat? They die first.” 

The Devil laughs—a little strained, breath catching at the edges, but it’s genuine. Just sweet enough to quiet the rage in Frank’s chest. “And I look forward to standing in your way. Did Claire say anything about walking?”

“Two weeks.” 

“Good, better than six.” Matt clears his throat, fingers twitching where they still rest against Frank’s calves. “You wanna get some air? I can get the crutches, take you around the neighborhood—“

Frank squeezes his thigh. “Nah, it's okay. I’m okay. Just give me the rundown, Red.” 

Matt sighs, glances down at Frank’s gauze-packaged legs. “The Albanians. They’re smuggling in guns from Jersey, trying to carve out a bigger piece now that Fisk’s out of the picture. I got the drop on a few, but—“, he tilts his head away from Frank, as though suddenly aware of the mottled bruising, “they didn’t take kindly to me sticking my nose in their business.” Frank runs a finger across the darkest bruising on his Devil’s throat. His free hand fists the sheets, as though cutting through the fingers that left those marks. 

“I handled it”, Matt goes on like an afterthought, leaning his cheek into Frank’s hand, “met Peter, scouted the neighborhood, and came home.”  

“Kid crashed on the couch, again?” 

“Yeah.” He lays back. Tucks himself under the sheets. “Hopefully getting better sleep than us, he works too damn hard.” 

“Mhm. Rich comin’ from you. Don’t you gotta be up in an hour for that depo-thing?” But Frank’s already slipping an arm under his neck, bringing him close. 

“Deposition. And yeah, that's why it's all the more important that you”, Matt hums against his shoulder, “let me sleep.” 

So he counts the rise and fall of Matt's chest like he used to with his kids. One, two, three—as his breath evens out. The billboard outside flips every forty-five seconds. Faces blink in and out of the dark. Matt shifts, careful of Frank’s thighs, but even the light weight of him sends sparks of pain down his legs. 

Most days, he wonders if he'll ever walk again. Claire said the odds were optimistic, but he can't imagine these dead lumps of flesh ever holding him up. It's over, he'd said. It's all over now, Red.

Sometimes, fire eats away the world. He can’t think beyond the flames searing up his thighs.

And on those days, he clenches his teeth around useless prayers and curses God to His face.

**

Friday rolls around. Game night.

A Foggy-designed abomination, borne after a half dozen tequila shots and Matt nearly bleeding out in Karen's arms. Frank's sitting in between Matt and Foggy, an arm around his Devil and legs propped up on the table. Two beers in and he's lost every damn game—makeshift poker and blackjack and spoons and Jenga (he's really losing his edge, huh?) 

"So," Foggy says with a pointed glance at Frank, "truth or dare?" 

He shrugs, adjusts to make sure no gauze peeks through his jeans. "Dare. Give me your worst, Goldie." Matt hums—a subtle go easy—and Frank fights the urge to either roll his eyes or kiss the warning off his lips. 

"I dare you to let me write whatever I want on your face. And you gotta keep it for the rest of the night." 

Frank holds eye contact, unblinking, even as Matt and Karen snicker. "And exactly what, do you think you're puttin' on my face?" 

"As I said, hotshot, anything I want. And since you keep asking questions—in marker." 

"Ah, I'd watch myself if I was you", Frank murmurs half-heartedly as Foggy leans in. "I still got two workin' arms and a hell of an aim." 

A knock on the door and Peter's letting himself in, balancing a stack of Don Antonio's pizza. He nearly drops the lot when he catches whatever Foggy's drawing. "Oh—shit. For all our sakes, I hope that's not sharpie." 

Frank huffs, grabs Karen's phone just as she snaps a picture—and loses his breath. In bold fucking sharpie, it's Matty's princess written across his cheek. With a dick drawn on top, to seal the deal.

Chaos.

Frank's blushing, shoving a laughing Foggy under his arm, trying to wrestle an apology out of him—Foggy squirms loose, accidentally knocking into his leg.

Their laughter dies as Frank grunts, biting back a curse. Matt's hands are already there, soothing, as Foggy watches wide-eyed. "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, this ain't what you gotta apologize for." Frank's glaring at him, a ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. "But the princess thing? You're dead meat, Goldie."

Matt leans in with a smile, fussing over gauze. Peter starts handing out pizza. “Okay, then. Maybe it’s time to watch a movie?”

Soon, Matt's across the room and arguing with Foggy over what to put on, but Karen’s got the remote—and they all know who gets the final say. Frank glances down at their late newcomer, sitting criss-crossed on the carpet, listening to the chatter like it’s music. "Enjoyin' yourself, kid?" 

Peter hums through a mouthful of pizza. "Yeah. Kinda reminds me of home." 

"What? You got folk who just like to hear themselves talk?" 

Foggy's huffing from the other couch, "At least we don't sound like Bruce Wayne smoked a joint!" 

Frank ignores him—faces the boy who's been quiet since he arrived. "So what crawled up your ass and died? You look like shit." 

"I've been getting that a lot lately. What, is it the haircut? Should've grown it out, damn it—"

"I mean you look tired, kid." Frank gestures over at Matt, who's falling asleep against Karen's shoulder as she flips through channels. "I'm gettin' good at noticing it now." 

Peter sets down his plate, pulls his knees close. "I just miss them sometimes, you know? The people I don't get to see anymore." 

"Then go see 'em. They're still alive, right?" 

The kid laughs—dry like smoking paper. "Some. No thanks to me." 

And it's like looking in some fucked up mirror where boys can only grow up the hard way. "You think you're the only kid who's ever screwed up? The way I see it, you got someone you'd go to war for. And they're still breathin'." Frank claps his shoulder. "That's a gift. Regardless of whatever shit happened." 

"You don't get it. There's some things you can't take back." 

"If I don't get it", Frank huffs, "then no one does. But the difference between you and me? All the people I love are either in this room or dead and buried."

"Jesus, dude. Really know how to brighten the mood, don't you?" Frank follows Peter's gaze outside their rain-stained window. "You hear that? The static?" 

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" 

"Feels like someone's watching, sometimes. I can't figure out who." 

And Frank's used to the kid being a little weird, jumpy even—he's got the instincts of a spider, for Christ's sake—but the look on his face has Frank putting down the beer. "Alright, kid. Help me up. I gotta stretch my legs." Peter's quick to help him stand, grabs his crutches so he can hobble his way across the living room. 

Matt brushes a hand against Frank's wrist when he gets close. "Going somewhere?" 

"Just gettin' some air." 

His Devil glances over at the kid, already reading Frank's mind. "Go with him, Pete? Can't leave the princess alone." 

Frank hums. "Don't you worry, Red. I'll show you princess later." 

"Alright Casanova", Foggy mutters, "door's right there."

Frank cuffs his head as he steps out onto the balcony with Peter in tow. He makes sure the door's closed before pulling a loose brick from the frost-covered wall, taking out a lighter and cigarette pack. "You smoke?" 

"Nope. I'd rather have all my teeth when I'm your age." Peter shivers, holding his arms tight against his chest. "There a reason why we're out here, Frank?" 

"Smartass. What do you hear?" 

Peter cocks his head just like Matt, listening. "Car sirens. A truck moving down sixth, pickin' up trash cans." 

"Static?" 

"It's gone now." There's something still so young behind the enhanced vibrance of Peter's eyes. "I sound insane, don't I?" 

"Trust your instincts. You used to be some hero in a cape, right? Keep an eye on the thing watchin' you." He leans over the balcony. Ash falls from his cigarette, disappearing into a city of dim lights and dying sound. "It's only got power if you look away." 

"No cape," Peter murmurs, "I had an Iron-Man suit." 

Frank laughs. Breathes in smoke that burns almost as much as his skin. "Sure, kid. And I still got all my teeth." 

Chapter Text

Wade Wilson met Spiderman when his world was going to shit.

He'd been off his rockers on some medical grade morphine—the closest to tipsy his tumor riddled liver would let him get—and more parts than whole from a mutant throwing him from five stories up.

When the Avengers' new boy toy showed up to help, Wade was torn between grabbing a gun between his teeth (his fingers and feet were somewhere on main street) and thanking his lucky stars.

Goddamn, that ass was even more magnificent in person.

Wade rejoiced in watching little Spidey come closer, perfectly happy to be stepped on or over (a common relationship between him and the Avengers nowadays).

But instead, the boy leaned down. Pressed a gloved hand to Wade's shoulder and asked if he’d be okay.

"Yep. Just enjoying my time as a disembodied torso. It's pretty nice, I feel ten pounds lighter." Spidey's expression twisted with something impressively close to concern when he looked down to where Wade’s feet should've been. "Aww. I'm no civilian, Mr. Spidey. You know who I am?"

Part of Wade hoped he didn't. 

"Yeah, Deadpool. You’re pretty famous around here. Is there anything I can do to, uh, help? With the healing thing?" 

And Wade wasn't going to pass on the opportunity to get those hands on him, even though he probably looked more meat than person.

"Well, if you insist, I wouldn't mind a little shade. It's hard to regrow legs when I'm sweating, you know. Makes the baby skin all slippery as it slides out of my—"

"Yep, okay, I got it. How exactly do you want me to move you? You're pretty," Spidey gestured helplessly at the splattered mess of Wade's torso, "fucked up." 

"Just pick me up, pretty boy. Though it's gonna be hard to get blood out of your stripper costume."

And Wade waited for the moment Spidey's concern turned into disgust. For when he realized there were more important things than limbless freaks and left him as road-kill. After all, why waste time on someone who’s both annoying and immortal?

But he stayed. Spidey hoisted Wade's remains over his shoulder with more care than Wade had ever given himself. And he didn’t say a word when dirty mutant blood dripped down his pretty hero suit.

So yeah, sue Wade for catching a glimpse of that lovely behind again and falling, just a little bit, in love. 

**

Wade saw Spidey only two times after that.

Once, on the old TV playing in an Oklahoma drugstore. Spidey looked just as handsome as he had that morning—all boyish charm and sharp features and brown curls.

But there was fear written in his eyes, a type of shocked grief that didn't belong on such a pretty face. 

Peter Parker, the vigilante that destroyed New York City. 

(He later learns that Spider-Man no longer exists. So now, Peter Parker's an anomaly, an outsider, someone who remembers when the entire world forgets.

And Deadpool's the only one who remembers him—because fun fact about someone who lives forever? You spend a lot of time dead, where magic or whatever the hell Dr. Strange does, can't reach.

It's rather poetic, then, that Spidey's memory is kept alive by someone half-dead.)

The last time Wade saw him, it was Peter's world going to shit. He'd just stumbled out of a bar in Queens, full of substances that Wade knew dealt a hell of a hangover.

Poor Spidey, he'd thought. Some stupid part of him stuck around just to see if Peter would finally go home. 

He did, kind of. Not the one Wade expected.

Peter fell asleep in the garden outside his childhood home—where a faded Benjamin Parker lay across cracked tile. 

The next morning, New York's friendly neighborhood Spider-Man was arrested for trespassing. 

**

Wade Wilson has a complicated relationship with being the bad guy. He jerks off to those inspiring red-white-and-blow-me American heroes. Watches romantic comedies from the 70s while getting railed, though it’s hard to see with the suit on. 

Wade's a romantic at heart. In fact, he'd be Netflix and chilling right now if he didn't have a target to stalk. So like any good romantic, Deadpool loves a happy ending. 

More so than he likes being choked by narrative tension and thunder thighs.

(Which, frankly, is saying a lot. Ask Cable.)

But as Wade finds his footing on Matt Murdock's windowsill for the seventeenth time, settling against the fire escape as quietly as inhumanly possible, he's not sure how this story's going to go.

He's spent quite some time following Spidey around—long enough to know his entire routine, from waking up at noon, working until the wee hours of the morning, to crashing at Daredevil's every other night.

He knows Peter can't cook for shit, hums boy-ballads in the shower, and spends more time looking at old photos of his ex than sleeping. Yeah, he's got the guy pegged. 

(Not like that.) 

 (Though I wouldn't mind like that.) 

(Author: Wade, shut up—)

(Bold of you to assume I respect narrative control.)

(Author: You’re here for the plot, that's it.)

(I'm here for the ass in spandex. Plot's negotiable.) 

But as fascinated as Wade is by little Spidey, he's here for someone else entirely. Netflix and Pornhub don't pay for themselves.

Wade leans in—catches movement near the kitchen. His target's up. 

A shirtless Frank Castle leans over the kitchen counter, nursing a glass of whiskey and one of those so-tortured-but-I-know-I'm-hot looks. Must've been a rough few hours; Frank often falls asleep (with a .99 gun and dagger under his pillow) before Daredevil gets home, but he's in pain tonight.

Angry scars trail up pale thighs—Wade makes out exactly where the arsonist set his flesh aflame. He's impressed that the man can walk. 

Wade may not have Matt's super-hearing or Peter's spidey sense, but he's been intimate with every flavor of agony. And burns? Every nerve's on fire and a ghost's skinning you alive. 

This is the perfect opening. Peter's working late, Matt's on patrol, and Frank's far enough from his guns and knives to be nothing more than another sack of flesh and blood.

Wade could finish the mission, finance a trip to Tokyo, fight and flirt with some hot temple ninjas. He could leave Hell's Kitchen—full of shitty endings and Catholic guilt—and be free again.

So he poises himself, ready to slam through the window with a katana poised for the thigh. 

But fuck, his whole traitorous body's locking up. 

See, he's been watching more than just little Spidey. He's seen the way that Frank claps Peter's back, how Matt leaves him breakfast on the nights he stays.

He's become oddly attuned with Spidey's new friends. They watch out for him, for each other, even with the loads of steaming shit sent their way. 

And even worse? Frank and Matt are endearing.

Wade's seen them fight together before—bullets finding their mark, knives slicing through tendons as though by magic. They could silence an army with nothing but a dagger and gun.

Then the quiet comes. And they'll cling to each other, like fucking starved kittens, like he'd once held Vanessa.

The voices start again. He's too hot to kill, look at all those muscles! 

You really want to go back to stupid rom-coms and blowin' your brains out for fun?

What about Spidey? That sweet ass doesn't deserve this. 

And Wade huffs, sheathing his blade. Maybe he'll find another arsonist to finish the job. He may not be able to die, but his reputation? As killable as a drunk vigilante with more scar tissue than skin. 

Wade's arguing with himself too loud—those damn boxes get louder these days, impossible to please—to notice the web coming. He's soon between someone's legs, powerful legs wrapped around his throat. 

(Ooh, I like the way you think.) 

(Author: ...I know.) 

"Damn," Wade wheezes, "wet dream come true." 

And the retired Avenger turned cream-my-pants bartender's huffing, "Deadpool? What the hell?" 

"You remembered?" Wade leans into the chokehold even as blood spills from his lips. "I'm flattered, Spidey."  

Peter groans and unfortunately, lets him go. "What're you doing here? And—wait, how, did you say Spider—" 

"Spiderman? Not quite." Wade nearly hacks up a lung, "I like Spidey better." 

And Peter's looking at him like he's the one who got choked to an inch of his life. "What're you doing here? Are you the one who’s been stalking me?" 

"Stalking's kind of a strong word—" but Peter's already backing up, and he's got a little stubble that Wade didn't notice before. Makes him look a little older, a little more dangerous. 

(Wonder if that would chafe between my…)

The target’s gone now—disappeared back into his room. 

"What the hell are you doing here, Wade?" 

(What am I supposed to say here? Nothing much, just trying to kidnap your last chance at a father figure?) 

"Well—see it's kind of hard, because", Wade kicks out Peter's knees, “it’s a long story.”

Then he sprints for the rail and leaps into the nearest alleyway. 

Wade's ninety percent certain, after a good fifteen minutes of full on Olympic sprinting, that he's avoided a rather awkward conversation. He sits down on some building's steps to catch his breath.

Wonder if mutants can die from breathing too hard—couldn’t a lung rupture from all the volume? He really hates the feeling of drowning from the inside out...

Someone clears their throat. 

And Wade huffs cause goddammit, he's already having a crisis and he doesn't need another reason to not do his job. "Heya, Spidey. Long time no see." 

"You gonna explain things, Deadpool? Cause I’m really fucking confused over here.” 

Wade leans back, rests his head against Peter’s leg only to be shoved off. “Okay, fine. You caught me.”

Peter stands with a hand on his hip and it’s so frickin’ cute, “Jesus. Wade, explain!” 

“Hey, don’t get your spider panties in a twist. I got hired by some six foot Humpty Dumpty, okay? He wanted a piece of this ass, you see—“ 

Peter’s on top of him now, arm across Wade’s throat. “For once in your life, stop playing games. Who’s the target?” 

And Wade’s got a lot of things; cancer, hallucinations, an inferiority complex so deep he wonders if his dignity’s at the bottom of the Pacific. But one thing Wade doesn’t have? 

The will to disappoint dear little Spidey. 

“He wants your new friends. The Punisher’s head and Daredevil’s heart, so to speak.” 

Peter lets up just enough for Wade to breathe. “And he sent you?”

“Try not to act so surprised! I’m a ruthless mercenary-for-hire, remember? Gotta pay the bills somehow.” 

“Shit.” Sirens blare in the distance. An old Vietnamese man passes their street, face barely visible beneath his coat. “Are you responsible for the fire?”

Oh, sweet Jesus. “No? Sort of? I mean, I didn’t set the match or anything but—“

But the damage is already done. Spidey’s looking at him like everyone else in his miserable life. “And here I thought they were wrong about you. Fuck off, Wade.” 

(No, no are you serious, I just got here—)

“I didn’t know! That idiot wasn’t supposed to draw it out—I just needed Castle. Alive. I didn’t think the asshat would set him on fire!” 

Peter scoffs, “And that makes it better? What does Fisk want with Frank anyway?”

Wade’s about to offer some bullshit reason to get the man to stay, but there’s a little red light dancing on Spidey’s chest. 

And Wade shoves him into the ground just as a bullet flies through where his heart had been. “Seriously?” Bullets land into Wade’s back as he presses a struggling Spidey against the ground. “We’re in the middle of Spideypool time, asshole!” 

Peter’s gripping onto his shoulders, face so close that Wade could lean in and…fuck the next bullet goes into his spine. Another centimeter up, and he won’t be able to walk out of here.

“Okay, Spidey. As much as I love this position, we gotta move on three.” Peter nods—moves his hands to the sides, much to Wade’s misfortune. 

“One, two…”

Wade explodes upwards to take his role of mutant-shield, but Peter’s dragging him backwards by the arm. “Wait, Spidey, stay behind me—“ 

But Peter’s pulling them both up into an alley even as gunshots ricochet off the walls. “You see the shooter?” 

Wade’s a little stunned by the fact that Peter’s bleeding. That Peter chose to bleed for someone like him.

“Wade! Hello?” 

“Hi.”

“Active shooter on our ass?”

“After that, I’d be on your ass too—“ 

Peter groans, shoots a web out to catch the bullet headed their way. “You’re crazy, you know that? You show up in my life after six years of nothing, try to kill my friends…“ 

“Kidnap, actually—“

“And then you have the balls to flirt with me?” 

Wade shrugs. “Kinda how I roll, Spidey.” Even his scarred ears can make out boots on ice. Damn that old Viet guy. “Cavalry’s here.” 

He barely finishes the sentence before there’s shouting, pounding on pavement, and they’re both running for cover.

Wade throws a few knives behind him—making sure to bury the blade in those cockblockers’  necks. They keep coming. Wade can’t make out faces. There’s nothing but shadows after them; shots fired in the dark. “Spidey? Think you could do that Tarzan thingy of yours?” 

Peter shakes his head, gestures to a half-covered pothole. “They’ll shoot us the second we’re visible. Just follow me.” 

“As long as I get to stay behind you.”

Wade admires Peter’s magnificent—leap (what’d you think, pervert) into the storm drain, before following suit. He nearly topples them both into water so dark, it swallows their feet whole. 

It all smells wonderfully like shit. 

Peter pulls out his phone for light. “Well, then”, Wade mutters as a rat carcass floats by his calf, “I think I preferred the assault rifles.”

Peter’s scrunching his nose as they trudge through sewage. “I figured you took enough bullets already. You okay?” 

“Unkillable, remember?”  

But Peter still puts a hand on Wade’s side, turning him to see the wounds. “You’re healing slower than you used to.” 

Wade shrugs. Pulls away even though Peter’s hands are warm and everything else is cold. “If you’re sayin’ I’m too old for you, I’m happy to prove that my important parts still work perfectly...“

“For fuck's sake—bleed out, then. See if I care.” 

“Aw, Spidey, don’t be like that.” 

Peter’s jaw tightens, and those dark eyes drop to the shit-infested water lapping at their ankles. “Why’d you take those bullets for me?”

Wade hums, “Because I’m immortal and you’re not?”

“So? You could’ve left, finished the job with Frank. Why’d you stay?” 

Wade admires how the past few years carved out Peter’s jaw, painted faint scars over what used to be perfect skin. “Because I felt like it. Why didn’t you let me be a mutant target board?” 

“Because it wasn’t right.”

“Right’s subjective. We’re all wrong in someone’s eyes.”

Peter shakes his head; stops to face Wade. “Why’d you come after Frank in the first place? There’s gotta be a thousand other hit jobs out there…” 

“Maybe I wanted an excuse to see you, Spidey.” 

“So you took a hit job, to what? Say hello?” 

Wade finds light trickling in from another pothole a few meters away, veers them towards it. “I wanted to see that ass one more time and make some cash while doing it. Can you blame a man?” 

“How much is Frank’s life worth? A hundred grand? Two?” 

Six. But that’s beside the point. Wade tries to jump for that pothole. Misses with enough force to fly face first into a cement wall. 

“Stupid fucking rock.” He thumbs at his aching nose, turns back to a patiently unhelpful Peter Parker. “What do you want to hear, Spidey? That I would’ve had no trouble killing Frank? It’s true.”

“Then why didn’t you? You’ve been following us for weeks.”

“Is it really so hard to believe that I wanted to see you? I’m kind of obsessed, in case you haven’t noticed.” 

“Why?” 

Wade jumps again only to miss. He gives up, settles against the sewer wall with a huff. “Cause I’m the only one in this entire planet who remembers what you used to be, Spidey! Feels kind of star crossed lover-esque, no?”

Just for a second, Wade catches the grief that was once plastered across a jumbo screen. “And I’m supposed to be, what? Grateful? That a serial killer knows I used to wear costumes?” 

“I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“Then what do you mean?” 

“That I know what being forgotten feels like. And yeah, it’s pretty fucked up that it’s me and not your girlfriend or your family. But isn’t it kinda nice that someone knows you? Even if it’s me.”

Peter locks his jaw. Wade gulps, gearing for a fight.

Instead, Peter finally leaps up for that faint streak of light—it curls around his hand like the silk of his webs. He pops open the pothole, and they both breathe fresh air as the city rushes in. 

“We’re not friends, you understand? Not even close.” Peter climbs out of the sewer and reaches a hand out to Wade. “But I guess someone’s better than no one.”

And Wade gets a little excited. 

(Horny, you mean? Oh, so horny, tell them about the tent in my—)

Because this is a truce. And truce equals tolerance, leads to proximity, and ends up to eventual enemies-to-lovers. Deadpool math. 

(Author: You want your moment, or no? Say something!)

“Well, Spidey, anytime. You’re impossible to forget.”

(Nailed it.)

Chapter Text

Matt finds the Punisher at three-thirty in the morning, barefoot on the fire escape and in nothing but boxers. An open window creaks against the wind. Snow collects on wooden floors alongside shattered glass. 

If it were any other person, Matt would've jumped out the window and dragged them back into warmth. But it's Frank, with a grimace and metallic eyes. It's Frank, with a cigarette between his lips and scars that wrap his thighs like barbed wire.

It's Frank, and Matt doesn't know what to do with that sometimes. 

"You okay?", Matt tries. "Hey, it's freezing out there. Can't you come inside?" The other man doesn't say a word as Matt reaches out, wraps fingers gently around his wrist. "Baby, please..." 

There's days when Frank laughs and teases and shoves a shoulder into his own, like an old friend coming home. Then there are days where Frank pins him against the bed until noon, tangled under the sheets, like he's afraid to let go.

Matt sighs. Sweeps up the glass. Shrugs off his suit and tie and shoes. And then there are nights like this, weeks even—when anything Matt says disappears into an old telephone line of grief, and comes out the other end warped by static.

He grabs a blanket from the couch, steps over knife-sharp shards, and drapes it around Frank's pale torso. He checks each bandage for open wounds. He thanks their lucky stars that there's no further injury, save for pinpricks of blood trailing down injured hands. 

Ever so carefully, Matt wraps himself over the man's side. Frank's shivering—human ice in his arms. Matt pulls him in, a challenge with those broad shoulders, and tends to his bleeding hands. "I'm sorry", Frank murmurs, "for the window." 

Matt hums, "Don't be. Any reason why we're out here, instead of warm in bed?" 

"Shitty things, Red. Just dreamt of shitty things. My legs are gettin' better but it's not the same." Frank crushes the blazing cigarette under bare feet. It's cold enough outside that the floor burns Matt's heels. "I don't know who I am if I can't fight."

And that's something Matt gets all too well. "Okay." He presses his lips to the other's bruised, snow-bitten knuckles. 

"I'll show you. If you come with me, Frank, I'll show you." 

**

Matt's not exactly sure what the Uber driver makes of them. It's quite the picture they make: Matt's own cane and red spectacles, Frank's bandaged hands and crooked nose, and the fact that it's nearly four in the morning as they crawl towards downtown Manhattan. 

If the driver has questions about the blood or blindness, he doesn't mention it. For fifteen minutes, they listen to old 90's songs that fail to mask the Honda Civic's spluttering engine. The other man disappears under the hood of his jacket. 

Eventually, the car slows to a stop in front of Fogwell's Gym. Matt offers thanks and a tip before opening the side door. "Watch your step", he whispers when Frank pushes him away. 

"I'm fine. What the hell did you bring us here for, Red?" 

Matt picks the lock that hasn't changed since he was six years old. "I'm showing you something, Frank. Have a little patience." 

"Patience?" He huffs even as he follows Matt into a large room with a boxing ring in the center. "Who the fuck has patience at this..." 

Frank pauses. Matt can hear the uptick of his heart. He must've caught a name on the wall.

Johnathan "Jack" Murdock. In loving memory. 

There's a picture, Matt thinks, of his father up there. If he remembers correctly—his sun dyed hair is overgrown, framing a stubbled face, and there's a kid by his side with seeing eyes and soft hands. "Jesus", Frank breathes, but Matt's pulling him deeper into the gym, not letting him think too hard. There are more important things to do tonight than think. 

"You wanna fight, Castle?" Matt's stepping under old, familiar ropes. Frank watches him with those dull metallic eyes. "Then come here and do it." 

"I'm all fucked up, Red. You sure this is a good idea?" 

Matt's not sure this is good idea at all. In fact, it's a horrible idea that he'll probably regret by morning. "Just step in. We'll do whatever you want, whatever you can. But you have to step into the ring first."  

Frank splits the ropes and hobbles in. Blood trails from those bandaged fists. "If I die, Red, you'll miss me. Remember that." 

"Come on, Castle." There's fire eating away at flesh, ash in his throat. Don't break him. Matt raises his hands. "You get the first hit."

They start off with jabs—fast and light. Frank's limping some, unsure of his feet, but his left hook still stings Matt's cheek. 

Matt looks at the burn scars peeking out from underneath Frank's shorts. He can handle it, he tells himself. It'll be okay. Matt's first blow to the ribs nearly topples Frank over. The man hisses, clinging to the ropes. "Fuck. I thought we were takin' it easy?" 

"When did I say that?" Matt jabs hard at the other's side. Frank throws a punch that would've once knocked Matt to the floor, but it now swings wide and misses, throwing his shoulder into a corner post with a bruising thud. Frank sags there, panting, blood threading from his mouth onto the ropes below.

A blow to the face. Another to the ribs. "Come on, Punisher!" Come on, Murdock. 

He's barely standing, spitting blood where Matt's father once bled. "I'm beat! I'm fuckin' beat." 

"You've got more in you." 

"But I don’t," Frank growls, shoving off the post and stumbling forward. His knee gives, but he catches Matt with a desperate tackle, and they crash hard onto the mat. "And I said I'm fuckin' done." 

"Is this the man that burned down cities for his wife?" The words fall from Matt's lips like poison, but he's running out of options and men like them aren't meant to sit still. Ticking time bombs, Elektra once told him. The lot of you run into burning buildings with dynamite strapped to your backs. You think you're invincible? Matt can feel Frank breathing against his cheek. Stop running and you'll blow up an entire city. 

He needs Frank to move. "Is this the man you wanted your kids to know?" 

Confusion paints itself on Frank's hollow features. Matt can hear the pitter-patter of an old leak never fixed. Hurt makes an appearance. Water drips. Then finally, anger. 

And for the first time in months, the Punisher comes back to life. 

Fists in his stomach, jaw, liver, they pound Matt's bones until Matt can barely keep his hands up. "How could you fucking say that?" Scarred knees dig into his ribs. Sharp elbows clip his chin. Frank's hands are around his throat. "Of all people, how could you—"

Pressure builds and Matt's face is a plum on the edge of bursting, but Frank's legs are gripping and holding him down. The same legs that could barely carry Frank through the door. He follows Matt's gaze down and his breath stutters. "Motherfucker. How did you—"

"After Midland Circle", he manages as Frank lets go, "I lost my senses. Something about the pressure and debris." Matt leans his head against cold, familiar floors. "And the only thing that made me feel like myself again, were nights like this." 

"And what's this, Red? A beating?" 

"A moment to breathe." 

Frank then collapses atop his chest, breath heavy and warm against Matt's split brow. "Gettin' your face punched in is one funny way to relax, Red." 

Matt hums. There's ash in his throat and smoke in his lungs. "The days after, feeling anything was a gift. You think God's taken the pieces of you that fit, left you with ones that don't. You've lost everything and he still keeps taking." He swallows iron, brings a hand up to Frank's side. "But then he gave me you. And all the pieces made sense again." 

Jack Murdock's loving face and a cracked golden cross. Matt wishes he could see more than old memories; he wonders what Frank looks like, framed by the ring he grew up in. "I wanted to show you who I fell in love with." 

Frank scoffs, but the edge in his voice softens. He brushes a hand against Matt's cut cheek. "A violent asshole?" 

"Someone who can fight on broken legs. You're the same man, Frank, that tore the world apart for his family. Just with a couple more scars."

"You really said you love me, Red?" 

 "We need to get your ears checked out, too?" 

And Frank's on him—elbows locked around his head, but he's still so far away. "Nah, Red. I heard you just fine." 

Matt wraps his legs around the man's hips. Pulls him close enough that Matt can feel the other's heartbeat against his own. "So?" 

And? 

The question's left unsaid as Frank's lips graze his neck, rough and tender against old bruises. "Why now? When I'm all fucked up like this, why now?" 

Matt scoffs. "You asked the same thing when I first kissed you." 

The man in question pins Matt's wrists above his head, leans down to kiss his cheek. "Remind me." 

"Because fucked up or otherwise, Frank Castle, you're mine." Matt tastes blood from Frank's lips. Lets himself smile, just a little. "And I've been yours ever since you carried me home from the rooftop."  

"I had you in chains, Red. Gun to your head. You ever consider Stockholm syndrome..."

"Jesus Christ, Frank—"

"You too." Matt's heart skips. The words are burning and quiet against his neck. "I love you too, Murdock." 

He can barely make out Frank's stuttering heartbeat beneath the roar of his own. "Say it again."

"Don't push your luck now, Red."

Matt breaks his hands free to drag under Frank's sweatshirt, knuckles against scars and a muscled abdomen. He finds Frank's waist and pulls him flush against his chest. "Say it again. Please."  

Frank huffs—turns away even as Matt catches the heat flushing to his cheeks. "I love you, asshole. Happy?" 

Matt answers by drawing him into a kiss that both stings and soothes. "Very." He carefully hooks an arm around Frank's thigh, fingers against scar tissue and warm skin. Matt can sense the wince before it happens, feeling the tension in Frank's straining muscle. "We sure this is a good idea?" 

"When are we ever, Red?" But Frank's still grimacing as he leans down for another kiss, and Matt's seen enough of the man in pain. He flips them over. Frank lands on his back in a huff, grip tight against the dip of Matt's waist. "What are you—"

"Showing you a good idea." They let the soft rain and flickering gold bulbs set the pace. Lips against an exposed collarbone, the drag of nails over a tender rib. Matt's got his fingers tussled in Frank's hair, dragging his head back to leave marks on his neck. 

Frank's drags their hips together just enough to send lightning down his spine—Matt groans against his neck, responds with a lick to that prominent Adam's apple.

Shirts are tossed aside. Matt's kissing down the other's chest, pulling down soft sweatpants with the pads of his fingers..."Fuck. Matt?" 

Matt hums languidly against the curve of Frank's stomach. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry about the beatin'." Rain pours outside and Matt thinks there's nothing sweeter than the powerful cut of Frank's hips. Frank huffs, pulls him up by the shoulders. "You hear me, Red?" 

"Does it look like I'm angry about a couple bruises?" Matt punctuates the words with a nip to his jaw. "You could always leave a few more." 

"Fuckin' masochist." Frank's pausing, gaze lingering on what must be yellowing bruises on Matt's chest. "I'm still sorry." 

He leans into Frank—lets himself be held by hands as steady and calloused as his own. "I'm sorry, too. I pushed too far. But Frank", Matt settles against the man's lap, hands on his shoulders, "ever since that night, I couldn't let you go, I couldn't just watch..." 

Frank sits up and wraps strong arms around Matt's waist. "I know, Red. I know." His hands bruise Matt's thighs.

Then they're close—tenderness exchanged for something rougher, something more like the scars etched into their skin. And when he's fitted into Frank's lap, it's another piece fitting into a life that Matt never thought he could have. 

Matt holds him close. Sets the rhythm. Lets all those decades of running and fighting bring them something other than pain. There's ash in his throat and smoke in his lungs—but with the silver FC cross pressed against his lips, Matt steals a moment to breathe.

He'd forgotten how good fresh air tastes.