Chapter Text
Matt had never given much thought to the word on his wrist: the black, scrawling, chicken-scratch that carved out much more than the word bang, but his future too. His father said what all parents say to the children: that it was the mark of his Soulmate, the other half of his soul – the one person who would make him the happiest boy in the world.
But life took a sharp turn when he was nine, and well, his soulmate never really crossed his mind after that. He focused his attentions on things he could control; on things more tangible than fairy-tales.
So he found something that he liked doing. He rescued people. He saved people. In the day, he donned a suit and glasses, let people pay him with chickens and three portions of lasagne, and told the world that everyone deserved the best defence they could, no matter creed, culture, convictions or capital, everyone deserved a chance for their voices to be heard. Everyone deserved a shot a redemption. When that didn’t work, he folded up his cane, shucked out of his suit, and he let the devil out, just like his Dad used to do.
And it worked.
It worked right up until the heatwave broke over Hell’s Kitchen, swathing the streets in sweat and the dank smell of the subway that burst up through the vents. The trash, sitting idle on the street, rotted under the sun, adding a foul bitterness to dry air. They always said that heat made people mad and Matt never realised how right they were until Frank Castle rolled into town.
A shootout with the Irish and suddenly their lives were overwhelming, incomprehensively, brutally entwined. Blood, glass, grime and the half-stench of death, it was a shit storm – and that was before the meatpacking warehouse, the silent breath of: “Him”, which cut through Matt like a knife. He’d felt gutted to his core at the very idea of a man who could do such a thing, the prospect of facing him came with an uncontrollable rage and a rather fervent fear. What would he do about the Devil, Matt had wondered, and was this his fate should he go up against him? He had little time, though, because suddenly he was on a roof-top, gunshots sounding and Karen’s screaming ringing in Matt’s ear as people dove for cover. The sudden blow of flesh on flesh as they grappled, punched and kicked at each other, each clawing for an advantage. But the man was tough – tougher than anyone Matt had met – with fists that rattled every molecule in his body and made the dizzying sight of the man on the hook swim beneath his eyes. He may have been the man-without-fear, but there was something fearful about this one-man army that terrified him.
When he heard the click, Matt felt every hair on his body stand up, a chill cascading down his spine and his stomach dropped to his feet. He smelt blood on the man before him, knew his lips were curved into some bright, manic smile because there was blood in between his teeth and on his tongue, which was half out as he drew in a breath. Matt was panting himself, a sensation gripping him he couldn’t explain. It was heady and violent – it almost felt like being drunk. There was a second, maybe even a minute, Matt wasn’t sure before the man half inhaled.
Then:
"Bang."
Matt had barely a second to register the significance of that word and of just what it meant, before he was falling backwards off the roof, the ground rushing up to meet him. His last thought that that man, the murdering criminal who had butchered men like they were nothing but meat sacks, was his soulmate.
Matt wasn't sure how long he spent unconscious, swimming in the dark recess of his mind, before the despairing cries of Foggy broke through to him. His best friend holding his head in his lap and pleading for Matt to awaken, helping him stumble home via back-alleys when he finally gained some control over his limbs. But while every inch of him hurt, it was the scruffy, black word on the inside of his wrist that burned the worst. It felt like his whole arm was on fire, but he ignored it and kept the word out of Foggy’s sight as well as he could while numbly answering questions on the what and why of the previous night. His words felt almost too complimentary: fast, good, trained – and Foggy’s eyebrows were raised, he was sure – but he couldn’t help it. He might not like what his soulmate was, but the man was his soulmate, and that was a fact. Something irrefutable. And the idea of letting the police deal with him? - that made a violent, heavy panic rise from his stomach into his chest and slowly clasp at his heart. He couldn’t, couldn’t let anyone else bring the guy in. There was no way.
No. Way.
So Matt argued with Foggy, as he always did, and let his best friend walk out the door, slamming it behind him for good measure, leaving him alone with thoughts he didn't particularly want to indulge in. There were so many things. So many problems that he now faced. Part of him wished he'd never heard the word...but a small part of him was so thrilled he finally had. Soulmates were so rare. There were never any guarantees, which is why they played host to some of the most beautiful stories. Notoriously feeble, tricky, fragile things, to meet your Soulmate, someone had to pick all the right decisions - they only existed in one-possible-future. The world, therefore, would say that Matt was blessed. An incredibly lucky and precious individual that had been given the joy of another half.
He didn't know what to think, or how to feel. He'd never given much thought to it, after. Sometimes he might catch himself tracing the word - to him, a symbol of what might have been had he not been blinded and taken up the moniker of the devil. After all, what possible person was destined for Daredevil? At first, Matt had hoped Electra. Then, the normalcy of a person like Karen. He'd entertained the possibility of men, of course, but somehow he'd always thought he'd lost the one destined for him when he ran out into the road.
His mind was still turning when his hearing stopped. Suddenly, his soulmate was nothing more than a footnote because panic laced his blood and flooded every system he had. Then he was screaming. He'd never felt so blind and helpless, fumbling like a child in the dark desperate for their parents, and Matt had never wanted his Father so badly than in that moment.
He knew, logically, that he should blame the shooter, his shooter, because there was no way the bullet he took in the head wasn’t the cause of his sudden deafness. But he couldn't. He couldn't. So instead, he screamed himself hoarse, slamming his hands against cold brick until his heart slowed enough for him to settle and just wait it out, hands wrapped tightly around himself, because he couldn’t let this be permanent. “Who would want you then? Blind and deaf?” a crude part of himself asked, the words leaving a bitter taste in the back of his throat. "If you're not Daredevil, then what use are you?". It was true, he knew. Matt always knew he was a freak, different, broken in a way, but there was nothing more frightening then having it confirmed to him. His disability wasn’t limiting, he could be more, but when all he knew, all the more he was had suddenly gone? He was just an empty, panicking husk of a man who feared God too much and the law too little.
When it passed, something even more unsettling took its place: Karen. Not twenty-four hours ago, Matt was sure he would have liked her presence; with her wide eyes and soft voice, she was pretty in that normal, mundane, nine-to-five sense. But now? Now it was like sandpaper on his skin. It made him feel wrong, aching in places he didn't even know were real, because there was nothing but him. But while her prying and her gentle flirting grated on his ears, she gave him a name: a moniker.
The Punisher.
His soulmate was called The Punisher, and Matt was certain that there had never been a crueller twist of fate. After so long fighting evil on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen and tearing himself apart with guilt over it all, for his soulmate to wear that name, was overwhelming. After being so desperate for a sign to show he would be forgiven for his actions, Matt wished he'd never asked. How ironic, he thought. Even more ironic than a Catholic named The Devil. He had never been more entrenched in guilt and confusion than in the moment when Karen uttered those words. Was that, Matt thought, a sign to stop? - or to leave his Soulmate to do what he intended to: to punish? Or was this the cross he had to bear for his actions? - a murderer to complete what little soul he had left?
Karen had been talking before she finally left: about Daredevil and Punisher and saying things he just didn’t-want-to-hear – he just wanted out. He wanted to be near the man again, to see, to know, just what he had done, to try and understand his soulmate, because he couldn’t yet. There was too much blood and gore in between the pair of them for true appreciation of what made his man The Punisher. There had to be something underneath the angry and the mania. There had to.
Maybe he was desperate, clutching at straws, or fitting together pieces that had no business being in the same puzzle together, let alone side by side, but somehow he knew he had to try. But soulmate or not soulmate, there was no way Matt was letting the guy kill another person. So he pulled on the suit, his hastily fixed cowl and clambered out over rooftops.
Then, more screaming. Bullets were flying and shit, he had to get him out of the way of the bullets, but he was still coming, still fighting and not taking no for an answer.
…glass and pain and so much anger, shouts, police chatter…
…metal, cold chains and the faint smell of coffee and blood…
“Morning sunshine.”
And words, so many words. He couldn't hear them all, but the voice was unmistakable: him.
Him, giving Matt a name: Red. It suited him, Matt thought. Better Red than Daredevil. Better Red than Matt. When he was Red, he was anyone. And right at that moment, with his better half boasting about shooting him in the head, he wanted to be anyone. He wanted to be anyone but Matt Murdock, who was bound to a lunatic.
“Why didn’t you take my mask off?”
Matt could hear the stutter in his heartbeat; hear the way his lungs filled with too much air and his throat closed. The way his veins to his heart opened wide, the blood surging through as though he’d been given a shot of adrenaline…Matt knew then that those words were printed on the inside of the man’s wrist, the same way bang was on his own.
It took a moment before he composed himself and cleared his throat. “Don’t give a shit about who you are,” he replied, heartbeat flat. He wasn’t lying. He fell silent; ignoring the probing questions, ignoring him, Matt, Daredevil, Red – and the lawyer was sure that his heart broke at that: Punisher indeed.
“Stop,” he eventually spat, rounding on Matt like a cornered dog. “Stop it, Red, fuck,” he was shaking his head, hands tightening into fists, eager to hit something but hesitating slightly at just lashing out at the bound man.
“You can stop this,” Matt whispered, pleading and desperate himself. “Nobody else has to get hurt. Just walk away,” he heaved in a breath. “Don’t make me come after you…because I will,” he swore, pinning The Punisher, pinning Frank, to the spot with his heavy, red-lens gaze, "I will."
"I only do what I have to," he retorted, stance strong and frame broad. "And ain't no one gonna stop me, Red," Frank paused, tongue clicking, "least of all a half measure like you."
And that hurt. Matt knew he'd never been good at dealing with hurt. So he proceeded to do exactly what his best friend said he did: beat the shit out of strangers.
After all, his soulmate was right... people couldn't pick the things that fixed them.