Chapter Text
Matt jolts awake abruptly, his eyes snapping open as sweat clings to his skin. His heart races, painfully fast, and for a moment, he struggles to draw breath. Instinctively, he clutches his chest tightly, trying to fill his lungs with air, barely registering the tears still trickling down his cheeks.
In the darkness behind his eyelids, he can still feel—as if it were happening in that very moment—Elektra lifeless in his arms; her final breath and heartbeat. The images flash by rapidly, and suddenly, he sees Fisk standing before him, a mocking smile on his face, as if taunting Matt's belief that he would remain imprisoned.
Deep down in Matt's consciousness, he knows that won't be the case. Sooner or later, Fisk will be free, and it's not a matter of "if" but "when."
It's just a nightmare, he tells himself. A fucking nightmare, but one that continues to haunt him even in his waking hours. They're nothing new. Nightmares have been a constant in Matt's life since childhood, and perhaps the only thing that changes is the content of his dreams.
Sometimes he dreams of falling. Other times, it's Karen or Foggy getting hurt because of him. Elektra is there, every night, as if she never left. Fisk invades his nightmares at certain times. The lifeless bodies of Father Lantom or his father appear, too.
Matt knows he should talk to someone about it. Foggy would never judge him for something like this. Karen would probably try to get him into therapy, and deep down, he knows she'd be right.
But now that Matt has finally reconciled with his friends, he doesn't want to burden them with something as insignificant as nightmares.
Pushing the blankets off his body, he scrubs his hands over his face, wiping the moisture away, and rests his head back against the pillow. His chest aches. He's exhausted, and all he wants to do is sleep. But he knows, without a doubt, that sleep won't come. Not tonight. Not like this.
Slowly, he swings his legs over the edge of the mattress and plants his feet firmly on the floor. He dresses in silence and slips out into the night.
The city is quieter than usual tonight—even by Hell's Kitchen standards—and for a moment, he imagines that everyone is holding their breaths, waiting for the next catastrophe to strike.
The city and its residents have grown accustomed to anticipating the worst. When a rare moment of tranquility settles in—the air feeling less polluted, the distant honking of horns merely background noise—it serves as a warning. Unsettling, yet it's the reality of New York.
There are still many ticks of the clock before dawn. The weather is cold at this hour, and Matt feels his chin trembling slightly in the absence of warmer clothing. Nevertheless, it is better than the suffocating confinement of his apartment's four walls.
In spite of what he told the others, Matt misses his nights as Daredevil. It was an escape from his own thoughts, and even though it cost him his friendships and nearly his life, he wishes things were different.
Matt had vowed that things would change. He had sworn to himself to be less selfish and to embrace Daredevil as part of his past, along with all that came with it.
Yet, the nightmares persist, relentless in their refusal to dissipate. They haunt him, echoing the cries for help he's forced himself to ignore. It's a constant reminder that he could be out there, making a difference, but he deliberately chooses not to.
And more unsettling than the nightmares is the unsettling truth that deep down, Matt misses the violence.
He'd be lying if he said the thrill of fighting doesn't excite him. He misses the adrenaline coursing through his veins; the rush of breaking bones and bruising skin.
The most disturbing part of it all is how he embraces it. No matter how much he tells himself to let go, to make the changes he'd vowed to make, his body and mind ache for the chaos. He misses the pain because it makes him feel alive.
Perhaps that's why Matt avoids talking to Foggy or Karen about it. He knows they'd try to convince him otherwise, that he's better off without the suit.
That he's better off without Daredevil.
The Devil inside him has always been an enemy to keep at bay, and Matt's not sure he'll ever be free of his influence.
Daredevil was a means of an outlet for his pent-up rage and grief. It helped him cope, and as much as Matt tries to deny it, part of him wants it back.
But he also promised himself to be a better person. A better friend. A better lawyer. Someone worthy of Foggy and Karen's trust, who wouldn't lie to them.
Matt paces along the streets of Hell's Kitchen, unaware of the time or where he's headed.
Suddenly, there is a familiar scent lingering in the air: gunpowder and leather.
Not quite by his side, but near enough for Matt to discern the steady, firm beat of a heart. His steps lead in that direction almost without Matt's conscious consideration. He doesn't hurry, as if there's an urgency to uncover what the man is plotting or a fear that Frank Castle might be on the brink of taking another life.
Since that day when Frank aided him against the Hand ninjas, their paths haven't crossed. Matt is relieved by that because, even though they developed a kind of camaraderie— he's not sure if that's the right word—Matt still knows that Frank is a dangerous person.
He catches snippets of news about him—few fragments that fall into his ears, whether from the whispers of the populace or the distant echo of a TV. Matt was too preoccupied to seek out what the Punisher was up to when he wasn't massacring all the mafias and gangs of New York.
There are more important things for Matt to worry about, like sinking into grief, resentment, and self-sabotage.
Despite his efforts to move forward and leave the past behind, a part of him remains tethered to a chapter of his life that's difficult to close. Yet, stopping Frank—or trying to, at least—is an obsolete endeavor. It's not up to Matt's, nor Daredevil. Not anymore. And upon reflection, Frank did saved Matt's life on a rooftop.
Matt rounds one last corner, the scent growing stronger. Amidst the aroma of leather and gunpowder, Matt detects a medley of other odors—clothes, food, weapons, plastic, and fainter ones emanating from the nearby van. His steps slow as he approaches the man, who instantly registers another presence.
"Bit early for a stroll, ain't it, Red?" Frank remarks, his back turned as he attends to the van's contents.
Matt remains silent, uncertain of what to say.
"Shouldn't you be out hunting criminals or something in that Halloween costume of yours?" Frank's voice carries a wry smile, and Matt can't help but smile bitterly in response.
"Not anymore," Matt confesses. "Trying... you know, to be a better person."
Frank hums in acknowledgment, drawing nearer until Matt can practically feel the warmth of his breath.
"Define better."
"I don't know," Matt admits honestly. "A person who doesn't disappoint his friends or almost gets killed every night, I guess."
Frank chuckles, albeit softly. "Gonna have a hard time keeping that promise, Red."
"Yeah," Matt agrees. "I know. But I have to try. For them."
"What about you, Red?" Frank inquires, his tone pensive. "Did you even ask yourself what you want? Or are you gonna sacrifice yourself like a martyr just to please others?"
"I just… I've lost everything that ever mattered to me," Matt confesses in a small voice. "I can't afford to lose the rest."
"Your friends—they care about you." Frank's voice is rife with certainty. "But if you're not true to yourself, if you keep running from your own demons, sooner or later, you will lose them anyway. Maybe not tomorrow or next week, but someday."
Matt lets out a humorless laugh. "Demons? You have no idea how many demons I'm dealing with."
Frank hums in agreement. "True. But I can see you're miserable."
"I'm not miserable— " Matt begins to protest, but Frank doesn't let him finish.
"It's 3AM, and you're strolling in the cold in pajamas because you couldn't sleep. Sounds pretty miserable to me."
"Well, aren't you insightful, Frank?" Matt chuckles humorlessly.
"Takes one to know one." Frank doesn't miss a beat.
"So what about you?" Matt counters. "What are you doing here at this hour?"
"Packing my things," Frank replies vaguely.
"Leaving?" Matt asks.
"I don't know. My… mission is over." Frank explains. "I had a purpose before, something to hold onto after..." he trails off, swallowing thickly. "After Maria and the kids. Vengeance kept me going, for better or worse. Now that it's over I still gotta figure out what's next."
Matt senses Frank's pain as if it were his own; the sorrow radiating from every pore, and suddenly, he's not alone in his misery.
"Why did you help me that night?" Matt questions out of nowhere. "With the Hand—against Nobu. You didn't have to do that."
Frank hesitates for a moment before replying, "I would never leave someone to fight them alone. Not when I have the skill to help."
"You're full of surprises, Frank," Matt comments quietly, not quite a compliment, but not an insult either.
"You have no idea, Red."
Matt nods absently, and for a moment, both men lapse into silence. The wind caresses Matt's skin gently, blowing tendrils of Frank's hair across his forehead. The distant echoes of sirens wail, and a cat meows somewhere in the distance, while a dog barks in reply.
Frank sighs softly, his feet scuffing the pavement as he moves closer. He brings his hand up slowly, and Matt holds his breath as the rough pad of Frank's thumb grazes the jut of his cheekbone, almost tenderly.
"Without that stupid costume on, you look like a kicked puppy, Red," Frank comments, and it doesn't seem like Frank is mocking him at all. His voice is soft and sincere, as if he wants to make Matt feel better.
"I guess I am," Matt huffs out a self-deprecating laugh.
The touch withdraws before Matt could lean into it, and for a moment, he realizes how starved he is for physical contact, considering he almost melted when the Punisher – of all people – touched him. Frank puts some distance between them and turns his attention back to the van, finishing loading a small gym bag inside.
"Wanna come with me?" He asks, still facing away from Matt.
Frank's heartbeat remains steady, indicating there are no ulterior motives behind his invitation. A momentary silence falls between them, where Matt is too occupied feeling stunned by the unexpected invitation.
"It's okay if you don't want to, but maybe it would do you good. Take a break—forget all this shit and dirt of these streets," Frank continues, his voice low and surprisingly gentle. "At least for a few days."
Matt considers Frank's words. As tempting as the offer is, Matt is reluctant to accept it. He can't imagine what Foggy and Karen would say about it, even though there's nothing inherently wrong or illicit about it.
"I… I can't. We are trying to pick up the pieces left from Nelson & Murdock," Matt explains. "Foggy is trying to put us back together, and I promised I'd do whatever it takes to regain their trust."
"There will be plenty of time for that when you get back," Frank reasons. "You can't be at your best without rest."
"I'm not sure I'd be very good company anyway." Matt tries to diffuse the situation with humor, even though his heart isn't in it. "Might end up ruining your trip."
Frank snorts. "You? Ruining my trip?" He repeats incredulously. "I ain't the best company either, so we'll be even."
Matt continues to wrestle with the idea. It's tempting, incredibly tempting—to forget about his life, even if only for a brief period, and simply... exist. He wants to accept, he wants to say yes so badly.
The notion of going anywhere with Frank Castle that doesn't result in a fight or bloodbath seems surreal. Matt can barely recall a routine that doesn't involve pain either.
He doesn't know what Frank has in mind, or what his plans are, and Matt ponders that it must be nice... not to have one, at least for once.
To wander aimlessly and accept wherever chance may lead him… When was the last time Matt had a choice like that?
He knows the answer all too well.
"We don't have to talk if you don't want to. You can pretend I'm not there. Just... focus on the life around you. The life that doesn't belong to you. The trees swaying with the wind, the water flowing in the same direction, the birds singing, the frogs croaking—,"
"Okay," Matt murmurs quietly. "Okay—yes, I'll come with you."
Frank stops mid-sentence, but he doesn't comment on it and instead resumes loading the rest of his equipment into the van.
Once Frank finishes, he drives to Matt's apartment. Matt hastily packs some clothes into a backpack and uncomfortably asks Frank to write a note for anyone who might come by to check if Matt is alive or dead.
"It's better this way," he says.
He knows that whether it's Foggy or Karen, both will worry about Matt, and for now, he decides there's no need for that.
The sun is still hours away from rising when Matt settles into the passenger seat of the van. The air is chilly, and the damp smell suggests a fog hanging over Hell's Kitchen. It feels like a sign that the sun will eventually break through the gloom, whether it's today or tomorrow.
Matt doesn't question Frank about their destination or if he has a plan in mind. He finds himself drawn to the mystery, relishing in the sense of curiosity. There's an exhilaration in being there, journeying without a clear purpose or direction.
Frank could be leading Matt to his demise, and Matt would only know when he feels blood trickling from some lethal wound inflicted upon him.
Blindly trusting Frank is not something that comes naturally to Matt. He sees no reason why he should. Yet, there he is: entrusting his life to the Punisher, a man whose hands bear the weight of a darkness that Matt can only begin to fathom.
As time passes, the sounds of bustling cars, blaring horns, roaring trains, and the vibrant pulse of urban life fade into the background. It feels like a dream, a mirage slipping away. Matt has no idea of how long they have been on the road, but the silence that envelops them is oddly comforting.
Soft melodies fill the van, not from a radio station, but rather from a playlist curated by Frank. There are no advertisements or radio hosts, just the music. Songs that Matt knows intimately, and he finds himself softly humming along.
When was the last time he simply listened to music and allowed himself to become one with it? Unconsciously, he smiles at the thought.
Music has always been a sanctuary for Matt. It transcends language barriers and his own blindness, allowing for a profound connection.
Music doesn't care about nationality, ghosts, or physical limitations. It's something even his lack of sight can't take away from him.
Frank notices Matt's reaction and chuckles softly, turning up the volume slightly. Matt doesn't have to see to know the amused expression on Frank's face as he drives through the night.
"You're like Lisa," Frank says, "She knew all the lyrics to her favorite songs and would sing them everywhere at the top of her lungs."
Matt smiles at the mental image, thinking back to his own childhood when he used to sing along with the radio alongside his dad.
"These old songs… damn, she loved them. Her friends obsessed over Christina Aguilera or Britney Spears but Lisa… she was in love with the classics." Frank lets out a small laugh, lost in his memories.
"My dad... he had this cassette of Paul Anka songs. We used to sing 'Put Your Head On My Shoulder' every time we walked home from school," Matt reminisces.
Frank hums in response, seemingly enjoying the moment.
Matt smiles faintly, listening to Frank's heartbeat, the rhythm of his breathing.
"Father Lantom insisted I joined the church choir when I was a kid," Matt tells Frank, chuckling at the memory.
"Did you?" Frank asks, his voice laced with amusement.
"Yeah," Matt replies softly. "At least, until the accident. Afterwards, I would just sing for myself."
"You still sing?"
"Only when I'm drunk." Matt confesses. "Or alone in the shower."
"Sing for me." Frank's voice is low and husky, not quite a demand, but more of a suggestion.
"What?" Matt laughs awkwardly, "Why?"
Frank shrugs, even though he knows Matt can't see him. "Because I want to hear you sing."
"I'm not gonna sing while you're listening," Matt protests, his cheeks flushing.
Frank's laugh fills the van, a warm, husky sound that causes Matt's heart to race and heat to pool in his belly.
"I wouldn't have pegged you for a shy person." Frank comments, smiling slyly.
"It's not that," Matt explains. "I just… I don't have much of a voice."
"Who cares? Sing for yourself, Red." Frank encourages. "No one is listening."
Matt chuckles self-consciously and shakes his head in disbelief.
Frank doesn't seem to want to pressure Matt into doing something he doesn't feel comfortable with, but Matt can sense that Frank is relaxed beside him, his heart beating softly and steadily.
As the music plays, Matt finds himself humming "The Unforgiven" by Metallica without even realizing it. The lyrics always seemed to resonate with him, speaking of his demons and his pain... especially after he became Daredevil.
In his mind, Matt sings along in silence, immersing himself in the melodies and lyrics of the song, in the bittersweet notes that soar and wane.
Then, a second voice joins Matt's, and he can feel Frank's gaze fixed upon him. Matt can't see it, but he can sense Frank's lips curved into a smile as he sings softly, his deep baritone blending perfectly with Matt's.
They sing together, and the world fades away until it's just them in this little universe. Matt's heart feels strangely light as a sense of euphoria overcomes him. The sun breaks through the clouds as dawn approaches, and Frank takes a hand off the steering wheel, briefly touching Matt's shoulder as his fingers brush against his bare skin.
A simple touch, barely even a caress—yet it lingers. It leaves an imprint on Matt's body as if Frank's fingertips have etched themselves into his skin. He can feel a warmth spreading from his shoulder down his arm, and a pleasant shiver runs down his spine.
Matt allows himself to bathe in this sensation of peace and intimacy, this small moment of connection between two almost strangers, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he feels completely free.
Matt isn't certain of the amount of time that passed since they left New York; the hours seem to blur together like watercolor as they drive along an endless stretch of highway.
In his mind, Matt silently listens to Frank's soft humming of Led Zeppelin's 'Stairway To Heaven' as the shadows of trees pass by the windows of the van. He can't see them, but he can imagine them, vividly so. He can smell the dampness of the earth, feel the breeze through the windshield, taste the scent of fresh pine lingering in the air.
Matt recalls how much he used to love traveling as a child with his father, even if they didn’t go that far. The sky was always wide open before them, a vast canvas filled with endless possibilities. It was a world beyond his reach, but even then, he would listen to its secrets and promises.
Matt wonders if there will ever come a time when the world won't feel like an abyss stretching out before him.
He tries not to think of what he's leaving behind and focus on what's ahead—and for once, it's not a fight or a battle that awaits him.
Eventually, the tires of the van crunch against gravel as Frank pulls off the interstate and slows to a halt. Matt can't tell where they are, but he can feel a chill in the air that wasn't present before.
Frank opens the side door of the van and climbs out. "Welcome to our first stop," he announces, his tone laced with amusement.
Matt steps out and listens as Frank is busying himself in the trunk. He can hear Frank unzipping the large gym bag and digging around inside before he finally emerges with two bottles of water. He passes one to Matt, which Matt accepts gratefully.
The sound of rushing water echoes in Matt's ears as he feels the damp air clinging to his skin. The faint smell of salt makes him think they must be close to a body of water—a river or a lake maybe.
"Where are we?" Matt asks curiously as he unscrews the cap of the bottle and takes a sip of water.
"Not far from Pittsburgh," Frank replies.
Matt is surprised by the revelation; he hadn't realized they were that far from home. The journey was somewhat liberating for Matt—exhilarating almost.
"There's a waterfall here." Frank informs Matt as he offers him his hand to guide him forward.
Matt hesitates briefly, but then he reaches out and takes Frank's hand. The man's palm is calloused and rough, but there's a certain gentleness in the way he holds Matt's hand. Frank's grip is firm but not tight enough to hurt him.
They walk side by side, their shoulders brushing occasionally. As they move further away from the road, Matt hears the rush of water becoming louder. He can feel a mist spraying across his face and the damp earth beneath his shoes.
Frank guides him toward a path that leads downward to the water's edge. The gravel under their feet turns to soil and mud, and as they descend the slope, the smell of freshwater grows stronger.
The sun is shining above them, and there's a tranquility in the air that Matt hasn't experienced in a long time. It's as if the world is holding its breath in anticipation.
Suddenly, Matt senses something in the distance. He tilts his head to the side as if he is trying to determine what it is. The sound becomes clearer, and Matt realizes it's not one sound, but a series of sounds: the soft lapping of waves against the shore, the rustle of leaves in the wind, and the creak of old wooden boards on a boat.
Matt doesn't know why Frank brought him here, but he is thankful for it. For a moment, he allows himself to bask in the beauty of this place.
In these moments, Matt wishes he could see the world around him, to take in its sights and colors. But for now, he can only rely on his sense of hearing, tuning in to the symphony of life unfolding before him.
It's a stark contrast to what he's accustomed to, a world that seems indifferent to his own pain and struggles. And yet, strangely, this realization doesn't plunge him into sadness or self-doubt. Instead, it's liberating - a reminder that the world is vast, brimming with endless possibilities, and that his own suffering pales in comparison to the grandeur that surrounds him.
Matt allows Frank to guide him to the edge of the waterfall, where they both sit on a rock, close enough to the water for the damp smell to enter Matt's nostrils. Without hesitation, he removes his shoes and rolls up his pants to his knees, feeling the splashes on his ankles and enjoying the gentle shiver that runs through his body.
"I've never really been anywhere. Not after the accident," Matt confesses, his eyes closed behind his dark glasses.
"Never been on a road trip before?" Frank asks curiously, his voice low and calm.
"No," Matt replies honestly, "I guess traveling with a blind man isn't easy. Foggy and I used to talk about taking a trip during college, but we were always too broke or too busy studying. And when I was kid, my dad was too busy trying to make a living."
Frank remains silent, perhaps unsure of what to say next.
Matt doesn't wait for a response and continues talking. "After my accident... I've never had the chance to truly see the world. All I've ever known is New York, from Fogwell's boxing gym to Saint Agnes Orphanage, from Columbia University to the church and its graveyard."
The words leave Matt's lips like water flowing freely from a fountain, and there's an honesty in them that he didn't expect. A vulnerability that is exposed before Frank without inhibition.
Matt doesn't know why he's opening up to Frank like this. Perhaps it's the peacefulness of this place or the way Frank is listening intently without judging or questioning Matt.
"It's like I'm a prisoner of New York," Matt adds softly, "I love this city. I love Hell's Kitchen, but sometimes..." His voice trails off.
Matt's confession hangs heavily in the air between them, and the only sounds he can hear are the gentle rhythm of the river flowing beneath him and Frank's steady heartbeat next to him.
"I suppose you traveled a lot with the Marines," Matt inquires, hoping to change the subject.
"Yeah," Frank replies simply. "All over the world."
"Where did you like the most?"
Frank falls silent for a moment as if he's thinking carefully about his response.
"I… haven't really had the time to choose." Frank admits after a while. "When I was out there, I never stopped long enough to appreciate the places I've been to. The deserts in the Middle East, the jungles in Southeast Asia, the mountains of Afghanistan."
Frank sighs softly. "Each place was different, and I was always on the move, always fighting, always... waiting for a chance to strike back."
Matt can sense the darkness in Frank's words, the heaviness of his burden. It's as if he carries a weight around with him that no one can ever take away from him, and it's not something he can run away from.
"But even then," Frank continues, "even when I was in hell itself... it was better than here."
"Because you had a purpose," Matt says softly, understanding Frank's sentiment. "You had something to fight for."
"Exactly," Frank replies. He hesitates for a moment, and the sound of the waterfall seems to grow louder. "Being there, with dozens of men huddled together, some mutilated, others dying, and others terrified, it was like being in hell. It was as if we were just waiting... on the lookout for someone—a surprise attack, an ambush... waiting for death. And damn, Red, I felt at home there."
Matt swallows hard and clenches his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms until it hurts. Frank's words stir something within him—an emotion he can't quite name. He feels a mixture of sadness and anger, of fear and...acknowledgement.
The realization that he has so much in common with the Punisher leaves a bitter taste in Matt's mouth. But he understands Frank in a way that no one else ever could.
Matt feels the same about Daredevil. He often finds himself longing for the chaos and violence of the streets. It's easier to take on a thug than it is to talk about his Demons. Violence is something he understands, something he can control—much unlike the war raging within him.
"I… I get it," Matt says in a soft, hesitant voice.
Frank lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. "I knew you would."
"Do you wish you could go back?" Matt inquires tentatively. "To war, I mean."
"I don't know." Frank answers honestly, "The last time I returned... from Afghanistan, I promised Maria that I wouldn't go back again. That it was it for me. Ironically, that decision ended up costing my family's lives."
Frank's voice is quiet and calm, but Matt can feel the pain radiating from him—an intense agony that cuts deep into his soul. It's an old wound, one that is still festering beneath the surface of his skin, threatening to burst open at any moment.
"I… recently I went to this meeting… a support group for veterans," Frank admits, his voice barely audible above the sound of rushing water. "My friend Curtis runs it, and I said that for the first time in my life, I have no war to fight. No one to punish, no enemy to hunt down. I'm just… wandering in the desert."
Matt doesn't know what to say, so he simply listens attentively to Frank's words as the sunlight caresses his skin.
"I used to be at peace with myself when I was fighting in the Marines. When I was with my unit and we were carrying out our missions, I felt at home, like everything made sense. Even when we were at war, when we were fighting for our lives... I never doubted who I was." Frank admits.
"And now…?" Matt inquires gently.
Frank takes a deep breath before speaking again. "I'm still figuring that out."
Matt can't help but feel a certain envy towards Frank for being able to talk about his problems so openly, which is so different from Matt, who simply chooses to keep everything to himself.
The feelings are there, bottling up over and over again, and he knows that eventually, his soul won't be able to handle it, and these feelings will need to come out.
It was easier when he could take them out on his fists and vent them on someone who deserved it. The anger, the hatred, the fury served as an escape valve for those emotions that Matt never could control.
Matt is Catholic. He believes in redemption, in repentance, in becoming a better person. And that's what he believes he's doing—or trying.
He often tells himself that the process is similar to detoxification—to become better, he'll have to regress to his worst. He tells himself that eventually, he'll get used to a mundane life—a life without violence, without bloodshed.
But perhaps, there's indeed something really wrong with the Murdocks. As much as his father made a living from violence, Matt always noticed how it affected him, especially after the accident.
Violence also scorched something inside his father. A flame as strong as glowing coal, as crimson as the blood Battlin’ Jack Murdock shamelessly shed and that Matt cleaned up fight after fight.
Maybe some people are like that. Maybe, some people have war within their hearts. Like Matt, and also like Frank.
"Red," Frank's voice calls Matt's attention back to the present moment, "There's something I want you to see."
Matt listens to Frank standing up, and he follows suit, moving aside on the rock where they were sitting and standing up.
Frank offers Matt his hand, which he takes willingly. Matt can feel the water reaching his knees as Frank guides him deeper into the river.
Matt wonders what Frank wants to show him, and why he needs to do it here, in this place.
Frank stops in the middle of the river, and Matt can hear the rush of water growing louder in front of them.
And suddenly, Frank pushes Matt forward, and the air leaves his lungs as his body falls forward into the water.
Matt swears he can hear Frank laugh before he plunges underwater, and then he is immersed in a sea of sensations—the coldness of the water on his skin, the taste on his tongue, the sound of rushing water around him.
Matt resurfaces and takes a deep breath as he removes his glasses from his face and runs his fingers through his wet hair. He can hear Frank laughing at his reaction before he splashes water at the man with both hands, and this time, he can hear him laughing harder.
"I'm going to kill you." Matt threatens, but there's a hint of amusement in his voice that betrays his words.
"Try me, Red." Frank replies and splashes water back at Matt.
Matt does try him—or attempts to—as he lunges forward to hit Frank. However, as soon as he's close enough, Frank grabs his arm and pulls him underwater with him. Matt feels his body being submerged again in the icy waters of the river, and he gasps as he emerges from the surface and breathes in.
It feels refreshing—to be treated like a normal human being and not a blind, fragile man. The chill of the water helps Matt ground himself and allows him to forget about his worries for a moment.
When Frank resurfaces, Matt pushes him away with both hands and laughs as he does so. The sound feels strange coming from his throat—he hasn't laughed that freely in a long time—and he feels strangely light-hearted.
"Wait. I stepped on something," Frank says, before he bends down to pick up the object from the bottom of the river.
"What is it?" Matt inquires curiously as he listens to Frank examining whatever it is he has found.
"A turtle. A small one." Frank replies, his voice softening as he speaks to the animal. "Are you lost? Where are your parents?"
Matt can't help but smile at how gentle Frank sounds at that moment, and he wonders if it's the first time he has ever seen this side of the man.
"Do you want to hold it?" Frank asks Matt.
Matt hesitates for a moment before responding. "I… can't see it."
"Just touch it." Frank replies. "Here, let me help you."
Before Matt can protest, Frank guides his hand to the turtle and holds it in place. Matt can feel the reptile's hard shell beneath his fingertips and the gentle rhythm of its heartbeat.
"It's a turtle," Frank explains, "it has a greenish color and some dark spots."
Matt is grateful that Frank describes it to him. He allows his other senses to explore the texture of the creature's shell and its delicate heartbeat.
"It's so fragile," Matt points out.
"Yeah," Frank replies, "just like us."
Matt doesn't know where those words came from, but they hit him like a slap on the face. As if Frank knew his greatest fear: that he would break. That he would break one day and, no one would be able to put him back together.
Silently, Frank guides Matt's hand to the water to set the turtle free. The animal swims away as soon as it's released, and Matt can't help but smile.
"Come." Frank takes Matt's hand and guides him through the water.
The sensation is unique—walking through water makes each step feel heavier, and Matt wonders if this is how it feels to walk on clouds.
The sound of the water grows louder, becoming almost deafening. Gently, Frank takes Matt's other hand and walks backward until they are both completely beneath the waterfall. The pressure of the water is intense, pounding on their backs like a liberating massage.
Matt closes his eyes behind his glasses and tilts his head upward, letting the water wash over his face and run through his hair. It's as if he's being cleansed of all his sins, washed clean of all his faults, and he feels reborn.
The water is cold against Matt's skin, and he can feel his muscles relaxing as the tension in his body eases. The sound of the waterfall is like a mantra in his ears, soothing him and washing away all the stress and anxiety he's been carrying around with him lately.
It's almost a whisper—a soft melody that urges him to forget about everything and enjoy this moment for what it is: a reminder that life is meant to be savored, not endured.
Matt closes his eyes and lets himself get lost in the feeling. He can feel the water trickling down his back, the sound of the rushing water against his skin. It's like being transported to another world—a world where only he and Frank exist, and there's nothing else that matters except them.
Matt doesn't know how long they stand under the waterfall. It could have been hours or just a few minutes. Time doesn't seem to exist in this place, and neither does space. All that exists is this moment, this feeling, this connection.
"It's fucking cold," Frank admits after a while, bringing Matt back to reality.
Matt laughs and nods in agreement. "Yeah, it is."
"Your lips are starting to turn blue," Frank points out, touching Matt's lips with his finger. "Come on, let's get out of here."
Frank takes Matt's hand again and guides him through the water to the edge of the river where they both exit.
Once out of the water, Matt shakes his body to get rid of the excess water and takes off his damp clothes, leaving only his boxers on.
Frank does the same, and Matt listens as the man lays down a towel on the grass before placing Matt's towel next to him.
Matt sits down on his towel and takes off his glasses, which are completely wet from the water, and puts them aside.
"Do you mind if I keep them off?" Matt asks, referring to his glasses.
"Why would I?" Frank inquires, sitting down next to Matt.
"Some people get uncomfortable around a blind man." Matt replies honestly, and there's a hint of bitterness in his voice. "I suppose the vacant stare is quite unsettling."
"You know what's unsettling?" Frank says in a serious tone. "Having a guy with enhanced sense who can smell if my dick's hard or not by my side."
Matt bursts into laughter at Frank's comment, and he can't help but shake his head in disbelief. "I've never smelled your dick, Frank."
"What? Do you want to?" Frank replies in a mocking tone.
"No!" Matt protests, laughing again.
"I'm joking." Frank adds, and there's a hint of amusement in his voice. "But seriously, don't worry about that, Red. You can leave those fancy glasses of yours on the side. In fact, I like you better without them."
"Because you like seeing me vulnerable," Matt responds quickly, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
"You have pretty eyes," Frank replies. "You should stop caring so much about what people think."
Matt falls silent at Frank's words, not knowing what to say. His chest feels strangely warm at hearing Frank's honesty, and he can't help but wonder if he really likes seeing his eyes—his vacant gaze, the stare of a blind man.
Matt clears his throat and lies down on the grass, placing both hands behind his head as he gazes up at the sky. He can't see it, but he likes to imagine what it must look like—the vast expanse of blue above them, dotted with fluffy white clouds.
He can hear Frank lie down next to him and mimic his position, his strong arms stretched out to his sides and his body relaxed.
They're both quiet for a while, listening to the sounds of nature around them—the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind, the call of birds in the distance, the soft buzz of insects. It's a peaceful moment, and Matt is glad to share it with Frank.
"You know," Matt starts, breaking the silence after a while, "when I was a kid, I liked to watch the clouds and try to find shapes in them."
"That's cute," Frank comments with a chuckle. "Do you want me to find the shapes for you?"
Matt shakes his head and smiles slightly. "No. I... I just like the way it makes me feel—like a child again. Like everything's possible. I was blissfully naive back then."
Frank lets out a soft hum in response and remains quiet for a few moments.
"There's one," Frank says, pointing at the sky, "it looks like a dog."
"Really?" Matt inquires, raising an eyebrow at him. "Where?"
"There," Frank replies and guides Matt's hand towards the shape he mentioned.
Frank moves Matt's hand again, this time with unilateral and steady motions. Matt tilts his head towards the older man, silently questioning those actions.
"The dog is gone. The clouds are moving now. They're heading in that direction," Frank explains, and Matt can sense a faint smile gracing Frank's lips. "Let me try something else."
Frank shifts Matt's hand once again, this time with a circular motion, tracing a pattern in the air. Matt allows the older man to guide him, following his movements and tracing shapes in the sky above them.
Frank guides Matt's hand, this time painting a figure in the sky. Matt can feel the wind in his hair as Frank traces the outline of the animal with his fingers, and he can't help but smile.
"A horse?" Matt inquires curiously.
"A cow." Frank replies with a laugh, his breath ghosting against Matt's face. "Your handwriting sucks, Red."
"Excuse you," Matt argues jokingly, "It's not my fault you're terrible at drawing."
Matt can hear Frank's laughter growing louder, and he can't help but chuckle too.
"What about this one?" Frank asks, tracing a different shape with Matt's hand.
"Is this an animal or a face?" Matt inquires with a furrowed brow, trying to interpret the shape Frank is painting in the air.
"It's an animal." Frank replies with a hint of amusement in his voice.
"A lizard?" Matt suggests.
"It's a Komodo Dragon." Frank clarifies with a proud grin.
Matt deadpans. "Are you fucking with me?"
"Me? Of course not—this is serious business, Red." Frank replies with fake innocence, before bursting into laughter.
Matt sighs heavily and shakes his head, but he can't help the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.
"Fuck you, Frank." Matt says as he tries to remove his hand from the other man's grip, but Frank refuses to let go.
He points Matt's index finger and stops at some point in the sky.
"The sun is there. Can you feel it?" Frank asks in a soft voice.
Matt hesitates for a moment before nodding, his chest tightening slightly. The warmth of the sun's rays is faint against Matt's skin, but it's there. He can feel it.
"Right there," Frank whispers, and he points Matt's finger towards the sky. "It's yours. Only yours."
Matt feels his throat go dry, and he swallows hard at Frank's words. There's something so intimate about what Frank is doing that it makes him feel exposed, vulnerable. He doesn't know what to say, so he remains silent.
"And this," Frank continues, tracing another shape in the air with Matt's hand, "is a rabbit."
"It would make more sense to have a rabbit on the moon. Not on a sunny day like this," Matt muses, feeling Frank furrow his brow in confusion.
He sighs softly, still feeling the warmth of Frank's hand holding his.
"There's this Japanese legend—a poor and starving old man was found by a monkey, a fox, and a rabbit, and they decided to help him. The monkey gathered various fruits, and the fox caught several fish for him to eat. But the rabbit couldn't find anything to offer to the old man. Saddened by the situation but determined to help, the rabbit threw itself into the fire so that its flesh could serve as food for the beggar. It turns out that this man was a deity who, moved by the rabbit's gesture, decided to draw its likeness on the moon, so that everyone could remember its generosity."
Matt's voice trails off at the end of the story, and he closes his eyes for a moment. He can hear Frank's heartbeat speeding up and his breathing becoming shallower.
"A rabbit," Frank echoes quietly.
"A rabbit." Matt repeats in a whisper.
"This rabbit… seems like someone I know." Frank says in a low voice.
"Really?" Matt replies with a small smile. "And who's that?"
Frank remains quiet for a few moments, as if he's weighing his words carefully. "Someone who is willing to sacrifice himself to help others. Someone who puts everyone's happiness above his own."
Matt's chest tightens at Frank's words, and he feels his heart flutter. He doesn't know what to say in response, so he remains silent.
The rest of the day goes by in a blur. They spend hours sitting on the grass, enjoying each other's company, and simply listening to the sounds of nature around them. At some point, Frank makes them sandwiches and they eat in comfortable silence.
They walk around the woods together, Matt relying on Frank's guidance, and talk about everything and nothing at all. Frank tells funny stories about his childhood and his time with the Marines, while Matt shares some memories from his past. They laugh together and enjoy each other's company like they've never done before.
Matt realizes that, contrary to his initial thoughts, Frank is great company. He isn't the talkative type, but he can maintain a conversation without it feeling forced. Frank has a sense of humor and makes jokes that make Matt laugh, and somehow, Matt doesn't know how to deal with this new discovery.
Suddenly, he understands that much of his perception of Frank was completely wrong, and he feels a bit embarrassed for having judged the man without bothering to uncover other layers of Frank.
As you judge, so shall you be judged in return.
Matt wonders if Frank had also harbored some kind of mistaken idea about him that was refuted during the hours they spent together.
What kind of person does Frank think Matt is, he wonders? A fool fighting a futile war? A broken man unable to deal with his own demons? A poor soul in need of help? A hypocrite? Maybe a little of each?
It hardly matters.
All Matt really knows is that Frank is kind, in his own way. He wonders why Frank deliberately hides that side of himself from everyone, and concludes that the answer is obvious. Kindness is sometimes a weakness that people take advantage of.
It shouldn't be considered a flaw, but in a world where it is a rarity, Matt appreciates Frank's kindness towards him.
Matt likes the way Frank guides him, but not to the point of making Matt feel like an invalid. He doesn't treat him like he's fragile, and for that, Matt is grateful.
As night falls, they return to the same spot where they first arrived earlier that morning, and the sound of rushing water fills the air once again.
Frank lights up the bonfire before sitting down on a log, and Matt takes a seat next to him. The dinner is simple—canned soup and some bread—but it tastes amazing after spending most of the day outdoors.
After finishing their meal, they sit in silence for a while, listening to the sound of the fire crackling and the wind rustling through the trees.
The night is fresh, and the air is filled with the scent of wood burning and the distant sound of an owl hooting. Matt enjoys the peacefulness of the moment, allowing himself to relax and let his guard down for a while.
He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, feeling tired after a long day.
Frank seems to notice, as he suddenly gets up from his spot and walks over to the van, retrieving something from inside. Matt listens distractedly but doesn't question it.
"I only have one tent, Red. You can have it," Frank says, and Matt realizes he's setting it up near the campfire.
"You don't have to, Frank, I can—"
"I insist. I have sleeping bags too. I can sleep out here or inside the van. It doesn't matter," Frank interrupts, not lifting his gaze from the task. "I'm trained to sleep anywhere."
Matt sighs. "This isn't a mission in Afghanistan, Frank. It's supposed to be a nice trip for you."
"And it is," Frank states in a firm tone. "Besides, if you sleep inside the tent, you won't get any mosquito bites on your pretty face."
Matt can't help but chuckle at Frank's words.
"All right," Matt finally gives in and accepts Frank's offer. "But if it gets too cold, you can join me."
"Are you inviting me for cuddles?" Frank replies with a smirk.
Matt scoffs and shakes his head. "Get your head out of the gutter, Frank. I'm not having sex with you tonight."
Frank bursts into laughter at Matt's statement, and Matt can't help but smile at how genuine it sounds—not like the sarcastic or mocking laughs he's heard from him before.
"Tomorrow, then? I'll take you on a date—the real one," Frank jokes, and Matt can hear him tuck the sleeping bag into the tent. "What do you say?"
Matt raises an eyebrow and places his glasses back on his face. "That depends on how tomorrow goes. If you manage to convince me, I might consider it."
Frank chuckles and extends a hand in Matt's direction. "Deal."
Matt shakes Frank's hand and offers him a smile.
"Oh. I almost forgot," Frank says before Matt can enter the tent.
He walks over to the van and grabs something from inside, handing it to Matt.
"It's sacred. Take good care of it," Frank asks, and Matt smiles, realizing it's a soft pillow.
"You spoil me too much," Matt jokes, but feels something inside him grow immensely warmer.
"Your friends will kill me if you run back home crying and saying that the big bad Punisher mistreated you."
Matt laughs at Frank's remark, and he enters the tent, laying down on the sleeping bag.
He listens as Frank spreads another sleeping bag on the ground nearby and lays down on top of it. The campfire crackles next to them, and the warmth of its flames washes over Matt's body like a soft blanket.
The pillow smells like Frank. It smells like the man himself—that unique mixture of gunpowder and coffee and something else that Matt can't quite pinpoint—and it makes him feel strangely calm.
"Good night, Matt," Frank murmurs quietly.
"Good night, Frank," Matt replies and closes his eyes.
Matt falls asleep, lulled by the sounds around him—the steady beats of Frank's heart and his regular breathing; the chirping of crickets and the occasional hoots of owls. The waterfall runs in the distance—constant, uninterrupted.
He falls asleep, perhaps for the first time in a long while, without the distant cries for help or the ominous sounds of violence that usually surround him.
It's a bubble, he knows that.
Outside this sanctuary, life continues its harsh march. Where Matt lies peacefully and once again feels Frank's scent envelop him like a protective cloak, someone loses their life.
Someone wishes for a savior—someone, anyone—who could help. Daredevil. Or perhaps, the Punisher.
But not tonight, Matt decides. Not tonight. Tonight, they belong to each other—to themselves, alone in this lonely world of theirs.
Tonight, the Devil and the Punisher sleep.
Tonight, they dream.