Chapter Text
1
It’s a stupid fucking thing to do.
Frank knows it is.
He knows, and he does it anyway. Takes that one damning step and grabs Matt’s wrist, waits and watches. Watches Matt stop, feels him twitch, feels the way his fingers flex as he considers pulling away and leaving anyway. Sees the moment Matt makes his decision in the squaring of his shoulders, the tension rippling down his back, can actually hear his quiet, shuddering sigh right before Matt turns, charges, and slams Frank back against the row of lockers.
Frank goes with the movement, lets himself be pinned, Matt’s heaving chest pressed against his. Noses brushing. Matt’s breathing hard, warm puffs of air against Frank’s parted lips, most of his expression hidden behind those glasses.
He doesn’t protest when Frank reaches up to hook a finger under one of the arms, says nothing as Frank tugs them down and off. His eyes are closed, lashes fluttering, and Frank couldn’t say who moves first, not under threat of death or worse, but they both moan, too loud and too fucking desperate, when their mouths finally crash together.
It’s a mistake, a stupid fucking mistake, Frank knows it even as he turns them, pushes Matt up against the lockers instead. He knows it’s a mistake, and he knows Matt knows it, but it doesn’t stop either of them.
Never has before.
And won’t now, looks like, as Matt does one of his freaky ninja twists Frank has absolutely no chance of following or stopping, but ends with Frank on his knees and Matt’s legs either side of Frank’s neck. Tells Frank just what exactly Matt’s after tonight, more than words ever could.
A laugh rumbles in his chest, and spills over, low and rough, when Matt groans and demands, all huffy like he gets, “Shut up, just. Shut up.”
Frank’s still chuckling as he tucks the glasses away in the pocket of his hoodie, their fingers tangling when they both go for Matt’s fly at the same time. Matt makes an impatient noise and slaps at Frank’s cheek with the back of his hand, and Frank snorts but moves back enough for Matt to get his pants open. His throat goes dry once Matt finally pulls himself free, his heart thud-thud-thudding away double-time all of a sudden, and Matt hears it, he always does, and breathes out a shaky, appreciative moan about it.
“Come on,” he urges, heels kicking at Frank’s back, shoulders braced against the lockers, and Frank gathers just about enough of his wits to take a hold of Matt’s hips, lick a wet line up his dick, and suck him down.
From there, it’s easy.
Easy like nothing else between them ever is.
Matt’s hands tangle in Frank’s hair, combing through it, then tug sharply when Frank finds the right speed, the good angle, the perfect rhythm. He tilts Frank’s head, back and then back some more, until his throat’s open enough for Matt to slip in that much deeper, fitting himself inside Frank with casual, practised ease.
And Frank lets him, wants him to.
Needs him to.
Swallows around him, once, twice, until Matt hisses and curses, and finally, fucking finally, takes over and allows Frank to follow where he leads. To relax, shut off everything else, just stop for once, for however long this stupid fucking mistake of theirs is going to last this time.
He’s aware, absently, dimly, of the sounds Matt makes, of the occasional words spilling out between them; encouragements, instructions, directions Frank knows to follow on instinct, without question. Matt’s never led him wrong before, not in this, can tell what Frank wants, what he doesn’t know he needs, even before Frank’s figured it out himself.
Says, “Touch yourself,” and Frank does, glad all he’s wearing are sweats with nothing underneath.
Warns, “Close, I’m so—ah, I’m close,” and squirms when Frank redoubles his efforts, spills warm and salty down Frank’s throat mere moments later.
Coaxes, “Be good for me, Frank, come on,” with a hand cupping Frank’s cheek, thumb brushing over Frank’s stretched lips, and Frank does what he does best; he obeys.
In this, if nothing, nowhere, no one else.
The concrete floor is cold and unforgiving when Frank slumps back roughly, arm slung over his face, but he can’t be bothered to move. Instead, he listens to Matt catching his breath above him, stumbling a little as he tries to get his feet to do what he wants them to. The clink of his belt as he does his pants back up, the rasp of his hands against his stubble when he rubs them over his face, the too quiet murmur of his voice until he says, just about loud enough for Frank to catch, “Glasses.”
A mistake.
It always is.
Fucking stupid.
He always is.
“Gimme your phone,” Frank manages, holding out his free hand. Wiggles his fingers when Matt hesitates.
Matt wants to refuse, clearly, thinks about it for a beat too long, but eventually huffs, and plops his phone down on Frank’s chest. “Don’t put it under your name.”
Frank rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, counselor,” he mutters as he types, then throws the phone back, mouth twitching when Matt catches it effortlessly. “‘S under Pete. Twelve down.”
Silently, Matt holds out a hand.
Frank fumbles the glasses out of his hoodie.
Matt leaves without another word.
“Yeah,” Frank sighs, knuckling at his eyes, “good t’see ya, too, Red.”
2
Frank’s disassembling his rifle when he hears the fire escape creak and rattle. Too loud and too deliberate to be anything but on purpose. With a quiet huff of a laugh, he zips up his ammo duffel, and refuses to turn around and acknowledge the footsteps crunching across the gravel roof.
"Irish," Matt breaks the silence, coming to a stop and leaning against the vent behind Frank, from the sound of it. “Operating on someone’s orders. Fisk?”
That’d be the obvious conclusion, and it’s most likely the right one, but, “He ain’t that sloppy. ‘S too easy.”
Matt shuffles his feet, restless. “Unless that’s what he wants us to believe.”
Us, Frank itches to ask, glancing back over his shoulder, since when’s that a thing, huh?
The sight of Matt, still in his everyday suit, bright red mask he must’ve swiped from one of the robbers loosely dangling from one hand, stops him short. Christ. “How no one else has figured out who the hell you are is a damn miracle,” he tells him instead, and revels in the way Matt rolls his eyes, clearly visible even behind the glasses, definitely for Frank’s benefit. Standing, Frank allows, “Not saying ‘s not him, pretty damn sure it is, but—”
“Can’t be obvious about it, considering half this city’s population thought it was a great idea to elect him into office,” Matt finishes, his sigh resigned.
Frank makes a noise of agreement, slings his bag over his shoulder, and goes to step around Matt towards the stairway access, not surprised when Matt stops him with a hand against his chest. “What.”
Matt’s hand wanders, up higher, until he can hook two fingers into the collar of Frank’s shirt. If he’s surprised by Frank’s getup, the lack of armor, it doesn’t show.
“All right.” Frank lets out a harsh breath. Matt’s knuckles nudge against his throat when he swallows. “Well, if that’s all, I’mma—”
“Why are you here?” Matt cuts him off, because he’s an asshole like that. Gotta be a lawyer thing, some dumbass attempt to fuck with people’s heads. Or annoy them into admitting something they shouldn’t, more like.
It’s Frank’s turn to roll his eyes, mostly for his own benefit, little bit in the hope that Matt actually picks up on it. “What, going out for a walk’s a crime now?”
Matt doesn’t rise to the bait. Just tilts his head, brows drawn together into a frown, lips moving silently. Counting, Frank realizes after a moment, and finally pulls away like he should’ve from the fucking start. Stalks towards the stairs, pissed at himself, at Matt, the human fucking lie detector—
The way Matt calls his name, the soft plea behind it, has him stop with one hand against the cool metal of the door, the other squeezed into a fist by his side.
Because what the hell’s Frank supposed to tell him? They both know he isn’t here for a coupla wannabe bank robbers, could just head on down to the docks and knock some heads together, get more intel like that with a lot less cops hanging around. He ain’t even wearing the skull, for crying out loud, how much more obvious can he possibly get?
Still, Frank’s gonna bite off his own tongue before he admits to—what? He’s not sure he even knows. Picking up the nervous chatter on the police frequency about a hostage situation. Listening to the 911 calls pouring in, checking through them, just in case. Finding the first one, from Matt.
“Hey,” Matt interrupts Frank’s spiralling thoughts, then immediately makes everything so much worse when he adds, all quiet like, “Thank you.”
Frank grunts, a noncommittal, “Mmmh,” and pulls open the door.
Takes the stairs two, three at a time.
Not—not fleeing.
A tactical retreat.
Yeah
Fucking hell.
3
“Turn around, head back west,” Matt barks the instant Frank answers the call, no hello or nothing, “you’re less than a mile out.”
The highly illegal u-turn Frank pulls in the middle of the road earns him a cacophony of honking and angry yelling. He ignores all of it in favor of jamming his phone between his ear and shoulder. He’s got a feeling he’ll need both his hands for whatever the hell this is. “Where am I headin’?”
“The old Q line,” Matt’s panting, running, steps and voice echoing, “track 61. Just drive, I’ll find you.”
Frank doesn’t doubt it. He presses down harder on the gas. Asks, after deliberating and worrying at his dry lips for a minute, “You hurt?”
Screws his eyes shut for a selfish, relieved second at Matt’s, “No. Not me.”
Neither of them hangs up. Matt’s still on the move, though the connection’s clearer now. He’s above ground again, Frank guesses. He listens to Matt breathe, labored but not wet or ragged, so he’s probably telling mostly the truth about not being injured. Some grunting, shifting of weight, hissed curses.
Frank allows himself a smile. Choir boy’s got a mouth on him.
And he ain’t here to call Frank out on it, so.
“Construction site, left and then straight,” Matt supplies, another few minutes later, and then, “Hurry.”
Frank cranes his neck. Spots it, down the street. “A’right.”
The van’s barely rolled to a stop when the rear doors are thrown open. Frank’s head snaps around, phone falling and vanishing somewhere in the footwell, as Matt climbs inside, an unconscious kid in his arms. A heavily bleeding one.
He glances up, a brief acknowledgement, before he pulls the doors closed again. “Go.”
Frank doesn’t have to ask. He peels back out onto the street, mentally calculating the fastest route to an ER that won’t be completely overrun this time of night. Keeps sneaking looks at Matt through the rearview mirror, watches him tear off his gloves, then go and hurriedly rifle through Frank’s first aid supplies.
He keeps the van running as Matt carries the kid to the hospital's entrance, calling for paramedics. He turns some heads, after a year and some change without any sightings of the Devil, but after the initial moment of shock, everyone’s too focused on the kid to bother questioning anything, which allows Matt to slip away and back to the van, sliding into the passenger side this time around.
Frank heads for his closest safehouse. It’s a shithole, but it’s got running water and soap, both of which Matt’s in desperate need for. “You might wanna,” Frank indicates his own face, then flicks Matt’s forehead, and Matt nods, tugs off his helmet and chucks it in the back. “Here, gimme a second.”
He shrugs out of his flannel, silently thanking his self from an hour ago for changing out of the Punisher gear already, and holds it out. Matt murmurs a quiet thanks as he slips it on, fumbling a little with the buttons. Leans back against the seat and closes his eyes, so Frank shuts up, and focuses on driving.
Per unspoken agreement, Matt gets first turn with the sink, courtesy of being the one covered in blood. Frank checks the mini-fridge while Matt’s cleaning himself up, wincing at its meagre contents. The beer’s still good, at least, so he grabs two bottles and twists them open, handing one over once Matt’s done.
He chugs half of his, then puts it down on the counter to wash up himself. A plan that gets derailed almost immediately by Matt coming to press against his back, a long line of heat with the top of his suit stripped off. He sets his teeth against Frank’s shoulder, noses the fabric of his shirt out of the way, and nips at the exposed skin.
Frank’s throat clicks. He can feel Matt smile, sharp and smug.
Lets him unbuckle and push down his jeans, trail fingers down his sides, along the creases of his hips. Mouth open against Frank’s neck, Matt asks, voice gratifyingly hoarse, “You have anything?” and breathes out a quiet, disbelieving laugh when Frank grabs one of his hands to suck two of his fingers between his lips.
They fuck just like that, Frank’s head tipped back onto Matt’s shoulder. Twined hands braced against the counter. Fast, too dry to be entirely comfortable, but just right all the same. Matt mouthing at Frank’s throat, his neck, over his cheek, thrusting up into Frank with that eerie precision Frank’s never found anywhere else. He bites down hard when he comes, teeth clamped into the meat of Frank’s arm while he jerks Frank off, and that’s it, that’s enough.
Frank grimaces when Matt pulls out. Turns to lean against the sink, not quite ready for the undignified task of unlacing his boots with his pants around his ankles. Watches Matt gather the pieces of his suit and put them back on, face vanishing behind the mask. Rubs at what he assumes must be some pretty damn impressive bruises littering his throat, going by the tingling sting of ‘em.
Catches Matt looking amused. Maybe pleased, a little. With himself.
“Yeah, whatever,” he grunts, mouth twitching, and Matt grins back at him, downs the rest of his earlier beer, and leaves through the window.
Frank shakes his head, and picks his own bottle back up. “Unbelievable.”
4
It’s pure fucking luck that Frank’s close enough to reach the practice before law enforcement get there. That he was even tuned in to the right channel, at the right time, on a gut feeling he couldn’t explain but is really fucking grateful for, right about now.
One he’s got absolutely no intention of questioning.
He’s a roof over when he hears the shots. Doesn’t falter, doesn’t hesitate, curses, “Motherfucker,” under his breath as he takes the jump over to the next building.
Down the fire escape, in through a shattered window, into pure chaos. He clocks the gun first, on instinct, harmlessly out of the way. The body, checking the pulse to confirm it is indeed one. Blood, too much of it, Matt on his knees in a pool of it, cradling the limp form of what must be the shrink.
The panicked, desperate edge to his voice as he begs, frantic enough to stumble over the words, “—with me, stay with me, Heather. Hey, stay with me—”
“Red,” Frank says, then again, sharper, when Matt doesn’t seem to register it at all, “Red, c’mon. We gotta move.”
Matt finally pulls himself back together when Frank muscles him out of the way. Sits back and watches, chest heaving with suppressed sobs, as Frank improvises a compression bandage, dresses the wounds best as he can with what’s available. Frank grabs a cushion from the couch to put under Heather’s head, ‘cause that feels like the decent thing to do, everything considered.
That she’s close to bleeding out. Probably fucking traumatized. That the guy trying to save her life has apparently been fucking her boyfriend for weeks now.
Woman’s having the shittiest day of all shitty days.
He looks away when Matt moves in close again, but still catches him leaning down to kiss the top of her head out of the corner of his eye.
Not the greatest feeling, being the other woman, or whatever they’re calling this whole mess they’ve got going on.
Also not the worst they’ve done to each other, not by a long shot.
Pounding footsteps out in the hall. A dozen men, maybe more.
Frank touches Matt’s shoulder, just a brush of fingers. Matt nods, rasps, “Yeah,” and then, after clearing his throat, “yes, let’s go.”
They head out through the bathroom, out back, down the side of the building and into an overfilled dumpster. Stick to alleys and shadows, Daredevil too damn recognizable for his own good, and Frank too fucking infamous to be seen with him. Takes them what feels like forever to get to where Frank’s stashed the van.
Matt steals another set of Frank’s clothes while Frank swallows down whatever he may or may not be feeling about the situation, and texts Micro asking for a favor. Which means he’s got the hospital they’ve taken Heather to, and the info that she was still holding on when they wheeled her into surgery an hour ago once Matt climbs into the passenger seat.
Matt sags, as if his strings have been cut, shoulders trembling as he buries his face in his knees.
Frank turns the van towards the hospital.
“Home, first,” Matt mutters, still hidden away. Fingers in his hair, tugging rhythmically. “Can’t get there too quick, without my phone. In your clothes.”
That would look really fucking suspicious, yeah.
Frank takes him home.
Doesn’t know what to do, what to say, as Matt silently breaks down beside him. Doesn’t say or do anything at all, in the end.
He waits for Matt to run out of the van as soon as they get to his place, only Matt never does what Frank expects him to. Reaches for Frank’s hand instead, and turns stubborn when Frank yanks it back, just grabs it again and holds on tight enough to hurt. Starts to say, “Heather and I—
“Don’t,” Frank tells him, but it’s still Matt, and he also never fucking listens.
“Frank,” and he’s got the audacity to sound pissy, too, Jesus, “would you please just—”
“I don’t care,” Frank lies, even knowing it’s entirely pointless, and then louder, talking right over Matt’s protests, “It’s—whatever, it’s fine. ‘M not gonna say shit to her, ‘kay? It’s all good.”
Matt digs his nails into Frank’s palm, making him hiss, which. Asshole move, that.
“We broke up months ago,” he says, insistent, and Frank considers hurling himself out of the van and into traffic since that can’t possibly be any more painful than this fucking conversation’s turning out to be, “we’re friends. Just friends, that’s all. We weren’t working out.”
Frank grits his teeth. Shrugs a shoulder.
Matt sighs. “All right.” He loosens his grip on Frank’s hand, brushes his thumb over the spots where his nails have dug into the skin. Then, sneaky like Frank should really know to expect by now, he darts across the seat, presses his mouth to Frank’s temple, and then, finally, hops out of the van. Smiles a little as he says, “See you around, Frank,” before he shuts the door.
Frank’s got no fucking clue what to do with any of that.
5
There’s blood dripping down Frank’s face, warm and metallic. Some his, most not. He tongues the cut in his lip as he limps across the warehouse, shoots another round into a groaning body as he climbs over it. His head’s throbbing in synch with the too fast beat of his heart, and his knee’s fucked, crunching with every slow, agonizing step. Something hit him, earlier, just below the edge of the armor, lodged itself into the meat of his thigh, from the feel of it.
Another explosion outside. Not surprising, given the majority of the dock area was already on fire before Frank even got here.
Whole city’s been going up in flames tonight, both figuratively and literally, thanks to their illustrious fucking Mayor. Frank should’ve put a bullet in his head the first chance he had, way back when.
He barks out a sudden, slightly hysterical laugh at that, ‘cause other people have tried, haven’t they? And it never fucking took.
Fucking Christ.
It earns him a strange look from the bleeding guy who’s been crawling away from him for the last five minutes, which just makes Frank laugh harder. The guy chokes, blood and spit bubbling down his chin, and howls when Frank stomps down on the leg he broke earlier. Whimpers and splutters something Frank has zero interest in listening to as Frank forcefully turns him onto his back, eyes wide and terrified as Frank squats down to press his gun against his forehead.
Anti vigilante taskforce.
What a bad fucking joke.
“Please—” the guy stutters out.
Somewhere above them, glass shatters.
Frank closes his eyes.
“Not tonight, Red.”
Not any night, but especially not this one. Not when people who should be dead several times over are still strutting around like the city, the whole fucking world belongs to them. Not when Frank’s got the chance to do what needs fucking doing, not—
“Frank,” Matt says, leg against Frank’s shoulder. “Stop.”
“Help, please, help me—”
There’s no room for argument in Matt’s sharp, “I’m not talking to you.”
It only makes Frank laugh again.
Blood loss is a helluva drug.
“Gotta finish this,” he tells Matt, with a glance up at him. He looks about as terrible as Frank’s feeling. “Red, you know I gotta finish this.”
Matt’s already shaking his head, fingers finding the collar of Frank’s jacket. Twisting it, tugging it, all gentle like. “Not like this,” he says, ‘cause of course he does. The same old spiel, their same old back and forth. “You can be done. It can be over.”
Frank sneers. “‘S what I’m trying to do. Get it done. Get it fucking done, Red!”
“Stop,” Matt says, again, and then, hand cupped over the back of Frank’s head, “Frank, please.”
Trump card.
“Fuck,” Frank breathes, harsh and wild, “fucking—fuck.”
He tucks the gun into the back of his pants. Then goes for his knife instead. Matt’s breath catches, arm shooting out, a betrayed, “What are you—” on his lips as Frank stabs the knife into the guy’s armored chest.
The center of the skull.
His skull.
Slices down, up, across and back again.
The guy starts crying.
Frank rams the hilt of the knife into the side of his head to get him to shut the hell up.
“Thank you.” Matt’s mouth presses against the crown of his head. He’s shaking. Frank might be, too.
“Yeah,” Frank mutters, licks his lips. Picks Matt’s hand up from his shoulder to kiss his palm. “Yeah.”