Chapter Text
Frank is painfully gentle.
Matt knew on some level that it wasn’t all bitemarks and bruises, not all the time. With the way felt about Maria, it was inconceivable that he could have ever treated her with anything short of reverence that most Christians don’t even show Jesus Christ. And. . . Frank is a father. Not was.
Is
. And the way he spoke about his children, the way he got when he spoke about them (the way Matt could taste the salt on the air and hear the hitch in Franks breath that no one else would ever know about), there was no way Frank could have been anything but gentle enough to break Matt’s heart.
But Matt didn’t think he was someone that would ever be on the receiving end of tender kisses and featherlight touches.
Hadn’t been that way with Elektra. Hadn’t been that way with anyone. It was always short bursts of passion, violence sometimes and roughness every time.
His dad had died, and gentleness had died with him.
The nuns had tried, but they were spread thin taking care of the other children. A different nun every time he had a nightmare where he could feel his fathers corpse under his fingers, but it had been nice to be held. Maggie had been the best at it, had held him tight enough that he could imagine it was a long dead mother he’d never met holding him instead.
Stick wasn’t gentle at all.
Foggy was gentle in a different way. Like a brother was gentle. Not at all until you needed them to be. More like playful roughhousing and bullying and then hugs and a pizza on them until you were okay again. Protective concern carefully disguised by frequent annoyance.
Karen was gentle in a way that seemed like she thought he was fragile. He couldn’t hate her for it, she was probably right.
Frank. . . Frank was gentle all the time.
It hadn’t always been this way. At first it had been bruising kisses and rutting against chimneys. Eventually it had moved on to handjobs that honestly were secondary to the feeling of Frank‘s tongue down his throat. Then Frank’s tongue somewhere else. Matt had drawn the line at fucking on a filthy rooftop though.
Frank had drawn the line at having sex with Matt “in that stupid fucking helmet.”
So it had come off with the Devil’s back pressed against a lumpy mattress in a decrepit apartment building that had so many rats they could have escaped from Nimh and started their own city, and Matt believed he was allowed to be smug at the way Frank’s heartbeat had picked up when he had finally got a good look at the Devil without the mask on. The smile had dropped when he had felt the man wave a hand slowly in front of his face, noting the way vacant eyes didn’t track it. But he had just grunted and continued on. Hadn’t been rough by any means. Just fast. Efficient. Matt had left after. Frank hadn’t stopped him.
It got a little rougher after that. Matt usually walking away with a limp and a necklace of hickeys around his throat. That had been fun to explain to Foggy and Karen.
It was a routine, fumbling on rooftops and if they wanted more they went to one of Frank’s safe houses. Never Matt’s apartment. Matt never stayed. Frank never said anything. Never said his name, even if he knew it.
He called him Red. Matt had liked red.
No, the gentleness came after.
***
Matt lost his hearing in the middle of a fight.
It hadn’t been anything special, just an arms deal that he had been looking into. Some up-and-coming gang, potentially catastrophic if it went ahead but totally debilitating to the gang in question if it failed etc. All the usual annoying things that tried to fuck up his weekend. And when he had smelled that familiar scent of gunpowder and instant coffee he’d almost been annoyed. He was still a distance away, but there was no doubt in Matt’s mind that Frank was heading for this arms deal, and Matt wondered if it was just a coincidence or if Frank liked turning up everywhere just to annoy him.
He didn’t kill when they worked together, which was the bare minimum for most but a thoughtful gesture for Frank, so he didn’t chew him out too much when the ex-marine pretended to aim and fire at someone’s head with a shit-eating grin that Matt could feel and despised.
Even for Daredevil, twenty armed men could be a problem. Having Frank there would only be beneficial. Not that he’d ever admit that though. Not to Frank. The smugness coming off that man would be enough to choke him. Aw, does the Devil of Hell’s kitchen want me around all of a sudden? Matt shuddered at the thought.
Frank leaned against the wall. “Anything fancy?”
“Not really. Twenty men. Armed. Tense. Waiting for the rest of them.”
He heard Frank check his rifle, made sure it was loaded. It was always loaded. Frank took better care of his guns than he took care of himself, and regardless of how disgusting or run down the safe house was, the smell of hydrogen peroxide always persisted in a way that betrayed the almost obsessive cleaning of them. Matt was convinced that if there was any sort of religious inclination left in the man that called himself Frank Castle, then it was devoted to the worship of his guns.
He wonders in the back of his mind if Frank treats anything else that kindly.
Frank finishes with his gun, opting to stare out at the scene, drumming his fingers against the rifle. He fidgets a little, tapping his foot. Bored. He’s bored . They’re about to be involved in a fight where they’re ten to one and he’s bored.
“Not entertaining enough for you?” he teases, bumping him with his shoulder.
Frank bumps back. “When I think of the other things we could be doin’,” he says without an ounce of shame, “yeah, I find this stakeout shit real borin’.”
Matt grins. “I-” Sirens. Far away. “Time to get started.”
He drops down, feeling Frank’s eyes on him as he goes.
Shame for the twenty men inside that the deal won’t be going ahead since the police got an anonymous tip and busted the other group involved earlier that night. Shame that the police are on their way here, and when the gangsters try to escape by running to their vehicles they’ll find the keys have been taken out of the ignition and Daredevil and the Punisher waiting for them and the men they left to guard them unconscious and tied up. A real shame, Matt’s heart broke with sympathy.
He’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy tasting the fear on the air when people like this saw him. When they saw the horns. Although admittedly he could do without the smell of piss on the air when they realised who exactly was with him. It was a superstition at this point, if you ended up with both the Devil and the Punisher on your ass at the same time then you must have done something truly evil in a past life.
It was about as easy as he had expected. If anyone made to shoot him then Frank took them out, and if anyone tried to fight him in hand-to-hand he shut that shit down real fast. It was easy. Would take no time at all and give them plenty of opportunity to leave before the police got here to arrest them. Easy.
He didn’t even realise there was someone in front of him until he felt their fist connect with his lips. Then his stomach. He fell backwards, panic gripping him at the familiarity of the situation. Casts a hand out and finds nothing as he crawls backwards. Curls up as someone's foot collides with his ribs. His face is on its side in mud and there’s the smell of metal, the feel of it slicing through his suit and the skin on his back. He thinks he screams. He’s not really sure.
It had been months since his last episode. Months. Closer to a year really. But he had gone deaf and the world was dark and he was panicking and taking hits like there was no tomorrow-
Tastes blood in his mouth and feels it on his face and is smart enough to know that it wasn’t his own.
The smell of gunpowder and coffee. Vibrations in the ground. Someone walking. With purpose. Hands on him. Shaking him. Turning him. He doesn’t respond.
He can’t hear.
***
It comes in slowly. It always does. Doesn’t seem to take as long as usual though, which he supposes is a good thing. Fewer episodes taking less time is a good thing, yeah? It doesn’t stop him from wondering if there will ever be a time where his hearing doesn’t come back. He hopes someone kills him if that's the case. Selfishy hopes that it’s Frank.
He hears Frank’s heartbeat, focuses on it instead of the piercing of the needle and the pull of the thread as Frank stitches up the nasty cut on his back. He shifts his weight when Frank is done with another stitch, moving more to his left side so that his definitely bruised ribs can catch a break. The top half of his costume and his helmet have been discarded somewhere next to him.
Frank's heartbeat grounds him. Helps him return to his body. Keeps him from thinking about things that will make him spiral.
He had known he was with Frank the entire time, but it hadn’t made the trip here any more comforting. He remembered his arm being thrown over a shoulder, and then he himself being thrown over a shoulder when Frank realised that he didn’t know where to put his feet. He had hated being buckled into Frank’s van, had hated the feeling of it moving when he was even more cut off from the world. Had hated having to be picked up again so Frank could get inside his safehouse and set him down on a lumpy mattress on a rickety bedframe that made him wish he had taken Frank home with him just once. It had been a rough night, he felt like he deserved his comfortable mattress with its silk sheets.
“Red?”
Matt groans. He feels like hell and isn’t in a mood good enough to laugh at the irony in that statement.
There’s the snip of scissors one final time.
“That happen a lot?”
“Not really.” It’s not a satisfactory answer, but he doesn’t offer anything else as Frank bandages his stitches.
He’s not usually rough when it comes to patching him up anyway, but tonight he’s being extremely careful about it, and Matt doesn’t want to dwell on that. Doesn’t want to consider the idea that Frank might consider him damaged goods. Doesn’t want to think about how he’ll react if Frank thinks it’s funny to use this against him. As long as Frank doesn’t ask-
“What causes it?”
Fuck.
There’s nothing in his voice but curiosity, but Matt doesn’t want to answer. Doesn’t want to have to explain to the man hes been letting fuck him in buildings that should have been knocked down thirty years ago that he crippled him and got to him in a way that no one else has been able to. Doesn’t want to talk about the icy hand of fear that had wrapped itself around him and squeezed in a way he hadn’t known since he’d heard them beating his father to death right before they’d shot him for good measure. Doesn’t want to explain how he’d thought it was going to be permanent, and how if it had been he would have taken a knife from his kitchen and slit his own throat rather than live like that. Doesn’t want to explain how he was so stupid to believe that he honestly thought that God wouldn’t be cruel enough to take his hearing too. He doesn’t want Frank to know any of that. Instead he tries to get up.
“Woah-”
“It’s fine!” Matt snaps before Frank can make an attempt at placating him like he’s some sort of wounded animal. It’s not fine, and Matt knows that the journey back might end up with him sleeping on a roof. But he’d rather do that than pour his heart out to a man he has mixed feelings about on a good day.
He tries to grab the top half of his suit off the ground wherever it's been thrown, but doesn’t get that far before calloused hands are gripping his shoulders, stopping him from going any further. The Punisher is so much stronger than him, and there’s nothing he can do except wriggle in his hold as he’s stopped in his tracks.
“Frank-”
“Sit the fuck down!”
The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen actually snaps his jaw shut at that. Logically, he knows that he can’t fight Frank right now, even if every cell in his body is telling him to rebel against the order. If Frank wants to keep him here then he can, and nothing Matt can do will be effective in fighting him off. If he struggles, chances are Frank will just tie him down, and that’s not an ideal situation. He raises his hands in surrender and goes down. If asked, he absolutely does not pout.
He can feel Frank’s eyes on his face, just staring for a second. “There’s, uh, a cut on your lip I gotta stitch up.”
He almost didn’t notice it. He feels a hand on his jaw, gentle. Not squeezing, just moving his head around so Frank can see the wound better in what Matt assumes is some bad lighting. For a second, Matt can feel Frank just stare at him, and he wonders what he sees. Wonders if he has some sort of fascination with the vacant eyes that others do. Wonders if he’s just staring at the wound. It can’t be that bad. Matt darts out his tongue to taste the blood, doesn’t miss the way Frank’s breath hitches at the sight.
The hand leaves for a moment to rip open an antiseptic wipe. It comes back though, holding him still. But truth be told, Matt could pull away if he wanted to, almost does when the sting hits him. Which means that Frank is holding him loosely on purpose. He’s being gentle . On one hand, Matt wants to rebel. To spit in his face and scream at him for treating him like he’s not capable.
On the other hand, Matt can’t help but find it terribly sweet. The big bad Punisher, being considerate because some small part of him might be worried?
The hands move again, and Matt finds himself missing the warmth. Matt will never admit this to himself, but in the back of his head, he wishes he could have seen, just for a minute, Frank's calloused and war-torn hands holding one of his babies. To see Frank, a man who went to war and never really came back, be gentle and sweet with something small and fragile. To have pure love written across his face. Matt will never admit to himself he wants to see that in Frank, but the small part of him that aches for something else can delight in it if it wants.
The hands come up again-
“You shot me.” Frank stops, and Matt wants to cut his own tongue out. “You shot me in the head, and it did something to me, because sometimes I have spells where I can’t hear anything.”
Silence, Frank’s body being frustratingly neutral. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. If he wants his amazingly sensitive ears to pick up on Frank’s increased heart rate. Nothing. His hearing picks up nothing, and Matt would fear he had gone deaf again if not for the noise of New York beating against his head.
“It doesn’t happen a lot,” he continues as if it makes it better, as if Frank honestly cares about what he did to him. “Doesn’t last very long anymore.” Matt slumps.
Amazing senses, but they can’t replace sight. He still can’t see. Can’t see the look of pure agony that crosses Frank’s face. Doesn’t know that guilt pours through Frank like it’s blood. He doesn’t see that Frank wants to vomit at the thought of blind and deaf Red being stuck somewhere alone and unable to defend himself, because of Frank. About what someone might do to him. . . How they probably wouldn’t kill him if they knew who he was.
Fisk wouldn’t. Fisk would take his sense of smell for good measure and force him to live like that as punishment. Like some sort of fucked up trophy.
Matt can smell the bile that Frank swallows, but he doesn’t understand where it came from.
But he feels the hand go for his chin this time. His head is tilted up, and the needle brought to the wound. Stitched up with hands that are being so careful.
And when Frank is done, the hand doesn’t move. Instead, Frank moves in, holding Matt in place. He doesn’t expect it, the gentle press of lips against the uninjured corner of his mouth. A kiss so delicate that Matt almost wants to cry. Those lips linger for a second before pulling away. Matt mourns the loss of contact before he feels them press against his cheek. He’s confused, more disorientated by the sudden uncharacteristic display of affection than the loss of his hearing.
They don’t do this .
But Frank is doing it. Pulling away to leave another kiss against his forehead. That one almost does make him cry. Then the hands are pushing him down, and Matt almost thinks it’s some kind of foreplay before Frank rolls him onto his uninjured side and he feels the blanket being pulled up to sit around his shoulders.
“Get some rest, Red.”
The exhaustion hits him like a train and he falls under with no resistance, and he doesn’t notice Frank brushing away the hair from his forehead as he sleeps.