Chapter Text
Unlike the first time, Matt's second visit wasn't a surprise for Frank. He'd almost been expecting it, anticipating another confrontation just like the last.
With the announcement of Mayor Fisk's shiny new crew of crooked cops, Frank saw the problem sprouting, the roots of it already woven into the police force. He remembered the casing Matt had brought to him and the heavy argument that came with it. It wasn't supposed to be, but it was certainly becoming his problem. Fisk and Murdock alike were closing in, putting this shit right on his doorstep, making it impossible to ignore.
So when Frank heard the familiar click of dress shoes entering his little safehouse, he didn't bother picking up the hatchet. He was sure Matthew Murdock would find a reason to put hands on him anyway.
"I'm not part of it," Frank told Matt as soon as he walked in, barely glancing up from where he was tinkering at his workbench. Dextrous and automatic, he was in the process of taking apart a gun and cleaning it. It wasn't one of of his more intimidating ones, but the smell of it still had Matt's teeth aching.
The room was the same as when Matt had last been here, the layout of it carrying all the same edges and surfaces he'd taken in previously. Every gun still on display, each stray bit of paper and clutter in its place. Frank himself felt exactly identical, too, save for a lower temperature, likely no longer working quite so hard to heal itself from whatever injuries he'd had. The scent of coffee was fresher on his breath, less sour. He didn't smell as sweaty, no post-exertion headiness to cloud Matt's senses.
"And I didn't say you were." Matt knew he was talking about the announcement of the vigilante task force. He didn't believe for a second that Frank had any influence over the band of violent mobsters, as much as they clearly idolised him. If Frank had made contact with them, they would've already abandoned the symbol of The Punisher, by choice or otherwise. "You're not like them at all, are you, Frank? You don't crave the violence, do you? Love the power that you have. Feel justified in it. No, you're just some kind of… avenger." The joke was as hollow as the the smile he gave.
Frank didn't rise to the bait. Matt felt a prickle of frustration, brushing it aside in favour of getting closer. Desperation demanded he keep going, pushing until something gave. He was good at that. If it was just his own life at stake, he wouldn't need to. If it was just him, he could've found a way to handle it all on his own, but it wasn't.
From the information Cherry had passed on to him, Fisk's next steps would put a lot more people in danger; people Matt cared about in his personal life, and everyone he'd ever represented professionally, too. That accounted for a lot of good people.
No, Matt couldn't allow it. No matter what, he had to prevent Fisk from following his latest plan to reveal the identity of Daredevil.
Any day, any minute now, the Mayor would pull the verbal trigger and unleash hell. They were planning to take the fight to Matt Murdock, and wasn't sure if the first front would be a press conference or a bullet storm.
"They're after me, Frank." It wasn't as though Matt was scared, he simply stated it as a matter of fact. There was no fear, just frustration. Anticipation. Determination.
Desperation.
"Freak in a devil mask, and an anti-Vigilante Mayor. Not a surprise, Red, with your triumphant return. Not sure if you've seen it, ha, or heard, but here's graffiti of you everywhere. Vandalism - which is a crime by the way. You know that? Lotta eyes on you."
"They have a fully organised, kitted-out squadron. With an unjust, unlawful political order covering them, they'll get away with anything. They're corrupt; there's no order, no due process." The irony of it all. Whatever emotion leaked through into his voice, it made Frank pause, hands falling still. Matt took it as a sign to continue. "There's people in danger, Frank. Innocent people who will be caught in the crossfire. You more than anyone— You know better than most how that one goes, don't you?"
It was only thanks to Cherry's informants on the force that Matt had any warning of Disk's plans at all. He hadn't been stupid enough to believe Fisk would let him go free after his return to the cowl, but the news had still been a shock. The information had rattled Matt, but it also gave him a head start.
The Devil would have to act fast, and as much as Matt loathed it, he wouldn't be able to act alone. Too may people were at risk, too many with private identities of their own, with connections and weaknesses that could be exploited. Luke, Jessica, Jennifer, Danny. Karen, Kirsten, Heather, Cherry. Both sides of the mask, Matt's people had too much to lose. They were too much to lose.
Matt had no other choice, and when Lucifer fell, he did not fall alone.
Frank had so little left to lose.
Frank didn't lose.
If Matt was falling, Frank was already at the bottom. As much as Matt had tried to reach his hand out and pull him up, he was at least reliable in this. The Punisher was the only man Daredevil would dare to inflict a request for aid on, and while he wished he didn't need it, would've done anything he could to avoid it, Cherry had made it clear his time had run out.
"Private task force shooting to kill, no questions asked, for the sake of some power tripping political leader? Sure I do," Frank shot back, finally turning around. He sat back on his seat, clothing shuffling and the rickety stool beneath him creaking with the hefty weight of his dense musculature. "Nothing new. Not sure what you want me to tell you. What you need from me." Leaning backwards, he rested his elbows on the bench as he looked up at Matt. The smell of coffee grew stronger, undercut by a neutral cleanliness, some gentle soap or aftershave.
Whatever expression Frank was making, Matt wanted to knock it off his face. The likelihood of it being no expression at all, that he was sitting there completely placid, was even more infuriating. Matt clenched his jaw, fighting down the dreadful anticipation building in his chest. The urge to yell and throw fists was bubbling ever closer to the surface. He'd been struggling more and more with keeping it down. He'd tried so hard.
Matt Murdock needed—
He needed.
"I don't need your help," Matt told him, hands tightening on his cane, gripping it like it would help hold himself together. "I just need you to show them you're not…" He let out a heavy sigh. He'd been ready for a confrontation, not this slow descent into wasted time. "They wear your signature. Carve your symbol into their casings. The whole squad is your little fan club. I've got street art? You've got abusive, organised militants. All I'm asking is that you take a stand with me, just once, and show them—"
"Oh come the fuck on, Matty," Frank cut in, the air and sound waves around him shifting sharply as he threw up his hands in agitation. "You're clever enough, don't tell me you believe even for a second that that shit would work. I know you don't. What, I pose next to you on a rooftop somewhere, have a photoshoot together? Do a little pose? Write a letter to those pigs and sign it with a stern, 'Thank you for your service, but chill out'? Yeah, sure. Sure."
"No, you know that's not what I—"
Again Frank interrupted him, finally up in his anger. His pulse barely quickened, keeping its usual eerie steadiness. "I know, yeah, damn right I know what you mean! What you really mean. Problem is, you don't. Fuck's sake, if God already knows all the bullshit you carry around, why d'you play pretend and refuse to just say what you fucking mean? You want me to come in, take down anybody threatening your family; lost one already, got plenty more waiting to join him. Send in The Punisher to clean house and save the ones who're still alive."
"Fuck you." Matt's voice was soft, shaking with outrage as his hands did the same. He didn't let his mind linger on the pain of loss, pushing it inside and clambering back to the present before he could sink. "Fuck you, Frank."
"People don't come calling on me for diplomatic missions, kid."
"Kid?" Matt scoffed, a disbelieving smile twitching at his mouth. It wasn't a particularly nice smile. "I'm, what, four years younger than you? Three?"
"Then stop acting like a shifty fucking teenager, slinking around because he crashed daddy's car and knows he's in the shit. You wanna fix your problems? You want help fixing your fucking mess? Ask for it. Say you want them gone and show me they deserve it."
They didn't deserve it, though. That was the point. That was always the point, the same argument over and over again between the two of them. The red line that kept Punisher and Daredevil on opposing sides. Matt didn't want them dead. None of them. He just wanted his people safe. His secret buried. The world to be better.
"You know I won't let you kill people." Matt couldn't afford to waver. He'd been too weak too many times now, been too able to hurt people who 'deserved' a more lawful consequence than what he inflicted on them. He couldn't afford to lose his grip on his beliefs any more than he already had.
"You don't gotta let me do anything. I have plenty of other shitstains to wipe out, I'm not looking to pick a fight with the government just because I feel like it." The 'not again' went unsaid, heavy in the silence between them as it drew out. "Unless I'm given good reason, unless someone asks, then we don't have a problem here. I don't see a problem. D'you?"
Matt shifted his weight from foot to foot, feeling the awkward bulk of his Daredevil armour under his regular, slightly too-large suit. The physical sensations were crowding in on him, making him sweat just as much as the mental stress of his situation.
Getting to his feet with a grunt, Frank got into Matt's space, stepping in closer, too close. Matt tensed, ready to dodge, to get out of range, but Frank just walked around him, heading towards a part of the room that smelled of food. Stale caramel cereal. Low quality plunger coffee, tepid. Granola bars. Jerky.
The cereal reminded Matt of Leroy. What would happen to Leroy's case if his attorney was revealed to be a vigilante? Would the whole process stutter and start again? Would he be questioned over involvement? Whatever happened, it would make the existing injustices against him even worse than they already were.
"Please." The word was a measured, angry thing that curled over Matt's teeth as he said it.
Frank's heart rate sped up in time with the sharp breath he took, both almost imperceptible. Matt tensed as his own body responded, out of his control as his skin started to prickle, warming with the quickening of his pulse. The itch of sweat started to bead and soak into his clothing.
"Why should I?" Frank had the audacity to sound disappointed, as though he was unaffected. "Why should I help you? Y'come down here, hiding what you are. Sneaking around and letting the world bleed itself dry while you wait, the ambulance at the bottom of the cliff. You're a liar, you're barely fucking real, and you want me to take a stand for— For what, the cardboard cutout of a hero that you're putting up? Yeah, right."
"You're such a stubborn piece of shit. Please," Matt tried again, the cogs in his head clicking and starting to turn faster. Old memories, old sensations, pushed down deep and now rushing back up to drive Matt forward. Reading a room and pulling on evidence to convince people was Matt's job. As much as he loathed it, as much as he had never wanted to acknowledge this part of himself, he had to recognise it in Frank.
He'd done this maneuver plenty of times before, executed this tactic so successfully he knew he'd succeed, like when he'd persuaded Sofija Ozola for Leroy's case. It didn't have to be different just because it was a man. It didn't have to be different because it was Frank.
Except that it was, and it was inescapable. Just as much as Matt knew he would lose himself to Daredevil's wrath, his other vice curled up and dared to wash him away as well.
He was desperate.
Steeling himself, he stepped forward to initiate a fight he knew he was going to lose, even as he succeeded in what he was about to do. All that mattered was that he could get back up again afterwards - if he could leave the pit that Frank was waiting for him in.
Had been waiting for him since that night years ago.
Matt had scrubbed his lips with soap back then, letting it sting the cut at the corner of them. He could feel the phantom tingling now, the questioning, harsh pressure of Frank's mouth on his - a tool for his prosecution.
Frank was wary. It was clear in the stance he took as he turned to face Matt's approach, in the conscious evening of his breaths. Matt was determined to take him down.
Lowering his voice and bowing his head, he stopped within arms reach of Frank and said again, "Please." Again. "Please, Frank. I need you."
The effect was so immediate it made Matt falter, staggered, squaring his shoulders against the shift in the air. A rumbling from Frank, low in his chest, more animal than anything Matt thought was possible from a person. Frank's arousal smelled so clear and sharp it had Matt's stomach clenching, the scent alone slowly starting to fill him to the brim.
Sweat had started running down his back. As much as he needed to catch his breath, each inhale brought him closer to choking, so himself to take shallow draws through his mouth.
Was Frank watching? Could he tell how weak Matt was, just at a glance?
With how strongly Matt's advance had worked, he was thrown when Frank made no move. There was no comment, no retaliation. Frank cleared his throat, quieted himself, and stayed back. He was keeping himself in control, Matt realised. All the morals the man had, he was steadfast in them. He'd taken Matt's rejection from back then seriously enough that he was careful to show no signs of interest, even now.
It was worse, Matt decided, that Frank was a gentleman in this of all things. That he was forcing Matt to be an active participant, an antagonist. The thought of having to push was almost too much to bear for Matt. He couldn't do this, he told himself. He couldn't, he had to leave.
"Be honest. That's all I'm asking. Do something… worth the honesty," Frank said, as close to prayer as he was ever going to get.
Matt remembered the 'honesty' of their last interaction. Remembered Foggy's name in Frank's voice, and remembered violence. If he could say it, if he could say why he needed help, that he had nobody, they'd all left him, they always left him, he'd tried to find, he'd made himself a fake version of, couldn't face, couldn't lose anybody—
With a dry laugh of disappointment and a small shake of his head, Frank's shoulders dropped and be began to move away. He was going to leave.
Dropping his cane, Matt surged forward, one hand grabbing Frank's arm, the other curling in his shirt.
Desperation.