Absolution
by Sandrine Shaw
Matt.
There's a certain comfort in knowing that the Punisher is still out there.
Matt can't condone Frank's methods, the violence and the bloodshed and the lives he carelessly takes, but it's impossible to deny that the idea of someone else taking care of his city when Matt can't – when he's otherwise tied up, or hurt, or when he's reached the end of how far he's willing to go – is strangely soothing.
He contemplates guilt and culpability. If he lets Frank walk around on his streets, leaving dead bodies in his wake, if Matt knows he's out there and doesn't stop him, doesn't that make him as much a killer as if he pulled the trigger himself? When he asks Father Lantom, the answer he receives is neither clean-cut nor easy.
"The real question, Matthew, is whether you cannot stop him or you don't wish to stop him. There is no shame or guilt in reaching your limits. If you don't want to stop him, however, then it makes no difference whether or not you do, it's the intention that matters."
"So you're saying I'm damned either way."
Father Lantom snorts. "Haven't you learned yet that God doesn't deal in absolutes? You're allowed to be flawed, like any other man. Some would say that the pride in holding yourself to higher standards than others is a lot more damning than whatever other sins you're worrying about." The mildness of his tone takes the sting out of his words.
Matt smiles faintly. "Ouch."
"Just something to think about." Father Lantom's hand on his shoulder feels steadying, offering comfort even when the skin underneath Matt's jacket is so sore and bruised that the touch is painful, giving an ironic edge to Father Lantom's argument about intent vs impact.
Karen.
After the night of the hostage situation, watching the Punisher take out the Ninjas going against Daredevil – against Matt, Karen's mind corrects, like an afterthought, reminding herself of what she still can't quite grasp. After seeing Frank up there on the rooftop, she started to look for him. Not look: not investigate and ask around and try to follow his tracks like a good journalist. Not like hunting down a good story or retracing the steps of a dangerous criminal.
But sometimes, walking down dark alleys at night or rushing head-first after a lead for the next big story, she finds herself looking at shadows differently, starting to sense when something, someone is hiding in them, and whether whatever is lurking in the shadows is intent on hurting her or watching over her.
Frank never shows himself. She hasn't properly seen him in weeks, hasn't exchanged words with him since shouting "You're dead to me" into the woods and watching him close the door, both literally and figuratively, between them. But closed doors can be opened – or blasted off, if necessary – and Frank Castle has proved himself very capable of cheating death time and time again.
She's been courting danger ever since Matt told her about his nightly activities and she told him to keep his distance. Longer, maybe. Ever since she started looking into the Frank Castle case, ever since Ben's death, ever since Fisk's suited henchman left her in an impossible situation with a gun in easy reach, ever since she woke up covered in Daniel Fisher's blood. The knowledge that she's the one who should have died (over, and over, and over again) doesn't stop echoing through her mind like gunshots in an empty room, driving her to take more risks than any sane person should.
And still, against all odds, she lives, and she wonders how many near-misses she wasn't even aware of and how many of those were stopped by the man whose track record with dying is as good – or bad – as hers.
Matt.
3 a.m., and Matt comes home to an apartment that isn't empty.
He feels the adrenaline, just on the decline after tonight's fight, spike anew, and tries to ignore the rush of memories. The last time he found his loft invaded, it was Elektra, lounging on his couch like she owned the place. But Elektra is gone, six feet underground with a hole in her stomach rather than living the high-life in some fancy European capital, and whoever's here is unlikely to be someone Matt can trust, because he's successfully driven all of them away.
"Don't panic, Red," Frank Castle's gravelly voice carries from across the room. "Not here for a fight."
Of course it's him. Matt should have been able to identify the scent of dried blood, sweat and gun smoke sooner. It makes him relax a fraction, even when he knows it shouldn't.
"What are you here for, then? Breaking and entering doesn't exactly scream good intentions." Perhaps he should be worried that he already had his cowl off when he came through the door, but then, he had his cowl off the other night on the rooftop with Frank sniping at the Ninjas. Either way, the lease on the loft is in Matt Murdock's name, not Daredevil's, so chances are that his identity is old news to Frank.
He listens to the fast thud of Frank's heartbeat, the rustle of his leather coat when he shrugs his shoulders, the sort of fake nonchalance not meant for the benefit of the blind guy but to fool himself. "Kinda need your help."
"I'm not helping you kill people." Matt is adamant on that part, has to be. There are lines he can't, won't, refuses to cross.
"Help me figure out which ones to spare, then," Frank says like it's that easy. "So I can focus on the guilty ones and your conscience is clean in the knowledge that you saved lives."
"Don't presume you know anything about my conscience," Matt snaps angrily, but it's not a 'no' and Frank knows it. They both do.
Frank.
Kill the man, let the myth rise from the ashes like a phoenix. The Punisher is not a person but an idea; he's what this city needs, even if she doesn't want him.
When he triggered the explosion at the docks, he thought he would walk away without any ties, no human part of him or personal connections surviving the fire. Stupid. It only took Schoonover putting a gun to Karen's head to remind him how fucking wrong he was. Deep down, he's still Frank Castle. Deep down, he still cares. Deep down, he still feels the hot flames of anger consume him at the thought of someone like Karen, someone good and innocent, someone who believed in him when no one else did, getting hurt. He's meant to be made of nothing but vengeance and cold-blooded precision, but that's not him, that's never going to be him any more than he can be made of forgiveness and justice like the boy scout who without a whiff of irony calls himself Devil of Hell's kitchen.
Frank set out on this path because of love and loss and rage, and those are all part of him, will forever be part of him whatever name he calls himself, whatever persona he adopts.
So he keeps Karen safe, whenever he can. He watches Matt Murdock, elusive blind lawyer by day and goodie two-shoes vigilante by night, almost fall apart over his dying lady friend on the rooftop and, on a whim, decides to lend a hand – with a precision rifle attached.
Two people he cares about whether they live or die. Two people too many.
Karen.
Karen tries to be the glue that keeps Matt's and Foggy's friendship together, asking them both out for drinks at Josie's, but one of them always begs out last minute. A closing statement to finalize, an unscheduled meeting with a client, a bank robbery to stop. It's always something.
The one time it actually happens, they sit at the bar, right next to each other, and the gulf between them seems ocean-wide. The conversation is strained, the silences awkward, the laughter forced. The irony is: now that they're no secrets between them (or fewer secrets, anyway), the trust they used to have, the implicit understanding, is gone.
It's sentimentality that makes her agree to Matt's offer to walk her home and not tell him that she doesn't need him to keep her safe, that there's already someone watching out for her.
"I miss how things used to be," she says quietly. Her arm linked with his, but she's not sure who's leading whom. "I miss what we had, the three of us."
Matt is silent for a long time, his shoulder suddenly tense, and she can feel him deliberating how to answer, whether to go for the comforting lie or the truth she doesn't want to hear. She knows what it'll be before he speaks. "Things change, Karen. There's nothing to be done about it. I miss it too, but I can't go back. If Foggy can't accept what I do – what I am – then there's no point in clinging to the past."
Matt has stopped walking, turning towards her, and he looks so broken and hardened, bitter and apologetic all at once that Karen wants to shake him and scream. When he reaches out to cradle her cheek, his touch is heartbreakingly gentle, even if it feels like a blow. "I'm sorry. I wish it could be different."
She hears Frank's voice in her head, low and intent, when he was talking to her about Matt in the diner: People that can hurt you, the ones that can really hurt you, are the ones that are close enough to do it. Hold on to it. Use two hands and never let go.
She remembers sitting across from him and watching the shadows on his bruised face, remembers that she wanted to reach out and put her hand on top of his. She would have, too, if they hadn't been interrupted.
And perhaps he was right, and the fact that Matt can cut her open so easily and painfully with nothing but the brush of his fingers against her face means something. But then, maybe it also means something that Matt's right in front of her, the inches between them altogether too easy to cross, and she's thinking of someone else.
She pulls away.
"I can't do this," she says. Forces herself to take a step backwards, and one more, and each one after is a little easier.
Frank.
Even without the lawyer gig to distract him, Murdock spreads himself thin these days. The drug lords, the gang wars, the crazy Japanese bastards who won't stay dead, the run-of-the-mill robbers and rapists and murderers. Hell's Kitchen is crawling with them, too many for one man to keep in check, no matter how skilled and perceptive he is, and it doesn't help that Murdock's methods remain ineffective. Redemption is a nice concept in theory, but it doesn't work like that. If you put them away, they'll just be back stronger and with something to prove a few months later. When Frank puts them down, they stay down. Most of the time, anyway.
There's some irony in finding the Devil bleeding out on the pavement, too much red on the rain-black asphalt. More irony yet in the Punisher lifting him up and carrying him home. He's known for taking lives, not saving them.
He kicks open the door and unceremoniously dumps Murdock's unconscious body on the couch, a finger at the neck feeling for a pulse. It's there, the faint but steady thud-thud-thud of a beating heart. Frank's half a mind to disappear into the night, leave a message for Karen or Nelson that their friend needs patching up, but Murdock and Nelson don't seem to be on speaking terms these days and Karen doesn't need that kind of shit on her doorstep.
'Course, Murdock wakes up just when Frank's digging the bullet out of his shoulder. Shitty timing, as ever.
He starts struggling, and Frank almost gets his nose broken for his troubles, barely able to restrain the asshole and hold him down. "Shit, Red, stop hitting me. Trying to save your life here, but I can stop if you want me to."
"Frank?" He sounds confused. Clearly, the blood loss is not doing wonders for those heightened senses.
"Found you in a pool of your own blood corner of 10th and 47th. Since calling an ambulance was out, I figured I'd get you back to your place." He knows there's a 'thank you' on Murdock's tongue, along with a speech Frank cares even less for than the gratitude, so he digs the tweezers sharply back into the wound before Murdock can get a word in.
He's got to give it to the guy – he doesn't scream. He bites his lip until it bleeds, and balls his hands so hard into fists that his knuckles turn white.
"And you thought you should take the opportunity to torture me a bit?" Murdock quips, because he only seems to have two default modes: sanctimonious boy scout and snarky asshole. If he has to choose, Frank prefers the sarcasm over the holier-than-thou bullshit and the Catholic guilt.
"If you can't stop bitching, just tell me the word and I'm outta here, Red."
Murdock seems to think he's serious because his hands shoot up to grasp at Frank's wrists. "Don't go," he says, and it sounds disturbingly like pleading. It should be Murdock who's uncomfortable and embarrassed about it, but it's Frank the intensity and desperation of the words doesn't sit well with.
He looks away and busies himself with the bullet wound. "I'm not gonna go anywhere. You know I'm enjoying having you at a disadvantage way too much not to savor this moment."
Murdock's hands remain wrapped around his wrists, though, even when his grip has loosened, not holding anymore, just touching, and both of them act like they don't notice, or care.
Karen.
There are only so many times you can get kidnapped before it becomes old hat.
Karen spits her slick, suited captor who reminds her a little too much of James Wesley in the face, earning herself a slap that knocks her head around, the skin of her cheek scraping against the rough texture of the wall behind her.
She thinks she's here because she got too close to uncovering the corrupt machinations of a pharmaceutical company while researching her latest story. But then the guy leans close, the stench of his expensive aftershave stinging in her nostrils, and holds a phone to her ear. "How about you tell your friend Mr. Murdock that this is what he gets when he's threatening the woman Mr. Fisk loves?"
"Go to hell," she says, and she's not entirely sure if she's still talking to Fisk's henchman or Matt, who's yelling through the phone's speaker.
Then there's a horrible bang and her face is suddenly wet, and for a fraction of a second she doesn't understand what's happening before the man in front of her collapses in a heap, blood pooling around what's left of his head. When she looks down at herself, her white dress is splattered crimson. The scream she feels welling up gets stuck in her throat, like someone has a hand around her neck and is squeezing.
Frank's in the doorway, dressed in heavy black armor with a white skull on his chest plate, rifle still half-raised, looking like more like a demon ready to descend into hell than a white knight rescuing damsels in distress.
"The hell have you been getting yourself into now, lady?" he mutters while he's cutting her loose, his large, brutal hands rubbing her bruised, numb wrists with devastating gentleness.
Against all odds, she musters up a smile that holds a hint of genuine humor. "It wasn't anything I did." At his snort of disbelief, she clarifies, "Not this time. Just Wilson Fisk trying to settle a score with a friend of mine."
Frank raises an eyebrow. "Not the first time you're getting hurt because the Devil of Hell's Kitchen happens to care about you, is it?"
It's not strictly untrue, and yet... "This wasn't about Daredevil. Matt's the one who's got himself on Fisk's shit list."
The irony of what she's saying isn't lost on Karen. It's not like there's a world of difference between getting hurt as a punishment for Matt or for Daredevil. But even when she's furious with Matt, she's still devoted to keeping his secrets.
"And what did your lawyer friend do to piss off someone like Wilson Fisk?"
"Threaten his girlfriend, apparently." At Frank's incredulous look, she laughs. It's a little shaky and a little hysterical, but there's relief in it, too, brought on by the bone-deep realization that she could have died tonight but didn't. "I know. He does stupid shit like that sometimes."
Matt.
Frank's anger is a vicious, single-minded thing, a fist slamming into Matt's ribcage like he wants to punch through him.
"What's the point of hiding your face if you walk around threatening people like Fisk without your fucking mask on?"
Matt has forgotten what it's like, fighting Frank, to have that anger focused on him in all its frightening intensity. They've been on the same side for too long – working not quite together but at least for a common goal – and it had been too easy to discount the Punisher as a threat. Except here he is, beating Matt within an inch of his life, and the worst part of it all – the thing that feels like a coating of salt on the wounds – is that Matt knows he deserves it. Because when Frank escaped from prison, what feels like half an eternity ago, Matt was stupid and desperate and reckless and confronted Fisk with all the subtlety of a bulldozer, putting himself and everyone he knew onto the man's radar. Almost getting Karen killed.
He would never have forgiven himself if Frank hadn't been at the right place at the right time to save her. Truth is, Matt doesn't quite know how to forgive himself even now when he knows that Karen's safe and that his flare of ego didn't cost one of the few people he cares for on a deep, personal level dearly.
So he lets Frank's blows rain down on him, giving himself over to the punishment, letting the well-deserved pain take over. Occasionally, he moves to block, more instinct than volition, but never to fight back.
Eventually, too soon, Frank stops. Stands back, breath coming heavy, heart-rate accelerated. Matt's lip is split, a trickle of blood running down his chin, sticky-wet. He wipes it off, waiting for Frank's next move.
"You're something else, Murdock." The anger's still present in his voice, a low, sharp undercurrent, but it's not all-encompassing anymore, almost reaching the normal baseline of rage that Frank never seems to shake off. It's the first time he's called Matt by his name – it could be a slip or maybe not. Maybe it's deliberate, just another way of pointing out that this is Matt Murdock's mess, not Daredevil's. "You just gonna stand there and let me beat your pretty boy face in?"
Matt leans back and lets the wall behind him support his weight for a moment, the rough brick texture scraping against his bruised back when he shrugs. "You're right. Karen almost died because of me. I earned that beating."
Frank snorts. "Should have known you'd live and breathe the whole Catholic guilt shit. You think the pain absolves you just because you earned it? I'm not a priest and this ain't confession, Red. You still got a hell of a lot apologizing to do to your girl, and clean up this fucking mess. Or stand by and let me clean it up, I don't give a shit. Either way, Fisk goes down before he can take another shot at Karen."
Matt has no protest left. He nods, agreeing, condemning a man to die and thinking he deserves it, and he feels the flames of hellfire scorching him.
Frank.
Wilson Fisk used to hold this city in his massive, dirty hands. Even behind the walls of Ryker's Island, he still had all the power. Easy to think of him as a force larger than life, impossible to destroy.
But it's an illusion. There's no such thing as indestructible. When he's holding court on the prison yard, giving orders to his new minions, and Frank's got him in the scope of his rifle, Fisk's no different than any other man.
One shot, one kill.
It's as easy as that.
Murdock would argue that there's nothing easy about taking a life, but that's where they disagree. Not killing's a lot harder than killing. Perhaps sometimes it's worth it, standing back and letting someone walk away even though every cell in your body tells you to pull the trigger. But Fisk's certainly not one of those people, and even if Red's unwilling to be judge, jury and executioner, it doesn't mean that no one else should step up to the plate and do what the self-appointed guardian devil of Hell's Kitchen can't or won't do.
Amidst the shrill sounds of sirens down at the prison, up on the rooftop, Frank calmly disassembles his weapon and leaves. He's tempted to pay Murdock a visit, but even though he's had the man's tepid agreement over how to handle Fisk, Murdock's hardly gonna like the reminder that the blood is on his hands as well.
Frank doesn't do kindness, he doesn't believe in handling people with kid gloves, but there's no point in rubbing it in. Murdock can still take a swan dive into guilt tomorrow morning when the death of Wilson Fisk will be all over the news and the city's underbelly will tear itself apart over the Kingpin's succession.
So he shows up at Karen's door with a couple of boxes of Thai take-out instead, baseball cap pulled low into his face, the rifle and his armor left in the trunk of his car. He's still packing heat, could easily walk into a firefight and take out a dozen attackers, but all things considered, he's trying to project 'off the clock'.
The smile on Karen's face when she opens the door almost makes him want to run, if he were the kind of man who considered running an option. It's been too long since anyone looked genuinely happy to see him, it's like a ghost from another life coming to visit him, and it's the scariest thing he's faced in a long time – scarier than being strapped to a chair and tortured by the Irish, scarier than facing an angry mob in a locked prison hallway, scarier than diving into the water as the docks exploded around him.
Karen ushers him inside and removes the take-out from his hands, and just when she's about to pour them a glass of wine, Frank says, "If you want to get a head-start on your colleagues, you may want to skip dinner and write an obituary on Wilson Fisk."
She freezes, like he knew she would when he was deliberately bulldozing over the mood without any finesse.
"Jesus, Frank." With shaking hands, she sets the bottle down on the table without filling their glasses before sitting down on the couch next to him, hiding her face in her hands. He wonders if this is his cue to leave, if they're at another you crossed a line, you're dead to me moment, but then she raises her head and looks at him and her eyes are clear and free of accusation. "I know I shouldn't be happy about someone's death, but –"
She sounds conflicted not about his actions but her reaction, and he can't have that. "Look, someone who was going to hurt you can't get to you anymore. Feeling relieved about that doesn't make you a bad person." He covers her hand with his, feeling the trembling still under his touch. "Our masked friend thinks everyone's redeemable, but you and I both know that's not true."
Karen nods, but she still seems troubled, and Frank wonders if it has anything to do with the .380 she keeps around and which she handles with a little too much familiarity. One day, he'll get that story out of her, but not tonight.
He changes the subject. "Did your lawyer boyfriend apologize for putting you into the line of fire?"
"He did, and he's not my boyfriend."
Frank frowns. "Look, lady, the way I see it, you have every right to be angry –"
"It's not that." Karen shakes her head. "It's complicated."
"Complicated doesn't have to be a bad thing," Frank tells her. He isn't sure why he's trying to play matchmaker for Murdock. They're not friends. He doesn't owe the guy a thing, isn't even sure if he likes him that much. But Karen clearly has feelings for him, and that girl deserves the world.
"It doesn't," she agrees. When she turns her hand under his and laces their fingers, it takes his breath away.
Matt.
Another night, another rooftop.
For a man of his size and bulk, Frank moves as swift and silent as a cat. Still, Matt always, unfailingly, finds him when he puts his mind to it. Maybe it's the heightened senses, maybe it's because he knows his city like no other. Maybe it's simply that Frank is never hiding from him anymore.
Doesn't mean he's happy to see him.
"What d'ya want, Red?" Frank doesn't bother to turn around to face him, eyes following his target through the scope. "Kinda busy here."
Matt intercepts, pulling the barrel up and away before Frank can take the shot. "Don't. That asshole deserves a couple of years at Ryker's, not a bullet in the brain."
"And that's gonna magically make him a better person?" It's the old argument, the one they come back to time and time again. Matt would get tired of it – does get tired of it – except it saves lives. Whether those lives are worth saving, well, that's what Frank and he disagree on. "Do you have any idea what he's done? Last week, he –"
"I'm familiar with his rap sheet, Frank. Still not gonna let you kill him." There's nothing special about Judd Robert, 34, two prior convictions, now wanted for aggravated assault, breaking and entering, and a number of petty crimes. Matt's mostly here to make a point. Just because he stood back and let Frank deal with Fisk doesn't mean he's going to make it a habit to sanction the Punisher's methods.
"Still such a fucking boy scout," Frank mutters.
He sounds relaxed, so Matt doesn't see it coming when he's slammed into the door of the rooftop exit, the thin metal of the door bending and creaking under their combined weight. Frank's arm is pushing up against Matt's throat, forcing his head back, not quite cutting off his air yet but making it clear that he could.
The strange thing is, Matt can't sense any anger radiating off the other man, or at least no more than the usual amount. There's no tell-tale fast heartbeat, no whiff of adrenaline. By Frank's standards, he's downright calm. And perhaps that's why Matt's not struggling particularly hard against the way he's pinned, why he makes his body relax into the hold and lets his head drop back against the door.
"Not gonna let you tell me what I can and cannot do, Red." The rumble of Frank's voice is low, almost intimate, his breath brushing across Matt's cheek as he speaks, coffee-bitter and onion-sharp. "I don't take orders from anyone no more. Not even you."
"Is that a challenge?" Matt can't hold back the smirk, can't resist riling Frank up a little.
"Not if you don't want me to kick your ass." He hears the answering grin in Frank's tone, imagines it to be sharp and a little mean on the other man's face. Frank puts a little more pressure on Matt's windpipe just for a moment before easing off. "Though considering the last time, I'm not sure if you wouldn't like it."
Matt frowns at the implications. "I'm not a masochist," he says. Never mind that he's baring his throat right now, that he's letting himself be held against the wall by bruising hands without bothering to struggle. Never mind that he's harder than he's been since the last time Elektra ended their sparring sessions by putting his back on a mattress and straddling him.
"Sure, Red, whatever you say."
The smug edge in Frank's voice is grating on Matt's nerves, but worse than that is the knowledge that Frank's right.
He tells himself he does it because he loathes to be predictable. Truth is, he does it because he wants to, because Frank has been pushing his buttons right from the start, challenging him and intriguing him, and Matt's tired of pretending that some part of him doesn't enjoy it.
Dislodging Frank's arm, he leans forward and slants their mouths together. Frank's lips are dry and chapped, and he can taste burger and beer on his breath on the sharp, surprised exhale. It's easy to take advantage of Frank's momentary confusion and deepen the kiss, especially when he feels the strong grip of fingers on his hips, holding him in place rather than pushing him off.
Frank's breath is harsh and fast when they break apart, and his voice is a low, coarse rumble. "That's a bad idea."
Matt smiles faintly. "I think that should be my line," he quips, earning himself a wry chuckle from Frank.
"One of us gotta be the reasonable one, Red." But his hands are still on Matt's hips, large and warm even through the layer of protective leather of his suit, and Frank's not making a move to step away, so Matt suspects reasonable only goes so far.
He pulls off his cowl, conscious of the picture he must make, flushed cheeks and tousled hair, his lips red and sore. "Don't tell me you don't want to strip me down and find new ways to bruise me."
Frank's heartbeat speeds up. Arousal, not anger this time, Matt hopes, and he leans back against the brick wall behind him and tangles his fists in the lapels of Frank's coat, pleased when Frank lets himself be pulled in without protest.
Karen.
One of the advantages of being a journalist is having an ear to the ground in Hell's Kitchen's criminal underbelly. There's a difference, though, between knowing something and being able to do anything about it. When one of Karen's sources tells her that the Italians are targeting the Punisher and she can't reach Frank, she feels the same rush of panic she felt at the docks when they pulled the bodies out of the water.
She doesn't know what else do to, so she goes to Matt with it, cringing when she tells him, "Frank's in trouble," because Matt's made his feelings about the Punisher and his methods abundantly clear and she doesn't see him donning the costume and rushing to the rescue of someone he doesn't consider worthy.
She doesn't know what she expects. Indifference, maybe. Righteousness. Some kind of bullshit she'll have to cut through by asking him to intervene as a favor to her.
She doesn't expect him to blanch and get that tight, pinched expression that she's come to know as concern, or to pull out his phone and try to call Frank, distress on his face when he gets the same empty ring tone as she got before.
"I already tried. He's not answering. If the Italians got to him already –" Her voice trails off. She doesn't want to think about it, tries to distract herself. "I can't believe you have his number. You didn't exactly see eye to eye the last time you ran into each other."
Matt offers a grim smile. "We still don't. It's complicated." He steps forward and squeezes her shoulder. "Look, don't worry about this. Frank's tough. Even if he's in a tight spot, he's not gonna make it easy on them and he can hold out until I get to him."
He turns and gets his suit, unselfconscious about her eyes on him as he changes. Karen means to turn away, but it's altogether too fascinating to watch the transformation, to see Matt Murdock become the Devil of Hell's Kitchen before her eyes. It's one thing to know they're the same person – a different thing to see it happening, to watch Matt methodically strip the expensive dress shirt and the suit pants and slip into red reinforced leather. To see him pull the cowl over his unseeing eyes and instantly adopt an air of danger and confidence unfamiliar to Matt Murdock.
Karen catches his wrist when he's about to leave. "Be careful," she whispers. In the sparsely furnished, silent loft, her voice sounds loud and harsh. "I don't want to lose you. Either of you."
She wishes Matt wasn't wearing the cowl. With his head covered, it's hard to make out his expression, and when he looks at her for a moment that stretches too long, she feels like he can see inside her head and read her like a book while she gets nothing from him in return. The squeeze of his fingers around her hand isn't reassurance enough.
"It's gonna be alright."
She wants to believe him, but the words feel hollow.
Frank.
There's blood in his mouth.
He drifts in and out of consciousness, his awareness of his surroundings coming and going, but the persistent taste of copper in his mouth cuts through the haze. Faces swim before his eyes. Matt, first with his mask on, later off, a nasty gash down his cheek and a bruise on his forehead. Karen, red-eyed and shaken, making him want to reach out and offer comfort, but his eyes are already slipping shut again. A pretty, dark-eyed stranger with a stern look, poking at his wounds, but he doesn't have the energy to be concerned with what she's doing to him.
The first time he wakes up and doesn't feel like he's going under, awake enough to acutely feel every ache and pain in his body – and there are plenty of them – Karen is curled up in a chair next to him, legs tucked under her body, fast asleep despite the uncomfortable position. He looks around and realizes he's in Matt's apartment, in his bed, too many bandages on him to count. The pain is fairly low-level, but the cotton-ball fuzziness he associates with heavy painkillers tells him that he shouldn't take that as an indication concerning the seriousness of his injuries.
His memories how he got here are vague. The Italians waiting for him in his current hide-out. A quick, ugly fight, two dead, one incapacitated before they knocked him out. Toni Salvaggi working him over in one of their warehouses at the harbor. The gleam of a knife in neon light. Pain and blood. Fucking Red rushing in like a vicious avenging angel, saving him in the nick of time once again. They gotta stop doing this shit, Frank thinks, but part of him likes the idea of having each other's backs, which is a dangerous mindset to adopt for a person who likes to think he doesn't need anyone, who swore off any notion of companionship and human connections when he painted the skull on his armor.
Stupid. He's barely even fooling himself with the lone wolf routine anymore. It all fell apart at the touch of Karen's fingertips, at the first time Matt leaned in and kissed him.
As if summoned by the power of Frank's thoughts, Matt's suddenly there, leaning against the wall, doing that thing he does that isn't quite watching him. Not for the first time, Frank wonders what exactly Matt sees, how that world tinted in red before his eyes paints the picture of Frank wrapped up in bandages and laid out on his bed.
"You're awake." Matt's voice is soft, as if to not disturb Karen.
Frank makes an affirmative noise. Can't quite resist adding, "Gotta say, Red, I had something else in mind for when I finally ended up in your bed." He's being glib. Truth is, he had no intention of taking their extracurricular activities to the bedroom. Brick walls and rooftops and the occasional ratty couch always seemed more appropriate for him and Matt than white linens and soft sheets.
Matt looks like he wants to remain stern but can't quite hold back the way his lips are twitching in amusement. "Claire says no strenuous activity for at least a week, so you're out of luck." Then, because Matt's still Matt: "Your own fault, for courting danger like that."
Jesus Christ. The nerve of the guy. Like he isn't out there every night putting his life on the line to save people who don't want to be saved.
He's about to offer a sharp-tongued retort laying open the hypocrisy of Matt's words when a new voice cuts in. "If you start fighting, I'm going to sit you both down in opposite corners and lecture you," Karen says. She sounds tired and worn out, but when Frank turns to her, her gaze is sharp and alert, flickering between him and Matt. "What's going on with you two?"
Frank can't even begin to describe it, and neither does Matt, clearly, because he turns his head away from both of them and says, "It's complicated."
Karen narrows her eyes, zeroing in on Frank when she says, "Someone once told me complicated doesn't have to be a bad thing."
"Maybe you shouldn't listen to random assholes who have no idea what they're talking about." The edge he wants to put into his words won't quite come. He doesn't know if whatever complicated shit he and Matt have going on is a good thing or not. The last time he cared for someone, he was broken and fractured into a million little pieces when they were torn from him, and he knows he won't survive having that happen a second time, so letting himself care feels like the emotional equivalent of walking into a firefight with no guns and no armor.
Karen grasps his bruised-knuckled fingers with her small ones again, a gentle, warm touch that hurts more than the Italians' fists. On the clean white sheets, the contrast between their hands stands out stark and obvious, and Frank's not stupid. He knows what this is, where it's going. Has known it since they first started discussing Matt in the diner before the shoot-out, what seems like an eternity ago.
His eyes dart to Matt with a frown, but for once he can't read the other man's face. Doesn't mean Frank won't try to interpret the way he's clearly following their every motion.
"Red here and me, we don't agree on a lot. But we agree that you deserve better."
Karen squeezes his hand with more force than he expected from her. "That's not for either of you to decide," she admonishes.
The sound of Matt's soft laughter carries through the room. He addresses Frank with self-depreciating amusement in his tone. "Don't bother. I lost that argument about two days ago."
"Two days? Fuck, how long was I out?"
"Five days, give or take," Matt offers, while Karen tells him not without a certain kind of smugness, "See, this is what happens when you take stupid risks and get hurt. People make important decisions without you."
She stands, but not before giving his hand another reassuring squeeze, and Frank would be lying if he said he didn't miss her touch when she moves away. "Let me fix you something to eat. You must be hungry."
Frank knows better than to object. He lies back and lets Matt's concern and Karen's care wash over him, telling himself not to get used to it.
Matt.
Greed's a capital sin, and Matt knows he's being greedy, wanting them both – not just desiring them physically, but wanting them both in his life, wanting to keep them close and as safe as possible. It's probably something he should bring up in confession, but he has no idea how to even approach the topic with Father Lantom.
He has an inkling that Lantom would just see it as another opening to lecture him on being presumptuous about God's plan for him.
Karen corners him in the kitchen one morning and kisses him, no preamble, no warning, no words. Still half-asleep, exhausted from another night of listening to Frank's nightmares and trying to ward off his own, his defenses are down, and he's been in love with her for too long. He lets himself kiss her back, lets her wrap her lithe arms around his neck and draw him in.
She tastes like hope and salvation, like a ray of light in the darkness that threatens to consume him sometimes, and it's at once too much and not enough.
"I thought you couldn't do this," he half asks her when she breaks away to catch her breath, their foreheads resting against each other.
She shakes her head. "You and me, it wouldn't work," she begins, and he's about to step away but her arms hold on to him. "Neither of us can offer the other everything they need. But with Frank... if he lets us, maybe we can make this work."
"That's a big if," Matt cautions. It's not like he hasn't thought about it, but he can envision all the ways it could go wrong. Frank's stubbornness, his self-loathing, Karen's empathy – throw it all together and it could balance itself out, or it could blow a hole in all their lives.
Karen steals another kiss, this one brief and chaste, and smiles. "He's still here, isn't he? Have some faith."
Karen.
Matt's asleep between them. Karen rests her head on his chest and listens to his heartbeat, the slow, steady rhythm like a comforting, familiar song in her ear while her fingertips draw patterns on Frank's arm.
There are fresh, dark bruises on Matt's shoulder. The red line of a knife-wound on Frank's neck. The scars of battle they brought home today, just like yesterday. Just like tomorrow. Karen has resigned herself to it, she knew what kind of men they were and went into this with her eyes open. Doesn't mean she won't worry, won't feel the dark cloud of fear whenever they're out there, won't let it settle into her bones and her heart and her mind, keeping her awake after Matt has long fallen into an exhausted, nightmare-prone rest.
Frank doesn't sleep. He never does. He sometimes catches an hour or two in the small hours of the night, but then he's awake again, ready to go out and face the world with a blast of gunfire. The fact that he stays in bed now, waiting for her alarm to go off, is a concession to her and perhaps to Matt too. Matt, who sleeps better with both of them beside him, whose nightmares are a little less harsh, a little less frequent when Frank's there to ward them off.
There's a delicate equilibrium between them. Matt kisses her with the desperation of a drowning man and Frank touches her with gentleness, as if she'd disappear from under his hands. Together, they're explosive – tightly coiled anger, a rush of adrenaline, bruises and bitemarks, and sometimes – just sometimes – an unexpected tenderness she'd feel jealous of if she wasn't so certain of her place in their hearts. It occasionally scares her how well they fit together, and how deeply her feelings run.
"Go to sleep," Frank says, and half-sits to press a gentle kiss on top of her head, comfort and affirmation rather than an expression of desire. "We'll both be here when you wake up."
"Is that a promise?" she whispers, soft enough not to wake up Matt, even though the slight skip in his heart-rate tells her he's not as deep under anymore as he was a few moments ago. Outside, sirens are wailing, the rumble of traffic – no rest for Hell's Kitchen, the city every bit as insomniac as three of them.
The expression on Frank's face is solemn. "Always."
It's a promise he can't make, a promise none of them can make, but she takes it the way it's intended, hearing the as long as we can underneath, and finding enough comfort in it to finally allow sleep to take over.
End.