Chapter Text
His ears ring loudly, a high pitched whine that disrupts his other senses and results in a jumbled, dizzying, disarray of perception. He feels light-headed, disorientated. Everything blurs around him as he kneels, the cold water seeping into his thin clothing. He tilts his head up to the night sky, a clear sign of surrender. The metal billy club sails through the air and his opponent snatches it before it hits the pavement. He puffs his chest out, one final display of the devil within before he submits to eternal damnation. He closes his eyes under the mask and waits for the impact, mutters a short prayer under his breath. He asks for forgiveness, not that it’ll help him now. He tilts his head back and waits for the final blow, the one that he knows will take him away, will finally end his torment.
A bullet whizzes through the air, lands a non-fatal shot to the perpetrators shoulder. Matt doesn’t even notice until the man is screaming in pain, writhing on the floor in front of him. There’s the sound of heavy boots against wet concrete, and then a familiar, gruff voice that Matt catches with his good ear. It sends a shiver up the entire length of his body.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,”
There’s another groan as the second man drops to the floor and then Matt is being pulled to his feet. A large fist clutches tightly at the front of his sodden shirt. He stumbles, gasping for breath as he’s dragged forcefully around the corner and into a secluded alleyway. He’s pushed roughly against a brick wall which he slides down the length of until he’s sitting in a puddle. Matt’s shoulders sag, he lets his head drop, chin to his chest under the other man's scrutiny.
“I thought you were dead,”
Frank leans against the other wall, eyes narrowed at the sorry sight half lying in the gutter. Matt gives a shrug that sends pain shooting down the right hand side of his body. He gasps, shuddering and trembling as he sits, soaked through, in a puddle of his own self-worth.
“Might as well be,”
A bark of a bitter laugh and then Frank drops down to Matt’s height, pushes a hand into the other man's chest with enough force to bruise, pinning him to the side of the building. He can feel Frank’s gaze, burning into his face, searching for something.
“He really has gone,”
Matt echoes Frank's laugh. Twisted and bitter and it causes his upper lip to curl into a ugly smirk that doesn’t quite match the rest of his body which trembles violently. “Matt Murdock died a long time ago,”
The marine shakes his head, grabs a fistful of Matt’s hair, he screams out in pain but doesn’t move, doesn’t attempt to push Frank away. His body has gone impossibly limp, even his eyelids are heavy, threatening to close.
Frank leans in closer now and Matt can feel the warm air of his breath against his cheek.
“No. The devil. He really has gone,”
The last thing Matt remembers thinking as his body leaves the floor and he’s being hauled up and over the Punisher's shoulder is, you’re right.
Matt Murodck is gone, Elektra is gone and now not even the darkest, most fragmented parts of him remain. The devil has gone and now he is nothing but an empty, worthless shell of a man.
He’s drowning.
Matt’s almost certain.
His lungs fill with water and they ache and burn as he suffocates from the inside out. He scrambles and claws his way to the surface but he’s dragged straight back down. Something large and solid colloids with Matt’s head and he chokes, taking in more water. His body feels heavy and tired and the surface seems further and further away.
He stops panicking, he lets the cold water lure him deeper and deeper into its depths until a tranquillity he’s never felt before washes over him.
It’s peaceful here. Nothing hurts anymore.
Matt has gotten used to pain, to the way his body aches, has learned to ignore it or sometimes, he even revels in it. But here Matt doesn’t need to pretend. His body feels pliant and soft and his muscles relax as if sinking into a hot bath.
How utterly, beautifully carefree he feels.
And just as he’s about to slip away, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, he lunges head first back into consciousness. He slams against the hard ground and splutters, his lungs burn as they attempt to empty themselves. As he lies there, semi conscious and panting between mountains of rubble he can’t help but think,
Death, you sick, tormenting bastard.
Frank looks up from his book, casts his eyes over to the cot in the corner of the room. The man occupying it stirs but doesn’t wake.
It isn’t ideal. This particular safe house had been the closest and the police sirens had started as soon as someone had discovered the wounded men lying in the road. And even with the kid weighing half as much as he had the last time Frank had hauled his injured ass away from danger, he was still heavy. Frank hadn’t been to this particular lock up for sometime. It was dark, dingy and a little damp from where the seals had broken at the windows. It was sparse, Frank having emptied most of his belongings before he left New York. Now, a small cot lies in the corner of the room, underneath the window. There are two plastic lawn chairs against the adjacent wall, one of which Frank currently occupies. There’s a small stack of books with an old, battered DAB radio on top that Frank had grown bored trying to tune into a station. Against the furthest wall, a few cardboard boxes remain, some containing cases of bullets, clothing and more books. There’s a tiny kitchen area, enough room for a sink and an old microwave. Beyond that there’s a door to the shitty bathroom that’s only just wide enough for Frank to shower in without giving himself a concussion.
The man on the cot shivers in his sleep, pulls the scratchy blankets up around himself some more. There’s no heating and when Frank breaths he can see the white cloud of every exhale as it lingers in front of his face. He shudders, strolling across the length of the apartment to fling open one of the cardboard boxes. He roots around for a few seconds before finding a large woollen jumper that he pulls on over his own sweatshirt and a second blanket. Thin and itchy, but it will have to do. He drapes it over the sleeping man and watches as he relaxes into the warmth. Red’s wet clothing lies in a heap by the cot. Frank had stripped it off soon after the man's lips had started turning a nasty shade of blue.
The sun was slowly starting to rise now, and hopefully, beginning to heat the apartment. He rubs his hands together, brings them to his lips to blow hot air through the gap between his thumbs.
No, this is far from ideal.
He gives another glance to the sleeping figure in the corner of the room. Even from here, Frank can see the man has gotten a lot smaller since he’d seen him last and when Frank had peeled away his soaking wet shirt, his fingers had ghosted along the outline of his ribs. He looks tired, and pale, large purple bruises under both eyes. His stubble is longer than Frank remembers ever seeing it, on the verge of turning into a beard. It makes him look considerably older. No longer a kid prancing around Hell’s Kitchen in his red pyjamas, nor that cocksure lawyer, cool and collected under pressure. No. Red doesn’t look anything like the man he’d got to know almost two summers ago. That man had been sarcastic, arrogant, a holier than thou attitude with a surprisingly big heart. A witty sense of humour, a dangerously charming personality and absolutely no idea when to stay the fuck down. Despite their initial differences, they’d come to find a mutual respect for one another, unlikely acquaintances. Two sides of the same, rusty coin.
Frank sighs, picks up his book from where he’d dropped it back onto the pile and re-reads the page, keeping one ear trained on the steady breathing of the man in the corner of the room. He re-reads the same page several times before he realises he’s been drowsing off. He shakes himself awake enough to properly check over the other man. Once Frank’s satisfied he’s still breathing he positions the other plastic lawn chair in front of him, props his legs up and leans his head back.
He’s slept in worse places.