Chapter Text
He can’t survive without the war.
He learns it slowly over time, across battlefields shaped like alleyways and rooftops, in ditches filled with garbage and on street corners covered in blood. He stands on fire escapes like it's a war zone, the lights of New York City glowing ambivalently in the distance. He can’t function without blood on his skin, without bruises on his face, without wounds on his body. If he goes too long without a mission (because that’s what he calls them: missions) then he gets anxious and restless.
It’s what takes him out of the city for a while. It’s in his veins, the metro pulse pumping in time to his own heartbeat, but he woke up in a cold sweat one night on his dingy mattress, paralyzed with fear, and he left the city later that day, leaving behind no trace of himself besides the terror he'd instilled in the criminals.
Tampa was a good distraction, as distractions go. Taking down a well-connected, plastic-faced mob boss and his entire network was no small task, but Tampa is a shithole, and that’s saying something when home, to you, is a place called Hell’s Kitchen.
A month of bloodbath in the Kitchen followed by four months of meticulous planning, infiltration, and murder in the swamps of Florida, and the Punisher finds himself standing on the rooftop across from Metro General once more, the butt of an M4 pressed into his shoulder as his itchy finger rests on the trigger guard.
The familiar mop of strawberry blond hair appears from the guest entrance, pausing for an instant to dig a cell phone out of a pocket. He'd tracked that head for four days, waiting for the right moment, and he can taste the anticipation now as his left hand curls under the hand guard.
Inhale. One batch, two batch.
He leans forward slightly, focusing on the familiar features slightly distorted by the rifle scope. One quarter turn to the left, and suddenly the profile is in stark relief with the hospital lighting pouring out onto the sidewalk.
His finger twitches from the trigger guard to the trigger.
Penny and dime. Exhale. CRACK.
It’s a satisfying sound, one he hasn’t heard in months as the shot echoes through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. The target crumbles to the ground, his blood splattering the wall behind him.
“Goddammit, Frank!”
He curses under his breath and turns to find an out-of-breath and furious Daredevil charging up behind him. Frank puts up his hands in surrender, remembering a second too late that the visual gesture would be lost on the other man, and says, “Easy, Red, that’s the only shot for tonight.”
Matt Murdock stops ten feet away, gnashing his teeth and twitching his head around in his odd way. “Do you ever think about the people who have to find that body?” he asks finally, in his usual exasperated, holier-than-thou way.
Damn if Frank didn’t miss the little punk. “It’s good to see you, too.”
“I mean it, Frank, no more bloodshed --”
“That scum was following your girlfriend around for the past week,” Frank growls, releasing the magazine from the rifle and pulling back the charging handle to eject the bullet in the chamber. He tosses the rifle down into its case with a little too much enthusiasm. “He’s a low-level member of the Kitchen Irish and he was tailing her with an intent to abduct her. And I don’t think I have to remind you what happens to the people they kidnap.”
Red at least has the decency to look mollified, shifting his weight as he tries to come up with a valid argument. Predictably, he finally lands on the most irrelevant response imaginable: “Karen isn’t my girlfriend.”
Frank scoffs, shutting his case and snapping the locks. “Screwed that up, did you?”
“It wasn’t meant to be.” Typical evasive maneuvers. Might as well be chained to a chimney again.
“Nothing to do with the lady who died in your arms that night, is it?” Frank asks knowingly, and he’s not in the habit of throwing punches without their intended power, but judging by Red’s change in disposition, his sharp intake of breath and his stiffening spine, maybe this one time, he threw a punch he never even knew would land. “Sorry,” he mutters, feeling that unfamiliar twinge of… regret?... somewhere in his chest. “Who was she?”
“An old friend,” Red says in that same deflective way, and Frank gives up the topic. It’s not like he really cared, anyway. “And Karen’s not exactly heartbroken. She knows my identity now, and she’s furious.”
Impossible girl. Frank shakes his head, incredulous that she’d ignored his advice and let the only real thing in her life slip away. She must enjoy being obtuse and contrary.
“Your heart rate increases slightly when I talk about her,” Red says suddenly. “Did you know that?”
“I know you’re full of shit, standing ten feet away from me pretending to be a goddamn EKG.”
“You care for her,” Red continues as if Frank hadn’t said anything. “Admit it -- it’s okay if you do. I care for people too -- my best friend, and this nurse I know, and yeah, Karen. It doesn’t make us weak, Frank.”
Frank grunts and shoulders his ammo bag, making to walk past Red and leave this conversation -- and tacit friendship -- as quickly as possible.
“I found you that day by your heartbeat,” Red adds, turning to follow Frank to the roof access door. “You were being tortured, I heard that sound for miles, but then you were quiet and I had only your heartbeat to follow. And do you know what I heard?”
Frank pauses at the door despite himself, turning to look at Red expectantly. The other man’s head is cocked again, like a cat almost, like he’s got Frank’s number.
“Nothing,” he says finally. “I heard nothing. No change. No increase or decrease. It was just… steady. Strong and steady. Like you weren’t being tortured at all. Like you weren’t about to die.”
“When you got nothing to live for, you don’t tend to be afraid of dying,” Frank says, with no shortage of bravado.
“No, I’ve met men who have nothing to live for,” Red continues doggedly, taking a few steps toward Frank. “They’re stoic and they fight like hell, but I hear it. Every single time.”
“Military training. Bloodlust. Grief. Take your pick, Red. A heartbeat is a heartbeat.”
“Yeah, it is. And yours only changes when you talk about Karen Page.”
Frank feels it that time, like his own body is magnified now that Red’s pointed it out. He feels his heart rate increase at these words, and he’s furious at the betrayal. “It’s none of your goddamn business --”
“I’m not here to tell you to go to her!” Red snaps irritably. “But if you care for anything in this world, if you care for one single person, then how does that fit into your plan? How do you keep killing in the name of revenge when it hurts the one person you care about?”
“I’m sure she’d be furious to learn that I killed the man who would have abducted, tortured, and killed her,” Frank says sarcastically. “You’re on the wrong path here, Red. You’re trying to appeal to my humanity, but you’re assuming I have any leftover. I don’t.”
“It’s not humanity that brought you to this rooftop to protect her?” Red asks incredulously. “You just happened to be walking by with a sniper rifle and enough ammo to take out a militia?”
You do this and I am done! That’s it, you’re dead to me! Do you hear me?
“It wasn’t humanity,” Frank says in a low voice, wrenching open the door. “It was repaying a debt.”
“What debt is that?” Red asks in disbelief, but Frank’s already got one foot on the staircase.
“Helping me remember.”
I’m already dead.
He wages war on Hell’s Kitchen, dogged by the Devil at every turn, but he’s undeterred by moral compasses and lectures on the greater good. As far as he’s concerned, he is the greater good, he’s just doing it in a way that few others have the stomach to accomplish.
He tries not to listen to his heartbeat, but he becomes attuned to it over time, starting with those quiet nights in a dingy warehouse loft, where it seems to echo off of his arsenal of guns and ammunition.
Just steady. Strong and steady.
When he can’t sleep, he tests it. He thinks of his family, and it races, it beats so hard and so fast that it chokes him. He thinks of the Kitchen Irish, of the fucker he killed at point-blank range, or the grenades he launched at the Dogs of Hell, and his heart rate returns to normal. He thinks of Wilson Fisk and his bombastic threats, of the beatdown and the ultimatum. Strong and steady. He thinks of the men he killed in pursuit of the Blacksmith, and no change at all.
He thinks of a cup of coffee, of a load of bullshit, of a tense expression of incredulity and a shy “You never lie to me.”
It picks up again, just enough to notice. Nothing compared to the agony of his memories, but enough to present a problem.
He tests it time and time again, on sleepy nights doing reconnaissance on decrepit rooftops, on lazy mornings sitting at the park drinking a coffee, on rainy nights when he prowls the streets in his overcoat, just walking, walking, walking, testing his heart rate and trying to control it, to no avail.
He hasn’t seen her since the night he killed her stalker, and he takes care to avoid the places in the neighborhood where she’s sure to turn up -- the Bulletin, the old law office, her new apartment… the diner. He gets restless sometimes, like he wants to check on her, and then he checks his heart rate and changes his mind.
He has no room for that sort of thing in his life, not when he’s so actively courting death.
He continues his work for another six weeks, systematically working his way through the major criminal elements in the Kitchen. He even eats a little bit into the Russian mob, which had tried to stage a coup in the absence of Fisk and the Irish, but it had all comes to a head when the mob is confronted by the tattered remains of the Cartel, and their sparring match concludes in a bloodbath that spells the end of the Cartel for good and sends the mob back underground to regroup. (Or so he thinks.) This leaves Frank on rooftops picking off some of the more productive muggers and rapists in the neighborhood, one at a time, biding his time for his next battle.
Red backs off, seemingly distracted by something to do with the Hand, and Frank’s able to move freely throughout the city for two weeks before they cross paths again.
He heard her crying that night.
He’d disposed of the body, taken stock of the gun cache, and had started his plans to haul them all to a safe place, and he’d made it back to the road before he remembered she was there.
She was huddled in the glow of the headlights, hugging herself and sobbing so harshly that her body was convulsing. He drew back into the shadows of the woods, carefully closing off his emotions to focus on the task at hand.
Sometimes he goes back to the cabin. Sometimes he stays there until she drops dead. Most of the time, he stumbles into the street and she turns around, shocked, as his face smashes into the asphalt, and then he jerks awake, awash in a cold sweat, his heart thumping uncomfortably.
He thinks he’s dreaming again when he hears it. He’s so convinced of the dream that his body gives a violent jerk to wake him up, but he’s already awake, crouched on a fire escape, running surveillance on a bar that had exploded six months ago.
She’s walking toward him, except she can’t see him, he knows she can’t see him, he’s six stories up and she’s walking with her head bowed. He has a moment of pure insanity, where he considers dropping down six stories to land in front of her, just to see that face again, just to register whether she’s still angry or if she’s relieved or downright happy --
But she passes right below him, and instead of dropping down, he’s climbing up. He follows her for three blocks, then she turns and walks another four, and she’s back at her apartment. By the time she’s back, she’s composed herself, he can tell by the steely edge to her spine, her purposeful walk. Her lights stay on for another three hours, and he just sits there and watches, his heart rate elevated, his mind running through scenarios that will never happen.
“It’s an anniversary.”
Frank starts and curses under his breath. Fucking Red, always sneaking up on him like a cat, nine lives and all. He’s standing on the other side of the building, his hands resting at his sides peculiarly, like he’s trying to appear casual but he’s more than prepared to sling a weapon at Frank if the situation calls for it.
“I heard her crying. And then I heard you following her.”
Irritated, Frank rounds on him. “You know you don’t have to wear the mask, right, Red? I know who you are.”
Murdock’s lip curls. “Plausible deniability?”
“Consider a voice modulator, then.”
Frank returns his attention to the dark apartment, uneasy. Unmasking the friendly foe had felt like a power move a second ago; now, it seems like they’ve established a more intimate relationship, somehow. He’s curious about her tears, too, but he doesn’t want to appear eager for information.
Then his heart rate accelerates. Shit.
“His name was Ben Urich,” Murdock says with a note of smugness. “Did she tell you about him?”
“No,” he grunts. She’d told him very little. What she’d expressed, though, could fill a seven-part book series.
“He was a reporter for the Bulletin,” Murdock continues gravely. “He was killed a year ago today, by Wilson Fisk.”
Several pieces of her story fall into place as the news sinks in. The car she’d inherited with the tapes. The zest for investigative reporting. The burden of loss she carries with her.
“If you’re thinking of dropping in to check on her, don’t. Yours is not a face she’d want to see today.”
“Mine’s not a face she wants to see any day, Red,” Frank says tonelessly. “Where have you been, anyway? I’ve gotten away with a hell of a lot of murders in the last couple of weeks, I was starting to wonder if I’d ever hear a lecture again.”
“I’ve had other matters to attend to.”
Mm. Vagueness. What a refreshing change of pace. “You know, Red, she loved you. You can hear pulses and smell pheromones and maybe even read auras, all that crazy bullshit you claim to know, but you missed the one thing that was right in front of you the whole time.”
“I know she loved me.” Murdock shakes his head incredulously. “But these things don’t always work out. And like you, I had the good sense to walk away from it before it became damaging --”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Frank says, rage prickling the back of his neck as he straightens away from the edge of the roof. “I didn’t walk away from mine. It was ripped from me, it was gunned down in a park in the middle of the day. Everything I do now is because I’ll never have that again -- I’ll never hold my kids again. If I had them back right now, do you think I’d be stupid enough to push them away?”
That seems to quell whatever self-righteous bullshit Murdock had been planning to throw out. Instead he clenches his fists and shifts his weight to his heels, like he can sense Frank’s rage (which, he probably can). They stand there for a moment, squared off, ready to come to blows if one of them makes the wrong move, and then Murdock takes a step back.
“Seeya around, Frank,” he mutters, giving Frank an ironic little salute as he hops off the opposite side of the building.
Frank would never know the truth, the secret that Matt carries around with like a talisman, the secret that let him off the hook so that his feelings for another woman wouldn’t be clouded by guilt. Frank would never know that Matt heard her heartbeat in her grief, that it was more than loss and regret in those soft cries, that it was a howling firestorm of devastation. He’ll never know that Matt sat there, ducked behind metal barrels, listening to Karen Page as she mourned the death of the man she loved.
It was the last time he saw Red for a while. For three weeks, to be exact. Three weeks of everything going to absolute shit.
It starts at a pawn shop, where Frank, decked out in street clothes and a baseball cap, is foiled in his attempt to buy an MK-11 of dubious previous ownership. He’s accosted by three men in masks, and armed with only his 1911 and a switchblade, he comes off worse in the fight than he would’ve hoped. The end result is a pawn shop covered in other people's blood and a wizened old owner who is howling his indignation as Frank leaves through the front door.
He’d chalked it up to happenstance. It’s not like he frequents the safest parts of the neighborhood, and pawn shops are robbed all the time. Wrong place, wrong time, probably.
But it happens again, this time with seven men, and it’s on a street corner as he’s exiting a bodega just after sundown. He spills his trail mix into the street, and soon the nuts and berries are mixed with blood. He’s better armed this time, but less certain that it's a coincidence.
Bruises bloom across his face, arms, and torso that night, his nose is broken again, and he has a gash on his eyebrow that would put an MMA fighter to shame.
The third time he’s ambushed, it’s not even a surprise. They follow him into an alley where, unbeknownst to the ten attackers, he’s hidden a cache of guns including his AK-47. That creates a racket, with the rifle shots thundering down the alley and eliciting cries from passersby as they scramble for cover, and in the end, Frank is surrounded by ten dead bodies, lots of blood, and the acrid smell of gunpowder.
It’s a professional hit, for a bounty out on his head. He gleans this from one of their cell phones, as he scrolls through the texts and directions from a blocked number until he comes across a picture of himself…
And a picture of them at the diner that night.