Chapter Text
Frank takes another sip of the coffee Karen made for him. It's not great—but still better than the instant sludge he pours into his stomach most days. He’s not sure he deserves it. Hell, he’s not sure he deserves any of this: sitting here, cursed to keep living. And Karen—she sure as hell shouldn’t be wasting her time with a ghost like The Punisher.
But here they are.
“You know,” he says, voice rough, “this almost makes me feel normal again. Bein’ here with you.”
Karen watches him over the rim of her mug. Waiting, she knows he has more to say.
Frank exhales. “But I gotta ask—how is he?”
“Who?”
A dry chuckle escapes him. Who else?
“Red.”
Her expression shifts. Subtle, but he sees it. She looks away, hiding behind her coffee like it's something to hold onto.
“I don’t think you can call him that anymore,” she says quietly.
Frank catches the look in her eyes—still that icy blue he knows, but there’s something else now. Warmth wrapped around something broken.
“Okay then… how’s Matt ?”
It feels strange to say the name. Red was always Red to him. But he figures it’s something he’ll have to get used to.
Karen doesn’t answer right away. She looks down, and he can already see the tension in her shoulders. From what he knows, they were close. Best friends, maybe more—once. Even if they’re on a break or whatever it is now, Karen’s probably the only person left who might still know something. Nelson's gone, after all.
“I don’t know,” she says finally, with a sigh that carries the weight of too much. Just bringing him up seems to drain her. Frank instantly regrets it.
“It’s been a couple months. Last time I saw him, he said he—”
She stops. Not because she’s lost her train of thought. No—she’s holding something back. Maybe it’s something she can’t say. Or maybe something’s forming in that clever mind of hers. That spark in her eye always used to amuse him.
Now, it kind of scares him.
“You should see him yourself,” she says at last, steady. “If you’re so curious.”
—
Frank stares down at the man begging for his life—talking about a wife, some kids, the whole goddamn script. Trying to appeal to the shred of humanity that might still be left in The Punisher.
For a moment, it works.
Just a second of hesitation, just long enough for a ghost of a thought to slip in—his wife, his kids, the man he used to be. Then the shot rings out. One clean bullet to the skull. It’s done.
And with it comes the weight of detachment. He’s not that man anymore—not the husband, not the father. Just the ghost that crawled out of their graves, still killing anything that smells like the scum who took them. He’d give anything to have them back. Even just a second. But if life ever offered him a do-over with someone else? He’d rather shoot himself in the balls. This world is shitty enough. Dragging someone else into his wreckage? No thanks.
A prickle at the back of his neck pulls him from the spiral. The feeling of being watched. He doesn’t need to turn his head. The red suit gives it away.
Red.
Judging him—of course. Doesn’t take super senses to read the tension in Matt’s jaw or the weight in his silence. They've got more in common than Matt would ever admit: both lost people they loved, both punch holes in bad guys and enjoy it more than they should, both know the system is a joke. And both are profoundly, irreparably messed up.
They’ve got an odd relationship. One Frank has come to… not need, but maybe value. Karen and Red are the only people who still look at him like he’s a human being. The only moments he feels remotely normal anymore are when one of them’s around.
Not that he’d admit it. Not even under torture.
But there are nights—quiet ones—when he’s scared. Not of dying, not of killing. Of losing them. He has dreams about that. Nightmares, really. Karen disappearing. Matt bleeding out. And Frank, left standing in the dark.
“What the hell are you staring at?” he snaps, turning to face him.
“I see you’ve been busy,” Matt says. Judging, absolutely judging.
“Don’t you have rooftops to brood on? Or is it a slow night?” Frank counters, leaning against a wall and fishing in his pocket for a smoke.
“Just a shitty one.”
That makes Frank chuckle. It’s become a habit, this back-and-forth. Some routine carved out of chaos. The memory of the last time they spent a night together flickers in his mind—brings a sick sort of joy with it. Twisted, yeah. But so is he. And apparently, Red has a thing for the broken ones.
Frank usually reaches out when he’s had a good night—too good. When the guilt starts to rot him from the inside out. He shows up at Matt’s door, not for absolution, but for something that almost feels like it. They fuck. And yeah, Red’s good. He’s pretty, even. Frank would never say that out loud, but it’s true. And Red’s dick? Also kinda pretty. He’s weird like that.
But more than that, Red gets him. That’s rare.
They lie side by side afterward, tangled in silk sheets in Matt’s pristine apartment, talking like they’re still people. Like the blood on their hands washes off in the shower.
Matt comes to him for different reasons. Self-loathing ones. A masochistic little Catholic boy who wants to get wrecked in a sleeping bag and held like it’ll fix something. He never says why he shows up. And Frank doesn’t ask. Doesn’t poke at the cracks when Matt’s already hanging by a thread.
“What,” Frank mutters between drags, “you here to use me for my body?”
He scoffs, bitter and amused. Not that he’s looking for more. They’ve never said what this is, but they both seem to get it—it’s not love. It’s survival.
“You know what you’re good for,” Matt says flatly.
—
Shit. He shouldn’t be here—in Brooklyn, of all places, and at eight in the goddamn morning. He should be lying low, like he has been for years. But instead, here he is, standing in front of Matt’s fancy new apartment, waiting for someone to open the door.
He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing.
Doesn’t know how Matt’s going to react to seeing someone from the life he’s been trying so hard to bury. If what Karen said is true, maybe this is a mistake. Then again, she was certain: If there’s anyone who might get through to him right now, it’s you, Frank.
The door opens.
“What are you doing here?”
That voice. He hasn’t heard it in years, and it lands like a punch to the chest. It takes him a second to register everything: that he came here, that this is Matt, that he’s actually here to talk. Talk. Christ.
“Karen said we need to talk,” Frank says—flat, rehearsed. The exact phrase he’d prepared for this moment.
Matt looks... okay. Not great, but not half-bad. He’s not bleeding from a dozen places, and he’s wearing pajamas, not his beloved red suit. He’s thinner than Frank remembers, but not sickly. Not broken.
“Am I allowed in?” he asks.
Matt steps aside and walks away, wordless. An invitation.
“What’s so important it brought Frank Castle all the way here?” Matt calls back, heading toward the living room.
Frank hesitates just inside the door. Doesn’t trust this conversation to last. Doesn’t trust himself, either.
He’s never been here before. The place is bright, full of natural light and clean lines. Expensive. Soulless. It doesn’t feel like Matt. He misses the old apartment—not that he spent more than a handful of nights there back when they used to screw semi-regularly—but it had shadows. This place has none.
It gives him the icks.
“I know it’s rich, coming from me, but—” Frank swallows. He hates what he’s about to say. Hated hearing it himself. I understand you. But something sparks in his head—he’ll blame it on the bullet he took to the brain. “Karen said we could make each other feel alright, you know?”
Technically, not a lie. If his heart stutters as he says it, blame it on how awkward it came out.
Matt tilts his head, that thing he does when he’s listening and confused at the same time. “Karen said we should fuck?”
“I didn’t say that,” Frank mutters, taking a drag from his breath, “but I won’t say no to seeing you naked again.”
Real smooth, Castle. Real fucking smooth.
Their relationship never moved past shared body heat and the occasional late-night conversation after teaming up. But this feels different. Being here. Seeing Matt in the morning light instead of the shadows. Clean. Calm. His eyes bright in morning light in a way Frank’s never seen before. And if they take another step right now, they’re headed for morning sex.
Morning sex. That means morning kisses. That means figuring out what comes after. Maybe they screw again. Maybe they order something. Or maybe Frank’s just getting carried away and imagining too much. The possibilities make his head ache—especially the one where Matt throws him out. Honestly? That might be the best-case scenario.
“So you’re here to fuck me,” Matt scoffs. “That your version of consoling a grieving man?”
“You think that works, Red?” Frank says before he can stop himself.
Matt freezes. His whole body goes still, none of his muscles moving an inch.
“Sorry,” Frank says quickly. “Didn’t mean that. Matt.”
“It’s okay,” Matt whispers. He pushes off the couch and slowly walks over to where Frank still stands by the door. “Just say what you came to say, Frank. What is it? You here to tell me you understand? That I finally had my ‘one bad day’? That I should be strong like you? Go out there and kill the bastard who did this? Or are you here to call me a coward, or—”
Frank yanks him forward.
Slowly and deliberately enough for Matt to dodge if he wanted to. But he doesn’t.
It’s been a long time since they kissed. Matt still tastes the same. Still moves with the same precision—every twitch, every breath familiar. Frank wonders if the rest of him is still the same, too.
What surprises him is that Matt lets him in.
Opens his mouth. Lets Frank’s tongue slide in, meets it with his own. His fingers find Frank’s freshly cropped hair and curl into it. A little desperate. A little soft.
The kiss doesn’t last long. Leaves too much unsaid. Leaves more to be desired.
And for Frank, that’s probably the most dangerous part.
Still holding him close, he presses their foreheads together. His voice drops.
“Answer one question.”
Matt nods slightly, hands resting against Frank’s chest. “Okay.”
“Did you stop doing it for him... or for yourself?”
Matt trembles in his arms. Just a flicker, but Frank feels it. Matt looks away, exhales, slow and shaky. And instead of answering, he leans back in for a kiss—this one softer. Coy. A clear deflection.
Frank lets him—for a moment.
“Fine. You don’t wanna answer,” he mutters between kisses, which trail from lips to jaw to the hollow of Matt’s neck. “Matt—”
“Shut up. Just shut up.”
Matt grabs his hand and pulls him toward the bedroom. He doesn’t need to try hard. Frank follows, his body already working against whatever logic’s left after those kisses left him lightheaded.
“Why?” Frank asks, just as he’s shoved onto the bed.
Matt doesn’t answer. Just starts undressing—quick, almost mechanical. Avoiding eye contact. And Frank gets it now. Maybe that’s why Karen sent him here. Maybe Matt only lets himself feel something when he’s too wrecked to fight it. Maybe he always did like Frank’s cock a little too much when he was falling apart.
If Frank could have one superpower, it’d be reading Matt’s goddamn mind.
Matt climbs onto him, still in his boxers. The sunlight filtering through the window hits his skin, making him look too real, too close, too Matt.
And Frank stares up at him like he’s looking at something that might vanish if he blinks.
Then his clothes are on the floor, forgotten. Then he’s three fingers deep inside Matt, his hands mapping every inch of that familiar body. Matt hisses through his teeth—warns him to be careful, that it’s been a while. The sound makes every hair on Frank’s body stand on end.
And when he finally sinks into him—seated fully inside—it hits him: what the fuck am I doing?
But he can’t stop.
He won’t.
Can’t stop folding Matt beneath him—god, he’s so fucking flexible. Can’t stop brushing their mouths together in half-kisses. Can’t stop burying himself again and again because the sensation is pure addiction. The way Matt shakes with every thrust, the way they fit—perfectly—it’s too much.
It’s all too right.
Feels like being alive again.
Matt is tight around him, and Frank wants to slow down, to savor every inch, every twitch, every drawn-out gasp. But this isn’t about him. It’s never about him. It’s about being useful. About fucking Matt’s mind blank—giving him something other than whatever hell’s been eating at him from the inside out.
So against everything in him, he speeds up.
Matt takes it—grits his teeth, arches into it. He’s not some well-practiced whore, but Frank wouldn’t want him to be. Wouldn’t change a thing.
Frank reaches to wrap a hand around him, but Matt slaps it away.
“Harder.”
Frank hooks a hand under his knee and slams into him. Watches him. Watches all of him. Matt is spread out like some untouchable thing—eyes unfocused, mouth open, body shaking. He looks like art. Holy and ruined all at once. And when he comes, untouched, just from Frank inside him, Frank’s breath catches like it’s been yanked out of his chest.
He doesn’t know if Matt sees him. Doesn’t know if that should matter.
But it does.
“Don’t come inside,” Matt hisses, panting. “I don’t wanna deal with the mess.”
Frank nods—barely. He pulls out and finishes between Matt’s thighs, groaning as the warmth of it hits his skin. It feels like something filthy and sacred all at once.
They shower separately. Matt goes first.
Frank stays on his back, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him answers. He retraces every moment—Matt opening the door, the way he looked in the morning light, the way he opened his legs without saying a damn word. And now this.
What is this?
Is it just the sex? The way they always come back to each other like something unfinished?
Or is it something deeper?
Something neither of them’s willing to name?
When Frank finally pulls himself together and grabs his coat.
Then, just as Frank turns to leave, Matt says the one thing Frank never expected.
“Will you be back?”
Frank pauses, hand on the doorknob.
“Only if you want me to.”