Chapter Text
One month after Matt left the hospital, and he couldn’t help but think about how his life had once again shifted. Frank had taken him home to play nurse to his combative patient. Forced him to his doctors appointments (once, literally, at gun-point), and finally Matt was given the all-clear. He’d been warned that he should stay away from anything too strenuous for the following week, which, to Frank, apparently meant anything outside of work, court, eating, and sleeping.
When Castle finally went back to one of his safe houses, Matt had sighed in relief. He’d enjoyed some aspects of it, sure. His apartment hadn’t been lonely, and he’d found out that Frank was one hell of a cook, but he’d been mother-henned half to death and he was sick of the words, “How’s your head?”
It took an hour for him to miss Frank. The smell of gun oil and leather and smoke from the cigarettes that he’d take up to the roof to burn was starting to fade. Just a little, but it wasn’t the strong, cloying scent he’d come to expect. The small corners of the apartment that used to fill with his laughter when Matt did something stupid, or while they just sat and played twenty-questions, were silent. The duffel bags full of weapons, once stashed in his closet, were gone. As were the guns strapped beneath the coffee table, under the couch, under the kitchen sink, in the cabinet by the coffee maker, and even the knife that had been hidden in the bathroom, taped behind the toilet. Frank had removed all feasible traces of himself from the apartment. He missed him.
Still, he’d made sure to wake up on time the next day and bundle himself into his warmest clothes. Winter had taken over New York, and no one was safe from the icy winds. Karen was already there by the time he made it up the stairs, nose and ears burning with the cold, and she’d greeted him cheerfully. “You know, we’re going to get used to you being here when we open.” Her words struck a cord in him, and Matt did his best to smile back.
“I do my best.” He ignored the fact that, up until this injury, he’d been late most days because of Daredevil. When he wasn’t, he was exhausted, usually bruised, occasionally sporting a bandage or twelve, and neither of them would greet him like they used to.
He hadn’t been out on the streets in weeks. Somehow, Frank had not only found Spider-Man, but he’d convinced him that he and his boyfriend needed to start pitching in in Hell’s Kitchen since Deadpool had caused the accident that led to Matt being out of commission. Spider-Man was regularly seen swinging through the streets, Matt had even heard him go into Stark Tower a couple of times, when he’d been curious about his trajectory, but that place was so air-tight even his hearing wasn’t able to penetrate its walls.
So, that morning, he made his way back to his tiny office and pulled the case files he needed for court that day out onto the desk. There was no ache from new and old injuries, no pull of stitches, not even a bruise from hitting his leg on the coffee table because Frank had accidentally moved it. He poured over the files quickly, just to refresh his memory, and listened to Foggy walk in the door approximately five minutes after he had. Foggy, too, greeted him brightly and Matt had done his best to return the sentiment, but his heart felt weighted.
It hadn’t escaped his notice that they were both happier now that he wasn’t going out at night. Of course, there was the cursory argument about him working with The Punisher, the things Frank was willing to do. Foggy hated every piece of it, but had accepted that Frank, for all of his faults, was the reason Matt had actually gone to his doctor’s appointments. Karen, at least, had been a bit kinder about it, but she had insisted that getting too caught up in Frank’s business was liable to get him killed, one day. Still, once a truce had been made between them, his friends had begun acting like they used to. They’d opened back up to him, spent more time talking to him, and it drove him a little crazy that they couldn’t just do that while he was out trying to save their city, too.
He made his way down to the court house that day with an invisible rain cloud over his head and missed Frank’s form being at his side, radiating warmth.
_____________________________
Matt had told Frank to go home, but he couldn’t sit still. His guns and knives were immaculate. Not a speck of dirt or stray gun powder on them. He’d loaded special rounds from some materials David had given him on his last birthday, just to do something with his hands. He still hadn’t slept.
It wasn’t unusual, his inability to fall asleep, but at least while he’d been living in Matt’s apartment he’d been able to lay in bed next to his blind companion, listen to his even breaths, check for any issues with his pupils, feel his pulse beat its steady drum, until finally his mind would quiet enough to sleep. Here, alone in his shitty safe house, he had nothing to do. Nowhere to be. No good distractions. He’d tried building up his next case against the Russians, but that had just led down a rabbit hole of shame and regret over the fact that Red wouldn’t be joining him. Really, Frank wouldn’t let him. He’d almost lost the guy once. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in Hell he’d be letting that happen again.
Finally, he’d just gone out that night. Suited up and armed to the teeth, he was determined to let out some of his aggression on some of the scum that still rotted in Hell’s Kitchen. It felt right, being out in the night air again, letting himself breathe in the frigid air of New York in the winter. He waited on the roof top until he heard gun shots a few blocks away. Taking off, his muscles burned from a lack of use, but he just pushed himself harder, guns already drawn as he ran, until he came upon a bodega and an unexpected duo.
Spider-Man and Deadpool had either webbed up or knee-capped three armed people in ski masks, and were walking away from the broken glass of the store front. Spider-Man held a cell phone up to his ear, and was reporting the robbery. Frank stopped, lungs burning in a way he didn’t want to acknowledge was due to his lack of cardio, lately. For a moment, he felt like they were stuck in a tableau. Then, Spider-Man hung up and threw the cell phone on the ground, and Frank turned around to walk away.
“Punisher! Heya buddy! Haven’t seen you in an age but ooh! Damn! Look at them pecs!” Deadpool called after him. “Don’t let anyone sell you short, superstar, those things could crush a watermelon! Hey! Wait up!” Frank had picked up his pace, mostly because he didn’t want to shoot someone in front of their boyfriend. It didn’t matter that Deadpool would heal, it just wasn’t a pleasant thing to watch.
“Hey, Punisher, please!” Spider-Man called after him as well. “We just want to talk!” Frank didn’t slow down, but suddenly he was wheeling through the air. Spider-Man, the prick, had shot a web at his lower back and flipped him off of his feet. Frank rose with a spin to face them, dropped easily into a fighting stance with one hand on the pistol at his waist, but both of the men in red were holding up their hands. “We just want to talk, man, that’s it.”
“What’s there to talk about, huh?” Frank asked. “You’re doing me and Red a favor after you’re the reason that whole job went to shit. We’re square.”
“Red and I.” Deadpool muttered, just loud enough for Frank to hear, and he resisted the urge to shoot the undead fucker in the face.
“I wasn’t technically part of that, I just helped Deadpool when he called and said he’d lost a few pieces of himself. But still. I know you and Daredevil are close. I wanted to check in. He’s been good to me. Helped me out of more than a few scrapes. Is he okay?” Spider-Man’s concern bled clearly through his voice, and Frank sighed. He’d never been able to justify it, but he’d always seen Spider-Man as a kid. Maybe a little over twenty, but not by much if he was. And he was a good guy, always helped out where he was needed before he’d fuck off into the city again.
“He’s alive, but he’s out of commission for the moment.” Frank finally responded.
“So, alive like in a coma? Or alive like walking and talking just like a real boy?” Deadpool’s flippant attitude had always grated on Frank’s nerves.
“DP, you’re not helping.” Spider-Man said gently. He rested a hand on the arm of his boyfriend before he turned back to Frank. “Is he, though? Up and walking and talking and everything?”
Frank scrubbed a hand over his eyes, but nodded. “He’s back to his day job.”
“Oh! I knew it!” Deadpool shouted, suddenly jumping up and down and clapping his hands like a little kid. “I told you, Spidey! They’re totally-”
“Deadpool!” Peter hissed, interrupting that train of thought. Frank was pretty sure he knew where it was going, anyways, and he didn’t like it in the slightest.
“We’re not like that. He’s just a good partner, is all. He can hold his own, or he could before that shit show.” Frank’s words did nothing to quell the excitement of the immortal man who looked like he should have been holding a lollipop and wearing a tutu for all he was acting like a little girl.
“Baby, please, not now. We can talk all about it later, I promise.” Spider-Man reached up a hand to direct Deadpool’s face to his, and Frank took that as his cue to leave. As he turned, though, Spider-Man called out to him. “Hey! Wait!” Partially against his will, Frank didn’t stop, and he refused to turn around. “Wanna grab tacos?”
A series of bad options and worse choices led to Frank, Deadpool, and Spider-Man standing at the counter of a hole-in-the-wall Mexican food joint while Deadpool ordered enough food to feed an army. Frank had tried to step in and at least pay for his own portion, but Deadpool had slapped a small stack of cash to the counter and told the elderly woman behind it to “keep the change, cuteness.”
They all sat down at one of the tables in the back, with Frank facing the door while Deadpool and Spider-Man faced him.
“So-o-o… gonna tell us why you’re eating an extra dose of angry-flakes lately?” Deadpool asked. Frank nearly ripped the table out of the floor. His senses were on a hair-trigger, but after Spider-Man had threatened to leave him hanging from a lamp post unless he at least allowed them to buy him dinner, he’d been on his best behavior. “‘Cause, I bet I know, but y’know, Spidey-Babe says it’s good to let people draw their own conclusions.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Frank asked. He sat back and crossed his arms. The last time he’d been this tense, Curt had been yelling at him that he needed to take Red to the hospital and he’d been determined that Red wouldn’t want that. The fact that he’d been this stressed twice in two months, and hadn’t been tied to a chair for either situation, was a bit concerning.
“We know you care about… Red. A lot. It just seems like you don’t really have anyone to talk to about that.” Spider-Man jumped in. Frank watched Deadpool’s hand disappear beneath the table and made it a point to fix his eyes on the exit.
“Don’t need to.”
They sat in silence until the food came. Despite the mountain of food that was piled onto the table, it didn’t take long for the super-beings to demolish most of it. Frank was left three burritos, but he was only half-way through the last one by the time the table was covered in wrappers. Honestly, it was disgusting to watch people eat that quickly, but soon the masks of the two vigilantes were back down over their chins once more.
“You ever need to talk, Castle, you let us know.” Spider-Man unclipped a pen from his belt and wrote out a phone number on one of the discarded wrappers. Frank did not pick it up.
“Catch ya later, Rook!” Deadpool called over his shoulder as the pair left the restaurant. Frank picked up the trash, and after a long minute of debate with himself, put the wrapper with the phone number on it in his pocket. The rest of the arm-full of crinkling paper was thrown into the trash, and he took a moment to even wipe down the table with a couple of napkins. He’d lived with Red for a month and apparently the guy had trained manners into him.
Frank walked back out into the chill of a gust of wind to find that the vigilantes were gone, and the streets were mostly silent. As he walked home, snow flurries began to drift in the wind, and he allowed himself a moment to think over the night before his thoughts inevitably turned to Red. He wondered how he was doing, whether he was still awake, or if he’d fallen asleep already. Frank was half-way to Red’s apartment before he turned around and made his way to Curt’s. He had missed Max, who Curt was taking care of while Frank was taking care of Red, and seeing the pair of them may just help loosen the knot in his chest.
________________________