Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: You know you've got problems when Frank Castle is lecturing you on the importance of friendship.

Or: how Matt's broken leg becomes the least of his concerns.

Warnings: Spoilers for season 2.

Author's Notes: This chapter took me so long. I thought I knew where I was going to end up, but I couldn't write it. It took me two days of writing crap to realize that my expectations didn't fit the characters. Writing in the Sunshine-verse helped. FeralMatt really clarified what how Matt would react here.

Readers, the response to the last chapter was overwhelming. I loved hearing your theories and insights. It's huge and humbling to hear from you. Thank you so much. Hope you enjoy this one!

"Speak plain he said, but didn't see

He acted that way

And held me like a cup.

Fill me up then pour me out

Therein lies the doubt.

We have the same feelings

At opposite times."

~Feist, "The Bad In Each Other"

Nine

Hard to tell the time in Frank's apartment, but Matt guesses evening. Warmth pools on the back of his hand when he touches the windowsill, and this time, it's from the opposite side of the building. He hears Rina climbing the stairs; her ballet flats scrape away at the floor. Her sighs and shoulder-creaks speak of a long day at work. She hasn't locked her apartment door behind her before her music starts playing.

One, two, three heartbeats. Four, including his. Matt strains to find the fifth, the executioner's march inside Frank Castle's chest, but it's not to be found. "Frank?" the apartment doesn't mask sound very well. Frank should be audible if he's close. Matt tracks the noises outside. The parking lot is quiet. Traffic bustles on the streets. Frank has left the building.

Matt can't believe he missed it. He scrubs the sleep out of his skin. Today's been better, cognitively speaking. He asked Frank to decrease his meds, and the Punisher obliged him. Matt meditated more than he slept. The steady pain in his leg gave him a point of focus outside of Foggy, Karen, and the NYPD. But he has no recollection of Frank suiting up, of the door shutting, of the locks being bolted. His brain is a little muggy from Fentanyl, though it's not as bad as the previous couple of days; he hasn't blacked out from sedation. He was simply that asleep.

He sniffs, searching for Frank's Punisher gear. The dry, synthetic smell of Kevlar hovers around the desk. It could be the iconic bulletproof vest Matt hears about in the news, or it could be one or many vests that Frank has in his murder-wardrobe. The same goes for the overwhelming scent of gun metal. Frank's arsenal is so extensive that he could clothe himself in weapons and Matt would still be drowning in munitions. There's no telling what he left the apartment for, only that knowing Frank, it can't be good.

There's also no conclusive evidence as to when Frank will be back. Matt finds a cup of water on the nightstand next to a sandwich. Below that, taped to the side of the table, Matt finds a crumpled piece of paper that definitely wasn't there before. He runs his fingers over it, discovering a series of stab wounds. Little bumps on the page that his brain starts to translate before he realizes it's supposed to be braille.

Tenw ouw. No, that's not right: went out.

Matt drops his hand, "Thanks, Frank." That clarifies everything.

He unpeels his back and shoulders from the cot, taking his time by necessity, not choice. His muscles are starving for activity – a workout, a spar, a fight. They don't care as long as it doesn't involve lying down. Matt stretches as best he can. He pulls himself into a sitting position no higher than his leg. Frank left a loaded syringe on the windowsill again, but Matt has no desire to use it. Between his flimsy pillow and lingering dizziness, he can't sit much higher than his leg anyways.

The sensations are clearer when he's propped up. More blood fills the injured limb, and Matt follows the rush in his arteries to map the injury. The initial cut, a horizontal swipe on the back of his calf, has knitted. He's barely aware of it aching under the fiery sting of his surgical incision, a straight line of sutures and shorn muscle from just above his ankle to just belong his knee. Inside is a mess. Matt feels his muscle swell. The areas where the bone scraped through the skin are frayed and plump up to the consistency of ground meat.

One more day, he focuses. The doctor is coming by in one more day, and the second she says he can be up and moving, he will be. Straight out of Frank's apartment. Back to Hell's Kitchen. For now, he waits for the fire to settle into embers, for the pulses of agony to become fewer and further apart.

As they do, he becomes aware of…something. Hard to describe with the layers of bandages securing a board to the inside of his leg, but there's a weight localized on his ankle that shouldn't be there. Matt's first instinct is to reach, but his body won't bend that far, not with his head spinning. He nudges his right foot over, bumping into cold, jangling metal in the process.

Matt folds over. "No, no, no…" He ignores the roar of his broken leg for the roar in his head, the one that gets louder as his hands take hold of a chain. He follows the links to one of the munitions cases where it's looped and padlocked to the handle. The other end is secured in a similar fashion to the ankle of his broken leg.

He flops back on the cot. Breathes for three counts. Holds it. Exhales. Slams his fist against the wall to stop it from closing in on him, but there's no amount of punching that can keep the apartment from folding around his ribs. All that ground he claimed with his senses this morning, the distance between himself and the far side of the space (Frank's bed, punching bag, the doorway to the kitchen): gone. Matt has a few inches of chain between his broken leg and a munitions container.

As if he was going to try to move again.

Upon self-reflection, Matt relents. Okay, as if he was going to mess his leg up again.

More skepticism he can't shake, and this time, it's not even his. It's skepticism that sounds like Foggy clearing his throat, smells like a bloody apartment, sutures, and antiseptic. Skepticism that chills Matt to the core because he hasn't been thinking about what happens when the leg finally heals – if the leg finally heals. And that would be the only thought on Foggy's mind. Getting off the cot isn't going to bring Frank back. It's not going to un-murder a person. Getting off the cot is going to put him at risk, and if Frank's serious enough to chain his leg, he's serious enough to take Matt to the precinct.

It's the God damn principle of the thing, though, that shakes Matt out of resting. Frank wants to chain him up so he can go out killing? Fine. Matt won't mess up his damn leg, but Frank sure as shit isn't going to get away with this.

Weird being back in Hell's Kitchen during daylight. Frank's used to working into the midnight hour, under cover of darkness. That's when his targets come out to play. He wants to be recognized at night. That split second when the fuckers see the skull on his chest or his soldier's mug bearing down on them: it's the time of Frank's God damn life.

He's not quite so keen on being recognized now. Sunset paints Hell's Kitchen into an inferno – red, yellow, orange. Combined with the glare off the Hudson, Frank feels like he's under a spotlight. Feels like everybody's under a spotlight actually, but not everybody's face is on the FBI's Ten Most Wanted or makes a regular appearance on the news.

He keeps his hood low, his head lower, his shoulders curved in, hands in his pockets. His single colt and knife are discretely hidden by the bulk of his sweater. Nobody gives him trouble, not even the on-duty cops in their cruiser as he stalks past on his way into the church.

Confession runs after mass, so while the office is closed, the priest is too occupied to notice Frank breaking and entering. The milling parishioners head straight for the pews. A few kids trot past, eyes locked on their cell phones. Frank takes a stand by the locked office door. When the lobby clears, he turns, blocking the door knob from view. The lock picks easily. Frank slips inside, and with the door shut behind him, there's no way for anyone in the church to know he's there.

The secretary's desk is immaculate, and the church is old school. All their parishioners are in a rolodex. Frank spins along until he hits M, then it's a matter of flipping, flipping, flipping until ta-dah. Address and everything. He jots the information down on a post-it, pockets that, and spins the rolodex to cover his tracks. Then he's gone from the office, out the front door, and back into his car.

Shadows are getting long. Frank parks in an alley where dusk has already fallen. He maps out the exits – one at either end that he can reach with the car and a maze of pathways he can take on foot. There are plenty of routes for him to getaway if someone notices Frank Castle's returned. Escaping on foot would hurt his schedule, but better, tonight, to be evading custody than fighting the NYPD. The devil's not going to jump in and take the heat if things go sideways this time.

He circles the block, running recon. The old bar on the corner is beginning to fill up. Patrons who have been there since early in the afternoon hang off of barstools as the bartender, tough old broad, slings beer and hard liquor. No wine, no cocktails: not at this joint. The red fluorescent name buzzes in Frank's ear as he walks past, the sparking fuse to a doomsday device. This is one of those end-of-the-world type places that Hell's Kitchen is famous for; makes sense for it to be right around the corner of Frank's destination.

The apartment has keypad entry next to a heavy-duty metal door. God damn, he expected security to be tighter than the average walk-up, but Frank's impressed. Didn't think this kind of shit would be affordable on a public defender's salary. He blows past the entrance, skirting glances across the walls and roofs. No way is the front door the only way in. There's gotta be a fire escape or rooftop access that can't be seen from the street, perfect for a guy to sneak in and out at night.

Nothing on the building he's scoping out, but the neighbouring properties frame a vertical playground. Their fire escapes merge into jungle gyms. Drain pipes for monkey bars. Open dumpsters below to break falls. Ideal for ninjas looking to perfect their parkour and over-qualified vigilantes to pretend they're supernatural creatures.

Frank makes it to one roof only to discover there's a ladder leading to the fucking rooftop he wants on the building across the way. "Fuck it," he grumbles, not having time for this shit. There's still an hour between him and the Bronx once he finishes. He takes a run for the ledge, jumps, and heaves himself up.

From there, it's picking the lock on a door. Frank charges in, expecting a service entry, but he's standing on a loft in somebody's apartment.

Somebody's empty apartment, by the sounds of things.

When he's sure it's vacant, Frank heads down the stairs into the living room. The place is open concept. He can survey the whole kitchen from where he stands. The bedroom doesn't have a door: just a sliding panel that looks to have fallen off its hinge and never been repaired. There's not enough stuff in the place to make a mess, but Frank gets the impression the apartment hasn't been lived-in for a while. The tenant pays rent. They sleep in the bed. They eat, they take out the trash. But they don't live here. This space is a staging area.

Frank can't believe his luck, at first. Then it occurs to him this isn't luck. An apartment with direct rooftop access would be a priority. And while this kind of space would normally rent for a fortune, the giant-ass billboard pumping light through the open living room windows makes it a steal.

He surveys the bookshelves. The spines are blank upon first inspection, but when Frank gets closer, he sees the braille marks. A fine layer of dust has been collecting on top of them. Smear marks on the shelf say that cleaning's a dying routine. More evidence this apartment is a base of operations, not a home.

It wasn't always like this. The living room has enough furniture for visitors. The surplus of dishes in the kitchen says that company used to come over. There isn't the ghostly presence of dishes at the table or toys left out from playing like Frank remembers from his house. There isn't the anticipation that people will be home from the carousel soon. Frank's family was stolen from him; Red chose this absence. Still, Frank walks through the apartment like he would a cemetery, aware that the dead are underfoot.

He's said it before and he'll say it again, especially standing in the kid's apartment, "The hell happened to you, Red."

Frank finds a gym bag and empties it. Nothing much inside but hand wraps, a mouth guard, and a towel. He replaces the hand wraps and leaves the other shit in the bottom of the closet.

Sweats, t-shirts, boxer briefs, socks: Frank stuffs them into the bag. Shit, the kid's small. He probably just makes lightweight with his armour on; featherweight when he's in civvies. Red's two-piece suits look like the ones Frank wore to church in his teens. They hang neatly in the closet, tagged in braille, starting to smell musty like the rest of the place. Frank closes the closet doors, leaving them to get mustier still. Red's going to be living casual for a while. As it stands, he'll need the left leg cut open on his sweats to accommodate whatever hardware's going to be holding his broken bone in place while it heals.

The cell phone on the nightstand is long dead. Frank grabs it and the charger. Who the hell is Red gonna call – the cops? They'll want him for questioning too, and with Fisk mobilizing, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen isn't going to want to be in custody. Nah, Frank trusts Red not to screw them both over. It's the people clambering to find Red that Frank thinks about. Eventually, a missing persons report is getting filed, and if the NYPD thinks they're being harassed now, they ain't seen nothing yet. Better give Red the opportunity to get in touch with Miss Page and that Nelson guy before things get out of hand.

Frank slings the packed duffel off the unmade bed. He's about to leave when an unnatural gleam catches his eye. The sheets have a sheen in the billboard light. Frank runs a hand over them. "Silk sheets, Red? Jesus…" if only people fucking knew: lean, mean devil of Hell's Kitchen – on a public defender's salary: a recently unemployed public defender, no less – comes home to sleep on silk sheets. The decadence is astounding, especially since it's not part of the performance. These sheets are for Red. Well, a girlfriend, maybe, but Frank's since amended his thoughts about whether Red has girlfriends. He has women he dates, who might get a tumble in the silk sheets, but they don't get to see the man in the mask.

Maria used to say she knew exactly what she was getting when she married Frank, and she told him every day until the day she died. Frank didn't believe her then, but he wants to now. He wants to think there wasn't a mask between them. That she didn't die with questions burning her up as well as bullets. He can't imagine Red wants people to die like that either, but Red's probably not thinking about other people. He's obviously not thinking about himself.

Frank grabs the sheet suddenly, without even thinking about it. He stuffs it into the bag before he can change his mind.

The bathroom's the last stop. Frank grabs the toothbrush, the brush, and the electric razor. He glances at the contents of the shower. Shampoo and conditioner, Red, really? Christ. Frank is about to grab the bottle of shampoo but can't. He can't. The sheet serves a practical function. Shampoo and conditioner – unscented and hypoallergenic – is crossing a line into fucking ridiculous. Frank hits the lights. Silk sheets and premium hair care for a guy who catches bullets with his face. Who doesn't have people over to his apartment. "Makes no God damn sense."

Frank shoves a few books in the bag before zipping it closed and bounding up the stairs to the loft. He exits across the roof, down the ladder this time, and then reaches the ground using the snaggle of fire escapes, windowsills, closed dumpsters, and other debris. The wind whistles through the alley. Storm's brewing. People'll be staying in tonight. Frank hopes that includes Fisk's guys. He doesn't have time to hunt. Red's probably awake and bitchy about getting chained up. Frank considers them even: he's pretty bitchy about Red re-breaking his leg.

He stops just shy of the car out of pure instinct, his body acting before his brain can articulate that he's being watched. Frank checks his surroundings. Rooftops: clear. Fire escapes: clear. Windows: clear. Alleyway: clear. His hand stays poised above the colt though, because that awareness doesn't go away. Whole lotta hiding places out there, and no matter how dark or vacant the space looks, Frank isn't alone.

Can't be the cops. The NYPD is incapable of stealth. Frank can't see Miss Page or the Nelson guy hiding out either. Whoever has eyes on Frank is trained for this. They don't make a sound. He thinks he sees a flash of clothing move between fire escapes, but it's gone before he can confirm, swallowed up by the night.

Frank gets into the car. He tosses the gym bag in the passenger's seat. The alley is quiet and still around him. Frank doesn't trust it. He peels out as quickly as possible, roaring into the street.

He catches sight of it in his rear view mirror: a shadow bounding over the rooftops after his car. During a leap between buildings, the streetlights reveal billowing red robes and the hilt of a weapon before the darkness swallows the figure up again.

Frank runs the next red, then takes a hard left at the following intersection, weaving through oncoming traffic. The figure stops, stranded on a rooftop behind Frank's escaping car.

Another shadow appears after less than a block, faster this time. Frank hits another red light and takes a right, then another left. The Hudson Parkway is dead ahead, and no matter how fast his pursuers, they don't have enough power to follow him all the way to the Bronx.

Sure enough, the chase is over by the time Frank gets into the Upper West Side. He heads north, then takes the i-95 back into the Bronx. The whole time, his mind is putting together counter-measures, because not only are the Japanese still in Hell's Kitchen, they're looking for Red.

Frank bounds up the stairs to his apartment – keys in one hand, duffel in the other, all geared up to face Red's pathetic wrath about the chain. News about the Japanese sentries staking out his apartment might shut him up. Red seemed to know less about their activities than Frank but was more desperate for information.

But the only wrath waiting for Frank inside the apartment is his own. He closes the door behind him and locks it. He tosses the duffel onto his desk. His body runs hot and cold as he surveys the room, and the first words out of his mouth are, "What the fuck did you do, Red?"

Red is a pale, shivering heap at the foot of the cot, half covered with a quilt. His leg is elevated on an ammo can – the same one Frank chained it to before leaving the apartment. He's surrounded by several more cans, all of them empty. And while he sucks back air like a dying man, looking like absolute hell, his lips are curving into a fucking smirk that Frank is going to carve off his smug face.

Especially when Red slumps even lower on the wall and says, breathlessly, "Well, I didn't mess up my leg again."

Happy reading!