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: two things about this chapter – one, several of the elements will become clearer as the fic progresses, most notably how Matt and Frank ended up in the basement in the first place (though I've left hints). Second, I in no way advocate to conduct impromptu surgery in the sterile kitchens of local businesses, nor am I suggesting that this is what happens in sterile kitchens afterhours. Definitely support your local businesses.
I am so happy for the feedback on this fic! Thank you, readers! Your excitement is gratifying. I hope that you enjoy this next installment. Cheers!
"Tear a hole exquisite red/fuck the rest and stab it dead"
~NIN, "Somewhat Damaged"
Chapter One
Red passes out from bleeding out, and Frank grabs the nearest tourniquet he can find: a belt from one of their assailants, a slight man lying unconscious amidst the rubble. Frank wraps up Red's thigh above the knee, buckles it, and then twists until he can't, until Red is shaking from the agony but blood isn't pouring out of his suit.
Tying off the tourniquet, Frank takes a moment to survey the damage. Not to Red, to the building. The place was already a shithole, a derelict tenement in need of demolition, but the collapsed ceiling really seals the deal. The old crates and tubes from whatever fucked up voodoo was happening down here have been crushed by a deluge of wood and plaster that took out their assailants. The only thing in tact in the giant warhead-shaped urn in the corner, the one inexplicably lined with red silk. Three of the five men Frank followed here are hidden under piles of rubble. The other two are wrapped around bullets upstairs.
They're all Fisk's guys. Got the fat man stitched into their cheap clothes and expensive guns. Frank hasn't a clue what they're doing here. All he knows is that Fisk is interested in the Japanese's properties now that they've gone AWOL, and being that Frank is interested in Fisk, he followed the five gents here. He should have known the Devil would be waiting for them. Red seems to be putting in a lot of overtime lately, and Fisk is a special case for the devil as much as he is for Frank.
Frank confiscates the three men's weapons so he can put bullets in each of their skulls. One batch, two batch; penny and dime - Jesus, Red is really fucking out. His only movement is to shiver from blood loss as the gun goes off. Frank grabs a cell phone from one of the recently deceased and hits redial. "Pick up," he prompts them, returning to Red's side to check his pulse. Frank flips the devil over. He got a new mask, one that covers his whole face, or so it seems until Frank prods. Turns out Red has simply grown a beard instead and not a short one either. Several days' worth of growth to go with his several days' worth of kicking ass and taking names. Whoever he was outside the mask when they first met, Red obviously isn't anymore.
Frank shoves his fingers when the cowl curves over Red's neck. He's cold and clammy to touch, and his heartbeat's thready, weak in the worst way. Frank withdraws his hand. "Pick up," he orders the phone, and the dial tone finally cuts out.
"The fuck do you want?" he's asked by way of greeting.
Frank replies without missing a beat, "A doctor, man." He quickens his breathing, feigning terror, "The fucking devil ripped up half our crew. I got the other half bleeding out here."
The guy on the other line is skeptical as hell, but he's not bright enough to hang up. These are the lowest rungs of Fisk's criminal ladder: five guys scouting one of the Japanese's old properties for who knows why and one idiot who wonders, idiotically, "This isn't Marty. Who is this?"
"I'm the guy who's keeping Marty's insides from becoming his outsides. I need a doctor, man, come on!" Frank lets his voice stretch into a whine of desperation. It's the easiest part of his performance. Red's shivering is starting to weaken as much as his pulse. Frank is getting a little desperate. "Who's working tonight and where?"
No way Fisk doesn't have a doctor on call for shit, some skeezy bastard with a licence, without – doesn't matter, so long as they're trained. Probably working out of an old warehouse with hand-me-downs from closed hospitals. Frank props the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can heave Red into a lift. He groans audibly so his struggle can be noted by the guy on the other line. "God damn it, don't you quit on me," Frank says, giving Red a shake while he's at it. "Don't you quit on me, you bastard."
"We got a guy on forty-first you can see."
But he can't be just any guy, Frank knows, not with Red's leg in such shitty shape. He can hear the bones grating as the limb flops against his chest. Frank feigns greater agitation as he prods for this doctor's credentials, "This guy any good?"
"He's good enough," the man on the other line snaps.
"Marty's not gonna make it with 'good enough'."
"That's Marty's problem. Maybe Marty shouldn't have gotten his ass handed to him by the freak with the horns."
"Listen, man," Frank stalks out of the ruined basement, up the short climb of stairs to the gutted first floor. "We walked into a fucking trap, alright? The devil was already here. He pulled the ceiling down on us. I need some guy who isn't going to fuck up Marty's leg any more than the ceiling already did."
A sigh. A hushed argument. All good signs. Clearly, there's another doctor on call, someone better. Frank quickens his pace in anticipation. He's rewarded with, "Vanelli's. Back door. Doc's got one on the table already, so you'll have to wait your turn. Hope Marty has that long."
"Me too," Frank agrees, hanging up. He tosses the phone back to Marty, who lies face down amidst the rubble, half his face splattered across the floor. Fisk's getting sloppy with the hired help. Frank can only hope his doctor at Vanelli's doesn't fix broken bones the way the guy on the phone gives out information, or else it'll be the second time Fisk has really screwed him over.
As a pre-emptive strike against the fat man, Frank takes a grenade off his belt on his way out the tenement door. He takes the pin out with his teeth and tosses the explosive back over his shoulder. Fisk wants to know what was so special about this building? He's going to have to dig through the fire to find out.
The explosion is muffled by the dank, water-logged basement, but Frank feels the reverb under his feet as he moves to his car. Whatever supports were left fall down. The tenement collapses into smoke and embers. Neighbours finally wake up, coming out of their doors to see, and Frank reaches his vehicle before someone says, "Call 9-1-1."
Red hits the back seat without waking. He moans, particularly when Frank elevates his leg on his bunched-up duster. He waves a fist into the seats and drops his other arm to the floor. Defensive maneuver, Frank recognizes, lethargic as it is. Blood continues to drip out of his boot onto Frank's hands and jacket. His leg lies at an odd angle that Frank doesn't bother to straighten. He simply closes the door and heads to the driver's seat, swearing inwardly because damn, Red might lose the leg. Red might lose the fucking leg. And not because of his stupid decision either: because of Frank's.
There are loads of things that Frank can abide, but that shit's not one of them.
Vanelli's back door is guarded by a one-man army making slow rounds of the building. He lets Frank park before he reaches for his weapon, yet another mistake for Fisk's hired help. The fat man might rule the roost in Super Max, but he sure as shit isn't the biggest fish in Hell's Kitchen, not with help as shoddy as this.
Frank draws the silenced Beretta out of the holster under his arm. "One batch, two batch; penny and dime," he hops out of the driver's seat and is halfway through being told not to park there when he's recognized. Psycho with the skull on his chest: that's him.
"Oh, shit," the gunman quickens his pace to aim. He's not fast enough, not by a longshot. Frank pops off a single shot to the man's face, and his corpse flops to the ground. Blood mists over the plastic curtain shielding the closed delivery door.
Frank throws open the back door of the car, gets Red heaved over his shoulder, and hauls ass towards the entrance. It's locked: one of the first and only good ideas these crews have had tonight, but Frank pounds and gets someone to open it a crack. They get a shot to the face for their trouble, and Frank gets Red inside.
The delivery bay is empty, but it won't be for long. There are footsteps in the next room that echo against the gray concrete walls. The bay smells like old blood, plastic, and rust. Vanelli's is the one of those heirloom butcher shops, passed down for multiple generations, and it looks to have resisted modernization. People still unload the delivery trucks by hand here, and the meat gets carried off to the kitchen through the metal door across the way.
A thin strip of light beams from under the door. Frank listens carefully. He counts one pacer, and he waits until the doorway is clear before storming in. One batch, two batch… the light blinds him momentarily, the white and chrome of the kitchen reflecting the stark fluorescent lighting, but Frank finds the silhouette he's looking for and plants a bullet in its skull.
The man hits the floor, revealing a makeshift OR behind him. Vanelli's kitchen is a solid space for bloodshed. Sanitary kitchen that's easy to clean and loaded with knives? Frank wouldn't be surprised if it doubled as a torture chamber. Surgical tools are arranged neatly on the counters. A body lies prone on the metal carving table, feet hanging off the edge. He's got an IV in his arm and the doctor's hands in his abdomen.
Thank goodness she's wearing a mask: Frank's bullet sent cast-off over the doc's face, enough to completely cover her right eye. Her left eye gazes steadily at Frank, and her surgeon's hands are steady inside her patient, but her efforts to hide fear give it away just as easily as showing it. She's terrified in spite of – or perhaps because of – trying not to be.
"You armed?" She doesn't move. Frank shakes his gun hand for emphasis, "Answer the question: are you armed?" She shakes her head three times, measured strokes, yet another illusion of calm that she doesn't feel.
Frank nods, "I'm coming over there. I find out your lying, you don't live through this. You try and call for help, you don't live through this. Only way you walk out of here is if I let you. Know that."
She does, nodding with the same impeccable self-control. Her hands tremble slightly for the first time since Frank entered, but they freeze again shortly after.
Frank holsters his sidearm and charges over. He hooks one arm around Red to hold him steady. The other goes to work. Tearing out the current patient's IV and blood transfusion. Grabbing him by the leg and dragging him gruffly off the table. The doctor's hands pop out of his open abdomen. They hover in the empty space, scarlet palms open in horrified surrender. Meanwhile, her patient hits the floor. Blood shoots out of his open wound from the impact, He moans, slack-jawed and suffering, a pathetic hunk of meat. Not worth the bullet, not when he lapses back into silent unconsciousness. Blood loss'll get him soon enough.
Red spills off Frank's shoulder onto the table. His jaw hangs open. One of his arms is pinned under his back. Frank works to free it. He's taller than the last guy, Red, so Frank shifts him until his broken leg is completely supported. Not gonna make much difference if he loses the thing, but Frank has already done his part in getting it broken. He is not going to give the doc another reason to hack it off.
And shit, it's going to be a miracle if the leg stays attached. Red's calf is bulging under his body armour, stretched to capacity as the body floods the area with whatever fluids it has available. His shin could be fucking powder inside, and then what? The devil of Hell's Kitchen floats around on one leg?
Frank can't think about that. He rubs his hands over his head. Turns away and walks several paces. Deed's done. No use worrying about it now. "Get yourself cleaned up, doc," he tells her. "Got a new patient for yah."
Happy reading!