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: I have been writing Daredevil fanfic for a little over a year now, and in that time, I have done a lot of harm to Matt Murdock. Nothing permanently damaging, mind you, and my predilections for comfort mean that he always has help. But I've hurt him. I've hurt him in a lot of ways.
I don't think I have ever hurt him this much before though. New personal best going on right here. I mention this because the original ending for this chapter was happier. Well, the damage was strictly physical. That's happier, right?
This chapter took a lot of hard work (hence the delay following my excited, "All I'm going to do is write!" post last week). Writing these characters together is a pleasure. I hope I can do them justice.
Readers, lovelies, thank you for your unerring support on this. I'm glad you're so invested. I hope you enjoy this chapter! Cheers!
"I'm the kind of human wreckage that you love."
~My Chemical Romance, "Blood"
Chapter Six
"Frank."
Christ – here it comes. "Go back to sleep, Red," Frank tightens the straps on his Kevlar. The skull beams from his chest between three empty holsters, which Frank fills with his custom colts. "You won't know I'm gone."
"I'll know," Red draws his hand into a fist on the quilt. "You're making a mistake."
"Usually am with you. Have to be more specific."
"Foley and his guys…"
"Fisk's guys," Frank corrects him. "No way they found one of the Japanese's old properties by accident."
Though that's exactly how Frank found it. This one never came up in his research. He got the intel by accident: one sick, twisted accident. His eyes flit back to Red's splinted leg. Wound's clean, he reminds himself mentally, returning to his corkboard. Wound's clean and swelling's down, so he must be doing something right. That incision can get closed up soon, and then they can figure out where Red's going from there.
He looks back to his map of Hell's Kitchen, an organized mess of pushpins and sigils, occasionally question marks. Tickets to the carousel in the upper corner, picture of Maria and the kids underneath. Frank meets their frozen stares with one of his own. A promise that this shit isn't going to happen again, not on his watch.
Red sighs behind him, exhausted. "They probably didn't," he admits, and Frank takes a second to realize that he's being agreed with. He might have found this address by accident, but the four idiots from the radio didn't.
Frank doesn't let that admission stop him. He deliberates between the sawed-off shotgun and his machine gun. Four guys, pretty small-time by the sounds of things: Frank goes for the shotgun and a hunting knife. "So what am I wrong about?"
"Going after them."
Frank scoffs, "Conjecture, counsellor. Been wrong before, in your opinion, about shit way worse than trespassing."
Red struggles to stay on topic. The way his breath hitches and his good foot shuffles under the blankets; the way he scrubs at his druggy face like he can force the disorientation through his pores. Frank gets sparks of waking up in the hospital like that. His voice, desolate and crackling, "Take me home. Take me home," to a nurse with a deer-in-the-headlights stare who nods shakily and says he's sorry, so sorry, it's going to be alright.
He counts bullets into a pouch until the gunfire in his head goes quiet again. Red's speaking helps ground him in the apartment, about the only thing Red's speaking is good for: "I know them. Foley and his…his crew, if you can call it that."
"You know them?"
"I've defended them."
"Figures," Red's an idealist in and out of his costume. "Bet you're wishing now you let the DA put their asses away."
That's not the point, not for Red, though he's having a lot of trouble putting words together to form sentences. His speech slurs, "They're four desperate guys looking for quick cash. That's all."
"Not helping their case, Red. Fisk's got nothing but quick cash for people."
"They're not the Dogs of Hell's Kitchen or the…the cartel or the Irish."
"Yeah, but you didn't like me going after them neither."
"They're nothing, Frank. Lowest of the low, bottom of the barrel. Even if they are on Fisk's payroll, they probably…they probably don't know that they are," Red catches his breath. He clutches his broken ribs for support. Frank angles his head out of the waye, not wanting to look. Not wanting to see. He has to go out tonight. The hotter Fisks's trail, the colder his pursuit. He can't let the fat man slips through his fingers, even if Red looks like thirty-seven kinds of shit.
"They do or they don't: I'll know soon enough," Frank finishes suiting up. He grabs his duster and his keys. He heads for the door.
Red's on the move, clumsy but determined. He props up on one elbow and spends a long moment swaying, trying to orient himself. His eyelids droop. Skin hangs off his bones, the muscles having liquefied from the Fentanyl. He looks so young with the blanket pulled up to his collarbones and the hair mussed down over his brow. Frank rolls his eyes, "Seriously, Red? Lie down."
"Frank, please."
That begging tone hits him right where it hurts. Guilt over Red can't touch him there, not when Lisa's staring at him with what used to be her face. "The fuck do you care, Red? The fuck do you always care? And don't give me that crap about these being good people. You've got four guys wasting their lives doing shitty things around Hell's Kitchen. It doesn't matter who they're doing it for: they're doing it. So I'm gonna go and do what I do."
Red lets Frank's words simmer in the apartment, or maybe he doesn't have a good answer considering he says, "These are good people."
"Oh, Christ…" they may as well record this so it never has to be said again, "Let me hear it, Red. How many wives and kids will they be leaving behind?"
"Yeah, they've done some stupid shit, maybe for Fisk…"
Frank fires on all cylinders. Fucking Red's got his foot on Frank's pedal and is slamming him all the way to the floor. "These aren't stupid people doing stupid shit. This is Fisk. This is Fisk wrapping the city in a chokehold."
"I want to see him gone more than you do-"
"And you know who doesn't do stupid shit anymore? Kitchen Irish doesn't do stupid shit. Fucking cartel doesn't do stupid shit. Dogs of Hell don't do stupid shit. And not because the devil came and handed their asses over to the cops!"
"-because the system works, Frank! It can work! I've seen it!"
"You've seen it. You've seen people go away to prison and come back changed, come back good, Red, that's what you've seen? Because it ain't what I've seen. I've seen Wilson Fisk running the prison where you put him away. I've seen a District Attorney enter a bargain with three gangs for a hit on my family. Now four drunks are trespassing some more, pissing their lives away for a piece of shit convict looking to destroy the city. And you want to tell me the system works: well, shit, Red, you really are blind."
Red looks about ready to burst, he's trembling so bad. His muscles are tense with everything he can't find the strength to say. The edge quavers in his voice, the fight in his stance is waning from his lying there. Fuck, he is lying there despite every effort to strike back. Kid's hardwired to do one thing and one thing only, and his busted leg is getting in the way, "I won't let you kill them, Frank. Not Fisk, not the people he hired."
Frank lets go of his fight too, redirects it towards the four men he's hunting in Hell's Kitchen. Fucking Red looking like a kicked God damn puppy, stuck in bed because of a fight he didn't start that Frank just had to fucking finish. "What the hell are you going to do about it, Red? You're geared up like you're ready to go and do what you do, but we both know that's not going to happen. You're drugged up. The only thing you've eaten besides saline in the past two days is a mug of broth. Your left leg is held together by a plank of wood. All you're gonna do is lie there."
And it is killing him the same way it killed Frank to lie low after catching a bullet with his brain.
He lets the silence stand for a few moments out of respect, but with almost an hour between him and Hell's Kitchen, Frank doesn't let it stand long, "I left you a syringe on the windowsill. You take it when you need it."
Amazing how quickly the spark comes back, how quickly it snakes down the fuse, and explodes when there's something that can be done. Red nabs the syringe and chucks it clear across the room. He sets his face to stone, folds his arms over his waist, but all it does is reinforce the pout he's trying to hide.
Frank shrugs. Fine. No skin off his back. Kid wants to be in pain? Let him be in pain. Let him scream until the neighbours call the ambulance. Let him think of a good explanation for how he got here, how the devil-suit got here. Let him see how the system really works. "See you in a bit, Red."
Kid's last words on the subject are delivered like an epitaph, "You're as bad as Fisk, Frank."
"No, I'm worse." The thought makes the firefight in Frank's head damn-near peaceful, homely. There are monsters in this world, and he is the biggest, baddest monster of them all.
Matt barely hears the door locking over the pounding of his heart. Adrenaline surges, but like the rest of him, it can't get off the cot. He lies there exactly like Frank said he would, because it's all he can do.
He refuses to believe that: honest, he does. He's fighting as hard as he can, working against the drowsy pull of meds, the fluff in his skull. Dad insists, "Get up, Matty," and Stick calls him, "Pussy," and Matt tries his damnedest. By the time Frank is trotting downstairs, Matt is sitting up. His IV is torn out. He grabs his left thigh and moves to suspend his injured leg long enough to balance his right leg under him. He isn't fast enough though. He loses grip; his palms and thigh are too damn sweaty. The weight of the splint carries his broken leg straight into the floor.
There are no words, no fucking words.
There's fire, nausea, and a scream Matt catches with both hands on his mouth. Vomit splashes in the back of his throat. He pitches forward with a barely concealed roar. Then there's an agony that makes his whole body sweat, shake, and be sick. The bones are grinding. He can hear the broken tips of his shin playing the muscle fibres like a harp, staining his thoughts the colour of embers with every pluck. Punching the cot doesn't make it better, but it sure as hell doesn't make it worse. Nothing could make this worse.
Nothing except standing, which Matt finds himself doing a second later. He balances precariously on his good leg, bogged over in a hunch from the sudden rush of blood to his broken one. He moves his hands off his mouth to catch his breath. Bile and saliva hang off his bottom lip; he swipes them aside, refocusing. Not on his leg, no matter how much it rages; not on his head, no matter how much it spins. Matt listens for Frank's footfalls, praying they haven't gone far.
He can't hear them: they're gone.
Panic rushes through him. He might have passed out when his leg hit the floor, lost Frank as easily as he lost consciousness. Frantically, Matt scans the apartment building: heavy metal, kettle boiling, wind whistling, Rina chatting in her anxious rush, Frank responding. He stopped to talk, thank God: "…laying down. I won't be gone long. You keep an ear out for him? Something happens, you call that number."
Not my number, Matt notes. Not the hospital. A private number. Someone else to deal with him. Frank's apparently thought of everything. One wrong move on Matt's part, and he can deal with Frank's associates. He has to act now or never then. Nothing he do after Frank leaves will bring the Punisher back home except the blood of Foley and his crew.
Matt hops closer to the wall before he falls over. Focus, he wills himself, because there's too much, too much of everything. The sensory overload is bad enough without his thoughts battling for attention. Stick and Dad urge him to action with their own respective mantras, but Matt isn't sure what course of action to take. He's naked save for a blanket in a strange apartment. One cellular signal he can detect threads after Frank on the stairs; Frank, who is scant steps away, able to charge back on a moment's notice to administer another dose of Fentanyl.
The neighbours have phones. Matt can detect several buzzing away in the middle unit. Rina has one with her in the hallway chiming with an incoming text. The ringtone is standard. Android. Touchscreen. He could ask to use it, but she would have to dial, and she's probably going to need an explanation about the 9-1-1 call he's asking her to place. To say nothing of the fallout from Frank encountering the police on his mission, or the police tracing the call to his current location.
The police scanner could work…if Matt knew how to use it. He can piece dials and buttons through his fuzzy perception, probably get a frequency straight to Hell's Kitchen. Frank is almost at the front door though. He has no time. He needs to act and act fast and he can't breathe can't walk can't think c'mon, Matty. C'mon, Matty, work to do.
Metal screeches against bricks behind him. Matt turns his ear towards the bathroom to listen. The screech becomes a rattle, lending some dimension. Metal extends along the entire outer wall of the apartment building. Matt thinks drainpipe or gutter at first, and his inner-Stick scolds him for being an idiot. A rattle that deep isn't caused by a narrow band of metal. There's an awning, a platform, on the outer wall, one that runs almost to the front of the building.
And, as luck would have it, there's a window in Frank's bathroom leading directly to it.
Matt moves so quickly that he falls hard onto his right knee, left leg stretched out behind him. Chipped tile cuts into him. His broken bones jerk out of alignment. Matt bites back a scream, senses sputtering. (Don't pass out. Please, please, God. Don't let me pass out.) He grabs the sink and lunges for the window frame. He fumbles with the latch, throws the window open. His right leg wobbles under him; Matt folds himself out the window.
Nighttime. Sunset, actually. Matt can tell from the cool cut of breeze on his face and shoulders, the soft trickle of traffic, the absence of sunlight on his cheeks. He reaches down to find a rusted overhang built along the outer wall. A fire escape. His weight causes it to creak, but he can't feel it buckle. It'll hold him, and he senses a flight of stairs nearby to take him into the parking lot.
There's not a soul around the building for a good block save for Frank Castle, throwing open his car door. "FRANK!" Matt yells, committing to a dive out of the window. He uses his arms to control his descent, rolling onto his right side to protect his left leg from the window. "FRANK, STOP!"
Pain slows him. Matt's heart drops out of adrenaline rush, circling the drain along with his perception. His body thinks he's lying down and coaxes him into it actually, but Matt hears Frank's car door slam and he's crawling like a slug on the rusty covering. "This is your plan," Stick notes disappointedly. Matt ignores the old man. Plan? What plan? He doesn't have a plan. All Matt knows is what he has to do: stop Frank Castle.
He gets back on his foot. His left leg pulses hotly, angrily, bones no doubt seriously askew, but the dragging is slow going with all the extra weight.
The engine roars to life. "No," Matt tugs the blanket more tightly around him to get it out of his way. He hops along using the wall for balance. Frank's tires send gravel spraying across the lot as he peels out. Matt works faster, pumping his right leg as hard as he can, but he can't compete with a car on two legs, let alone one. Frank rips out of the parking lot and is gone, leaving only the soothing sounds of nighttime behind him.
As if on cue, Matt's right knee buckles, and he catches himself. On his broken leg. The thigh twists one way, his foot twists the other. A volcanic erupts below his knee. All of a sudden he's a puppet on cut strings flung flat on the metal floor, and God, the good Lord Almighty, answers his prayers. Matt doesn't pass out. The pain is excruciating. His thoughts churn in shock, the smell of blood grows thick in the air, but he doesn't pass out.
Instead, the good old Murdock blood has him pushing himself back up to standing. He never makes it, but making it's not the point. For Murdock's it's all about the trying. Matt tries to get back up.
Traffic'll be quiet now. Frank will make good time crossing the city. In less than an hour he'll have Foley and his boys on meat hooks, and Matt will be here.
He'll be here.
Matt yells. Throws a good punch into the wall of the building, hard enough that his knuckles split and more blood fills the air. He drops back onto the platform and stays there.
Helplessness builds a fortress inside him. His insecurities mount faster than he can punch. No amount of mental mantras help either. Apparently he is not better than this or stronger than this. He is not a God damn warrior built from the stuff of Spartans. He is a dumbass punching a wall as Frank Castle drives off into the night to kill. "That's what you are," Stick chides him, "That's all you fucking are."
Happy reading!