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 apologize for the delay between updates! I meant to have this chapter posted last week after updating Never Let Go. Unfortunately, I had a lot of trouble with the structure. Providing comfort is not Frank Castle's first instinct and receiving comfort is not Matt's forte, so I had to work and work and work with this to get it post-able. I was also traveling this weekend, limiting my writing time. Anticipate my next updates for later next week.

Readers, lovely readers, I am so grateful when I hear from you. I'm so happy that you're enjoying the fic! I hope you continue to do so. Thank you so much! Cheers!

"What have I become, my sweetest friend?

Everyone I know goes away in the end.

And you could have it all

My empire of dirt.

I will let you down.

I will make you hurt."

~Johnny Cash, "Hurt"

Eleven

Gotta hand it to Red: never a dull fucking moment. The stunt with the bullets is his usual blend of brains, balls, and obliviousness. Yet another half-measure from the devil of Hell's Kitchen, one more reason keeping him here is a shitty idea. At least this one doesn't reek of Red's self-righteousness. That's desperation wafting out of the bathroom, desperation and weakness masquerading as bravado. Frank can tolerate that shit; he understands that shit. But hell if he's going to abide the idiot-devil taking everyone down with him.

So if Red wants to sit there in agony, fine. Frank lets him. It's only a matter of time before the kid can't work. He'll drop another mag and won't be able to pick it up from his shaking or crying, and when that happens, Frank is going to make him ask – nicely – for his fucking meds. Drill two lessons into the dumbass's head with one consequence.

The kid doesn't stop though, not even to take a break. He falters a bit, but bullets trickle steadily onto the towels that Frank's laid out. The magazines hit the floor one after another after another. A glance into the bathroom shows Red crumpling. His skin's a shade of white that belongs in a morgue. Sweat drains off his face and collects in his ratty beard. But he's a man on a mission. No matter how bad he hurts, Red grabs another mag from the tub.

Frank knows the job's done, then, when the clinking stops. That last round ejects, the mag and coin hit the floor, and Red's panting gains in volume till it echoes through the tiny space. Sounds like he's been holding his breath the whole time. Frank knows the feeling; he bates his breath in anticipation of a conversation. He's rewarded with the sounds of skin scraping over tile, of Red groaning in pain, and the inexplicable sound of him hopping out of the bathroom.

He gets to the doorway and makes a good show of pulling his eyes the rest of the way open. But there's a vacancy in his stare from more than just blindness. Red isn't awake. He checked out a long time ago, let his brain fly on autopilot, and the rest of him would be checking out too if he wasn't so God damn stubborn. Amidst gasping for breath, he tucks his IV port tightly against his chest. The bag of saline hangs over his shoulder. For all the good it's doing: saline's shooting straight from his bloodstream out his pores.

There's a long moment where he teeters between the wall and the floor – lost, profoundly lost. He tracks the space with his ears as his face furrows with poorly suppressed terror. His senses must not be compensating like they usually do, however they usually do. The kid hasn't lost himself in the apartment; he doesn't seem to be aware there is an apartment.

Frank tucks himself back inside the kitchen and tells himself it serves the kid fucking right. Should've taken the meds. Shouldn't've fucked with the ammo. Should've stayed in bed. And no amount of blind, puppy dog eyes is going to get Frank to leap at helping him. Although so help the kid, he fucks that God damn leg up again…

"Eight paces to your right," Frank tells him. "Watch out for the table."

Red's barely audible over his breathing, "Thanks." The splint drags into the hardwood on his hop of shame back to the cot. Frank hears the table rattle. Red bites back a curse. He stands there – hunched over, shaking, falling apart faster than he can pull his shit together.

Frank stops watching again. Doesn't know why he started. His memories are kicking up dust. He's watching Lisa's first steps and Frank Jr. nursing wounds from football and him, Frank, dazedly working his way through a shitty motel room. Brain lit up like a combat zone as he tries to figure out why he's not at home. He asked to go home. The nurse brought him home; he remembers being at home. But where's Maria? Where are the kids?

Scrubbing his head helps spread the weight of the bullet around his brain. Kids are dead. Maria's dead. Home's gone, burned. And the shock he remembers from that shitty motel room was a long time ago. Frank knows who he is now. Knows what he has to do. He wishes he could say the same for Red, but the kid clearly hasn't found the thing that fixes him yet.

He has found the cot. That's something. Frank stands in the doorway again, staring at Red's shocky, shivery form as he tries to find a comfortable position with his ravaged body. He gets his leg propped up, his head on the pillow. A storm rumbles in the distance, jostling the window panes and what little resolve the kid has. Red hisses. The silk sheet twists through his hands in a fight to get the pain under control.

Frank waits for him to reach to the windowsill and be disappointed. The Fentanyl injection is on the desk, along with the midazolam, because the pain has to be bad. Red's leg is back to the size it was after the initial break. He isn't going to sleep with the storm jangling his nerves all night.

Good thing silk doesn't break easily. Red tears at the sheet, hoping if he just pulls it enough, if he wills it enough, relief will come.

He doesn't reach for the windowsill. Not once.

Red draws another shuddering breath, "Night, Frank."

"Night, Red," Frank replies.

The kid's breathing evens out eventually, and he slips into that silent state he's been maintaining, the one where he's not awake but he's not asleep either. He rouses with every rumble from the storm, gasping, grasping at his left knee. And every time Frank thinks this is it. The kid's tapping out. The storm builds, dragging Red's agony right along with it. But the kid gets his breathing under control and fades away again. Until the next thunderclap.

Frank grabs a few winks. He wakes to the departing storm and Red's staggered breathing. "Morning, sunshine." The kid doesn't answer. Frank gives him an affectionate tap on the left foot. Red chokes on his next breath.

It's time. It's been time forever now. But the kid puts his fucking brave face on and breathlessly replies, "Morning, Frank." He slips back into controlled silence.

The stench of ammonia has cleared. Frank gets the dry rounds back in the ammo cans; punches some antibiotics into Red's IV. He showers, shaves, dresses. Brews a pot of coffee. By then, the sun's coming up. Neighbours are moving. Rina's knocking at the door.

She takes a step back when he answers and drops her head, building a wall between them with her platinum blonde hair. There's a stack of Tupperware in her arms that she hands off to Frank. It weighs almost as much as Red does and smells heady, rich.

"I was cooking. I made too much." She always makes too much, ever since Frank respectfully declined the first meal she brought him when he moved in. Her blustering explanation continues, "I have so much, and I don't have room. This will go to waste, and I eat…eat…not as much as this. I don't need this. Please take this. And if you won't eat it, feed your brother. He is…" she grows stern. Well, as stern as a woman like Rina can get without a knife in her hand. "He is tiny. And you have not left for groceries. Not that I…not that I was noticing. It's your business. But your brother needs food. He is injured. And small. And so many scars on him. And he is alright, yes? The doctor, she was able to fix his leg?"

"Yes, ma'am," Frank nods to her. Rina nods back in place of commenting how good that is. Much as she can babble, Rina wastes little breath on social niceties. Frank tilts the stack of containers in gratitude. "I'll make sure he eats. Thank you."

"You eat too," she decrees.

"Yes, ma'am," he doesn't try to turn down Rina's cooking because it isn't good or he isn't hungry. There's a mounting debt between them, one Frank can't hope to repay in full with how little Rina requires of others. "Thank you."

Rina nods once more and skitters back to her apartment. "You have a good day. Tell your brother to have a good day too."

"You too, ma'am. Thank you."

No sooner is the door shut than another conversation begins: "Frank."

Red's eyes aren't open. His muscles are screwed up tight under his sweat-dampened clothing. A faint tremor bounces through him from head to foot to head. The ammonia's left his hands chapped, cracked, and bright red. Frank can't help but say a silent hallelujah. The kid has finally found his way to some common fucking sense. Frank sets the Tupperware on the desk and palms the syringe. "What do you need, Red?"

The kid still hasn't opened his eyes. Maybe he can't; that would hurt too much. The rest of him quivers, raw and exposed. Nerves shredded to shit from lying there in agony. "Can I have a bath?"

Frank puts the syringe down. "Yeah, I'll get it started."

He marches off, taking his damn time with it: finding Red a dry towel, getting the water just right, arranging the slab of plywood in the bottom corner for the broken leg. When that's finished, he paces, biding his time for Red to say it. Fucking say it, Red. Because fifteen hours without pain meds is more stupid and useless than the shit with the bullets.

Frank's impatience is thinly veiled when he steps out of the bathroom. "All yours," he tells Red, who is still lying prostrate on the cot. Who's eyes still aren't open. The kid has his right hand spread on the wall with enough force to leave a dent. Tendons pop out of the back of his left hand too, which is drawn into a fist on the side of the cot.

His face screws up tight. Lips peel between his teeth. His eyelids are clamped shut. There are tears pooling in his hair, mingling with fresh sweat. Most alarmingly, however, is the complete lack of self-consciousness he's showing. He doesn't notice Frank is staring. He can't.

When he finally does, Red slams his fist into the wall. He catches the cry before it can leave his throat. "Can't move, can you, Red?" Frank says quietly, and the wall takes another punch in reply. Red's mouth cracks open, releasing a small, strangled sound, one that sends Frank back into the bathroom.

He has a good yell welling up inside him to match the screams welling up inside Red, but that ends poorly. Red's not a boot Corporal. Yell at him, force him to do shit, and Red's first instinct is to disobey especially if it's for his own good.

So Frank swallows his rage – for now. It's gonna come out swinging if Red gets surly, and Frank's going to let it because the kid has no one to blame but himself for this. No one. He runs a washcloth under cold water and walks back out to the cot. Without saying a word, he gets Red into a sitting position. He dodges the weak blows to his arm and face. He clamps the cloth to the back of Red's neck and forces the kid to hold it there. Then Frank folds Red's right leg up so it's next to his face. "Breathe," he says. "Slow it down, Red. Just breathe."

Red's face crumples. "My right leg…it won't…"

Frank knows, "You're exhausted. Worked yourself too hard for too long."

"I can do this," and he believes it so much that anyone else might too.

"Not like this. This isn't the shit you walk off."

"I have walked off worse shit than this."

"Yeah, and look where some of that got you: chained to a rooftop."

Red scoffs. It almost sounds like a laugh. His next breath is slower, more measured. Shaky as hell, but that's expected with unmanaged pain. "I can't…I can't think straight with them. The meds. I…they…" Red shoves the cloth more deeply into his hair. The chill helps. "I need to be able to focus. I need to do that."

"You focused right now?" Frank calls bullshit on that. No way Red's focused up after hurting this long.

"It's worse with the drugs."

Frank calls bullshit on that too. "Doc's comin' back tonight. You talk to her about what you need. Meantime, you gotta take something. You're gonna kill yourself, you keep this up."

"I can't. I can't, Frank."

He stays on course. "You asked me whose cot I would be lying on, if it was my leg that got busted? Shit, Red, best case scenario, you'd haul my ass back to your apartment and use your fancy ninja skills to get me to take the meds. I don't like 'em more than you do."

Red's voice gets quiet, somewhat ashamed. His left hand plays across his twisted silk sheet. "I thought that's what you were going to do. Kind of…kind of surprised that you haven't."

"Makes two of us. I'm tired of your shit, Red, but I can only save you from yourself for so long, Red."

"Thank you."

It takes Frank a second to realize that he isn't being thanked for refusing to save Red from his own stupidity. The fact that he's being thanked it weird on its own without considering that it's the sheet and the clothes and the effort he's put in that Red actually appreciates. "Yeah, don't…" he scrubs the right side of his head, rising from the cot. "Don't mention it."

Red nods. A violent tremor runs through him. Tears edge into his voice. "Give me…give me the stuff. The meds."

Frank grabs the syringe.

"Not…not too much," Red begs.

"You tell me when."

The kid offers his left arm. Holy Mary, Mother of God – Frank can't believe it. No arguments, no backtalk, no sparring. He pops the needle into the port and slowly depresses the plunger. The effects are immediate. Red sags against the wall. His right hand drops from the cloth; his right knee falls back on the bed. His eyelids flutter. The tension in his body drains. A few errant tears stream down his cheeks - in relief this time. "There, there," he sighs, head dangling from his neck, "Right there. Right there, Frank."

Frank nudges a little extra into the kid's vein. Just a little. He withdraws the needle and pops the cap back on. "You still wanna wash up?"

Nodding. The second his IV is disconnected, Red rolls towards the edge of the cot. Jesus, this shit again. Frank cuts him off. "Nice try, Red." He picks the kid up, all hundred-and-nothing pounds of him, and carries him into the bathroom. The sudden change in altitude knocks Red right out for several seconds. His head rocks hard against Frank's shoulder. "I've gotten pretty good at this."

Red's looking green and gaggy as he comes round. He chokes on several breaths as Frank gets him settled on the bathroom floor. "Don't…don't say that."

"I go too fast?"

Red shakes his head. He swirls a finger through the air, "Ammonia."

Frank sniffs. Between the breeze and his shower, the smell of ammonia's gone. For him, at least. He gazes down at Red. "You still smell that?"

"Compensation," Red sighs unhappily.

"Understatement," Frank counters.

He earns another nod from Red, "You have no idea."

Pain medication doesn't make Red less of a pain in the ass. He's a different kind of pain in the ass. He is well-intentioned but unhelpful. Anti-helpful, actually. His attempts to get undressed counter Frank's attempts to assist him. He ends up more clothed than not by the time Frank asks, "You doing this or am I, Red?"

The kid ducks his face in shame, or maybe it's exhaustion dragging his head towards the ground. "You."

"Lift your arms."

Thirty seconds later, it's done – shirt, sweats, everything - and Red is lowering himself into the water. "Told you I was getting good at this," Frank says, balling up the soiled clothing for laundry. Actually, he was good at this once. Once upon a time.

Red is disassociating or falling asleep or both. His words slur as he speaks, and he has to balance his head against the tap to hold it upright. "Don't get used to it. I'm getting…I'm getting back on my feet."

"Yeah, yeah," Frank breaks out the first aid kit. He tugs on a pair of neoprene gloves. "You're tough shit, Red."

He dives right into changing the dressings on the leg, checking intermittently that Red is breathing. The Fentanyl might have taken the edge off getting into the bathroom, but it's not doing much for unraveling the bandages. Red's shaking as his incision is unpacked. There's no infection, but the swelling and redness are back up. Frank douses it all in saline solution. Doc's going to have a fit when she sees it. "Need to get some ice on this."

Red nods, looking dazed. He fumbles for the bar of soap on the edge of the tub, trying to take his mind off Frank prodding at the initial injury on the back of his calf. He scrubs at his face, his arms, his chest, but the movements are jerky. The lethargy from the Fentanyl is gone, replaced with the frenetic energy from earlier.

He reaches for the taps, twisting until he gets the water running. "I got it, I got it…" he dismisses Frank's attempt to help, shoving his head under the stream. His mouth opens wide and eyes scrunch up tight. The whistle of the pipes masks his shout of pain.

When he emerges, the expression has drained out of Red's face, and his head hangs in blissful defeat, water curving over his neck and shoulders. He breathes in long strokes: five counts in, five counts out, repeat. He's moving in slow motion compared to the rush of water and Frank's movements, but he looks utterly at peace with the world.

"Red?"

Time catches up to him. The kid lifts his head to rest against the tap once more. He reaches blindly along the wall, searching. When he doesn't find it, Red does something funny: he sniffs. "No shampoo, Frank?"

"No hair, Red."

The kid considers the bar of soap. He really has to think before he puts it into his hair and swipes a few times, working up a lather. The look on his face rivals that first smell of ammonia. It gets worse, the longer he spends washing his locks. He shoves his head back under the tap to rinse. "Not your fancy, hypoallergenic, organic stuff…" is as close to apologizing as Frank gets. And on that note, "What's the devil of Hell's Kitchen need with silk sheets and designer shampoo?"

Red tears his head out of the running water. He turns off the tap. "I like nice things."

"No, you don't," because if that were true, it wouldn't be just silk sheets and shampoo. It would be fancy track suits instead of threadbare tees and sweats. And the attitude – nice things come with a superiority complex that a scrappy kid like Red doesn't have beyond his morality.

"I like nice sheets."

Frank keeps his reaction as neutral as possible when he regards the skin on Red's chest, arms, and scalp turning faintly pink with irritation. It's not allergies or compensation. It's soap wreaking havoc on the devil of Hell's Kitchen. "Yeah," Frank agrees, "I can see why."

Matt waits for the follow-up questions he senses brewing from the bottom corner of the tub. They never come. Nothing does. God, he can't have misjudged Frank Castle this much, and yet the man they call the Punisher isn't pressing the advantage of Matt's dulled inhibitions. If Frank asked him now, the explanation would tumble out of him. He's already given most of the secret away. He doesn't really have a good reason to keep it a secret save for the fact that it's the one thing he can still call his.

He's grateful when Frank doesn't ask. God, he's exhausted. The Fentanyl doesn't begin to cover it. There's a deep-seated ache simmering under the druggy numbness coating his awareness. He hurts from how tired he is. It's not just his leg looking to let loose when the medication wears off. More distantly, Matt senses fear: he was jarred out of meditation so easily and so often. He feels phantom vibrations from the storm in his bones and the hard tug on his broken leg of a ceiling he caught for Frank Castle, and he can't concentrate. The medication doesn't dull the memories; the agony finds him easily through the haze. Matt can't ask for more.

Frank doesn't offer. He does his duty: tossing Matt a towel when the tub drains, helping him up as he dries, getting him back to the cot, reattaching his IV. The single-mindedness is grating. Matt bristles from the attention. He doesn't know what to do with Frank's interest, how to interpret it. Silk sheets aren't required to help his leg heal, and Frank would be perfectly justified in dropping him off at the precinct. The Punisher isn't capable of empathy or guile. There's the mission. Matt's a mission. But he's more than a mission?

God, he's tired. He doesn't bother with a shirt. Briefs and sweats, then he lies down again. Frank drapes a bag of frozen vegetables next to his propped-up leg. The cold stops Matt in his tracks, a perfect blend of awful and perfect. "Gotta eat something first."

"Not hungry, Frank." Matt wants to sleep.

"Not asking." Frank places a mug in his hand. More soup. Apparently, Rina did stop by this morning. Matt thought her visit was a pain-induced hallucination.

It's more than broth this time. Thick egg noodles and shredded pieces of chicken, dimes of carrots. Parsley and onion. The salt and heat are exactly what his body wants. Matt's thoughts swirl, the harsh ache of exhaustion fizzles. He puts the mug on the table. "Thanks."

Frank takes the mug, replaces it with something else. A small item humming with an electrical charge and a microprocessor. It informs Matt that he has five new voicemails (his maximum) and one hundred and fifty-seven messages (a personal best) and a slew of updates for his apps.

"I'm going out," Frank already has a jacket on. "Take care of some stuff."

Matt can't tell if he has a gun. He can't be bothered to care. His senses are spinning, reeling at the thought of one hundred and fifty-seven messages and the looming threat of pain, pain, pain.

"You need anything?"

"No."

A loaded pause. "Listen, Red, I don't want to dose you before I go-"

"I'm done, Frank." He is. War's over. Fires have ceased.

Frank appreciates that. The way his posture loosens suggests he wasn't looking forward to another surprise from Red today. "Needle's on the sill. Low dose. You take it when you needed. I'm not going long. Need a couple of things for your leg."

He doesn't say good-bye. He's out the door, down the stairs, and walking out of the parking lot. No car today. Matt closes his eyes, follows the twirl of his thoughts past the nagging conclusion that Frank is leaving for a reason. That Frank put the phone on the table for a reason. He isn't going out to kill; he's giving Matt some privacy.

Matt double-taps for his voice mail and presses the phone to his ear.

"Matt, it's Karen. Hi. Look-"

He deletes it. He deletes it and tears the phone away from his ear because her voice, her voice drains through his ear like boiling water and he deserves the burn. He wants that pain, not whatever she has to say.

Unfortunately, the next message is from her too: sorer, angrier, "Look, I know that we haven't spoken, and I know that hurt you-"

Delete.

Foggy this time: "Matt, quit being a dick, pick up your God damn phone, and call Karen."

Delete.

Karen: "God damn it, Matt."

Delete.

"…click…"

Delete.

Matt isn't ready for the text messages. He half-considers turning his phone off or throwing it across the room. They shouldn't be calling. They have plenty of people in their lives to call, to worry about, and Matt isn't one of them. Not anymore. He sets his phone back on the table.

He breaks so quickly, so messily. Fingers crashing onto the table, scrambling for purchase. Heart quaking in his chest. Limbs spilling at odd angles as he tries to get the phone to his ear. Her number is still on his speed dial. His phone is ringing, ringing, and Matt wills don't pick up, don't pick up, don't pick up. Be at work, be in a meeting, be nursing a hangover: just don't pick up.

"Matt!" his ear seers. "Matt, where the hell have you been?"

Matt forces himself to respond, "Hi, Karen."

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