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 spent most of the hiatus between seasons of Daredevil writing about the deep love between Matt and Foggy. I admit was a little strange to have the first person he calls be Karen, so the conversation here took several rewrites. Hence the delay in posting. For those of you eagerly awaiting Foggy's arrival, don't worry. I haven't forgotten him. He's coming.

Thank you, Readers, for your wonderful support! I love writing in this fandom. The feedback is great. You are great. Please enjoy!

"And I am feeling so small.

I was over my head.

I know nothing at all.

And I will stumble and fall.

I'm still learning to love,

Just starting to crawl."

~A Great Big World, "Say Something"

Twelve

Karen speaks in a near whisper, her voice tight with desperation. Most people would be relieved, but Karen knows who she's talking to: "Matt, where the hell have you been?"

Matt avoids the question. There's a great swell of anxiety rising in his chest over the subject of where, stronger than the Fentanyl fuzz. "How did you know I was gone?"

"What does that matter?" her tone knifes into his skull carving God damn it, Matt-s and how could you-s into his ear canal. It's a lot like the last time they spoke actually, when Karen's shock gave way to horror. She stormed out of the office with carefully concealed rage saying that she needed time. How much time, Matt still doesn't know. Karen isn't ready to speak to him. He can hear it. Even over the phone, he can hear it. "You have been gone for almost a week. We were going to file a missing persons report if we didn't hear from you."

Matt tries again to dodge the issue of where. Where, indeed. "Who's we?"

Karen is not falling for that shit, "God damn it, Matt. I thought you were past the point of keeping secrets."

"I thought you were…past the point of talking to me." So there. Guess that makes them even.

The phone line fizzles with an angry rush of breath. "You lied to me. You lied to me for months! And you pushed Foggy-!" Karen stops, sensing. She releases another enraged huff of breath through the phone. He successfully derailed her, and she needs to get back on track. "Where are you? What the hell is going on, Matt?"
He gives up picking a fight for the simplest answer. "I'm fine, Karen. I'm safe. You don't…you don't need to worry about me."

"Why did you even bother calling, then?"

Matt sighs. She is going to hang up on him, and he is going to deserve it. "I don't want you and Foggy calling the police."

Amazingly, Karen doesn't hang up. She leads the charge, "You made us a part of this. Whether you like it or not. And you do not get to decide when we back off."

"I thought you both already had. I told Foggy. I told him to leave this alone. And you did a really good job of that all by yourself."

The comment leaves Karen utterly speechless for a long, painful moment. The only sound worse than her furious voice is the silence buzzing between them. Matt can hear her mouth clamped shut and the ferocious pound of her heart. God damn him: she had every right to walk away, and he doesn't want to be an asshole. This is why he wanted to talk to her voicemail.

"Wow," Karen breathes, awestruck. He exceeded her douchbag expectations, and Matt assumes they were pretty high given her allegiance with Foggy. "That is…that is rich coming from you. After you spent months keeping this from me. How would you like me to react, Matt? You want me to cheer you on from the sidelines? Patch you up when you've been beaten down?" she scoffs, because that doesn't save people from Matt Murdock. "I loved you, and Foggy loved you, and you chased us both of out your life like we were nothing."

They weren't nothing. "You…you aren't nothing."

The words hang between them in the electrical static. Karen doesn't drink in his compliments. She scrutinizes them, suspicious, wondering what the catch could possibly be when they've lost this much already.

Matt doesn't want her knowing how dark this gets between them. He had to chase Foggy away tooth and claw. He can't do that again. "What day is it?"

"You don't know what day it is?"

"No," the anxiety is mounting. Matt chases after his breath as tears burn in his eyes. "What…what day?"

The edge drops out of Karen's voice, and it's worse. It's worse than the rage. Her words trickle over his skin like summer rain, pooling at the base of his spine in a tender cradle. "You don't know where you are, do you?"

He lashes back, praying for anger on her part, "I am…I am safe. I'm okay."

Fear. Not of him: for him. "Are you still in the city?"

Her warmth flashes up his spine. Matt squirms away from it. He can't. He can't. "Yes, I'm…I'm still in the city. I know which borough, but I can't…I can't have you coming looking for me. It's...I'm not alone, Karen."

"The old man…Stick…"

"No, he's gone."

"Do you know who you're with?"

"I can't tell you." Karen isn't likely to turn Frank over to the police, but Foggy is, and Matt isn't capable of mediating Frank's surrender to the NYPD. Nobody is.

"Tell me where. Foggy…Foggy knows people. We'll find you. We'll come get you."

Matt can't. "What day is it?"

Karen relents, "It's Sunday, Matt."

Five days. He's been out for five days. Stuck in a place he doesn't know with Frank Castle for five days. "Lantom is going to worry." Church has been the only place he hasn't cut out of his life.

The scoff from the other line lets him know how ridiculous his concern is. How ridiculous Matt's concern always is. He doesn't care about not knowing where he is or that the friends he chased out of his life are worried, but his parish priest better not be fretting. Karen thankfully doesn't have to mention any of that out loud. "You say you're safe. This person you're with – are they holding you there? Are you coming home?"

Matt can't see Frank backing out on that one. "Eventually."

She gives up and goes for broke, asking, "Can we meet somewhere, Matt?"

They can. He is capable of meeting people. But he doesn't want…he shouldn't… There's a reason Foggy and Karen aren't a part of his life, and though the broken leg complicates things, Matt can't abandon the mask. Fisk is going to break out of prison. Innocent people are going to die. Nevermind the fact that he can't get out of bed. "I'll let you know."

"God damn you, Matt," Karen hisses. Matt accepts her scalding tone with worthy resignation. "Why did you bother calling? This doesn't make me want to file a missing persons report any less."

"It's not that. It's…not the person I'm with, it's…" the fact that he can't move without pain, that he's on bed rest, that his leg is falling apart. She doesn't need to know. "It's fine."

"It's never been fine." She allows the obligatory suffix, "…not with you," to go unspoken. "Look, the day you told me about…the mask, you said you were done keeping secrets from me."

"I am. I wanted to be. But something's happened, Karen, and it's fine, I promise…"

She stops him. Matt barely recognizes the tone. Karen gets authoritative with unruly clients, but she's never had to deliver him an ultimatum. "Agree to meet me. You name the place and the time, and I will be there. Otherwise I am calling the NYPD, and I'm getting Foggy to hire that menace PI who does dirty work for his firm, and we will tear up this entire city looking for you."

He isn't sure if he's in love with her or terrified of her. It's probably both. "Alright, I'll meet with you. But I will have to get back to you, Karen, about when and where."
"I will give you until tomorrow."

"That-" Matt is having visions of the doctor putting him on another week of bed rest. God, he doesn't want to do this. He wants to be alone: they need to leave him alone. "I'll call you tonight."

Her silence tells him she's not expecting much. Matt knows exactly how she feels.

"I'll talk to you then," Karen says instead of what she actually thinks.

Matt catches her before she can disconnect, "Karen."

"Yeah."

"Tell Foggy-"

She cuts him off sharply, "You tell Foggy."

And she hangs up.

Matt lets the phone drop from his ear. The quiet of the apartment is overwhelming. Air and electricity buzz in a faint fuzz of white noise. It's a lousy distraction. Matt prods at his phone angrily.

He sends an SMS: I'm fine. Also: I called Karen.

Matt tosses his phone back on the table. He doesn't get a response – he isn't expecting one, not really – but his hearing hones in on his phone like it's the good old days instead of the bad new ones.

He waits, and the inevitable nothing occurs.

Frank returns to a quiet apartment. The cell phone's moved on the nightstand. Thank goodness Red can take a hint. Now neither of them have to talk about it: not the cops checking in on Red or the people who bullied the cops into doing so. He knew Red was lying about not having anyone. Kid has plenty of people he's looking to avoid right now is all, which is why Red clams up and doesn't say a God damn thing. No small talk to try and learn more about Frank, no big talk about how wrong it is to kill people. Nothing about ninjas or resurrected girlfriends.

The kid takes to using cooperation as a distraction. He eats and drinks what Frank gives him. He accepts help when he has to relieve himself. He says please and thank you and sounds sincere. And Frank would be relieved if he didn't know better. Cooperation is a captive behaviour, one he thought was beneath Red. The kid ran his mouth while in chains with a gun to his head. Loathe as Frank is to admit missing Red's semi-conscious fits, his sarcastic comebacks, his God damn self-righteous, moral high-horse bullshit; his anger and his discomfort, at least those were real. Red was there, present. Now he's going through whatever motions he has to in order to get by and get away.

It's not the meds. Red takes the bare minimum. He props himself up as high as his pillow will allow and lays there, concentrating hard against the meds pulling his eyes back into his skull. When his eyes do close, it's not in chemical sleep. Red's breath is five counts in, five counts out. Measured. Even.

Frank is a little surprised when the silence is broken about mid-afternoon: "You uh…you box, Frank?"

He looks up from the dismantled colts he's been cleaning to check the kid. The life's worming its way back into Red. His colour's back, and his voice sounds involved, connected. Whatever bad feelings he was nursing this morning seem to have dissipated. He's trying, at the very least.

Frank decides that he can try too. A little. He opens his mouth to respond only to have Red cut him off, "Let me guess: once."

Cheeky little shit. Frank briefly considers asking when was the last time he spoke to Miss Page and the Nelson guy. Let me guess: once. But this ceasefire shit is boring, and Red's obviously not looking for a fight. His question about boxing isn't deep or profound. There's nothing to be gained by the answer, no judgment he can level.

Frank plays along, "Started when I was a kid. Never did much with it. It was something to do with my hands when I wasn't pulling the trigger." He lets that hang, triple dog daring Red to come at him. Red doesn't; it's a fight for another time. "I don't have to ask if you do. You dressed up your bob and weave with a bunch of ninja shit, but you box."

Red's quiet again. Not captive-quiet, more nothing-else-to-say quiet. Frank doesn't let it stand. He's got an in, a civil one, and he's taking it, "You start boxing before or after you went blind?"

"I could've been born blind, Frank."

"Yeah, but you weren't," the way his eyes move tell Frank they were good for something once upon a time. "How old were you when you went blind?"

"Nine."

"What happened?"

"An accident," and then, quickly, to avoid more conversation about his lost sight. "I learned how to box before. My dad…my dad was a boxer."

"Any good?"

"He could be," the way his voice trails off strikes a chord in Frank. He recognizes the tone all too well. Red's dad is dead.

Red weaves past the anticipated how-did-it-happen, "He never wanted me to fight though."

"Papa Murdock wouldn't approve of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?"

A laugh, a light one, "No, I think the Devil of Hell's Kitchen was exactly his style, just not…not with me wearing the mask."

"He wanted a lawyer?" it comes out like an insult; Frank doesn't mean it to, not with the ghost of the kid's old man hovering, but he can't help it. Lawyers leave a bad taste in his mouth. Fucking Reyes. Fucking justice system. God damn Red and his idealism. Life isn't a boxing ring or a comic book. The bad guys shouldn't get to come back for a rematch.

Red's smarting more than he lets on, "He didn't want me to become him. He wanted something better."

"Dads always want better for their kids." Frank certainly does. Hell, he doesn't have to be their dad to not want his kids ripped apart by three gangs and a crooked DA. But he can't waste his time on the better that could have been instead. Those thoughts are long gone, because there is no instead for Lisa or Frank Jr. There's no instead for him or Red or Papa Murdock. There's what happened. There's what is. "I take it ninja training wasn't your old man's idea?"

"No," Red's tone goes deep and dark and foreboding. Evidently, ninja school is a more protected subject for Red than his dad's death.

Frank bides his time. Eventually they're going to have a few more words about Red's undead ninja girlfriend, and the truth about Red's style is going to come out. "Why'd you start fighting?"

"I wanted to protect people."

"You couldn't do that as a lawyer."

Red absorbs the jab and asks, "Why'd you join the military?"

Another distraction. And here Frank thought they were having a conversation the way normal folks do. Whatever Red's running from must be pretty damn big for him to stick to such basic questions.

"I just did, Red, but my old man never had a problem with me fighting," Frank gets them back on topic. He's sick of this pussy-footing shit. "Is that what you think you're doing right now? You protecting people, that it, Red? 'Cuz it sounds like some people are pretty worried about you. Calling the cops like that, being a dick to detectives…"

Red's counterattack ain't half-bad. It certainly gives Frank pause when the kid notes, "Are you…are you lecturing me about friendship?"

Frank isn't responding to that. The hell does he know about friendship. "You'd rather be on my cot than with the two people ballsy enough to ask the NYPD to check-up on you. That's messed up, Red."

He expects an argument, a low-blow, a comment about his family. Red gives him none of that. It's not a captive behaviour. Red isn't submitting to Frank or trying to appease him. He sags into the cot, genuinely defeated, because he, Daredevil, couldn't agree more with what the Punisher's said.

And that's really messed up.

"She wants to meet," Red states, thoroughly defeated. "Karen. She's…she's going to call the police if I don't."

"You tell her about your leg?"

"No."

"You tell her where you are?"

"I don't know where I am, Frank."

"You know enough."

Red turns his head towards the window he can't see out of, and it's an admission that yes, he probably does. Enough that Miss Page could find him if she tried. "No, I didn't."

Frank sighs, relieved on one hand, but knowing that Red didn't do it to protect the Punisher from discovery. He did it to hide himself away. Frank isn't going to give him that option. "After the doc checks you out, you give her a time and place, Red. I'll get you there."

"Thanks."

Again with the gratitude: for the offer, not the prospect of meeting with Karen. Red sounds absolutely raw, bristling. His ear twitches in the direction of his phone. Frank half-expects it to go off, the way the kid focuses on it. "Yeah. Don't mention it."

Doc arrives in the evening. She's fresh from rotation at the hospital, still in her scrubs. Her ponytail has slid onto her neck and is fraying. She keeps tucking loose strands of glossy black hair behind her ears; the locks fall again, framing her face. Frank thinks she's nervous at first, fearful. He is about to ask what's got her spooked when her shoulders slump forward. Her energy is from exhaustion, nothing more.

Frank gives her a cup of coffee. She doesn't turn it down. Tosses it back like a shot, in fact. She returns the empty mug to Frank, "Thanks." Doc turns her attention to the leg. "Swelling's up, but I don't smell infection."

"It's fine," Red informs her.

She drops her bag, takes off her coat. The ID flips around: Sato. Frank tucks the name away for later. "You tried walking on it again."

"I hopped."

"Swelling can shift the bones out of alignment."

"They're fine."

"So you've said," and she believes him, or at the very least doesn't question him about it further.

"No drugs," Red says softly. How he knows she has the needle out catches Frank. It's eerie. The twilight glow from the window and low light in the apartment makes Red's blind, averted stare appear supernatural.

Doc hasn't caught on to Red's game, or maybe she hasn't asked. She has learned the valuable art of what questions are relevant. It doesn't matter to her that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen is blind so long as she outlasts the men gunning for her. She looks at Frank for direction. He gives her a curt nod. Kid wants pain, let him have it. Doc places the needle on the table.

Her ministrations are quick, though Red's face makes it look like she took her damn time. He doesn't scream. Doc carries on professionally, "I would need an x-ray to be sure of how the bone is healing. The wounds are clean though. You need to stay off your feet for the swelling to go down. No hopping, no hobbling. The leg needs to be elevated."

"Yeah," Red is barely with her. He clings to consciousness with a vengeance. "When can I get back on my feet?"

"You'll need a cast, a walking boot. That will allow you to ice the area. You'll also need crutches," Doc finally looks at Red's eyes. She looks like she's about to say something before thinking better of it, especially when Red senses her staring. She gazes back to the leg. "It'll be a while before you're weight-bearing."

"How long is a while?"

"Eight, ten weeks – give or take."

Red scoffs, "No."

"Yes," Doc challenges him, "and that's if you don't need another operation. The cast itself needs to stay on for twelve to sixteen weeks, also give or take." Frank's banking on 'give' for Red, and he bets the doc is too.

The kid isn't getting it, "Is there a cast-"

Frank isn't indulging this shit. "Doc says you're off the leg, you're off the leg,"

The kid seethes. His breathing gets harsher, taking on all the makings of a growl. "We'll see."

"We won't," Frank decrees, ignoring the Red's pout. To the doctor: "He's off the leg."

She nods in thanks. "He can use the crutches to get around, but he – you –" she addresses the sulking Red, "You need to keep the leg elevated as much as possible. Use ice to reduce the swelling. Take the pain medication as necessary."

Frank waits for Red to speak up about the pain meds, but the kid is worlds away from the conversation. Plotting his next attempt at walking or running or ninja-ing, no doubt. Fuck, the kid is a master in self-destruction. "You got anything lighter than the Fentanyl, Doc?"

"I have Tylenol-3s. With codeine."

"No," Red insists. "No narcotics."

"You will be in agony."

Red says nothing. He withdraws himself from the conversation in silent ultimatum.

Frank handles negotiations from there. "We'll take whatever you got."

"I'm not taking it."

"We'll talk about it later," Frank can't believe they're having this conversation. They're men. Grown men. And Red might be a delinquent, but damn, not everything needs to be a fight. "Now say thanks to Doctor Sato."

Red says, "Thank you," but his terseness lets Frank know it's not surrender. This is far from over. This is twelve to sixteen weeks of total fucking misery for them both.

Doc senses that too. She casts a glance to Frank. He nods at her in approval of what Red's said. She looks back at Red, fingers flexing towards her coat and kit. She is itching to get the hell out of the apartment before the war breaks out. "You're welcome."

The doctor's words echo in Matt's brain. Twelve to sixteen weeks is three to four months: give or take, give or take, give or take. And so help Frank if the bastard tries to give him T3s. Matt is sick of the narcotic haze. He'll take the agony. He can take the agony.

As if in response, a fiery tug of pain snaps him out of meditative calm. The doctor's gone, but Frank is in the kitchen brewing an umpteenth pot of coffee. Matt catches himself hissing, gripping at his left thigh. Fear grips his heart hard. The smell of the pills on the table burn at his nostrils. He already took Frank's last Aspirin, but there's a T3 waiting for him next to a cup of water if he needs it.

He doesn't need it.

"You tell your secretary you're going to meet her?"

Matt gets his breathing under control. The break gnaws on his muscles. "Doc said I needed to keep my leg elevated."

The coffee machine sputters. It's barely finishes when Frank yanks it off the hot plate and pours himself a cup. "Don't want the NYPD knocking on my door, Red."

"She won't," Matt wrenches at his leg. He counts to eight as he inhales. His exhale only lasts three beats from the deep burn in his calf. Clearly, his leg knows Karen better than he does.

Frank emerges from the kitchen on a direct path to the table. Matt snatches his phone away. "The hell is stopping you. You scared for her to see you like this?"

"Screw you, Frank!" the anger steals his voice for twelve to sixteen weeks. "You don't know anything about this."

"I know that girl isn't bluffing. She is going to call in whoever it takes to find you, and that's if she doesn't start digging through the city herself. You know she loves you, Red? Karen?"

Second time in twenty-four hours that Frank is talking about feelings and friendship, and this time, he's doing it with direct reference to Karen. Matt's head spins from more than just pain. "How do you know that?"

Frank's turn to dodge the question. "Tell her you'll meet her next week at your place."

"How do you know that, Frank?" Matt demands.

"You got your secrets, I got mine," Frank pokes at the phone in Matt's hand. The motion comes as a surprise. Matt is lost in his own confusion, his own mortification. Karen said she loved him; he assumed that meant as a friend. Frank makes it sound like it's more than that. "Call her. Or I will. And take those God damn pills while you're at it."

Frank walks away, sipping at his coffee. Cold sweat almost causes Matt's phone to fall out of his hand. He unlocks his phone, but he doesn't call. He double taps for SMS. God damn Frank. God damn him to hell.

"See you next Sunday. My place," Matt narrates. His phone reads the message back to him. He sends it.

He hasn't set his phone on the table when he receives a reply: I'll see you then. Followed swiftly by: Foggy will too.

Matt throws his phone on the table. He bites back a cry of pain from his mangled limb and breaking heart. "Great."

Happy reading!