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: After almost abandoning this chapter thrice, I finally cobbled together a draft that works…I think. This is my first time writing the character who Matt visits, and I really hope the depiction here fits with the show, especially given Matt's very visible injury.
I am also eager to share the ending of this chapter with you all. It feels new for me (this whole fic feels very new to me, sorry. I sound like a broken record), and I hope it's effective. Obviously, there will be more in the next chapter to clarify exactly what is happening, but I really tried to hit the right balance of too much and too little.
Readers, lovely readers, please enjoy. It's a pleasure to hear from you. I appreciate the feedback and your support. I may be away a little longer between updates for work (first term reporting – what a thrill!), but I'll be back with another installment as soon as I can. Cheers!
"I know I've heard that to let your feelings show
Is the only way to make friendships grow
But I'm too afraid now…
I'll put my armour on.
Show you how strong I am."
~Sia, "Unstoppable"
Chapter Sixteen
Something about Karen's car sets Matt on edge. He can't put his finger on it, unfocused as he is, but even at full strength, her acquiring the vehicle never sat right with him. Karen's pulse fluttered when she told him that it was windfall from Ben's death. She wasn't lying; she just wasn't telling him the whole truth.
The car doesn't strike Matt as having been Ben's. This is a luxury vehicle, smooth and quiet. Impractical for a reporter looking to brush shoulders with Hell's Kitchen criminals. And when Matt breathes deeply, he catches a familiar scent. The car's previous owner lives on despite Karen's attempts to clear them with industrial solvents and a potent air freshener. She wouldn't try to cover up Ben.
Karen senses his suspicion and says nothing, anticipating that he'll ask the first question, that she'll have a lie to distract him when he does. Matt briefly considers broaching the subject, then he dismisses the idea. He doesn't have the strength for it on top of everything else. The Aspirin he took before leaving his apartment is doing less for his leg than the pills he took this morning. Not to mention that if there's one thing Karen's proven, it's that when she intends to keep a secret, she's going to keep that secret.
Unless it's from Frank Castle.
Matt definitely doesn't say that aloud.
"There's a bench outside of St. Matthew's." He'll take a seat under the pretense of waiting for Frank and give Karen the impression that she can tail him back to where he's staying.
She makes it too easy for someone who worships the truth. "Call me," Karen demands before allowing him out of the car. It's not fair that she's holding him to his word when he can't hold her to hers, but if all goes well in the next hour, he won't have to: these disappearances will stop. Karen won't have anything to investigate except the location of Frank's apartment, which is a whole other can of worms Matt doesn't have the stomach to think about.
"Tonight," he promises. "It…" Too many words fill his mouth at once. Confessions, apologies, explanations. Warnings: for her and for Foggy. He ends up settling on something cliché for the sake of time, "It was good to see you, Karen."
Blood floods her cheeks. Her voice is light, lilting. "It was good to see you too."
The ghost of her palm warms the back of his hand. Matt runs from the memory of the touch. He takes hold of his crutches and throws open the door. "I'll call you tonight."
"Tonight," because a deal can't be said enough where they're concerned.
"Bye, Karen," he hobbles away almost too fast for his leg to properly carry him.
Sitting down under the glaring afternoon sun, leg throbbing, Matt's nauseated. He almost pitches over onto the concrete in a pain-induced delusion that the ground is going to swallow him up. But Karen is watching. She hasn't pulled away from the curb. If he stands, she'll know he's leaving; if he falls, she'll have reason to wait.
Matt waves to her, sensing the traffic isn't what's holding her up, and she still takes her sweet time entering the lane. He forces his senses to stay with her, making sure he's out of her line of sight before rising, moving as quickly as the crutches will allow across the street and into the crowd.
By the time he hears her car returning from its trip around the block, Matt's gone.
The rooftops pose new threat to him. Matt's hearing is tangled in the sound of his own respiration. He can't help but groan with every step, urged by the strain of the walking cast against his ballooning broken leg. The shell moans, panels grinding, and his skin throbs painfully. Almost there isn't good enough. He needs to be there, be done, before he gets dragged into something he is prepared to deal with.
He really hopes the Hand isn't watching. Bad enough the slow, plodding hearts of by-standers as he wove a crooked path down the sidewalk; to have his enemies – or whatever they are now – see him like this makes Matt want to give up then and there. Toss his crutches in the dumpster, take his chances on his right leg. He's gotten limper since he ducked into the alley where his only witnesses are the pigeons, roaches, and three stray cats. The smell of the workshop grows stronger as he presses on, but he still has to stop. He has to prop himself against the wall between the dumpsters and cry and breathe and pray this isn't the moment Elektra decides to reveal herself. That he can take a second or two before getting back in the ring.
Stick's voice swirls inside his head. Matt shuts the old man out. He grits his teeth, draws his strength, wipes a hand across his face. Tears and trash make for an awful combination. The only thing missing is blood, Matt muses.
He turns, planting his crutches on the ground before swinging himself back on track.
Fire erupts in his broken leg.
Matt recoils, gasping. The first dumpster catches him before he can hit the ground. The smell of blood pours down his throat, copper-sweet amidst the heavy odour of garbage. He did it; he spoke too soon as usual, and now his thoughts are an electrical storm. His senses scramble to piece together an explanation outside of his potentially bleeding to death.
God, he missed it: a piece of metal and wire jutting out from the base of the second dumpster. Slender and hooked to compliment the gaps in Matt's cast. Like it was designed to tear him open again. How bad, Matt can't tell. The smell of blood is everywhere. Pain is everywhere. His surgical incision burns as a whole, masking his newest wound.
He grips his phone, punching at the home button, but he's deaf to the device and unable to feel it vibrating over his own trembling. Can't call Karen without giving away his location. Can't call Foggy because of the fight. Can't call Claire because she won't make it in time. Can't call Frank because Matt would rather bleed to death.
No choice left but to check the damn thing out by hand and hope he doesn't pass out in the process.
It's brutal. Matt's brain blots out, flashbangs in; he holds himself upright on one crutch and grips the other in the crook of his arm. He traces a line down the front of his cast, stopping when he feels blood. The wound trickles: steady but slow. Probably popped a stitch or two. Not life threatening then, thank God. There's time to dress it later.
Matt tugs the gap in the cast closed and applies pressure as best he can – don't pass out, don't pass out, don't pass out. Vomit splashes in the back of his throat. He rises, slowly. Shakily. "C'mon," Dad urges him. He takes another step forward, carefully this time. "C'mon, Matty."
Once more, Matt finds himself unsure of where to begin. The decision to come here was so obvious, he didn't consider why he was doing it. Or what he would do when he got here.
Melvin's workshop doesn't help. The clutter of inventions in various stages of completion and their composite parts are difficult to track and measure. It's no wonder Melvin got the jump on him during his first visit. This place is an extension of Melvin. It's alien territory. Quite literally, in fact, since Matt has caught the tell-tale scent of extraterrestrial metal on each of his visits. No technology: the government was careful to get that off the street as quickly as possible following the attack. Melvin does have small collection of scrap metal stashed away for when he figures out how to use it.
A tremor runs through Matt from his head to his feet. He swallows a few times, clearing his throat before he speaks to keep from vomiting. He needs this done. "Melvin."
Melvin does a double-take. Unusual for him, given how focused he is on the work, but Matt supposes it has been a while since they last spoke. The broken leg definitely comes as a surprise.
The mechanic springs into action, heart hammering in relief. "You're a sight for sore eyes," he declares as he scuffles over to where Matt's standing. Metal grinds against concrete behind him. He's dragging something – a chair? A stool? Matt tries not to let his relief show from under his hood. An easy task when Melvin actually touches him, inviting him to get off his feet. He guides Matt over to the chair, but he doesn't go so far as push him into it. He waits for Matt to feel it out for himself, talking the whole while. "Heard you went missing. Wasn't worried about it at first: figured you had your reasons, but you must've heard the talk. About Fisk being back in town."
Matt doesn't want to sit. He wants to stand, meet Melvin face-to-face, but his leg is calling the shots. He sits. He controls his breathing. He tries not to show how good it feels to not have to hold himself up. "Yeah, I heard. He hasn't…he hasn't sent anyone here, has he? He hasn't bothered you?"
Because it's his fault if Fisk did, if Melvin's been strong-armed back into the Kingpin's employ. Matt can't believe he showed up expecting to ask for help without considering that as a possibility.
"Had a guy around here last week sometime," Melvin admits. "I told him to get the hell out of my shop. I don't do that stuff anymore, you know that."
Matt hangs his head. If only it were that simple, that easy, to get rid of Wilson Fisk. "Melvin, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry," Melvin certainly isn't. He busies himself with dragging over a toolbox and placing it slightly to the left of where Matt's sitting. He builds a pile out of old newspapers, grimy coveralls, and a cushioned chest piece on top. Matt understands without being told, and he mutters, "Thanks," as he sets his broken leg upon it. A few tears run out of the corner of his eyes in relief. Melvin pretends not to notice, but his heart bleeds for the devil. Compassion runs deep with him. "You look like you've been busy."
Matt laughs humourlessly. "That's one way to put it."
Melvin continues pleasantly as he starts digging through his workspace for God-only-knows-what. "Besides," he grabs another toolbox, this one smelling of antiseptic and fresh dressings. A first aid kit. "I've had help. Day after Fisk's guy, your uh…your friend shows up. The uh…" the kit opens with a squeak. Melvin digs around inside it for fresh dressings and the right words, "Uh…the lady you were here with when you picked up the club."
The toolbox closes. Melvin returns. Matt isn't paying attention. He's gone cold. The words freeze to death in his mouth. He lifts his head slightly beyond the cover of his hood listening, waiting. They can't hide forever, her minions. Her army. Her. Everything living has to breathe.
Dear God, she's alive.
"Hey," it's the second time Melvin's said it now, but the first time Matt's heard. "Your leg's bleeding. I can take a look at it for yah."
Matt nods ones dumbly. He winces out of shock as Melvin undoes the Velcro straps on the cast. No amount of gentleness stops it from hurting. "What did she…" he has so many questions. Too many questions. He hasn't a clue where to start. "Did she say why she was here?"
Melvin lifts the cushioned tongue of the walking boot off Matt's mangled leg. Blood fills Matt's mouth. He swallows, he blinks. The scent crashes down on him in a wave and nearly washes him into senselessness. He follows Melvin's voice out of his stupor. "Said she was looking for you. Wondering if I knew where you were. I told her I hadn't seen you."
So she sent one of the Hand to watch his apartment. Matt counts his breath through Melvin's ministrations, eyelids fluttering. Brain a series of flashbulb memories: her heartbeat coming to an abrupt halt, the warmth leaving her, the damp earth settling to rest at her grave, the smell of her – alive, well – in his apartment before the snap of his leg and pain, pain, pain.
"Sorry," Melvin says for the umpteenth time. He's got Matt by the shoulder to keep him from falling. The strength's left him, drained clean. Antiseptic has a hold of everything else from Matt's nose to his hearing. Melvin's cleaning methods are more broad strokes than Frank's. The stinging in his leg is slow to subside. "I should've warned you. Wound isn't looking too pretty though. Bout as red as your armour."
Matt can't smell anything besides the antiseptic cooling over his mangled skin. "Warning would've made it worse," he admits. His body is already in some kind of shock over Elektra. "What else…?" C'mon, Matty. He wants to sleep. He wants to give into the soft drowse edging on his perception. Dad, insistently: c'mon, Matty. "What else did she say?"
"She asked if I knew anything about where you might have gone. I told her no," Melvin makes sure Matt can hold himself up before returning his attention to the wound. "Then she wondered if there was anyone who might've taken you. I told her Fisk had sent a guy over, and he probably wouldn't have made it to my doorstep if you knew about them."
In case he's already passed out and dreaming this exchange: "You told her about Fisk?"
"Yeah. Told her that you and I worked together, looked out for one another."
Matt thinks he knows the answer to this question, but he wastes his breath asking anyways, "What did she say?"
"She said she would look into it," Melvin replies. "She said she would look after me too. Make sure I stayed safe, that Betsy stayed safe."
Something about Matt gives away the mood. His face, perhaps, or the slouch of his shoulders, or the fact that he's gone numb to his leg over the frigid realization that Fisk is becoming the least of his concerns. He doesn't realize Melvin is packing his popped stitches with fresh gauze until, "Hey, that's good, right? She's good?"
Matt wonders if it's still lying when he doesn't know the truth. "Yeah, that's good, Melvin," he forces himself to believe it for Melvin's sake. He tells himself that it is true, given that Melvin's still here, that Betsy's alright, and that Fisk isn't breaking down the door. Elektra has to be doing some version of good in the world.
Probably a similar kind of good as Frank Castle.
"Did you make anything for her, Melvin?" and, if so, did she order in bulk? Matt's mind reels at the thought of Melvin helping to outfit the Hand under the belief that Elektra is like the Daredevil. A belief that he helped foster by bringing her there in the first place – damn it. Frank's right: he is an idiot.
"Yeah, she did, actually," Melvin finishes taping a new pad of gauze and rewraps Matt's leg in the cast. He taps a case sitting on the shelf nearby, locked and reinforced against intruders, too small for an army of ninjas. Elektra's order was strictly personal by the sounds of things. "Some body armour tailored for her. Tried something new with it and got it even lighter than yours. She wanted a pair of sais too. Almost done. You wanna see? They're really something." Melvin is already moving for them, a spring in his step at the opportunity to show off.
For the first time in hours, Matt's hearing fixes on a point and stays there. The prongs of Elektra's new sais sing as they travel from the workbench towards him. And the sound is so faint, so delicate, that Matt's sure only his hearing would be able to pick it up. Her enemies would never hear her coming. Frank's words rumble in his brain: "They say you don't hear the bullet that gets you." Well, only Matt would hear Elektra getting him. Fitting.
He reaches for them, daring his fingers to run along the delicate metal shafts, stopping when they hit the hilt. "They weigh nothing," Melvin states, which is what Elektra would want. She favours agility. "Perfectly balanced. I mean perfectly." Matt takes the weapons into his hands, marveling at how empty his grasp feels. Melvin continues, "They're unbelievably strong though. And sharp. Those points could cut through body armour."
"You do good work, Melvin," Matt says, rolling the sais into his lap. "Very good."
"You think she'll like them?"
"She'll love them." Elektra never met a blade she didn't love. Briefly, Matt considers taking them with him when he goes, a way of getting her mind off Fisk and his cronies, but he relinquishes the sais to Melvin again. Elektra's ability to do good has always come second to her own desires. Matt can't trust her to leave Melvin alone if her new weapons vanish. "When is she coming back for them?"
"I told her tomorrow. Which is good. I need an extra night with them, get 'em just right."
Tomorrow. She's so close and so far away. Matt wonders if Frank will bring him back to Hell's Kitchen then. If the Hand hasn't spotted him today. He hasn't heard them looming over Melvin's workshop, but he hasn't been hearing much. "You tell her I was here. Tell her…"
To call me. To find me. To come get me. We'll run away together like we promised.
No, they can't. Fisk is coming, and Elektra causing his cronies to disappear isn't going to dissuade him from pursuing Foggy. Matt sighs, "Tell her I was here. Tell her I'm alright. Tell her to back off Fisk."
"Yeah, I will," Melvin promises him.
"There's something else," he almost hates to ask, what with having lied to Melvin tonight about trusting Elektra. But he has to, all the more because he's lied to Melvin. "The doctor said I'm non-weight bearing. I can't be, Melvin. I need something that will let me walk again."
Melvin is already working. He surveys the leg, humming lightly in contemplation of the mechanism that will put Matt back together again. "Where's the break?"
"Mid-calf."
"When did it happen?"
"Ten days ago."
Melvin sighs, scoffs, "Don't know why you're up and moving around so soon. No wonder it's not looking so pretty."
"It's not feeling pretty."
"I can't brace the leg at this stage, not without doing more damage. In a few weeks though, I could fit you with some kind of rig. Something that would…bear the weight for you, hold the bones in place, give you some mobility. I can even build something better than what you're wearing in the meantime, that's for sure."
Matt releases a breath he's been holding since the ceiling hit him. He shifts his leg, reminding himself that there's more he needs to thank Melvin for than a better brace. There's the chair, the foot rest, the first aid. The small kindnesses that Melvin gives so freely. "Thank you, Melvin."
Melvin nods, accepting and dismissing the gratitude in the same instant. It's bizarre after ten days of living with Frank, who spends a long while after every thank you waiting for the other shoe to drop. Melvin's openness is refreshing, "Well, this is what we do. We look out for each other."
"Yeah."
"I mean what are friends for, right?"
Matt isn't sure he's the best person to answer. He offers a half-hearted, "Yeah." That sounds like the response he's supposed to give. Truthfully, he's at a loss. He hasn't done anything to deserve Melvin's kindnesses, and yet here he is, asking for a handout, unable to fulfill the one promise he did make. In fact, he's failing at his promise so miserably that an army of ninjas is out there making people disappear because of him.
He says it again, "Thank you, Melvin." Because he doesn't know what else to say. He doesn't know what the hell friends are for, never having been a very good one.
Clouds are rolling in as he leaves Melvin's. Rain approaches. Matt hears the wet crinkle of droplets on the Hudson. Not enough time to get back to his apartment, nor any reason to go back there, really, so Matt opts for the church. Doors are open at Sundays for parishioners. He can see Lantom while he waits for Frank, maybe have a latte. And a stronger painkiller than Aspirin.
He scours the rooftops on his way. Focusing his hearing beyond the sidewalk makes him clumsy. He bumps into people and apologizes profusely, trying to let the muttered comments roll off him along the way. "Watch where your fucking going," and, "Jesus, are you blind?" cut deeper than they should, deeper than they would if he wasn't preoccupied with Elektra and the Hand; with Fisk; with Karen and Foggy and shit, Frank has had the whole day to play in Hell's Kitchen. Matt has barely given him a second thought.
St. Matthew's can't appear fast enough. The old stone building is grounding, calming. Matt takes in the gentle acoustics created by the bell tower, the way the walls block the sounds from the street and offer respite from the city bustle. He bides his time on the steps, removing his phone from his pocket to call Frank.
He goes to voice mail. The church offers no comfort for that. "I'm at St. Matthew's," and Matt doesn't bother asking where Frank is. What the Punisher's doing. The answer is sure to disappoint him.
The phone stops vibrating in his pocket. Frank splashes water on his face and wrings his hand under the tap a few more times. The last of the blood spirals down the drain. He watches it go.
There are droplets on his sleeves, his collar, a patch on his shirt. Frank scrubs the excess with the last piece of paper towel from the dispenser. No fucking use. There's a print of a guy's face in the centre of his chest made of blood, snot, and saliva. The only thing he can do is zip up his jacket to his neck, toss his hood on his head, and leave the shitty restroom.
Should have brought a change of clothes. Still broad fucking daylight, still a God damn fugitive, and he's still got the kid for company. The kid who smells ammonia and his dead girlfriend, who fights better without sight than most guys do with; who can hear for fucking miles and…and…
Frank stops at the driver's side of his car. Gets his shit together, because this isn't Red's fault. The hell does he care what the kid thinks about killing. Frank did what he came to Hell's Kitchen to do. Not the first time he's made a mess. And if Red doesn't like that, well, there's always people he can call. Hell, there's gonna be people he needs to call. Kid lost his shit when Frank hung the cartel from meat hooks. What Frank's just seen, what he's had to do, that mess he left behind in the warehouse?
He scrubs his head, loosening the blood residue left behind by his harried rinsing. Mist sweeps in, chilly and biting, from the Hudson, and the firefight in his brain quiets. Slows. Frank's thoughts regroup. He's made messes before. He's cleaned up other people's messes before. Mobs, gangs, cartels - they always find terrible ways of dismantling people. This is the same shit, different day.
Frank scoffs at himself. Yeah, same shit. For him. But Red? Shit. He's been dangling from the ledge for a while. This is bound to knock a few more of his fingers loose, and Frank does not want to be the only one around when he finally falls.
Speak of the devil, Frank finds he's got one missed call from Red on his phone. The kid's message is clipped, but clearly, he survived meeting with Nelson and Page. And if he's at the church, he's not bleeding to death on his rooftop or taken captive by ninjas.
Frank shoves his phone back in his pocket. Fucking ninjas.
Red being at the church buys him a few more hours in the Kitchen. He can run down a few more of Fisk's guys. And if they're really lucky, Frank'll get to them first.
Happy reading!