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'm never sure how much of the writing process to include in these notes. Inevitably, I mention something. Typically, it's an apology for taking so long or for elements of a chapter that I'm not sure work. This time, I just want to get it off my chest that I struggled a lot with this chapter. First, I was trying to include too much (pretty typical, actually), and second, these three characters were colliding in ways that I didn't predict. I drew maps of this chapter, many maps, and none of them followed the path I ended up taking while writing.
I learned things while working on this chapter that I should have learned a long time ago. Things like The First Draft Doesn't Have to Be the Best Draft and When in Doubt, Just Write the Scene You're Thinking About Instead of the One You're Avoiding by Thinking About It. I'm simultaneously embarrassed and humbled to still be learning, all the more because of the six or seven rewrites this chapter went through.
Okay, actual notes about this chapter: I quote Placebo for the lyrics even though "Running Up That Hill" is originally a Kate Bush song. I like Placebo's cover for the fic better, simple as that. There are a lot of Catholic references in this chapter, not all of them positive, and I apologize if people are offended. My intention was to reflect the character's views. Frank maintains what I'll generously call a tempestuous relationship with the church.
"You don't want to hurt me,
But see how deep the bullet lies.
Unaware that I'm tearing you asunder.
There is thunder in our hearts, baby.
So much hate for the ones we love.
Tell me, we both matter, don't we?"
~Placebo, "Running Up That Hill"
Chapter Nineteen
The rain falls in sheets. Wipers can't keep up. Hell's Kitchen stares Frank blearily through the windshield, warped by the downpour. Neon signs swell and dissolve like they're in funhouse mirrors. Traffic backs up along the narrow streets. His phone vibrates: Red, again. "Yeah, yeah," Frank grumbles. The phone stops buzzing. One new voicemail gets added to the inbox. "I'm coming."
He makes a parking spot behind the dumpster of the church, hidden from view on the street and the rooftops. Then he steps into the rain, letting it quell the firefight going on in his head.
Rain washes the blood spatter on the backs of his hands, wrists, and cuffs. Rivulets of red run down from his collar. Frank didn't bother to wash up after he came across the second body, this one strung from the ceiling like a chandelier. The third was nearby, about as alive as Foley. Crawling away on bloody stumps with less than half a face: Frank put a bullet in him far too late to be considered mercy.
He takes his time with the walk. Red's antsy, obviously, but Frank needs to think. He's got a bloody, beaming FISK scrawled across the inside of his skull. An invitation from the Hand for a jailed kingpin to come out to play. He should be happy: having the Japanese incite Fisk's departure from Super Max is a good plan, so long as he gets to Fisk first. But Frank sees that bloody scrawl of the Fat Man's name in his head, feels Foley's bloody face print rip into his chest, and his bitterness swells.
This is his fight. His. And it's not supposed to be fought this way.
"Para bellum," Frank tells himself. "Para bellum…" Prepare for war. The drill sergeant made them repeat it like a prayer in basic. Course, Sarge included the proviso, "Si vis pacem…" If you want peace. But Frank's not sure he wants peace anymore. Not sure peace exists outside of bullets and bloodshed. Good thing the Hand and Fisk think the same.
The firefight comes back as soon as he enters the church and stares death in the face. The kid's circling the drain. He gives Frank a shove that's nowhere near as strong as it should be. And when that fails, he tears himself out of Frank's grasp and nearly pitches back onto the pew. Thank God the priest doesn't let go of his other shoulder. Red swings unsteadily in the old man's grasp, muttering whispered thanks in between a haggard explanation of, "I was leaving. I have to leave."
"You kiddin' me, Red?" Frank sets the back of his hand on Red's brow and neck. The kid rebuffs him. Typical two-fold uselessness from the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, trying to hide and trying to fight at the same time. Frank gives him a small shove, the dumbass. "I can feel you burning up from here. Could fry an egg on your forehead, Red"
"I'm calling an ambulance," Father declares. He casts a glance at Frank – for permission? Nah, the old man knows who Frank is, but he doesn't toe anybody's line except the big guy upstairs. He's got more to say about Frank but thinks better of it. Red's his priority at the moment. As well Red should be.
Frank digs his cell phone out of his pocket and hands it to the priest. "Here." Father takes it, flips it open. He tilts his hand a little to focus his vision before dialing those three magic numbers.
Red, who's corpse-coloured and can't fucking stand, swats the phone out of Father's grasp. The priest directs his gaze skyward: Lord, give me strength. He holds his gaze there as Red stammers, "No. No hospital. I go to the hospital, people are going to die."
"You're dying, Red," Frank snarls. This is the one thing Sato warned him about the most: infection. Automatic abort mission, take the kid to the fucking hospital. Father's on board with the plan. He sets about collecting the phone from where it's fallen on the pew.
Red disagrees. He shakes his head, lips pursed, and he may as well say, "Nuh-uh," because it's all Frank hears when he looks at Red. Hopeful idealism and delusion of will got him into this mess and, by God, they're going to get him out of it. Frank finds himself looking skyward, though it seems like the Big Guy isn't in the mood for answering prayers at the moment.
The kid shoves at Frank, "Get…get out of here." He gestures towards the priest and reframes his argument: "Get Lantom out of here."
Frank shoves him right back. Gently. Doesn't take much to flop the kid against the pew, boneless and shaking, face twisting out of sight as he struggles to give orders. Or hide his tears. Or both. Fuck, he's always pushing. He's always fucking pushing. "You got him, Father? Ride with him to Metro General?"
Lantom nods once, phone in hand.
"We have to get away. They're…they're coming, Frank. They." Red swats at Lantom again when the old man tries to dial. This time, the priest is faster. He catches Red's hand to stop him, placing it gently on the back of the pew, and holds it there. Holds Red there. G-O-D is going to have to tear the devil of Hell's Kitchen out of Father's cold, dead fingers.
Red lifts his tear-streaked, sweat-soaked, ashen face. His Adam's apple bobs. He's trying and failing to swallow his weakness, and yet, at the same time, he's looking straight at Lantom so the sight of him can keep the old man at bay. "I can't go to the hospital. And I can't…I can't stay here. They're looking for me."
Lantom hesitates before hitting 'Send'. "Who?"
Frank has a pretty good idea. Thank goodness they've moved their focus from Red to the Kingpin. "They're hunting bigger game than you right now." Red's shaking his head. Fuck, he's delirious. Frank offers him greater explanation without spilling his guts entirely. They got no time to talk about what Red's zombie ex- and her ninja army have been up to. "Got their sights set on Fisk."
Red huffs, "They think he has me."
"Why would they think that?" Doesn't make a damn bit of sense, what with one of them spotting Frank leaving the kid's apartment last week. Maybe they were checking to see if they had competition in the neighbourhood for Fisk.
"They got some information. A…a friend of mine. Of the devil's. He had his suspicions after I disappeared."
"He a friend to the Hand too?" Frank demands. If so, no wonder Red's ready to cut and run. The ninjas are going to be headed straight for them.
"One member in particular, yeah."
The bodies piling up in Hell's Kitchen – faceless Foley and the two others Frank stumbled across that afternoon – they take on new meaning. Show of force, yeah, but not for the city. For Red. She's looking for Red, and she's giving Fisk a sneak-peek at what's gonna happen if Red doesn't get returned to her soon.
"I go to a hospital, I wait here with the two of you, people are gonna die," Red directs his attention to Lantom. "This is…this is the same group that cut through Metro General a month ago, Father."
The priest shakes his head, sighing in resignation. In defeat. He closes the phone he was so desperately dialing and performs another prayerful eye-roll. "Dear God, Matthew."
"I know, I know. I'm sorry…I'm sorry, Father." Red buries his face in his hand, biting back a fresh scream. "I shouldn't have come here. I'm sorry."
Frank scrubs his head, "Ain't got nothing-"
"You have nothing-"
"-to be sorry about."
"-to be sorry for, Matthew."
Lantom shoots him a meaningful look. Frank dodges the stare, scrubbing harder against his scalp. Not like he said anything interesting: the kid doesn't have a damn thing to be sorry for, and while they're wasting time on his apologies, Hell's Kitchen is winding up for another swing. Red's infection is working its way into his bloodstream. His ninja friends are closing in. Frank paces unsteadily between the pews, channeling his thoughts into a decisive order.
"You tell your friend where you were going?" he asks.
"No, and my blood trail has probably washed away."
Frank barely contains a groan of exasperation. Surprise, surprise: the kid left a blood trail. No wonder he's in the state he is now.
Red flushes brighter from embarrassment and shame. As if he can hear all the silent ways Frank is shouting his disapproval. The next time he speaks, Red sounds like an entirely too-human version of himself. "You both…you both need to leave. Please. I'll be fine. I'll be fine, I promise, Father." As if the old man asked out loud. Red attempts to reassure him some more. Badly. "She doesn't…she doesn't want…"
His ragged breathing swallows up the rest of what he's trying to say. He lets out a small, sad laugh that quickly turns into a cry. "I don't know what she wants." And that makes the inevitability of her taking him so much worse than simply, "I know she will hurt you though. Both of you. If you try and stop her."
Frank has a good, "Fuck off," lined up in his mouth for Red's self-sacrificial bullshit, house and man of God be damned. Kid already took a ceiling for him. Now, he's willing to hand himself over to ninjas who cut people's faces off for the sake of his priest and the man he wants arrested. "So you're going to sit here and wait for her, that's the plan?"
"I am. You're not," Red declares.
Before Frank can give him what-for, Lantom chimes in: "I'm not leaving you, Matthew."
He means it. Ninjas could come crashing through the stained glass windows. They could hack off his hands and clear off his face, and Father would stay at Red's side throughout it all.
Red breaks and recovers so quickly that Lantom probably doesn't see it. "You have to, Father."
"Was I asking?"
Feisty. The kind of feisty that gets a person killed. Not by Red, obviously, who shuts right up to search for a better response. Frank has one ready to go. Half-assed as Red's argument is, delirious as he might be, he has the right idea. "The second he walked into this place, he marked it. Even if we leave, they'll be coming here, asking questions. You like your face where it is, Father? You'll leave."
Red hangs off his every word. "What do you…what do you mean?"
Lantom knows exactly what Frank means. He's old-school, this priest. Stared evil in the face too many times to be blinded by its opposite. Frank meets the old man's stare with one of his own. He's seen evil too. Better yet, he came prepared with more than a cross and a lie.
The kid starts to rise. "I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have…you both need to leave. I'll leave too. Get them off your trail." he fumbles for his crutches. One is well out of his reach on the floor, and the other, while easy to grab, remains elusive.
"Oh, for the love of-" Frank stops himself from saying the Lord's name on instinct. The situation goes from dire to embarrassing, and Red is still trying, trying so damn hard to be a fucking hero despite how ridiculous he's being. The priest seems to have drawn the same conclusion. He tries to help, but even he is stunned that this is happening. That someone as sick as Red is still fighting when he's got nothing left to fight with. Muscles shot; motor functions out of control. Sweat draining out of him, causing him to slip against the crutch and the pew.
His crutch hits the floor. Red stays swaying on his right leg, looking so blank, so empty, so lost. The kid who takes blind leaps into firefights has no sense of his bearings. There's nowhere left to go, no path left to tread, and no strength to do so even if there was one. And it's worse than embarrassing. Frank takes the kid's hopelessness like a bullet to the gut. "Sit down, Red," he says, twisting away.
Lantom has to swoop in. He has to guide little, lost Red back onto the pew. The kid can't muster the thanks, can't find his way to it. He lowers mutely and hugs his arms to his waist. When he faces the Altar, the effigy of his Lord and Saviour dying on the cross reflects on the lenses of his sunglasses. Then his head drops in exhaustion. Lantom holds a hand on his shoulder to make sure he doesn't fall over. Checks the kid's pulse while he's at it.
"Please, go, Father," Red says softly. "Please."
The old man says nothing. He shoots a glance at Frank out of the corner of his eye. No wonder the threat of losing his face hasn't hit: he's already got one devil in his church making a move on the kid.
Frank tugs at the collar of his t-shirt to unstick the blood from his chest. Can't go to the hospital with the ninjas trailing Red; can't leave him here to get swept off by his psycho-zombie ex. Can't let the old man get his hawkish face trimmed off in the process. "I got him, Father. I'll take care of it."
"Him."
For a second, Frank thinks the priest is referencing the Son of God, but then his brain catches up with him. He concedes for the sake of speed, "I'll take care of him."
The old man doesn't move. He folds his arms across his chest. The image of the Passion looms over his shoulder. "I know the ways you take care of people," and Lantom sure as shit ain't letting Frank take care of Matthew that way.
"You know that's not what I mean: I'll take care of him," Frank says, stronger. They don't have time for this shit. "Get him patched up and back on his feet. Won't let anyone else lay a hand on him: not ninjas, not Fisk, nobody."
Lantom doesn't move his icy stare from Frank, but the slight shift in his posture means that he is giving very serious thought to getting the hell out of here. "What's your plan?"
"Got a doctor in Hell's Kitchen. We'll find some place safe, lie low; she'll work on the leg."
Lantom tilts towards Red, "That true?"
"Yeah. You can…you can trust him, Father."
"Lying, Matthew."
"You can trust him about this."
"With you?" Lantom isn't convinced.
Frank scoffs, "You like your other options better, Father? Stay with him, those ninjas show up: you're dead quick if you're lucky. Get to wait for me to come finish you with a bullet if you're not." Red starts to ask him what he means again, but Frank ignores him. "Take him to the hospital, same thing. More people. I'm the only chance he's got to getting out of here alive. The only chance you got to ever seeing him again."
Christ, the old man could stare a cold, hard fact in the face and find it lacking. "At what cost?" he asks, and then, in case it isn't clear enough what he actually means, "At who's? You've got blood on your hands already tonight."
Christ, he's making this heavy going. "Gonna have his on yours, we don't hurry this up."
"Frank." Red's voice regains some of its usual gravel.
Frank abandons the fight. Stares down Christ on the cross with all the fire and brimstone he can muster. "You have my word."
Kind of strange the way Lantom speaks so casually as the voice of God comes out of his mouth. "I have your word that what?"
FUCK. "Nobody else dies tonight," Frank spells it out for the old man, "Not the kid, not anybody. You have my word."
The priest goes to make some kind of sarcastic remark about lying to a man of God and all that, but Red chimes in: "He's telling the truth, Father."
First thing the kid's said that Lantom puts some stock in. Not that Red's the one who gets his nose rubbed in it. His glare is for Frank and Frank alone. "I have your word. But the second he is well, I expect to see him again."
Frank bristles from the threat, an empty one ne'er as he can tell. "And what if you don't, Father? What are you gonna do if you never see him again? Say your rosary?"
The old man doesn't buckle. He shoots a glance skyward, and this time, he is seeking permission. He already has the strength he needs for this conversation. He wants God to give him a pass on what he's about to say. "Prayer without action isn't faith: it's cowardice."
"Couldn't agree more, Father."
"Then you know I won't be sitting here waiting for the Lord to intervene on my behalf. Matthew shielded you from that ceiling. I have shielded you from the NYPD. You're here by our graces, not the Lord's."
Frank scoffs, "There a point to all this, Father?"
Lantom shrugs. The intensity in his tone vanishes, but the promise is implicit in his nonchalance. "Not if I see Matthew again, there isn't."
"Jesus…"
"Language."
The words are out of Frank's mouth before he can stop them. "Sorry, Father."
"Don't apologize to me," Lantom's smirk is implied, "Not my house."
Frank tears his eyes from the crucified Lord. He finds the kid, locks his gaze on his giant, glaring failure. "You'll see him again, Father. You have my word on that too."
A hum – appraising but skeptical. Frank misattributes it to the statue of Christ before realizing it's Lantom. The priest backs slowly away from Red. "Your word," he says again, finding the statement itself lacking. He pats Red on the shoulders one last time before leaving the pew.
The priest's retreating footsteps get lost under a weak laugh from Red. "Sorry, Father," he parrots wetly. Saliva's thick with sickness. "You sure you're not still a Catholic, Frank? Because you sound like one."
Frank doesn't dignify that with a response. He intends to follow Lantom, make sure the old man isn't about to phone the police, but he needs to make a point with Red first. For all the good it's done so far to tell the kid to stop moving. "You down for the count? Or are you waiting for the next bell?"
"I'm down," Red snarls, the word leaving a sour taste in his mouth. "Go…go make sure Lantom gets out. Have him…have him call when he's somewhere safe." Frank moves to leave, but Red isn't finished with him. "You should…you should go too, Frank."
"Told your priest I would take care of you. Gave him my word. You tryin' to make a liar out of me, Red?"
A sad smirk appears on Red's ghostly face. "You did that all on your own."
"Not yet. So far, the only liar in this church is you."
Red asks, "And if the Hand shows up?"
Frank trails after the priest. "Pray they don't."
Happy reading!