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 am just going to stop including my inner turmoil, hand wringing, and abject terror from my notes. I'm sounding like a broken record.

This chapter runs parallel to the previous one. I overlapped some of the scenes with Frank's perspective and composed them in tandem. Having him and Elektra butt heads gave me a lot of pause. There were no less than three alternate endings to this chapter during development, and of them, this was the only one that could have happened. I wrote Frank into a corner against the Hand, against Matt's senses and Elektra's appeal to him, and I hope that comes through.

Speaking of Elektra – there are those of you who pointed out that all is not as it seems with her, but one thing that I don't doubt is her affections for Matt. There's some of that in here amidst the other Elektra bits.

…which gave me the most trouble, and I owe one reader a huge thank you (speaking of broken record) for help in that regard.

Know this, Readers: know that I appreciate the time and energy you take to read this fic and the insights you provide in your feedback. I'm so lucky to share this fandom with you, and I really hope you continue to enjoy this fic.

"If you wanna break these walls down,

You're gonna get bruised."

~Halsey, "Castle"

Chapter Twenty-Three

"Red?"

"Matthew?"

Something's wrong. Kid's a series of misfires. His eyes are shut, breath's coming in short gasps, and his attempt at speaking is little more than a series of twitches through his mouth followed by raspy words.

Frank shoves at the sai. "Put it down."

"You first," she snaps.

"Put it down or he gets put down."

Her veneer strengthens. The kid is tightening the murderous knot she's tied herself into. "You put him down, you die."

"I'm not gonna have to." Red is doing all the work for him. The kid isn't even trying to talk anymore. His jaw is hanging limp on its hinges, and he pants like a dog for every breath. Blood pressure's dropping. Or he's ramping up for a seizure. Or his brain is finally cooked but his body's fighting on, always pushing, stubbornly refusing to believe it's the end.

Frank drops his gun. In the same instant, the sai leaves his neck. He moves, grabbing the coat from the under the kid's head and moving it to his feet. "Stay with me, Red. Stay with me." Hell if he knows what a fasciotomy is or how to straighten a broken bone perfectly, but when guys got like Red in the field, docs always put their feet up, knocking their blood back to the important parts of their bodies.

Red doesn't slow his breathing none, but the colour zips back into his face and neck. Not brain death, then. Low blood pressure. His girl comes to stand at the head of the table. "Wake up, Matthew," she begs him. "Wake up, I've got you. I've got you-"

Frank shuts his mouth. Same words are pouring out of him in a whisper, in a God damn prayer – "Got you, Red. Got you." He picks up the gun, shoves it back in the holster. She wants to kill him, she would have done it already. They got bigger shit to deal with: the kid's on his way out. "You got a vehicle?"

The girl – Elektra? Hard to tell what it was – she doesn't take her eyes off Red. Her fingers are curving over his temple with a tenderness unbefitting the edge in her voice, "And a private medical facility."

Frank comes up to Red's side, preparing to lift him again. "I'm coming."

A sick, condescending smile lights Elektra's eyes through the darkness. She brushes a hand through Red's hair in the most delicate threat Frank's ever seen. "No, you're not."

He gets one arm looped under the kid's scalding shoulder blades and the other under his knees. Red rocks limply from the movement, and his girl takes her damn hand back. "You're not gonna stop me."

"I won't have to," she scoffs, giving her head the slightest of nods to invite the other shadows into the room. A katana is unsheathed behind him.

Frank keeps his eyes on the real threat. Not the weapon: the hand that wields it. Elektra is elegant, poised, cutting against the dark like the natural born killer than she is. Frank lowers Red slightly. If they do take his head, he doesn't want the kid to fall. "He wakes up, you feed him some line about me leaving."

"Something like that," Elektra replies coolly. The katana sings in the air behind him, stopping short of his neck. She plays coy through it all, as if the ninja isn't under her control. "It wouldn't have to be a line if you walked away."

"No, ma'am, but I'm not walking away. So, what, you tell him I turned tail? Ran?" Frank scoffs. She hasn't thought this plan through. About as short-sighted as Red, this one, but blinder by half where it counts. "You might say it just fine. But maybe you're breathing'll be off. Maybe…maybe that heart of yours'll beat just a little too fast. And he'll realize that the same dame who hacks off people's faces probably didn't just let me walk out of here alive and well."

Elektra's smile wavers. Yeah, yeah: got you there, sweetheart. The katana lowers from his neck and gets re-sheathed. For now.

Frank finishes prying the kid away from her. "I'm coming with you."

The ninjas take the colts and put them in the duffel, and Frank lets them because nobody makes a move on the damn kid. Even Elektra stays hands off. "Very well," her eyes say, followed by a slight tilt of her head: "All in good time." Frank lifts Red off the table without taking his gaze off her. She wants to come at him, he is gonna be ready.

There's a nondescript van waiting at the loading bay, the back doors wide open with a gurney waiting between them. No seats in back, and a partition separates the driver from the passengers. There are kits of medical supplies packed tightly on one side. The light from the cab reveals two more ninjas waiting in the alley. That makes seven total, including the five behind Frank. Quite the little party Red's Girl brought with her and not a one of them in robes. Guess those are for rooftop stakeouts. Tonight, they're dressed in white shirts, collars popped, with leather jackets, katanas peaking over their shoulders.

They inch towards Frank when he emerges, expecting he'll relinquish the kid. Like hell he is. Frank adjusts his grip on Red so he can tighten his hold without cutting off the kid's air supply, send him a message through the fever that the ninjas aren't getting a hand on him.

He lays the kid down on the gurney. Red is still breathing funny and knows it, too. He inhales and tension rolls through his muscles. His face becomes a series of spasms, the makings of a confused expression. Or an investigative one: as if he can figure this out, figure out what's wrong with him, even though his eyes are rolling back into his skull under his closed lids and the tension drains out of him anew with every exhale.

They load him into the van. Frank helps. It's strategic. Grabbing the top of the gurney means they can't lay hands on him. Means he rides with Red, regardless of the look he gets from Elektra. She has to settle for the second best spot in the vehicle, and she ain't thrilled. When she pulls the shroud from the lower half of her face, her lips are a thin line.

Footsteps approach outside the van, heading around the back. Frank steadies himself. The sound of them makes him draw a fist against his bent knee as he sinks onto the floor. His other hand curls around an imaginary grip, trigger finger tightening. One batch, two batch - he instinctively seeks out his duffel and finds it hanging around the arm of one bored-looking lackey lingering in the alley out the back of the van. For the best, Frank figures. Red needs a doc, and a shot from his colt at this range would be a stretch to fix even with ninja resurrection magic.

Sato seems well-aware that she's being threatened. She comes into view and steps inside the vehicle with her head tilted low, eyes on Red, a look of shameful submission. Another ninja follows close behind, for her protection or Elektra's, Frank doesn't care. Nobody's going to be able to protect them from him when he finally makes his move.

Doc gets right to work with Red, from the opposite side of the gurney as Frank. Throwing open the kid's hoodie, cutting his t-shirt in half, and attaching leads across his chest. Frank waits till she's leaning over Red's chest, till she's damn good and close, till she has nowhere to look but his trigger finger.

Then Frank makes a promise: "Bang."

The van doors slam shut behind them.

They make good time across the city. Frank traces their route: west to Midtown, then north to the Upper West Side. Meantime, he wordlessly assists Sato for Red's sake. She hands off a bag of saline; he hooks Red up to it. She unpacks a portable oxygen tank; Frank straps the mask to Red's face. She punches a couple syringes into the IV port; Frank catches the kid's arms when they start to flail.

Elektra asserts herself so gently at first, but then Red's hand is out of Frank's, wrapped in a cuff that was tucked under the rails of the gurney. Looks like a plusher version of the straps they put him in at Metro General. Frank lunges to undo the restraint. "Cause more problems that way," he tells her.

"I know," she continues binding Red's other wrist, "but he can't be sedated until his blood pressure is back to normal."

Sato gives a single, small nod, quietly noting, "She's right," before buckling Red's right ankle to the gurney.

Frank doesn't bother wasting another glare on the Doc. He eyes Elektra, who grips Red's bound hand lightly in hers, eyes locked on the kid's limp fingers, his gray skin. She is torn between disappointments at the moment, and the restraints are definitely one of them. For a brief moment, she looks like the rest of them: a little lost, a little afraid, a little human.

She catches him looking, though, and the expression vanishes, replaced with a wicked wildness Frank recalls from the OR. Her last stake in humanity is lying on the gurney. Hell ain't gonna have nothing on this broad if Red gives up the ghost tonight.

He knows the feeling.

Can't see any landmarks or street signs when the van's back doors open again, but Frank guesses they're somewhere in the 70s or 80s based on the travel time. He grips the gurney upon exiting, making sure he doesn't lose track of Red amidst the great rush of medical personnel. They sweep the gurney into the ground floor of a stone building, through a set of heavy double doors. There's a large examination room on the left, visible through a massive window running almost floor to ceiling. Metal tables and counters, bulky overhead lights, and a whole team of masks and scrubs. Sato steers Red with an immediacy that speaks her knowing the place. She's put people back together here before.

"Ah, ah, ah," Elektra grabs Frank by the wrist before he heads in, dislodging his hand from the gurney.

He tosses her off, grabs the gurney again. "I'm going in there."

"No, you're not," she replies, nabbing him again, faster this time. She's stronger than she looks. "Not like that you're not. Blood on your shirt. On the back of your neck. You'll contaminate the room. Watch from out here."

She makes it sound like a request, but her lethal entourage moves into formation around him. Frank's options aren't between the hallway and triage; they're between the hallway and a body bag. And realistically, "You wouldn't want to get in the way."

But she would. Elektra's already backing towards the room, stripping her gloves as she moves. A nurse opens the door and ushers her inside, no doubt with a fresh pair of scrubs waiting. Jesus, what'll the excuse be next – they don't have his size? Frank sighs, eyeing the throng of guards mingling around him. The one with his duffel waits by the exit, a human coat check. Frank gets the senses he could walk over and get his shit back and be on his way, no questions asked.

He rubs at the back of his neck. The bleeding's stopped; wound's superficial. A rare injury that won't leave a scar. He glances between the ninjas to keep count on his way to the window, taking a place on the far side so he has a solid vantage point. There's six total, each armed with a katana, and they're on their best behaviour. Lingering with tiny smirks as Frank focuses on Red.

Hard to see the kid behind the activity surrounding him. Medical personnel billow around the gurney in the exam room beyond the glass. They've stripped away Red's sweat-soaked clothing. Another bag of fluids joins the saline on the IV stand, an antibiotic drip most likely. The leg is exposed, a blanket drawn, portable oxygen detached and replaced with a stationary machine. Ice packs get stacked around his extremities.

Red's hand tugs against the restraint. His right leg tosses. Frank grumbles, glaring at his guards instead of the kid's fluttering eyelids. Red is awake. He is awake and alone, being mauled by doctors from an enemy organization. He thrashes against the gurney, bucking his oxygen mask. The docs can't keep up with him. Sato's giving orders from her place at his leg, and she isn't being listened to.

"Hang in there, kid," Frank mutters, allowing the futility to sound in his voice loud and clear. It's not like Red hears him through the walls and the activity. Through Elektra flowing through the crowd. She takes hold of Red's head, holding it steady, and though she's wearing a surgical mask, Frank can see her mouth moving, delivering, no doubt, a steady stream of sweet nothings to her ailing ex. Red's hypnotized. He drinks in everything she tells him so deeply that he doesn't thrash when someone fixes the oxygen mask on his face.

Frank folds his arms across his chest to keep from throwing a punch against the glass. His insides writhe. This isn't Red, Frank reminds himself, but that doesn't soften the sight of Red's eyes eventually falling shut again, of his body going limp, of every part of him finally submitting.

Meanwhile, Elektra continues to stand over him, cradling his head. She throws a glance out the window at Frank.

A smile lights her eyes. The same fucking smile she wore in the animal hospital OR.

Then she looks back down at Red lying right in the palms of her hands.

The energy in the room follows Red's lead, quieting and slowing. Gradually, the ice packs get removed. The leg is redressed. His face falls towards Frank. Takes a minute to tell it's him: the kid looks so damn vacant. The sight causes a shock to run the length of Frank's spine. He straightens, stretching his neck. Reminding himself how long it's been since the carousel and the Irish when he was strapped to a hospital bed, when he was struggling to crawl out of the hole they put him in.

Adrenaline spreads through him, jolting him out of the memory. Elektra finishes conferring with the remaining doctors and heads out of the room. She joins him in the hallway after trading her scrubs with a lackey for a sleek, black trench coat. She doesn't have her sais, but she's not unarmed. Her men in the hallway stand at attention, waiting for the order.

Frank holds her in his periphery, eyes trained on the docs in the room. They're still moving, gathering supplies. One tucks another blanket around Red while Sato puts him back on a portable oxygen tank.

"He's responding well to antibiotics," Elektra tells him, vying for attention. Frank doesn't give her the pleasure. She continues diplomatically, "The doctors were able to get his temperature down and clear the infection from his bloodstream without the use of dialysis. He's going to be fine, so long as he doesn't relapse. He needs to be closely monitored in a clean environment to keep that from happening."

Sato draws a strap loosely over Red's chest and another over his legs. Transport prep. Frank makes a fist and breathes through the frustration. He's suddenly very aware of how surrounded he is and that the ninja with his weapons-duffel is still waiting at the doors and that they are approaching the end of the line.

She's polite about it, which pisses him the hell off. Frank can't stand a sore winner, but there're notes of genuine gratitude in her voice where she says, "Doctor Sato tells me I owe you a thank you."

"Don't owe me nothing," Frank replies. He refuses to look at her even as she draws nearer. He's here for Red. He's following Red.

Elektra shares his reasons. "She also tells me you have no quarrel with me or my…organization."

Frank sees through the line. Sato's attempts at self-preservation know no bounds. For all it's going to do her: good deeds don't stop bullets.

"You'll have no quarrel from me for Wilson Fisk," Elektra notes. More information from Sato, no doubt. A way of getting him off the scent – of her, the Hand, and Red. "He's all yours – with my blessing, I might add. A show of gratitude for everything you've done for Matthew."

"Won't he be thrilled." The only get-well-soon present Red'll be more disappointed about than being kidnapped by ninjas.

Elektra isn't listening. She is digging. Sato gave her information, and she's smart enough not to ask Frank directly to do the same. "Naturally, I'll forgo a call to local authorities about your whereabouts."

"It's your medical facility. You tell the cops anything you want."

He waits for her to mention his apartment. Sato must have given her that.

Elektra says nothing, and it's impossible to tell why. It could be he's called her bluff. She doesn't want to explain Frank's arrest to Matt – to Red. She'd like Frank to go freely, of his own volition.

But her silence is calculating. She has planned for this moment and the ones that follow. She isn't calling the cops because Frank might still be useful. He might still have a purpose. At what, Frank can't know. Fisk isn't her priority, and she has to realize that he isn't going to simply let Red go.
She abandons pretense with a smirk - condescension disguised as politesse. "Frank – may I call you Frank?"

"No."

The smirk turns into a full-blown smile. "Castle, then. Or perhaps Mr. Castle is more to your liking." The gurney is almost ready; Red hasn't moved a damn muscle. He's really fucking out. Frank steps away from the window. Elektra blocks him. "Your presence here is no longer needed. Matthew will be coming with me for the duration of his recovery. I'll see to it that he receives the best possible care."

"I told you I wasn't leaving him," Frank reminds her.

"That would be a first," Elektra replies. "Why break with tradition?

He looks at her with new eyes, "The hell does that mean?"

"Everybody always leaves Matthew."

Frank scoffs. He doesn't. Can't seem to cut loose from the kid come hell or high water. "You speaking from experience?"

Elektra's stare narrows. "I died for him. I didn't abandon him: I was taken from him. And despite all that, I came back for him. I came back and saved him."

She doesn't believe most of what she's just said. But it's not about what she believes: it's about what Red believes, and she's damn right that the kid is going to see her resurrection as some kind of divine providence.

But that's not all he'll see: "You came back and carved a bunch of people's faces off. Made a whole bunch more disappear. You think-" Frank lines up for a real good shot right where it hurts, ending this. "You think he's going to want you. That he's going to love you because…because you're the one who came back for him, you're the one who save him. And he's gonna…what? Stand by your side and be King of the Ninjas or some shit?"

Her laugh is terse, tightly wound, like a blade being drawn. "Matthew would never join the Hand. And I'd never ask that of him."

"You wouldn't have to ask though, would you? Not the type of girl who does a lot of asking."

"I'm asking you," she says curtly, "to leave. Last chance, Castle."

They've been through this. "What're you gonna do when I don't?"

Elektra's solution is elegant in its simplicity. "I'm going to walk away."

He's not about to die, then; she would want that honour herself. He's about to be inconvenienced. "You got another thing coming."

"I could say that same to you," Elektra replies sweetly.

Again, she hasn't thought this through: "Kid's gonna see right through your shit. Been cutting and running from everyone lately. He's gonna make damn sure to get the hell away from you."

Her confidence is astounding. "He never could before."

Fisk has never threatened Red's best friend before, but hell if Frank's going to tell her that. He leaves Red to break the new, shatter the girl's expectations in one fell swoop. Gonna sound way better coming from him. Crush the pretty minx's ego right quick. "He's leaving you, sweetheart. And when he does-"
Elektra sighs exhaustedly, "You'll be waiting. You. The Punisher."

Frank flexes his wrists, his knuckles, his neck. He takes stock of his opponents dotting the hallways. None of them have drawn their weapons. The one with his duffel has disappeared. Time to walk away has definitely passed.

He's got two behind and four in front, lingering around the exit where Sato's starting to head with Red's gurney. The heavy double doors open. A few of the lingering medical personnel help Sato guide Red out of the building into the night.

Fucking sun isn't out yet. Hell night's still on.

"Let's get on with it, then."

Elektra draws a pair of long gloves out of her pocket, pulling them on gracefully over her hands as she walks towards the activity at the end of the hall. She doesn't acknowledge his having spoken or moved; can't lie about what she doesn't know. "Good night, Mr. Castle."

The first blow comes towards his back. Frank dodges. He catches the ninja by the neck, shoves the bastard into the wall, punches him, and drops him to the floor. Then there's another two ninjas, one on either of his arms. Frank kicks the wall, throwing the three of them back on the floor.

He's up first, racing towards the exit. The door is swinging shut. Elektra just left. An engine is running outside. There's still time before they get away. Still time.

A fuse ignites in a deep line beneath his shoulder blades. Blood spatters on the crisp, white wall to his left. Frank hears the blade after the fact, when his knees hit the floor, when his skin opens in a gasp, and heat streams down his back. By then, he can track it, katana singing as it swings out of the way of the next attack.

Five versus one. Shitty odds, but Frank makes due. He get his ass up and starts throwing punches, kicks, blocks. He grabs one ninja by his yuppie fucking collars and uses the dumbass as a meat shield against his buddies. He takes another by the neck, tossing him like a tonne of bricks into two others. Another comes up bobbing and weaving until his friends join back in, grabbing Frank by the arms and throwing him on the ground to get kicked from all sides, all directions.

Frank rolls. He grabs at the feet. He snaps one ninja's ankle and tosses him backwards. He kicks another in the knee, in the waist, lands a punch across the ninja's face that knocks him flat. But he's thrust into the wall by three of them, the fuckers. The katana sings out in stunning soprano. Frank, in the midst of trying to break the arms that have him pinned, gets the hilt of the weapon snapped against his nose before the point of the blade shoots towards his neck.

The katana stops just below his Adam's apple, piercing the skin. He moves, he dies; the choice is his. Has been since she showed up. This is the only way it was ever going to play out, and Elektra knew it. She bided her fucking time and got exactly what she wanted. Frank snarls. "Yeah, go on, go on. Go on, kill me. Because it's the only fucking way you're going to stop me. Two can play at this fucking game. I'm coming back. I'm coming back."

The engine peels away from the building. The katana finally leaves Frank's neck, and the ninjas yank him off the wall. They drag him, kicking and fighting, further into the building.

He wakes up hitting the pavement. Sunlight screaming down on him, blood oozing out of his swollen face, his lacerated back. Frank drags his head off the concrete, a long stream of bloody mucous trailing out through his lips as he does.

His duffel lands next to him.

Frank looks up. They've dropped him on the waterfront; literally hauled his broken, bloodied ass out of the trunk of a town car and thrown him on the ground. One of the ninjas slams the trunk; the other makes a disgusted sound at the sight of Frank. They both walk back to their seats and have driven off before Frank lifts himself off the pavement.

Oh, how fucking nice of them: dropping him off outside Pier 90, literally fifty feet from a slew of cops and cruisers. Frank grabs his duffel and starts off, trying to hide his limp and his pain, his broken face – more recognizable, thanks to his mugshots, than his healed one. Shit, shit, shit – he doesn't look behind him. He hoofs it across 12th Ave and doesn't stop until he's got some cover in an alley.

Frank digs through his bag: everything's in there, because they can't have the Punisher picked up without his custom colts. He digs through the shit, searching for anything. Some ideas. He needs shelter. He needs bandages. He shifts his shoulders, wincing. Blood sluices down his back. Shit, he needs stitches, and he can't stitch up his own back.

He digs for his phone in the bag. Fucking thing's dead. There's another: Matt's. Red's. The kid's. It still has battery power, but hell if Frank can use it. The thing talks at him every time he hits a button instead of doing what he needs. Frank chucks it back into his duffel. Where the fuck is he gonna go. Where the fuck.

Shit. There's only one place he knows in Hell's Kitchen. One person he knows won't turn him in to the hospital or the cops. One person who loves Matt Murdock more than she hates the Punisher.

Frank zips up his bag. He starts walking.

Happy reading!