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 have learned more about writing prose from this fic than any of my earlier works, but one lesson that never seems to sink in is how much I can actually fit in one chapter without sacrificing character beats or thematic elements. Once again, I thought I could fit about two chapters into one. So instead of writing a behemoth chapter, I broke it down into shorter installments.
…and I'm not sure if I'm even putting them in the right order. I'm shuffling the decks on this one and hoping it comes out right. Apologies, in advance, if I ruin everything and, to save face, the next chapter ends with a meteor destroying the Earth. If all goes well, though, I'm actually really excited for what I have planned in the next installment. It's one of the reasons I had so much trouble fitting everything into this one.
The next chapter is from Frank's POV, so it should clarify some of the action happening here. By the way, Foggy is coming back. I promise he's coming back.
Readers, you are darlings. Thank you for your kind support as I plug away at this fic! I hope you enjoy this one. Cheers!
"Like a prayer that only needs a reason,
Like a hunter waiting for the season…
The more I stray, the less I fear,
And the more I reach, the more I fade away.
The darkness right in front of me,
Oh, it's calling out, and I won't walk away."
~Imagine Dragons, "Rise Up"
Chapter Thirty-Four
It ends in a whimper, not a bang, the same way it ended at Nelson and Murdock so many weeks ago. The quiet speaks of their mutual admission of defeat. Of disagreement. Foggy rises from the pew. Matt thinks, at first, that maybe he shouldn't follow, but he has no intention of staying much past Foggy's departure. He gathers his crutches and negotiates his way into the aisle.
Foggy has taken a step or two away, but he lingers until Matt is safely untangled from the narrow seats before moving again.
They make their way to the front of the church, the silence growing lighter along the way. Evening gives the breeze a fresh bite. The world on fire shifts between white and indigo in a cheap mental mock-up of the twilight sky. It only adds to Matt's sense of anticipation. Pausing outside the main entrance, toeing the edge of the church steps, he can't shake the sensation of an imminent plunge into the unknown. He gets the same vertiginous freedom on rooftops before leaping into fights. The only real difference is the retreating heartbeat next to him: Foggy ambling off into his own separate unknown.
"Take care of yourself," Matt says.
Foggy stops. He takes a long pull of the thinning air between them and holds it, a new tell for when he's trying not to speak. The words emerge anyways. "You too," and he isn't about to say the rest, but then, "Don't…don't call me again."
Matt isn't sure how to respond. "Wasn't planning on it."
"I mean it. Don't." Foggy grips his satchel in an effort to keep from saying more. The effort fails. "My life's being threatened. I don't need to be an accessory for you or your new bestie on top of that."
There's another loaded pause. Hopefully the last. Matt has places to be, people to visit, especially if Foggy doesn't want to be contacted again.
"Jesus," Foggy sighs, "you two are becoming friends, aren't you?"
Matt balks, incredulous. "What makes you say that?"
"You haven't corrected me."
"Because it's ridiculous."
"Yeah, it is. You and him. Friends. Ridiculous." Foggy trots down the last of the church steps. He already has his hand up to hail a cab, one that arrives promptly.
Matt tries not to look too eager as he trails down the rest of the steps in Foggy's wake. The devil stirs inside him. Adrenaline runs soft and subtle in his blood. God, he's missed this: the moment right before the leap, when he doesn't know how he'll hit the ground only that he must. He wishes he could put that into words for Foggy, the utter necessity of the mask, not just for his own sanity but the safety of the city. That he can't only makes Matt more certain of himself. Maybe Foggy will never know how important the devil is, but just because no one's watching doesn't mean it's not worth doing.
"Good-bye, Foggy."
"Bye," Foggy says dismissively as he hops into the cab.
Traffic swells; the cab waits at the curb. Matt doesn't. He dips right at the bottom of the steps and disappears into a swath of pedestrians heading around the corner. He lets the flow of foot traffic carry him away.
The thrill of movement, of menace, masks his pain but not his exhaustion. Matt pauses behind one of the trees along the sidewalk. He needs a minute to catch his breath; he's been out of the game for too long and the rush is overwhelming. He's spinning, swirling, falling. The ground warbles unsteadily beneath his feet.
His hearing catches up to him from where he left it outside the church entrance. It creeps slowly away from Foggy's cab, bringing with it the sound of his old friend's shocked heartbeat and an exasperated hiss of, "That God damn ninja bastard," before slamming the door.
And that's all it takes. Matt smirks, revitalized. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and hits Frank's number on speed dial.
The front door of the church opens. Foggy's cab pulls away from the curb. Matt has one ear on it as it rolls through the intersection and putters down the block. His other ear listens to a car pulling up to take the cab's place.
The line connects. Frank says something, but Matt isn't listening. His ears are back at St. Matthew's where someone is making their way down the steps. Too spry for Lantom or the old woman. It's the young man, the one with the prayer card. His footsteps barely make a sound across the sidewalk. He hops into the car that just pulled up, the one that's almost as quiet as he is, and Matt's blood starts racing. The new car – luxury, high-end – pulls into the lane and follows in the same direction as Foggy's cab.
"Foggy's got a tail," Matt states over the phone. He bites back a groan as he does. His awkward hobble along the sidewalk is infuriatingly slow. He can't move and hold the phone on two crutches. Matt discards one crutch against the church's cast iron fence. He takes off again, phone pressed against his ear, wincing as the remaining crutch stabs into his left armpit. "I'm after them, Frank, can you…?" The jabbing pain throws off the balance to his senses, blurring his focus. Foggy's cab fades into the fuzz of traffic in the distance, as does his pursuer's luxury car.
Screw it - Matt props the other crutch up too, dropping his left leg onto the pavement experimentally.
The cast hasn't touched the sidewalk when Frank's voice rumbles over the phone. "I will shoot your leg off at the fucking knee, Murdock, you don't pick up those crutches."
Matt grabs his recently discarded crutch, cursing as he does, "They're getting away."
"No, they're not."
Less than a block from where he's standing, a straight stretch from the church's front entrance, Matt hears the pop of a silencer. A bullet rips sharply through the air. A tire bursts. Rubber screeches, horns blare, bumpers crumple against each other. Matt lowers the phone from his ear, piecing together the ensuing rush of smells into a coherent picture of an exploded tire and a minor car accident.
Sound bounces between the buildings, exposing the rooftops, their accesses, and a water tower looming on the far side of the street. The perfect place for a sniper's nest.
"Get moving, Red," Frank urges over the melee of sounds. Honking and yelling, cursing; car doors opening and slamming. Further off, traffic flows smoothly. Matt is certain that Foggy's cab is among the stream.
"Who are they, Frank?" he asks, charging across the road.
"Ninjas. Two of 'em."
Matt takes a hard right towards the alley, hyperaware of the rooftops looming overhead and the possibility they might not be as vacant as they sound. The traffic jam is dimmer here, swallowed up by the narrow lanes between the buildings. "What the hell would they want with Foggy?"
"Probably thought you were in the cab. They won't for long. Just spotted one on the roof headed your way. Better hurry up before his friends show." There's a wild thrill in Frank's voice as he adds, "Not aiming for kneecaps tonight."
Matt hangs up the phone and shoves it into his pocket. Damn, he should have grabbed his other crutch. It's slow going with just one, carefully negotiating his balance and pain threshold, perception and reaction. If the ninja from the rooftop comes after him now…
Another pop, barely audible over the din of traffic. The bullet makes a wet snicht upon hitting the target. Then there's a limp tangle of flailing limbs falling headlong off the roof. It lands several paces ahead of Matt, crunching against the hood of a dumpster before sliding to the ground.
Guess the devil isn't the only one who's happy to be back.
Melvin's workshop can't appear soon enough. Matt's arm is killing him from supporting his weight. His leg is a mess of wild nerves flaring discordantly. He heard Frank popping off another two rounds en route; it's only a matter of time before more of the Hand appears and shots from the water tower won't be enough. This needs to go fast.
Matt waits until he's absolutely sure Melvin is alone before revealing himself. He keeps to the shadows, feeling exposed. He's always come with a hood or a mask. Today, he has sunglasses and a pained expression. Hardly a face he wants associated with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
"Hey." Melvin pushes a rolling chair towards him, one Matt uses for balance instead of for sitting. If he gets off his foot, he isn't getting back up. "Was wondering when you would be back. You look better."
"I feel better," Matt agrees. He listens hard, unable to distinguish breathing from the building's ancient plumbing. The popping he hears is just as easily a tool in the shop as it is Frank's rifle. "I know you don't like to be rushed, but I need a new cast, Melvin. I need…I need to be back on two feet again."
Amidst the clutter and disarray of the workshop, Matt senses Melvin shaking his head. "Can't do that. I'm sorry. That break needs a few more weeks before it's weight-bearing, even with the rig I'm working up."
"It's fine." Matt gives the limb a small twist to unkink the muscles, to ease some of the pressure under his current cast. Besides, they talked about this last Sunday. When Melvin promised him something lighter, something sturdier. Something that he could use to move again. "It'll be fine."
More head shaking. Melvin wanders back to his desk, retrieving an envelope from there. "It won't be. Got the x-rays to prove it, you want to see."
Matt's blood runs cold. He steadies his grip on the rolling chair to keep from shaking. He gives nothing away, no sign of alarm, even though goosebumps are shooting up his biceps and ice water's flooding his veins.
The exposed rolls of x-ray film leave a sour taste into the back of Matt's mouth. It's the perfect complement to the twisting in his gut. He accepts the images for all the good they do. It seems appropriate to see only blackness since that's all he remembers of having his leg x-rayed.
Matt holds the film open in front of him, feigning a calm he can't feel. The three days of blackout at Elektra's apartment feast upon his nerves with renewed vigour. Meanwhile, Melvin's fingers trace over the image. "Break's about mid-calf," he states confidently, speaking with a level of expertise reserves for his inventions. "Loads of tissue damage. Your surgical incision is still healing. When your Doc says you're low-weight bearing you can start working that muscle again, but I'm not putting you in a rig today. Gotta give yourself time to heal."
"We talked about this, Melvin: I don't have time," Matt tells him. He wonders if that isn't Elektra's play here with the x-rays: to remind him how useless he is. To galvanize Melvin into keeping the cast from him.
Melvin shrugs, taking the x-rays back. He returns them to their envelope and slips them on top of one of his tool chests. The smell of paper is quickly overwhelmed by metal. "I need time, you want this brace working."
Matt almost asks about the cast again, but Melvin takes his place at the work table in the centre of the shop. More metal, lightweight; screws, nuts, and bolts; sparks fresh on the air from a welding gun. Whatever the contraption is, it's raw and bare, nowhere near completion.
The rig shifts a little on the table. Matt's world on fire flickers with contours: two long metal rods suspended on a series of clamps to make a frame about the size of his shin. The smell and shape give Matt flashbacks to medieval torture devices.
Melvin puts his mind at ease. "There'll be padding, especially on these clamps around your ankle and thigh, but it's not going to be comfortable. Won't be able to wear it for too long either, since it's going to cut into your circulation. Basically, the whole thing is going to redistribute your body weight away you're your broken bone. Got these bands above the knee and at the ankle. These rods are going to act as your shin."
More motion. Matt's leg twinges painfully from the sound in warning. He jostles the limb, shutting it up. Melvin continues, patting a longer, narrower brace inside the larger frame. "This is going to hold your bone straight. I'm trying to give you as much mobility as I can, especially in the knee, but you're not going to want to do much more than balance with it."
It's more than Matt hoped. Being back on two feet again means getting back to Hell's Kitchen, keeping the Hand away from Frank and Fisk away from Foggy and every wicked little thing away from the city. "Thank you, Melvin."
"You're welcome," Melvin replies. He wanders away from the table. "Come back and see me when you're low-weight bearing. You'll be able to try it on. Till then, you should get around just fine in that new one I made for you."
Oh, thank goodness. Matt was beginning to think he imagined Melvin promising him a cast before the rig last time. "Where is it?"
Melvin's heartbeat jumps in surprise. "She didn't give it to you?"
Matt begins probing the dark spots in his memory again, waiting for something to come loose. Nothing does. The cast he got at Elektra's is better than his first walking cast, but it's not a Melvin Potter original. And it couldn't possibly be. Melvin works fast, but he can't manufacture something like that in a matter of days.
Blood pools in his broken limb, hot and heavy. Ominous. Matt adjusts his grip on his crutches. Amazing how quickly chills can turn to heat, shock into rage. "You gave it to Elektra."
"She came by a couple days ago." Probably when she brought the x-rays. Long enough after he left the penthouse to have recovered and be ready for a trip back into Hell's Kitchen. For him to be more than sufficiently annoyed by hopping around on one foot. "Said she would give it to you. It's light as a feather. Extra stability and cushioning. Make sure you check with your doctor first, but it should get you moving faster."
Matt withdraws his hand from the rolling chair, letting all his weight dangle on the one crutch. The burn in his shoulder is the least he deserves for being so stupid. Of course, she would come back to Melvin. Absolutely she would take the cast. And Matt's going to follow, as he always does. What else can he do?
"Hey," Melvin's heart speeds up a little, "that's all right, right?"
"Yeah," Matt forces himself to nod, to exude a certainty about Elektra despite the quivering of his insides. The guilt clawing inside his chest. Anger flooding his limbs.
Melvin settles by degrees, his pulse slowing. "Something happen between you two?"
They do not have time for that. Matt summarizes, "I've been staying with someone else. That's all."
Melvin's nod registers through the din of his workshop. It's so damn resolute. "Good you have friends to help you out at a time like this."
Matt has no better idea how to respond to that now than he did with Foggy. He lets it go, lets it all go, tries to forget what the Punisher's doing on Melvin's doorstep. What he asked Punisher to do. What Elektra is doing. Instead, Matt says, "You do good work, Melvin. Thank you."
"You give my regards to Elektra, when you see her?"
He lets the devil reply, "Will do."
Happy reading!