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 originally had a scene planned in this chapter for Karen and Frank. I chose to cut it for narrative reasons. It really broke up the action between this chapter and the previous one and didn't, I felt, contribute meaningfully to the story. I may post it on Tumblr or save it for a later chapter. I do want to apologize to you, dear Readers, since I want to include more of her.

Thankfully, the extra time I took on this chapter meant I was able to talk myself off the ledge I was freaking out about last time. This installment ends where I intended, and I so hope you enjoy it.

Readers: I can't thank you enough for your kind support. Thank you for giving this fic your time and your energy. I wouldn't make it this far without you. Cheers!

"I dine with the blood on my hands,
Thrive when I'm beatin' the man…
Never get caught,
Just get out and hit it again…
In a world riddled with conflict,
Hate that you need me…
You're gonna deploy me in the end."

~Skylar Grey, "Wreak Havok"

Chapter Thirty-Five

There's a space just below Frank's shoulder where the kids would lay their heads. He remembers telling Lisa in particular that God carved out a place just for her, the perfect size and shape of her face. A space she found every time she hugged him. A space he tried to fill with the strap of a pack or the stock of a rifle while he was overseas, but neither seemed to fit quite as well as her. Frank took shots with a gun that felt right in his hands but was just a placeholder on his shoulder.

Then he got home. Walked into Lisa's classroom, got his little girl in his arms, and he waited for that feeling of completeness to come back to him. Except her face didn't fit below his shoulder anymore. And she kept trying to put herself back there, to tuck herself away in that hollow beneath his collarbone, but she didn't belong. She was too soft, too beautiful, too living. And Frank found himself thinking, as he pushed her away from him with promises of tomorrow, tomorrow, baby, I promise that maybe she never fit. That there isn't a part of him that doesn't belong in combat and never was.

The Barrett rests so damn easy against him. Kicks like a fucking mule, but Frank wants that. He was made for catching kickback, for standing his ground, for staring down a scope at ninja-fuckers on the lam and God damn Red putting his crutches down.

Jesus – the fuck does he think he's gonna do? The fuck? Frank snarls through the speaker phone and hazards one last glance that Red's picking his leg back up again. Then Frank lines up his shot at the car. Over the edge of the landing on the water tower. Skirting past the edge of the roof into the small window between it and the top of the vehicle's wheel well. He shakes, the wind picks up, fucking car hits a pot hole, the round is going to ding off the body of the car. But Frank's got it all worked out: he knows his hands don't shake, wind's been done for the past couple hours, and he scoped out the street for pot holes without even thinking.

Under his breath, it comes: "One batch, two batch, penny and dime –"

He sends the bullet home.

His heartbeat paws steadily in his ears the whole time.

Frank takes a knee as the tire pops, as the car swerves. The ninjas squeal into a parked car. Another vehicle stabs into their back bumper. A third car gives them a nudge before stopping, but not before the street floods with honks and shouts.

Frank whips back to Red. Kid's got one crutch and stands, waiting. Commotion doesn't mean much when he can't see it. A quick order and assurance that it isn't Fisk gets him moving again. Off the beaten path, down the alley to wherever the fuck he's going. Frank checks the activity on the street before following Red again. One ninja's behind the wheel trying to get the hell off the road; his buddy has disappeared.

Good. Frank stays low, turning his attention from the accident at his 3 o'clock to the Red's path at his 12. Got incoming on the rooftops there: a silhouette breezing through the ever-darkening shadows in the twilight, dressed from head to toe in black robes. Red can't disconnect the call fast enough; Jesus, he's getting cheeky now that he's moving again. Frank puts the ninja's head in his crosshairs, and then he makes it interesting by taking aim at the exposed bridge of the ninja's nose. One batch, two batch – fire. The ninja snaps back at the neck and disappears into the alley below.

Two more on the rooftops. One from the left, hiding out around Red's destination. The other emerging seemingly from nowhere. Ghosts without the God damn fog, these ninjas. Frank gives them a little time before he dispatches them. He breathes through the heady rush of pride, of certainty – this is right. This is the universe as it should be and he helped get it there. One batch, two batch, penny and dime: two more dead ninjas on a rooftop.

He puts the rifle down. Grabs the knife off his hip as he descends the ladder from the water tower onto the roof. Footsteps echo up the stairs inside the rooftop access. Frank puts his back beside the door and waits.

The ninja who disappeared from the street busts out, brandishing a short sword. Frank grabs him around the neck from behind, kicks the weapon out of his hand. The ninja retaliates: he kicks back, slamming Frank into the door frame. The laceration on his back snaps open in the centre. Blood runs with rage in a hot line down his spine. Frank tugs until the ninja's scalp in the space that Lisa used to lay her head, and the insult to her memory spurs Frank into action. He stabs the ninja's insides until they're liquid and streaming from his open chest, then hurls the body back down the stairs for the next ninja to find.

Steam runs faintly off Frank's blood-covered hand and blade. Sun's hanging low. Light pollution and smog obscures the starlight. The laceration across Frank's back burns steadily, and the space below his shoulder is cold, empty. Hollow in a way that won't ever be filled.

Footsteps rattle up the concrete steps towards him. The other ninja from the street has come to play.

Frank goes to work.

New York's finest arrive on scene while Frank's finishing. He wipes the ninja blood off his hands, packs up the rifle, and gets the hell back to the car before the boys in blue figure out which building he was shooting from. Red calls just as Frank peels out of the parking garage. He's growly, pissy. Rankled by something, and it better not be the ninjas Frank just put down. Thankfully, the kid doesn't say much. He gives Frank an intersection away from the cops and then hangs up.

Shit. If he starts a fight about this…

Frank grips the wheel tightly. Watches the rooftops, but they're empty. Cruises past the church, tilting his head away from the officers on patrol. From Red's discarded crutch. Guess it's a good thing the kid's planning on getting around easier since it's too much of a damn risk to get out and grab it.

He hasn't been getting around easy tonight though. Red looks like shit when he drops into the passenger seat: pale and wane and perspiring. Him being pissed off doesn't help his appearance. If anything, the fire in his eyes calls attention to how out of shape he is.

Frank pulls the car away from the curb. Jesus, the heat's rolling from the passenger seat. The kid's fuming fills the whole vehicle. "You asked," Frank reminds him.

"She took it."

He hates the fucking pronoun game. 'She' is easy enough where Red's concerned, but 'it' could mean fucking anything. Frank sighs. "What'd your girl do now?"

Red snaps, "She's not my –"

Frank shuts him up. "She's your problem." And his problem, God damn it. "What'd she take?"

"A cast. The man who makes my armour built me something better than what I'm wearing. It'll get me to being low-weight bearing faster. Elektra took it."

"Your guy, he can't make you another?" Frank asks.

It's not that simple. Of course it's not that simple. It's Red. "I told him I would keep him safe. That he'd do good work for a good cause."

"So you introduced him to Elektra?"

Red shakes his head. Disappointed. In himself. "I tell him she's untrustworthy or give him any reason to suspect it, and Melvin will take action against the Hand."

And regardless, Red'll find a way to make it his fault in the end. Should've protected this Melvin guy, should've never introduced him to Elektra, should've saved Elektra…Christ Jesus. Frank sighs. "She call?"

"No."

"She will." She didn't take the cast to hide it; she took it to get to him.

Red knows this. Hates it. His whole body's wrecked with rage, with disgust. Beat the shit out of him, shoot him in the head, and he gets back up. Hell, he forgives you for it, 'cuz he chose the fight. But put him in chains, take away his options, bend him or break him to your will, Red gets plumb mad-dog mean. The waxy pallor of his skin, the visible weakness in his limbs: that's the real costume. Not a man in boy's pyjamas; he's a devil wearing a person-suit.

Frank can't help but nod in acknowledgement. This is the Red he wants to see.

Frank parks the car, rolls the windows down. Gets out and pops into an diner, order two cups of coffee. Waitress doesn't even look at him; she's got her eyes on the television. Shots fired in Hell's Kitchen. Three bodies found so far. Punisher suspected. There's his ugly mug on screen, a grainy shot from the courtroom, along with a recap of the shit he did to the Irish.

Other customers might leave without tipping; Frank leaves a ten. Her distraction lets him walk back to the car without causing an alarm. Red's eased into the night some. He still looks like something's about to crawl out from under his skin, but he's controlling himself. Got his game face on. He takes the cup of coffee when Frank offers it even if he doesn't start drinking.

He's cool even when his phone springs to life in his pocket: "Unknown. Unknown. Unknown." Red puts the coffee down, whips out of the device, double-taps the screen to accept the call. The line connects to the soft purr of the minx's breathing, to the thin curve of her smile. "Hello, Matthew," Frank hears faintly, just as Red shoves the phone against his ear.

"Where are you?" Red growls.

Elektra's voice is an ambient ringing from the passenger side of the vehicle even through Red's white-knuckled grip. She isn't telling Red where she is; she's talking around him in circles. But she manages to prompt a, "Stay away from Foggy," and it's the most serious threat Frank's heard come from the kid's mouth. Gotta say he's a little impressed. Back at the penthouse, Red was so desperate to please, so ridden with guilt to be leaving. He might finally be pissed off with her.

"You didn't leave me much choice," Red snarls. Then, "What do you want, Elektra?"

That should be the end of it, but fuck if it is. Elektra's just getting started. Some more back and forth follows: "Why'd you take the cast?" and "Don't pin this all on me!" Frank grumbles between sips of his coffee for Red to get the hell on with it, and the kid rolls his eyes, muttering an exasperated, "I know. I know!" to Frank.

"If you know, then get on with it," Frank demands. Red's face screws up tight in response. Elektra's voice is coils sweetly like smoke between them. Fuck it – he'll do it his fucking self. Frank puts down his coffee and moves to snatch the phone away.

Red hops out of the vehicle, yammering on as he does. Arguing. Engaging with her. Frank picks up his coffee again. "Making a mistake, Red. Best to just hang up the phone."

"Stop, Frank," Red hisses, and then, into the phone, "You too. Where are you?"

Frank huffs. "She'll call back."

The kid shoves a hand through the window and gives Frank the finger, withdrawing before Frank can snap the finger off at the knuckle.

"Ridiculous," Frank cusses under his breath. Red's giving her exactly what she wants and then some, since they're going to meet with her. Going to give her an audience for the fucked up shit she has planned to lure the kid back into her orbit. He kicks open his car door and joins Red on the passenger side just as the call comes to an end.

"What'd she say?" Frank asks.

Red answers, surprisingly without moving back into the car, grabbing his crutch, and hopping off alone into the night. Progress. "She wants to meet."

"Where?"

"My apartment."

"Alone," Frank guesses.

"Both of us," Red corrects him. "She…invited both of us."

Okay - "That's a trap."

"Yeah."

The bullet tickling his brain becomes an itch, becomes a scratch, becomes a splinter. Frank scrubs away at it, trying to think clearly. Wrap his head around the ins and outs of Elektra's new game. The apartment's open concept, top floor; Red'll sense a cavalry. He could send the kid in alone through the front, clear the roof and drop in from above.

Nah, too easy. She'll see it coming. She's seen it coming. It's why there won't be ninjas on the roof or in the apartment. They'll be close enough to drop in but far enough that Red can't sense.

Kid's got the same thing on his mind. He must. Been silent a long time.

"What's the plan?" Frank asks.

"I go alone."

Of course. Red makes it sound like a suggestion, but that's for show. He's given serious thought to ditching. Frank reminds him, "This is a play for you. She isn't giving you a reason to walk away again."

"It's a play for both of us," Red declares. "She isn't going to let you walk away again."

"Don't you go looking for another ceiling to catch. Not some old man standing in the way of a truck, Red. This is about you. I handle my own fight and…" the bullet twinges in his skull. Frank uses his knuckles to undo the knot. "…make sure you handle yours."

He looks away before he sees Red tilting towards him in interest. Changes the subject. "We go in together, we leave together." The kid nods, but it's not enough. Frank leans up close, lets Red feel the full weight of what's being said. "You don't play her games, you play yours. You get the cast. We get out."

"What are you going to do?"

"Whatever needs to be done," Frank says, mapping out the kid's apartment in his head. The windows, the points of entry, the surrounding buildings. Pressure points. Hiding spots. Barricades.

Red smirks in warning. Reading his damn mind. "I like my apartment, Frank."

Frank nods. "Probably got insurance then."

A sigh. "Yes."

Best news he's heard all night. "You might need it."

Windows down, car rolling slowly through the street, Red notes that the rooftops sound clear. No ninja breathing around his apartment building. Frank can't see anyone, but he still doesn't like it. No way she came alone, without back-up. No way she's sitting pretty up there in the kid's apartment by herself.

He arms himself before leaving the car: a piece in his shoulder holster, another at his ankle. A knife at his waist. One more piece in his hand, tucked under the cuff of his coat sleeve. Red stops him from taking an explosive with a stern, "No." Frank shrugs. "Suit yourself." Means he has to lay hand on the minx, she wants to pick a fight.

They climb the stairs, Red in the lead. Sensing nothing. No ninja heartbeats, no ninjas breathing, nothing amiss. Neighbours accounted for. Guess the kid's no explosives rule was a good call. Not that Frank's going to admit it aloud.

Red stops at his apartment door, listening. Frank surveys the hallway in silence. Waiting. Expecting. Nothing happens. The apartment building is clear, as expected, meaning whatever and whoever Elektra has planned is on the other side of the door.

Knuckles come to rest softly against his arm, drawing his attention. The kid holds up two fingers: two heartbeats. He points, giving Frank an indication of where they are. Nothing left to do but head in.

Elektra's voice streams through the door, a pleasant mix of silk and blade. "Door's unlocked, boys. Come on in."

Red meets Frank's stare head-on, every sense fixed and waiting. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Frank draws a steadying breath, readying his weapon. "Let's not keep her waiting."

The lights are on – for his benefit, Frank realizes. His. To give him a perfect view of the space. Because, it dawns on him, this is a trap. But not for Red: for him.

He rounds the corner into the living room where Elektra presides over the apartment from the arm chair.

Doctor Sato stands next to her.

Happy reading!