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: The song choice for this chapter was deliberate. On October 17, lead singer of the Tragically Hip and Canadian national treasure Gord Downie passed away from cancer. I grew up in a household where the Tragically Hip was played constantly. There was a lot of love for this band and even more for their brilliant frontman. I couldn't help but use their lyrics for a chapter in this fic.
I think this chapter nearly destroyed me. I don't know why. All I know is I've had a tension headache for the past forty-eight hours. My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth while I sleep. Every waking more has been some serious mental blacksmithing to figure out what the hell it needed to say, and like always, it took way more words than I thought it would to end up where it needed to be.
It feels worth it, of course. This whole fic is worth it, and not in the least because of all of you wonderful readers out there, your wonderful feedback, your support. I wouldn't have the stamina to get through every new installment of this fic without you. Sorry this one took so long! I hope you enjoy it!
"We lay down seething, smell our pillows burn,
And drift off to the place where you'd think we'd learn.
Do you think I bow out 'cause I think you're right?
Or 'cause I don't want to fight?
…Oh, go ahead and fight."
~The Tragically Hip, "Fight"
Chapter Forty
Frank tracks his gaze over the kid. From the strip of fresh bandages on his right foot to the chafing on his knuckles; the way his sweats cling to his legs, his hoodie grips around his biceps. "The hell were you doing?"
"Rina's listening," Red warns.
Yeah, he figured. Way she caught him on the stairs. Way she covered for the kid's hurt foot. "She's waiting for a fight. We fighting, Red?"
A laugh. A smile. Nothing but menace backing both. "You tell me. We fighting?"
Frank's mouth runs on autopilot while the rest of him falls in line. Adrenaline surging, heart pumping, veins pounding. "Just say the word. You just say the God damn word."
The kid says something. Doesn't matter what it is. The very sound of his voice is grating. It's a triple dog dare for Frank to do his worst even though Red hasn't got a leg left to stand on. "You wanna start a fight? I will end it. I will end it so fucking fast." One good knock to the head is all it would take. Or maybe that syringe of midazolam, finally put that to use. Frank's still got the loaded syringe and Doc's notes on the dosage. Red can sleep off his hissy fit with a little help from the dearly departed. Wake up in chains until he learns to take better care of himself.
Red doesn't take the bait though. He springs up onto his cut foot instead, wincing freely, and hobbles out of the room. Frank doesn't wait around to watch him leave. He storms off to the kitchen and gets a pot of coffee going, ears trained on the slap of Red's palms against the wall as he climbs out onto the fire escape.
The bathroom window slams shut behind him.
Frank peels open the refrigerator. Shit, the damn thing really is empty. He eases the door shut and turns to survey the clean containers stacked on the counter. Doesn't make sense: he took inventory, ran calculations, figured the kid had enough food for another day or two at least with the way he was eating. But Red's just full of surprises lately, not in the least being his appetite. Those bloody knuckles he's nursing, his bandaged foot; couple of days ago, he was icing swollen ankle and sporting blood stains on his sleeve. Frank's barely seen him out of the apartment except to hobble laps up and down the fire escape stairs. All of it paints a pretty pathetic picture of what's been going on since the Doc got hers.
Making his way across the apartment, Frank stops at the sight of a hoodie in the corner on his side of the flat. His hoodie, the one that the kid's all but lived in since Frank first flung it at him, has been returned. Frank bundles the fabric into a ball, crushing his palms into the teeth of the zipper. He maintains his vice grip across no man's land into the kid's corner.
He anticipates a reaction. A knock on the window, a "Fuck off, Frank," a something. Kid's been a ray of sunshine since the Doc, and Frank's abided the fuck you-s and the occasional go fuck yourself out of respect for the damn leg. But grabbing the duffel of dirty laundry punctuates Red's silence, his outright refusal to respond, because he's listening. He's gotta be.
Frank tries his damnedest to get his ticker cussing in the kid's precious ears as he digs for straggles of clothing under the cot. There's nothing left to grab except the backpack Red filled that last night at his place, and Frank has the strap in hand before he's thought about what he's gonna do.
He slides the backpack across the floor. Lets it catch on splinters, peel against the fraying hardwood, make as much damn noise as it possibly can. This is bullshit. No more tip-toeing, evasive maneuvering, fucking sit-on-the-fire-escape-and-mope shit. Buck the fuck up and get on with it, Red. Come on and stop me.
The zipper rips open. Frank eyes the window. He thinks he sees Red's fingertips at the sill, but it must be a trick of the light. There's nothing. By the sounds of things, the kid hasn't even bothered to stand up let alone creep inside for round one.
Frank closes the bag. Shoves it back under the cot. He takes the duffle over his shoulder, lets it run over the knitting katana wound across his back. Quiet overtakes him, and the gunfire in his skull provides a rolling bassline to Red's hissy fit, to his own poorly contained temper. They've got weeks between them and Red being back on two feet, and Frank sure as shit isn't about to blow a month of sweat and blood and fucking not-killing ninjas because the dumbass is looking to take a ride on his moral high horse.
There's plenty of time for them to fight this out. Till then, it's business as usual. Till then, it's the mission. Till then, it's all about the leg. The dumbass attached to it can wait.
Frank leaves the kid to his pity party. He has a cup of coffee, puts a load in the wash, makes a run for provisions. Fuck, kid went through Rina's cooking in half the time he should have. Got the metabolism of a teenager. Good match for his personality.
Groceries come first, couple of essentials, followed by a stop at a pawn shop. Frank nabs a copy of Debussy's Greatest along with an album from Moussorgsky that's practically new. He gets to the counter to find the guy staring him dead in the eye, mouth set in a hard line, the sort of line they drill into you from basic. "You need anything else, sir?" he asks. Frank shakes his head, hands off the cash. Gets a, "Thank you, sir," when collecting his change that can't just be for the purchase. He gives the guy behind the counter a nod, one that weighs on him all the way back to the apartment. Gratitude reminds him of the work that isn't getting done thanks to his babysitting the Fucking Toddler of Hell's Kitchen.
Red's still on the fire escape when Frank pulls into the lot. He's got his coat at least, but he's huddled up, face concealed under the hood, as if fleece is a good defence against the chill. Frank slams the car door extra hard at the sight, rolling his eyes at the tiny flinch of Red's shoulders from the sound. Not meditating, then. Just sitting in the wintry afternoon, being cold and bitter while listening to the city and wishing he was somewhere else.
Frank brings everything inside. He restocks the fridge and cupboards, organizing the items separately so Red can navigate them by touch. He puts on a fresh pot of coffee. Grabs the records. Heads out of the apartment, making sure he doesn't hesitate on his way out the door at the sight of the bathroom window.
He considers knocking at Rina's and giving her the credit she deserves for dealing with the devil in person, but he isn't looking to scare her anymore than she's looking for thanks. Nevertheless, Frank still finds himself standing there like an idiot, one arm hooked around two chafed albums while the other braces him against the door frame. Jesus, what was he thinking, leaving for days on end? Sure, he dodged a fight with the kid. Didn't have to ditch Sato's body with Red in the passenger seat bitching about the sanctity of life. But none of that means shit. He knows – he fucking knows, like he knew from the moment they met, the only person Red wants to beat the shit out of more than the bad guys, more than Frank, is himself.
The records slip easily and quickly under the door. Frank about-faces and high-tails it out of there, but he isn't more than a few steps away when the records shoot back out across the floor.
"I appreciate the gesture, thank you," Rina says from behind her locked door, "but it's not…it's not necessary."
"They're not from me," Frank says.
Rina's door swings open a few meager inches, snapping against the security chain. Her pale face and hair appear, ghostlike, in the crack. "I told your brother –"
"People tell my brother lots of things. He's not too good at listening." God damn, the irony of that statement when Red's probably hanging off every word of this exchange from his frigid post on the fire escape. "Owe you a lot more than records, ma'am, for what you did. What you do. Couple records make him feel better at least."
Rina shrugs, dipping her face behind the doorframe. "I make too much," she says.
Frank nods. "Yes, ma'am. And we appreciate it. Thank you."
She glances at the records on the floor. "These are from him?" Frank nods. She twitches a little, torn, then enters a crouch. One of her thin, pale arms snakes out of the crack in the door and draws the records inside. She returns to her full height. "Thank you." She corrects herself. "But please tell him no more. I mean it. Please."
"Yes, ma'am."
Rina nods. She goes to close her door, but she stops herself with one more question that barely registers for Frank. Those words - delivered softly, no less – he can't hear them over the din in his brain. His answer is automatic. "Yes, ma'am. I'm all right. Thank you."
Whether she believes him or not, the result is the same. Rina nods once, delivers a final thank you under her breath, and closes the door. Frank heads back to his apartment, counting the sound of her locks latching with every step. Swear to God if Red says anything. If he pokes his head in through the bathroom window to bitch about records, about being used as an excuse, Frank is locking him out on the fire escape until his leg's healed.
All's quiet at the apartment though. Frank pours himself a fresh cup of coffee and stands, strategizing, wondering what Red's end-game is before remembering that Red never has an end-game. Kid lives by the seat of his pants, skirting the edge of disaster at every opportunity. He's gonna lock himself on the fire escape, and so help him, Frank has to drag his frozen ass in, save him from hypothermia.
Frank tosses back the coffee, the burn in his throat a good match for the boiling in his blood. Fuck. He's fucking… He slams his mug down on the counter and charges through the apartment.
Red appears suddenly. He throws open the window and climbs back inside. Without missing a beat, Frank tears into a hard right for the front door and leaves. As if that was his plan the entire time.
They survive the night and following day in tenuous silence on opposite sides of the apartment, breaking only for brief verbal melees. "You got something to say, just say it," followed by a boring repartee of, "Not saying anything." "Oh, you got nothing to say?" "No. Nothing. But it sure sounds like you do." When they're actin' civil, they end with a mutual agreement of, "Fine." When they're really pissed, they bring out fuck and all its cognates, and one of them storms off to the fire escape to cool their heels.
Night comes. Frank takes a drive. Creeps past alleys, scopes out late-night diners and clubs, dodges a cluster of cops outside of a seedy motel. Snowflakes swirl on the breeze, sparkling orange and yellow under the streetlamps, an iridescent blue in the exterior lights on the buildings. His mind wanders through the war he isn't fighting and teaching Frank Jr. how to skate on the outdoor community rink and God damn it, he shouldn't be out here. He blames Red for evading the situation, but he isn't much better.
Just…what the fuck does the kid want him to say? He isn't sorry. He wouldn't take it back. Would have done the Doc in sooner, he knew about her plans. Red's looking for a fight he can't win, and under normal circumstances, Frank would oblige him, but he's a mess, God damn it. He's a floundering mess who holed up in an apartment, ate his feelings, smacked around the punching bag some, and then cut his only good foot. Fuck, Red.
Frank comes back into the lot from the back this time, creeping past the empty fire escape. Window's open. Weird. He parks and climbs the stairs, slipping in through the window. Bathroom, living room, kitchen: Red's gone.
Frank stalks around, listening for the tell-tale hop of the one-legged devil. Ceiling creaks. Window panes rattle in the glass. Frank heads out to the fire escape and surveys the lot, the surrounding streets, mind reeling through calculations about just how far Red could have gotten. But none of it adds up. It's stupid for Red to run now. No, he's still on site.
Frank slips back into the bathroom and charges towards the front door. Maybe Rina…? He stops. Listens again. There's that creaking sound. Not from the floor: from the ceiling. Frank's never heard the wind do that.
An itch spreads through the back of his neck, across his knuckles, straight down his trigger finger. He eyes the patch of ceiling above his head. Oh, hell no…he darts back onto the fire escape, hops onto the railing, and lifts himself onto the ledge of the roof for a look.
Rooftop's empty. Because of course it is. The devil's crept away. Sure enough, just as Frank's hopping down, he hears the door to the apartment slam shut. He slips back into the bathroom to find Red shedding his coat. "Went for a walk," he says, and the sheen of sweat on his brow, his chapped fingers and cheeks - they definitely confirm he was outside, that he was working out. But as he settles onto his cot for meditation, Red seems oblivious to the fact that the window next to him is slightly ajar. Or maybe he knows he can't reach for it without giving the game away.
Frank pretends not to notice.
He heads out before Rina leaves for work the next morning. Walks past Red pretending to sleep and drives away from the apartment. When his car's engine is sufficiently masked by traffic and distance, Frank parks, backtracks on foot. Swerves into an alley, hops on a dumpster, scales a rickety fire escape, and plants himself on the roof with a perfect view of his building in the distance.
Frank doesn't have to wait long for movement. For Red to creep up from the fire escape and start into what looks like a dance routine. Frank watches him crouch, bend, and flow, weight shifting between his three remaining limbs. He's up there for over an hour before the work catches up with him, and he collapses onto his back in the cold. Sweat gleaming in the pale sunshine. Face pale, chest heaving from the exertion. He slams his fist into the cement with what looks like frustration and pain and whole bunch of other shit.
Frank drops his gaze. He closes his eyes, opens them; keeps reliving that rude awakening in the hospital after the carousel. A nurse with deer-in-the-headlight eyes. "Take me home, take me home..." but there's no home, not without Maria and Lisa and Frank Jr. And as Frank drops a fist onto the rooftop ledge, it strikes him that he isn't alone in that feeling. More than that, their reactions are pretty much the same. Red isn't throwing himself a pity party; he's preparing for war.
Next run for provisions Frank does is a little more direct. Red's bulking up, trying to make weight? He's gonna need carbs, protein, anything to build mass. Frank starts gradually increasing their stores in the kitchen, substantiating the meals Rina drops off with shakes and bars that Red doesn't question, just guzzles them back like the bottomless pit he is.
Observation gives Frank patience; proximity gives him opportunity. Running recon on Red comes with so many fringe benefits. He figures out how to mask his sidelong glances. Starts measuring how close he can get before the kid gets wise to his presence. Figures out the sorts of things that disorient Red or distract him: when the washer runs, when one of the neighbours cranks his music, when traffic's bad, the kid's perception gets a little jumbled. Can't track footsteps or heartbeats. He forgets that he's being watched and Frank catches glimpses of him engaging in some one-legged ballet across the apartment.
He gives Red a few days with long stretches to spar on the roof. One day the kid even brings out his sticks, those damn Billy clubs, the ones he wields as accurately as Frank handles bullets. Must have grabbed those from the hideaway in his apartment. "The hell are you doing, Red?" Frank asks quietly, testing Red's ears. If the kid can hear, he doesn't react. He's too busy whipping those clubs against the rooftop, catching 'em when they fly back towards his hands.
Frank takes notes. Copious notes. Fills up an entire notebook to prepare until Red's moving on one foot better than two, and that's when Frank's patience disappears. Goes up in flames like so much gasoline. And he finally heads home.
Rina's out; Frank checks to be sure. Nothing's gonna happen tonight if she isn't.
The apartment is dark, still. Cut with strange shadows now that Frank's cleaned house. A chilly breeze comes in through the open bathroom window.
Frank pours himself a cup of coffee in a Styrofoam cup. Can't risk giving the kid a weapon, but he wants a cup of coffee before shit goes sideways. He steps outside, takes his place at the rail, stretching out so that his legs are in the way if Red tries to go back inside. Which Red doesn't. The kid sits and glowers, looking more comical than menacing with his frostbitten cheeks and chapped lips. Hands folded against his chest to keep from getting cold. Those clubs of his are probably hidden under his arms. Shoulders bulky under his jacket from all the new muscle he's been putting on.
Those pants he's wearing, they're new. At least Frank's never seen them before. Jet black and skin-tight and stitched up in places. Sweats would have done just fine for this. Why the kid thought he needed to get dressed up special for a fight is beyond Frank.
That Red doesn't get up is unnerving too. He looking for an invitation? Frank stares at the coffee in his cup, rifling through the words he's chosen one last time before speaking. He took his time with this. Measured what he's about to say against what he knows about Red, what he's come to learn from watching him.
"I was gonna let her go," he says. "The Doc. She did what I said at the animal hospital. Didn't know it at the time, but I knew it when she showed up with the Hand."
Red shuffles uncomfortably against the wall. He's biting on his lip so hard, his skin's gone white. His right leg tenses under the thin fabric of his black pants. "Stop, Frank."
Frank gets back to regarding his coffee, drinks a bit, not wanting any of it to go to waste. Like hell he's gonna stop. Kid put himself back together for a reason. Frank isn't going to let that go to waste. "I said I choose to kill people, but I don't choose who needs killing. They decide that for themselves. And Sato was a lot of things, but being mourned ain't one of them no matter how good a job she did on your leg."
Red says nothing. Frank finishes his coffee. He twists the Styrofoam cup he's using in his hands before crumpling it and chucking it to the trash heap below. "Killed her for you, see?" He looks at Red through the corner of his eye, every other part of him pretending he's not really looking. That he isn't ready for this. "She died for you, Red. She died 'cuz of you."
He doesn't even see it coming. Spent all that time learning, memorizing, figuring out the kid's weak spots, his sometimes literal blind spots, and Frank still finds himself thrown through the bathroom window. Glass stabs into his back, his shoulders, his scalp; blood runs hot down his spine and spatters on the floor. He looks up to find a silhouette standing in the broken window frame. No horns, no face, nothing but darkness, but Frank knows that stance, knows that shadow. It's the Devil of Hell's Kitchen come out to play.
"Fucking finally," Frank says, unpeeling himself from the floor. "Let's go, choirboy."
The Devil obliges him.
Happy reading!