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: Most of this chapter came together during my Punisher marathon on Saturday. I was worried the show would conflict with the way I've depicted Frank here, but it turns out the biggest challenge was keeping Matt's voice consistent. I kept editing his narration for Frank-isms that had snuck their way into his chapter.
I keep thinking I have this story blocked out, and then I go and write a chapter, and the break comes before I get to the stopping point I had planned. I suppose this means you're stuck with me for a little longer than I planned, Readers. I hope you don't mind. I also hope you like this installment. It went from being infuriating to one of my favourites. The writing process on this one teetered constantly between love and war.
I was so sure this chapter would be called "Issues." I had the track picked out (check out the cover by Walk Off The Earth!), had the lyrics jotted down, but then I heard this song, and oh, God, this song. Everything about it fit so damn well. That bassline, those lyrics. I hope you agree.
Readers, dear Readers, thank you for your support and encouragement, especially after last chapter. I felt awful for having kept people waiting, but I'm pleased to have hammered this chapter out so quickly. Please, enjoy!
"Guess I'm contagious. It'd be safest if you ran.
Fuck, that's what they all just end up doing in the end…
Take my arm, break it in half…
Take my head and kick it in.
Break some bread for all my sins.
Say something. Do it soon. It's too quiet in this room.
I need noise.
I need the buzz of a saw.
I need the crack of a whip.
I need some blood in the cut."
~ K Flay, "Blood in the Cut"
Chapter Forty-One
This isn't the fight he was looking for. Frank's absence presented the perfect opportunity to don the black suit again, to go on patrol. Investigate those sirens that have been haunting him night after night, the ones he can finally chase.
But damn, this fight'll do. Matt's knuckles are singing from throwing Frank through the window. Clubs hang cool and ready at his sides. His biceps itch, eager for more. Anger warms him against the cold better than his jacket ever could. The world on fire burns hot and red and hungry inside his mind's eye, sparking with every crunch of glass, with Frank's groans. The Punisher's heartbeat is an invitation, and it would be rude to walk away, to not give him what he wants, what he deserves.
Matt hops into a crouch inside the Frank-sized hole through the window. He's careful to avoid the hunks of broken glass and splintered wood still decorating the frame. Carefuller still to lower himself slowly into the ring, to give Frank a good look at who he's dealing with. There's no hint of surprise in Frank's respiration, but that doesn't mean anything. He wanted a fight and now he's getting one. Matt intends to let him know that was a bad idea.
He gives Frank the first few swings, testing out his balance, but then one club makes it into the fray, then the other, and before too long he's landing blows of his own. Across Frank's face twice, to Frank's stomach once, straight up and under Frank's ribs. That hit's enough to get the Punisher off him, and Matt drops, rolls, comes up behind, and starts in again with everything he's got.
Shoving Frank into the bathroom wall seems to send the room up in flames. Sparks fly with every strike. Frank lands a couple hits on his shoulders and to his stomach, but the blows land on Matt like fire. He barely feels them. Fire can't burn a devil; fire makes a devil stronger.
He grabs Frank by the shoulders and throws him again. God only knows where he finds the momentum on one leg, but Matt gets Frank into the opposite wall. Blood and sweat spatter against the hardwood from Frank's fingertips. He cracks his knuckles and yells on his way back for more.
Christ, he's fast. It's easy to forget with Frank being as big as he is. Matt's edge goes straight out the window along with one of his clubs when Frank smashes through his defences. The other club gets kicked into the tub. Matt ends up on his knee in a chokehold, broken leg slung to the side. Instinctively, he pulls at his broken limb, trying to protect it; Frank doesn't give the leg a second thought. His heartbeat is wild and raging, geared up and ready for war, but not once does he press the obvious advantage.
Matt kicks his good leg out from under him, twisting, and then lets his body weight do the rest. Frank's ready for a lot of things but apparently, not that. Not the added weight from training. Slamming into the floor makes Matt's head spin; his perception dulls. The bathroom goes from world-on-fire to a billowing cloud of smoke. He rolls out of the way of Frank's foot stomping down towards him.
He hops back onto his good leg with Frank reaching for him. Matt drops again, onto his left knee this time, a manoeuvre that's met with an unexpected reaction on Frank's part: familiarity. Expectation. Hell, there's a flicker of amusement the next time he grunts into action. Fuck, Frank knows: he's been watching.
Matt rolls through the doorway into the living area and is back on his feet just in time for round two. Let Frank watch; he's still got a few surprises. His arms never fall from a defensive position as Frank fights him back, back, back into the desk. Matt falls – hard. The police scanner slides off the tables and crashes against the floor. He swings one hand away from his face, nabs the lamp from the desktop, and swings for Frank's head.
He's caught before impact. Frank twists the lamp out of Matt's grasp, but his tiny victory is short-lived. Matt starts throwing punches: at Frank's shoulders to drive him back, then two to his face, one for either cheek.
Frank spits out a wad of blood. "Stop doing that."
"What?" Matt hits him again. "This?"
Frank grabs him by the neck and shoves him onto the desk. Matt hears the joints creak as he flails, fighting for purchase. "Stop twisting your leg like that. Gonna blow out your knee."
Matt digs an elbow into Frank's arm until he's released. He rises back to his full height, stunned to find that Frank lets him. That Frank even takes a step back from him before assuming a fighting stance.
For a moment, Matt's rage clears, revealing a steady burn in his right thigh, a warning that he's overdoing it. But then the rage comes back, stronger and harder, because Frank doesn't get to make that call. He doesn't get to know that. "I don't need help kicking your ass."
"Need all the help you can get to not kick yours in the process. Don't make this easy for me, Red."
Matt drops one of his shoulders. "I won't." He dives into Frank's waist and brings them both to the floor.
The sound of impact gets lost in ensuing tangle of punches and blocks, swipes and jabs. They've got their hands twisted in the front of each other's shirts, holding each other in the fight, as if they've got somewhere else they'd rather be. As if there's anyone else they'd rather be with, anyone else they'd rather be fighting. Frank tries to knock him to the right; Matt won't budge. His left leg screams as it twists under his weight, but he refuses to give Frank any ground.
Frank claws more deeply into Matt's shirt, fingers stabbing at Matt's heart. He pulls them close, so close that the vibrations of his voice are nails running over Matt's face and neck. "Don't you mess up that fucking leg, or I swear –"
"You swear, what? Frank?"
One sharp tug. Matt pitches forward, forehead smashing into Frank's, then he's slammed over to his right.
He gets back up only for Frank to throw him down again. Blood spatters out of his mouth across the hardwood, and Matt careens through a series of useless sensory cues. The smell of sweat, cold wafting in from the busted window. Pain everywhere. He dips right on instinct, thinking he can dodge a blow; unfortunately, the swing is a ruse. Frank throws another punch from the opposite direction. There's a sharp snap of a blow, a spark of more than fire through his skull, and Matt's perception cuts out.
A series of kicks catch him by surprise, and without time to focus, Matt flounders back to consciousness. He tumbles forward, out of Frank's reach, trying to orient himself. Frank grabs him by the ankle and yanks him back. Matt twists, refusing to go easy. The move helps him break free, and using his back for leverage, he kicks Frank twice: once in the chin and once in the chest.
Then he's moving, crawling. Hands scrambling around the edges of the desk, falling onto the cool, busted metal of the police scanner. Matt hops back onto his foot. He digs his hip against the desk for balance. His hands are still on that scanner, lifting; shoulders straining from the weight. He throws it towards Frank's footsteps. The damn thing misses – mostly. More of Frank's skin snaps. He yells, stumbling back from the impact. The scent of his blood is fresh and sweet on the air.
"Really, Red?"
"You talking or fighting?" Matt snarls.
Fighting, evidently. Frank's back on him in an instant. Grappling, choking, barring, locking. Matt's thoughts fall silent; his body works on autopilot, slipping this way, twisting that. Frank isn't the only one who's been watching: Matt knows the bastard's respiration, the way his muscles pull under his skin. He would know Frank in a warzone, in grief, in this apartment or across the city or anywhere the hell else the bastard wanted to challenge him.
Block, chop, swing, crouch, jab. Frank gets him by the scruff of the neck and puts his face into the desk once, but before he can manage a second, Matt punches him in the windpipe, then he punches Frank so hard across the face that the apartment shakes.
Frank yells, his words thick and wet with blood, as he slams Matt across the face. Matt hits the desk. The top cracks from the impact. Or maybe that was a rib. He's seeing having a hard time breathing. Frank grabs a handful of his hair and drags his head up to listen. Punisher's bloody lips smack against his ear. "Quit. Twisting. Your Only. Good. Knee."
He grabs Matt under the arm, looking to drag him back up, but Matt refuses. He goes to the floor instead, taking some of the weight off his right leg by balancing on his left. He hooks an arm behind Frank's knee and pulls, jumping back up as Frank hits the floor. Then in one swift movement, he drops again and drives his left knee into Frank's chest.
Shockwaves rattle through his broken limb; Matt lets out a cry. But this is it. This is the end. He can hear it in Frank's heart, in the way the bastard stops dead. He can't do shit in this position. Not without risking the leg he cares so damn much about.
The surprise is audible in Frank's respiration. Matt plays through the pain, through the nausea, asking, "What are you gonna do now, Frank? Huh?" Punisher doesn't budge. He breathes steadily through his bloody nose, fury written into every detail coming off his body. Every twitch of his muscles, every ragged breath he takes.
Matt gives him no sign of the final blow, not with how quickly he winds up for it. He swings hard and fast and sure into Frank's temple.
Not fast enough, though.
Frank snatches him by the wrist. Twists his arm hard in the socket. Matt grits his teeth, refusing to give Frank the satisfaction of a scream. He gets his good leg under him and pulls away, hard, but not before Frank digs his fingers into a pressure point. There's a sharp sting. Matt recoils, his left leg screaming and right arm feeling freshly broken from how Frank's touched him.
He tries to shake off he sensation as he backs away, but whatever nerves Frank's aggravated don't let up.
"Told you," Frank says, rising. He spits out another mouthful of blood. "Don't you fuck up that leg."
Matt hits the desk. His right arm swings, burns, and throws off his balance. He breathes through the phantom chains across his chest and the sting of ropes against his back. His head is full to bursting with blood, muffling the wretched blows of their heartbeats. Stick's voice natters in his head with all manner of insults, of promises. This fight is fucking over and he's got you now and what do you think the Punisher's victory dance is gonna be? Chain you up? Knock you out? You think you're gonna be crawling across rooftops or chase after sirens now, shithead?
His thoughts cut out suddenly; his blood runs cold. The sirens. The city. His city. He has to protect his city.
Dad's voice comes through loud and clear: Get up, Matty. Work to do.
As his fists clench, his arm throbs, his leg screams, Matt's senses constrict to a fine point. No distance, no depth, no space between. Frank's respiration blends with his into a bloody, brutal scribble. A blaze at the heart of the apartment. Their heartbeats smash together, wild horses the two of them. Sound slashes and collides, but it's in a rhythm that Matt recognizes, a rhythm that matches him, fits him. No longer discordant. His heart's playing the same song as Frank's.
He sets his jaw, lips unrolling across his bloody teeth. Then his head goes low, his shoulders go high, and his fists come up.
Frank's heart hammers away because he sees it. Sees what's coming out from under Matt's skin, and that geared up heart of his hits a pace Matt's never heard before. "Come on, Red," he says. "Come on, come on, come on…"
They go at each other, and Matt doesn't bother with blocking. He sidesteps a little, lunges through Frank's offence. And he starts throwing punches. His right arm throbs from Frank's move with his pressure points. It feels like it's breaking anew with every punch. But he lays into Frank with everything he's got left in his working left and burning right: for Sato, for Grotto, for Hell's Kitchen; for the friends he's lost and the leg he's broken and the arm that burns through every punch; for everything he has done and everything he has failed to do.
Matt unleashes his overcut with a yell, brings Frank to his knees. But he's still upright, so Matt hits him again. He's content to hear Frank slamming into the floor, to hear Frank's face dragging, bloody and swollen, on the hardwood. Matt winds up for one more punch. He waits for Frank to get up, and when that doesn't happen fast enough, he helps: grabbing Frank by the collar of his shirt and pulling him into position.
His final punch brings the whole apartment down around them. His knuckles sing. Frank hits the floor, unconscious. The walls crumble and ceiling collapses, and the fire, at long last, goes out.
Matt staggers back towards the desk. He takes a seat on the edge, shaking. From adrenaline and cold and nausea and pain. So much pain. But throughout all that, the cataclysmic din of what he's feeling, of what he's hearing, of his heartbeat and Frank's heartbeat – separate rhythms again, at last – Matt finds something. A quiet, dark something that's as close to peace as he's ever been.
The guilt comes quickly. Matt recognizes the pull on his insides, their rise to heaven suddenly weighted and falling down, down. He eases off the edge of the desk and drops to his knees, groaning from the impact that he makes no effort to slow. He crawls forward, stopping only when he reaches Frank's side. Still shaking, Matt brings his bloody left hand moves to Frank's shoulder, which he holds for a long time.
Happy reading!