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 was saving this track for a later chapter, but then this one patch of dialogue happened and I knew there was no other place for this song to go. "Light Me Up" has been with me from the beginning of this story, and I'm so happy I finally got to use it as a chapter title.
This chapter took me a while. I wasn't quite sure how to communicate the emotional fallout from the last installment, and while I am very proud of the first section in this chapter, I played around with the rest of it. My planned ending was originally a cliffhanger; I did away with that to preserve the overall tone and give you wonderful readers a breather. More excitement coming up in the next chapter!
Readers, Dear Readers, I could not have done this without you. Thank you for your unwavering support, your wonderful insights, your time and your patience. You're all near and dear to me. Thank you. Please, enjoy!
"And you don't hold back, so I won't hold back.
And you don't look back, so I won't look back."
~Ingrid Michaelson, "Light Me Up"
Chapter Forty-Two
Skin's tight. Skull feels thick. Having trouble getting his eyes open, and when he does, everything is blurry. Smudged like a finger painting. Room's quiet, so Frank gives himself a minute, then tries sitting up.
Blanket on his chest. He pushes it down, stopping briefly to take stock of the bandages on his left wrist, on his right hand, across his upper chest and back where the window got him. Steri-strips hold together the worst of his lacerations. He glances over his shoulder to find – Jesus, he's on his mattress. Kid beats the ever-living shit out of him, tends to his wounds, and then puts him to bed. All on one broken leg and another that he better stop twisting.
"Red?" but the sound won't come out. Frank's throat is too dry. He draws his legs and starts to stand. He doesn't make it more than halfway before his knees give out and his head spins and thank goodness the wall doesn't move 'cuz otherwise he'd be back on the damn bed. A useless lump in Rina's quilt, a glass of water and Aspirin placed nearby – Jesus, Red, really? He do this for all the shitbags he beats up in alleyways, too? It's like the kid's never won a fucking fight before.
Irritation gives Frank enough stability to get up. The air's heavy with warmth. Radiator's been turned up to combat the winter wafting in from the bathroom. Sounds like the shower's running too. Mist plumes out from under the bathroom door, intercut with light and shadow. Red's scuffling around inside. Better not be bleeding to death.
Frank grabs a shirt, tugging it overhead slowly thanks to the swelling in his joints, the aching in his limbs. He takes the quilt and, on his way across the room, tosses it back onto Red's cot. He gets to the bathroom without falling. Doesn't bother knocking; the kid knows he's up and around. He lets himself in to cold, to mist, to snow, to sparks. Walls stained a murky yellow from the city light reflecting off an overcast sky. Frank's a little lost in the mix of sensation. He focuses on the shit he can see: glass fragments and wood splinters swept into a corner, the window frame torn to shit. Four jagged sides cutting harsh against the empty parking lot and darkened buildings. Snowflakes bluster on the breeze, sparking red and yellow and white against the dull, light-polluted sky. Frank's struck by the sudden urge to sniff for smoke, for char. From where he's standing the city looks like it's on fire.
He moves slowly into Red's orbit, taking a good look at the kid. The firelight from the window brings out the bruises around Red's eyes and cheeks, the abraded skin on his neck. He's still standing on his right leg, so he must not have twisted that knee out. Much. He shakes a little on one leg. The look on his face says that he isn't feeling too pretty, but him not feeling pretty isn't unusual. Could be anything that's got him looking the way he does.
Frank doesn't say anything. He takes the duct tape and starts making strips. Red stretches the garbage bag across the open window and holds it there. Frank starts taping the edges down.
Snow billows around them, glinting like shrapnel in the light. Frank keeps expecting heat from the look of it, but the chill cuts satisfyingly into his swollen features. He glances at Red, watches as the kid's eyes close with relief too. They made a mess of each other on a night perfect for icing bruises.
Frank rises back to his full height, needing to get away. "Look, what I said –"
"Is what you said." Red shrugs. He grabs another garbage bag from the stack. "It's done."
But it's not. They're still in this until it's understood that - "It wasn't your fault."
"Frank –"
"You wanna blame someone, you blame me. You wanna hate someone? You hate-"
"I don't! I don't…hate you, Frank."
Frank damn near snaps. He doesn't buy that shit for a second. But one look at the kid stops him. God damn, Red's not lying. That tone of his voice, his slouched shoulders, his defeated stance. He won the fight and still loses, because he can't bring himself to hate a guy who's truly worth hating. A guy who broke his leg and killed his doctor; a guy who put him through hell. How does he do it? Nobody's that good. Nobody.
Red's catching snowflakes on his cheeks, his lashes, his hair. They melt when they hit his bruises, flashes of white vanishing into the ruddy red of injury. His fingers play against the edges of the garbage bag, the expression on his face shifting as he drifts. Away from Frank, out of the Bronx, to that place that Frank saw when they were fighting. Only this time nothing comes out to replace him. The kid's just gone.
Frank reaches, touching the kid's shoulder. Gets shirked off for the trouble, so he tries again, this time to the back of the kid's neck. Red shifts back; Frank gives a little, but he doesn't let go. He rubs his hand up, down, letting the short bristles of Red's hair trickle under his palm. Red halts. Puts his hand on Frank's shoulder as if to push away but doesn't. The life returns to his eyes. He comes back to the trashed apartment. Back to the snow and light and fire.
"I don't hate you," he says again, quieter this time but no less serious.
Frank lowers his voice to match. He speaks so soft the snowflakes don't melt as they breeze past. "Don't go hating yourself neither. We made a deal: you do what you do, I do what I do."
Red's lips curl ever-so-slightly. "I should have stopped you."
"I wasn't gonna let you. That's on me too, Red. This whole fucking thing, it's on me. You put that shit where it belongs tonight. Stop trying to take it back. Hm?" He rubs at the back of the kid's neck again. Red lowers his eyes, closes them a little, retreating. Frank tugs him back into the conversation. "All this shit. It's on me."
Red shakes his head softly. His eyes drift back and forth like he's reading a book only he can see, trying to find the sweet spot between the lines where this goes back to being his fault. "That's not –"
"It's on me." Frank loosens his grip. Lets his fingers smooth over the nape of the Red's neck till the kid hangs his head. Having him looking away makes the next part easier. Frank leans in, holding his gaze over the slope of the kid's scalp. He puts his voice down to a whisper. "You're a good kid, Red. You put that shit where it belongs: you put it on me. It's on me. I got you, Red. I got you."
And with that, Frank retracts his one hand. He goes in with the other from the front this time, ruffling the kid's hair. Red's reaction time is way down, or maybe he doesn't want to react. Doesn't wanna run or hide or even fight. Doesn't wanna dignify that shit with a response. No matter the reason, Frank goes to step back, only to find that Red's hand hasn't left his shoulder. The kid's grip is loose enough that he could pull away, but Frank can't bring himself to do it. The lightness of the touch, the seeming expectation that he will leave – everybody always leaves Matthew, has Frank standing his ground.
He hooks an arm around, puts his hand on the nape of Red's neck again. Gets the kid balanced against him, gets himself balanced against the kid, and stands there for a bit, looking out the window at the world on fire.
Red breaks the quiet. His whisper is warm on Frank's bruised cheek. "Don't ever do that again."
There's so much shit floating between them, so many disagreements, that Frank has to ask, "Don't do what?"
"What you did. To Sato. Why you…" Red's voice gives out. He swallows, hard, his face quivering, but he doesn't retreat from the conversation. "Don't ever do that again."
Frank's trigger finger taps at his side. He heaves a sigh that carries his revulsion, his rage, right out with it. He's tired. His head hurts. And Red…Jesus, the shit the devil thinks he'll do. Ain't gonna change a thing. They both know damn well there's no never again for the what and why surrounding Sato's death.
No use in saying that shit out loud though. The way Red hangs his head means that he gets it without being told. Frank wonders what gives it away: his heart, his respiration, the reflexive tap of his trigger finger – one batch, two batch. Whatever it is, Frank doesn't have to say a word. Red's honouring his code by saying never again; Frank sure as fuck is gonna honour his.
He gives in to the ringing in his ears, the throbbing in his temples, that steady throb of gray matter inside his skull. Watches the snowflakes spark on the breeze, the smoke and fire of the overcast sky and yellow light. Looks familiar. The world burns long after the battle ends, but eventually the flames go out. The night goes dark. And the ones that make it, they pick up and move on to the next fight.
They get the rest of the window covered in silence. Cold still creeps in, but there ain't nothing to do till morning. Frank turns the shower off. Expects to find Red cleaning up the piles of busted window off the floor but the kid's gone. Slipped out while Frank's back was turned. He's sitting on the cot when Frank emerges, bent over his knees like the weight of the world might finally be wearing him out. He has the bottle of Aspirin in one hand, two tabs in the other. He tosses back the meds dry and throws the bottle to Frank.
Frank shakes the bottle in thanks, following Red's lead. He takes the pills, puts the bottle back on the nightstand. "Your dressings need changing." It's a statement, not a question. Frank's already grabbing the kit before Red responds, and he'd still be grabbing the kit regardless of what came out of the kid's mouth. As it stands, Red just nods, and pretty soon they're settling into the old routine. Red sits with his back against the wall, left leg stretched out in front of him while his right folds under the window sill. Frank drags over his chair and hunkers down over the casted limb.
After tugging on a pair of gloves, Frank rips open the Velcro, slips his arm in, and carefully lifts Red's broken leg out of the cast. The bandage is soaked with sweat; some blood and discharge peek through the layers of dressings. The skin underneath is mottled purple, green, and yellow, but for all the inflammation and irritation, the incisions are clean. Pink and glossy. Healthy.
He grabs a pair of scissors, catches Red's nod in his periphery while explaining himself: "These sutures are about ready to come out." They're so in sync that everything seems out of order, but Frank understands. He does: he gets it. And Red does too, even as his breathing stutters, as his eyes drift towards the wall and his lips purse together.
Frank starts clipping stitches; the snipped threads slip out. The laceration stretches in their wake. Skin's tougher than it looks. Breaks so damn easily one minute, holds fast the next.
A wash of saline, a layer of antibacterial ointment, and a wrap of fresh bandages, all conducted under cover of soft breathing. Frank slips Red's leg back into the cast but stops the kid from closing the Velcro straps. "Put some ice on it," Frank says, grabbing a fresh bag of cold packs from the kit. He cracks one, drapes it over Red's left leg; he cracks another, puts it up to Red's face. He cracks the third, reaches, and Red's already putting his right leg down without any back-sass or bitching. Frank puts the cold pack onto the kid's right knee, darting his eyes away from Red's face – the grateful blink and slight sigh - to the shadow he casts on the wall.
He starts running at the mouth: "You're still trying to pivot like you got two feet on the ground. Gotta move your damn foot more. Keep your ankle and knee in line with your toes."
"Hard to punch and balance with one foot off the ground," Red notes.
"Then bring 'em down to your level. Seemed to do just fine with your left knee."
"Seemed to do just fine on one foot."
Yeah, sure: "With someone reminding you to watch your form every couple hits."
"Should've spent less time worrying about me-"
"Not this again. This 'you didn't have to do that' bullshit. Pretty fucking clear that yes, I had to do that."
The kid continues: "- and more time worrying about getting your ass kicked."
That smirk. That fucking smirk. Pulling at the corners of his smart fucking mouth even as his lips tremble, his eyes glisten. Red is really, really trying. More playing through the pain from the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
Frank scoffs, shakes his head, watching the gleam in Red's eyes grow the longer he looks away. "The hell is this you're wearing? You get this from your place with those clubs of yours?" Red doesn't answer; Frank scoffs. Of all the secrets for him to keep. Especially now. "Been through the ringer before tonight."
"Yeah."
There's a long row of stitches on the abdomen that match up perfectly with the hooked scar on Red's waist. "Jesus, don't tell me you wore this fightin'."
"I wasn't gonna."
"Self-preservation really doesn't mean shit to you, does it?"
"Conventional body armour would have slowed me down."
"And disemboweling? Knife wounds? Gun shots? That shit just, what? Speeds you up?"
"Keeps me going," Red says darkly, tiredly.
The best Frank can manage in response is a scoff and, "You bleedin' anywhere else?"
"No," Red replies. He blinks tiredly from behind the cold pack on his cheek before offering it to Frank. "You could use this too."
"Got some bags in the freezer I can use." He gets up, snaps off the gloves. Pushes his chair back to the desk, heads for his own bed. "You get some sleep."
"Frank?"
"Hm?"
Red hesitates. Takes his sweet time thinking up what he has to say. Long enough that Frank's looking at him, this pale form slouched against the wall. Fresh from a fight that he won, but you'd never know it: ice packs on both legs, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, those bruises on his face amplifying the heaviness of his expression. Whatever he wants to say is eating him up more than the order he gave in the bathroom.
So when Red says, "Good night," Frank doesn't press, doesn't pry. He nods in understanding. "Yeah, good night," he says dismissively and heads to bed, a little surprised to find that Red doesn't come out with what he wanted to say in the first place. Frank doesn't blame him though. Would be weird, all things considered: Red saying, "Thank you."
Dawn comes around. Frank brews coffee on autopilot. Comes to his senses with that first sip of joe. He tosses back some Aspirin for the lingering headache and nausea, then gets to work. He hauls the busted police scanner down to the trash. Kid's Billy is half hidden in a snow drift; Frank retrieves it, powder snow dusting up from under his hands. Ground's fit for reading tracks.
Frank climbs up the fire escape stairs to look at the window. The plastic swells and loosens with the winter breeze. He sips at his coffee, thinking.
The door to the building opens, slams shut. Red hobbles around the corner. He's back on one crutch and hating every second of it, wincing every time his red leg wobbles up another step.
He doesn't say anything, just comes to stand in the same silent consideration of the window. Frank offers him the Billy, which he accepts, grasping it tightly between his hand and the handle of his crutch.
"Frame's busted on one side," Frank notes. He nudges Red's free hand in the direction of the window, letting the kid feel it for himself. "Gonna have to strip the whole thing, re-insulate."
Red retracts his hand. He's got an apology written all over his face, but he must know better than to say that shit aloud. "You don't want to board it up?"
"Be a waste. Means the apartment's only got one exit."
"One entrance."
"Ninjas ain't gonna use the front door. Fire escape provides too many tactical advantages not to have access. Besides, I board off the fire escape, how are you gonna climb on the roof?"
"Got four other windows, Frank."
"Four other windows that land you flat on the concrete. Not gonna happen." Frank tosses back the last of his coffee. "We'll fix it. Take a couple hours, once we get the pane, then we'll be back up and running."
Red gives a slight nod, then his head twitches away from the conversation. Towards the front door to the building. "Rina's coming."
"Shit," Frank says. He runs a hand over his face, tracking bruises, wondering which side is worse. They're both bad. Red gives just as good with his right as his left. He puts his back to the rail as the soft tread of her boots crosses the pavement. He nudges for Red to do the same; the bruises aren't much better on his face.
Rina chucks her bag of trash into the pile underneath them. She's paused for a moment under them, steps back towards the entrance, but then, "Um…good morning?"
Frank turns slightly, keeping his face turned up and away from her. The look on Red's face – Jesus, Frank could go at him all over again. "Morning, ma'am."
"Morning, Rina," Red adds.
"Uh…" Rina moves to get a better look, putting a mittened hand over her brow to block out the sunlight. "I'm sorry but…what happened to your window?"
"Nothing that can't be fixed," Frank replies.
Red mutters something. Kind of sounds like, "Oh, no." Frank doesn't have a chance to think about what it means before Rina gasps. Well, shit. "Your face, Frank. Your faces? What happened? You are…?"
Frank tries to laugh it off, his mind reeling. Desperate for a plausible story, one that explains the window and how they both look like hammered shit. "Damnedest thing, ma'am. Damnedest thing. Some guy broke into my place last night. Roughed us up a bit. Chucked me clean through the window."
"Little guy, too," Red adds.
"How the hell would you know he was little?" Frank demands.
"You're not the only one who was fighting last night."
Rina is visibly reeling. She drops her hand from her brow, mouth agape, trying to put together what's she's being told. "You were in a fight?"
"It's been taken care of, ma'am, don't you worry. My brother and I, we…" Frank clamps a hand on Red's shoulder, "We gave 'em hell."
"You are all right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
For a second, Rina looks about ready to ask more questions, but then her mouth closes. Her lips set themselves into a thin line. She nods once at Frank, once at Matt. Conviction wavering because she's staring their lie straight in the face. She steps forward, steps back, face pinched against a torrent of questions, accusations, lectures. But she finally says, "Well, good day," and then departs in a flurry of snowflakes. The door to the building crashes shut behind her.
"She doesn't believe us," Frank says knowingly.
Red shakes his head, a slight smile on his face. "No."
Frank sighs, regarding the bottom of his coffee cup for a time as the cold soothes his bruises. His swirl of thoughts is broken by a laugh from Red.
A small laugh. But a genuine one.
"A guy broke in?"
"Shut up."
Red's heart isn't quite in the banter – yet. "That was the best you could do."
"You got something better? Didn't hear you helping out any."
Red gives on final scoff and then sighs, "She doesn't deserve this."
Frank shakes his head. "She's not accepting anymore records neither."
They spend the rest of the day licking their wounds in relative peace. Red meditates; Frank runs some errands. Tracks down an old window pane and building materials, some groceries and medical supplies. He returns to a flurry of activity in Rina's apartment: her footsteps skittering across her kitchen floor as the smell of home cooking wafts out. All seems wrong without music.
Frank double-times it back to his apartment and finds things are strange there too. Red's asleep on his cot, his crutch balanced close-by. Cell phone on the table: powered off. The bottle of Aspirin has been swapped out for the T3s, and he's icing both legs. Got a bag of vegetables nestled in his open cast for the broken leg; a cold pack balanced on his right knee.
Frank sets down his bags. He untangles the quilt so it covers Red's legs, then goes back to work. He hasn't even reached the kitchen when Red shifts in his sleep, tangling the blanket all over again.
Happy Reading!