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: Throughout this fic, I have set imaginary milestones, chapters when I think the writing process will magically simplify and I'll be able to fly through a chapter. I think it's a necessary lie at this point. I don't think anything between these character is ever going to be simple again. I truly hope that emotional complexity is communicated here. It's difficult to show doubt and regret when writing a character like Frank, but damn it, I'm going to try!

Readers, there is no way I would be here without you. Thank you so much for your kind support! Please enjoy!

"Yeah, I feel you too
Feel those things you do
In your eyes I see a fire that burns
To free the you
That's wanting through
Deep inside you know
Seeds I plant will grow."

~Metallica, "Devil's Dance"

Chapter Forty-Four

Once he gets Frank headed in the right direction, Matt hangs up, cutting short the Punisher's barbs about not calling the police. He knows the cops won't get there in time. And since they're overstating the obvious, he's also aware the state of New York doesn't have any laws against tracking cell signals. Thanks, Frank.

The weight of his phone against his chest hurts. Matt draws more sound his way, using the pressure to help slow his breathing, to sharpen his senses, to hold onto the sounds of the fight. To keep the weakening cries from falling silent. As if him hearing is any help at all besides him letting someone else know that a person's life is in danger.

And, of course, that someone just had to be Frank Castle.

He isn't going to do it. He won't. Or so Matt tells himself, listening to Frank's boots crunch across the snow-covered pavement. They take the steps outside of the residence two at a time and then kick the door off its hinges.

Dear God, what has he done?

The fight stops; the whimpering of the victim doesn't. "What the-?" the assailant asks, right before a gunshot explodes through the night.

A scream follows: the assailant. He drops to the floor with a thud.

Matt springs up against the wall, heart in his throat. He can still hear grunting. Frank's shot was non-lethal. Shoulder, maybe. Or kneecap. Incapacitating but hardly life-threatening, at least not in the short-term. Matt forces himself to quiet, fixing every ounce of his hearing on the grunts and groans. This guy is going to have to pry himself out of Matt's clutches if he wants to die tonight no matter how many bullets Frank decides to unload.

Frank's footsteps thump across the floor in a parody of his heartbeat, and then everything goes quiet, so fantastically quiet. Matt's fixed himself too hard; he pulls back, collecting sounds anew, but even the victim's keening seems out of reach. The Bronx is white noise, snowy static; the fire escape rattles in time with Matt's tremors.

An apology forms in his mouth, heavy on his tongue. Sharp against his chapped lips. Matt doesn't dare speak it aloud. He digs his knuckles into the grate of the landing. Every breath he draws feels stronger and more controlled, a calm descending upon him that seems incongruous with the present save for the certainty that the quiet will end and no one will have died tonight.

He lances his fingers through the fire escape. The cold metal bites at his palms, stinging more brightly and more sharply than the wait.

Another of the assailant's screams rips through the night. The world on fire inside Matt goes wild, satisfied and righteous, having known all along that scream was coming. Blood squelches; a bone snaps. The now-downed assailant retches and whimpers.

Frank snarls, "You say it, you piece of shit. You say it right now."

One more scream, followed by, "I'm alive! I'M ALIVE!"

Frank throws a punch, cutting short another scream. "Fucking right you're alive."

Matt untangles his fingers from the fire escape landing. Frostbite tingles all the way to his bones. "Right," he whispers, wrapping his arms around his stomach as his conviction retreats and the hollowness inside him blooms anew. There are questions he could ask, but they all seem so small, so insignificant, and the answers are out there in the unintelligible grumble of Frank's voice as he speaks to the victim, in his footsteps away from the chaos.

Frank covers his tracks and keeps out of sight on his way back to the apartment. Sirens are audible in his wake; nothing like gunshots to get the boys in blue moving. Sure as hell aren't gonna move for a shitbag beating the crap out of his girlfriend.

He takes a scenic route, purposefully weaving a path the cops won't be able to follow. Giving himself time to process. Leaving the asshole alive isn't sitting right. An itch too deep to scratch.

For now.

Just for now. He'll go back. Put a bullet where it belongs. One bullet, one kill. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, baby. I'll do it tomorrow.

Fuck.

Frank stops. Shoves a hand under his hood to scrub at his head, the other tightening around his weapon. They'll be loading up the ambulances. Shot to the kneecap'll keep the guy in a hospital bed for a while, but eventually, he'll be out. And warnings don't stick with fuckers like him even if they are borne on the back of a bullet. That's why they have to die. Waste of time, energy, and ammo marching back to do what should've been done a long fucking time ago. Should've killed the bastard. Gotta kill them before they get to do what they do the first time, every time.

And he will. He fucking will. The Devil isn't going to be looming over his shoulder forever. Only a matter of time till he's back to business as usual.

Frank comes around the building from the front and takes the fire escape stairs two at a time. Red's sitting where Frank left him, wearing an expression neither proud or sorry for himself. Best Frank could hope for, honestly. Better indifferent than splitting hairs about why this one lives and Sato dies. They've been through all that, though Frank's more than happy to swing a couple of punches in reminder. He walks past, dips into the apartment to disarm, and doesn't re-emerge till he's got a fresh cup of coffee in hand.

He comes to lean over the rail, basking in the cold. Sky's a series of pinholes in a black wall while the moon's a slab of cold silver. The silence stands, thank Christ. Guess that's one perk of playing by the Devil's rules: he keeps his fucking mouth shut.

For a while, at least. Red can't keep that tongue of his from wagging forever. "Was that really so hard?"

Frank almost chokes. He forces the coffee down his throat, lips pursing so hard they end up clamped between his teeth. He snaps, "You're God damn right it was. Waste of time. Waste of fucking time."

"You don't have to kill."

"Bullshit – I didn't have a choice."

"You always –"

"Jesus Christ, Red, I am playing by your precious rules right now, all right?! Making sure that leg doesn't get busted, you tryin' to kick my ass every ten seconds over the sanctity of life." Frank hits his mug against the fire escape rail. "I kill, you give me shit. I don't kill, you give me shit. Make up your fucking mind."

Kid's quiet and not in a pouty way. An impassive way. He isn't bothering to argue; doesn't think he has to. Frank reels in the grating silence, pulse rising. Red can't mean that shit, not two days out of a fight over him killing. "I let one piece of shit get away by cracking one off his kneecap-"

"You didn't kill those ninjas."

"Ninjas come back from the dead. I'm just gonna have to kill them again."

Red scoffs. "That isn't why you let them live."

Frank knows where Red is going with this and puts a stop to it quick. "I killed the doc, Red, don't you forget that."

But Red isn't talking about Sato. Like any lawyer, he's picking up only on the evidence that fits his argument. "And my leg isn't the only reason you let that guy live tonight."

"You're damn right. That guy out there? Couple of weeks from now, when you're back in Hell's Kitchen, he'll be out of the hospital. And I'm gonna march over and finish him."

Red scoffs, shaking his head. "And if he isn't beating his girlfriend anymore?"

"Shouldn't've done it the first time," Frank growls. "Guys like that – they don't change."

"You've changed."

"Situation's changed. I meant what I said: only reason he's still alive is so he can die another day. And the day you're gone, so is he. Nice going away present for you. Little celebration." Waste of ammo, really, but the deed's as done as it's getting tonight. Frank lets it go. Lets it all go. Fuck Red and his fucking goodness. A good man would have done what it takes regardless, not pandered to some self-righteous idealist.

Frank downs the rest of the coffee, letting it scald him all the way into his stomach. His blood's already boiling. "I'll take him out before I get back to Fisk," he says, double-tapping his mug against the rail. One batch, two batch. "When I get back to Fisk…"

Damn, he hasn't thought about Fisk in a long time. Been too caught up with Red and related Devil drama. Speaking of: "Guess I've got your girl and her ninjas to deal with too."

"I'll deal with Elektra," Red says. Promises, really, the way he shifts against the wall and sets his mouth all serious. "And with you."

"Can't even let me enjoy you being gone?"

First genuine smile he's seen on Red's face in weeks: the menace in his grin is unmistakeable. His eyes blaze in the streetlamp light. "You're not gonna get rid of me that easy."

Frank scoffs. "Yeah, ain't that the fucking truth."

The smile recedes, but it's still audible as Red says, "Thank you."

"The hell you thanking me for? It's that asshole out there should be thanking me." He wraps his hands around his empty mug, capturing the last of the heat through his bruised knuckles. Grinds swirl at the bottom of the cup. The quiet nags, begging to be broken.

Frank glances over at his shoulder at Red just to check. The kid's still there. For now.

Red's leg is still in recovery the next day. Frank can tell from how antsy he is. The apartment buzzes with the kid's eagerness; in between bouts of meditation, he's hobbling onto the fire escape, tumbling around the roof, slamming his fists into the punching bag. Puts Frank so much on edge that the second evening rolls around, he grabs a gun and the car keys. He throws a coat at the dumbass's head.

The dumbass catches it. "Where are we going?"

"Out."

"Where?"

"A place."

"Frank."

"Just put that fucking coat on and come," Frank growls. "Bring your phone, too."

He leaves the apartment before Red can grill him some more. By the time he's halfway down the stairs, the kid's trailing behind him on one crutch.

Frank drives, parks. Gives the kid a couple of directions before hopping out of the vehicle. He pulls himself up onto the first landing of the fire escape and is working on getting the stairs lowered when Red appears on the railing like a fucking spider monkey. He's already broken a sweat, but the streetlight nocks against the red of his sunglasses. He smiles sharply through the shadows. Then he's climbing, jumping, favouring his arms over his legs, and God damn, he wants to race? Frank'll give him a fucking race.

The devil's finesse is there in the movements, but Red's noisier than usual, struggling through the motions. Frank catches up with him on the third landing and paces himself. He can hear the wet slap of the kid's palms on the cold rails. The breakneck pace is quickly waning into simply breakneck the further they get from the ground.

Frank grabs him by the arm when his hand slips off the next rail. Yanks him over the rail and drops him rather unceremoniously onto the landing. The kid grunts in frustration. He assumes he's been sabotaged instead of saved. Good. Frank puts as much distance between him and the devil as he can, but hell if they don't end up on the roof at almost the same moment.

Without his crutch, Red drops onto the ledge of the rooftop and sits, heaving air in and out of his lungs. He's pale. Even his cheeks are blanched, cutting a harsh line against his beard. But it doesn't take long for his head to start turning, for him to cast his ears out to the city. A web of tics emerge across his face. His mouth breaks open slightly. His breathing slows right down. Jesus, he looks like he's hearing the city for the first time.

Frank keeps from talking. He lets Red have the moment. The cityscape is a snarl beneath them, growing brighter under the darkening sky. Lights and streets, traffic and pedestrians, the apartment building in the distance. No signs of trouble from where he's standing, but he's not listening to breathing two blocks away or whatever Red's doing.

"What do you hear?" he asks suddenly.

Red comes back to the rooftop. "Nothing."

"Yet," Frank adds.

"Yet," Red agrees.

Franks puts a foot up on the edge of the rooftop and looks down at the street below. "So how does this work? You just stand around on a rooftop till you hear something?"

"Stand around on several rooftops, actually."

"What do you listen for?"

"Raised voices, mainly," Red says, giving a small shrug, "Screaming, crying-"

"Sirens?" Frank offers cynically.

Red shakes his head, averts the lens of his glasses towards the street. "By then it's usually too late."

Used to be shit like that was gratifying; it sounded a lot like the devil admitting defeat. But the swell of satisfaction is gone, replaced with a sense of solidarity, and all Frank mutters is, "Ain't that the truth." He sighs. "Then, what? You follow the sound? Jump off the damn rooftop into a fight?"

That smirk. "The fight is rarely on the rooftop."

Frank looks down at the sheer drop to the street below. He makes out aged sills, window frames and boxes, grates, wires; nothing that would hold a grown man's weight or slow their descent. The rest of their surroundings are equally unhelpful. "How the hell'd'you get down?"

"However I can," Red says with a shrug.

"You don't plan it out?"

Another shrug. Jesus Christ, of course he doesn't plan it out. "If I know the building, I can. If I don't, I figure it out on the way down."

"How would you do it from here?"

Red rises like he's gonna demonstrate, and maybe that's his intention, but thankfully, he keeps his foot flat on the roof and settles for pointing. "The streetlamps are a problem, not to mention pedestrians. I'd want to come down by the alley. Use the Billy to take out the light buzzing overhead. After I unhooked it from the doorknob-" he gestures towards the rooftop enclosure, "-or the ledge. Or whatever I used to keep from splattering on the pavement."

"What if you didn't have your club?"

The kid cracks into a real smile. His cheeks and ears turn the same colour as his suit. Whatever is about to come out of his mouth probably sounds stupid as all hell, and Red's revelling in the mere thought of it. "Then I hope those windowsills aren't as loose as they sound."

Frank keeps his eyes levelled on the street. "And if I threw you off as you are right now?"

Red lets out a laugh. "Better have a good plan for yourself then, because I'm taking you with me."

He sits back down on the ledge again, hands tucked into his sleeves like a kid. A chuckle – soft, warm even – emerges a second later. Frank bristles, smirking a little himself. "What, you'd like that? You'd like dragging my ass down with you?"

"No, no." Red wraps his arms around his waist, tucking the sleeves together. Frank can hear him rubbing his hands together against the cold, an action he's trying to hide from how quietly he's working. "It's…that's how I learned, actually. The guy who trained me, Stick-"

"Fuck." Frank kicks his foot off the ledge of the building.

Red lets out another God damn laugh. "-he'd throw me off. Let me figure out how I was gonna get down."

"You gotta be fucking kidding me." The bullet in his head burns; Frank swats at it, unable to get the image of a kid, a fucking orphan, taking a dive off a roof. And Red sitting there chuckling doesn't make it any better. Sounds like a favourite memory of his instead of the nightmare it was.

Eventually, only the city is talking. The sounds tick like a clock towards the inevitable. Red raises a brow and breaks the quiet. "I'm guessing you're not going to let me go running across the rooftops or jumping into fights."

"Wouldn't call what you do right now running," Frank declares, "but no."

"Then you better hurry." Red gestures before Frank can ask. "Break-in. That way. Three, maybe four guys. Don't-"

Oh, Christ Jesus: "Don't say it. Don't you fucking-"

That. Fucking. Smirk. "I was gonna say don't fall. Long way down for someone who-"

Frank gives Red a shove right to the middle of his chest, livid when he finds that the kid doesn't retaliate. Instead, he lays into Frank's touch, leaning back over the sidewalk. The gleam on the lens of his sunglasses is snuffed out, and his expression goes dark, serious. Knowing. Frank glances down to Red's hands, but not even they betray his calm. They stay clutched in his lap, ready to spring if the shove gets any harder. One would go to the wall for the handhold, and the other, Frank has no doubt, would wrap itself round him, hold the fuck on, and never let go.

The nerve of the fucking kid. The will in him. Frank almost knocks him off the roof on principle, just to see how far he can push, to see how far Red'll let him take this. But he already has the answer: Red's gonna take this all this way to the ground, and then he's gonna get back up and take more. And he's dragging Frank off this roof with him when he goes because he wants the same God damn thing in return.

Frank lets him go exactly as he is, hanging over the street. He steps back and Red follows until he's sitting upright. "Stay on the line," Frank mutters, heading towards the fire escape.

He doesn't need the kid's help to find the break-in. The pawn shop isn't far from the nest. Four guys, none of them particularly well-armed. Bunch of petty thieves. Frank sleepwalks through the raid. No rush of blood to his head, no hard hit of adrenaline. He kicks in the door despite the idiots having unlocked it. One batch, two batch, penny and dime: he takes out a few kneecaps, a shoulder, and then, because this no-killing bullshit is boring, Frank knocks a bullet off the side of the last guy's head for a challenge. Leaves a long gash in the guy's scalp before the round lodges itself in a far wall.

One of the idiots has their wallet on them. Frank reads off the guy's name and address before chucking the damn thing into its owner's pained face. "See you later," he says, then leaves without making any of them scream.

He whips out his phone as he's walking away. Calls Red, who answers quick enough. Thank Christ. The tomorrow, tomorrow, baby cycles on an endless loop inside his head. "You're gonna develop a reputation, you keep using a gun."

"You got somewhere I need to be, Red?" He doesn't want the night to be over. Even half-assing this shit is better than sitting at home with his thumb up his ass doing nothing. No way Red isn't thinking the same, especially not as he tells Frank about a nearby purse-snatcher.

Frank hangs up. Holsters his gun. He'll do the next one with his fists, and he'll make sure Red hears it.

Happy reading!