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'm sorry for the delay between updates! This chapter was nothing but trouble from the very beginning. A mess of indecision the whole way through. I was on rewrite #187 when I circled back to the song, "Portions for Foxes." Like "Near to You," this song kept coming to me as a possible source of inspiration, but unlike "Near to You," it wasn't the lyrics that fixed in my brain. It was the melody. The four or five chords that make up the first two lines of this quotation were, impossibly, the help I needed to get this chapter done. Thankfully, the lyrics worked nicely too. "The Worst Way" by Donovan Woods is also perfect. Please check out that song as well.

Speaking of songs, I am putting together a playlist for this story. If that's something that interests you, I'll be posting the Spotify link everywhere I can, lol.

Also, continuing with the theme of Beguile Learns Basic Writing Skills Well After She Should Have, the lesson I learned from this chapter is that sometimes a scene that you are saving for later is best used sooner and can even save you from writer's block. I feel like I'm going to need to produce a whole volume of debriefing material after this fic finishes.

Readers, dear Readers: you are my sun and my moon and I couldn't do this without any of you. Thank you so much for your patience and kind support. Hope you enjoy! Cheers!

"'Cuz you're just damage control
For a walking corpse - like me.
Like you.
'Cuz we'll all be portions for foxes.
Yeah, we'll all be portions for foxes."

~Rilo Kiley, "Portions for Foxes"

Chapter Forty-Five

Returning home in the dark becomes their new normal. Frank heads straight for the kitchen, shedding his coat along the way, on a mission for ice. Red grabs the kit if necessary, and they meet in the washroom to clean up. Frank's shirt comes off; he splashes water over his head and neck. Plugs the sink, fills it with water, and pops in the ice to soak his knuckles. Meantime, Red goes to work, suturing and dressing the remnants of a night well-spent.

The first couple times, they don't say a damn thing, but eventually there's a night when Frank gets cut up more than usual. Some asshole hacks up his arms with a knife, and even though Frank's counting on the silence, Red just has to go off at the mouth about it. He sensed that knife from three blocks away: how the hell didn't Frank see it coming? Frank tells him where he can shove that shit. And then that's a norm too. The volley of barbs, teasing. Red pointing out something he could have done better; Frank reminding Red about catching a bullet with his face or that beam he took to the leg on purpose.

Frank has no idea how many nights it's been, how many robberies they've broken up or fights they've stopped or gangs they've busted, when Red's banter suddenly weakens, the beats delayed, like he's got his mind on other things. Not the streets: his head would be turned further away, towards the window. It's not the laceration on Frank's shoulder that's got him clammed up neither. His eyes are resting softly on the far wall as the makings of a smile undercut his attempts to look serious.

"We make a pretty good team," Red admits.

Oh,Christ. "Don't get sweet on me now."

"Just saying."

"It's temporary. Get it? Temporary." Frank goes to cuff the kid on the side of the head but doesn't get far. Red catches him quick, just itching for any kind of a scuffle. Frank comes at him with the other hand. He gets a quick jab to the side of the neck for his trouble and is barely fast enough to nab a handful of Red's hair. He's looking shaggy again, Red. Been a while since he had it cut.

Frank pushes the kid's head away, releasing him. "Not gonna be standing around on rooftops forever." Speaking of: "How's your leg? You about ready to be putting weight on it?"

Red shrugs. "The bone sounds solid."

"Sounds solid? How does a bone sound solid?"

Another shrug. "It doesn't grind anymore."

"Grind?"

"It doesn't scratch either."

"Jesus." Why bother asking? Not like this shit makes any sense. Frank eyes the kid over his shoulder, keeping his curiosity under wraps as best he can. Red's got his face back on the task at hand, but his eyes are red-rimmed and sunken. His shoulders hang loosely across his spine. Looking at his hands gives an illusion of readiness, but in reality, Red is a million miles away and drifting.

The kid comes back to himself; Frank lowers his gaze, gets back to scrubbing the blood off his neck. "I know a nurse. In Harlem," Red says, tossing a wad of bloody gauze into the bin. He proceeds to tidy the kit. "I'll call. See if she can check it for me."

Water dribbles in long, cold lines down his back. Frank scrubs at the hairs rising on his neck, the freshly shaved bristles needling at the fresh cracks on the sides of his fingers. Red dips behind the slope of his shoulder and breezes past, sending another shiver down his spine, one Frank pushes aside with renewed purpose. "Your girl know about this nurse of yours?"

Red drops onto the cot. "No."

"Any way for her to find out?"

"Not likely."

Frank grabs a towel and dries the water running down his back. The chill doesn't go away. In fact, it bursts into an itch across his shoulders, down his arm, into his trigger finger. He tries to shake it out. Fails. Him being out there might be enough for Red, but it isn't enough. It's not enough till they're dead, till they're all dead. Temporary. This is temporary.

He slaps the towel back onto the rack. Nabs his shirt off the floor. Makes a point of not lookingat the kid on his way out of the bathroom. "Name a time, name a place, I'll get you there. Sooner you're back on your feet, sooner I don't have to play Devil anymore."

Flopping onto his mattress feels like victory, especially with the silent apartment surrounding him. Frank sighs his way out of awareness, towards the light and warmth of the old kitchen. Unbothered by the question about where the plates were or what Lisa was saying or how Maria looked. He's coming home, getting back to himself. This whole nightmare with Red is going to be over.

"Frank?"

Not over fast enough. Frank groans. "Not saying shit about shit. Jesus…could've asked me anything you wanted thirty seconds ago." He punches at his pillow and obviously isn't going to be getting any sleep soon, so he rolls slightly, fixes his sights on the kid. "You wanna know what happens after death? I'll be happy to give you a peek."

The kid cracks into a smile. "No, no." He sighs, long and heavy. "Elektra's been quiet for a long time."

The ghost of Red's hair passes over Frank's palm. Shaggy again. Been weeks since he had it cut. Rina's gonna natter about it again. Frank rubs his hand against the blanket. "Biding her time. What's her next move, you think? She coming to the Bronx? Waiting for you to come back to Hell's Kitchen?"

"Elektra would plan for both," Red notes.

Frank hums in assent. She's a clever girl, Elektra. Probably working a couple angles on Red's disappearance. "Gonna have to play it pretty safe with you."

"But not with you."

"Yeah, well." Frank figures this is as good a place as any to end the conversation. Not like Red's saying anything new. He shoves his head into the pillow. "She doesn't know me as well as she knows you."

"We should start planning."

"Planning?" the word sounds wrong even coming from Frank's mouth in the context of this conversation. Him and the devil, they don't make plans outside of when your damn leg gets better. Also, "Since when do you want to come up with a plan?"

"Since when do you not?"

"Never said I didn't. But I'm not the guy who likes throwing himself off rooftops."

"I don't like throwing myself off rooftops."

Yeah, fucking right he doesn't. Frank's seen that very literal devil-may-care smile cross his face so many times since their first patrol together. Nothing Red loves more than throwing himself into the shit. "The only plan we need right now is the one that's already in place: she or her ninjas show up, they get one hell of a fight. And that's if they show up. You want anything more than that, you gotta be back on two feet." Frank smashes the lumps out of his pillow before shoving his head back into it. "Not going to war with some half-cocked, one-legged dumbass whose only plan is a hope and a prayer, that's for sure. And those ninjas? We do 'em my way. None of this half-measure bullshit against the zombie army. Clear?"

Red's small huff is a we'll see about that in a thin disguise. "Clear."

"Now," Frank lays down, "You got any other questions?"

"No."

"No? Nothing about death or the afterlife that you're gonna wanna know after I conk out?"

The way Red chuckles – Christ. Frank rolls his eyes, bracing himself for another sad story in the endless saga of tragedies from Red's life. How'd you learn to fight, Red? This blind guy used to beat the shit out of me with a stick. How can you jump off rooftops without a plan? Because I used to get thrown off them. Why do you care so much about this city? 'Cuz my dad was shot to death in an alley after I tried to help him be a better man.

Sure enough: "I…I got the answer to that, actually." Red lifts his legs onto the cot, turning and laying back and distancing himself from the conversation. Frank rolls away too until he's facing the wall. He catches Red's words against his back. "Turns out –" another laugh, dark and forced. The kid doesn't sound at all like himself, "- turns out there's nothing."

Shivers creep down Frank's spine. He holds himself still. "She said that?"

Seconds ago, he was giving Red shit for being able to hear a broken bone, but now Frank hears him swallow thickly from across the room, hears the small sigh he releases, the creep of his eyes making a sweep of the ceiling in search of heaven. "Yeah."

"When?"

"After you left my apartment. That night…that night you killed Sato. She woke up."

Frank lines up another punch at his pillow but changes his mind, opting instead to mold it. "She'll say anything. Anything to get under your skin."

"Yeah."

His action gathers in intensity. "Wants to rattle your cage."

Dismissive, "Yeah, yeah."

Frank forces himself to stop. He draws a deep, steadying breath, wondering what the kid hears from him in this moment. What the hell is giving away? What's Red taking without him even knowing? He slams his head against the pillow once, twice. The damn thing feels wrong. The whole room feels wrong. He shifts onto his back, shoving his newly sutured shoulder into the floor for the burn. The stitches pull hot towards his shoulder and oddly cold where they intersect with scar tissue from the katana slash across his back.

"She'll say anything," Frank says, receding from the conversation to the tune of his heartbeat. "You remember who you are, Red. What you stand for. Don't let her take that away from you."

Another laugh, lighter this time. "Now who's getting sweet?"

Frank scoffs. "Not being sweet: I'm statin' facts."

Dawn comes creeping, damp and gray. Red's up and at 'em. His bed's disheveled: bedsheet kicked to the floor, quilt wrapped in knots against the wall. Robe out of sight. Probably didn't sleep a wink last night. Now he's hobbling around on the roof. His voice carries through the ceiling, muffled but intense. One-sided conversation. He's on the phone.

Frank puts his back to the sound, his muscles aching and stiff. Blood pounds hard against the scabs on his knuckles. It is too damn early for this shit, whatever this shit is. But the sound of Red's voice doesn't let up. He's unleashing all kinds of hell. Words trickle like shell casings and spatter across the roof. An endless barrage of menacing declarations about the city, its people; the things Red will and won't do. What he does and does not regret about "that day at the church."

His law partner – Nelson. Must be: he's the only other person who knows about that day at the church besides the priest, and no way in hell Red's raising his voice like that to a man of the cloth. Frank allows himself another groan; no response from the kid above. Must not be listening.

There's a brief pause in the tirade, but it's not an opportunity for rebuttal. Hell no: Red's taking a deep breath before closing arguments, which he delivers like a sharpshooter. He puts the last couple rounds where they'll really hurt. Then the call ends and Red takes another minute up there on the roof to seethe.

Frank takes that as his cue to get up and put the coffee on. He's pouring two cups when the bathroom window opens. Red comes in with the winter wind, slamming the window shut before hobbling over to his cot. He rips off his coat in time to accept the cup of coffee Frank hands off on his way into the bathroom.

The kid scalds himself taking a drink, but it's that kind of morning. "Harlem," he says, wincing. "Tomorrow night. She's working at a clinic, but she'll see me after hours."

Frank nods, feigning ignorance with disinterest. "That what you were yelling about?" he prods.

Red takes another drink of hot coffee rather than answer. Burning on the outside so he might as well be burning on the inside too. Yep, definitely yelling at Nelson.

That frenetic energy follows Red the whole day. He chomps at the bit, geared up with nowhere to go. His eyes get sallower, shoulders saggier. Frank puts him through paces to wear him out but never once suggests that they take this one off. No way Red'll listen. Best to just power through, let him burn off the last of his reserves.

Frank drags his squirrelly-ass along on some errands. Red fidgets in the passenger seat while Frank passes notes or speaks in monosyllables. He orders some new ammo, arranges a new safehouse. Doesn't trust taking too much of his shit out of storage. Never know when Red try to fuck with his artillery again. Besides, he's only gonna be in the Bronx for a couple more weeks at most.

Nighttime comes. Different neighbourhood, same action. Red picks up on a couple fights, a break-in. Frank finishes busting up some faces and is wiping the blood off his hands, expecting a call that doesn't come. Red's normally punctual about that sort of shit – no rest for the wicked and all that - but time ticks by and the call doesn't come and fuck, there is no way he isn't doing something stupid.

Frank double-times it back towards the kid's location, sighing as the sounds of a fight reach his ears. He rounds the corner to catch a guy that Red's thrown out of the brawl. Frank snaps the guy's arm and knocks him out before helping to take care of the rest. One guys is already unconscious, sprawled on the ground with a busted nose and blackening eyes. There are two others on Red, who's holding his own against them on one God damn leg.

Red goes low, dropping one guy onto his level with a kick to the knee. Frank nabs the remaining assailant and slams his face into the brick wall, then into the dumpster. He lets go and Red takes over, wrapping the guy into a lock that lands them both on the concrete. Frank steps over them to get at Red's guy, slithering away on the pavement towards a knife that he or one of his friend's lost in the fight. He swoops in, stomping on the guy's hand to break it. He picks up the knife, rolls the guy, and puts the blade into his shoulder.

Should go into his neck. Should go into his fucking neck.

Frank rips the knife out. He wraps a fist around the handle and doesn't stop punching until Red grabs him by the wrist, twists his arm back. The knife clatters onto the pavement. Frank turns and wrenches a hand into the front of Red's coat, winding up for a punch with one hand while driving his knuckles into Red's sternum with the other.

Red moves so fast he's a blur in the dark. Frank matches the kid's hits with everything he's got: blow for blow, bruise for bruise. They're gonna go free, these guys. That's four more Marias, four more Lisas, four more Frank Jrs. Four more that Frank's helping go free.

A police siren cuts through the thuds of their punches. Frank pulls back, and he doesn't have to tell Red to do the same. They slip so freakishly easy to business as usual, to their new normal. A race to the car followed by a winding route to the apartment. Fuming in silence the whole way there. Frank heads to the kitchen for ice; Red grabs the kit. They meet in the bathroom.

Impossible to tell who starts. Sentences weave, accusations overlap. Words hemorrhaging from their mouths like blood from punctured lungs. Frank pushes Red onto the ledge of the bathtub, dodging and bucking Red's efforts to lay hands on him. Doesn't stop Red in the slightest. He keeps trying, always fucking trying. "I was doing what's right," Frank insists, slipping away when Red tries to grab him.

"Yes, you were! You were doing what's right!"

Frank grips Red by the chin. The knife to the neck would have been what's right. "Bullshit." He winces and jerks away when the kid's fingers drag against his bloody forehead.

"You've got it backwards, Frank!"

He can't stand for that shit. He pokes and prods; Red grips and blocks. Frank restrains; Red fights. They get their hands all over one another, and when the dust finally settles, Frank grips ice to the bruises he put on Red's cheek and Red's applied steri-strips to the cut he put in Frank's forehead.

The words keep coming, an endless cycle of them, over and over. Frank feels them leaving his lips, hears them spilling out of Red, but they've stopped making sense. Everything's wrong. They never should have let it get this far. Should've dumped the kid at Karen's or left him with Elektra or, hell, Frank goes further back. He should've skipped town after burning his house down. Let the ninjas put Red in the ground the same night as his girl.

But what the hell good is that? They're here, now, right in the shit, and Red's hand is over his, getting a grip on the ice pack. The heat from the kid's palm lingers in Frank's skin no matter how quickly he gets away. He eases back onto his haunches, the bullet in his brain nagging, overwhelming the promises of temporary with tomorrow, baby, tomorrow. Shit, he really believed that once, or at least he never questioned it. That there'd be a tomorrow for his baby girl.

Frank scrubs at his scalp. "I'm tired, Red," he admits. One look at the kid reveals he's not the only one. Red's a mess. Drained out. Slumped on the ledge of the tub with an ice pack against his darkening face. Frank lines his hands up, building a bridge of his arms over his knees. He stares at the tunnel created between his forearms, fists, and thighs towards the floor. "Tired of not being who I am. Not doing what I do."

"That's not who you are."

"Yes, it is."

"You don't have to be that way."

"Yes, I do."

Red's next breath flutters a little, an agree to disagree if Frank ever heard one. "I'm tired too," is all he says, and Frank believes it. Believes that every night Red spends standing on the roof instead of fighting is as bad as every piece of shit Frank lets keep their pulse. They've been living lies, the two of them, and there's nothing more exhausting that pretending to be something you're not.

Frank tries not to think that, tries not to think about how the last time he felt this time, he was at home with the kids, with Maria.

He stands; Red follows, flopping a little when he moves like he can only get one limb working at a time. Frank nabs the kid before he drops; he rolls his eyes at the small fight he receives for the trouble. Red wastes what little energy he has left trying to get away and has to catch himself just shy of becoming dead weight. Together, they weave an unsteady path towards the cot.

Red slumps down, swaying but sitting. Shit, his eyes give everything away, the way they drift lazily around the room, unfixed and at a loss. Can't look at him when he's like this, when he's struggling and out of his depth and about to get swallowed up. Frank nudges him in the direction of the pillow. "Lay down, Red."

Miraculously, the kid does as he's told, shuffling back until he's laying down. His eyelids are bobbing like two ships taking on water. He pats his head against the pillow a couple of times. Gets comfortable on his back before rolling onto his right side and starting the process over.

Frank puts the quilt over him, up to his shoulders. Is content to leave Red there twitching and shuffling, but the sound is maddening. All this activity, this fighting, and the kid can't even hold himself upright. "Stop, stop." Frank puts a hand on his shoulder. Not to restrain, just to…hold there. Remind Red where he ends and the world begins. Give him a limit, draw a line, and let him know nothing's crossing that till he's good and ready to fight back.

Red bucks against the touch because of course he does. Nothing he likes better than testing his limit. Never met a force he didn't rail against; never saw a ledge that didn't inspire him to leap. Frank doesn't change tactics. He doesn't lay another hand on the kid or increase the strength of his grasp. He holds the line. And Red, he adjusts. Gets himself settled under the weight and goes real quiet and soft and still.

Best believe he'd snap up quick if Frank decides not to play nice.

Frank leaves his hand past those first moments of sleep, past Red getting good and out. He eventually drifts back, shaking the kid's body heat out of his palm on instinct, unsurprised when it stays. The kid's a stain. Can't shake that shit out.

He stops suddenly, eyes caught on something dark bleeding out from under Red's pillow. Ah, fuck, he's hurt, isn't he? He isn't just exhausted; he's hypovolemic, and he didn't say shit because he never does. And Frank didn't notice 'cuz they were too busy smacking each other around. He puts his hand into the patch of black and breathes a sigh to find its fabric. More silk. He gives a tug and looses it from under the pillow, the garment spilling out over his hands.

Sleeves, collar: it's a robe. There's patches on the back, letters. Frank twists it under the moonlight. Lowers it almost immediately. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He bundles up the robe and puts the damn thing back where he found it. Nearly wakes the kid up doing it; has to put his hand back on Red's shoulder to tell him it's fine, it's fine, go to sleep. Then Frank goes to his chair and takes a seat, rubbing hand hands on the thighs of his jeans to get the shit out of him. As exhausted as Red, if not more.

Happy reading!