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: …and this story is still six chapters away from ending. Because nothing has gone according to plan and I'm pretty sure that's okay. *fingers crossed*

I need to send a big thank you to that-dude-I-married, who let me use his laptop while I shop for a new one. Not having a period key is one thing, but hell if I don't use the letter 'k' every other line. (My 'k' key has also died.)

This chapter is easily one of the longest in the fic, but whenever I tried to condense it, I only ended up saying more. I had a rule since the beginning that every chapter had to do something, specifically for the characters. I didn't know what exactly this chapter was going to do until I started writing it. The narration ended up jumping between Matt and Frank more than other chapters, and I have a feeling this was a symptom of how the story shifts into the finale. There's so much about the two blending before this, and all of sudden, they're overlapping, weaving.

I think there's some fine-tuning to do; however, if I try to do that now I'm going to have to break this chapter up, because I will spend another thousand words with these two doing normal things like normal people, lol.

Finding a song for this chapter was also tough. I needed a track that signalled the shift that was coming. I originally wanted lines from "The Last Time" by Taylor Swift, mostly because of the way that song sounds, but even I know better than to include the words "This is the last time, I won't hurt you anymore," where Frank and Matt are concerned. This song, "In the Blood," has been so influential that I nearly changed the title of this fic to reflect it.

Readers, dear Readers, thank you so much for your kind support and patronage. I wouldn't have made it anywhere near this far without you. Please, enjoy!

"How much of my father am I destined to become?

Will I dim the lights inside me just to satisfy someone?

Will I let this woman kill me, or do away with jealous love?

Will it wash out in the water, or is it always in the blood?

I can feel the love I want, I can feel the love I need,

But it's never gonna come the way I am.

Could I change it if I wanted, can I rise above the flood?

Will it wash out in the water, or is it always in the blood?"

~John Mayer, "In The Blood"

Chapter Forty-Eight

The journal lies open on the desk between them. Frank looms; the kid sits, thinking, one arm resting on the edge of the desk. His fingertips are smudged with ink from reading.

Jesus, his senses. He put together text and diagrams with his fingertips, catching every detail.

"Hardest part will be getting her here," Frank says. "She isn't going to just come when you call."

Red flashes a smirk. "Maybe if you call." But then, he adds what they're both thinking, "Better to make it seem like her idea."

"She calls you."

"Or she calls you."

"Hm." Frank considers the play. Can't look staged, else the minx is never gonna come, but they need to be public enough to get her attention, to give her a reason to reach out.

Only reason she's gonna do that is sitting right in front of him.

"What?" the kid asks.

God damn his respiration. Can't keep nothing from this kid. Frank slams the journal shut between them, providing cover. "Thinking about how many of your limbs I'd have to break, 'get your girl to come running."

"She'd never believe it."

"Gonna have to give her something new to believe, then."

The kid's intrigued. He turns a little in his seat, regarding Frank with the sort of intensity that screams all his senses are in on the action. "What do you have in mind?"

Lots of things. Head's a busy place: gunfire and explosions and carousel music; Lisa tugging on his arm; that sense of impending loss permeating the apartment. Frank focuses on the mission. Only the mission. He stakes his heartbeat and his breathing, his blood pressure and anything the fuck else Red can hear on the God damn mission. "Means I'm going back to regular ammo, the next time we take to the streets. What happens after that –"

Red follows along: "- will definitely get her attention."

"- and give her a reason to call." Frank snatches up the journal, crushes it in his hand and never lets go. The mission. "She has to believe it."

"What's not to believe?" Statement, not question, and delivered with a smile no less.

"Can't hold nothing back," Frank adds.

"I never do," Red assures him.

"We'll need witnesses."

Smirking. "Damn. We're usually so subtle."

Frank gets the hell out of the conversation before he says more. "Better get your cell phone charged, Red."

"For tonight?"

"Tomorrow. We strike tomorrow." He turns away before the full impact of Red's grin can hit him. "Got plans tonight." Before the kid can say anything: "I don't wanna hear it."

War, he gets. Baiting people into fights? That, he understands. Dinner at Rina's? Shit. He'll take the ninjas.

Matt bides his time in the hours leading up to dinner. Frank's running a short-fuse, and the only thing riling him up more than constant reminders about dinner is pretending dinner isn't a big deal.

So Matt showers. He shaves. He dresses. The blue shirt and slacks Frank got him for the meeting with Lantom makes another appearance, inspiring another satisfying flare in Frank's respiration.

He waits till Frank's knocking on Rina's door before muttering, "We don't have to do this."

"Shut up."

"I can tell her you're sick."

"God damn it."

Matt keeps digging as the locks come undone: "Tell her someone broke into the apartment again."

Frank's heartbeat flares. "Would you shut your fucking-"

Rina swings the door open in such a way that she can hide behind it. Her heart rattles inside her chest like a caged bird. "Hello," she says quietly. "Please uh…come in."

Matt gestures for Frank to go first. He listens to the slow intake of breath, the scratch of gritted teeth, the unspoken, "Fuck you, Red," before Frank makes his way across the threshold.

Beneath the smells roving from Rina's kitchen, Matt makes out aged wood and fabrics, bone china and tarnished metal and orange oil and dried flowers. History and memory carefully contained and even more carefully maintained. There's no war here, no conflict. Rina's fortified her apartment with memory, keeping the dangerous world at bay.

He stays in Frank's wake, but the air inside the apartment is so still, so densely packed, that he can't get a fix on the dimensions of the space. Even the music seems diffuse, easing through the walls rather than around them. One more veil that Matt's senses can't penetrate.

He reaches, taking hold of Frank by the shoulder, his own heartbeat hammering in his fingertips while Frank's slows to a low rumble beneath them. The action rouses Frank's from his forced calm, draws him out of whatever dark corner he's retreated to. "Take a step there," he mutters. "Door's swinging from your right."
Matt moves as he's instructed, feeling the door whisk past as it closes. Rina's heartbeat hits him full force, disorienting instead of revealing. "Thanks."
Frank hums curtly. Don't mention it. He draws Matt forward slowly as if he can feel Rina's heartbeat too. They move out of the entryway, into what Matt assumes is a living room.

Rina skitters away behind them into the kitchen, hands ripping across her skirt.

Matt offers, "Can we help with any-"

She cuts him off. "No! No. You stay there. You sit. You stay." She hisses a series of Russian epithets under her breath along with a rush of, "Sorrysorrysorry, stay there." The oven opens and closes. The smell of meat leaps through the apartment. Her feet scuffle in frantic circles, on the search for relief.

Frank is shockingly, unsettlingly calm. On the outside, at least. Matt tugs on his shoulder, trying to put her at ease. He whispers, "Where do we sit?"

"There's a couch over there." He corrects himself. "Straight ahead. Looks like she's got a dining table too. Can't you hear it or something?

Funny, Frank. Matt's funny too: "I can hear how fast your heart's beating."

"That tell you where the coffee table is? 'Cuz you're about to get walked into it."

Matt smiles wryly. He can't tell the coffee table from the hardwood in this space, but hell if he's gonna let Frank know that. "Just don't hit the record player on your way past." The smell of vinyl pools near their feet, along with the dusty metal of the turntable and the buzz of an electrical socket beneath the slow, steady pulse of music.

Frank sidesteps. "Wasn't gonna." He slows a moment later. Matt hazards a reach, his fingers tapping the edge of a small table. The vibrations speak of metal, of glass. "Pictures," Frank provides, tugging him away without telling him of what.

Feels wrong, being here. Got Rina hiding out in her own kitchen. Got the kid hanging off his shoulder, lost. Got stacks of cash into his pockets, cutting into his legs. Can't stash them just anywhere neither. He doesn't want Rina to find them till after their gone.

Everywhere Frank's eyes go, there's more of Rina, more of the life story she's never told him, stuff he doesn't need to know. The photos on the table – tiny blonde haired girl in a flowing white dress dancing on her toes; a woman in a fur coat with Rina's hair, staring fiercely at Frank through snowflakes (Mother? Aunt?). Further in, there's a threadbare couch and a dinged-up coffee table with one leg balanced on a folded newspaper. A stack of number puzzle books sits on the corner next to a sheet of calculations. A shelf with an antique clock, a chipped teacup and saucer filled with dried flower petals, a scuffed Matryoshka. Lace doilies on the tables. Hand-stitched, probably. Brought over in a suitcase (stop). Rina has enough of an accent; she came here as a kid (not important). With Mom or whoever's in the picture (dead? Estranged? The hell does it matter. It's irrelevant. Move on.)

Her dining table stands out, occupying Frank's attention before he puts together that it's not for dining. There's a dress form tucked away in the corner, the start of a bodice pinned into place. A small stash of fabrics is folded beneath. She whips up her quilts at that table. By hand. Quilts that Red bleeds on 'cuz she's kind enough to share 'em.

Glass taps against the kitchen counter. Rina makes a sound like a drowning woman finally surfaced. Frank draws the kid's hand off his shoulder and put its on the wall. He walks around the corner, past the table and the sewing stuff, to the doorway of the tiny kitchen.

"Ma'am."

Rina doesn't meet his stare. Steam from the roasting pan ghosts around the sharp angles of her body. She presses a hand against the skirt of her dress, fingers cutting across the blue flowers dotting the fabric, then reaches for the string of pearls on her neck. The other hand is glued to the counter next to a sweating bottle of vodka that's never been touched until seconds ago.

They should go. They should never have come. Got shit to do, plans to lay before tomorrow night. Frank opens his mouth to tell her they're leaving, but Rina tugs her hand from her pearls and cuts him off with, "Do you want a drink?"

Her eyes never leave the floor.

Frank finds himself staring in the same spot. "Yeah, I could use a drink. You want a drink, Red?"

The kid's smile. Not even a smirk: a real-life smile. And his voice goes soft and slow like he's bearing witness to something beautiful and they should never have come. Red's enjoying this too damn much.

"Yeah," Red says, using the wall as a guide through the apartment, "I'd love a drink."

Rina throws open her cupboard, nabs a few shot glasses, and gets pouring.

Frank takes Matt's next drink away from him. Straight out of his hand. "Had enough," he says, and he isn't wrong: Matt's already nursing a buzz. The vodka's gone straight to his head, loosening his tongue and playing with his perceptions in a surprisingly good way. The density of the air no longer bothers him, nor does the stillness. Sitting at Rina's table, surrounded by warmth, senses muzzy but secure, grounded, it's a good feeling. He has Frank's solidity on one side, providing its own gravitational pull even as Rina's atmosphere comes to rest ever-so-gently on his skin, ebbing slightly with her movement and that flutter of her heartbeat.

The plate of food Rina puts in front of him hits him square in the face, different than the day she saved him from Frank's apartment. This time he's remembering, memory slip-sliding, thinned out from the vodka like the blood rushing through his veins: Karen, Foggy. After that first win for the firm. St. Patrick's Day. Late nights pouring over case files at the office, each others' apartments.

Room's quiet. Why? Matt scrolls through the sounds that remain only to realize it's because he isn't talking. He tries to cover with compliment about dinner, but the room seems so big, his voice seems so small, and the moment is taking too damn long while at the same time, time's slipping away from him. This is it: who the hell knows when he'll be sitting at a table like this again? And will he ever want to?

Frank claps a hand against his shoulder, snapping him out of it. "Had enough? More like had too much. Figures you would be a lush."

"He's been sick," Rina offers from where she stands at the end of the table. "Why are you…? Please, start. Eat."

"Waiting for you, ma'am."

"We're waiting for you."

They say it together, their voices overlapping and weaving, an unbreakable thread running through the iron atmosphere of Rina's apartment.

She nods, shakily. "Okay, yes…sorry," and flees the dining room for the kitchen.

"Nothing to apologize for, ma'am," Frank says to her retreating form. Then he's back at Matt. "You alright, Red?"

Liquor's settled all Frank's sounds into a series of flat lines and meagre rumbles. Matt turns his head away as the blood rushes into his cheeks. "Yeah, I'm alright. You alright?"

Frank gives a short hum and takes the shot. The stolen shot. Matt's shot.

Once Rina's sitting, the table gets real quiet, real fast. The fragility is all too palpable for Matt, even as the apartment holds strong around them. As Frank's heartbeat makes brutal promises that sound silly at a dinner table. The heartbeat doth protest too much.

Matt ventures, trying to escape his urge to laugh. "Where did you learn how to cook?"

Rina pokes demurely at her plate. She's a frenzy of sensory details; Matt's surprised when she answers, "My aunt."

"That the woman in the photo over there?"

Matt raises a brow at Frank, surprised to hear him finally joining the conversation, even posing the question as disinterestedly as he did. The question seems off, not at all for Frank's benefit. Matt tightens his grip on his silverware and pushes the realization away.

Rina's pulse skyrockets as her movements soften, as she goes into hiding. "No." Then, with a sharp inhale almost like a gasp, "My mother. Before I was born. When she was a dancer at the Bolshoi."

Frank gives her a minute before asking, "You dance?"

He knows the answer or gives the impression of knowing. For Rina's benefit. Matt told her stories to keep her from feeling interrogated; Frank asks for information she's already given to do the same. Correction: he asks for information that she's already given to him.

"Once." Rina says simply. She and Frank went to the same school of conversational evasion tactics. "Before."

The tone in Frank's voice changes suddenly: casual. Inviting. Affable. None of that Punisher menace or condescension. "When'd you come to New York?" Matt replays the words over and over in his head, the way Frank said them, and again, time's too fast and too slow. Past overlain with present disintegrating into future. This was Frank Castle and will never be Frank Castle again.

Rina's heartbeat gradually begins to slow. "Thirteen years ago. I come with my aunt." There's a gap in the story nobody at the table dares speak about, one the same size and shape as Rina's mother. She presses on with the conversation. "She used to work at the salon. They sponsor. But I…I don't like to cut hair…or talk to people. Not that I don't want...not that you are…I just…" She draws a steadying breath. "It's complicated. People…they're complicated."

Change you when they're around, change you when you're gone: yeah, Matt thinks, complicated is a good way to put it. He stops himself from nodding too late, of course; there's a faint thrum of curiosity coming from Frank, who's chewing at such a conspicuous rhythm there's not doubt Rina's words resonated with him too.
Matt sees an in and takes it: "Frank doesn't like talking to people either."

"I like talking to people just fine," Frank lies through bites of food.

"Sometimes he doesn't say a word to me all day."

Rina can't hide her shock: "You don't speak to him?"

"I speak to him plenty, ma'am." And then, to Matt, rougher: "I speak to you plenty. And if I don't, it's 'cuz you're already talking." Back to Rina: "Says too much, this kid. Doesn't even think about it, just starts running his mouth."

Matt gives a small laugh, trying to keep it light. "Don't have to think about it. You can figure it out as you go."

"No idea what you're getting yourself into."

"Could say the same to you. Things don't always go the way you plan."

Frank's whole body speaks of rage and something else, something that goes unspoken and unnoticed, something he's hiding in plain sight. "Things don't always go your way neither."

"So…you balance each other out."

The barb for Frank dies in Matt's mouth. His senses fix on Rina, who continues shakily, still reeling from the previous exchange, "It's good. It's good to have people for balance. People who…who make you whole."

Matt can't stand the stricken silence afterwards. How it claws and teems with ghosts, with the worst-kept secrets and poorly laid plans. It's so painfully obvious what he and Frank are thinking, and yet it also isn't. They're both trying to play hands without acknowledging what they've been dealt. And Rina doesn't deserve to be undermined for any number of reasons, but certainly not in her house. Not at her table.

So Matt latches onto the only thing he can think to say: "They're the ones that define you. Who change you. For better or worse."

Frank's respiration drops into a slow, plodding crawl. He stabs at his plate a few times but doesn't take another bite.

Rina, for once, doesn't retreat: she's bolstered. She puts down her cutlery and reaches, her nimble fingers lancing around the bottle of vodka. She refills the glasses. When she picks hers up, it's to toast. "To-" She hesitates, terror gripping her. Her heart is a frantic rattle in her chest. Rina draws a breath and soldiers on, "To the ones that define us."

Matt takes up his glass and clinks it against hers. "To the ones that define us."

Frank joins in, torn between reluctance and eagerness. "The ones that define us."

Rina, her heart pounding in a funeral dirge, adds a quiet, "Nostrovia," and then they drink.

Dinner winds down. The vodka wears off. Rina keeps putting more food on their plates, and Frank sure as hell isn't going to turn her down anymore than the kid is. They end up polishing off most of a roast only for Rina to throw the rest into containers to take back to their place. Can't ask a question without apologizing, can't volunteer information without being evasive, but Rina isn't going to take no for an answer where feeding them is concerned.

Fine: two can play at that game. Actually, three can. Red sends Rina into the living room on the pretense of putting on another record; she leaps to the task, giving Frank the opportunity to start washing up. He runs the water to drown out the sounds of him opening the cupboard, unloading the stacks of bills from his pockets to a place they won't be found for a while.

Rina rushes back to the kitchen as he finishes. "You don't have to do that," she says: about the dishes, she realizes, not about the money. She has no idea about the money.

"Yes, ma'am, we do," Frank replies. "You sit. We'll clean up."

She wants to object. Part of her needs to object. But there's two of them and one of her, and Rina isn't going to pick a fight. She sits down at the table and plays her fingers uneasily across her frayed, lace tablecloth to the music.

Takes her until they're done to put her at ease. Rina rises.

"Look, we're uh…" Frank scrubs at the side of his head. The words were just there a second ago. The fuck did they go? The sight of Rina's hands folded at her waist, her tiny features peering out from under a veil of blonde hair, they bring Frank's thoughts to silence. There's nothing to say. No use in mentioning that they're leaving. That'll make her more suspicious, more likely to find the money before they're gone. "Thank you. For dinner. For everything."

"Thank you, Rina," Red adds.

She offers a small shrug. "Thank you. Both of you. For everything."

Nods circulate from one to the next, and that's that. It's understood.
Red takes his shoulder again on the way to the door. Rina heads through the living room. She sets about unbolting her myriad of locks, then holds the door for them to leave. Red's hand tightens on his shoulder on their way into the hallway, and he doesn't let go till they're back at the apartment.

At first, Matt thinks he imagines it, but as Rina's hand slips off his shoulder blade, as the door closes behind him and locks tightly, he realizes she touched him. As if she knew tonight was likely her last chance.

Similarly, he doesn't let go of Frank till they're in the apartment. Till they're drifting around, listless, eventually retreating to the fire escape. The music from Rina's apartment plays long into the night, and they're almost afraid to interrupt, but when they finally do, it's like they have all the time in the world.

They clean out the apartment the next day. Red fits his stuff into his duffle, gets that into the trunk of the car along with the folded-up cot. Helps dismantle the bulletin board and toss out anything they won't need. Frank gets his kit together in short order. Most of his shit's at the warehouse. He'll toss it into the car for a quick getaway, ready to move onto the next safehouse.

Midday, Frank leaves. He goes to the warehouse and does the last of the prep. Clock ticks towards evening. Thinks he might go crazy before the sun's finally down and it's time to go to work. He puts on his vest. He packs up the Vanquish, couple ammo cans. Real shit, this time. None of those rubber bullets. Gotta put on a good show.

There's security cams in the neighbourhood they've chosen. Couple traffic cams too. Frank nests, scanning the streets, waiting. Patient as fuck 'cuz the Devil ain't gonna disappoint. Too much riding on tonight for Red to decide something different than what they've agreed.

Sure enough, he's waiting less than hour when the Devil finally shows. Well, not so much the Devil: the people he's chasing. Couple of guys he set on the run. Maybe he busted up a robbery or interrupted an assault. Whatever he did, the Devil's got 'em running down the street. Passersby are drawn to their shouts. Couple people have their cell phones out, filming what's happening, texting their friends. One calls the cop. Whole bunch more start calling when Frank fires the first round, catching one of the guys at the ankle.

He's about to fire again when he's grabbed from behind. "Speak of the devil," Frank mutters, hopping right into the fight. Punching, kicking, throwing; the Devil, at one point, slams him into the rooftop ledge, giving the whole street a look at the skull on his chest. Then they're tussling back across the roof, hitting each other as hard as they can.

The first cruiser is screeching on scene when the Devil's defence fails. Frank lands a solid hit to his chest, another to his face. The kid goes limp against the rooftop. "Good," Frank says. He packs up the Vanquish and carries it in one hand, throws the kid over his opposite shoulder, and hurries off the roof.

He lets the cops catch a glimpse of him before disappearing.

Radio burns up with reports of the Punisher in the Bronx. Cops are on the horn about him kidnapping someone.

Frank sits at the warehouse, Red's cell phone on the desk in front of him. Patience gone. He wants the call. Needs the God damn call. And she will, she has to. Kid's in trouble. He's at the mercy of the big, bad Punisher.

The phone comes to life: "Unknown…unknown…unknown."

He lets it ring 'couple times. Answering too quick implies he was waiting. When he does, he pretends he swears a little, feigning ignorance about how to operate Red's phone. Then, casually, as if he's not expecting anyone important, "Murdock's phone."

Elektra can barely contain her excitement. "I take it Matthew's unable to answer?" Frank doesn't answer; he lets the minx fill in the blanks herself. Makes it easier to lie when he knows what truths he's working with. "Strange that you would be taking his calls. Especially after your cute little skit for the NYPD."

"Not a skit." Not with the way they were punching at each other.

She sighs as if they're old friends who simply haven't spoken in a while. "What do you want?"

"Not about what I want. It's about what you want."

And right there, he senses her swaying on the line. Suspicion doesn't trump desire for Red's Girl. Nothing can. The charm drains out of her voice. "Put Matthew on the phone."

Frank leans back in his chair. "Can't do that."

"Because he won't speak?"

"Because he can't. Kid's out cold. I dosed him." Frank gives her a little more of the truth, in case she doesn't want to believe him. In case she needs a reminder about how he got the chance to lay hands on her sweet Matthew again. "Doc left me with a syringe of shit, case he ever wanted to run away again. You want to talk to him, you come and get him."

"How stupid do you think I am?"

"Stupid enough to think we have time for this conversation. Those drugs aren't gonna last forever. He's gonna be a lot harder to take when he's awake."
Elektra's sass returns full force. "I could say the same to you. Matthew's always a lot harder to take when he's awake."

She lingers on the line, silently demanding what's in it for me? Frank concedes, it's gotta be a pretty sweet deal for her, letting Red make his life difficult. But even she has to know there's limits. Maybe not to Red, but for people like them, people who believe in taking lives for whatever reason, it's amazing how quick lines get drawn.

People make things complicated.

Ain't hard to feel what he's saying. The frustration, the anger. It's all right there, built-in, hard-wired from his many encounters with the God damn Devil of Hell's Kitchen. "Kid's been making my life difficult for a long time. You leave him with me, he's gonna do what he does, and I'm gonna do what I do. And what I do is everything I can to make sure he doesn't make shit difficult for me anymore." He growls the last bit, remembering, back at the beginning, the walls closing in. "Broken leg was a good start."

Elektra laughs. "You're lying."

"Am I?" Frank puts that certainty into his voice, the knowledge that yes, he would break Red's other leg, his arms, his ribs. That the kid would let him, or at the very least, the kid wouldn't have a choice. Beating the shit out of each other is what they do best. "You want to leave him to make trouble, but the longer you wait, the less of him's gonna be left to pick up." He gives her the address, and then, "Come and get him."

Frank hangs up. Shuts the phone off.

From the ceiling, Red asks, "You think she bought it?"

"I think she's coming," Frank says.

Happy reading!