Chapter Text
Frank Castle rarely turned to alcohol. Sure, he’d grab a beer with the guys when there were guys to grab beers with; as a rule, he didn’t really drink. It blunted his senses and while sometimes that was absolutely what he wanted, he usually preferred to stay sharp.
This was not one of those days. He’d gone to bed early, his days and nights thrown off-kilter by some recent late jobs, and then had woken up in a cold sweat just in time to see the sun setting through his window.
He’d felt them, held them in his arms. Maria and the kids. Fuck, he could smell her perfume.
He sat up, his breathing still ragged as he tried to shake off the nightmare; he just wanted it to go away, not even sure what it was. Staggering to his feet, he managed the five steps to his kitchen and reached into the cupboard above his dish drain.
An industrial-sized bottle of ibuprofen, a box of salt that had been there when he moved in, and… there it was, except the bottle he’d stashed behind the salt was empty. Why the fuck had he put an empty bottle back in the cabinet? Maria had always told him not to do that.
Frank said a few choice profanities and then grabbed his shoes, glad he’d just fallen asleep in his clothes and so didn’t have to deal with getting dressed. One advantage of his weird schedule: even though he’d just woken up, it was evening. Nobody would even guess that he had climbed out of bed and gone right to Pop’s, the liquor store down the block.
The chill of the early evening air made Frank wish he hadn’t left his jacket back at his place, but he shrugged off the cold. It was a quick trip, then he’d be back… not home. It was where he lived, but it would never feel like home.
Shoving aside the memory of Maria’s smile, of the kids’ laughter, Frank got to the liquor store and reached for the cheapest thing that would help him find oblivion as quickly as possible. Unsurprisingly, considering the neighborhood and the general state of the world, it was the last bottle.
“Really, you had to pick that one?”
Frank didn’t bother to turn at the tart question from behind him. “Yeah.”
“You need it that badly?”
Frank didn’t think that deserved an answer. He headed for the register, though the woman persisted. “Because I ended up teaching CCD when Sister Mary Grace came down with a headache - highly suspect, how that keeps happening on Wednesdays - and the kids wanted to be anywhere but there. You ever deal with a roomful of sixth graders who don’t want to be learning catechism? I think I need it more than you do.”
Frank finally turned to see who had been haranguing him: a nun, older but not terrifyingly ancient in the way nuns could get. She came up to about his shoulder and looked pretty much done with the day.
He could relate, and he’d just rolled out of bed.
“Sounds like the kids aren’t the only ones who wanted to be somewhere else, Sister,” Frank replied. “From what I know about CCD, can’t say I blame any of you. But this would help?” He hefted the bottle, brows lifting.
“Irish coffee will,” the nun replied, unapologetic.
“Plenty of Irish whiskey over there.” Frank nodded toward the shelf.
The nun didn’t even look. “I want that one.”
Frank shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Why this one?”
“I like the brand.”
Frank had, in the past, consumed that particular brand of Irish whiskey and knew it to be the bottom of the barrel. “Thought lying was a sin. This stuff isn’t any good.”
The nun inclined her head in acknowledgment. “I like it because it reminds me of someone.”
Frank looked at her, really looked, and saw the tense lines of her mouth, the fatigue around her eyes. He could pay a little more for another brand. “Fine,” he said, offering the bottle. “Here you go, Sister.”
She didn’t take it, and Frank extended it a little more. “Only if you come back with me and share that Irish coffee.” Frank started to shake his head, and she added, “I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Frank considered just buying his damn whiskey and leaving, but the thought of going back to his empty apartment suddenly seemed like too much. “Sure.” Her brows lifted. “I mean, yes. Thank you, Sister. But let me buy it, okay? Call it, uh, a donation to the church.”
That got him a quick smile. “Thank you, Mr. -?”
“Castiglione. Pete.” He offered a hand, briefly conscious of its roughness, how much bigger it was than the nun’s, but the hand she offered in return had its own share of calluses.
“Maggie.”
Joey at the register looked at Frank like he’d grown a second head; maybe people didn’t usually shake hands with nuns around Hell’s Kitchen. But his money still spent, so he bought the whiskey and gestured for the nun to lead the way.
Where she took him was not, surprisingly, to the church down the road, but rather to the orphanage next door to the church. Some of the kids were in the tiny yard out back, from the sounds of it, though a few were inside to give Maggie pleasant greetings and Frank wary or curious looks.
He nodded in response to the kids, not thinking about how that one was the same age Lisa would be now, how another one had eyes just like Frankie’s. No, he followed the nun into the orphanage’s kitchen, where the coffee smelled like it had just finished brewing. Frank saw an empty bottle on the counter, twin to the one he carried, and had the image of the nun being all set for her Irish coffee and then realizing that she was out of the essential ingredient. Just that kind of day, he guessed.
He watched as the nun poured two cups of coffee and then he offered over the bottle. “Looks like you weren’t kidding about that brand loyalty,” he said, nodding at the empty.
The nun smiled as she took the bottle. “Wasn’t just trying to get a better deal on booze, no.”
“Now, I wasn’t saying that,” Frank protested. He scooped up the empty and tucked it in the recycling, watching with approval as the nun doctored the coffee with the whiskey and some cream. “That maple syrup?” he asked as she stirred the drinks.
“I like the flavor better.” She brought the cups over to the kitchen table and sat; Frank joined her, wrapping his hands around his mug. The warmth seeped into him, and Frank sat back a little, felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders.
He finally took a sip, and nodded. He hadn’t had maple syrup in Irish coffee before, but he liked it.
The nun seemed content to sit and drink in silence, and Frank liked that, too. No need to talk just to fill the air with words. She watched him, though, her eyes assessing. He let her look all she liked. No skin off his nose. The orphanage kitchen was warm and the sound of the kids playing in the back was just distant enough that if he closed his eyes, he could imagine…
“You Catholic?” she asked when half his drink was gone.
Frank opened his eyes. “Used to be.”
“Did you just drift away, or was there a reason?”
Frank rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “Little bit of both. It was more important to my mother than to me, when I was a kid. Then when I had my own kids, y’know, it got more important.”
The nun smiled a little. “Many people come back to the church when they become parents. But you don’t look old enough for your kids to be grown. They teenagers now, think they know everything, don’t want to come to church anymore?”
Frank’s breath caught in his throat. He remembered a day when Lisa had been just a little bit of a thing, the first time she’d told him no. Maria had laughed a little, but kindly; she’d said it looked like someone had taken his favorite toy, and had asked Frank what he’d do when Lisa was a teenager and said no all the time.
He hadn’t said anything, and Lisa had climbed into his lap and squished his cheeks with her little hands, tugging at them until he smiled.
A hand on his arm startled him back into the present. He’d worried the nun; her brows had lowered a little and she watched him with concern.
“Sorry, Sister. My kids, they’re gone. Dead. And their mother.” He heard how flat his voice was, how quickly he said it. Probably made him sound like a monster, like he didn’t give a shit that his whole family, his whole world was gone; he’d learned the hard way, though. That was how he had to say it, even now, or he’d break down; he sure as hell didn’t want to put that on the nun.
“I’m sorry.” She was. He could tell. Her voice held what sounded like real compassion, and not some nun act. She looked like she wanted to ask how it happened but she didn’t, and Frank was glad. If she’d asked, either Frank would have had to hedge his answer, which he didn’t want to do in a conversation with a nun, or he’d have to tell the truth. And if he did that… well, maybe she had been around then and had heard what had happened to his family, and would then know that his name wasn’t really Pete Castiglione.
So he just nodded and said, “Thanks.” He peered into his mug and added, “Good coffee.”
She smiled in response, though her expression was a little knowing, as if she was used to evasion in her conversations. Well, nuns got that, he guessed.
He took another sip and glanced around the room, the better to avoid the nun’s gaze. The kitchen could stand a coat of paint and some of the cabinet doors hung a little off-kilter. Frank got to his feet and dug his Leatherman out of his pocket, popping out the Phillips head. Like he’d guessed, the one cabinet door had just needed its screws tightened.
“You got a lot of stuff like this, little things that need to be fixed?”
She nodded. “Sister Marguerite used to take care of that sort of thing, but she’s getting on in years and we don’t really like her to get on a ladder anymore.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Frank replied, not quite wincing at the mental image of an elderly nun wobbling at the top of a ladder. “Well, if you put together a list, I could take a look. Maybe next week, Wednesday at about 3?”
The nun got it, and the corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “So if Sister Mary Grace has another of her highly suspect headaches…”
Frank grinned. “You’ll be otherwise occupied, yes, ma’am.”
The nun’s smile widened. “Then I will see you next Wednesday.”
Frank hadn’t intended for it to be a regular thing, but the nun’s list wasn’t a short one. The first Wednesday, Sister Marguerite came to watch him work and Frank had uneasy flashbacks to Catholic school. After a few minutes, though, she nodded and tottered off, and Frank turned his attention to the task at hand.
Sister Maggie didn’t stand over him, which he appreciated, but she did check in on occasion. When a group of small kids drew too close, maybe interested in the tools Frank was using to repair a chair, Sister Maggie shooed them off.
“They were okay,” Frank said, straightening to take the glass of water Sister Maggie offered him. “Thanks.”
“You say that, but Mikey super-glued himself to a table twenty minutes ago.” She paused, then added, “How are you at tables?”
Frank shook his head, amused. “I’m okay with tables. Put it on the list. Frankie did that once, but it was a model rocket, not a table.”
“That happens here every year around science fair time.”
“Ha. Well, good to know things don’t change.”
“Frankie,” Sister Maggie said, her voice as gentle as it got. “Your son?”
Frank nodded, his gaze turning to the chair. He shouldn’t have used Frankie’s name, he shouldn’t have; it had just slipped out. “Yeah.” Sandpaper. He’d need to take the chair out back and sand down that rough edge, so the kids didn’t hurt themselves on it. Thinking about sandpaper was easier than thinking about Frankie, about Lisa, about Maria.
“And you had another child. Children?”
Frank sighed, stopping his search for sandpaper. “Just Frankie and his sister. Lisa. Maria, she always wanted a big family, but two was enough for me. And after Frankie, she agreed that was enough.” More things he shouldn’t have said, but the nun was a good listener, not pushing too hard.
“He was a handful?”
“Oh, yeah. Don’t get me wrong, he was a good kid, but into everything. Walked at ten months, climbed out of his crib soon after that.” It was weird, talking about Frankie. Frank hadn’t done that in… well, a long time. It hurt a little, but it still felt good to remember Maria and the kids.
“Oh, no.” Sister Maggie shook her head and looked amused, though there was something else in her expression as well, a not-quite wistfulness that made Frank wonder what had inspired it.
“Guess you’ve seen a lot of kids come through here,” he suggested, taking a sip of water and then setting down the glass.
Sister Maggie nodded. “Never had one walking at ten months, though. But usually we get them a bit older.”
“Not a lot of experience with babies?”
If he’d been focusing on the chair or putting away his tools or looking for the sandpaper, Frank would have missed her reaction. Her breath caught and she looked down a moment before pulling on a brittle smile. “Not really, no.”
Frank wasn’t going to push it, whatever it was. She didn’t really look like she was in a sharing mood, so he changed the subject. “Hey,” he said, tucking the drill in its case. “Got any coffee on? Doesn’t have to be Irish.”
“Wouldn’t hurt if it was, though.”
Frank guessed that was a yes on the coffee, then. He gathered up his tools and followed Sister Maggie into the kitchen. He’d sand that chair next time and, apparently, deal with the table.
“You were a Catholic school kid, weren’t you?” Sister Maggie asked as she got out the cups.
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Just the look you got while Sister Marguerite was watching you. It’s a pretty common reaction, but more likely from someone who has, ah…”
“Been in the trenches?” Frank supplied, his tone a bit dry. He didn’t think Catholic school had been entirely different from his time in the Marines.
“Where did you go?”
“Sacred Heart.”
“Oh, they were old school.”
Frank shook his head, with a rueful little grin. “You’re not kidding.” The priests and the nuns had tried to keep him on what they’d thought was the right path, and his parents had tried. In the end, it had taken the Marines to make Frank into the person he was now, whatever that meant.
Sister Maggie set his coffee before him and sat across from him. “Well, it doesn’t appear to have done you lasting harm.”
Frank murmured his thanks and pulled the cup close. Yep, she’d doctored it; he could tell from the smell of it. He took a sip and nodded his approval. “After Sacred Heart, the Marines were a cakewalk.”
“Oh, you were in the Marines? I thought you had the look about you.” She sat up a bit, exaggeratedly straight.
“You can’t tell just by looking,” Frank quipped. At Sister Maggie’s arched eyebrows, he added, “I mean, the clothing sometimes gives us away, but in general…”
“But I was right.”
“That you were, Sister.” He took another healthy gulp of the coffee. “Thanks for this. I need to get going, though. Got another job tonight. Same time next week?”
“Pete, I don’t want you to think you have to keep coming back here.”
“Well, the way I see it, the stuff needs to get done and I can do it. Maybe it’ll help make up for all those Hail Marys I didn’t say as a kid. Besides,” he added, “You’ve got the best Irish coffee in Hell’s Kitchen, and that’s saying something.”
Looking pleased, Sister Maggie shooed him out of the kitchen. “Maple syrup,” she called after him.
“Maple syrup,” he agreed. “See you next Wednesday.”
Frank took his tools back to his place and started to prep for his night job. His guns, of course, were already in order, but he still checked them over to make sure everything was as it should be.
It felt a little weird, going from orphanage handyman to putting down some drug dealers, but he was helping the Kitchen both ways.
Nobody at the orphanage needed to know what he did with his nights. To them, he was just Pete the handyman, and that was how it was going to stay.
He waited until dark, close to the time that he’d heard the dirtbags were going to be in a warehouse that was too close to the orphanage for his liking. They might try to sell to some of the older kids or, worse, bring them into the organization. They were good kids, but without parents looking after them… well, it was easy to slip through the cracks. And Frank had heard that the drug dealers were already nosing around the middle school. Middle school, fuck.
Frank took up position on top of a nearby roof with a clear line of sight into the warehouse through a block of windows. Some were even already broken. That was efficiency, right there.
He had gotten there early, but it wasn’t long before they started to arrive. Even if Frank hadn’t known what was going on, he’d have suspected they were up to something shady. They’d have to go. For the kids.
There weren’t that many of them. He’d be able to put them down, no problem. He took a deep breath and focused.
*One batch, two batch… *
He heard the scraping sound behind him just as something hit his shoulder and knocked his arm. He got off a shot, but it went wild and the drug dealers scattered.
Frank turned to see just who the fuck was interfering in his op.
“Look, Castle.”
Red. Of course. Though he was in black, not red, and had ropes wrapped around his arms, some Muay Thai shit. He had a baton in one hand, and… yeah, there was the other one on the ground. That was what had hit him and ruined his shot.
Frank set aside his rifle, scooped up the baton and advanced on Red. Black. Whatever he was calling himself, he stood his ground as Frank asked, “What the fuck?”
“You can’t kill them.”
Cold fury twisted Frank’s insides. “Like hell, I can’t. Do you know what those assholes are doing?”
Red lifted his hands in a gesture that he probably thought was placating, but only served to piss Frank off even more. “I do. But -”
“Even you have to agree that they need to be stopped.”
Red nodded. “Yes, but -”
“But nothing. I’m going after them. Finish the job.” How the fuck he was going to find them, Frank didn’t know; that evening’s setup had taken some planning. But he’d get it done.
“I can’t let you do that.”
Frank didn’t bother to reply as he turned to go collect his gear, tossing the baton at Red’s feet.
This time, he was listening, so he heard Red’s footsteps and turned to meet him, fists already upraised. It wasn’t that he wanted to kick Red’s ass, but it would sure feel good.
Red tossed aside his additional baton and Frank scoffed. Still the altar boy, wanting to fight fair; as if there was anything fair about it. Frank didn’t take up his guns, though, instead landing an uppercut to Red’s ribs. Breath whooshed out of Red’s lungs and he grimaced but managed a solid punch to Frank’s eye.
“Ooh, that’ll leave a mark,” Frank taunted. “Going for the face. That’s okay, though. I’m not as pretty as you. Won’t make a difference.”
Red bared his teeth in something that was almost a smile. “You were going to ruin everything, Castle.” He wasn’t panting, but his breath was coming a little faster. Good.
Frank lunged in for another uppercut, but Red turned it into a grapple, taking Frank down to the ground. Frank landed a solid elbow strike, twisting out of Red’s grip and managing to get to his feet.
“By taking out those pieces of filth? In what universe is that a bad thing?”
Red rolled to his feet and then did some fancy kicking shit, backing Frank up a few steps and catching him on the side. “Mahoney is bringing them in tomorrow. They’ll cop a plea and give intel on their higher ups.”
Legal shit. Of course. “I could have put a big hole in their operations tonight. I would have been done by now.” He saw Red take in a breath as if to argue, so said, “And don’t give me any of that redemption bullshit. Those guys, they’re not going to better themselves. Only good thing they can do is die.” He went for Red’s ribs again, the other side; this time he dodged away, then came back with a few jabs at Frank’s midsection.
“You’ve got to look at the bigger picture, Frank.”
“Like hell I do. They’re selling drugs to kids, Red. You want that? In your neighborhood?”
Red exhaled sharply as he tried to kick Frank’s legs out from under him, but Frank managed to evade him. “No. I don’t. But you’re clearly not going to see things my way, and I can’t let you mess this up.”
There was that let again, as if Red could let Frank do anything. Frank almost laughed, and moved to hit Red again: something solid that would shut him up. Before he’d taken two steps, he was flat on his back, his head ringing. He didn’t know what ninja shit Red had done, but the last thing he saw, not quite in focus, was Red’s face, covered by the stupid mask.
Son of a bitch.
Two days after the rooftop encounter with Frank Castle, Matt was pleased to learn that the drug dealers had been picked up.
“Sang like canaries,” Foggy crowed as he deposited a cup of what smelled like coffee on Matt’s desk.
Matt smiled. “Good.”
“Brett’s going to get his ducks in a row and then he’ll bring the bosses in.”
“I’m glad.” Matt thought he managed not to wince as he reached for the coffee, but Foggy must have seen something.
“Still hurting? Should you go see a doctor? Or Claire?”
Matt shook his head, finally picking up the coffee and taking a sip. “I’m fine.” Hearing Foggy’s sigh, he added, “Maybe a cracked rib. Nothing anybody could do about it.”
“You could, and I know this is a wild idea, go home and get some rest. I can handle the client meeting this afternoon.”
Matt shook his head. “Thanks, Fogs, but I’d rather be here. Resting at home? Not like I can watch TV. Might as well make myself useful.”
Foggy made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Okay, yeah.” He turned to leave, his shoe scraping on the floor, then asked, a note of hesitancy in his voice, “What did you do when you were a kid? After the, uh, accident.”
Matt didn’t really like to think about those weeks right after he’d been blinded, but he would for Foggy. His father’s face, vanishing from his view, and the pain. “Well.” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t do much of anything right at first. They had me on some really amazing drugs and everything was kind of a blur. And then once I could think straight… I guess I just tried to keep it together, so my dad wouldn’t worry.”
Foggy moved closer, Matt’s desk creaking a little as he leaned against it. “Were you mad?”
“About what happened? Not really. Upset, yeah. I didn’t know why God would do that to me. But you know what they say. For every door that closes…”
“Another one opens? Or a window, or whatever?” Matt nodded. Foggy exhaled a short breath. “Yeah, that’s bullshit. Maybe for some people that happens, but not everybody. We know that, living here. Sometimes the door closing is just the first step in your house falling down.”
Matt reached out and found Foggy’s arm, gripping it for a moment. “Hey, you okay? Maybe you’re the one who should take the afternoon off.”
Foggy didn’t reply right away. “I’m fine,” he said, though not without a note of irony. “Just the Ruiz case, you know?”
Matt nodded. Tony Ruiz had been killed by drug dealers and Matt and Foggy were trying to get justice for him and for the family he’d left behind, but it wasn’t looking good. His family struggled with both their grief and with other, more day-to-day worries.
“Maybe Brett will be able to get something helpful out of those guys.”
“Maybe,” Foggy echoed, not sounding too optimistic.
Matt got to his feet and slung an arm around Foggy’s shoulders, ignoring the fire the movement sparked in his side. “Come on. It’s lunchtime, right?”
“Uh, it’s ten-thirty.”
“It’s lunchtime somewhere. Let’s get out of here. Go grab some pizza.”
“At ten-thirty?” But Foggy was sounding amused, at least, rather than defeated.
“We’ll get it with sausage. That’s breakfast food.”
Laughing, Foggy said, “Okay, fine. As long as it’s Capizzi. And you can explain to my doctor why my cholesterol’s gone to hell.” He turned to lead the way out of the office and then paused, as if his own words had echoed back to him. “When did I get so old?”
“You’re not old, Fogs. Come on. Capizzi awaits.”
They made their way out of the office, and while they did talk over the upcoming meeting over their pizza, for a little while it was like they were back in law school.
That evening, Matt stopped by St. Agnes. It wasn’t quite on his way home from work, but close enough that he made the detour every now and again. It was nice, he figured, if he occasionally saw Maggie when he wasn’t bleeding.
Sometimes he would ask somebody where she was, but on that day he chose to wander through the orphanage in search of her. The kids, used to him by now, called a greeting or shared a bit of news as he passed. The building still felt the same as it had when he’d lived there, still had the same smell of cleaning products, whatever they’d had for dinner, and that general “kid” smell that nobody but Matt really seemed to notice.
Eventually, he ended up in the kitchen. He usually did; Maggie tended to be either there or in the laundry room, when she wasn’t at the church. It sounded like she was putting away dishes and Matt moved to help, setting aside his cane and handing her a stack of plates.
“Wish you’d been this helpful when you were a kid.”
“Ha, you’re welcome.” Matt closed the cabinet door, then frowned and opened it again, easing it back and forth. “This doesn’t squeak anymore. Or, well, not as much.” Unless he made an effort to shut it out, he could always hear the little creaks the furniture made, hinges protesting their years of labor, chairs settling back with the weight of the people who sat in them. He closed the cabinet door, running a hand along the place where it met the cabinet.
“Oh, yes. There’s a young man from the neighborhood who’s been coming in and doing a little work here and there.”
Matt nodded his approval as he took up his cane and settled into a chair. It, too, didn’t squeak as much, though there was a rough edge to one side, now. He ran his fingers along it, frowning.
“He’ll get to that,” Maggie said, perhaps noting Matt’s expression. “It’s on the list.”
“Oh, you have a list? Poor guy. How’d you con him into doing this? Catholic guilt? Did you use your nun powers on him?”
“Nun powers?” Maggie echoed, sounding amused and perhaps a little too innocent. No doubt she’d heard the kids whisper about the fabled nun powers.
Still, Matt played along. “You know, the death stare, that sort of thing?”
“Death stare?” She was trying not to laugh, from the sounds of it, and not entirely succeeding.
“Please. I can tell when Sister Marguerite is giving me the death stare, and I’m blind.”
“Well, no nun powers were involved. He just offered.”
“He’s Catholic.” It wasn’t a question.
“Lapsed, but yes. Went to Sacred Heart.”
“Oh, they’re tough. I heard the nuns there didn’t carry rulers; no, they had meter sticks. I was always glad Dad could never afford to send me there.”
Maggie didn’t say anything, but Matt heard her soft intake of breath, the way her heartbeat stuttered into a faster pace for just a moment. Was it that he had mentioned his father, or was it the reference to money trouble? Sometimes this happened and he was never sure if he had said something wrong or if it was just that Maggie struggled with the past. That uncertainty, it was always there in their relationship. Maybe someday they would get past it, but as that would probably require open and honest communication, Matt had his doubts.
The thought of going to therapy with Maggie to work through their issues occurred to him, and the mental image of explaining it all to the hypothetical therapist - Maggie’s return to the church, his blinding, his father’s murder, not to mention the fact that he had heightened senses and fought crime - made him shake his head. He almost laughed.
“What?” Maggie asked, a prickle in her voice that Matt found familiar because he sounded just that way when he was feeling defensive.
That was the moment, he knew: the one where he should just say, Look, Dad and I were okay. But then doubt gripped him; would that just make her feel worse?
Maybe therapy wasn’t such a bad idea, but he knew it would never happen. So he just smiled and said, “Nothing. I was just thinking about something funny.”
Maggie made a noise that suggested that she wasn’t entirely satisfied with his answer, but she didn’t push him. Instead, she asked, “You need patching up? I saw that face you made when you sat down.”
“No. Thanks.” He felt her wave of skepticism, the second of the dreaded nun powers, and added, “No blood, I promise.” He raised a hand with two fingers - wasn’t that some Boy Scout promise thing? - and smiled at Maggie’s short laugh. “Can’t a guy just come and see his -” Her heart rate sped up again, and Matt stopped talking, though he wasn’t sure if he was more surprised by his word choice or by her response to it. “- mother,” he finished, his voice quiet, but it was too late. She’d already turned back to whatever task she’d been doing.
Matt sighed. He got to his feet. “Maggie, look -”
“You don’t have to say it, Matthew. I know I was never a mother to you.” Her tone was stiff and it sounded like she still faced away from him.
“That isn’t what I was going to say.” He felt guilty that he’d upset her, though he still wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done wrong. But guilt was part and parcel of their relationship, really.
“You don’t have to say it.”
Wow. Claire had called him a martyr and apparently he came by it honestly. “Well, last I checked, I wasn’t dead yet,” he said, his voice gentle. “We’ve got time to figure this out.”
This time she did turn. “Thank you.”
Matt stepped forward and smiled at her. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you Sunday, okay?”
“Sunday,” she agreed.
Couldn’t have too much communication in one day, after all.
By the next Wednesday, Frank’s black eye hadn’t faded. He thought some of the kids might comment, but was unprepared for the sheer volume of their reaction. It started even before he’d entered the orphanage, as he encountered a cluster of kids sitting on the front step.
“Wow, Pete! What happened to you?”
“Duh, he got in a fight.”
“What happened to the other guy? Did you kick his - butt?” That last was said with a look from the kid who spoke toward the direction of the front door, beyond which nuns no doubt lurked.
“Of course he did! Right, Pete?”
They trailed along behind him like a bunch of puppies, and Frank was not about to admit that the other guy had left him out cold on a roof.
But he also didn’t want to say, Yeah, I kicked his ass, because besides being inaccurate, it wasn’t something he wanted to say to a bunch of kids. So he didn’t say anything, but instead just went up the steps, leaving the kids to speculate about just how much butt was kicked.
“Okay, that’s enough,” said Sister Maggie, holding the door open for Frank as she cast a gimlet eye upon the kids outside. “Don’t you have homework to do?”
Most of the kids sighed and agreed and filed into the orphanage, though one of the smaller ones remained sitting outside.
“I don’t have homework,” he protested, when Sister Maggie waved him inside.
“Come in anyway, Mikey.”
“Awww,” the kid grumbled, but he followed the rest of the kids.
“The death stare,” Frank stage-whispered, as the last of the kids disappeared upstairs. “Always effective.”
“There is no death stare,” Sister Maggie replied, though she looked amused as she said it.
Frank scoffed, shaking his head. “Just don’t want to admit it.”
Sister Maggie chuckled, though her expression grew serious as she asked, “Are you all right? Any injuries besides the obvious?”
“Nah, I’m fine.” Frank wondered at the disbelieving noise Sister Maggie made at that. “Really.”
“Well, if you ever run into some trouble, I’ve had some experience looking after injuries.”
“Do I look like the kind of guy to get into trouble?” Frank hid a grin at the sheer volume of sarcasm that Sister Maggie managed to put into one arched eyebrow. “Okay, don’t answer that. I’ll keep it in mind. Just don’t give me any Hail Marys, okay?”
“I’m not a priest, but if you wanted to go to confession, I’m sure I could find you some help.”
Ha. There weren’t enough Hail Marys in the world for anything Frank would confess. “I’m good, thanks. What’s on the list for today? That table Mikey glued himself to, and I want to finish sanding that chair. Anything else?”
“Of course,” Sister Maggie replied, her smile a little wry. “The list is eternal.” She hesitated, then said, “I know I’ve said it before, but don’t feel like you have to keep coming back. We appreciate the help, but if you have other things you need to be doing, we can find somebody else.”
“Judging from the size of the list, ma’am, I’m not sure that’s true.” He did not point out that lying was a sin.
“We could,” Sister Maggie repeated. “It just might take some work.”
“Don’t worry about it, then. I’m glad to help. It’s good for the kids.”
“Might also be good for the kids to see you at mass.”
Frank heaved a sigh. She’d mentioned it before, delicately, always dropping the subject when Frank sidestepped it. “I appreciate the thought, Sister, but mass isn’t for me. Not anymore.”
Sister Maggie inclined her head. “Well, if you ever change your mind…”
“I know where to find the church.” Though Frank wondered if she would really want him there, if she knew everything he’d done. He was certain that he’d acted for the best, putting down people whose deaths made the world better, but somehow he doubted that the church would agree. “So what’s top of the list this week.”
“One of the toilets upstairs is clogged.”
Frank paused and eyed the nun. “I notice you saved that for after I said I wasn’t going to mass.”
“It’s not penance,” Sister Maggie replied, sounding amused. “And if it makes you feel any better, I’m told that it’s clogged because of an incident involving Mikey and some socks.”
“Well, there are definitely worse things to clog a toilet. I’ll get to it.” He started for the stairs, though he turned when the nun spoke his name. “Yeah?”
“I meant what I said.”
“You said a lot of things.”
Sister Maggie smiled. “And I meant them all. But I appreciate the help you’re giving us. If there’s anything we - I - could do in return…”
Frank gestured upward, toward the bathroom. “Pray for me?”
She laughed. “Done.”
The next evening, Frank prepped for his night job, but he still thought about the orphanage and the kids. They had pretty much a shoestring budget, but the nuns did their best for the kids.
He’d fixed the toilet. Besides the fact that it had been stopped up with no less than five socks, there had also been an issue with the gasket. Frank had run out and gotten a new one and fixed it, but that had taken up the rest of the evening. Not even time to sit and chat over coffee, though Sister Maggie had sent him off with a travel cup full of the good stuff.
He double-checked his gear, telling himself to focus. What he was doing at night would help the kids, too. It would make their neighborhood safer.
Frank had heard that a couple of the drug dealers he’d been hunting had been picked up by the cops, for all the good that did, but he’d gotten a lead on some of the others. He’d take them out; fewer drug dealers was always a good thing. He pulled on his hoodie over his vest and zipped it up, for warmth as well as relative anonymity. The drug dealers already knew that someone was after them because of that shot Red had ruined; no need for them to know the details of who hunted them until the time was right.
He headed toward the abandoned building where he’d heard the drug dealers had holed up, sticking to street level this time. There wasn’t decent rooftop access to the building; besides, Frank wanted to see them when he put them down, to know he’d gotten the job done. None of this legal bullshit. Even if these drug dealers ended up in jail, they’d just get out again and go back to the same old shit. And Red had said the lower-level ones were going to talk, so they would just cut a deal and get out of jail sooner.
Not that cutting off the head of the snake was a bad thing. Frank could talk to the drug dealers that were left, find out from them who their bosses were, and kill them.
Of course, he’d also kill the ones who had sold out their bosses.
Good plan. It had a certain simplicity that Frank appreciated.
Frank finally reached the building. He’d done recon the night before, but the drug dealers could have changed things up. He listened for a moment outside the building, then shrugged and carefully opened the door. Just one person sat in the small front room, and he was paying more attention to his phone than the door. He even had earbuds or whatever in his ears. Fucking amateur.
Coming up behind the guy, Frank remembered his plan of getting more information and hit him at the base of the skull. He slumped in his chair; Frank got some zip ties out of a pocket - always good to be prepared - and secured the guy to the chair.
Frank heard the sounds of a scuffle from the next room and moved silently in that direction. It took Frank a moment to figure out what was happening; the lights were out. From the crunch of glass under his foot, something had happened to the bulbs. Frank heard a grunt and then somebody, presumably a drug dealer, landed a few feet from him. When the guy tried to get up, Frank gave him a boot to the face. He stayed down after that.
Frank wasn’t sure how many of the drug dealers were left, but they all seemed clustered around an increasingly familiar figure.
Aw, hell. Red, interfering again. He seemed to be holding his own, doing that ninja kick, flip, bounce off the wall shit; Frank took a moment just to watch. Damn, Red looked good, though Frank frowned at the thought. When one of the thugs seemed to be gaining the upper hand, Frank took aim and fired.
Bam. One less drug dealer in Hell’s Kitchen.
Red, maybe startled by the gunfire, twisted in Frank’s direction; the thug behind him pulled out a gun and fired at Red before Frank could do more than register the gun.
A moment later, that drug dealer fell down, Frank’s bullet in his brain.
Red, somehow still on his feet, managed to knock down another drug dealer, though the effort sent him staggering. Frank shot the final enemy, who fell to the ground at the same time as Red.
Fuck.
Frank secured his weapon and made his way to Red’s side, hunkering down next to him. Well, he was still breathing. Good. But if that pool of blood was any indication, Frank had better do something if he wanted Red to keep breathing.
He… didn’t want Red to die. Huh. Sure, he was a sanctimonious jerk, but he did good for the Kitchen.
“Red,” he called, leaning closer. “Red, stay with me.”
Red turned in Frank’s direction, his expression hazy but exasperated. “You shot them.”
“Yeah. They shot you.” That wasn’t why Frank had shot them, of course. He’d been planning to do that all along. “Where’d they get you?”
Red tugged at his shirt and, yeah, that was definitely where the blood was coming from. Frank grabbed his phone and called Curtis, but he didn’t pick up.
Fuck.
“Here." He pulled off his hoodie and pressed it against the wound, then put Red’s hand on it. “Put pressure on it. Okay? I can get you to a hospital.”
“No.” Red gulped a breath, pushing weakly on the hoodie, then added, “Gunshot. They’d report it. Can’t.”
Frank got it. The reporting and all could expose Red’s identity, or at least raise questions. Still, he asked as he added his hand to Red’s to increase the pressure, “You’d rather die?”
Red didn’t say anything, and Frank got that, too. He’d had those times when death had seemed like the best alternative.
Finally, Red said, clearly struggling with his words, “Someone else.” He inhaled as if to say more, but then his head lolled back. Frank pulled back the mask, and the lack of protest told him the seriousness of the issue before he saw that Red’s eyes were closed. He tugged the mask back into place. Seemed wrong not to.
Fuck. Red couldn’t die. Frank had distracted him; he wouldn’t have been shot if not for Frank. Not that Frank objected to Red being hurt; the guy kept putting himself in harm’s way, so it seemed like a given. But if an injury was because of him, Frank wanted it to be intentional, that was all. He tucked the hoodie under Red’s beat-up shirt, then jury-rigged something with zip ties to hold it tight.
A memory popped into his head, a woman’s voice saying she had experience with injuries. Carefully hefting Red, Frank decided to take her at her word. The orphanage was close; Frank could get Red there, and in time. He wouldn’t consider any other possibility.
Frank was breathing hard by the time he reached the orphanage’s back door. Grateful that it was late enough that the kids would likely be in bed, he balanced Red against his shoulder and tried the door.
Locked. Of course; it was late. Frank knocked on the door, then realized that he’d gotten blood on the doorknob. No way to clean it, though; not while he was holding Red.
The door opened a crack and then a bit more, Sister Maggie wide-eyed on its other side. “What happened?” she asked, opening the door the rest of the way.
He remained on the doorstep. “Were you serious when you said you can help people when they’re hurt? He’s not some kid with a busted knee.”
Sister Maggie looked at Red, her expression unreadable. “He’s not,” she agreed. “Wait.”
She set off for the stairs, moving quickly and quietly, then came back with a bag of what Frank guessed were supplies. Huh. She was prepared. “This way,” she said, brushing past Frank and going toward the church.
“Sister, he doesn’t need prayers right now,” Frank protested. “He needs help.”
Sister Maggie hit him with a solid death stare, strong enough that he flinched. “He needs both, and he’ll get them. Bring him.” She waited for Frank to get moving and led him into the bowels of the church next door. “Here,” she said, indicating a bed. Where were they, a fucking crypt? Why was there a bed there? But Frank bent down, carefully transferring Red to the bed.
“He got shot,” Frank said. Sister Maggie sighed, though her eyebrows went up when she saw Frank’s zip tie contraption. “To put pressure on it,” Frank explained, and her expression cleared. She reached for Red’s mask, but Frank blocked the motion with his arm. “He wouldn’t want people to know.”
Sister Maggie moved Frank’s arm; he found that he couldn’t stop her. “I already know.”
What the fuck kind of secret identity was it if so many people knew about it? Still, Frank let Sister Maggie remove Red’s mask, then watched as her hand hovered over his head for a moment. A blessing?
“Sister,” he prompted. “He’s probably still bleeding.”
Sister Maggie nodded. She rummaged in her bag for scissors and removed the zip ties, then got to work. Frank watched for a moment, then, seeing as how Red was in good hands, he moved toward the door.
“Wait,” Sister Maggie said, so he waited. “I need your help. Go back to Saint Agnes and get some hot water, and there are some clean cloths in the drawer next to the kitchen sink.” Frank knew that; he’d fixed that drawer. Frank caught sight of a sink in the crypt, but he wasn’t sure he’d trust it, and there weren’t clean cloths or a bucket for the water or anything, and maybe the water only came out cold.
He turned to go, then paused at another “Wait,” from Sister Maggie. “There should still be a sweatshirt in those drawers. Put it on, cover the vest.”
Frank went cold as he looked down and saw that his vest was plainly visible, the skull streaked with blood. Of course. He’d taken off his hoodie to try and stop Red’s bleeding.
She knew. She had to know. Everybody knew about the vest. Hell, people made fucking stickers with the skull on them. The first time he’d seen one, stuck to some street sign, Frank had about had a stroke.
Sister Maggie looked over and perhaps saw something of his worry in his face. “Hot water,” she prompted, her voice surprisingly gentle.
Frank grabbed the sweatshirt from the drawer, pulled it on, and hurried from the church.
He was not running. Not at all. But he got the water and the cloths and took a minute to clean the blood off the doorknob before he hurried back to the crypt or whatever it was.
Frank hesitated when he saw Sister Maggie, her head bowed over Red. She’d removed his shirt, though she still pressed a cloth to his wound with her folded hands. He didn’t want to disturb her, but the situation did seem pretty urgent.
“Sister?”
Her head jerked upright, but then she gestured him over. “Looks like small caliber and there’s an exit wound, so it’s better than it could be,” she said as Frank brought over the cloths and water and set them at her elbow. He… did not ask how she knew that.
He glanced down at Red as he turned to go, but then paused. Damn. Red had managed to get a lot of scars. See, that was why he needed some decent body armor. Going around in a shirt and combat boots, that was just dumb.
Frank also noticed that Red was, well, pretty fit. He figured those ninja kicks kept a guy in good shape. Huh.
No. These were not the kinds of thoughts he wanted to have about Red. He tore his gaze away, turning his focus where it should be.
Holier-than-thou asshole.
Altar Boy.
Doing a half-assed job of keeping the city safe.
There. That was better.
He looked down at Red one more time, just to prove that he could do it without noticing those abs and… as he glanced away again, he noticed the nun watching him, her eyebrows lifted.
Perhaps guessing that he was ready to flee, she said, “I might need you again.” She pulled a bottle from her bag and dumped a healthy portion of it into the water, apparently assuming that Frank would stay.
And, well, he would. All this was his fault, after all. If the sister needed his help, he was staying.
Sister Maggie turned her attention to Red, quickly cleaning the blood from first his torso and then his arms. She moved carefully and Frank thought it was almost like a ritual, though maybe that was the setting. He’d seen guys get patched up in some pretty weird places, but this just about took the cake.
Frank looked away as she got into the more involved portion of the program. It’s not that he was squeamish - he’d seen his fair share of people getting stitches and such - but that didn’t mean he liked watching somebody get needles pulled through their skin.
The sister, she seemed pretty good at it, though, like she’d had practice. How often did the orphanage kids need stitches? He’d figured… hell, he didn’t know what he’d figured. He’d thought he would drop Red off on her doorstep and hope there wouldn’t be a body. But it seemed like he’d brought Red somewhere helpful.
“Pete,” Sister Maggie said, her impatient tone suggesting that it wasn’t for the first time. He hurried over, noting her assessing look. “Well, no. It’s not Pete, is it?”
“No, Sister.”
She studied him for a moment longer, then shook her head, a hint of wry amusement crossing her face. “You look like M- one of the children, thinking they’re in trouble. But we don’t have time for that. Help me turn him over.”
Frank looked down to see that the sister had taped a gauze pad to what Frank guessed was the entry wound, from what he remembered of how Red had been positioned relative to the shooter. “He going to be okay?”
Sister Maggie nodded. “I’m fairly certain it missed anything major; he’s lucky. He should be fine soon enough, assuming he doesn’t do anything stupid.” Frank cleared his throat, and Sister Maggie nodded ruefully. “Well, yes. But I do need that help.”
“Of course. Sorry, Sister.”
Sister Maggie sighed. “Look. We’re not at Sacred Heart or in front of the children. You can call me Maggie.” He was pretty sure he couldn’t. “But for now you need to focus. I need your help.”
Frank nodded and moved to help Sister Maggie turn Red onto his front. He did most of the work, with the nun basically directing him. He didn’t think about Red’s skin under his hands, slick with sweat, or of the way his muscles shifted as Frank moved him.
Sister Maggie eyed him as she pulled a blanket up to Red’s waist. “You need a minute?”
“What? No.” What did she even mean? “You need any more help?”
Sister Maggie made a noise that sounded amused as she cleaned Red’s back. “I’m going to need to turn him back over once I’ve done this.”
Frank nodded and settled back against a wall, again not really watching as Sister Maggie stitched Red up. She worked in silence for long enough that Frank got antsy.
She was having him stick around because she needed help with Red. Once he was settled, she’d probably kick Frank to the curb. Knowing who he was, she wasn’t going to want him around the kids.
Frank didn’t care. Of course he didn’t. He’d just been doing it to help out. He’d have more free time.
Hell, it was just one day a week doing odd jobs. So why was he getting so bent out of shape about it?
“If you’re done feeling sorry for yourself, I could use a hand.”
Frank looked over, irritated. “I’m not feeling sorry for myself.” He moved over and peered down at Red; he had a second gauze patch to match the first.
“Sure, you’re not.”
Frank heaved an exasperated sigh and then carefully shifted Red from back to front. He worked quickly, not letting either his eyes or his hands linger.
He decided to ignore the nun’s words, saying only, “If you want to get Red home, his buddy Nelson would probably help. If the number’s not in Red’s phone, or you can’t get to it, his people run the butcher shop.”
“Red?” Sister Maggie echoed, sounding amused. She pulled the blanket up to Red’s chest and Frank glanced over at the movement. Some of the scars were still visible, but Frank turned away.
“Just a stupid nickname. You need me anymore?”
Sister Maggie studied him for a moment, then shook her head. “Not just now.”
Frank nodded, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach. “All right, then.” He turned to leave and it seemed like Sister Maggie was saying something, but Frank kept walking. He walked out of the church and past the orphanage, not looking back. He was halfway to his place when he remembered the drug dealer he’d left zip-tied to the chair.
Shit. Should he go deal with the guy? Frank almost said Fuck it and went home, but he didn’t like leaving a job unfinished. Heaving a sigh, he changed direction and went back to the building. From the noise he heard as he approached the door, the guy he’d zip-tied had woken up.
“Hey,” the guy said as Frank entered the room. “Hey, help!”
Frank grabbed the small room’s other chair and put it before the other guy, sitting. “Funny you should mention help.” He took out his gun. “I need some information. Who do you work for?”
“They’ll kill me,” the guy protested.
Frank lifted his gun and just smiled. From the way the guy’s eyes widened, it was not a comforting smile.
It didn’t take much more convincing - just a punch or two to the face - and the guy spilled the beans. He named names and gave addresses, and then Frank shot him in the head. Finished the job.
Red would have objected, but Red wasn’t there.
Remembering the guy he’d kicked in the face, Frank moved into the next room. He used his phone’s light to check the bodies. There seemed to be the right number and, yeah, there was the guy he’d kicked. Must have been a good one. He played the light across the room, his attention caught by Red’s blood staining the floor.
Frank didn’t want to think about Red. He was in good hands and the nun had said he’d be okay, so he probably would. Frank would find out the next time he ran into Red, or not. He wasn’t going back to the church to ask after him. No need to give the nun the chance to tell him to get out.
Shame about the work, though. There was an unbalanced ceiling fan he’d wanted to fix. And it would have been nice to say goodbye to the kids.
Frank shook his head as he left the building. He wanted to kick himself for letting the nun find out who he was, but no sense thinking about that. Nothing he could do.
And if Frank stopped by Pop’s liquor store on the way home, only Joey was there to notice. He rarely turned to alcohol, but sometimes it was necessary.