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It was like the collapse of a house, the way his body fell to the grass. Upright only by leaning on the stone of a grave. Matt wondered if the Sargent was thinking of other graves. Matt wondered if he buried them, slamming a shovel into the unforgiving earth only to gently lower the remnants of a daughter with half a face into the cavern, or if he cremated them, ashes like wet sand from his salty tears. Matt still found himself wondering what certain people looked like every now and then, but in that moment Frank’s face was the last thing he wanted to imagine. Matt could smell the blood streaming from his nose, his mouth, his cheek, could hear the bones in his nose savagely scraping together. He uselessly squeezed his eyes shut tight, trying to hear anything other than the sluggish, solid pumps of the ex-marine’s heart. Matt held his body perfectly still as a war raged in his head.
‘Love thy neighbor, Matthew. Does anyone not deserve a chance at redemption?’
Matt spit blood out of his split lips. Father Lantom’s voice could penetrate through anything. It wasn’t always an advantage. After all, how compelling could an angel be on the shoulder of a devil?
He’s not much of a neighbor, Father.
No, he wasn’t. He was a murderer. A threat to Matt’s city, his domain that he worked so tirelessly to protect.
He was brought out of his thoughts as he heard a low thunk across from him, followed by a tired exhale. Frank leaned his head against the gravestone, as if he was trying to use it as a pillow. He probably thought he might as well get some rest before he fought his way out of the next chain of custody. Matt shuddered to think of the number of people Frank would murder in order to escape, but the thought left as soon as it came– he could still hear that heartbeat. It was getting slower. How much slower would the men who take him into custody let it get? How much slower would they make it? Why in the Lord’s name did Matt even care how slow a murderer’s heartbeat got?
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Matt growled out as he wrenched his body up off the ground, stumbling towards the current bane of his existence. Can’t believe the shit I get myself into. As he got closer the thumping got heavier, a slight uptick in the heart rate. Frank probably thought Matt was going to hand deliver him to the police instead of letting them take their sweet time to find him. Maybe he thought Matt was going to finish the job, compromise his precious morals in order to get the deadly Punisher off the streets. It seems he forgot, though, that Matt was contrary against himself at best and antagonistic at worst.
He felt the air ripple as Frank pulled his head up to look at Matt. He must have been grinning, Matt could hear his teeth clink together as the smell of blood intensified. Frank tilted his head to spit a glob of blood and saliva into the damp earth next to him before smiling again, wider, probably smirking if the tone of his voice was any indication.
“Aw, Red, don’t you know better than to take the Lord’s name in vain?”
Matt beat down his flaring anger, nudging Frank’s wounded foot as he got close enough and earning an unsatisfying grunt that from anyone else would have been a hoarse scream. It wasn’t hard to figure out where the injury was, and it was even easier to find the angle that would hurt the most.
“It would be a really good idea for you to shut the fuck up. Get off the ground, hold onto me.” Matt reached his arm down to grab Frank's bicep and haul him off the grave, tugging the man’s arm across his shoulders.
“Jesus FUCK , altar boy, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” All things considered, he was pretty composed for someone with lacerations all over his body and a foot injury from an electric drill. His voice was harsh, lashing out like a weapon, but his hands clutched onto Matt hard enough to bruise. He shakily supported himself with his good foot as he rose from the ground.
“I think you shouldn’t ask stupid questions. Stand up,” Matt sagged under the weight of Frank’s larger body but held strong, guiding them into the closest structure he could locate, a small alleyway that led to one of Hell’s Kitchen’s busiest streets. He nudged the man he was half-carrying. “Got any cash?”
Frank was fading fast, but evidently still had enough in him to give Matt an incredulous look. He brought his hand up to one of his jacket pockets but couldn’t seem to get the coordination to zip it open. “You gonna rob me while I’m down, Red?” Matt could tell he was fading fast, his words slurring together.
“Just hold still. You’re going to stay awake, do you hear me? Don’t close your eyes or I’ll make sure your nose gets broken a thirteenth time.” Matt thumbed through the cash in Frank's pocket. Enough for a cab, and more importantly, enough for a cab to actually drive with the two of them in it. ‘ The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen Doesn’t Own a Car’ Wasn’t really a headline Matt wanted read out to him. Tightening his grip around Frank’s solid torso, he raised his hand.
-
Frank came out of unconsciousness like a feral animal, body going from limp to alert in less than a second. He was on a couch. Leather, stiff, not his own. His eyes shot open only to close themselves fiercely on instinct. Jesus Christ , it was like staring into the sun. Just red, red everywhere. He forced his eyes back open, demanding that his damaged body comply with him. His vision focused. It was still so bright, but it was concentrating. As his vision cleared he realized he was staring at a large neon sign on the side of the adjacent building out the window. An apartment, then. High up, if the distant sounds of the streets were any indication, maybe he would be lucky and there would be roof access for a clean getaway. He scanned his body, looking for more clues as to where he was. His entire face felt like a bruise, he could tell it was swelling in multiple places. He shifted his torso. His ribs were fucked up, he couldn’t tell to what extent. His knuckles were ripped to shreds, he could feel a slash from a knife in his upper left thigh, back, and chest. And his foot. Fuck. He had to get out of wherever he was. He instinctively felt for the comfort of a gun nestled against his back before turning stiff at the realization it was gone. He risked a glance down at the rest of his body. His armor had been ripped away, crudely cut like it had been taken off as fast as possible. His boots were off, his guns, knives, and the two small grenades he kept on his person were all gone. Where the fuck was he? He felt something stirring in his gut. It wasn’t panic, that instinct had long been beaten out of him, but that didn’t stop a horrible sense of dread from flowing through him. Just as he decided to try moving his foot to gauge the range of its motion, he caught sight of something moving out of the corner of his eye.
“Good, you’re up,” The movement started steadily walking towards him. It was a man, auburn hair disheveled like he had run his hands through it in frustration, in a dark hoodie and gray sweats. As he stood in front of the couch, Frank looked up at the guy’s face, first noticing the swelling on his right cheek and his split lip, then trailing his gaze up to the man’s eyes. Striking color, but he seemed unable or unwilling to look Frank’s way. “I need you conscious while I do your stitches.” When Frank just stared at him, assessing, the man let out a huff of breath. “Let’s skip the part about seeing my face, you’re in my fucking house and I’m not so stupid as to think you won’t be able to figure out who I am after this.”
Frank couldn’t help but let out a light laugh, even after he had literally been unconscious Red was still impatient with him. “Damn, Red, ever heard of bedside manner?”
“This isn’t a bed.” He took a breath, obviously collecting himself. “Can you lift your leg up?”
Frank grunted as he placed his bad foot flat against the couch, raising his thigh mostly off the leather. He looked at Red questioningly, moving to speak several times before stopping himself.
“I need to touch the wound to see what I’m working with. Hold still,” That was all the warning Red gave before trailing his fingers over the gash in Frank’s thigh. His touch was light, but far from gentle. It was fine. Frank could handle it. He watched closely as Red reached down to his side, his hand coming back up from what was obviously a first aid kit. Red picked up a damp cloth first, aiming for the dried blood around the worst of Frank’s cuts. Frank could tell how focused Red was, really noticing for the first time the glassy, unfocused look of his eyes. Huh. Frank had seen enough insane shit in his life that he pushed his questions down and moved onto the next thought, starting to focus on his breathing as he prepared for the contact with what were basically open muscle fibers.
Red hovered over the nasty cut on Frank’s thigh, as if trying to figure out how to approach it. Something in the air pulled tight, Frank anticipating the pain and Red seeming to anticipate giving it. The cloth ran along the edge of the gash, with surprising precision for someone who was apparently blind. Frank watched absently as Red repeated the process with the various cuts and wounds littering the rest of his body, only then really registering that his shirt had been removed, his pants crudely cut in order to access his injuries. He thought about cracking something wise about Red taking him out to dinner, but remembered that Red was the coherent one with the makeshift weapon between the two of them and kept his mouth shut. He clenched his jaw as the needle first pierced his skin, slowly exhaling as Red moved swiftly. His breath caught a bit as Red tied the knot tight against his skin, leaning in to cut the thread with his teeth, before moving up to the laceration across Frank’s chest. Frank focused on holding his composure, his ribs being a much more sensitive area. He was entirely unwilling for Red to see him in any state of weakness, and steadily ignored the irony of that thought, concerning the position he had landed himself in.
Red broke the heavy silence. “Ask. I know you want to.” His head was impossibly angled away from his work, casting his presumed gaze somewhere on the space behind the top of the couch. There was a slight smile on Red’s lips, like he found something about the situation funny. “Plus,” He said, piercing the needle through Frank’s epidermis, “It’ll make it hurt less.”
Frank scowled, even though he knew Red couldn’t see it. “Don’t need you to tell me how to handle pain, altar boy. You don’t know half the shit you think you do.” He let the silence settle. “Alright. Yeah, I'm curious. How can you…” He trailed off as he realized he didn’t exactly know how to phrase what he was asking. He decided to start easy. “What lucky lady taught you how to be such a good nurse?”
Frank got a little satisfaction when Red seemed to growl under his breath, “Not a nurse, jackass.”
“Such a shame Red, I bet you’d look real pretty in one of those uniforms,” He couldn’t help but grin, there was a thrill to knowing how easily he got under Red’s skin.
Red only took a deep breath, though. He tugged through the skin on Frank’s pectoral a little rougher than necessary, before smoothing the thread through the incision. “My dad was a boxer,” He spoke quietly, his head slightly ducked– it was almost hard to pick him out over the chaotic sounds of Hell’s Kitchen on the streets below. “He lost… he lost a lot, actually.” He seemed to work faster now that he was talking, almost like he was running on pure muscle memory. The evenness of the stitches never faltered. “Mostly on purpose. I’d like to think that way, anyway. My mother… wasn’t in the picture to come patch him up, so I would do it in between making dinner and getting my homework done.” He smiled to himself, like it was a fond memory. Hell, maybe it was. “Then came the accident.” He scoffed a little under his breath. “Yeah I know, I’m finally getting there.” Red paused, as if waiting for Frank to confirm it, but the man stayed silent. “Chemical spill, actually. Pretty garden variety origin story. My eyes stopped working, but he didn’t stop fighting. Didn’t stop needing to get patched up every other night.” He took a breath, steeling himself. His voice came out low, but steady. “I can’t see what I’m doing, Frank, but I know this cut is between your third and fourth ribs, that you’ve broken three of them, and they never healed right. I couldn’t tell you the exact shade of your blood but I can tell you’re bleeding out of a wound on your back and you think I haven’t noticed yet. I know your heart rate picks up before the needle goes in, but other than that stays steady the entire time I’ve been doing this.” He ran a light touch down the stitches, making sure they were all in line. “I guess that’s not true. It accelerates when I talk.” There was a slight smirk on his lips. Maybe he got that same fierce satisfaction from pushing Frank’s buttons.
Frank stared openly at him, trying to process the information. He was a little rattled, but had obviously heard crazier things than a blind man becoming a vigilante.
Matt’s smirk grew as he ducked his head down, reaching for the alcohol wipes. With a packet in one hand and a clean cloth in the next, he tore the foil open with his teeth. “I can also tell when you’re staring.” There was an infuriating smirk on his face that Frank thought he would have liked to punch off.
Frank averted his eyes quickly, embarrassed and then immediately pissed off that he was embarrassed. “Now you’re just showing off,” He mumbled.
“Maybe,” Red allowed as he finished wiping down the stitches. “Yeah, maybe.” He stood up, backing away from the couch. Frank let out a preemptive groan of agony as he realized Red needed him to turn over to get to his back.
-
Matt was used to his apartment being silent, but now Frank’s steady heartbeat seemed to vibrate around his entire skull. He grew more and more frustrated. Matt was usually pretty adept at tuning things out and focusing on others, but for the life of him he couldn’t seem to concentrate on the seemingly endless pages of case files in braille across his lap. Thumbing the corner of the paper to catch the page number, He set them down on the table in front of him, getting up to walk towards the window. He could hear the hum of the great red light right outside the window. He raised his hand up to the window, fingertips soaking up the miniscule vibrations that the glass carried from the rest of the apartment building. He rested his forehead against the window, imagining he could soak up all the movements and make them all stop. Pulling a long exhale out of his lungs, he reached out with his hearing to somewhere else, anywhere else, just needing to escape the heavy thumping of the murderer’s heart in his bedroom.
He went through the apartments around him one by one, noticing neighbors who had left their windows open by the free rush of air through the narrow passageway of a windowsill. He could hear the soft crooning of the Ink Spots drifting up from Ms. Navarrow’s place, and the Metallica that violently clashed with it from the college kids below her. He moved his attention to the street below, concentrating on separating the different cars and hearing them trail off in different directions. He winced as what must have been an older model trailed its exhaust pipe on the concrete below, brakes screeching as the driver shouted obscenities at the vehicles around him. A car door slammed, the distinctive sound of high heels storming away with purpose. Matt followed the steps until the girl shut the door to her apartment building, hearing her punch in a code while dialing someone on her phone. He had always excelled at multitasking, it was more of a survival tactic than anything for him, but he grew frustrated as the back of his mind picked up that Frank’s heartbeat had slightly accelerated along with his breathing, indicating he was awake or dreaming. Having a nightmare, most likely. Matt leant his head harder against the glass, desperately trying to think of anything else than the genuine disaster he had gotten himself into. He tried to reach outside the apartment again, but Frank’s heartbeat was tattooing its rhythm on the inside of Matt’s skull. He reluctantly let his thoughts shift direction until he had no choice but to confront his situation.
A murderer in his bed. Ironically enough, it wasn’t the first time that had happened. Under different context, but. Extremely different context, Matt thought to himself.
When was the last time he went to confession? Not recently enough, but that was always his answer. How far can you actually take being a good samaritan, he thought to himself, scoffing under his breath. How would he ever be able to face Father Lantom at mass when he was housing a fugitive. Worse than a fugitive, a mortal sinner. He recalled the lessons from Catholic school, back when he had the appropriate amount of the fear of God in him. These days he was too brash, and he knew it. The nuns explained none-too gently to him and his classmates how you could remove a venial sin from your heart by confession, make it pure again, but a mortal sin would stain your very soul forever. An ugly black mark on an otherwise beautiful creation of God.
Matt knew his own heart had its flaws by now, but surely Frank’s had to be a solid black. A darkness, maybe the same one Matt felt he was fighting every day as he sacrificed everything he had, time after time for his city. Matt would be lying if the distinction between the two of them didn’t make him feel some kind of superior, on a moral high ground above the other man. Then again, it was important for Matt to remember that something as fragile as his dedication to his moral code had extremely little relevance to someone with a heart so black, so irredeemable. Someone like Frank Castle.
If there was an incident that followed Frank’s face in his mind, it was the shootout with the Irish. The massacre, more like. Matt had never been shot, not really, but when he heard Frank’s bullets it was as if the sound blew through every corner of his brain. Matt would always remember Foggy reading the paper to him that day over coffee, something like horrified awe in his voice. Matt could still hear the liquid sloshing in the paper to-go cup, dangerously close to the edges as his partner gestured wildly. He would never forget the harsh breaths taken by the cop who tried his best to warn Matt from what he was walking into. Those wide brown eyes that seemed to shake in fear along with the trembling in his voice. Matt thought it was a simple question, not expecting the answer to lead him to a web so ornate it might never be unraveled.
“Who were they? Who did this?”
“ N-not they. He .”
Matt tried to suppress a shudder at the memory, but it rocked through his body all the same. He lowered his hand from the glass, tugging on the sleeves of his sweatshirt like it could warm him from the chill creeping up on him the more he thought about the ex-marine. It was undeniable that the man had a kind of visceral power over Matt, something he hadn’t experienced since Elektra. Something he couldn’t tell if he hated or shamefully thrived on. Was he disgusted or thrilled? Finally feeling truly alive? His emotions crossed more and more lines until they became a jumbled knot.
He had long since given up on trying to get Frank to see things from his point of view. He knew the man was too stubborn, literally too battle worn, to have his mind changed on something so central to his identity. Matt had avoided really thinking about it, but he had stopped putting so much effort into trying to stop Frank. He would act according to his belief system until the day he went to heaven ( would he? ), but a small part of him couldn’t help reasoning that Frank’s method did get results. Horrible results, but still. Matt had turned denial into an art form, but he could no longer outrun the fact that Hell’s Kitchen was safer with the Punisher on the streets. And wasn’t that the point? To keep his city safe? To protect the innocent?
He leaned away from the glass, walking slowly to his couch. He was loath to interrupt the relative quiet that had enveloped the apartment. Matt sat down on the couch gingerly, trying to ignore the invasive smell of the blood and sweat that Frank had embedded into his cushions. He knew from experience it would be weeks before he could get the traces out of the couch.
He was pulled out of his thoughts as Frank started shifting on the bed, breathing turned fast and shallow. It was clear to Matt now that he was having a nightmare, and he knew better than to wake someone out of a deep dream like that. Especially with someone possessing Frank’s instincts and training, there was a great potential that one of them would get hurt. No, the best thing would be to wait it out. Matt tilted his head back to rest against the back of the couch, praying that sleep’s gentle grasp wasn’t too far from him. He tried to clear his mind, instead focusing on the powerful beats of Frank’s heart.
What kind of nightmares scare a murderer?
-
Frank watched as a passive observer as a copy of him sat at his favorite 24-hour diner, gratefully accepting another cup of coffee from the older waitress. It was a face he recognized, too. She always put an extra slice of bacon on his plate when he came in looking partially brutal.
“Thank you, ma’am,” He watched himself say with a smile. Frank was a lot of things, but even in his dreams, he was polite to those who deserved it.
As bad as he wanted to, Frank knew he couldn’t turn away from what would happen next. What had happened over and over since his old life truly ended and his second one began.
The other Frank perked up, noticing something off in the air, but didn’t say anything,
“Something wrong, honey?” The waitress started moving towards him again.
“No, I-- hey, get down, get DOWN !” He watched as bullets started piercing through the windows of the diner, raining down on them like a force of nature. He had ducked under his table fast enough, army crawling through the broken glass on the floor to reach the waitress, to make sure she was safe. When he reached her she was unconscious, face turned away from him. He shook her shoulder, turning her cheek to face him, but his hand came away bloody. As he turned her head with horror, he saw that the entire left side of her face had been blown through, blood streaming out from where half her smile used to be. He blinked, and it wasn’t the waitress anymore, it was his baby girl with the same injury, same blood seeping into his clothes. He cradled his daughter’s limp body in his hands, holding her tight against her chest as the rest of the bodies started shifting too, turning into his wife, his son, his army buddies that he knew were long gone. All dead. All over again.
“Why didn’t you save me, daddy?” Lisa’s tiny voice seemed to echo around the room.
-
Frank woke up with a violent jerk, a falling sensation lingering in his mind, his bones. He stayed completely still as his eyes flew around wildly, trying to figure out where he was. As the shooting pain of his foot started sneaking back up into his awareness, it started coming back to him. Right. The Irish. The dog. The graves. Red, in all his Halloween costumed glory.
He closed his eyes, starting to count in his head as he began to inhale and exhale. He only got as far as seventeen when there was a knock at the door. He stayed silent. He knew Red was aware he was awake, and he knew that the vigilante would open the door regardless of what he said. Sure enough, the door smoothly opened.
“You had a nightmare.” It wasn’t a question, but he guessed Red wasn’t really one to beat around the bush. He was still in that navy hoodie, the street clothes that made him look intensely vulnerable. Frank stopped looking. He had a bad track record with vulnerable people.
“Nothing I can’t handle, Red. Why don’t you go get some shuteye, you look like you haven’t slept in a fucking year.” He wasn’t lying, and some part of him knew that his dream must have woken Red somehow. His voice went gruff to better conceal the guilty tone that wanted to creep into his words. “It’s fine. Nothing that hasn’t happened before. What are you–” Red continued coming closer, settling on the bed. He sat down facing away from Frank, who made room for him more on instinct than anything else.
“It’s okay, Frank.” He moved to lay down next to him, eyes open, still a little disorienting with their unfocused stare.
“Red, can I fucking help you with something? You want to have a sleepover? Maybe braid each other’s hair?” He could feel himself getting increasingly worked up when Red turned onto his side, reaching out a hand to curl around Frank’s forearm that was harshly tensed up. His thumb smoothed along a tendon. Frank held himself still, having no idea what to do for the first time in a very long time. He let out a breath. None of it’s fucking okay, Red. The sooner you realize that, the better.
Red closed his eyes, still easing his thumb up and down. He shifted against the bed, clearly getting comfortable. He tightened his grip. “It’s okay, Frank.” His face broke into a yawn, and once again Frank felt a pang of guilt for having woken him up.
Frank slowly allowed the tension to leach out of his body. Focused on the drag of Red’s thumb, the solid grip of his surprisingly strong hand.
“Sleep, Frank.”
Frank slept.
He didn’t dream.