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Frank doesn’t envy birds of prey.
He used to. How could he not, after all — the emblem of his country, nothing less. The one he had vowed to defend and protect, at the cost of his life, body and mind.
Now, though… Now, the patient circling in the sky waiting for his prey to twitch in the grass makes him ache. His bones can’t stand the stillness, his muscles are eager to either rest or fight, instead of being stuck in this agonising wait. He’s thankful that his mind is still clear, even though he has to tame his own thoughts, has to bring back his attention to the present instead of the memories. Yet sometimes he blinks and he doesn’t quite know how much time he just spent in his own head, how long he was vulnerable for.
Perhaps that is why he doesn’t see the bullet coming. Just like a bird shot down from the sky, he falls on his side, graceless and heavy, the pain a burning companion that hugs him immediately. His fingers grip his gun, and after whispered words he shoots, almost blindly — but he doesn’t need to see, doesn’t need the sight of his rifle, the crystal clear vision of a hunting bird, to know where his prey is. He hears it scream and gargle before it falls silent.
The roof is quiet again. Littered with corpses, or bodies that will soon be still too. Frank’s ears are ringing from the shots he took, and maybe the pain as well. He presses his hands against the wound in his abdomen, knows that he has to stop the bleeding. It’s not fatal — not yet. The bullet hasn’t gone through, there’s only one puncture point, under his vest, where his body is unprotected. He can manage the bleeding on his own, make it back to his safe place and suture himself after a large glass of alcohol, preferably strong.
Then he’ll rest. He needs it — a mistake like this isn’t like him. A mistake like this could have cost him his life, if it wasn’t for luck, and Frank knows damn well he’s not a man who can rely on luck. There’s only himself, his gun, and a few whispered words, offered to the silence as a prayer before a sacrifice.
He’ll rest. If he can just get up, then down from the roof, and back home. He doesn’t even need to take the gun — he likes this one, wishes he could take it with him, but his fingers can’t close around it and his legs refuse to support him.
He’ll rest. Soon.
He’ll just take a little nap before.
Matt hears a gunshot. He’s heard a lot of them in his lifetime, knows what make of gun this one probably came from, even though he doesn’t like guns. It feels too easy to take a life with a single bullet, a single press on the trigger. It makes it weightless, painless.
Guns aren’t the only thing Matt doesn’t like yet is knowledgeable about. He also knows about the latest rising gang near Hell’s Kitchen, the one trafficking dogs for combat and humans for pleasure. It makes his skin crawl, to think about it. He can understand the appeal of a gun to fight people like this. But Matt can never condone its use, never approve of the consequences. And if he feels relief when he hears a very familiar gunshot, if there’s a hint of fierce approval at the idea of the traffickers being punished… he pushes it deep down, with the guilt and the sin, and he makes amends with his fists later. It is heavy, and painful, but it feels right.
He can’t help but patrol a little closer to the gang’s den, jumping from roof to roof, frowning as the acrid smell of gunpowder reaches him. It’s silent there — not like the city could ever be still and devoid of noise to him, and he can hear the footsteps of people leaving the building, the sirens of the police echoing in the street nearby, the barking of dogs deep down, behind bars and locked doors. But on the roof with Matt, nothing moves. There’s a stillness that only comes from death, and he shakes his head, his heart heavy.
He almost misses it. Too deep in the stillness, entrenched in the carnage, he suddenly hears a heartbeat. It’s faint as a bird’s, fluttering, but still here. It beats through the silence and defies the stillness as best as it can.
Matt runs over to it, falls to his knees next to an unconscious body — one he knows all too well. It reeks of blood, the iron taste heavy on Matt’s tongue, the liquid covering his fingertips as he probes the wound. It’s gaping now, but the bleeding has stopped, and it doesn’t seem to have touched anything vital as far as Matt can tell. Perhaps he should be more knowledgeable in medicine, at least it would serve him well.
With a grunt, he takes Frank in his arms, winces in unison with Frank, muttering under his breath.
“I know, I know, it’s okay. You’re safe now,” he whispers in Frank’s ear. He knows the wound is bleeding again, knows his time is short, and he makes the best of it, running as fast as he can while cradling Frank in his arms like the most precious thing in the world.
The gun is left behind, the only remnant of the hunt besides the lifeless bodies.
When Frank wakes up, it’s to a cotton world. Everything around him feels muffled and white, softness surrounding his weightless body. No matter how many times he blinks, it stays white and there’s a distant ringing in his ears. At least the pain is gone, kept at bay by the cotton. Frank almost drifts away, but an anchor at his side, gripping his hand with careful strength, keeps him at bay, and he drinks the water brought to his lips and thanks the hand that held the glass before he surrenders again, his world turning from white to black.
The pain comes back, gnaws and claws at him, before it retreats again. The next time Frank comes back to his senses, the world has rediscovered its colours and sounds, and there’s a familiar figure sitting next to him, dressed up in black, holding his hand.
“Red,” Frank says. His voice croaks like a crow’s, and he’s suddenly very thirsty. Thankfully, the Devil standing guard by his side stirs and grabs a glass of water before Frank has to say another word.
“Where are we?” Frank asks, unfamiliar with his surroundings. It’s a large bedroom, devoid of furniture save for the bedside table, with large windows covered by heavy curtains. One of them isn’t closed completely, and sunlight sneaks in, making the dark shadows under Red’s eyes and the blood on his hands visible to Frank.
Red almost looks sheepish, something Frank never witnessed before, and he answers reluctantly, too low for Frank to hear at first.
“Louder please, I’m not a bat like you.”
“My place,” Red repeats, and Frank looks around him with a new eye, trying to spot Red’s personal touch in the bedroom. Either he doesn’t know the man enough or Red’s place isn’t really a home to him, because nothing stands out to Frank.
“So you had to wait for me to be shot and unconscious before you bring me home? Talk about playing hard to get, huh,” Frank teases. The words surprises them both — Red manages to look even more sheepish, turning his head away, and maybe there’s the shadow of a blush on his cheeks, but his hands stay at Frank’s side, open. Frank stops himself before he can add anything more, forcing his mouth to close, catching the train of his thoughts before it can go further.
“Not like you gave me your address either,” Red finally answers, his familiar tone teasing. It’s the one he uses when he asks questions about Frank’s faith, when he happily finds flaws in Frank’s arguments, light enough to keep the discussion going for hours.
“Your bed is larger than mine anyway,” Frank says. He’s taken aback by his own words again, feeling like he’s thrown caution to the wind. His heart is racing, and he doesn’t know whether to blame it on the blood loss or something else.
“Did you dose me with something?” he asks, suspicious. He trusts Red, somehow, and clearly the man has likely saved his life, but he’s about as sane as Frank, which says a lot.
“Painkillers, a dose for your weight,” Red says, his fingers reaching blindly to a box on the bedside table and bringing it to Frank. There’s blood painted on it, covering the Braille dots and the lid, and Frank wonders about the urgency with which he must have looked for it, the obvious care with which he has been moved and placed here.
“Nothing else?”
“I wish I had more,” Red says, putting the box back where it was.
“Oh, it’ll do,” Frank shrugs, and he means it. His body feels weightless, the pain shielded away, his wound a distant memory. The sheets are soft on his skin, the pillow the perfect curve for his back and head — it has been a long time since he’s felt safe. Relaxed enough to close his eyes and not let his attention turn to the exits, waiting for an intrusion that never came but left him run down.
Part of him knows it’s probably the painkillers clouding his judgement. It leaves him vulnerable, open, trusting of the hand that protected him. It makes him say things he would keep confined in his thoughts otherwise.
Somehow, he doesn’t really care. He trusts Red, as annoying as the guy can sometimes be. Red brought him home, after all. Sutured his wound, with a tidy row of stitches.
Red reaches for something else on the bedside table, and it catches the light between his fingers, shining golden.
“Here, the bullet that got you,” Red says, and Frank extends a hand and gently picks the bullet from Red’s fingers.
“Fucker got me good.” It’s clean now, its crime washed away.
“Nothing a little rest can’t fix,” Red smiles. He rises to his feet, not a single joint on his body protesting at the motion — oh the lucky bastard , Frank thinks — and presses Frank’s shoulder.
“If that’s supposed to be an invitation to go to sleep, ain’t working,” Frank says. While he wouldn’t jump from bed and go back to his safe house immediately, his mind is restless, buzzing with thoughts of what happened after he was shot, after Red found him.
Red stops in his track and tilts his head to the side.
“You don’t actually want to talk more, do you?” he says, and Frank blinks. Does he? Does he want to open that door and let the Devil in to talk? He usually ends up annoyed for days after conversations with Red, because the man is a bundle of contradictions that he wears proudly and justifies by words of God. This time, though… This time Frank feels he could talk and something would happen. Something different, something other than the words they say at each other everytime in a vain attempt to change each other’s minds.
“What if I did?” Frank says, deadpan, and he watches the surprise paint itself on Red’s face, his mouth falling slightly open and the all too familiar head tilt coming back.
“Do you mind if I get changed first?” Red asks, and Frank grunts an agreement.
“It’s not like you waited to take mine off.”
It must be the painkillers. Frank’s not the teasing type, and certainly not the flirting type, not with a man riddled to the core with Catholic guilt and wearing pyjamas every night to kick the bad guys with his fists. Red’s like an annoying puppy that follows him — somehow not insufferable, and with teeth strong enough to bite if necessary, but otherwise whining and asking for attention.
Well, Red’s currently undressing in a corner of the room. He turned his back to Frank, but that only makes the muscles and scars of his back all the more obvious. He reminds Frank of a boxer, with the bruises colouring his back in various shades of purple and green, the scars a vivid contrast in the light. Frank falls silent, and he watches as Red puts on a dark blue T-shirt and a Columbia University sweater that looks well-loved.
“You’re staring,” Red says. Frank almost looks away, but resists the urge. It would only confirm what Red said, and he’s not feeling guilty. There’s a door that likely is the bathroom to a side, and a sliding door that must lead to the living room. Red could have gone out of the bedroom, and he didn’t.
Frank says exactly that, and a smile stretches Red’s lips.
“I didn’t think you’d be the staring type.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to change where I could see you.”
“That’s a detail I tend to forget.” Red fucking winks at him, and Frank scoffs and immediately seizes in discomfort, his hands flying to his side to hold his wound and keep the pain at bay just a little longer.
“Lying is a sin. I think this, whatever you did, was deliberate,” Frank says once he’s sure the stitches are holding up, unlike the seams of his thoughts, swirling in all directions, catching him off-guard everytime his lips move. He doesn’t even feel drunk or intoxicated, and perhaps that is the most frightening thing. It feels easy, to say all those things, to play the game Red has tried playing with him a few times. It shouldn’t, by all accounts. There’s a world between them, there’s blood on both their hands and prayers in both their mouths, keeping them apart.
But for now they’re in the same bubble, sharing the same space. Frank’s defences are down, and he chooses to let them stay that way.
His hands fall back on the sheets, palms up. He takes a deep breath, the drum of his heart echoing in his chest, and he watches Red walk closer to him and sit on the other side of the bed, hands deep in the pocket of his sweater.
“Well, it may have been deliberate,” Red says. “But I didn’t lie. The importance of what I show of myself is sometimes lost to me.” He speaks softly, a hint of lingering grief in his tone.
“So you’re saying you regularly strip in front of people.”
“I’m not-” Red immediately protests. Frank huffs, careful with his wound this time, and laughs again when he catches a glimpse of Red’s annoyed frown. His hair is falling in disarray around his face, strands rebelling in every direction. He looks like a student who pulled an all-nighter to finish his dissertation — and he plays the part well.
Silence returns for a beat, and Frank lets it fill the space between them. It’s rare that they share moments like these. Usually they shout in the midst of combat, fighting for their lives or for others’, or they whisper at each other through gritted teeth while they wait for their prey to come out.
They’ve come a long way since their first encounter, an uneasy alliance at first that turned into something more… familiar. Frank picked up things about Red, after seeing him for nights. The way he fights people, ruthless and careless. The way he saves people too, like he’s on a mission, some sort of sacred duty he has taken on to absolve his sins. But they’ve always met in this very specific setting. Frank knows nothing of Red in his apartment, his morning routine and how he lulls himself to sleep. He knows nothing of Red’s other life, just like Red knows nothing of his.
Yet Red feels familiar. Despite the new place, the new clothes — a nice change, as far as Frank’s concerned — it’s still him.
“How does your side feel?” Red asks.
“Like I’ve been shot,” Frank says sternly. It earns him a smile and something that could be a glare, but he can’t be sure. “The stitches are holding up, and they’re better than mine would have been,” he adds, because he feels like he ought to show his gratitude, even though it still rubs him the wrong way that he had to be helped.
At least it was Red, he thinks, and stumbles on the thought.
“Not my first time.” Red smiles, the fucking teasing tone back.
Insufferable, Frank thinks, and perhaps he says it out loud too, because Red suddenly laughs, the sound shaking him and making the corner of his eyes wrinkle. It’s not something Frank has ever witnessed, and there’s an unknown warmth in his chest from the sight.
Silence falls again, and Frank closes his eyes for a second, just a second, the weight of his eyelids a little too much for him.
When he opens his eyes again, the first thing he sees is Red curled up next to him, his sweater all crumpled, his hands next to his face, clean of any blood, and his hair still a mess, surrounding his head like a bleeding halo. The light has changed too. The curtains are open slightly wider, but the light is dimmer, like the sun is setting — perhaps it was more than just a second.
Frank still doesn’t feel pain, neither from the wound or the stillness of his position. He’s thirsty again, though — a glint of reflected light catches his eye and he sighs contentedly as he grabs the glass of water left on the bedside table. Red stirs next to him but doesn’t seem to wake up.
Frank empties the glass and puts it back, then pulls the sheets down to take a proper look at his wound. The stitches are as neatly ordered as he felt them under his fingertips — it clearly isn’t Red’s first time, and it makes Frank wonder about what happened that made him know how to stitch wounds with only his fingertips to guide him. What he’s been through, who he’s taken care of like this.
When he turns to look at Red, Frank finds him with his eyes open. “You’re awake,” he says simply, keeping his voice low because Red’s eyes are open but hazy, he hasn’t moved at all and he blinks slowly, like coming up to the surface after a deep sleep.
“You like stating facts,” Red retorts.
“Only obvious ones,” Frank says. His thoughts are still swirling around like eels, and he still can’t catch them before he speaks. He lets it happen, finding that he doesn’t really mind if he’s being honest this time. If he wasn’t under the influence of painkillers — and possibly the blood loss, now that he thinks about it — he would be worried, but for now he’s relaxed, Red at his side, and for once he doesn’t care about the repercussions of what he’s saying.
It’ll bite him in the ass later, he’s sure of it.
“I won’t bother you much longer,” he prefaces still, because even though Red has welcomed him into his personal space it was because of circumstances, and perhaps the man wants his privacy, instead of a wounded and drowsy man occupying half his bed and talking nonsense.
“You can stay for as long as you need,” Red says. He hasn’t moved, only tilted his head back so Frank can see it, a lone strand of hair falling over his face. “My bed’s large enough for two anyway.”
“And you’re choosing me to share it with?”
Frank’s unsure if the question is a step too far, but the words are out before he can swallow them. Judging from Red’s face, it might be. He sees the surprise and the resolve that rolls after, and waits for Red to answer.
“What if you were?”
“Fucking tease, is what you are,” Frank grumbles — but his hand lifts from the sheets and moves closer to Red’s hair. It stays there for a second, suspended in the air, unsure of whether to go forward, but Red chooses for him and twitches. His hair is soft under Frank’s hand, feather-like even.
“I think the painkillers aren’t helping you,” Red says. Frank knows what he means, that he isn’t talking about the pain — still distant, his body weightless and detached — but about the words he keeps saying and the blunt honesty with which he talks.
“I ain’t too happy about it either, if I’m honest,” Frank says. “But if the thoughts are in my head and the words in my mouth then perhaps there’s a bit of truth to them, and I’m not a liar.”
Red closes his eyes as Frank idly strokes his hair, and if Frank closed his eyes too he could imagine him purring. He’s radiating contentment — and he wasn’t dosed with painkillers, so he just decided to play along with Frank’s game of truth.
So Frank talks. He doesn’t say everything — even painkillers aren’t strong enough to force him to do that — but he talks.
About the bad dreams and the waking up alone, drenched in sweat, fingers grasping at ghosts and his heart longing for a warmth that isn’t there. About the grief and the ways he found to make it manageable, through revenge and blood, and perhaps a little good that he brings in the world. He’s honest though. He doesn’t kill the bad guys because it helps people. He kills because his hands call for blood and his heart calls for death. There’s a part of him that loves it, a part of him that has always been there, preying on his anger.
He talks about that, and he talks about the absence that still lingers, that he doesn’t know how to fill. He tried, a few times, and it’s pleasant, but it only lasts for a few moments and it leaves him bare, embarrassed and more alone than before.
Red listens. There’s a certain quality to it, like he’s hearing not only Frank’s voice but Frank in his entirety. The tiniest shifts in his voice, the twitching of his fingers, the sharpness of his breath and maybe the ghosts of memories Frank lives through. He nods sometimes, to keep Frank going, and he asks a few questions, but otherwise he stays there, listening.
When Frank’s done pouring his heart out, the well of his words dried up, he watches as Red gets up, refills a glass of water for him — it is indeed his living room on the other side of the sliding door — and sits at his side of the bed.
Once Frank finishes the glass, he leans over to put it back on the bedside table and finds himself very close to Red. They stare at each other for a second, and Frank feels himself moving closer, as if pulled by a magnet.
Red’s face stops a few inches away from Frank’s. The light is so dim now, probably coming from a lamp post or a billboard across the street, that it’s only the outline of his face, the ridges and valleys of his nose, cheeks and lips. He smells faintly like detergent and sleep, and Frank wonders if it is all a dream, if he bled out on that roof or is still high as fuck from the painkillers. He hesitates for a second and Red notices, immediately pulling back to a more respectable distance, one less tantalising for Frank.
“I’m not going to kiss you while you’re high on painkillers,” Red says as he shakes his head. “It’s like kissing someone drunk. You might regret it tomorrow, and you’ll still be in my apartment, in my bed, and I don’t want that.” He settles at Frank’s side, his body close and curled up, one hand resting under Frank’s ribs, thankfully on the side that wasn’t wounded.
“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”
“I’ve been to college.”
Frank snorts, glances at the Columbia University sweater and wonders if it really belongs to Red, if that’s a piece of his past he offered Frank. Frank can’t quite picture Red younger, studying diligently in class and living in the dorms, going to parties. He’d be the type of guy to punch bullies and answer back to teachers — and seemingly getting drunk and kissing people, only to regret it afterwards.
“The good thing is,” Red says again, and he’s so close to Frank now he speaks softly, barely above a whisper, “since you’ll still be in my bed tomorrow, you’re free to reconsider once you’re not high on painkillers.”
There’s a moment of silence as Frank analyses the words and stares at Red, dumbstruck at both the audacity and the offer that was just made to him.
“Were you this smooth in college?” he asks, avoiding giving an answer or anything that could indicate his feelings on the matter — his heart has sped up though, and Red’s close enough to have picked up on it even without the bat hearing.
“I wish,” Red laughs.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve done this,” Frank admits once Red’s finished laughing. “It’s not- it’s not something I’m used to.”
“It doesn’t have to be anything,” Red says immediately. “I would have saved you no matter what.”
“That you would, altar boy. That you would.”
Frank tries to stifle a yawn, but it escapes his lips despite his best efforts, and Red gets up and faces him.
“Perhaps we should go to sleep,” he says, and Frank couldn’t agree more.
“I won’t jump on you during the night, I promise,” Red winks.
Franks rolls his eyes then wiggles back under the cover, feeling the mattress shift as Red does the same — but not before he pulls his sweater over his head in a practised movement that lifts his T-shirt just enough to show a glimpse of his abs.
“Good night Frank,” Red says once they’re both settled and comfortable. Frank extends a hand blindly until it finds Red’s, and interlaces their fingers together.
That way, when he starts drifting away, there’s an anchor next to him.
He wakes up at dawn. Red is lying next to him, his body close enough to feel his warmth, but not enough to touch — he kept his promise. Not like Frank had any doubt, the man would likely be riddled by guilt at the very thought of not keeping his promise, but he appreciates it nonetheless.
The streets are quiet again, resting after the night and preparing for another day. Frank can hear birds chirping and the distant roar of a hurried taxi, but that’s it. Red looks like the very figure of innocence, his features relaxed and without a wrinkle to show his troubles.
The pain is back at Frank’s side, a nagging ache that will take days to recede, he knows. He also knows that it means the painkillers have worn off — and with them his irresistible desire to say the truth and everything that crossed his mind. The thought of what he said the day before comes back to him and he closes his eyes, brows furrowing, and sighs. There’s no taking back what he admitted.
Deep down, in the same place he spoke from last night, he doesn’t want to take back his words. Even if nothing comes of it, it has been said, and it feels good. Terrifying, but good.
Red’s words also come back to him, and Frank pauses the train of his thoughts to consider the offer. It would be dangerous, and foolish, and stupid — but perhaps Frank wants to try foolish and stupid. Just this time.
When Red wakes up next to him, his eyelids fluttering, Frank’s made his choice.