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The man who stood before him had that battle born glaze over his eyes that he knew all too well. He cut through his shirt like tissue paper, the rip so precise it made him feel like he’s done this a thousand times before under much harsher conditions. He wasn't even bothered by the blood that soaked onto his shirt and arms, staining him in his own unique shade of maroon that smeared across his skin. His hands were strong, quick and skilled as he set the scissors down and rubbed them together with alcohol, his veins bulging from the adrenaline pulsing through them as he readied the rest of his supplies.
“Where’d you serve, doc?” Frank winced as the man pressed on the other areas of his chest, groaning as he felt a rib give way before taking in the details of his surroundings. He noticed how perfectly tidy everything in this man’s apartment was, how there wasn’t a single spec of dust to be found. He spotted the police scanner in the corner of the room, the gravely static echoing in his ears between muffled reports as he scoured the room for potential exit routes, a habit he could never quite shake. Everything within this room had its purpose, all function and no fashion with clean lines and dark colors; a simple yet comfortable resting place between shifts, nothing more. It almost reminded him of what he’d like his own place to look like if he took the time and effort to furnish it, but Frank couldn’t imagine that happening any time soon.
“Oh, you know,” the man glanced up at him, a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he slid those hands of his into a pair of surgical gloves. “All over the place… Germany, Iraq and Afghanistan. Haven’t been in the sand box for over fifteen years, though, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Yeah,” Frank grunted, leaning back as the man pushed him onto his elbows and pulled his shirt away from his abdomen to better view the gaping wound at his side. “You look like you’ve seen some shit.”
He snorted, shaking his head as he began twisting the cap off a bottle of clear liquid. “That’s one hell of an understatement. How about you, boss?”
“Same as you, all over.” He looked down at his bruised and battered torso, his fresh wound bleeding a slow and steady trickle onto the black fabric of his pants as his whole body seemed to throb. He had been cut by that asshole’s knife a few times, once on his bicep and the other on his shoulder, but this wound really seemed to take the cake. The bullet had grazed through each and every layer of skin and fat, threatening to tear apart his muscle if it had gone just a hair deeper.
“Alright Frank, you’ve got some debris in your wound and I have to clean it out before I can stitch you up, okay?” The man locked eyes with him before proceeding, his hazel gaze practically burning into him as he held the bottle just above his wound. He wanted to make sure that he was ready, wanted to make sure that he knew what to expect so he wouldn’t start swinging the second the pain got too intense. “This is gonna hurt.”
“Frank?” He queried, his hard features twisting in a mix of shock and curiosity before he nodded in understanding, eventually signaling for him to proceed. He hissed as the fluid stung each and every exposed layer of his broken flesh, painfully flushing out the dirt, blood and cloth that had clung to it in the aftermath. “Frank Castle’s dead.”
The man laughed as he set the bottle down next to him, eyeing his wound like a cat would its prey, tilting his head from side to side before finally responding. “Sure. It must have been someone else who completely decimated my twelve dead-on-arrivals last night in the ER. Someone else who saved those women from being raped and beaten within an inch of their lives. Someone else who…”
“Alright, alright.” Frank cut him off with a huff. He took in a slow, steady breath as he watched the man twist the cap back onto the bottle, realizing now that it couldn’t have been a coincidence that this doctor just happened to find him stumbling into a back alley. He had to have been aligned with him on some level to know who he was, to seek him out and still go out of his way to help him, to risk bringing him back to his apartment to save his life. “So you know who I am.”
“Not that hard to figure out if you’re paying attention.” The man carefully opened a white paper package, pulling out a needle and thread between two gloved fingers. “And don’t worry, I’m not gonna turn you in. You’re doing good work out there.”
“Good work, huh? Doesn’t that work go against what you stand for?” He tested him, watching his pulse thrum steadily beneath the graying streaks at his temples. He squinted to watch for any kind of tell to present itself: a twitch of the eye, sweat on the brow, a snarl of the lip… anything to signal that he was bullshitting him. He couldn’t spot any.
“You saved those women,” he shrugged matter of factly, picking up a long pair of tweezers with his opposite hand. “From what I hear, you stop some bad people from doing some bad shit. You put them down so other people can live their lives without fear, and more importantly, you keep them out of my ER. That’s pretty badass if you ask me.”
“You really think all that?” He braced himself as he readied his surgical tools, holding his breath as he watched him step between his parted thighs to get closer to his wound. He could see the freckles on the man’s skin now, smell the subtle notes of his expensive cologne as the muscles in his forearms clenched before he began. This was always the worst part, the rising anticipation of the oncoming pain when it wasn’t his own hand stitching himself back together.
“Yeah, I do.” His eyes darted up to meet his again, this time a little softer as his pupils expanded. “You sure you don’t want any pain meds before I do this? It’s gonna hurt worse than the saline.”
“I can take it.” Frank mumbled, gripping onto the side of the kitchen counter to steel himself.
“It doesn’t mean you have to.”
Frank paused and looked at him sideways for a second, his words washing over him in a gut-wrenching flash of warmth that he didn’t quite understand. His breath caught in his throat, his heart skipping a beat before it began to race beneath his broken ribs as he tried to name the feeling, but it escaped him before he could push it down and bury it. “Just do it.”
“Alright.” He clicked his tongue and pierced Frank’s flesh without a second thought, gliding the curved needle in through his skin before bringing it flush against the other side of the wound. “So what brought you all the way out to Pittsburgh?”
Frank’s knuckles turned white as the searing hot pain glued his grip to the granite countertop, forcing his muscles to clench and beads of sweat to form on his brow. “Trying to lay low, to start over, but I saw what those assholes were doing and I had to step in.”
“You just couldn’t help yourself, huh?” He pulled the thread taut and started in on the second stitch, working a little quicker this time. “I get it. Can’t turn it off, no matter how hard you try, right?” He jerked his chin in the direction of the police scanner, hoping he understood.
“That why you helped me, brother?” He bit into his bottom lip as he pulled the string again, each tug feeling like fire biting through his insides.
“Jack.” Another stitch, his eyes so intensely focused on his work that he barely noticed he was resting his elbow on Frank’s hip, holding him steady. “My name’s Jack. And yeah, I guess so.”
Another painful stitch. Frank’s endorphins finally trickled into his bloodstream long enough to dull the stabbing jolts of each penetrating suture. He could feel the gentle tug of his flesh as Jack meticulously repaired his skin, creating a whole new visceral wave of agony every time his tissue collided with itself. At least when he was fighting, he had the adrenaline to amp him up, to keep him going, numbing him to all the hits he was taking before his brain finally caught up with his body. Now it’s just him, Jack and his pain.
“Well Jack, you risked a lot taking me in tonight.” He glanced down to get a better view of how much more jabs he had to take, sweat coating his heaving chest as Jack pulled another stitch through. Thank Christ, he was more than halfway done.
“Just a few more stitches and you’ll be good… you’re doing great.” Jack whispered, practically reading his mind. He couldn’t help his bedside manner from slipping out automatically, even if he knew someone like Frank didn’t need to hear it. Even if he knew that Frank was a fucking monster of a man for taking all this without any anesthetic or pain meds. “Putting in the last stitch now…” He pulled it all the way through and finally tied it off, clipping it off with his scissors. “There! All done.”
Frank tried to get up the very second Jack cut him free and lifted his elbow from his hip, but was quickly met with a strong hand on his shoulder, dashing his efforts. “Stay down, Frank. You’ve got at least two broken ribs from what I can feel, and the last thing you need is to fuck up these stitches I just put in your side.” He stared at him with a pleading look, despite his clenched jaw and stern tone, hoping that the vigilante would listen. “If you need something, I’ll get it for you, but you have to rest. It’s the only way you can heal.”
Frank searched his eyes for any leniency, finding only stone cold resolve behind the brown and gold hues of his irises. “So I’m just supposed to sit on your kitchen counter all night, is that it?’
Jack rolled his eyes and pressed his lips together in a thin, fine line. “Let me help you to the couch.”