Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Matt
“Ok, just a small question, why is he here?” Clint scoffs before addressing Matt, a brow raised in skepticism. Lord help him. Taking a slow breath, Matt pinches his brow, “Because Clint,” he emphasizes, “Stark asked for extra help,” he pauses before pointing to Frank and finishing, “and there it is.” Biting back a grin at Frank’s annoyed scowl, he turns to Tony, “You got a game plan Stark?”

Tony laughs before placing a hand on his chest, mocking hurt, “Of course, double D’s! Who do you take me for, just some billionaire?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Matt bites out under his breath. The only one close enough to hear him is Frank, who snorts out a bark of laughter at the Avenger’s expense.

Most of the time, Matt liked to work solo, or preferably with Frank. It wasn't until recently that he had begun to toy with the idea of temporarily teaming up with the Avengers. After accidentally finding Clint Barton’s ass in a dumpster during his routine rounds and saving him, Tony Stark had somehow gotten ahold of him and tried on many occasions to recruit him. It was stupid, Stark never listened once, not even when he had threatened the man, trying to make the superhero stay far, far away from Hell's Kitchen. As if his city needed any of the trouble a major Avenger like Stark would bring, but a band of criminals in Hell’s Kitchen just had to get their hands on some of Stark's high tech weaponry, and now it was his problem.

Turning to Frank he nudged him with a boot, “No killing today Frank. We need to know where they got their stuff.”

“You don’t need 'em all for that Red, just leave a few and be done with it.” Pushing further Matt insists, “Frank no. I swear on all that is holy I will not be the reason someone dies tonight.”

To outside ears, it may have sounded like a threat, but to Frank it was a plea, a soft reminder of all of their arguments.

“I-fuck. Goddamn it Red. Fine. No killing, but if I see any of ‘em pull sneaky shit on you, I won’t hesitate. Got me?” Matt doesn't answer, just bobs his head in understanding before turning back to the main group.
“Hey Stark, wanna let me in on the game plan?” Frank’s rough voice questions. Matt can sense Tony’s eyes flicking over to him before addressing Frank, who is sighing as he moves closer to the group.

Ears ringing at the cacophony of so many bodies nearby, Matt shakes his head trying to clear his senses. Yet another reason he refuses to work with the Avengers full time, Tony’s suit alone makes him want to clap his hands over his ears and scream until he can’t; always whirring and buzzing, the Iron Man suit turns the normal den of Hell’s Kitchen into a madhouse.

Overlooking the warehouse, Matt can hear the separate heart beats inside, each one beating at a slightly different pace than any other, but every rhythm has its tell. Pursing his lips, Matt turns away from the building and the rest of superheroes, while he drags Frank to the other side of their rooftop. “I don’t like this Frank,” giving another one of his famed snorts Frank replies, “What part? The superheroes, or their plan?”

“No Frank, it’s not that, it's something else I can feel something’s wrong.” That catches his attention, heartbeat spiking he leans in, “Red, something you wanna share?”

His mouth shuts with a clack, “I-no, it’s nothing.” He can feel the eyes on them, Romanoff especially has had her eye on Frank, her and Barton both. But, as long as they don’t say anything to the others, they should be fine. “If there's something wrong that you can sense with your blind ninjaness, Red I’d really rather be safe than sorry.” Frank’s voice draws him back to their conversation. “No, just a feeling, it’s really nothing to worry about.” He’s starting to regret this conversation now, it only looks suspicious to the others, and he needs to keep them off his trail. Although it wouldn't be the end of the world for the Avengers to know that the Punisher and Daredevil were an item, he’d rather not give them any leverage, or make himself appear too human. Because he’s pretty sure a few of them think he’s the actual Devil, he definitely heard Steve ward off evil in latin earlier.

Turning to face Frank, he smiles before leaning in close and murmuring, “No killing.”

“Aw fuck off Red. I can go a night without killing, you can stop goddamn reminding me now.” Matt grins again before it gets wiped off his face by Frank’s retort, “If I can’t kill, you can’t do any of the self sacrificing shit you do. No jumping in front of a bullet for a person wearing kevlar." His last sentence is pointed and too specific to be a hypothetical. Sighing he replies, “I don’t even remember that, and that's probably because it only happened once.”

“Twice.” Frank quips. Hands reaching up to his face, Matt shoves Frank away grumbling, before making his way back to the main group.

Stark is too jovial in everything he does, Matt can’t help but get annoyed at his endless supply of it. Clapping his hands together, Tony exclaims, “All sorted are we?” Without waiting for a reply, he continues, “So, Double D will target the top floor with me, Rogers, and Nat, we’ll take out the guys on the top floor, before joining the others on the bottom. And the bottoms:” he snorts at his own joke, “Barton, Castle, and Barnes, you guys are gonna be the distraction and use the main entrance so we can sneak to ambush on the roof.”

He claps his hands together again as Matt sighs. Would it be too weird to demand Frank stays with him? Probably. He’s gonna have to just suck it up.

“Ok team, sounds good. 3, 2, 1, break!” He wants to groan, this would probably be so much easier if it was just him and Frank, the only complication being the alien super tech. Great.

“Frank. Be safe.”

He doesn't know why he just said that, but a feeling gnaws at his gut, something that won't go away.

He can hear the smirk in Frank’s voice as he replies, “No promises.”

Chapter Text

Frank 

Frank doesn’t feel great about this mission.

He can’t quite place his finger on it, but something feels off. It’s probably Red's fault, fuckin tellin him there’s something wrong, then goin’ and saying never mind.

There's not much time for deliberation as the two Avengers saddle up next to him at the edge of the roof, weapons at the ready. He glances at Barnes before nodding, “Sargent.” The super soldier gives him an odd look at the formal title, but he responds nevertheless with a sharp, “Castle.” Frank can feel his heart begin to beat faster, his trigger finger tap tap tapping in anticipation, muscles primed and ready for the fight.

With a feral grin, he faces the edge of the roof. One batch, two batch, penny and dime. He jumps, legs kicking in the air, he can feel the wind in his face, mussing his hair as he falls. With confident assurance he braces for impact as his body meets the flagpole. It’s a slow, smooth descent down the pole, as his brain flits between thoughts of his Lisa, and the task at hand. God, Lisa would laugh at him now, she would giggle and call him a fireman, and maybe in a different world she could. 

A clang echos down the pole as Barton makes his way down, bow in hand, and a cocky grin stretching over his teeth. All three are ready now, mind set on bloodlust, or maybe that's just him, Barnes having jumped down, pulls a hand gun from his holster as he checks the magazine. Nodding at  both of the Avengers, Frank breaks into a run. He runs like the dogs of hell are nipping at his feet, legs carried by sheer willpower and vengeance. 

In no time Frank is gunning down the two front guards, letting a spray of bullets follow him, the men don’t even have time to shout before they're on the floor, bullets in the knees. Comm check, 123. Barton's voice crackles through his earpiece, voice quiet in the uproaring din of Hydra's men heard from above.

“All clear here, I-fuck!” His voice trails off into a curse as a fallen man across from him throws his knife. Son of  a Bitch. Not missing a beat, Frank draws his Ka-bar and slashes at the man's leg, the guard goes down as a spray of blood follows him. Two can play at that. Sheathing his blade, Frank stalks towards the man, letting gravity and his boot do the rest of the work. 

Castle! Castle come in! “Yeah yeah,” Frank grumbles, “still here, don’t get ya panties in a twist.” There's a sigh of relief from Clint as he responds are you almost at the rendezvous? It's getting a little hot here!

Shit. Breaking into a run he bursts through the double doors that were previously being guarded. Holy fuck. It’s an absolute mad house, bodies of groaning agents are strewn all over the floor. Barton is engaged in hand to hand with multiple Hydra soldiers, as Bucky fights off twice as many. Hawkeye meets his gaze, as he gives a hysterical laugh, “Good for you to show up!” 

Frank gives a sigh before shaking his head and diving into the fray, semi automatic in one hand, Ka-bar in the other, he’s a blur of ruthless violence. He’s just about finished with the men he’s fighting when a shout of,“Trouble!” from the other side of the room breaks his focus.

Kicking the man in front of him, he feels the soldier's nose crunch under his boot as Frank whirls around. Barnes has his eyes locked on a second entrance none of them seemed to see. He wants to groan and skink into his shoes. Very, very well armed men flood into the room, spreading out among the two heroes and vigilante. 

Nope. No fuckn’ way. He didn’t sign up for this shit. He shoulda just told Red to stuff the offer up his ass instead of accepting it. Normally, if it was just Red, he woulda been fine, but noooo. Stark just had to split them up and now he was having the time of his fuckin’ life with the two Bs: Barton and Barnes. He snorts to himself, as he reloads his gun, all they need is an A, then they'll have their ABCs. 

Four men converge on him at once. With no hesitation, Frank is sweeping the first one’s legs. Using the distraction of the first soldier, Frank shoots at two of the other men, watching as they fall in quick succession to the first. Damn it. He’s only got a few bullets left and he's on his last mag. Focusing on the last agent in front of him, he casually fires a round into the man's leg. And that’s when he gets a good look at the man's tactical vest. Fear floods into his veins as the symbol. No. No. It has to be a coincidence. Yelling at Barnes’s general vicinity he barks, “Barnes! Is there a 3rd party?! These guys ain’t Hydra.” 

“What! How do you know?!” Fucking-! Suppressing a groan he thinks, an actual answer would've been nice.

Staring down at the unconscious man at his feet, Frank represses the urge to pull the trigger.

He wants to do it, to watch the life leave this man’s eyes promise to Red be damned. This man is not Hydra, he’s so much worse. Anvil, a company name he thought he’d left in the ruins of his past. Lost in his thoughts, a cry from his left draws his attention back to the fight.

Clint is surrounded by a mixture of Hydra and Anvil agents, desperately fighting them off, a hand is clutched to his side, where a steady stream of blood drips through. Frank doesn't think, body moving as he fires at the three closest opponents to him. Running, he nimbly jumps over felled agents as he makes his way to Barton. With nothing but an empty gun, which he chucks at one of the Hydra agents face, and his Ka-bar. 3 more are down, soon, he’s near enough to read Barton’s expression, lips twisted into a grimace as he fights like a madman, gun in hand, desperation apparent in every punch he throws. 

Locked in on the Agent in front of him, Frank trades blows with a ferocity he hasn’t fought with in a while. And God damn him, he just might lose. Maybe his luck can’t last forever. He's good. The realization hits him as the agent grips his skull vest and pulls Frank forward into his knee. A sickening crunch follows as Frank falls to the floor with a growl of pain.

“Bastard!” He yells through a stream of red down his nose. Rising to his feet he strikes the man, fainting right before catching the man with a sick uppercut to the jaw. The man falls with little fanfare, collapsing into a heap on the floor. Checking to make sure the guard is truly unconscious, something draws his eye. It’s Barton he sees at first, still a whirlwind of purple and black as he fights the men. But when his eye catches onto a felled Hydra agent behind him, he freezes.

The agent's gun is raised and aimed directly at the back of Clint’s skull.

No, no, wait, he needs the world to slow down for a goddamn second. If he yells, Barton won’t turn in time, he’s got no bullets left to shoot the man, and he’s only got one option. His feet are moving before his mind can compute it, boots slapping against the ground until he’s leaping for Barton, arms open ready to tackle him. If he’s lucky the bullet will hit him and not Hawkeye. 

The pain hits him before the sound does, as a wave of black washes over his vision. 

Cracking his eyes open, all he can see is the ceiling, grey, dull and colorless.

He tries to rise to his feet, but the pounding in his skull brings him back down. Fuck, he can’t think, there’s a ringing in his ears, and something he had to do.

No, someone he had to save, twisting his neck to look over at Barton, Frank cries out as a trail of burning pain reignites in his head. Palm flying to the point of pain, he can feel the wet stickiness of his own blood coating his face. It drips down his face in crimson droplets, a steady flow of the stuff coating his face. The pain in his skull builds, a pressure fit to burst.

Exit wound, he needs to check for an exit wound. Fingers drifting to the back of his skull, Frank feels around until he feels a twin wound. He wants to laugh, ironic that he’s thankful for a bullet to the head. He needs to leave, to get up and escape while he can, or find the others and hope they're alright. 

He must have blacked out again, because suddenly  he’s on his knees, groaning as he clutches his bloodsoaked hair. He can hear Bucky to his far right still fighting some of the agents, where are the others?

Head lolling to the left, his eyes finally land on Clint. The man looks worse for wear, but he’s alive, the steady rise and fall of his chest tells him so, he’s unconscious, but still alive. Maybe he can rest for now, Red would find him.

Matt would look at him and get him out of this damned warehouse.

Sinking back onto the floor, he eases himself back down with a soft groan. Closing his eyes he can see Lisa’s smile, he can see Maria that day at the carousel, god she was beautiful. The heavy stomping of boots wakes him from his delirium, stilling, he listens. Multiple pairs, at least 4 men. It feels like a herculean task but he manages to raise his head a fraction off the floor. 

The face that greets him is one often seen in his nightmares.

Scarred and snarling Billy Russo’s vengeful gaze glares back at him. I’m so fucked. Letting his head fall back to the floor with a thunk, Frank waits for his twitching fingers to grasp his fallen knife.

He can feel his heart beating, a testament to his will to live, a delusion made of a desperate man.

His time has run out, and if Billy really has come for him, he knows he won’t leave this warehouse. Fine by him, but at the very least he could try to return the favor. 

The vibrations in the floor pause as Russo’s men come to a stop. Body tensing like a coil ready to be sprung, Frank’s eyes fly open.

The fight that ensues is short but brutal. Slashing at the closest ankle, Frank hears the man cry out before crumpling to the ground. Wasting no time, Frank jumps on top of him, sinking his knife deep into the man's chest, before cutting his throat. The other three men converge on him, while Russo just watches. Spitting blood onto the floor he readies himself for the fight and promptly collapses, legs giving out.

A cry lies unbidden in his throat, as he fumbles around trying to regain his footing. The wound in his head bleeds sluggishly, throbbing in time with his heart beat, he can feel the dried blood crusting one of his eyes shut. One of the agents kicks at his hand and he wants to scream in frustration as his Ka-bar skitters across the floor. The other agents come from behind him and haul him up by his arms. Head lolling Frank just blinks at Billy, his mouth remains shut, even as his heart and brain scream for a voice. 

“Funny running into you Frankie.”

He croons, drawing nearer, “Looks like you're losing your touch, huh? Is that from a bullet?”

Hand reaching out to touch the wound, Billy just laughs at Frank's sad attempt at a flinch. He can feel his thoughts slowing down, heart still beating that relentless tune of life. “And another broken nose?!” Billy lets out another derisive sound before tutting and raising his gun to Frank's forehead.

No, wait.

His hands are shaking behind his back, and he knows before he wouldn't have been scared, he would have laughed and spit in the face of death. Now he has something to live for, to fight for.

“Red, Red, I love you. Forgive me Matty, I’m so sorry.”

His apology is barely a whisper as he utters it, dancing across his tongue with reverence. 

Pausing, Billy looks at him, an unidentifiable emotion clear on his face. Cocking his head to the side Billy questions, “Found your will to live have you? Well, I’ll be merciful then.”

Without warning the gun dips from Frank's forehead, as a bullet finds its mark in the meat of his thigh.

A gargled gasp is all he manages as Billy laughs. The ringing in his ears is back as a wall of pain hits him, freezing his joints as the sharp burning of pain worms its way through his body. “Take him. We’ll collect the bounty after I’ve had my revenge.”

No, no. The words barely register through the pain as he weakly struggles against the soldiers against his back. The cries he makes are soundless, protests falling upon unhearing ears as he is dragged through the carnage of blood. He has half a mind to scream for Red as a heavy boot descends upon his face. 

Chapter Text

Matt 

His surroundings swim as he feels around for his billy clubs. He can feel the short gasps of fear gripping his lungs. Panic floods his body as the utter silence he’s come to associate it with a loss of hearing pushes at his eardrums.

It’s an ambush. Voice hoarse from smoke inhalation he croaks, “Stark!” Snapping his hand next to his ear he feels an immense wave of relief wash over him as his surroundings return. 

He hadn't noticed the agent with the flash bang before it was too late, but by then his senses were assaulted, and his ‘vision’ had gone dark.

The collective groans and sounds of the others stirring rouse him from his thoughts as he calls out again, “Stark! Rogers!” Rising to his feet, he listens to the telltale thump thump of the other’s heartbeats. Stumbling into the vague direction of the team, Matt throws one of his clubs at a still groaning hydra member. The club hits the man’s head with a solid thunk, before rebounding back into his hand.

Soot from the smoke bomb settles onto his skin as he draws nearer to a heart beat. He can feel it on his exposed skin, making him feel grimy as he listens. Strong, steady, and slightly unnatural, Matt offers his hand to the newly conscious Steve Rogers. “Ughh, what happened?” 

“Ambush.” His response is quick and short, he pauses before adding “hopefully the others are fairing better than we have.” Steve takes his outstretched hand and allows himself to be hauled up by Matt. “You seem to be doing fine,” gesturing to an unsteady Iron man and Black Widow, Steve peers at him. Matt's sarcastic laugh gets stuck in his throat as he hears his name.

Red, Red, I love you. Forgive me Matty, I’m so sorry. 

He freezes, pure fear controlling his body as a wave of something washes over him.

His limbs still as his hands begin to shake, heart incessantly thudding in his ribcage he reacts. In the next moment he’s taken off to the nearest exit, confused Avengers hot on his heels.

He can’t be bothered to care about anything but the man that holds his heart.

Lord, please. Please don’t take him from me.

Skidding down the last steps, he takes in the carnage. Bodies litter the floor and Barton lies unconscious near a pile of dead Hydra Agents, while Barnes has a conscious agent gripped by the throat. 

 “Buck! Let him go!” Steve shouts before approaching his friend. 

Dropping the agent Barnes looks at them, panic and fear apparent in the steady thrum of his heart beat. 

“Where is he?” Matt demands, a growl rising in his throat. Shoving Bucky against the nearest wall he repeats himself, “Where is Frank?” His voice is low and menacing, his fear showing only in the slight waver of his heart.

“Daredevil! Get off of him!” Steve yells, shoving Matt away. 

Yeah he probably deserves that. 

Spitting on the ground Barnes responds to him, “The fuck is wrong with you!” Matt just glares at him, his question repeated into silence permeated only by Clint's groans.

Cocking his head he listens, deftly filtering through the sounds of heartbeats, groans, and thousands of other noises, Matt censors in on the sound of a car engine. It’s faint, far too faint for him to track, even if he was at 100%.

Goddamn that stubborn bastard.

He wants to kick something, to take the Hydra agent, show him his rage and demand answers.

I told him to be safe, I knew something was off. I should have listened.

Frank hadn’t even wanted to be there, if something had happened to him, if he was dead, Matt doesn't know what he’d do. His heart pangs at the thought of losing Frank, as his senses snap back to the warehouse. 

Barton's back on his feet, propped up by Romanoff, he’s speaking, gesturing rapidly with his hands. “-these guys they just came out of nowhere, like at least 20 guys. I was fighting ‘y know then Castle just tackled me! I was confused at first but then I realized,” Clint trails off, seemingly lost in his thoughts before continuing, “He took a bullet for me.” The steady thump, thump of Clint's heart changes, now guilt stricken instead of adrenaline filled. “Where.” Matt demands. 

“Wha-” 

“Where did the bullet hit him?” There's panic rising in his throat now, the confirmation that Frank’s hurt doing nothing for his fraying nerves.

“I-I don’t-” Barton has to breathe through his words before continuing. “I didn’t see him get hit, but right before I passed out, I saw a head wound.” His last words are rushed, as if saying them faster would make the impact any less. Fuck, it's like someone dumps a vat of ice water on his head.

He can’t be dead. Matt simply won't allow it, the only person allowed to kill that son of a bitch is himself.  

“He was alive when they took him.” Barnes’ words cut through the silence. Focusing solely on Bucky, Matt stills his agitated pacing. “These guys came in soon after their second wave, I saw him fight them, but he was injured. And the leader looked like he was gonna kill him, but he just shot him instead.” 

“We have to get him.” Matt’s words are thick with fear.

I won’t lose him.

“Let's just head back to the tower for now and then we’ll decide what to do.”

Damn it. He wants to curse them all out. Blame the Avengers, blame Bucky and Clint for letting him get taken. He has half a mind to tell them so, before his brain catches up with his body and it's like he just deflates. All the fight leaves his body at once, he feels the cold concrete of the floor meet his knees with a painful thud.

He wants to scream, scream until his voice runs out, scream Frank’s name until he can no longer hear. There's a comforting hand on his shoulder, and he can tell it’s Steve, “Come on DD, we can regroup back at the tower, we’ll be able to look for him there.” The soldier’s voice is tight, and Matt can tell, the man doesn’t quite believe himself either. “Fine.” 

*************

The ride back to the Avengers tower is nothing like the ride there. Before, friendly banter and questions filled the air, now all that's left is the silence.

He tells himself he likes it better this way.

Brain spinning, he stumbles back into the tower, questioning who would be gutsy enough to kidnap the Punisher right under their noses, under his nose. Plenty of people, his brain supplies unhelpfully, but still, he argues back, whoever did this had this planned from the start. 

Collapsing into the nearest bedroom in the tower, Matt wants to rip off his cowl and scream.

Instead he says with an exhausted sigh, “Friday, please lock the doors,” 

“Right away Mr. Daredevil.” The AI’s detached voice echoes throughout the room.

His back thunks against the headboard, as he pushes up against it. He hasn’t even bothered to remove his shoes or suit, uncaring of the grime he brings into the room.

His ears are still ringing from the flash-bang, and lord his head hurts. Everything is just too much. His fingers fly up to his face, then he’s pulling his helmet off, fingers digging into the material as he lets it tumble from his grasp. 

He needs Frank, Frank who is missing, while he just sits here.

Too slow Matty, too weak.

He flinches as Stick's voice rings out in the silence.

His head hits the headboard, once, twice, three times. The pain is distracting and he relishes it, drowns in it. The feeling of control, of containment, Easy there Red, don’t do that.

Frank’s voice this time, gentle and guiding, as he comforts Matt. He can feel Frank’s hand at the nape of his neck, can feel his body sinking into the bed, and can feel the kiss he brushes across his forehead. The next thing he knows is the struggle to keep his eyes open as he drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Frank 

“-nkie, yoo hoo!” Red. He has to save Red. Drowning, he’s drowning in blood, the blood of those he’s lost and the blood of those he’s killed. Matt’s with him, hand outstretched as the souls of the damned drag him down. He has to let go, he’ll drag Matt to hell if he doesn't let go.

“Rise and shine sweetheart.” There's a gasp of pain, torn from his throat as a burning blinding pain envelops him. It steals his breath as he struggles for air through the burning licks of pain throughout his body. 

“Frankie!” The nickname brings him back to his mind, the name reserved for the one and only: Billy Russo.

Frank’s eyes fly open, as his heartbeat speeds up, his body finally catching up to his brain.

Fuck. Billy grins at him, eyes full of malice and hate as he rises from his seat across from Frank. He thought he ended it, taking Bill’s memories, his past. He should have taken his life, should have ended it at that damned carousel. 

“Welcome to the land of the living Frankie.” Billy stops, face hovering in front of Franks, his voice is soft, deceptively so. If Frank were to just close his eyes, he could almost pretend Billy’s voice is the same Billy from his past. The same Billy that he was brothers with. 

But that Billy didn't really exist did it? That Billy had sold him and his family out for a quick buck, as if they wouldn't have given everything for him.  

Enraged, Frank stares back at his brother, gaze steely before smashing his forehead into the other man’s nose. A feral grin stretches across his face at the crunch of broken bone. As much as it makes his ears ring, and his wound throb, it’s worth it to see a pained Billy stumbling around clutching his nose.

How'd that feel, you bastard.

Frank feels smug, right up until a chain Frank hadn’t realized was around his throat tightened. Yanked up by the neck, it's all he can do to keep himself shouting in surprise. He can’t see Billy anymore, can’t see the guards or the floor, all he can see was the fucking ceiling.

Choking on nothing, Frank struggles uselessly in the chains trapping him in a chair bolted to the floor. Fuck, he can’t breathe, he’s gasping like a fish outta water. It's not until dark has long since crept into his vision, that that chain slackens and he is able to breathe again. 

Sucking in a lung full of air, Frank coughs, trying desperately to rid his throat of the bruising pressure from the chain. 

“No, see, you don’t get to do that Frankie,” Billy growls in his face. Blood coats the lower half of the other man's face, as his nose drips a steady stream down his front.

Now we match.

Frank just smirks before Billy grabs his jaw, eyes level with his own, “It’s time the world sees you the way I do.” He taunts.

Frank’s vision swims, dizziness threatening to overtake him, he’s wracking his brain, the fuck are you up to Russo. Noticing his confused look, Billy just flashes one of his winning smiles, before slowly pointing out the fucking camera set up on a tripod directly across from him.

Tapping the thick plastic of the camera Billy says, “Pathetic. The whole world will get to hear your pathetic pleas to me.” He pauses, “Live.” 

On that word, Frank hears the click of a button before a small light next to the lens begins to flash.

What if Amy sees this? Fuck, she’d never forgive him and Karen too, he reckons they'ed outta end up killing him if he ain’t already dead by then. He doesn't want them to see him like this, bloody and in pain. 

Red.

Just thinking of the man has his heart speeding up, but at least Matt won’t have to watch. 

He needs him, he wants Matt by his side guiding him through the pain, but at the same time Frank is forever grateful that Billy was too focused on him to notice anything else. Like your love.  

There's a loud clap as Billy brings his hands together in excitement. “Welcome ladies and gentlemen to… Punishing the Punisher!” 

Frank laughs at that, a full on derisive laugh at the name.

Billy was never very creative, but that name is the worst thing he has ever heard. Letting out an antagonistic snort, Frank chokes on blood from his nose sending him into a coughing fit. Even that can’t stop him from laughing at Russo, who is furiously glaring at him.

 If Frank had to guess, it would be the fact that Frank can still embarrass him, even tied up and injured as he is.

That's what knowing a man like your brother will do to you.

Frank knows Billy. Knows him like the back of his own hand, and no matter how hard either of them tries, nothing will erase the years spent overseas or the knowledge they have of each other. 

“Now dear watchers, we have two options here. I am sure you all are aware of the 5 million dollar bounty on Mr. Castle’s head.”

Coming up from behind Frank, Billy grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks. His bruised neck cranes up as Frank finds himself staring eye to eye at the camera. 

About to make a retort on Billy's stupidity, he pauses as his eye catches on the reflection in the camera lens. Looking into the glass, he can see a man slouched in defeat, ready to accept death. The man is broken, his face and posture says everything that he can’t. Bloody and bruised, the reflection of a man staring back at him is not Frank Castle. 

Get em daddy.

Frank junior’s words echo in his ears as his spine snaps straight, his body uncaring of its wounds. Closing his eyes, Frank slowly lets light filter through. He’s gonna go down, without a doubt, but it will be on his terms. Frank Castle doesn't give up, not before, and not now. 

Now he’s glaring at the camera, face contorted in rage at the audacity of Billy. To try and humiliate him before he kills him, he wants to laugh again, to spit on Billy’s shoes and scream. No, Frank won’t beg or plead for his life, he’ll welcome death with open arms, if only to see his family again.     

“Or if someone would like to pay 7 million for the release of Frank Castle…” He trails off, letting his silence speak for him. 

The fuck?

What's your angle Bill?

Why would Billy ever even offer to let him go? There is no prize bigger than the life of Frank Castle to Billy, so then why the fuck would he offer to let him go? 

Stark. He was teamed up with Stark.

Billy must need money badly if he was willing to auction him off.

“Billy you must be as stupid as you were pretty,” he snorts, “ain’t nobody paying you jack shit for me.” 

“Look here Frankie,” Billy waves his knife in front of Frank, letting it drift dangerously close to his eye. Resisting a flinch, Frank can feel his rage simmering under his skin.

It’s always been there, since that day at the carousel. Somedays he can feel it more than others. He can feel it being pulled like a rubber band ready to snap.

Because that's his knife. Billy knows that, and after everything, that knife has been with him. It was with him during operation Cerburus. His tour before that. It was with him when he fucked Billy’s face up. It’s just a knife, but Billy knows what it means to him, and now he’s gonna rub it in.

Goddamned bastard. 

Wasting no time, the other man uses the blade to cut off his vest, at least the part that wasn't blown and shot to hell. Inwardly wincing, Frank hides a hiss as Billy completely misses the strap and nicks him in the neck instead. Billy just watches as he bleeds, smiles as he savors in the blood he’s spilled, in Frank's blood. 

Tossed aside, Frank’s vest lands in a heap, bloody and ruined.

What's that, vest number 13?

Yeah, something’s definitely wrong. He’s delirious in a way that screams wrong, his brain simply won't function the way he needs it to. And that goddamn ringing in his ears still won't go away. He feels bare without his vest, stripped down to nothing, he was the Punisher with it on, and now, all he is a man.

Symbolism’s a bitch. 

Ah, blood loss. It would check out, seeing as a bullet recently took a vacation through his forehead.

His mind wanders to Red, has he gotten back to the Avengers tower yet?

Is he looking for him? 

Addressing the camera again. Billy puts on a performance, acting like the fuckass showpony he always was.

Mind snapping back to the present he yells through a wave of anger “You gonna do it, huh? Or ya just gonna talk about it!!”

He’s tired and fed up with Billy's bullshit, he wants it to be over.

“You know what Frank, I will!” The man snarls back.

Snatching the knife from where he discarded it onto a table, Billy stalks forward, all untamed rage and predatory gaze. Checking to see if the camera is correctly focused, Billy kneels next to Frank's injured leg. Peering at Frank he asks in a sickly sweet voice, “Do you think the bullet’s still inside?”

Without waiting for an answer, Russo plunges the blade into the wound on his thigh.

A scream tears from his throat as he feels his flesh give way to metal, as the knife tears through his leg. He swears he feels the blade scrape at his bone.

Rivets of blood are finding their way to the floor as Frank struggles. The cuffs bite into his wrists as he moves, body tense and overwhelmed with pain. He can’t help it, he’s trembling, full on tremors and wracking his body as Billy twists the knife with glee. 

Fuck. He sees stars, his vision fucking gone. His lungs are tight as he wheezes, air barely whistling through his lungs. His gasps for air are only interrupted by his screams, as Billy continues to carve up his leg.

 “GODDAMN IT!” Another bellow is torn from his lungs as Billy yanks his knife out of Frank's leg and a spray of blood follows.

The Ka-bar sits in Billy’s hand dripping blood onto the floor and his hand. His leg is a bloodied mess. What was once a simple through and through bullet wound has transformed into something grizzly. 

Holy fuck it hurts. It hurts like a thousand needles sinking into his leg with every breath, made worse by the knowledge of who caused the wound. Billy takes one look at him and spits, “Pathetic Frankie.” He knows he should say something witty or sarcastic, but he can’t seem to get his body to do more than gasp for air.

Head lolling to the side, Frank catches a glimpse of Billy as he looks over an array of tools laid out onto a table. He’s in too much pain to care what he looks like anymore, he can’t even be bothered to look at his reflection in the camera. His blood continues to trickle down his leg, like a sick river of crimson. 

I want to go home. The thought echoes in his brain, a reminder of a life he no longer has, but at this point it doesn't matter if it’s with Maria, or with Red, he wants his ending, happy or not. 

Bill’s got another one of  those grins stretched across his face, and Frank can’t help the pang of loss that hits him. He used to see that same smile when Frank would take them all to the park, Maria, Lisa, Frankie, and Billy.

He’d thought he’d already dealt with the loss Billy, but suddenly, chained to this godforsaken chair, it hits him. The betrayal, the pain.

“Why Bill?” The question is no more than a whisper as Billy comes up next to him, “She loved you, we all did.” He swallows, tasting the sharp tang of his own blood, of regret. He’s had these questions bouncing around his head ever since Agent Orange, since William Rawlings was beaten to death by none other than Frank Castle.

Frank’s eyes lock with Billy’s as the scarred man just shakes his head in disappointment.

 “You just don't get it, do you Frank. It’s not about Maria or your kids. It was always about us. About Kandahar”  

“YOUR GODDAMN RIGHT IT WAS!”

He’s seething now, the yell of anger exploding out of him as he loses all rationale.

“YOU COULDA JUST LEFT EM ALONE!” Frank’s face breaks into something ugly, his walls crumbling at the mere thought of his kids.

“No, I couldn't have.” Billy's quiet as he responds, composed and the polar opposite of Frank's grief ridden figure. 

He can’t sort through his thoughts fast enough as the pain lancing up his leg distracts him. It clouds his thoughts as his brain settles on his tragedy.

“James," Billy calls, waving at a figure out of Frank’s sight. “Your turn to have some fun.” Russo’s tone isn’t mirthful anymore, as if Frank's emotional outburst has affected him. 

Bullshit he thinks, “Fuck you Russo! You're a goddamned fucking COWARD!”

The last word is screamed at Billy's receding back as he silently exits the warehouse. The other man-James-Frank thinks, is built like a fucking linebacker, well fuck him.

Frank just glares at the man standing in front of him, one eyebrow raised in defiance, “Lets go you piece of shit!” 

He’s baiting the man, too caught up in anger and pain to care about what's going to happen.

He’s lived this life full of regrets, no reason to stop now.

James is grinning now, like it’s finally his time to shine at the fuckin school play. Saddling up close to Frank, the man winks, before sending a blow straight into his ribs. 

Shit. It hurts. Bad.

He can feel the bruise already forming on his torso as he coughs and gasps for air. The restraints at his wrists dig in further and he can feel the telltale drip of blood running down his wrists. Spitting blood at his assaulter's feet, he tries to prepare his body for the next blows, but it's useless. 

The next punch lands in the same spot and he swears he feels his ribs shatter under the impact. Following in rapid succession, James’ punches rain down on Frank until he can no longer feel his body. He knows his face is a pulpy mess, and he’s probably gonna die from whatever it's called, newmo- no, pnumothor something. A goddamned punctured lung. He’d be lucky if he isn’t breathing blood in a few minutes.

Whatever Billy wanted to show the world, they'd definitely seen it, if Frank looks anything like how he feels. 

Fuck, he’s struggling to do anything, letting out these pathetic little wheezy gurgles, as he fights to stay conscious. His head, limp against his shoulder, falls forward, as a steady stream of blood pours from his mouth. I’m sorry Red, I hope you don't hear this. 

A pressure on his head tilts his face up, as Frank' s still defiant eyes meet James’. One fucking punch. A single punch is all it takes for Frank to lose his fight with consciousness. He’s out before his head can hit the chair.  

Chapter Text

Micro 

Out of the corner of his eye, Micro can see a small notification pop up on one of his computers, it’s a small unnoticeable thing, something he’d never seen usefulness for.

Until now. 

The inbox he’d created was full of anything and everything 'Punisher' mentioned over the past hour. Something to help keep tabs on Frank. The notifications were set to alert him if anything important showed up. He'd figured it could prove handy if Frank ever like died or something. 

Rolling his chair over to the monitor, he deftly opens the notification fingers flying across the keyboard before settling back into his spinning chair. It had to be a joke right? The link read Punisher Punished! Join us as we break Frank Castle. 

His finger hesitates over the link, but he doesn't pause for too long. And soon the link directs him to a live video. 

Holy shit. He can feel bile rise in his throat, regret overwheming him as he takes in the sight before him.

Frank looks worse than he did when Micro had saved him from Rawlings, and that's saying something, because Frank had looked like shit back then. His face is bloody and his nose looks like it's been broken for the 100th time. 

It's not the sight of his friend beaten that makes him nauseous, it's the look in Frank's eyes. Always burning with a raging fire, this Frank seems... Broken. 

The back of his hand is pressed to his mouth as he tries to breathe through the nausea.

That's his friend, and when it finally hits him that Frank isn't invincible, in fact he's very much the opposite and the sight on his screen only reminds him of it. The thought sends him into a flurry of panic he can’t control. He can’t save Frank, he can’t even call Madani. Wracking his brain for any way to get to Frank, to rescue him, Micro keeps his fingers busy, fiddling with code, he tries to hack into the live streams data base. Of course its fucking encrypted.

Nothing! Fuck him, he’s useless, he can’t even do anything! His hands are shaking even more as he stares at Frank's limp body.

Daredevil could help. 

The idea hits him out of nowhere, something borne of desperation and fear. But what the hell. Frank would probably kill him, but at least he’d be alive to do so.

Mind finally set on his goal, Micro is out the door and in a taxi in less than a minute. 

“Where to mister?” 

“Take me to the Avengers tower.” The driver raises his eyebrow in skepticism, but doesn't question Micro, as the yellow cab weaves through traffic.

Chapter Text

“Goddamnit! I need to talk to Daredevil! I’m not stupid, I know he’s here!” 

An intense panicked voice pierces through Matt's sleep. Tilting his head, he focuses further on the discussion taking place 20 floors below. 

“No please, it's important. Wait!” The voice hesitates before adding, “At least tell him I need to talk to him about Frank.”

Christ.

There's no fucking way. Scrambling out of bed, he’s suddenly incredibly grateful for his poor choice of sleeping with his gear on. Already suited up, Matt shoves his helmet back onto his head without missing a beat. 

It takes him about 30 agonizing seconds to reach the lobby, all the while recalibrating his senses.

Whenever he sleeps, waking up feels like a tractor hitting him, all his senses clamor for his attention, each one screaming louder than the others.

Normally, he takes time to filter out things by importance, to block out things that don’t affect him.

Normally, he has Frank most mornings to help him. 

Mind snapping back to the present, it takes all of three strides to find the man so desperate to meet him.

Tilting his head he asks, “What about Frank.” His tone is cold, deft of emotion. The man standing across from him is shocked, mouth hanging open as he processes Matt.

“Uh yeah, i-fuck. Have you seen the video?”

Shit, this can’t be good.

“What video,” he growls. 

“Look, I swear I’m not trying to hurt anyone, so if you could just take me upstairs, I could really do more to show you or help find him.”

He pauses before belatedly tacking on, “I’m David Liberman, or Micro. I don’t know if Frank mentioned me or not.”

Oh, this is Micro. The nervous energy practically falling off the man is nothing like Matt expected from Frank's stories. Not at all like Matt ‘pictured.’ 

“Come on.” Beckoning Liberman into the elevator, Matt tries to hide his feelings of panic from the man standing next to him.

“Look,”  Micro sighs, “I didn’t have the technology to find him but if I get access to a computer from Stark, I think I can find him.” Micro fidgets nervously, wringing his hands impatiently while looking at Matt.

Pausing for a second, Matt listens to the man’s heart. The steady thump, thump, rings true.

“Jarvis, call Stark and alert him of the situation. Tell him to be prepared to pass some tech onto Micro.”

The steady crackle of electricity alerts him of the AI’s presence, as the elevator dings. The detached voice answers, “Right away sir.” The next few minutes blur by, and Matt's not quite sure how, or what happens. 

“Alright DD, what is this?” Stark's quizzical voice cuts through the silence that blankets the room, confusion evident in his tone. He wishes he doesn't have to explain, that all the Avengers would just understand the situation.

Another reason why he’d rather be working with Frank.

When he was working alongside him, Matt rarely had to intone what he wanted done or what he was planning to do. It was like Frank knew what he was going to do before he did it. Other than the odd beat up session over compromised morals, Frank just got Matt. Understood him, traded him pound for pound.

He can’t afford to lose that.

With a sigh of exasperation and a pinch of fear Micro explains, “My name is David, or Micro and I’m a… uh friend of Franks.” Matt can hear the hitch in the teams’ hearts at the words as Micro plows on. “I’m assuming you haven't seen the video?” 

“We haven’t” Matt butts in, his tone sharp. He knows he's probably not being fair to Micro but he can’t find it within himself to care all that much. 

“Ok then.” A few clicks on one of Stark's keyboards follows Lieberman's words. “I feel I should warn you all though, it’s bad.” And with that gratifying sentence, a short agonized scream fills the room.

He flinches. Violently. And by the heartbeats of the other avengers, they’re fairing no different. Matt can hear Micro scrambling to turn the volume down, but it doesn't matter anyways. Because that’s Frank’s voice and Matt’s never even heard him sound like that before.

His heart is beating out of his chest, as his breathing grows erratic. He needs to calm down. He needs Frank.

Fuck this.

So much for the Man Without Fear.

Matt can still hear Frank’s screams echoing from the built-in speaker. He needs to be doing something, anything. But he can’t, because he has no way to track Frank, so Micro’s his best bet. “When was this recorded?” He demands, too impatient to wait for more information.

“Recorded?” Micro’s voice sounds small as he answers, “This is live.” 

With those three words, Micro has managed to tilt Matt's world off its axis.

His senses blur with dizzying quickness. Sick to his stomach, he jumps as a calming voice penetrates through Matt's panic.

“Daredevil,” placing a placating hand on his shoulder, Bucky squeezes in reassurance. It’s as if Bucky knows the fear and panic spinning inside his brain, like he understands exactly what Matt needs. Not one to pass on opportunities, he uses Bucky’s hand like a lifeline, a rope he uses to pull himself from the edge of a panic attack.

He has a history with torture.

Matt realizes far too late that Bucky isn't faring that much better than him. His own heart rate is elevated, breath quickened, as uneasiness seeps from the man.

It must look worse than it sounds.

And for once, Matt’s glad he can’t see the video, it may be selfish to turn away from Frank’s pain, but he doesn't think he would be able to stay sane if he had to see Frank in agony alongside hearing it. 

“Damn it!” a muffled curse slips from Micro’s mouth, “I need more, fuck, the firewall is too fortified, I need a stronger connection, otherwise this could take weeks.”

There has to be another way.

Matt’s about to open his mouth to ask Liberman, when the door to the conference room slams open. Stark stands in the doorway, phone clutched like a lifeline.

It’s a testament to the sheer panic he’s feeling that he didn’t even notice Tony leaving in the first place. The sounds of Tony’s panic begins to fill the room as he motions for them to all be quiet, and moments later, Matt senses a holo projection pop up from the middle of the table. 

“Oh fuck.” Micro’s voice rings out like a bell from beside him, his body gives a small twitch at the break in silence. Focus Matt.

His senses are scrambled, every noise pulses in tempo with his heartbeat, as he tries to reign in his hearing.

Focus.

The sound of hurried typing from Micro.

Stark’s harsh breathing.

The faint buzzing of electronics throughout the building.

The sound of Bucky’s arm whirring as he moves.

For a moment, a blanket of calm settles over him. The world slows. Then reality hits him like a train, as the world shatters back into broken focus, ripping away the calm he had found. 

 “What!” Tony’s voice breaks through his haze, focus snapping back like a rubber man stretched to the limit. There's a voice on the other end and it becomes clear that Tony is on a phone call, and not a happy one by the sound of his heartbeat.

“You bastard,” he seethes, “you want seven million dollars… for Frank Castle?”

Stark laughs, “your outta your mind.” 

What? Matt’s mouth goes dry. Frank is worth far more than seven million dollars. If he had to spend the rest of his life in debt just to find the man, he would gladly do it in a heartbeat. His body tenses on its own, moving to rise. But he is stopped yet again by a firm hand on his shoulder. 

“Wait,” Micro’s fingers fly deftly over the keyboard as he whispers, “ he knows what he’s doing.”

“You know what, maybe I am.” 

Matt shivers at the cold response from the man over the phone.

“You will wire the money to this number in the next hour, otherwise you’ll be getting a lot less of Castle.”

Something raw and ragged wells up inside his chest as he tries to breathe through his fear. The man over the phone is demanding, he knows exactly what he wants and how to get it. It’s efficient.

It works. 

“Who the hell are you!” It’s Stark again, refusing to leave the last word up to this stranger.

Another laugh from the other end, “Call me Jigsaw.” 

The line clicks dead.

Silence, it weighs heavy through the room as he processes. His stomach churns. Frank had told him of Billy. The brother he couldn't bring himself to kill.

The fucking irony.

Matt laughs, for once Frank had thought he was free, free of his past, of his burdens. Only William fucking Russo, the bastard himself could have come back to haunt them.

God! Of course, only Russo would drag Frank back to his past. Billy was the only man Matt knew Frank spared from his family's deaths, but the man had come back from the dead time and time again to haunt Frank.

He should have known Billy wouldn’t stay hidden for long. It was always too good to be true.

The Devil claws at his throat, begging to be let free. And damn him or wanting to give into it. The burning fire in his lungs demands release. Haven’t I earned the right to let go? How much is his soul really worth anyways. Less than Frank’s life. 

What if this is a test of faith? A voice that sounds like Father Landon soothes, what if the Lord is testing you as he tested Job. That’s the problem though, the underlying struggle with his faith. Then I have failed Father. Maybe he was never meant to be Job, maybe it was God’s plan all along. After all he’s always had too much of the Devil in him. 

The switch flips as Matt can feel his self restraint weaken then snap. “Micro, tell me you got a trace.” All but whispering, Matt waits, hope thrumming inside his chest. He needs this work out. 

He could taste the stress in the air, he could feel the anticipation rolling of himself in waves, could smell his own fear. Goddamnit, he was supposed to be Daredevil-the man without fear. But here he sits, fear ticking like a live bomb as it makes itself at home in his chest. 

He knows Micro’s words before they're spoken. 

“I think so.” 

The room deflates, as exhales fill the room.

A grin makes its way onto his face. Features relaxing from the tense scowl he wore after so much time was wasted. Clapping Micro on the back, he moves to stand up. Finally, he can do something. 

Frank won’t die, the only one going to hell today is the man that feeds off it. Because who else is better for this than the Devil? 

Nodding to Stark he rises to his full height, “Are you with me?” The hope that slips into his tone is unintentional, but honest nevertheless. 

“100% DD,” Tony flashes a smile, “let's go get our resident murderer back.” Matt can’t help but match Tony, as a wide grin spreads across his face. 

Turning to face Bucky and Steve,  a pang of guilt hits him.

He’s been an ass. His ego tells him to ignore the two, to leave them be in their own choices. But, the better part of him wins.

Matt settles his features before apologizing, “Steve, Bucky, I want to say I’m sorry for how I acted and treated both of you earlier, I was rash and I apologise for that, I had no right. I understand if you don’t want to come, you have no reason to, but we need your help, I need your help.”

His body tenses at their response, unsure of what to do next. Matt stills at the steady heartbeats of the two supersoldiers.

That’s unexpected, both Bucky and Steve don’t care how he acted earlier, their hearts beating out the steady drum of empathy.

For him.

A sad smile grows on Steve’s face as he pulls Matt in for a hug. In his ear he whispers, “It’s alright, you have nothing to be sorry for, I would have done the same exact thing had it been him.” Gesturing over at Bucky, Steve pulls away.

Bucky smiles, before finishing for Steve, “We're coming with you.” Relief floods his chest, emotions warring with each other as he struggles not to cry. “Thank you.” Voice hoarse and a little bit broken, Matt shakes Bucky’s outstretched hand. 

“Clint is still in the infirmary, but you have me.”

Natasha speaks from his right, voice confident and reassuring.

Warmth spreads through his whole body as the realization hits him, I am not alone.

“Let's go.” Tony claps his hands together, before leading them out of the conference room.

Matt hesitates for a second. Trailing back, he finds Micro and whispers, “Thank you.” Micro just shakes his head, replying with a soft, “Get him back for us.” Bobbing his head in acknowledgement, Matt catches the door just as it’s about to close, before slipping out to join the rest of the Avengers. Hold on Frank, it won’t be long now. 

Chapter Text

Frank 

The fuck?

A scraping noise reaches through his subconsciousness, pulling the dregs of his broken mind back from wherever they had scattered.

Frank feels like shit. And that’s putting it nicely. His heart thrums in time with the excruciating throbbing of his head.

Goddamn it hurts. 

Squinting with swollen eyes, Frank can barely make out the figure across from him. It’s not until his memory hits him like a hundred horses to the chest does he understand.

Billy.

Ah, how the fuck did he get here again?

His body feels slow, muscles unwilling to move at more than a snail's pace, as he tries to regain his bearings. “Billy,” he rasps.

That one word is all it takes for Billy’s attention to latch onto Frank. Whoops. His fucking throat feels like sandpaper grating together as he tries and fails to swallow his apprehension. 

“Ah Frankie,” the man across from him is a picture of disarray.

He wants to laugh, William Russo, anything other than picture perfect? Nah that’s bullshit.

Yet here he sits, shirt rumpled and bloodstained, normally combed hair, a mess of flyaways.

Man he looks like shit. Although judging from the strain his neck is getting from his head position, Frank probably doesn't look any better.

Goddamn pathetic is what that is. Can’t even raise his fucking head properly.

He lets an agonized groan slip from his lips as he tries and fails to reposition himself. The rattle of chains dog his ears as he locks eyes with Billy. 

You ever been tired Red?

He said that once. A lifetime ago it feels like. In that fucking graveyard, bone weary and broken from the loss of his family, he’d asked Matt if he’d ever been tired.

To which the bastard responded with, yeah. He chokes back a laugh. Yeah I think I’m done Red. I’m done.

Feeling that familiar wave of something wash over him, Frank knows that this time might be the last time. He’s done. He’s too tired now. So goddamn tired. 

Fighting for another lungful of air, Frank’s eyes flicker from the scarred face of Billy, to a flickering light in the corner of the warehouse.

Frank knows there's something wrong with him, knows deep in his bones as he zones out. Eyes unfocused, he can’t stop thinking about how tired he is.

Maybe he can rest.

The lamp he’s been staring at flickers again, its yellow light filling a fraction of the room, before plunging it back into darkness.

It continues, on, off, on, off.

He wonders when it won’t turn back on again.

Shit, he is crazy. He’s gotta be concussed. Finding himself focused on that fucking light, Frank watches it flicker.

On, off, on, off. On.

A figure, bathed in the soft yellow, he squints, peering through blood crusted lashes as he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing.

If he was any less honest, he could probably convince himself it’s a mere shadow on the wall. Unfortunately for him, he's nothing but honest and it really doesn't look like a shadow.

Still squinting, a thought flashes through his mind as he tries to lift his head a little higher.

He freezes. Stops breathing those horrible rattling breaths. Instead he stares, just that little bit harder at the figure.

The name is on his lips before he can stop himself, a whispered prayer and sinful wish at the same time.

“Maria?”

But no, that’s not right. Because if Maria was here that would mean he’s dead.

Which would mean his wife is here to bring him home. 

Regret floods through him, nearly overwhelming the relief he feels.

He’s leaving Red, alone. After everything.

The devil doesn't deserve the loss. He’d always wondered if the ones who go miss the ones who stay. Well, Frank finally has his answer.

Maria shares a soft smile with him before taking two small steps and stilling. Then her hands are moving, covering two smaller figure’s eyes from the sight of their bloodied father.

The motion chokes him, tears springing to his eyes, because no matter what, he can’t seem to protect them.

That’s what Maria was there for, to help where he lacked, to pick up where he had slacked off.

In a fluid motion she turns Frankie and Lisa to the wall, whispering something he can’t make out.

“Maria.” It’s not a question anymore but an assurance. 

He was going home.

Eyes half lidded and unfocused, Frank basks in her presence as she approaches. As she gets closer, he can feel the pain wash away, the pressure in his lungs begins to dissipate. Soon she stands next to him, eyes looking into his own.

 “Is it really you?” He blinks, trying and failing to hide the tear that paints its way down his face, “or am I dreaming again?”

His heart thuds, and he swears it’s trying to escape from his chest.

Goddamn it. Seen’ her, knowing it's all so close shatters his heart.

Were they watching what he did?

Did they see what he let himself become? 

Brain quieting, Frank leans into her touch as she caresses his cheek with her thumb. Her palm is warm, touch igniting warmth in his cold chest. That warmth begins to spread down his body, flooding into his veins like a drug. Her hand is on his chin, as she tilts his head up to look at her.

It’s like someone steals the fucking breath from his lungs. 

Leaning over him Maria whispers softly into his ear, “Live.”

She pulls back to look into his eyes as his brow furrows in confusion.

“Live for us.”

Her smile is soft and a little bit sad as she presses a kiss to his bloody forehead.

“It’s ok to live, Frank.”

And it’s like his heart shatters all over again.

 “No.” His voice is ragged as the word is pulled from him, “please, come back,” he begs.

His cries are useless as she pulls away from him, making her way back to the light she came from.

Fuck, no, no, his arms strain uselessly as he tires to reach out to her, to pull her back into one last embrace, the metal digs into his wrist, re-aggravating his wounds. He can see her still, bathed in that yellow light, a mere feet away from him.

She tosses one last smile over her shoulder, gazing sadly at him before stepping through a doorway he hadn’t noticed before. A choked sob escapes his lips, as his gaze drops down to his kids.

Lisa.

His little girl's name is upon his lips as she makes her way towards him. Once she comes close enough, Lisa flings herself at him, arms wrapping around his neck as she hugs him tightly, ignorant of his blood and tears.

“It’s ok daddy,” she giggles before pulling away, “we miss you too.” And she looks just like her mother when she walks away, all bright smiles and joyful grins as she gently grabs her brother’s hand.

Giving a short wave to him, Lisa turns around to face the doorway before joining Maria. 

The silence that falls once that goddamned door closes hits him like a brick wall. It's the kind of silence that presses on his eardrums, filling his head with its dull buzz.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he finally breathes, letting air whistle through his lungs in ragged breaths.

Breathe.

He winces as his lungs constrict, pain burrowing its claws into his side like a vice. Gone, gone, gone. He lost them again. That fucking light flickers again, before stopping, lighting the room in its glow.

Breathe. 

Goddamn it! He wants to scream, she was right there, they were right there. Yet time and time again he can’t seem to reach them. Always too late. 

“You here Frankie?”

Billy. He gasps as if he'd taken a cold plunge, eyes flying open, every semblance of peace he’d managed to find ripped away.

The sharp stench of the warehouse fills his nose as a soft groan is dragged from his lips.

This chair fuckin’ sucks. His ass hurts from being stuck in this fuckin ding dong bitch of a chair. He probably should worry about literally anything else, but his brain decided to say suffer more why don't you. Back=ouch. His anger returns, swift and hot in the form of annoyance. 

“Man, I hate seein’ you like this Frankie, I heard you say their names.”

Billy looks at him expectantly. 

Frank just cocks his head and growls, “And I just hate seeing your ugly mug, yet here we are.”

A smirk spreads over his face, as he watches Billy try to reign in his emotions.

“Your chair has got to be the worst thing I've ever had the pleasure of being tortured in.”

Billy scoffs, disdain apparent on his face. The scarred man starts to lean forward, as if to put his face in front of Frank’s. Then pauses as if he thought better of it, settling to lean back in his chair instead. Oh, he really wants to punch him right now.

The pain of seeing, no, hallucinating your dead family takes its toll, and Frank wants nothing more than to take it out on his former friend.

His breath hitches for a moment, body seizing as white explodes behind his eyelids.

He gasps, as each breath sends pain tearing through his chest. He lets his head drop as another wave of agony rolls through him and it’s all he can do to keep breathing, to keep living. 

Breathe.

His lungs constrict and he feels hot blood bubble at his lips, he chokes, coughing as he drowns on his own blood. The red liquid spatters on the floor, leaving scarlet droplets at Billy’s feet. He can’t seem to catch his breath, the walls tilt closer, closing in on him. 

Breathe.

He tries, for Maria, but his body won’t let him. He can hear his stubborn heart thrumming in tempo with the pulsing in his head. His bloody fingers scrabble at the chair, nails scraping the metal restraints as he struggles.

No. Wait. The light flickers again, or maybe it’s his vision. The room warps, spinning as his chin hits his chest despite his best efforts. 

Breathe.

He can’t anymore. It’s as if his lungs are sucking in anything but air. Darkness creeps into his vision, slowly filling the room with black. The light dims further as he twitches, still fighting. The light snaps out. Frank slumps over like a puppet with its strings cut.