Chapter Text
After he told Red about Lisa—why had he done that?—time seemed to slip away. All of a sudden they were up and away. He knew he was limping, could feel the pain radiating through his foot and leg with each step, but the world spun and he felt like he was flying. Over rooftops, down alleyways…they might have been walking for ten minutes or ten years, Frank couldn’t be sure.
With each step, the pounding blood in his ears told him the same thing. Leave, it said, take off while you still can. He’d rather bleed out in a dumpster or go to lockup than feel Daredevil’s stiff shoulders under his arm as he leaned against that stupid red suit.
And yet.
Pulse—pulse — pulse —
Frank was on the floor, his back up against cold metal. Red stood over him. The darkness of the room was too inviting, as his mind tore at itself, relief battling the urge to fight the man in front of him.
***
Getting Frank back to the apartment took longer than Matt had hoped. By the time he deposited him on the kitchen floor, it was well into the night and Frank was nearly unconscious. Anyone with half a brain could follow the trail of blood from the Irish warehouse back to Matt’s apartment, but he couldn’t worry about that right now, not with The Punisher bleeding out all over his tile. He grabbed his medical kit and a stack of old towels.
He was still not sure why he hadn’t left him for the cops.
He was not yet prepared for the fallout from this, not prepared to explain to Frank why he hadn’t turned him in, but as he pulled off the boot and sock and cleaned the wound, he made himself forget about it. At least for now.
He had not turned on any lights in the apartment, so all Frank had to see by was the city light from the open window. He knew Frank was still conscious because of his labored breathing and the slight movements in his neck. Propped up against the dishwasher, Frank was looking down at him where he sat hunched over the wound.
“Red—” Frank said, almost a question, and Matt was about to answer when Frank’s head fell back against the dishwasher and consciousness slipped away. Matt turned back to his foot, feeling sticky heat on his hands.
He had tracked The Punisher obsessively, following the sharp smell of blood until he was running on instinct, cutting through the Irish like he was untangling a knot. That’s what most of his fights had become; one big puzzle, as though every swing and step were a move on a chessboard. In the last twelve hours Frank had just become one more piece, and Matt’s job was keeping him alive, keeping him from killing.
Suddenly it had turned into keeping him out of prison, though even as he cleaned and stitched up Frank’s mangled foot, the doubt arrived, settling over him, terribly familiar. It was one of the few constants in his life, always leaning over his shoulder, ready to whisper uncertainties in his ear.
Had he done the right thing?
***
Momentary panic greeted Frank as he woke—where was he? Why, who, how—? Then it came back, trickling in frustratingly slowly; the Irish, the power drill, the dog. Daredevil.
He was sitting on what could only be Red’s kitchen floor. His leg was stretched out on top of a pile of old, bloodstained towels. His hands were bound behind his back, and when he pulled he felt the dishwasher behind him give a slight lurch. He ran his fingers over the metal bar under the machine to which he was handcuffed. He looked up at the counter and scanned quickly for weapons, forks, knives, even a spatula, but Red had made sure anything and everything was out of his reach.
He made himself sit still and listen. He couldn’t see over the sink and counter into the rest of the apartment, but he could hear movement coming from nearby. Red. He opened his mouth to shout at him but shut it immediately. Hold it. Assess.
He’d always been good at reading a room, even on severely limited information. It had saved his ass more than once overseas.
Red was pacing, back and forth over the wood floors of what was probably the living room.
Translation: he didn’t know what to do. He regretted bringing Frank here and now wasn’t sure what to do with him.
In his uncertainty he would make a mistake, and when that happened, Frank would be ready.
***
In the living room, Matt walked in helpless little circles around the couch.
He couldn’t turn Frank in, that ship had sailed, and he couldn’t let him go, not after everything he had done. Regret, more accusing than before, welled up inside but, as always, he kept it just out of reach. After a point it became a hindrance. He had made a mistake, and the further down he sunk into remorse, the more difficult it would be to fix it.
Frank was awake. He was listening. Matt stopped in front of the couch and listened to his steady heartbeat.
He should walk over. Frank would need food and water and would probably need his bandages changed. But the thought of standing in front of him in what he knew would be full daylight sent a thrill of nerves through Matt’s stomach, followed instantly by annoyance. Of all the people of New York, why should he care what Frank Castle thought of him?
But he stayed where he was.
He was still in his uniform, and as much as he told himself it wasn’t true, he knew it was because he didn’t want Frank to see his face. Once that happened it would be only moments before he would figure it out. One particularly cruel ex had once described his eyes to him, open and staring and sightless. Creepy, she had called them.
Frank was listening to his every movement. Matt could practically hear his brain whirring into action, trying to find a way out of this. He clenched his jaw and went to change, slipping into one of his work suits and a tie. After a moment’s hesitation, he put on the round glasses. After all, in a way his black suits were even more of a disguise than his red one.
***
The bar behind Frank was thick, part of the underside of the dishwasher, but as he ran his fingers over it he felt cracks and holes in the surface. The thing was nearly rusted through. He tugged slightly and felt a bit of it give way, flakes of rust falling into his bound hands.
He could hear Red’s approach. His own, steady pulse in his ears seemed to count down his footsteps until suddenly he was standing right in front of him. Frank wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t a pressed suit.
His eyes traveled from the scuffed shoes up the black fabric that he knew must hide a menagerie of bruises and scars, and up to Red’s face. He’d never seen his hair before, and was slightly surprised he even had any under that stupid horned mask. It gleamed auburn red in the morning light. It looked soft.
His mouth was bruised and open slightly, a cut pulling at his top lip that Frank knew he’d put there.
He looked away quickly when he realized he was staring.
The brief, dark impressions he’d gotten during their brawls had been miscalculated. He was young, younger than Frank. Though on second glance, probably older than he looked; dark circles and fine lines surrounded a pair of dark red glasses.
For a moment Frank wondered if he was wearing them in one last-ditch attempt to conceal his identity, but then Red reached one hand out towards the counter and there was something about the way he touched it lightly before leaning his weight against it, about the way his head tilted slightly to the side as though he’d rather listen to Frank than look at him. A vague memory from the middle of the night. Red had stitched him up in the dark.
“Guess it makes sense,” Frank said, resisting the urge to cough when he heard the growl of his voice. “You couldn’t hear the other night. That’s why I could sneak up on you.”
Red said nothing, but tapped a finger on the counter and clenched his jaw.
“So what, did you get bit by a radioactive fruit bat?”
“Chemical spill,” he said, voice flat.
Frank nodded. That worked too.
“Why am I here, Red?” He asked, because he was sure that his captor did not know the answer to that question any more than he did.
Sure enough, Red said nothing, but Frank could feel a nervous change in his energy.
“I’ll tell you why I’m here. You finally get it,” Frank said, even as he knew it wasn’t true. Red was too stubborn. “You saved my ass from the Irish, you dragged me here away from the cops ‘cause you know that it’s working, the people I’m putting down are staying down. You know you can’t argue about it anymore.”
Red snarled, nearly baring his teeth.
“You’re starting an all-out war, Frank, and how many more innocent people are gonna get hurt before it ends?”
He knew where this was going; Red was gonna bring out the guilt trip, compare his gunned-down victims to his gunned-down family. Rage boiled up immediately but he kept it in check.
His fists clenched around the bar behind him.
“Then why am I here and not in a fucking prison cell right now?” He asked, his voice going lower as the anger—anger at Red’s suit, at his condescension, at his stupid fucking lips—it prickled at him, wanting out.
“Lemme guess,” he said before Red had a chance to answer. If he could dodge bullets and fight off the mob, he’d be able to hear Frank trying to break the bar he was cuffed to. Keep him engaged, keep him distracted.
He forced a smirk onto his face. Different tactic. Discomfort. Wouldn’t be too hard with a good Catholic boy.
“You want to hurt me, can’t help yourself. Your dirty little secret is you like the pain even more than you like playing the hero. You’re gonna patch me up and set me loose just to hurt me all over again.”
He remembered Red’s psychobabble on that rooftop. Two could play at that. He would root around until he struck a nerve. Like a game of fucking Operation.
“You can’t have me locked up, ‘cause you need me out there, don’t you?”
Red’s nostrils flared and Frank’s smirk turned genuine. More rust fell over his hands.
“You need someone to crash into, someone to lord it all over.” He laughed, suddenly. “Bet you loved having a fucking nemesis, didn’t you? That’s how you thought of me. Bet you even liked tying me up. It’s okay, I liked tying you up too, watching you squirm around useless. You wanted to get even, couldn’t stop thinking about it, right?”
Red’s body stiffened.
“You want to see me all powerless and weak while you stand above me, thinking you won. I remember, felt the same way. Didn’t know how good it would be until it was happening, ‘til I was hauling your ass around, unconscious, chaining you up against that chimney with the fucking gun in your hand. And your face when you woke up, so scared, your mouth hanging open when you realized you were on your fucking knees, ‘cause that’s where you really want to be isn’t it, on your—”
“Shut up!” Red banged his fist against the counter and it was all Frank needed. He pulled up hard, all his strength on the bar and it splintered behind him.
He was on his feet in an instant, and though his foot pulsed in pain and the room swam white, he jumped over his arms so his cuffed fists were out in front of him. Red had only just realized what was happening when Frank rushed at him, shoulder connecting hard with his chest. Red flew backwards and hit the wall but he seemed to just bounce away from it, already swinging a fist at Frank’s head. He ducked and aimed a kick, grabbing onto the counter for support.
The black suit swam before his eyes. This couldn’t last too long. He had to get out before the blood loss and pain dropped him back on the floor.
Red seemed to realize this too. Frank jumped backwards over the counter but, too slow, Red grabbed his bad foot and pulled him back, the pain setting fire to his nerves. Movement was suddenly impossible, and Red’s face swam sickeningly above him. He found himself on his back on the counter, Red standing over him with his arm up against Frank’s throat. They breathed hard for a moment, almost in tandem, as Frank’s senses returned.
Red was pressed between his legs, their bodies lining up perfectly as he leaned Frank backwards over the counter, snarling face only inches away. Even baring his teeth he somehow managed to pout. His lips were as red at his tie.
Frank could feel the entire length of his body against him. He felt his heart skip a beat.
Red flushed brilliantly, the snarl fell away and his eyebrows twitched up in surprise. The weight of his arm lifted ever so slightly.
Without stopping to think, Frank threw his cuffed arms and plowed his fists into Red’s left ear. Red fell back with a yell, hands over his head, and Frank leapt off the counter and onto the floor.
He scanned the room in a second, but even as he made for the outline of a fire escape on the other side of the living room window, the image twisted away. Fog rolled over him, into his ears, into the edges of his vision. He fought it, stumbling forward for a moment, but fell to the floor as the empty whiteness took over.