Chapter Text
It was fucking stupid, really. Frank could just end it right there. He was tempted. Fuck, that extinguisher hammer thing – the ones used to break the glass in case of fire emergencies – was all but seducing him; inviting him to grab the damn thing and knock the man in front of him out cold.
Finish it once and for all.
“You okay back there?” The man said cautiously, his voice ringing out from behind him. And what was that – was his voice wobbling? Frank snorted at the thought. The big, bad 'Punisher' gave the poor guy the heebie jeebies, was that what it was?
Either way, Frank was startled back to reality, and reluctantly tore his gaze away from the potential weapon. Focus, Frank. He was bleeding out. He could feel it. The persistent dripping of blood down his thigh becoming a puddle of crimson in his boots. Shit, he could practically hear the fucking squelching every time he took a step.
“Yeah.” Frank muttered, eyeing the broad-shouldered man as they walked up the stairs, leaving the building’s war-torn lobby. Their footsteps echoed throughout the complex, ricocheting off the plastered walls and disguising the awkward silence.
Shit. Was it awkward? What did it even matter?
The man stopped before they resumed up the next flight of stairs, a hand on the railing, hesitant. “You sure you don’t need a hospital? Because – ”
Frank sighed impatiently, shifting his weight from one foot to another. Sure. Casual fucking chit-chat whilst he splayed the stairway with his seemingly never-ending blood. Bring it on.
“You, of all people, Red, should know that hospitals do us no good.” Frank grunted, before he shoved Matt to keep him moving. Perhaps not as hard as he would have with someone else testing his patience. He liked to believe it was because he was dying. What was that they said? A man became more generous once he realized his days were over?
Matt Murdock clenched his jaw, remaining resolute, not budging an inch. Hand still on the railing. Three flights of stairs until they reached his apartment. Or three in the opposite direction towards the building’s entrance, if he felt like telling Frank to go fuck himself.
“Yeah, you’re right, considering that you default to shooting them up anyway.” Matt deadpanned. Decision made. He continued to trudge up the stairwell, ears craning to catch any movement from the man behind him.
Frank scoffed, but remained silent. He matched his pace, and they climbed up together. More silence.
Not so awkward this time.
“Being led by a blind man. Huh. Can’t say it’s my first time.” Frank jested, voice still low, one hand on the stab wound near his abdomen. That motherfucker out in the garage had gotten him good.
Matt mulled it over before sighing. Okay, he’d bite. “Yeah? What makes you say that?”
He could practically feel the sly smirk that formed on Frank’s face.
“Because, Matthew, most commanders acted like goddamn blind men anyway, leading us into all those suicidal missions.” The gravelly voice rang out.
“Don’t call me that.” Matt protested, but his lips curved in amusement anyway. War and Frank. Frank and war. Where one blurred into the other, no one was able to tell. Two things that you just couldn’t differentiate.
Matt knew from the scent alone that it was his floor. The smell of his neighbor’s tulips out on her kitchen table, the cat named Lollipop next door, the leftover chili on the stove from the Mexicans that lived opposite him – they all mingled to become one singular entity.
Home.
They paused in front of his door, and he fumbled for the keys. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead.
Nobody rattled him the way that Frank goddamn Castle did.
“Not to rush you or anything, but I’m kind of dying.” The sound of heavy boots tapping impatiently. An intake of breath. A sniffle. Frank’s fixated gaze on his back.
How the hell did Matt find himself here anyway? Nursing a heavily-wounded Frank Castle, to the point where he had offered to patch him up at his own apartment?
He certainly wasn’t expecting to encounter the half-dead ex-Marine on his way back from a druglord’s basement, and should’ve fought it harder when the Punisher had wrapped a muscled forearm around his waist, a calloused hand clasped over his mouth to keep him from shouting in surprise.
The greeting itself had been formidable. He’d recognize that throaty timbre anywhere. The “Hey there, Red” wrapped the realization into a convenient package for him to process.
He’d never be rid of Frank.
“Yeah, you might die. But Pete Castiglione won’t. I’ve gotta say, I like him a lot better.” Matt nudged the door to his apartment open, the dark space only lit up by the neon billboard sign opposite his windows. Not that it mattered to him, of course.
Frank squinted at the attack to his eyeballs as they walked in. Why was this place so fucking pink? “Smartass.” He mumbled, heading towards the nearest couch and slumping onto it; head leaned back, legs spread, posture relaxed, the previously burning pain gradually becoming a dull ache he was growing accustomed to.
Fuck, that felt good.
Matt stood near the doorway, the image of the sight in front of him engraved into his mind — fueled by the sounds of Frank making himself comfortable.
Well, as comfortable as a man with two bullet wounds and several stab lacerations could be.
“I’d tell you to make yourself at home, but…” A smile played on Matt’s lips as he crossed his arms.
Frank huffed; eyes half-closed to avoid the harsh glare of the neon sign diffracting into the room. “You didn’t have to do this.”
Gratitude.
A smile ghosted Matt's lips. He headed towards his first-aid kit, one practically falling apart since it was frequented often after he took off his own mask. “You sure about that, Frank?" Raised an eyebrow. "You did give me that speech about how I don’t kill rapists and murderers, but would let a Marine die in my arms.”
Frank looked up at him from under his eyelashes, the irony not lost upon him. “If I can convince an attorney, what can’t I do, huh?”
He grimaced when he sat up, the bullet lodged in his stomach only just missing vital organs. A wave of pure agony overcame him, his entire body desperate for relief, blood cells working overtime. He waited for it to subside. It'd have to.
Matt’s brows furrowed in concern once he heard the sound. He made his way over to the man bleeding all over his couch, and sat tentatively beside him. “Come here.” Matt beckoned, steady hand on Frank’s forearm, who instinctively bristled at the touch.
A spark of something, Frank couldn’t decipher what it was, shot straight up his spine. He pulled his arm away from Matt instantly, glaring.
“Sorry, I –”
“Hey, the fuck — ”
They both spoke at the same time. Silence enveloped the pair as they each waited for the other to continue.
Frank glanced at the man sat beside him. Stubble littered Matt’s jawline, which was clenched, betraying how tense he was. Dark pink lips pursued. Hair ruffled. He wasn’t wearing the dark glasses he usually wore, and his gaze was unfocused. The unnerving mahogany eyes were aimed elsewhere – something that relaxed Frank slightly.
He’d never admit to that, though. Fuck that.
Finally, Frank sighed, another action that spurred a flash of blinding pain, before grabbing Matt’s hand with his own calloused one. Then, he gently placed it upon his forearm again. Frank looked away, towards the windows and the stupid fucking neon sign, as the large hand tightened on him and formed a vice-like grip.
Permission.
Matt acknowledged the movement with a nod, before turning Frank’s forearm over, and tracing a thumb over the gash there. From touch alone, he knew it was deep. But not one that needed stiches. Felt the crimson on his fingertips. Reached for the bandages in the metal tin beside him.
“How’d you manage to get cut here?”
Frank scoffed, shaking his head. “Last straw, yeah? Thought I’d end it all.” He joked darkly, nodding in indication towards his wrist.
Matt bit his lip in concentration as he firmly wrapped the gauze. “And here I was, thinking that you didn’t want to claim PTSD in that court case, all those months ago.”
Frank looked over at him then, curiosity flickering in his eyes. Surprised he still remembered that goddamn case, and its consequences. “You know, I – ” He began, before licking his lips. Water – when was the last time he’d had a glass?
Matt raised his head, waiting for him to continue.
They had all the time in the world, didn’t they? Two men who’d died long since. Two men who were all but walking corpses, happiness having been crushed along with their spirit - ages ago. Now it was simply a matter of waiting. Waiting for someone to see past the empty eyes, the façade. To render them worthy of being six feet under.
“You were good at that case. Great, even. Talking to those jurors. Being a laywer… it suits you, Murdock.” Frank muttered quietly, before clenching and unclenching his fist to examine his range of movement once Matt let go of his arm.
Matt chuckled in surprise, taken aback at the compliment. Shook his head in disbelief, before lowering it again, fixated on the injuries.
Somewhere, deep down where feelings came to life, Frank noticed what a nice sound it was. Joy. Pleasure. Clear, and soothing.
And… yeah, that had to be the pain-induced hallucinations kicking in. He needed fucking sleep.
“Would have won the case had you not pulled that shit afterwards. The whole ‘come get me, I’ll kill you all’ act? Seriously, Frank?”
Frank gave a nod as if in deep thought. “Well, Red, sometimes certain shit needs to be done. Yeah?” Looked him in the eyes. Knew that despite Matt’s pupils being unfocused, he’d be able to sense the gaze upon him. Uncharted territory.
Matt ignored him. “Take that stupid vest off, and lift your shirt.” He knew the bullets had to be lodged in deep, even though the asshole next to him would never admit to it.
“Shit, why don’t you take me on a date first?” Frank grinned, wolflike. He obliged anyway, and tore off both items.
Matt wasn't paying attention, though. The smell of blood overwhelmed his senses entirely. Copper. The faintest traces of perspiration. Grass. Cement. Matt heard Frank’s sharp intake of breath upon discovering the injuries on his bare torso.
Matt could all but hear the blood cells shifting within Frank in attempt to keep him alive. The pumping of blood, the steady beat of his heart, the labored breathing. No vital organs were in overdrive, none that he could hear anyway. Again, he reached out without thinking first – something he usually never did, not unless it was Frank Castle in question. His belief was that the wrong movement could end a life.
His cold fingertips scalded Frank’s warm skin, and Frank tensed his abdomen in surprise. “Stop that, asshole. I don’t need probing.” He growled, swatting Matt’s hand away.
"Why were you there?" Matt demanded, ignoring Frank's temper tantrum.
"Same reasons you were."
"Cut the shit, Frank. I saw what you did to them. It was personal, wasn't it?"
"Nothing they didn't deserve." Frank gritted, unwilling to elaborate further.
Matt considered calling Claire. Hell, he was practically itching to. There was no way he could wrestle two bullets out of flesh – not without a surgical instrument, not without antiseptic, and certainly not out of a man like Frank Castle.
But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Wasn’t going to drag her back into the hellhole he now called home – the constant injuries, the bloodshed, the life lived under disguise. She deserved better.
And Frank? He’d just have to endure the pain for now.
Not that that would ever be a concern for the ex-Marine. Matt wouldn’t be surprised if Frank was a masochist, considering how often he was bruised and bleeding. A permanent state for the Italian-American.
Matt was startled back to reality when Frank snapped his fingers to get his attention, once then twice. “Hey, hey, hey, Looney Tunes. You falling asleep on me?”
“Shut up.” Matt gritted, mind still working overtime. He’d have to stitch Frank up without removing the .22s.
Plan in place, he dug for his thread and needle, expecting Frank to protest.
If he did, it was never audible. Instead, he heard Frank shift again, seemingly settling into a more comfortable position once he had seen what was in Matt’s hands.
“Your vitals were missed. The people you go after really have to learn how to shoot better.” Matt tore off a piece of thread with his teeth, before expertly tucking it into the needle and leaning over Frank’s sculpted yet bloodied torso. Hovered it over the first wound.
He could almost visualize the careful rise and fall of Frank’s chest in such a moment of vulnerability. The slowed breath in attempt to keep calm. The slackening of his biceps.
“You need a drink?” Matt tilted his head towards where he kept his hard drinks – knew there was an unopened bottle of scotch in there somewhere.
Frank watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, face already blank and erased of any indication of emotion. “Nah."
Matt raised an eyebrow, but nodded anyway.
Then, he got to work. The first thread-through was always the most painful, where steel pierced flesh, inflaming the area further.
But Frank remained silent. His thoughts had since drifted miles away from the current situation he was in. He’d made his peace with pain a long time ago. It had become an old friend. Different types, never permanent. But always bound to return.
Matt used all of his remaining senses to ensure the stitching was as clean as possible, not straying too far away from the wound. The task distracted him. And he hadn’t heard a peep from the ex-Marine, so he kept working – fiddling with the string once every few seconds to ensure it was still intact. The warmth emanated from Frank’s bare skin – and what was that his hand just brushed against? A hardened nipple?
“You’re done.” Frank patted his back gently, startling him from his thoughts. He observed the dark-haired man leaning over him with faint interest, spreading his legs further apart to allow access to the other wound. The one that hurt like a fucking bitch.
Matt inhaled deeply before nodding, trying to regain composure. Then, he moved to the other side of Frank’s chest. He sensed this bullet hole as being near his ribcage, just under his left pectoral muscle.
“This might hurt.” Matt murmured, though it was useless.
Frank shrugged with one shoulder. “I’ll survive.”
“Life isn’t just about surviving.”
“How much are you charging me for the therapy session, huh, Doc? Need to invoice me or somethin’?” Frank snapped, drawing out the last few words the way he usually did when he was agitated, the undeniable New York accent finally making a return after all the gruff one-word sentences.
Shit, it had Matt’s lips curving all the same. He was amused, more than anything else. Exactly how easy was it to piss off this man?
“I’m just saying.”
“That right? Hate to break it to you, but I'm not here for your conversational skills.”
Matt’s hand hovered over the still gaping bullet-hole before he leaned back. Hands covered in blood. “Yeah?” Tested the waters.
Frank clenched his jaw, irritated. He narrowed his eyes at the man opposite him in defiance. They were of a similar height which lessened the overall effect, something that did nothing to extinguish his exasperation. God, his chest fucking hurt. He couldn’t even decipher where the fuck the hurt was coming from. Fading adrenaline made for a worse come-down than any narcotic out there.
“You gonna close me up? Christ, I’ll end you right here if you pull some shit like ‘we need to talk.’”
Matt smiled. “I’m tempted. Good communication skills are necessary for any relati - ”
"Shut your mouth, or I'll shut it myself."
"You think you can threaten me in my own house, Frank?"
"Apartment." Frank corrected.
Matt sighed, and realized arguing at a time like this was useless. Not to mention, Frank seemed five minutes away from passing out due to blood loss.
He couldn't let that happen. Not on his watch. A few minutes passed as he tried to locate the gaping wound again.
Frank reached for Matt's hand again — warm over his own — and carefully placed it over the wound, helping Matt find it. He cleared his throat before removing his hand from Matt's.
Something in the air had changed. He was no Matt Murdock, but he could feel it.
Matt resumed the stitching, ensuring the thread was pulled in tight. He tried to ignore the sharp intake of Frank's breath at a particular poke-through.
The ticking of Frank’s jaw. The tapping of his foot on the hardwood floors. A hand through his hair.
"You a nurse, Red? You've obviously done this before. And I'm not talking about the little scrapes from your daily playground fights either." Frank prompted, arm over the back of the couch. He massaged his temples with his other hand, willing for the exhaustion to fuck right off.
"My dad. He was a boxer." Matt answered ruefully. A bitter smile ghosting his lips. "Guess you could say he took quite a few punches."
Talking made the work easier, Matt realized. Easier to ignore the splattering of blood as he worked on skin.
"He'd sit at the kitchen table and ask me to bring the box over. The first-aid box. The thing was practically falling apart, by then." Smiling faintly at the memory. "We often found ourselves talking about our...days, you know? He'd ask me how school was, stuff like that, whilst I stiched him up back together." Matt cleared his throat.
Frank listened attentively, fixated.
"He usually lost by choice, said there was always purpose behind a loss. He —" Matt seemed to remember his surroundings, and exited the trip to memory lane.
"Don't know why I'm telling you all this." Matt murmured. He had to lean closer to the hot and bloodied skin, had to break the thread with his teeth.
Frank tensed involuntarily again at the brief contact, before weighing the thoughts that had begun to pile up on his mind. Considered them carefully.
"Nah. Go on."