Archive of Our Own

Frank had been ready to bide his time.  To let the Fisks and their joke of a task force think they had cowed him.  Successfully broken the caged dog and left it to rot alongside its ilk.  He had believed that he’d get free on his own terms on his own time.  Getting caught wasn’t really the plan but it was only a hiccup compared to the shitshow going down across the city.  He’d had a plan, a real simple one.  Break out, get his gear back, kill every taskforce member he can find on his way out.  He’d had a plan, right up until the moment they threw a barely conscious Red into the cage next to his.

He looked like shit.  Worse than shit honestly.  Somehow he still had the boots and pants of his suit on but the jacket, vest and cowl were gone leaving him in just a filthy bloody tee.  Almost every exposed inch of his arms were covered in bruises, burns, other wounds and dried blood, there was a cut on his temple and finger shaped bruises around his neck.  He couldn’t even sit up properly, seemingly only being held upright by the too tight chains and side of the cage.  Though the worst was the dark stain extending from the bullet wound on the front and back of his shirt.  The perfect boot print over the wound on one side was a detail that made his jaw clench so tight it ached.

It was hard to tell time down here, almost certainly on purpose.  He’d seen through interrogation training, he knew the tactics.  But he was pretty certain he’d been down here for two maybe three days, sleeping in fits and starts.  Keeping an eye on the guards, the task force goons, the other vigilante prisoners and looking for a weak point.  He knew to stay stoic or fawn, to not let his guard down even for a second, even whilst asleep.  He’d been tortured and interrogated before, and just like all those times they had found his true weak point.  Though whether it was an accident this time was another question.  

His weak point was too easy to find.  Never himself, but the people he cared for.  The people he loved, despite all his defences.  Somehow they’d managed it again.  Found one of the few idiots in New York stupid enough to love him back, or at least care and left him bleeding just out of reach.  Left him there for Frank to spiral analysing the wounds, reading the story of pain written there in meticulous detail.

He couldn’t let them see how it rattled him.  He had to settle back in, go back to his routine.  Even if his gaze was now focussed just a little more to the left.  On the man who had followed him into hell.  Knowingly or unknowingly, as always led on by a suicidal sense of justice.

When Matt comes to all he knows is pain.  He tries to categorise it, make some sense of the garbled input.  There’s the small obvious things: the metal bars of the cage digging into his back, the tingling numbness and ache in his arms and hands from having them hoisted up above his heart.  Then there’s what he remembers: the cuts and bruises and scabs that pull along his limbs, the knee that was purposefully dislocated then reset throbbing, the tightness in his throat from the hands he thought would kill him.  Finally there’s what he fears: that festering stench of infection, the heat slowly spreading across his blood and skin from the bullet wound.  The clean dressing Karen had so carefully applied back at Frank’s safe house so long ago long gone.  

He forces the obvious to ground him.  The bars aren't just hard, they’re cold despite his body heat.  The room beyond is cavernous and damp, concrete if he has to guess by the resonance of footsteps.  There’s multiple other people along its length based on the mixture of breath and heartbeats, most static, likely caged like him though he doesn’t hear many other chains.  But a few are roaming, likely guards taken from the task force or some other Fisk controlled organisation.   The surface corruption and underworld of the city blending together under his unifying lead.

He knows he should have listened to Karen.  She was right that this was a suicide mission, too stupid a choice to make, even in his worst days.  But he’d heard them torturing people, torturing him, heard Powell laughing and something about the mayor being back soon.  He couldn’t stay away, couldn’t retreat and let them take over tonight.  Karen was right though, he’d made it maybe ten minutes before they knocked his legs out from under him, kicked him in the head and the bullet wound before dragging him away.  The memory blanks out in places and all that’s between then and now is pain.  Snatches of their laughter overlaying his beating.

It’s the sound of a sharp intake of breath towards his right that pulls him back from trying to piece together his memories.  There’s a stutter to it, but he knows that heartbeat, maybe better than any other.  How could he have passed over it before, a couple of metres to his right is Frank.  Based on the jingling of chains he’s likely trapped as well in the same raised cuffs.  He can’t tell much else though, his own wounds obscuring the finer points of what smell and taste could give him.  He considers thanking God that his hearing is still intact but worries against tempting fate.  The last thing he needs is another blank out leaving him vulnerable.

“Red, you alive?”  

Frank’s voice is raised barely above a whisper.  What little sound he makes is obscured further by the fact he’s pretty sure he’s still looking forward rather than at him.  There’s a set to his voice like steel, not the raw emotions of the last couple times they saw each other but instead something closed and careful. 

“Yeah… I think.  Unless we’ve ended up in Hell together.”

His own voice feels too loud but he lacks the control to modulate it.  His throat is sore and dry, bitten tongue swollen and lips chapped around splits.  Every word is an effort beyond what he expects. 

“You need to rest… I’ll keep watch”

Frank’s voice remains controlled, his motions practiced.  No doubt to a stranger he seems at ease though maybe uncomfortable, but he knows the caged fight dog for what it is.  A sniper, an ambush predator, waiting for his prey.  

It’s hard though not to agree with Frank, he feels oblivion already clawing at him.  Though whether it’s sleep or unconsciousness is a question he can’t quite answer before it pulls him back under.

Waking up from one of his snatched moments of sleep to see Red conscious was a surprise, though it quickly became clear it wasn’t a pleasant one.  His voice betrayed more than his body did, that what had happened to him hadn't been quick or pleasant, at least as far as beatings go.  Something in his tone told him Red hadn't expected to wake up at the end of it.  The way that realisation had shot through him was a problem for another time, it had to be.

His own body ached, less from his wounds than from being stuck in the same position.  Though based on the rotation of the guards, he knew he was probably alright standing for a while.  Some of them preferred to keep everyone down, force the pain over a stranger kind of suffering.  The fuckers who had designed these cages knew exactly what they were doing, the chains were rigged to either hold your arms overhead and force you to endure the pain, or to stand until you were unable to from exhaustion.  Seemingly a special torture saved only for Red and himself out of the two dozen or so stuck down here.  The padded cuff restraints were a nice touch, basically inescapable as no dislocated thumb or blood could help you ease your way out.  Their captors were fucking well planned professionals at torture, and despite his failure in getting caught, he could be one in escaping as well.

At least as long as he didn’t let his emotions get in the way.  Stealing a glance he finally realised why Red looked so vulnerable to him.  It wasn’t the wounds, no he’d seen him beaten half to shit and still joking around in that bitter painful way, nor the lack of armour.  He was just as deadly in pajamas or his lawyer suits as the devil costume.  Fuck he’d seen his ass in the last 72 hours and that hadn’t bothered him nearly as much.  It was his eyes.  

Always so guarded, the one thing he hid as both lawyer and devil was just out there for anyone to see.  He’d only really seen him without something covering them in public once, holding his girl on a rooftop as she died surrounded by fucking ninjas.  The image seared into his mind, pairing his bare face with vulnerability forever in his mind.  Even after all the time they’d spent together since, even after all the ways they’d known each other since, it had stayed.  Nobody saw his true face until he let them, and they’d ripped that choice away.

Fuck.  He really had to get back on target.  Find a weak point, exploit it, get them out of there.  He was on a timer now, get Red out before he has to carry him out.  No more long game, biding his time and lulling them into a false sense of security. 

The last thing he needed was them figuring out that his true weakness was sitting in front of them.  Practically gift wrapped.  Though he didn’t know why the idiot had done that to himself rather than a sensible tactical retreat.  He'd probably yell about that with Karen if, no when, he gets them out.  But for now, he has to wait and plan all over again.

His second time waking up in the cage wasn't any better besides the fact that he now at least knew where he was.  He couldn’t deny that knowing Frank was there and watching his back wasn’t reassuring either.  Focussing through the buzzing swarm of the pain, he could tell he was standing in his cage.  Leaning back against the bars with that same practised ease.

“Morning Red.  At least I’m pretty sure it’s morning based on the shift change.”  His voice is that same softened rumble as earlier, obscuring his words from likely anyone except their intended recipient.   

“How long did it take you to figure that out?” His voice still cracks and aches but at least this time he expects it.  The information he can get from talking is more useful than trying to preserve it.

“About as long as it took you to show up,” there’s a soft chuckle after it.  “I ended up here about six hours after you left.  The Taskforce wasn’t really interested in hearing the truth about their clown lives from the Punisher.”

“Oh okay,” the realization hits him with a wave of nausea.  “How many days? I…”  He trails off, unsure how to frame the uncertainty of his own situation.

“Best guess, three days.  It’s always the same horrible half lighting but this was shift change seven.”  He can hear him changing position, the noises of the restraints bouncing off the walls around them.  “They usually leave some food and water around about then as well.”

Now that’s useful information which he’d rather act on right away.  He tries to stand, painful and slow as it is to move on the knee that still won’t fully bend or hold weight without gasping pain. Goes to the fragile paper cup and unwrapped block of something sitting on the ledge in the door gap.  The noises that the chains make, so close to his ears as he reaches for the rations, are like a thousand tiny blades slicing at his fractured landscape.  The block has the acrid taste of a cheap protein bar, and a worse texture.  He tries to force it down, knows he can’t try to heal on meditation and sleep alone.  The water is a little more successful, though it’s undoubtedly stale tasting and the small cup does little to quench the ever-present thirst lingering in his throat.

“That’s grim, though I suppose you’ve had worse.” It’s second nature to try and start joking again with him as he goes to stand leaning at the back of his own cage, at least he hopes it’s the back.  Otherwise his head might be worse than he thought.

“Yeah nah, mres are pretty good compared to that shit.”  He swears if he could get his senses back under control he would be able to hear Frank thinking.  “So how’d you end up there, looking worse than I’ve ever seen you.”

“Didn’t listen to a mutual friend.” He can’t bring himself to say Karen in here just in case she’s stayed in the city against better advice.  “Went to see what the Red Hook development was all about a couple hours after we found what we’d been looking for.  Ended up in Powell’s hands instead.” He knows his breath had turned shaky at the recollection, “turns out he really holds a grudge.”

And Frank really isn’t buying the attempt at humour there.  He doesn’t really care, he just wants to pretend this is some story he’s telling at the end of a busy month for the Devil in whatever half abandoned building Frank had been shacked up in a few years ago.  Back before Frank had left the city on some job and his life had crumbled whilst he was gone.

“Geez Red, I knew you were an idiot but not that bad at decision making.”  

“Pot, kettle, Frank”

“Yeah yeah. Anyway, I’m working on this… situation.  But I need reassurance from you.”

“Oh like what? ‘I promise I won’t run headlong into another unwinnable fight’?”  The sarcasm is practically dripping from his tongue.  It pairs all too well with the taste of cheap protein bars and old blood.

“I wish, no more like I let you in some marine shit Red.”  He’s evidently stalling on his point.  “No guarantee we’ll both be awake by the time we make it somewhere safe, so a triage checklist wouldn’t hurt.”

“Yeah that makes sense,” now to see if he can actually put off telling Frank anything.

“Come on Red, I'm pretty sure yours is longer than mine.”  The humour in his voice falls flat long before it reaches him.

No luck there, he’s tempted to minimize as much as he can and slink off to lick his own wounds as soon as they’re free.  But the concern Frank’s trying so hard to hide has a way of burrowing under his skin, it always has.

“Fine, okay.”  Another shaking breath as his mind fights the idea of sifting through the memories of pain.  “Definitely dislocated my right kneecap, they put it back as well, just left it a few hours first so it hurt more.  My whole body hurts but that’s probably as much from throwing myself off the sixth floor onto a car as the beating.”  That gets a subtle hum of agreement, maybe a nod if he can trust the smaller sounds of moving fabric and skin.  “Broken ribs.  No internal bleeding or lung damage though, I’d be feeling a collapsed lung by now.”

“Can’t say I’d want to feel that again.”

“When did you get a collapsed lung?”

“Same time you dropped a building on yourself, not worth rehashing now.  So shut up and finish the list.”  

“Fine.  Got hit on the head pretty hard, I think the cut clotted though, and I can still hear.  So I’m probably not badly concussed if I am at all.  Powell choked me out as well, still feels like his hands are there…” he trails off, not wanting to think any further on it.

“Red?”  The simple use of his nickname snaps him back.  “Anything else?”

He knows Frank’s asking about the bullet wound.  It’s a reality he’d rather not face either, but it’s only fair he tells the truth.  He deserves to know there’s no way he’s getting them both out cleanly.

“Shoulder’s still fucked.  They definitely kicked it a few times.  Hasn’t been cleaned or covered in something not filthy since Karen did it.  I hope it’s just my senses being scrambled but it smells like infection.”  He’s ready to shut himself off entirely, but he knows he owes Frank the same assistance.  “Your turn.”

“Mmhm,” in comparison his response seems measured.  “Whole body hurts but that’s half your fault from before like you said.  Black eye, split the skin on my cheek under as well but that’s already healing.  Otherwise they definitely broke my nose, again, and popped the stitches on my shoulder but that's just gonna scar uglier than it already was.” 

His heartbeat is steady, even, truthful.  Unless he’s got much better at lying to him in the last year and a half he was right.  Out of the two of them, Frank is getting out of here alive and Matt will be lucky if he’s dragging him out unconscious after.  It’s both a certainty and a thought he doesn’t want to entertain.  He’s faced down death before and he could do it again, even if sometimes he’d rather not have won. 

“My turn on watch.  You know morse code, right?”

“Red…”  There’s that gated concern again, the kind he’s sure Frank would rather he couldn’t hear. 

“Marines, yeah.” So what if he wanted to double check.  “I’ll find a way to tell you if I need you, okay.”

There’s grumbles, most definitely disapproving, in response but he still hears Frank settle.  Waits until his breathing is slow and even with rest before he sits on his own joke of a mattress and tries to stay vigilant.

He’s used to the nightmares.  Even a good decade on, Maria and the kids there and then gone, though he knows the details of the soft things he dreams before the pain have faded over the years.  Sometimes a tween version of Leo or a younger Amy still on the run lies bleeding instead before him.  Even more rarely he sees others, though those are better ignored and bittersweet with pain of his own making.  David and Sarah, Beth, Karen, Matt; they’ve all haunted his nightmares with bloody hands and lips over the years.  He still wakes suddenly, still sleeps in small bursts.  It’s just normal now to wake up sick to his stomach with dread.  This time though, it’s because he can’t forget what he heard Red say.  

Three whole days of pointless torture at the hands of that shitbag, and he couldn’t even tell how long.  Best hope is that he was passed out for most of it, only to be dumped into a cage to wither away on show for the mayor and his equally evil wife after he failed to die.  If he gets the chance to kill them he won’t stop this time, both Fisk and Powell need to die.  Along with the rest of his joke of an anti-vigilante taskforce.  Those fucking pigs couldn’t do anything without the mayor protecting their asses and reputation, nevermind turning the city on itself by triggering a blackout and using it as a trap.  His trigger finger is itching, fists unconsciously closing and unfurling in preparation for what they deserve.

Nevermind that he got himself stuck here, a miscalculation drawn out from the rejection Red and Karen had given him to go and follow their grand moral quest.  Surely he’d remembered what an offer of coffee, or anything really had used to mean between them.  Those nights after they’d run into each other or planned a shared ambush, where offered coffee or booze turned into something more.  Sometimes they just talked, about intel they’d gathered, or their lives, or just about nothing.  Sometimes it was hurried casual sex, burning off adrenaline in time to sleep before Red had to return to some semblance of normality in the morning.  Other times it was kinder and unhurried, a tenderness there born of some desire neither of them seemed willing to vocalise.  Preferring instead to fill the times he was in the city with action like they were delaying the inevitable.

Maybe it was the fact that Karen was back, he saw the way she looked at him if the call hadn’t been obvious enough.  Maybe he really was as changed as he’d claimed when he’d shown up unannounced a couple of weeks ago trying to exorcize the devil in him.  Either way he can’t say it hadn’t stung to have swung back from that easy partnership, fighting together in the wreck of his apartment, to something more estranged.  

It’s right as he’s trying not to stew in the days old rejection that the dickbag in charge decides to show up.  He doesn’t actually hear the first thing Powell says as he comes sauntering up to their end of the rows of cages, instead it’s drowned out by the roar of blood as he sees what he’s wearing.  The fucker went and stole his vest, the symbol of this life he chose through suffering, and he’s wearing it like a fucking trophy.  Like it’s something he earned.  It makes him sick.   

It’s not exactly a feeling that eases up as he stalks right past him and slams a nightstick into the bars of Red’s cage, startling him out of whatever meditation bullshit he said he was doing.  Not that he ever quite figured out how it was meant to help.  Red, like the insane wounded stray he is, simply turns and bares his teeth at him.

“Not so fucking high and mighty now, counsellor”

There’s a venom dripping from his tone that stings in his ears.  Red wasn’t fucking joking when he said he was holding a grudge, though he doubts he’ll ever find out the exact origin of it.

“Officer Powell, I wasn’t expecting to meet you again.”

That bratty attack lawyer tone of his works well enough, though not much could hide the undercurrent behind those words.  There’s very few polite ways to acknowledge the man you know tried to kill you, but he’s fairly certain Red knows each and every one.  He’s probably put them all to good use over the years.

“Cut the bullshit,” Powell may sound more controlled now, but he can’t hide how the anger contorts his face from anyone but Red.  He can’t hide the way his face is still bruised from getting too close to him during his attempt to persuade their idol, the Punisher, to join them.  “The mayor has been very pleased to hear you’ve made your way here.  In fact, he congratulated my team on their work, trapping the Punisher and recapturing the devil in one night.”

It’s clear Powell knows he’s at least a passive participant in this conversation.  Why not make it so that he’s an active one as well.  Really spice up Powell’s day.  It’s not like he’s got much else to do.

“I thought I told you clowns you weren’t worthy of wearing my fucking symbol.  Nevermind my fucking vest.” 

He keeps his tone low, no need to start yelling the way sound carries in this place.  Just lets that serrated edge to his words convey it instead.

“You could’ve come around,” Powell’s attention is decidedly on him now.  “Instead you chose not to see sense.  Now you and your friend here both get to know how forgiving Mayor Fisk can be when someone hurts his people.”

He punctuates his points with another sharp slam of the nightstick into the bars, almost as if he doesn’t trust his own threats.  It still stings to see Red subtly flinch again against the noise.  He tries not to let it show, figures it's worth drawing all the attention back over.

“Well the Mayor and I have had an agreement for a good few years now, he knew what was coming.”  The memory of Rikers all those years ago, back when he hadn’t quite aligned the two halves of Red isn’t easily forgotten.  He still plans on keeping that promise, at the very first chance he gets.

“Well maybe you can remind him yourself, don’t get too comfortable Castle.”  

The fucking coward can’t seem to find a better way to end the exchange than that, lingering a moment before half marching off back down the long cavernous room.  Leaving a trail of echoing footsteps in his wake.

The air has barely had time to cool from the exchange when another fucking intolerable voice pierces through.  This time though it’s from the upper east side fucker, still dressed in a tux of all things, more or less directly opposite him in the offset rows.  The first two and a bit days before Red had been dumped in here had been more than enough time to judge his fellow prisoners and find them wanting. 

“Well, that was interesting… I suppose you both have a history with ‘Officer’ Powell?”

He could almost laugh when Red responds.  The smartass lawyer persona in him returning to the fore just for a moment.

“Oh you have no idea”

Matt wakes hot, then cold, then hot again from his increasingly fractured sleep.  Shaking with a fever he tries so hard to meditate away.  He can’t admit that he’s losing this war with his body, with the taskforce and Fisk.  He won’t admit that he’s sliding towards the inevitable precipice.  Just wakes and works his way through an imagined rosary until his mind goes quiet again.  Fragments of nightmares he can’t remember dig into what little composure remains, marrying themselves to the fever chipping away at his composure.

Karen had told him he’d die or kill if he came down here.  He didn’t kill, and he still has some stubborn hope he can prove her wrong on the former.  No this is nothing like that night at Josie’s that he will never forget as long as he lives.  Here there’s a heartbeat that’s always steady, grounding him, just a couple of metres to the right at any time.  The mix of desperation and resignation from the others caged across the long room is nothing compared to her desperate words and Foggy’s strained final breaths.  Sounds he knows he will never forget, that will likely haunt him beyond his own death.  It’s what he deserves really.  He still failed them by not knowing it was coming, by not understanding that things had been too good for too long.

No, here he just has to keep going.  Sleep, meditate, keep watch, eat the rancid facsimiles of food they leave them.  He just has to ignore his shoulder, the scent of sickness and death crawling into every last crevice of his nostrils.  The way it burns even when he feels so cold he could freeze.  Shaking as the warring fever and damp seize his bones and wrestle fresh pain from old and new wounds. 

Here he has a job.  Watch out for Frank and live to spite it all.  It shouldn't be so difficult, even when the nature of his relationship to Frank is still undecided.  Not that he’d ever tried to ask where they stood, he was fine with just being something casual regardless of what he wanted.  He knew he couldn’t replace what he’d lost.

Somehow, in the quiet hours when he ends up awake and alone, only his sleeping fellow prisoners and distant guards for company, he's reminded of the stories he used to hear at St Agnes in the years after the accident.  One in particular comes to his mind over and over, one Maggie had told him and another boy, he thinks his name was Sam, one year when they were resisting helping with Easter at the church.  Unhappy to watch, or in his case listen for, the younger kids and play nice to attract the charity of the less devout congregants.

She had told them that it was once believed that between his death by crucifixion and resurrection Jesus had stormed the gates of Hell, and freed all the unworthy trapped there.  They'd called it ‘the harrowing of Hell’, for three whole days the demons of the world had trembled in fear of the divine wrath.  God’s only son meting out justice down below for the sake of all mankind.

He knows he deserves to be imprisoned here, but he can only hope someone will come to free those who don't.  It has been longer than three days, but in those quiet moments he can still pray for a deliverance that's unlikely to come. 

This time the nightmare had seemed like a dream.  He'd thought it was a respite, some old memory his subconscious had dredged out for comfort.  Red, no Matt, was in his arms like he had been back when they had that no strings attached thing they refused to actually acknowledge.  He was in his arms making that contented hum that came after a good fight and a good fucking.  Then suddenly his hands were sticky with blood, the smell of rot and infection filling his nostrils.  That hum he realised he’d give anything to hear again replaced with a death rattle as hazel eyes stared accusingly up into his, before they went dark and hollow.  

Only the rattling clink of the chains reminded him where he was when he startled awake.  He was in a fucking cage, and Matt was in one too.  A lingering look to his left confirmed he was at least still alive, chest moving despite all he'd been through as he sat asleep on the foam pad mattress, back leaning on the bars.  He’d obviously been trying to hide how badly he was doing, both from the taskforce guards, and from Frank.  Like he couldn’t still read him after all this time.  

He knows he shouldn't be looking so obviously.  Even after the conversation with Powell a few days ago and the whole thing with him showing up to Red’s apartment to cover him during the blackout, he's still trying to keep up the idea that he doesn't mean half as much as he does to him.  He knows the guard on shift in here right now is a fucking mean son of a bitch, but he also knows hes more lazy than anything else.  Unlikely to walk to the far end of the room when there's good prey up the other end.

“Psst”

He’s interrupted from his thoughts by tux fucker of all people.  He’s clearly trying his best to be inconspicuous, and is obviously also not a man who was raised or trained to be subtle about anything.  Wealth may buy many things, but in his experience it’s never subtlety.

He decides to just respond with a look, and fuck him doesn’t it work.  Though he's not entirely sure he wanted it to.  

Instead of stemming the other man back to silence it provokes him into more noise.  Responding with a somehow louder throat clearing before his mouth opens ready to start blabbing in his stupid generational wealth accent.  The only way he can think to shut it down quickly is another sharp expression, tensing his face into a scowl whilst putting his pointer finger in front of his lips in the hopefully universal symbol for quiet.

Another point for his nonverbal communication when it’s clearly understood.  Rendering another apologetic look from the suit wearing fucker.  He still seems desperate to communicate with him though, instead pointing and over exaggerating as he stage whispers the phrase: “can you lip read?”

This conversation must just be inevitable.  

“Yeah, now what?” He returns.  Voice low, making sure his face is clearly in view.  A quick look confirms the guard is still busy somewhere down the other end of the rows of cages.  Tormenting some other idiot who got himself caught in there with them.

“It's about him,” even going out of his way to emphasise with a quick point in the direction of Red. “How bad is it?”

He really has to strain to keep himself under control, the anger and fear he usually tamps down with violence threatening to spill out in worse and much more vulnerable ways.  He can't let this arrogant, wealthy hero type get the better of him, even by accident.

He settles on an obviously sarcastic, “How do you think?”  He's tempted to look away after, but worried that it'll reveal all the emotion he so carefully tried to conceal.

“Ah,” his face crunches briefly in concern.  “I was there when he jumped in front of the bullet.”

The concern is evident, but it just makes him angrier.  To so carelessly dismiss that he knows Red’s identity, the thing he's fought so hard to keep separate for so long.  It makes him angry, it makes him sick.

“If you make it out of here.  If I let you out of here.  You do not tell a single soul what you know about him.  Am I clear?” 

He lets the Punisher slip just a little.  Teeth bared and watches the tux wearing fucker balk.  He's probably too rich to even bother properly maintaining some kind of identity, just brushing off mysteriously similar skills as some eccentric hobby.  He hasn't dedicated his life to a cause like he has, he doesn't struggle to keep justice night and day like Red.  He probably just goes out and deals vigilante justice for fun.

“of course, of course.” The shock and apology are evident on his face.  Only overtaken by confusion as he registers the rest of the statement.  “What do you mean by if?”

“I have a plan-”  though that's all he can get out before he registers the guard walking down their way.  Any attempt at collaboration, no matter how much he dislikes his options, will have to wait for another day.  There's no reason to delay any chance at escape by once again attracting the wrath of those guarding them in this sick fucking excuse of a prison.

So instead he just sits, with an empty gaze out toward the space in front of his cage.  Sits and listens to the scrape of jackboots on concrete and the tragedy of Red just out of his reach, shaking with fever and nightmares.  Each clink of the chain, pained noise and feverish mutter driving him further beyond that point of no return.

He’s lost all sense of the passing of time, long since having given it all to resisting the fever and pain wracking his body.  It almost haunts him, envelopes him physically in its thickness and noise.  He's still trying to mark time by the watches he insists on splitting with Frank, though he knows the shifts he's letting him take are getting shorter and shorter.  The time between a haze haunted by ghosts and memories.

Right now he's fairly certain it's the afternoon, if not early evening, based on the heaviness of the guards' steps as they wander in aimless circles around this pale imitation of a prison.  He knows Frank is probably watching as well, able to pick up on the more minute details he'd probably not know the same even if he was in some better state, his senses unimpacted by it all.  No doubt it will pass the same as every other day, an uninterrupted crawl, or perhaps what little he can pick up on from beyond this cavernous space will bring some change to the day.

He hears Frank stand up and settle himself at the back of his cage, no doubt in some careful display of complacency and dignity.  Though he can't bring himself to do the same.  Just sits as still as he can, willing to hide himself as much as possible without appearing terrified.  Someone is definitely coming, someone important enough to make the usual guards panic a bit.  Bringing them to sharper attention than their typical bored and aimless state. He doubts it's a long list of options. 

It's Fisk.  He can hear the taskforce members whisper across the room that it's the mayor and his wife. He's come here to see his torturous paramilitary experiment brought to pass.  To gloat over them, his ensnared vigilantes, trapped in cages like the wild animals he’s compared them to.  A cruel zoo of human misery.

He can't tell if the nausea rising in him is from the fear or the sickness finally taking over.  Either way he knows he has to fight it to maintain some measure of control, the only avenue right now being the meditative breathing techniques Stick had taught him all those years ago.  His mind controls the body, not the other way around.  The fog of it all clears slowly letting back in the space around him, and with it the quickened rate of Frank's heartbeat.  

He places his hand flat on the bars, the signal they’d worked out for when they needed to communicate without being seen.  Waits for it to be greeted by the scrape of a boot toe against the floor, the return signal to say that Frank is watching and ready.  He exhales and focusses, tapping a closed fist or flat hand against them to make out the dots and dashes they hope the taskforce guards can’t read.

“It’s Fisk” 

Each letter takes too long to not be brief.  He hears Frank make a small noise of recognition before he replies, leaving Matt to focus on decoding the taps and scrapes into letters and words.

“Alone”

“No. His wife too”

This again draws a curious noise from Frank.  Alongside several slow purposeful breaths whilst he thinks.  He’s so caught up in the rising panic amongst the other prisoners and half the taskforce that he almost misses his response.

“How long”

There’s not even time to reply before the door at the far end swings open, letting in the sounds of heels clicking on concrete and strong purposeful steps.  They’re out of time.  It’s too late.  They’re already in the room, striding slowly yet purposefully down the lines of cages towards them.  They’re out of time, they’re the most unprepared they’ve ever been.  Everything he fought to control is rising up again.

“Mr Murdock.”  Even after a decade, his voice still strikes a horrifying fear deep within him.  “I trust you understand the consequences of returning to your vigilante charade.  I did warn you, much like how I warned so many others here.”

“I’m afraid I’ve never been particularly good at listening to threats.” He can tell the intended fight, the biting tone, falls flat from his cracked voice.  “I take it this is how you repay everyone who saves your life?”  

Instead of a reply, a guard nearby must have slammed his baton into the cage.  It’s the only explanation for the sudden crash that sways his limited balance, leaving him kneeling, head bowed and gasping for breath.  Unable to filter out the sensory input, he can hear and smell and taste everything.  Death looms in the corners of each sense, sickly sweet rot.  He feels eyes on him, not just from Fisk, but the taskforce, his fellow prisoners.  Like a hundred tiny, invasive touches on his exposed skin.

“Even the most feared men can be broken, I should know.  But unlike you, I have been able to rise again.  It’s such a shame you’ve chosen to die here, but such are the consequences of your actions.”

He keeps his head bowed, fights the nausea and the saliva pooling in his too dry mouth.  He doesn't want to submit, instead he’s clinging to the fine line between dignity and survival, seeking the grounding presence of Frank's steady heartbeat beneath it all.  He knows he’s dying, that despite what he’s heard Frank muttering about an escape plan this cage will be the last place he sees.  

The feeling of eyes on him lifts as he fights the urge to gag.  Hears the footsteps as they move across, away to his left, evidently done with the bloodied ghost of the Devil who once stalked them.  No need to see the waking corpse puke up his meagre rations.

“Mr Castle, you seem to have forgotten your promise to me.  Perhaps this new outlook of yours means that you will be amenable to Dr Glenn.  She has been interested in you for such a long time.”

Hearing her name finally breaks him.  The relationship wasn’t exactly going to last, but to know that she’s working with Fisk after everything is one way to end it.  She never believed him, not a single fucking word he ever said about how much danger they were all in.  Her obsession with unmasking violence hiding the worst of it from her.

“Though, I doubt how willing she would be after you have been blamed for the death of Mr Murdock.  Such a shame that a man of your talents had to waste his freedom over a little misunderstanding with my taskforce.”

Faintly, he hears Frank tense, heartbeat racing like a jackrabbit in his chest.  The chain rattles slightly as his muscles wind like a tightly coiled spring, and the creak of his molars as he tenses his jaw.  He doesn’t move to attack though, just inclines his head like a dog showing submission.  He hopes it’s calculated, some attempt to keep them both alive for a while longer.   

The following sounds of Fisk and Vanessa walking away and distant speech prove him right.  The icy fingers of fear slowly uncurling from where they had gripped deep in his stomach.  He’s certain at least Frank will be alright when he feels the chains attached to his wrists grow lax.  They’re still there but now at least long enough to sit, or maybe even lie down, without his arms being hoisted up over his heart.   He’s so tired, he trusts Frank to keep watch whilst he sleeps.  His last thought before he falls is of Frank watching over him, some other time in some happier place.  The only thing close to heaven he’d ever see, that he’s sure of.

It worked.  His feigned display of defeat, combined with Red real distress had got their chains loosened.  At least he could sit now to think without that building ache.  He had more reach as well for what was to come.  All good things.

Still he knew he was running out of time.  Red was running out of time.  His periods of coherency and consciousness were getting shorter and shorter, he knew couldn't even try to fight his way out now.  Right now he's laying down, finally able to, shaking with fever.  He can't tell if he's awake but honestly even if he was he doubts he'd be coherent.  It’s not a thought he can linger on though, not if he wants to keep his focus.  All he has is the mission, the emotions can come after.

He's going to have to let that tux wearing fucker and the others help.  He’s not a fan of it, but he needs someone to cover his ass if they’re going to make it out alive.  They’re all the same kind of freak as Red.  Self-sacrificing hero types.  They’d probably all offer to help if he asked.  Oh so virtuous, in a way that makes him sick.  If being trapped and tortured here hasn’t taught them that this city, this world, isn’t a place that needs heroes then he doubts anything will.  

He knows, if he gets him out, it won’t have taught Red that.  He’d just have strengthened his resolve that Fisk needs to be stopped.  But never by a bullet, not in any way that could actually keep him down.  How he ended up so connected to him must be one of God’s sick jokes, giving him a wannabe martyr to watch over and want and care for...  But it’s still a chain of events he knows he’d choose again.  He’ll simply hope they can forgive him when this is done, and he has time to count the bodies he’ll have bloodied his hands with.

He’s identified his perfect target, the guy on the late night shift.  The one they leave out when the others go to get coffee or smoke or whatever those clown scumbags do when they’re not parading around in their terribly painted vests and gloating over their prisoners.  He’s got this almost reverent respect for the idea of ‘the Punisher’, and unlike the rest of them he doesn’t seem to understand Frank wouldn’t piss on them if they were on fire.  In other words he’s perfect.

“How's it going.”  He knows he's got his attention when he stops pacing and looks over.  “What do they call you?”

“Anthony” and oh he's too excited to be talking to him.  It almost feels too easy to reel him in, just a little more faked interest and he'll be putty in his hands.

“Anthony.  You got a last name?” 

“Anthony Petruccio.”  

That's all he needs, just enough details to convince this sucker he could care.

“Anthony Petruccio. That's a good name, strong.”  One last detail to bait the hook, “where’ you from Antony?”  

Hopefully just enough interest he doesn't notice how he's getting ready.  Pulling himself to his feet, getting ready to strike.

“Jersey”

He's coming over now, ready to talk.  Clearly believing the show he's been putting on, that he's changed his mind and wants to make amends.

“Jersey.  I, uh, I thought so.  Had a feeling.”

It's enough to bait him into a full conversation.  Enough to convince the sucker to take his hand when he sticks it through the bars and claims it's an honour to meet him.  He never had a chance.

The sickening crunch of bone is like a wakeup call.  The time for patience is over, he gives over and becomes the Punisher again, brutal and efficient.  There's a clarity, a cleansing feeling to the way he goes limp when he slams his skull into the bars of the cage.  An ease to the way the keys pull from his belt, opening the soft cuffs and then the door.  He drags him into his old spot and locks him in before moving on.  Anything to ease the path.

His obvious first act on getting free is to unlock Red’s cage, the next he can’t quite explain. 

“Hey!”  That one word is all the heads up tux fucker gets before the keys to the cages are slung through his door slot.  “We’re outta here.  Your choice what you do now.”

Inarticulate as it might have been, tux fucker clearly gets his point, if the clanking and scrabbling behind him means anything.  He doesn’t really care though.  He made a promise to Karen, he made a promise to himself, and he intends to keep it.  They’re both getting out alive, no matter what he has to do to make it happen.

He tries not to think about the way Red flinches when he pushes open the cage door and steps inside.  How he recoils as much as can as he kneels beside him to open the restraints, curling back into the corner in agonised movements like that would protect him.  Worries about what he thinks is happening to him. 

“Red, come on, it's me.” He tries to keep his tone light.  “Come on, we're getting outta here.”

The words don’t seem to reassure him, instead leaving him shaking his head like he’s trying to clear a thought away.  It takes him grabbing his hand and writing ‘real’ in morse to get him to stop struggling enough to let him start working on the restraints.  Gathers him in with one arm to try and apply a comforting kind of pressure to the least visibly injured parts of him.  Despite his care he still feels him flinch under him with a hiss of pain, and it almost breaks him all over again.

“Can you stand? Or am I going to have to carry you out?”

“I thought you didn’t go in for the whole hero thing Frank”

Red’s attempt at a joke is hollow, the laugh at the end dissolving into a wet sounding cough.  The shaking of his body again draws those subtle signs of pain he’s trying to hide.

“That wasn’t a no, Red” That’s basically all the warning he gives him to grab on before he wraps his arm around his waist and lifts, as gently as he can, until they’re both standing.  Starts limping them out of the cage and takes stock of the scene.

Tux Fucker has been busy.  He’s set a solid half of the remaining prisoners free with the keys now in the hands of someone else who’s continuing to do the rest.  A few are bolting the second they get the chance, the much smarter move in his opinion, whilst Tux Fucker and a few others have improvised weapons and are currently fighting anyone trying to get in from the main guard area.  He spots a crowbar and some plumbing equipment closer to the far end of the long room, close to a locked door.

No, not just a locked door.  There’s the wiring for a fire exit sign hanging over it.  A way out away from the chaos, maybe even one the taskforce hasn’t cared to check or guard. He really can’t tell if Matt’s doing that thing where he’s half in his head or just totally out of it as he's fully trusting Frank to lead him away from the brawl obscuring the main exit.  Walking as fast as he can without dragging them both down towards the exit strategy he's hoping for.  Collecting the crowbar and a wrench, which he entrusts to Red, before reaching the closest pair of support pillars to the door.

“I’m gonna get this door open.  Cover me okay.”

He’s honestly not sure he can even trust him to do this, but it’s worth trying.  The whole echoey space is a mess of sounds.  Tux fucker and his hero brigade are busy fighting their way through most of the remaining guards at the other end of the long room.  Idiots he hates that he’s grateful for.  He's busy trying to pry the door open, too busy to notice the man approaching from behind.

“Frank!” 

He's really glad he gave Red that wrench.  Turning at the shout of his name to see it connecting with the side of Powell's head.  The skin over his ear breaks open in a bright bloody show, splattering down onto the stolen skull marked vest as he stumbles and falls to his knees by the pillar Red’s been leaning on.  

He thinks he could laugh at how stunned the fucker looks, almost does until he pulls Red down with him.  Slamming the same shoulder as the bullet wound directly into the concrete pillar and drawing out a sound that strikes fear and rage deep into him.  There’s a dark bloody trail on the concrete where he’s fallen.  The fucker’s pinning him, winding up to punch down at Red.  The wrench already knocked out from both of their grasps.  He’s pretty sure he’s trying to spit some vile insult but he doesn’t care to make it out.

Stalking up on his position only to grab him by the collar of his shirt where it rides up past the edge of his old vest and bodily drag him off of Red, as far as he can get him before he loses his grip.  He knows he can’t spare Red from hearing it all, especially not in this place where sound echoes and carries like nowhere else he’s ever been.  But he knows he can drag him far enough that he won’t get caught up.

“Stay back Red.”  He barks it like the order it is, trusts that the severity of the situation passes through his words.  He’d tell him to run but he knows he’s not making it anywhere on his own.  He'd try though, he knows that for sure.

Powell twists under him, hooking an arm around his knee and pulling him down.  Frank knows he’s strong but that he’s no match for him in a fair fight in his current state, wounded and hungry the only choice is to fight dirty.  He reaches for the fucker’s gun the same time he tries to pull the crowbar from his hand, the two of them battling for dominance.  He lets everything else go and feeds himself to the fight, kicking the gun away when he can’t get a good grasp on where it’s fallen.  Better to do this all with what he can trust.  

Powell’s weight on the crowbar is pressing into his now definitely cracked ribs as he leans further into the attempt to crush him down.   Perfectly repeating his mistake from when he’s got himself caught on the way in, and this time he won’t waste such a perfect opportunity on a headbutt.  No the fucker’s ear is just perfectly placed in front of him, his hand ready to grab at the wound Red gave him on the other side of his skull.  He feels the slight shift of a fracture under the weeping blood as he does, biting down on the shell of his right ear as he digs in head angled to rip it away as the fucker starts back in pain.  Tearing his ear halfway off and filling his mouth with blood as he surrenders control.  He can’t bring himself to hate how much he enjoys the taste, the blood in his mouth soaking into the growl dying in his throat.

He takes the chance to get the upper hand and flips them.  Trapping Powell’s hands beneath his own torso as he kneels on him.  Discarding the crowbar, tossing it to the side.  It’s useless to him now.  Instead he raises one hand to his throat and forces it down in a chokehold, joining the knee on his chest in depriving this fucker of oxygen.  His other hand forms a fist, slamming into the blood covered face under him again and again.  He’s not sure where he ends and the avenging animal in him starts, he just knows what he’s doing is right.  That it's justified.  Over and over and over, his knuckles are split and bloody when he half hears and half feels the crack.  Sees the brutal, sick fucker under him go still, eyes vacant and cold in a way he fears will haunt him once this is all over.  

It’s done.  Powell is dead on the floor and he’s covered in his blood.  

Matt’s still behind him, leaning heavily on that pillar and barely conscious.  Still clutching that rusted and bloody wrench he must have reclaimed.  Ready for whoever comes at him next.  Though the rest of the so-called taskforce of dirty cops seem busy chasing down the rest of the escapees.  If nothing else those supposedly heroic idiots will better his and Matt’s chance at survival, even if they are absolutely top of the mayor's shitlist.

Before he can get too close Matt tries to swing at him, only to realise it’s him and drop the weapon entirely.  With it seemingly goes the last of his strength, knees buckling as the shaking wracks his body.  He’s entirely dependent on the pillar to stay up and even then Frank knows he probably has moments left to catch him before he hits the floor.  

“Hey, hey,” there’s no time for fear, he has to move.  “Red, sweetheart, we… we have to go.”  He puts an arm directly onto his uninjured, well less injured, shoulder and gently squeezes.

“Frank, Powell he’s…” he trails off.  Another shudder runs through him, making it all the more obvious how much he’s relying on Frank to keep himself up.

“I know”  and he knows he’ll pay for it later.  Once he’s safe and well Matt will come for him full of righteous fury.  Claiming that he’d deserved to live and face justice, even when he knows no such justice could actually come.  That Frank shouldn't kill for him, because of him.  For once he’s willing to take it, if that means that he’s ever faced with the full fight of the Devil again.  It means he kept his promises.  He doesn’t need to say anything more as he half carries him out of the empty place that had become their Hell.

He knows knocking on Curtis’ door after curfew is deeply stupid, but he knows going in through the window would be worse.  At least here maybe a nosy neighbour calls in a tip and risks bringing the wrath of the task force down on the whole building.  If he comes in through the window it's a certainty they’ll end up shot.  And he didn’t drag their asses halfway across Brooklyn in a storm to die on a fire escape from friendly fire.  Instead he’s stood at the door soaking wet and Matt’s propped between him and the wall, purely because he’s less conspicuous that way.

He expected to hear the click of a safety lowering behind the door, what he didn’t expect to hear is Karen’s voice from behind it.

“Who’s there? You have 30 seconds to explain yourself.”

“Hey lady, got any change?” 

The door’s flung fully open faster than he thought possible.  The real kicker though is the sound she makes when she sees them.  Like she’s choking on the sight alone.  Her face twisted into some horrible expression in an attempt to stem tears, one hand rising to cover her mouth.  She steps back to let them in, and suppresses another choked noise when he has to fully lift Matt to get him in.

Thank fuck the noise of them coming in woke Curtis.  By the time Karen has them in his apartment and the door fully locked behind them he’s walking in.  Still in his pajamas, with his prosthetic barely on properly.

“Frank?” His whole body visibly changes when he sees the state the two of them are in.  Bloodied, broken and soaked to the skin.  “Fuck.  Keep him up for 30 seconds.  That’s an order, okay.”

Before he knows it there's a camp cot in the middle of the floor and Curt's running bags in from the back of a cupboard.  No, his med kit.  The full field gear he didn’t think he still had.

“Put him down on the cot.”  Muscle memory kicks in and Frank obeys.  Quickly, carefully, just like he was taught. 

“I got him to tell me what they did to him.”  He pauses, waits for the affirmative to reel off the list he wished he didn't know.  “Broken ribs, dislocated and badly relocated right knee, whole body beating, cigarette burns.  He had a bad cut on his head, they choked him out, and he knew the shoulder wound was infected days ago.  He’s burning up, already was when I got to him a few hours ago.”  

“Fuck. Frank, I’m impressed he’s still breathing.  How long?”  He's working whilst he asks, cutting away clothing to try and gauge what Frank probably couldn't tell him.  Every inch of dirty, bruise mottled skin being exposed eating at his composure more than the near constant rumble of thunder ever could.

Frank doesn't even get time to respond.  As Curtis moves his hand to the stretch of shiny red skin around the seeping open wound on his shoulder Matt comes to.  And true to the devil, he comes to swinging.  Fighting against strange hands exposing him and his wounds to imagined new attacks. 

“Red.  Matt.  It's us, you're safe.” He tries to calm him, throwing himself between the two of them.  Cringing as he drips dirty, body warmed rainwater down onto him.

“Not Frank. Not real.  Don't touch.”  The words are harsh and panted out in his broken voice, accompanied by a few powerless shoves.  Even those are enough to seemingly exhaust him into collapsing again.  He thinks he can hear Karen making those choked sobs again but all his attention is focused on the man in front of him.  The sharp shallow breaths and flickering eyelids.

“We need to sedate him, Frank.  Can't help him otherwise.” He's aware Curt's treating him like a wild animal, trying to keep him calm with slow steady words.

“Okay, yeah”

He pulls back but hovers still.  Watches the careful methodical process of Curtis administering the IV and meds.  Watches as the man he's killed for more times than he’d ever admit somehow becomes more limp and lifeless even as his chest still rises.  Watches the fight that had kept him alive those days in hell bleed away, replaced by terrifying stillness.

“What do you want me to do Curt?  Give me something…”

He knows Curtis can read him purely by the tone of his voice.  The desperation there, nevermind the way he knows his hands are shaking or how fucked up he must look.  Covered in blood and grime.

“I need you to sit and do nothing.” He goes to argue but Curtis isn’t done, “you’re filthy, first off.  You’re shaking, probably also at best dehydrated and running on adrenaline. The last thing I need, the last thing he needs, is you giving out mid task.” 

“Curt-”

“If you really have to do something, keep watch.  Tell us if you can’t anymore. Understand?”  The tone of his voice tells Frank there’s no point arguing with this.  

He does, and he manages to communicate it with a nod.  Keep watch for taskforce, for cops, for nosy neighbours.  Watches the rain roll down the window and tries not to flinch and shout at the increasingly rarer flashes of lighting and thunderclaps.  Keeps on doing what he’s been doing, watching over the few people he has left.  He even takes the gatorade Karen passes him without argument, better to keep himself ready in case they’ve brought the trouble to Curtis’s door.  A guard dog sprung from his cage, always waiting for the next fight.

He also tries to ignore what’s happening in front of him.  The hurried hush of Curtis’s voice as he instructs Karen to assist him.  Her hair tied up, pulling item after item from his med bags.  The scene in front of him spirals and blurs, and for a second he can’t remember where he is.  Only that someone he cares about is bleeding under Curtis’s hands, the year, the country, the person is irrelevant.  He knows if he keeps looking, watching helplessly, a dozen memories threaten to pull him under.  So he does what he can, he fixes his eyes elsewhere and wills the time to pass uneventfully.  Thinks about what Red, what Matt would do and considers praying for the first time since he was a teen in catholic school. 

“I've done what I can,” he’s forced back into the present by the sudden speech.  Hears that careful tone in Curtis’s voice he saves for emergencies. “He's borderline septic, dehydrated and starved.  He needs to go to a hospital, better monitoring and meds than I have.”

“Well unless you know how to get him out of the city, or better the state, without him dying on us you're welcome to try.”  He's trying so hard to keep a leash on that desperate anger.  “The city will be locked down, at fucking minimum unofficially, by dawn.  We were fucking lucky the storm covered us this far.” 

The silence that settles over them at the reality of the situation isn't a pleasant one.  He knows that they’ve been thinking the same.  This isn’t a fight they want to have or a truth they want to face.  Him and Matt are trapped, not just in the city but in Curtis’s apartment for fuck knows how long.  If they’re lucky he’ll recover somewhat and they can smuggle themselves out to Micro’s or at least his safehouse, if they’re not it’s the four of them, 700 square feet of apartment and the sharks closing in.

He’s waiting for Karen or Curtis to snap back, rise to meet that useless anger that’s burning in his throat over how badly he’s fucked this whole thing.  Instead they just seem to concede, seeing the barriers to any escape plan in front of them.  Worst of all, instead they turn their concern on him.  

He suddenly feels raw, utterly exposed beneath their gazes.  Curtis’s is practical, the same as any other time Frank’s dragged his mess to his door.  Whether that’s back on deployment or in the years since, that calculating look of how do I help and where do I back off to avoid the punch.  Karen’s is another question, the same tragic determination he saw both times she was there promising to help him as he lay chained to a hospital bed, the same heartbroken look from the hotel all those years ago.  He’s not sure he can endure that kind of help from Karen whilst he’s trying not to crack over the man he fought his way here for.  

So instead he just turns away, back to the rain, makes some show of keeping watch out the window of the apartment.  Sees Curtis start packing up and walk back out to the bedroom in his peripheral vision.  He doesn’t see Karen leave though.

“Hey,” she’s being gentle, clearly trying not to rattle him further.  “When was the last time you slept, for more than two hours?”

“Are you going to accept weeks as an answer? Or do I need to lie?”  It’s not a lie either.  He hasn't exactly slept well in years, but ever since Matt had shown up at his after not speaking for over a year broken over the death of Ayala, he’s barely slept.  Each night torn between resurging bittersweet memories and the same steady cycle of nightmares. 

Still, it feels good to be trying to joke around with Karen despite it all.  How it’s only been a week, maybe less, since she called him to tell him she’s on her way and to go keep watch is a mystery.  

“No and no.” There’s a little suppressed smile there, compassion and humour tinting the concern still evident on her face. “Go on and sleep, I’ll keep watch.”

“Come on Karen, you know me.  Don’t sleep unless I’m down for the count.  You can take the day shift.”

The implications of over what loom between them.  Matt’s still lying on the cot in the middle of the room, hooked up to fluids and what little monitoring equipment Curtis had.  He’s so absorbed he doesn’t notice the next lighting strike until he’s jumping at the rumble of thunder.

“Come on, at least let me start patching you up”

She’s right there, he knew Curtis’s old corpsman triage protocol and had stayed out of it earlier.  He was perfectly happy to sort himself out, he was pretty sure he didn’t even need stitches anywhere.  At least anymore.

“I’m good, go on, I’ll be here”

“No you’re not.” She’s firm now, the Karen he first met flashing across his mind.  “You’re covered in dried blood, somehow, despite the fact you came here through a fucking storm.  And otherwise you’re still filthy and hurt. Sit, I’ll get the stuff.”  

He knows there's no point in resisting her.  So he does so.  Sticks his ass back on Curtis’s couch and watches.  Somehow she finds him a change of clothes, warm water and a washcloth, and some healing salve.  Brings it all over and leaves it next to him on the couch before fixing him with a look.

“I’m not going to go against you, I can leave if you need me to.  But I can help.”

He can’t bring himself to argue, just nods and lets her do it.  He’s so unused to care of any kind, Curtis and David aren’t particularly gentle, Amy was inexperienced and hesitant, and it’s not like he’s been in this kind of situation with many others.  Well, there’s always been Matt, but the nights they’d patch each other up after fights and raids are the remnants of time he knows he can’t get back.  There’s an echo of it in the kindness of each swipe of her hand, combined with the focussed look on her face that makes that fraying thread inside him finally break.  The last week’s worth of pain and darkness weighing heavier by the second.  He doesn’t even realise he’s crying until she’s wiping away his tears.

“Frank?”  She doesn’t need to finish the question.

“I nearly lost him, Karen.  I nearly lost him and with it you.”  His voice is breaking, thick with the pain.  “I killed Powell for it.  And not like I do usually, no I fucking tore him apart with my bare hands like I did Rawlins.  Like I did for Maria and Lisa and Frankie Jr.  I think I finally realised that I… that I love him and all I could do about it was to kill, and hope he didn’t die on me right after.”

He's not sure he should have admitted any of it.  The desperation that drove him to those lengths.  He swears he can still taste Powell's blood on his teeth, another stain he can't ever wash away.  Another shade of red added to the gory tapestry of his life.

“I told him not to go.”  She's grasping for something to reassure him, even if it is true. “If it helps, we were looking for you both.  Your friend Micro is having quite a time with Fisk’s new camera networks.”

“Micro? Jesus Karen I didn’t know you liked us both that badly.” There’s a wet laugh as he trails off.

“I flew across the fucking country for that idiot,” illustrating her point with a quick tilt of her head.  “Well, kind of.  But still you had to have known I’d come looking.  Not like I’ve just let it lie before when either of you two are in trouble.”

He can’t argue with that either, just lets the moment wash over him.  They’re safe, or at least as safe as they were in his safehouse after the raid on Matt’s apartment.  He wishes he had his scanner and the rest of his guns, knives, even the hatchet, but Curtis’s gear will make do.  It has to. 

The silence that follows between them is long and companionable.  The task that was keeping them there long finished.  Though neither of them wants to break the moment by admitting it, aware of how vulnerable they’d become.  The sound of the rain against the glass and the fire escape beyond filling the room.  Dappling the light coming in from the street.

“I'm staying here.  You can't move me on that.”  He's keeping watch, even if it's all he can do.  Even if it’s all he’s good for.  Sentry, sniper, bodyguard.

“I wasn't going to.”  Her voice is soft enough to get lost in the rain.

“I'll see you in the morning Karen”  

She smiles softly as she leaves them.  Leaves him fixing his eyes on the door, rather than the man between him and it.  He might not be right with God, but he trusts the man he’s praying for is.

The world is fuzzy at the edges when Matt wakes.  The kind of fuzzy induced by medication, typically painkillers though even strong antibiotics have an effect much the same.   The last thing he can remember is trying desperately not to puke in front of Fisk, maybe they took pity on him.  Decided to let him live and suffer the indignity of the cage for as long as they wanted, rather than letting him die early from the bullet he took for them.  

No, there's flashes after that.  A wrench in his hands as a makeshift club, hands cradling his face, warm rain and thunder rumbling as he’s pressed to a muscular shoulder, Karen crying.  Though it's hard to know what's real, if any of it even is.

The next thing he notices is the soft blanket over him, the stale fabric softener smell of something laundered weeks ago and left in a cupboard.  An attempt to brush his hand across it reveals the cannula taped to his hand and iv line tethering it.  Maybe he's luckier than he thought, or being prepared to face some kind of public trial.  Though he can't hear the beeping and electrical drone of a hospital, only the sounds of an apartment building.  The only other medical gear attached to him is a single pulse oximeter on his other hand.   He can feel medical tape and dressings pulling on both sides of his shoulder as he shifts, muscles twitching and waking up after who knows how long.

He reaches out, trying to feel out the room around him, any perception made vaguer by the overlapping sound of rain beating on glass and metal.  Only to stop when he hears Frank's heartbeat.  He's asleep, almost peacefully, and closer than he ever was in the cages.  Half curled on a couch, something metallic clutched in his hand.  All he wants right now though is to touch him, to know he's alright.  The input from his hearing, dampened as it is, tells him enough but some selfish part of him still wants to try.  To chase away the growing doubts that this is just another dream constructed by his fever addled mind.  

It’s the trying that breaks the moment.  Levering himself into a sitting position with his right arm is harder than he thought, something he really should have known before he tried.  Drawing the sound of creaking metal and canvas from the cot under him, alongside unconscious noises of pain from behind gritted teeth.  Keeping himself up is effort beyond what he ever expected, heavy breaths scraping at aching bones, creaking and shifting under his skin.  Too visceral to be a dream and yet too kind to be a nightmare.

The sound of his attempt to move spreads across the room in a wave, startling Frank into full wakefulness.  Snapping upright as a click sounds across the room, no, not just a click.  A moment passes, both of them frozen still as Frank points a handgun just past him.  Seemingly unaware of where he is or with who, just that he isn’t alone.  That he’s in danger, and ready to do what he must.

“Frank,” the use of his name seemingly draws some recognition.  Even from his cracked and raw voice.  He hears his heartbeat and breathing evening out at it.  “Frank, where are we?”

It’s a question he needs to know the answer to, for both their sakes.

“Matt,” it’s more an exhale than a word.  Ragged and soft as the tension seemingly sloughs off him.  “I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”  The remorse is genuine as he hears the safety click back and the gun thud into the couch beside him.  The rustling noise of fingers through hair following it.

“It’s okay, not the first time you’ve pointed a gun at me.”  He aims for a joking kindness, he knows that Frank wouldn’t hurt him on purpose, and knows the fear that grips those early moments all too well.  “Where are we?”

“Jesus, okay.”  Clearly he’s not amused by that dark humour quite as much as the last few times he’d tried it.  “We’re at Curt’s.  Curtis, my old squad buddy.  You needed help.”

Something twists inside him at that, he knows about Curtis.  Frank had told him one night, years ago, about his friend who ran a support group.  He’d told him about how he trusted him with his life, and had several times before.  How he ultimately always let himself get dragged into Frank’s messes for the sake of helping him, and how he lived out in Brooklyn.

Brooklyn.  He’s still in the city, so close to Red Hook.  Frank blew his fucking chance to run and regroup over him.  He doesn’t know how long it’s been but he knows it’s too late now.

“Matt?”  Evidently he’s been quiet for too long, stacking together what details he can find in his memory and the room around him.  

“Why didn’t you go?”  He can’t find a better way to say it, not before it all floods out of his mouth.  “Why didn’t you leave me and run when you had the chance?”  The taste of his honesty is bitter, threatening to choke him as it clots on his tongue.

“I made a promise.  I was going to get you out of his hands, out of their hands.”  He’s pretty sure his head is in his hand, the way his voice is angled alongside the rustling of hair.  The other hand squeezes at the couch cushion until it’s squeaking.  “Why didn’t you listen to Karen.”

“I only went in for you.  I was going to, but I could hear them beating you, taunting, the way your heart sounds when you’re in pain.”  A breath, the sound of rain at the window, the choking sensation that comes before tears clawing its way up from his chest as he shakes.  “I couldn’t leave again.”

“That wasn’t your fucking choice to make.  The same way you're saying I should’ve left you.”

“You know it was the better choice.  I deserved it, the cage, the bullet.  I deserved it all.  I lie and I hurt those who trust me.  Fuck, Pointdexter only got free because I went to go see him and lost control.  I knew what I was doing Frank.”

He can feel the shooting stretches of pain as each breath comes shallower and shallower.  Jerking at his ribs, his shoulders, his lungs.  Pulling him deeper into the spiral.  The monitor on his hand beeps more and more insistently before he feels them.  One hand on his chest, oh fuck he’s not wearing a shirt, the other on his arm.  Holding him steady, tethering him to the earth once again through that familiar heart.  

“You didn’t deserve any of it.”  His voice is soft, too kind for the fight they were having moments before.  “I need you to know that, nobody deserved that shit.  There was no special martyrdom waiting for you there.  Just the same cruelty we know too well.”

“I-” The sob catches him entirely by surprise, painfully wiping the words from his tongue.

“Never do that to me again Matt.  Don’t follow me into a fight you can’t win.  It’s not worth it, you hear me?”

He swears he can taste the tears in Frank’s eyes above his own.  Tastes them the same way he hears the implicit statement in his words: that he knows he’s not worth it either.  Still, he manages a shaky nod.  Reaches up along the arm holding his to the body of the man kneeling next to him, places it over the nape of his neck and slowly pulls his head down to his.  Forehead to forehead, that gentle touch of understanding, a simple intimacy.  He lets the other arm lift his left onto the shoulder in front as it snakes around to hold him gently.  Keeping him upright as they breathe together, joined as one in borrowed clothes.  

Slowly their heads shift, noses brushing  against each other so gently as he feels Frank tense.  Scraggly beards ghosting together as their lips meet.  Joining in a kiss that's gentle but decidedly not chaste, desire and regret and fear pouring between them at each small movement.  Wet eyelashes brushing at swollen and bruised cheekbones.  He wonders again if this is a dream, some parting gift from his consciousness, before Frank hums between them and grips just a little tighter on his bicep.  So willing to pull him back, keeping the two of them together in the moment.  Tethered forever against the darkness of the world.