Gender: Male
Status:
Married
Age: 31
Sign:
Taurus
Country: United States
Signup Date:
September 15, 2021
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04/25/2024 10:39 PM
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hallucinate
Summary: AU in that Etain told Darman about the pregnancy sooner. Whoever said your life flashes before your eyes, before you die, was wrong. The thought passed briefly through Etain Tur-Mukan’s mind as she attempted to nudge herself a few centimeters to the left without falling over completely. Somehow, despite the fact that her body had gone numb and stiff from the cold of the Telosian nights and wintery days long ago, she was still feeling a little bit of pain from the metal fragment, part of the downed larty’s door she’d taken refuge in, digging into her shoulder blades. She had long stopped moving if she could help it, sharp pain lancing through her body every time she moved, and had stopped using the Force to scan for threats long ago. She also had no idea if the Redeemer was still in orbit or not, she had lost contact with the Redeemer days ago, when the attempted invasion of the Separatist-held city went very, very wrong in the matter of seconds. She didn’t even know how many standard days ago the resulting devastation had been, she had drifted in and out of consciousness since then. I know Intel screws up, Dar, but really? Do they screw up this badly? General Grievous. No one had warned her, nor the Jedi Knight accompanying her and the troops, that Grievous would be here as well. He’d made quick work of the Knight accompanying them, and she had a few precious hours to draw him away from the troops before he caught up to her. She’d given parting orders to the commander in charge – continue the campaign without me and alert the Redeemer. Do not come after me – and began to draw Grievous away from the troops. And her plan worked. Grievous followed her to the crash site where the Separatists had shot down two larties earlier that week. Where she knew there would be no men for Grievous to hurt. But he nearly killed her in the process. Even days later – she couldn’t quite remember the number of sunrises she’d counted anymore – she was mildly surprised that she had woken up at all after Grievous finally threw her into the air, in the direction of the crashed larty that she now lay against. Her lightsabers were long gone, her wounds from Grievous still untreated and undoubtedly infected by now, there was a dull throb in the back of her skull, her face and hands numbed from the cold, skin tight with barely healed injuries, but she was still breathing. Somehow. In another life, she may have seen it as a sign from the Force, but now, after having lost her faith and trust in the only life she had ever known on Qiilura…she wasn’t so sure. Force, I miss you, Darman. I know we have our duties, but I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you one last time. Etain closed her eyes, shifting her thoughts back to Darman and Kad. Darman… she couldn’t tell where he was at the moment, just that he was alert and his attention was narrowed and focused – on a mission then. She withdrew her awareness, not wanting to disturb him. She could still feel Kad in the Force, through the bond that she’d had with him since his birth. Kad was content, and she hoped he still remembered her and Darman despite the little time the two got with him. Telling Darman that night about her pregnancy, when Kal introduced the baby to Omega Squad, had been absolutely terrifying, and it had taken a few more days for the two to reconcile afterwards. During the reconciliation, she had mentioned leaving the Jedi Order, once the war was over, so they could be a family. Darman had started imagining a future there, for the three of them. I’m sorry, Dar, that we won’t be able to get that particular future now. Etain let out a slow exhale, blinking when she slowly realized that the blurred gray-blue line she’d been staring at, for what felt like hours now, was actually the craggy tree line as the sun rose yet again. Another morning. She’d lived through another night. She closed her eyes, a twinge of despair fluttering in her stomach as she slowly realized she had already lost feeling in her fingers and limbs, and could not recall how long it had been like that. Not long now. She let out another slow exhale, watching the white puff of air dissipate into the skies. Her ribs were aching with each breath, she could still feel that. She closed her eyes, slowing her breaths to lessen the dulling pain. Dar. She could sense him again, still focused and alert on his task at hand. She tried not to distract him in those moments, but she also took a modicum of comfort in sensing his familiar presence. She then tried to withdraw, to let him work undisturbed, but his presence lingered, a calm and steady reassurance that she leaned against for the briefest of seconds before withdrawing her awareness further. But her concentration failed a few seconds later, she felt worn down from fatigue and injury. He felt close enough now, actually, that she could almost imagine that he was there, on Telos Six, with his squad. He’d move carefully and purposefully through the trees, unhindered and not slowed down by bothersome Jedi trying to keep up with him. Maybe, he was listening to Fi’s wisecracks in the background comm chatter. Fi, who would be trying to spark a reaction from Atin while also providing a running commentary of any gleaned intelligence. Niner, she knew, would be reminding them to stay focused on the objective that Master Zey had given them prior to their deployment. A spike of alertness from Darman brought her wandering thoughts back to reality. He’d spotted something. Etain tried to withdraw her awareness again, as to not distract him. He’d told her once, that he could sense when she was near him. She let a small exhale when her concentration slipped again, and she remained still, unable to summon the focus necessary for a complete withdrawal. Her eyes fluttered closed as she tried to once again pull back her awareness, as to not distract him. The resulting darkness was more…alluring, than she ever suspected, pulling her into its depths even as she clung to the threads of her bonds. Those she could not let go just yet. There is no death, there is the Force. Alertness shifted to determination, and his presence grew stronger. She wasn’t sure if she imagined the sound of soft crunching of dirt, twigs and leaves that was slowly coming close to her. She heard a soft clicking, one she’d heard many times as the men removed or sealed their helmets, but her eyelids felt too heavy for her to check. She tried to send a little reassurance to both Darman and Kad even as she felt her consciousness ebb from her grasp. The last thing she thought she heard was her name in a familiar whisper. A whisper that did not stop.
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04/25/2024 10:05 PM
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Memorabilia
Notes: SEE END NOTES FOR TRIGGER WARNINGS Poems and excerpts taken from (in order of appearance):
Memorabilia, Deborah Tall
Late summer after a panic attack, Ada Limón
Free fall, William Golding
from Salt, David Harsent
From Please bury me in this, Allison Bennis White Happy reading!❤️ Memorabilia; objects that stir recollection, valued or collected for their association with a particular field, interest or memory. Let absence be Altogether, but briefly, devastating. DEVIL What if I want to go devil instead? Bow down to the madness that makes me. “Morning.” Frank’s voice brings the images alive. Fire licks at wooden walls, grime-stained windows, bolted doors and two cots, lying on opposites sides of a cramped room. Oatmeal rips through a picture of scents, a dragging sweetness that feels dense when he inhales. Packed. It doesn’t push the other smells away as much as it dominates them, mixes unpleasantly. Sitting up require less effort than before. The smell of food isn’t as nauseating and neither is the pain - controlled for the time being. Still, muscles shake, quake as if tearing away from his skeleton, trying to find other refuge than his skin. His head hangs off his neck like a heavy weight, putting pressure in his vertebrae and collarbones. “Morning,” he manages back. Frank sits down but doesn’t reach to give him the bowl of oatmeal, neither does he say anything else. The routine is expected and if somewhat of a comfort. He sighs softly. “I’m Matt. You’re Frank. We’re in your cabin. It’s, uh, Sunday? November.” Frank’s calloused, thick palms find his, steadies his right hand before handing him the hot oatmeal. “Didn’t call me Fred this time, at least.” He grumbles under his breath and Matt isn’t surprised at the taste of coffee that comes from his lips and tongue, released into the air. Settles back against the headboard and cradles the warm bowl close, the cold morning dew dripping by the window a sonorous facsimile of a heartbeat. Slow and almost in tandem with Frank’s. “Maybe I thought you looked like a Fred.” Frank shakes his head with a huff, mumbles a right under his breath before- “Eat.” Matt does. The ringing in his ear an untraceable vibration that fixates over his right eardrum, poking it with needles. It was usually worse at night. “Are you going to tell me anything today?” If Matthew is like a sponge - absorbing everything and anything around him at all times until he’s spilling over, Frank is rock and concrete. Impenetrable, undisturbed, insusceptible. He gives nothing away - as if he kept the world at bay. Completely unapproachable at times. Embers and fire burn the world bright but Frank Castle was a blotch of ink dripping in the middle of his senses. A stain that stuck. The first heartbeat he looked for when he woke up. The only heartbeat he remembered properly. Castle shrugs, like he had all the days before. “Have nothing to say.” Lie. It’s barely there, not exactly a skip. His pulse speeds for not much more than a second and then settles back down. Red - Matt, Matt, his name is Matt - takes another sip of his oatmeal, slowly processing the taste of the food, the lingering taste of the pan it was prepared in, the old spoon that mixed it. He had time, the last few days, to get himself together, if only just. Stick’s teachings, in return, are a whispered chant in his head whenever he interacts with the strange man. So far, Frank looks like an ally. That could change and Matt tries to create contingencies - where will he run? Where exactly are the traps he heard the night before? How will he survive if he doesn’t know... Well, most of everything about his own life. “And about yourself?” He asks instead, sighing into another spoonful of oatmeal. “You’re military, right? Maybe former.” Tilts his head sharply to the side, listens to the unshakable, relentless heartbeat painting the room red and black. “You have an arrow scar in your shoulder. Are you with the Chaste?” “Marines. The hell is Chaste?” Matt’s lips press together. He thought he had mentioned them before. He had, hadn’t he? Either Frank is an ally or he’s not and if he’s not... Well, there’s a good chance he’d already know what Chaste is. It’s the only answer Matt can find that makes sense - that that’s how he got hurt, working with Stick and the others. But the marine’s heartbeat doesn’t skip nor does it speeds up in that characteristic way. Frank scoffs. Probably at his silence. “Yeah.” But he needs to be sure. “Are you with the Hand?” “I’m what?” Ignores his voice to listen hard to the beating, living thing hiding beneath marred scars and skin tissue. Breastbone and ribs. Matt breathes a bit more easily, if only for a little. Because if Frank isn’t either of them, then how did he find him? How did he know him? How did he know, if partially, about Matt’s senses and skills? None of it made any sense. Frustration rises and swells like a furious ocean, tidal waves rising and rising in height until they reach the skyline. “How do you know me?” “Tell you what, Red,” he drops his empty bowl in the fold-out table. The loud rattle of spoon against porcelain makes him flinch. “You’re a pain in the ass of the highest degree.” He tilts his head, listens closely. “But still, I’m here,” Matt begins, carefully. “Do you want something from me?” Frank shrugs, a heavy exhale getting lost in the distance between them, and so do all of its meanings. “Want you to shut up and eat.” Not working. Not again. “Do I have no one else to get back to?” The bigger man’s heartbeat throbs scarcely faster before it’s forced back down to a resting rhythm. Frank watches him. “Not for now,” and it’s not a lie. Not one Matt can detect anyway, and if there’s one thing he learned about Frank since he woke up in the cabin with his head in bandages, is that he keeps to his promises. The good and the bad. So Matt settles, for there isn’t much else he can do and the energy is already beginning to seep right out of him. He finishes the small bowl of food and takes his medicine. Tries to unlock all the tense muscles bunching under his skin and allows Stick’s voice to chant through his head: mind controls the body, body controls our enemies. Trustworthy or not, Frank is clearly not willing to let him go. If Stick’s alive, certainly he’ll find Matt. Trees may offer cover in a sighted perspective, but doesn’t mean anything for blind people like them. And even if Frank doesn’t know, Matt is likely working for Stick and the Chaste. They had to fight the war, after all. And why else would he get in trouble? Come on, Matty, get to work. Dad tells him. Get to work. He has to get back to his feet. He will. But for now, his head throbs painfully like his brain is threatening to burst out of his skull and the oatmeal plays loops around his stomach. Frank gives him a bucket when he throws up.
The first time Matthew notices something is wrong is when he’s sitting in the bathroom, taking a sponge bath. Frank helps him with the basics before leaving him to the little privacy he had, sitting beside the half-closed door. He’s glad for the shower curtains. Even a few paces away, Frank’s heartbeat illuminated the whole cramped room with bright spots of sound, the vibrations traveling like tendrils underneath the floorboards and deep into the earth underneath. Echoed strangely against the tiles, but loud enough that finding the offered hygiene products wasn’t a hardship, even with his building migraine. It starts as a feeling - a certainty that he’s not alone that he quickly abandons. Frank is on the other side of the door and his senses are haywire, sensitive to every input his fatigued brain can’t process properly beyond threat and safe. He leans back, careful of the plastic wrapping around his left thigh and remembering Frank’s orders not to get his hair wet. It quickly morphs to unease. It begins like a concept and then evolves. Swells and thickens into something closer to dread - into his heart going faster, his breathing pattern changing, choppy inhales and shallow exhales. He isn’t sure what it is at first, the puzzle pieces are scrambled and he’s too exhausted to put them together properly. There’s a presence that doesn’t make sense, not corporeal enough that he can get a read on it with his senses. But he knows it’s there. Even if the sound waves from their heartbeats and breathing betrayed nothing. “Do you reckon Stick would be disappointed?” He startled badly enough that the soap slips from his hand and slides across the floor towards the drain. Aghast and more than a little alarmed, he abandons the crawling sensation across his skin as the soap suds slid across the expanse of his body to try and make sense of the sound. It felt like a thought. A thought that came too loud, enough that it felt like it was outside of his body, perched right by his right ear. His hand closes on the side of the empty tub, nails digging and slipping at the humid, cold porcelain. “Who-” but there’s no heartbeat, no sound beyond the voice. Until there is. Its heartbeat mimics his own. Sounds exactly the same in its cadence, but the thing, whatever it is, doesn’t carry a smell or heat like all living things do. It’s almost apart from the world on fire, a tear on the fabric of reality he put together with his senses. Something that looked like a man, except for the thick skin and the small horns protruding from its smooth head. “You’re trusting him, Castle will kill you the moment he has the chance, it’s what he does.” The thing shrugs, a smile cutting through its alien face. “You’re not here,” he whispers, as if the simple statement would rip the thing apart, destroy it, send it away. “You keep your enemies close to watch them, take advantage of them. Not so they can captivate you. ” “I’m hallucinating,” he whispers again, nails now digging into his knees. And when did he move his hands? When did he do that? There’s a flicker of time between one second and the other that is missing. Like all the days previous to waking up in Frank’s bed and crawling to this place. “You’re not real.” “Huh, real enough to know you’re easy prey.” The demon-like hallucination smiles big at him. “What are you going to do about that?” The devil, he thinks. This is the devil. “Did you miss me already, Matt?”
Red takes his sweet time in the tub. He should’ve been done with it long ago and Frank - well, he should’ve done it himself. He doesn’t doubt for a second Red could be already plotting some half-assed escape plan and stalling for time in the bathroom. He knocks out of courtesy more than to give him privacy - had seen enough of Red in all states of undress the first three days he had been there. “Red?” No response. Frank doesn’t wait any more than that. In his head, he runs through the list once again: bleeding from nose, ears or eyes - brain hemorrhage. Paralysis, seizure - swelling. Fever, delirium, pus - infection. Runs over it again so it doesn’t fade from his memory - not as pristine as he’d like it to be, although he never got to Red’s situation either. Names and meanings escape him sometimes, is all. Red looks physically well when Frank walks through the door, combat boots squeaking against the tiles. He squints at him, at his nose, eyes, ear (clean), his bandages (dry), his plastic wrapped wounds (pink and healthy). He checks the place out of habit, looking for incongruities hiding between fresh, sterilized towels and semi-transparent shower curtains. “Red,” he calls out again but the kid doesn’t answer, and Frank can’t say he’s exactly surprised. Had happened a few times already, the little shutdowns. Which is why he’s surprised when Red speaks. “Is there-” the redhead swallows, fingernails digging into his knees, his left leg stretched across the empty tub to accommodate the pain of the gunshot wound. “Is there anyone else here?” “Jus’ us, Red,” and he did a perimeter check minutes ago. His eyebrows furrow down to meet his eyes and Red twitches, wonders if he senses the movement somehow. “Yeah. Yer senses going a bit haywire?” Matt startles out of a sudden, one hand closing a tight fist around his knee and the other, the right one, spasming as it tried to do the same. “Can you take me outside, please?” Voice comes as the afterthought of a whisper, barely there at all. But it echoes around the cramped space and makes its path towards Frank’s eardrums. He sighs sharply but doesn’t mention anything else. Mechanically helps Red out of the bathtub and into the towels. Grabbing the folded clothes Frank had separated for him to use, slightly too big in places. Doesn’t need the a**hole’s fancy senses to know something’s up but he won’t ask for now and he’s quite sure Red won’t volunteer the information either - wiped out brain or not. The thought sits heavy in his stomach, a weight that he feels physically when he moves to the kitchen. If the memory loss is caused by brain damage, Curt says, the likelihood of Red ever regaining them is extremely small, specially considering the type of first care he received. There are other options to what was messing up his head, but for now, there was simply no way to tell. “You remember anything else?” He asks from there, fetching the wheeling chair he had stolen from the Costas medical facility the week before. The Lieutenant doesn’t give Matthew time to deliberate, helping him up and into the chair, careful of his injured head, belly and leg. He isn’t surprised when- “I don’t need that.” “I didn’t ask. Sit down.” “I’m perfectly capable of-” “But you won’t.” He cuts off quickly, adjusting the arm support and adjusting the wheel lock before wheeling Murdock towards the front door. “Not yet, at least.” Murdock twitches, impatience making lines like riverbanks form around his youthful face, but chooses wisely not to start a discussion. He’s been picking his fights, since he realized Frank was just as stubborn as him. He repeats his question and watches Red’s sigh raise a condensation fog in the air, following its swirls through the cold morning air. “Just bits and pieces,” Murdock eventually answers, licking his lips. “It comes and goes.” Frank grunts in response and doesn’t press the matter; but he does help the redhead sit in the steps like a few nights before. To fight. For the war. Sh*t. Of all the f***ed up things. He shakes his head to himself, not enough of a movement that drags attention from Red, who seems content in tilting his head back towards the cloudy sky above the high trees. Won’t think about all he’s learned because they’re not part of the mission, not now. He’ll get the kid better, get him back to his life. Maybe go to the orphanage, ask some questions, start digging. But until then, he sits in the cabin steps with the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen by his side, hugging his knees against the coming cold. “Stick taught me knives. Father Lantom and the... the nun called the cops. I got into middle school. Had a crush on Ian from History class. Dad hates Mrs. Hernandez Bakery’s apple pie.” The messy retelling doesn’t phase him but brings a flashback of their own - his head had processed information similarly, back then, the scar of the bullet just barely closed. His brain had latched to their laughter but he couldn’t remember if the plates made it to the sink. He remembers Lisa’s little voice begging him to read her her favorite book, please Daddy, please, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the clothes Frankie wore that day. Maria’s voice played in a loop of hey, sleepyhead but he can’t remember how she sounded when she said his name with that fondly exasperated look. Tomorrow, baby. I’ll read it to you tomorrow, I promise. “My wife, she, uh,” swallows the clotted knot of uncertainty in his throat and blinks against the moisture collecting around his eyelids. “She used to try some fancy dessert recipes, from time to time.” He laughs suddenly and brightly, remembering her pout when her chocolate muffins ended up burned for the third time that month and her strawberry cheesecake went wrong and liquid. Red looks surprised at him and the anonymity is somehow... comforting. He doesn’t remember the chaos Frank unleashed in the city, doesn’t remember the headlines and the trial and much less how Frank bounced a bullet off his helmet years ago. They would’ve never sat like this, talked like this if Red hadn’t been brained in that warehouse a little over a week before. “She was a good cook, but her desserts were bad, man. She was real terrible at it.” Red chuckles softly and deja-vu creeps over his skin like a thousand ants. It’s almost a do-over of that night in the graveyard. “The kids tried to be nice, y’know? They’d put on this face, all wide-eyed like it was the most delicious thing they’d ever eaten. Lisa, my baby girl, she was good, Red. Sometimes she fooled even me. But Frankie, my son, he, he was horrible at it, you could see it all over his face. He used to say that he wanted to be a chef when he grew up,” Murdock’s eyebrows go up and Frank scoffs. “I know, right. He’d say he wanted to be like the TV shows.” Lisa was a good sister. She’d taste every crazy concoction Frankie came up with - even mango pancakes, once, which made her sick, and she wouldn’t let Frank or Maria tell Junior about it. She’d always make some ridiculously funny accents when she was playing the food taster, wearing those little bracelets she used to make with her best friend (what was her name? Natalie?). Frank tries to chuckle at the memory but it comes out a rasp of breath, his lungs tearing right off of him. She had been wearing one of those. One of the bracelets written LISA in bold orange letters. It was her favorite color since she was about the height of Frank’s knee. Remembers seeing it stained deep red when he cradled her in his lap. Red’s voice brings him back to the porch, away from the park and Lisa. “What happened?” Scary, how intuitive the kid was. Maybe it had something to do with his senses, but Frank isn’t that sure. He hadn’t thought much of him at first, back then. Thought he was impulsive, combustive and too naive. And then he met him again, wearing crisp but cheap suits and red shades and saw that spark of smart he tried to hide. Frank doesn’t doubt that, should he have been more present in that trial, he’d probably have managed to get the not guilty verdict, somehow. Frank’s silence must be answer enough for Red soon turns his face away in respect. Maybe he sense it somehow; the thick knot tightening on Frank’s throat, the stinging at the corner of his eyes and a moisture he wasn’t that sure he could blame on the wind. “I wanted to be a lawyer,” Murdock offers, his head twitches to the side subtly before coming back to the conversation. Frank catches himself wondering just how far those ears of his went. “when I was a kid.” He finishes softly, extending his injured leg with a certain amount of effort before all air left his lungs in a rush. Ain’t sure if it’s Frank Jr’s ghost hanging over them, close enough that Frank swears he could smell that God awful shampoo he liked only because it came with Captain America’s face plastered on it but actually had a terrible scent. Maybe it’s ‘cause Red is sitting there with barely any memories left in that f***ed up head of his and remembering being a kid dreaming about being a lawyer, not knowing he made it. Against a whole sh*t ton of odds. “You are.” he blurts out. Red turns to him, his whole body still, eyes wide. “What?” “You’re a lawyer,” Frank shrugs at the sudden rush of breath that leaves Red, the confusion turning into awe. Frank resists the urge to look away from the precious turn of his lips. “Good one too, when you wanna be.” A breathy chuckle graces his ears and Frank finally turns away, a small smile in his face mirroring Red’s lips. He waits for questions he’s sure Red made to himself a thousand times the last few days: why is he not a hospital, where are his friends, why didn’t they come looking, why, why, why. But Murdock doesn’t. Just holds his own knees closer with that dreamy little smile upturning his lips, pulling at a long scabbed over cut by his chin. Frank helps him inside when the exhaustion kicks in, once again, and leads him to the cot.
Where did you go? An angry voice close to his face. I can’t do this alone. I can’t take another step. Soft, long hands and arms circling his shoulders. Was it all a lie? Salt and moisture in the air (tears), the scent of his own blood. You’re just one bad day away- Chains pressing him down, hands on his chin. Where did you go, Matt? He wakes up with the whisper a burn bright-hot spot of pain in his chest - not one from any voice that he can remember, but familiar all the same. Familiar enough that something clogs his throat, chokes up his airways. Every attempt at an inhale stops just short of completely cutting off his oxygen, the burn in his chest spreads. Matt blinks away the tears in his eyes - where did it come from? Tries to orient himself in the space he’s in - where? He didn’t know these sheets, didn’t recognize these walls, these- The smell. He recognizes it. Antiseptic, coffee, gunpowder. The fabric doesn’t feel as odd, once he runs his hands through it. It’s another one, but not unfamiliar. Frank changed the sheets again. His heart pounds faster against his chest. Panic brews like a tight boiling-hot coil in his chest - he suddenly feels unsafe inside the room, the cabin walls the body of trees and earth surrounding them from all sides. There’s something he has to do, somewhere he needs to be and Matt can’t for the life of him figure out what or where. A shuddery breath leaves through his parted, parched lips. Feels the skin of his forearms cool off where it spills - sharp like a whirlwind for his oversensitive sense of touch. “Where did you go, indeed?” The Intruder, as Matt had taken to calling him, asked softly. His presence is accompanied by a excruciating ache that manifests itself like a weight more than the agony it really is when it spreads at the edges of his fracture, following the lines connected by wire. He doesn’t need to concentrate to hear bone grind against metal. “You’re not in Hell’s Kitchen, but that’s about as far as you know.” He doesn’t answer. If he ignores him, maybe... “Oh, well now, that’s just desperate.” His teeth grind together. The pull of muscle and jaw sharpens the pain, tendrils of it reaching out to take over the whole right side of his head. Matt wonders if this is what losing your mind feels like. A steady, perfectly natural-feel of circling down the drain. Almost like it’s supposed to happen, almost like he deserved it, maybe. “I suppose you do, but I might be biased.” The Intruder’s voice is oddly detached from where Matt senses its surreal body, the weird texture of its skin, almost like leather. The protruding horns in his skull. As for him, his own skull felt the same - broken bone oddly loose when he follows the line of sutures coming from his temple to an inch past the top of his ear. The creature shifts, his body something like red smoke. “Who am I, again?” The devil. He’s ought to be. Grandmother did always say Murdock boys had the devil in them. How ironic that this is how Matt remembers this - with a hallucination probing at the soft, damaged parts of his brain. The thing laughs, the sound doesn’t rebound, doesn’t act like echolocation like a real one usually would for his hearing. At the proof of it, of the unreality, and trapped in the room with it, Matt attempts burrowing further into his sheets, nose dipping into the fabric and looking for something real - coffee, gunpowder, antiseptic, soap, skin musk. “Are you trying to hide from me? Do you reckon it’ll help?” No. It can’t hurt to try. The Intruder shifts, a smoke trail left behind. The impression of lips close to his ear. “I’m in your head.” “Then get out of it.” Matt misses hours before, when it was only a dripping sound and an uncommon stench. One he became aware of when Frank said he wasn’t smelling anything. He thought perhaps it came from the forest, but further search led to nowhere. The smell didn’t come from anywhere physical, neither did the sound. It echoed just at the shell of his right ear. Frank’s heartbeat had betrayed slight unease and, for his sake, Matt mentioned something about being tired and had retired to his cot. “That wouldn’t be any fun.” “Shut up.” The dripping sound comes back, just around the shell of his ear. Works like an echo of the Intruder’s words. His skin the texture of leather and spandex and something inhuman, almost alive. He sits up suddenly, muscles pulling abruptly under his skin, tightening worryingly at his shoulders where they bunch up to cover his ears. He cowers to a corner, knees to his chest. Attempts to find Frank’s pulse nearby, eyes shut tight together as to ignore the very real breathing that he can feel against his cheek, a predator’s maws ready to attack. No matter how much he tries to work through the sounds, he’s hindered in his efforts. His own heartbeat too loud to properly allow him the focus, hammering and vibrating his eardrums. Only realizes he’s digging his fingernails into his knees when something wet and warm touches the palm of his hand. “What was that song? The one Dad liked?” Go away, he wants to say. Needs to say it, why can’t he say it? His ability to speak was locked up somewhere deep and Matt couldn’t reach it. Couldn’t find it, no matter how much he tried or how much the muscles of his neck worked against the knot tying his throat up. “ When I was fast asleep she threw her arms around my neck.” He clutches at his ears, presses his back against the corner of the bed, eyes shut together. But it doesn’t muffle the Intruder’s voice, neither does it stop him from singing. Strength leaves him. Matthew lets his arms fall to the sides, eyes vacant and searching the opposite wall. “ And then began to weep.” “S-stop,” his voice is stubborn, it struggles to fully leave him, sinks its nails in his tongue and refuses to be let out. “S-s-stop, stop.” It’s wrong. He isn’t sure what, but it’s wrong. Dad never liked that song. Dad liked weird country music and rock. It’s wrong, it’s all wrong, and he needs it to stop. “ She wept, she cried, she tore her hair, ah, me, what could I do?” Hands come up to his ears against and Red clamps them down hard, until the pressure becomes a palpable sound, bursting his eardrums. The break protests, he thinks he hears something snap.. “So all night long, I held her in my arms,” the devil’s voice echoes around the empty room, undisturbed. “Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.”
“It’s alright, kid.” His head hurts. Eyes sting when he attempts opening them. “I just need to clean it, yeah? You popped a stitch, s’bleeding a little.” His head hurts. Make it stop. Please. “Wanna tell me what happened?” He isn’t sure. He doesn’t know. “Someone was here,” he thinks he whispers. “Fr’nk, someone was here.” Frank’s steady hands stop. Matthew blinks through the fog, the hands return. “Frank, I need to go back. I need to go back.” He shakes his head, pushes his shoulders against the bed again. Matt hadn’t realized he was trying to sit. “Just rest, Red.” Frank sighs, coffee-mint-toothpaste-eggs-and-bacon mix in the air above him. “Don’t reckon you’ll be remembering this when you wake up anyway.” He doesn’t.
BOX Yet I was wound up. I tick. I exist. I am poised eighteen inches over the black rivets you are reading, I am in your place, I am shut in a bone box and trying to fasten myself on the white paper. By day ten, it’s clear something is going on with Murdock. He wouldn’t know for sure, since Red never speaks of it. Never speaks much of anything that really matters, to be truthful - still a master in the art of misdirection even if he probably can’t remember sh*t about his life as a lawyer. Frank is a sniper. Waiting is in his nature, as much as Curt likes to point out he has, as he so calls it, a “modern disease” and craves for “instant gratification” or some bullsh*t. When the time is right, he’ll ask and he’ll aim just right, but for now, he has other things to worry about. If what Curt had said through the phone was true, each day that passed there was less chance Red’s amnesia was from a brain injury. The odds were much of it was psychological - Dissociative amnesia, Curt called it. Less to do with Red’s injury and much more with what happened before it. Frank frowns, eyes locked to his food before he averts his gaze to Red once more. The amnesia might have nothing to do with the hit he took to the head, but everything else certainly did. Red slept up to twelve hours most days and couldn’t seem to sleep at all on others, no matter how exhausted he was. It’d come to a point where he’d shut down, get into that detached, dissociating state he had been on his first few days in the cabin. The bruises under his eyes from the broken capillaries were getting better - Curt told him it was normal, so Frank hadn’t worried too much, though they certainly didn’t improve his appearance. He does it again - twitches his head and loses focus on his food, arm settling down against the wood, hands almost fully covered by the long sleeves of Frank’s borrowed shirt. Had been doing that a lot lately, wandering away into his head, getting lost in his surroundings. “Hey,” the crackle of gravel in his deep tone is enough to snap Red out of it. The flinch doesn’t go unnoticed. “What’s going on?” Something with his ears, maybe? Frank was pretty sure at some point they had used a flash-bang grenade, had found a canister abandoned at the warehouse entrance and track marks from someone being dragged. Red swallows, makes an attempt to go back to his food only to yield. “Nothing,” comes the predictable response. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” He slants his head to the side, gets to watch Red’s uncomfortable expressions morphing and changing. Murdock might have gotten better from looking like death warmed over, but he was still pale. He still had bandages around his head, thigh, torso. Bruises all over. Not for the first time, he wonders just how exactly does he work. Couldn’t help but notice his sharp senses the last time they saw each other - in that rooftop. He had seen him nod to something he said yards away. Wonders just how those senses of his are working now that his skull is broken, fracture extending from above his ear to a few inches past it. Frank reaches behind him into the makeshift counter, grabs the bowl of apple slices. “Eat it.” Murdock blinks, his whole body on pause. “I-” he smacks his lips softly, as if trying to get rid of a taste he couldn’t make much sense of. Frank squints at him. “Yes.” Compliance with Red was different, Frank came to realize soon enough. He was either buying himself time for something or he was closing off, hiding back inside his shell. Distinguishing the two was easy enough - Red was nothing if not an open book at the best of times. Like the past ten days, Frank prods. “Remember anything today?” Murdock shakes his head slowly, eyes roaming from the empty plate to the bowl beside him. As if looking for stains or cracks in the porcelain. He eats the slice of apple with care - too much too quick and his headache worsens, sometimes. “Just... words.” “Words?” Lips twist downward. He doesn’t look too comfortable sharing it. “Yeah,” he abandons the half-eaten slice on his place, somehow managing to avoid the dirty parts. “People saying stuff, sentences, but I couldn’t remember-” “Anything in specific?” Murdock stops moving, shakes his head. Frank lets it go, but he isn’t convinced for a second.
He sits by the table and cleans his guns and goes over the plan in his head for the fifth time. Frank’s been stewing over this long enough. It is a bad idea and he knew it, and knew it well. Taking Red back to the city with the way things were now... well, there were a thousand different ways thing could escalate and go to sh*t real quick, and he wasn’t too happy about the odds either. If they were out there, even if Red remembered his training (or some part of it), he was underweight, slightly anemic and injured. They go to the city and Red’s an immediate liability - he’ll have to look out for him. In the other hand, seeing Red flicker between moments of clarity and haze gets him in some deep, f***ed up part that messes with Frank’s head. Head replays over and over again the sight of him reaching out a hand. Too late, he had said, please. Things are starting to get complicated. At the beginning it was simple - take Red in, get him some place safe to rest, get him back to his life. But then he wakes up with his brains scrambled and what in the world does he do with that? How can he get him back to his life if Red has no goddamn idea what that means? Frank should be damn well past caring: should throw Red, clueless f***ing Red, in the middle of the city with all the wolves he pissed off that are now clamoring for his blood. Envisions going through what Red would do if the situation was different. If it was Frank with his head messed up and a whole city bellowing to take a pound of his flesh. Tells himself Red would do the same thing - just throw him to the wolves. But that’s bullsh*t. Not a goddamn bone in Matt Murdock’s body capable of leaving a man behind to bleed out. Not even a piece of sh*t like Frank. So he checks his supplies before going to Murdock with the idea. Guns, knives, burners - back-up plans, safe houses he has nearby. Places he can lay low if they can’t manage the ride back to the cabin. The city wasn’t a safe place for the Devil and much less Matt Murdock. Someone out there knows the two are one and the same, and Frank has a good f***ing guess as to who. Only a matter of time before Frank puts him down. He’s not your responsibility. Curt’s voice nags at him. Take me home. Murdock says instead. Curtis had asked who he was when even Red couldn’t answer that himself, and well, sh*t. Who wasn’t the appropriate question, was it? What Curt had wanted to ask - and Frank knows this, knows this with the certainty that he knows that Murdock will be back on his feet, no question about it - was who was Murdock to him. Red was a sanctimonious pain in the ass, that’s who. A holier-than-thou prick with a savior complex. A good guy. And Frank had been too late and so had Red and they were both paying for that now. Because Frank knows better than to expect everything will go as planned, he prepares a bag with some bare necessities. A whole bunch of first aid and changes for Red’s dressings. Kid shouldn’t be moving so soon, not after getting his head sewn back together in a mob doc’s table but as good as Frank could be at waiting, it wasn’t his favorite tactical approach and neither was Red. Frank needed him out there, doing his ninja sh*t. Murdock was one step away from getting cabin fever and whatever was going on with his ears that he wouldn’t tell. Red may sleep a lot but God knows he doesn’t do much resting - Frank reckons he has flashbacks but Murdock is rarely coherent enough when he wakes up. And the times that he is, he doesn’t seem to understand anything at all. That’s why, when he finishes packing to find Matthew burrowed into the sheets with a peaceful, restful expression softening his features, Frank doesn’t wake him. He busies himself around the place for a while until there’s no need to check traps or supplies and only then does he take a seat by the cot. Red looks different since he got here. Even with the flashbacks, the constant headaches and the effects of the concussion, there’s a weight missing from him. He still has that soldier-like posture of his, spine straight, shoulders back, but there’s something, an absence Frank can’t pinpoint. It’s in the softness of his eyebrows when he sleeps, in his easy-going talk when he’s not distracted with his messed up head. Maybe it’s the memories he doesn’t have. Maybe. Takes an hour for Red to finally shift, hands twitching away from the cotton sheets tangled around his waist. Frank notices the rashes all over his forearms, bright red where they had been pressed against the fabric. “Hey, Red,” a soft groan answers him. Red scratches at his forearm. “Who am I?” For some reason, Murdock flinches at the question; muscles tensing before he lets go. Frank’s eyes narrow at his figure, Red takes a deep, shuddering breath. “You’re Frank. I’m Matt. It’s Monday. November. I don’t know the date.” Frank stares at him some more. Waits for an answer to pop out of somewhere, a reason for the slightly frenetic twitch of his fingers. Sighs when none comes. “It’s the 21 st .” Murdock nods, before attempting to sit up. He still swayed when he did something strenuous - walked a few steps too many, climbed up the three steps from the porch to the cabin’s door -, and sometimes when he woke up. But if Curt was right and Murdock’s amnesia was psychological, triggers could help him fill the blank spots. The faster he got Red remembering, the faster he was out of there and Frank could go back to hunting down scumbags. “Put those on,” Red tilts his head the second the bundle of clothes leaves Frank’s grasp, catches it neatly with his right one. The muscles there had improved just enough that Red didn’t let things fall all the time now - Curt had left him some hand grip strengtheners the last time he had been there. When Frank had thought they’d have to shove Red back in the van. As luck would have it, the seizure had been mostly due to dehydration and shock. Murdock’s fingers explore the items - thick thermal pants, jeans, a heavy sweater and a parka. Maybe it wasn’t cold enough for the pants, but Red had lost a few pounds and had gone from fit to too damn skinny and he shivered a whole f***ing lot when night fell. He curses under his breath and throws in some winter socks and gloves. Peruses for an old pair of boots that came with the place. A tight fit, but better than Frank’s over-sized ones. “Wher’ we going?” He turns his head away from the redhead. He had seen Murdock in various stages of vulnerability in the last week, but when he woke up slurring his words and curling his tongue loosely and softly around his vowels, it was just different. Got the twist in his chest to settle at the same time it only knotted up more painfully. Reminded him too much of his kids, waking up with soft little smiles. Are we going to the park, Daddy? Rubs at the back of his head, palm pressing into the scar. Red inclines softly towards the sound, a bit more alert - chin cocked up, irises creeping towards the upper left corners, considering. “Your place.” Red frowns before freezing altogether. “There won’t be anyone in there, right?” Disquiet fingers pick at the fabric, flinching away from it before pressing his fingers harder together. Goddamn martyr. “I won’t remember them.” Frank pulls the cotton sheets away from him, throws them in the floor by the growing heap of dirty laundry he had to take care of. Red’s relentless, though. Finds away to twist his own fingers into pretzels, picking at the skin between each one. “Don’t think so.” But then again, what does he know? Midland Circle collapses, Red was supposed to be dead. Reports come about a man in a black mask saving a man and attacking people related to Fisk. There’s a riot in prison, Matt Murdock becomes a wanted man, and then he calls the very same day- “That’s what your fancy hearing is for, right?” Murdock nods gingerly. Gets up quietly and sways only once before dragging himself to the bathroom to change. He comes back dressed and already looking drained, expression unguarded. Soft. Frank looks away. “You can sleep in the car, c’mon.” Red does. He’s dead to the world for two hours.
Hell’s Kitchen doesn’t look any different from the last time Frank had been there. He had half expected it to be. That its walls would be somehow marked with the Devil’s absence. If he’s honest with himself, Frank had half expected it to look like the aftermath of an apocalypse. Stupid. Maybe it’s because he can’t picture the Kitchen without its guardian devil. Maybe it’s because it felt like the world had changed, somehow, not much more than a week ago. Something had shattered, and yet the place remained intact. Frank shakes his head and spares a glance at the man sleeping in the passenger seat, chin to his chest, soft clouds of breath getting puffed by his nose. He looked uncomfortable. He waits for the next light to gently squeeze a fingertip under his chin, help him find a better angle to rest his head. Manages to lean it against the window and Red expresses his content exhaling soft, warm air against Frank’s fingertips, falling back asleep quickly. Making sure he wasn’t resting over the injury - the place where bone was held together feebly by iron, sutures and skin - Frank avoids any bumps in the streets while driving, eyes scanning other cars and rooftops. He doesn’t think the man in the stairs necessarily knew who Red was, but his boss did. He thinks he sees something - rooftop over an auto-repair shop, not too far from them. A blur of black and red. It’s gone before he can register its shape and speed but he keeps an eye on all the rooftops after that. It doesn’t show up again, but Frank files it away as something to consider afterwards. Murdock’s building is an old brick walk-up. Not as much of a sh*thole as Frank’s safe houses in Manhattan, but a sh*thole nonetheless. Red wakes up the moment they pull over a street away, head twitching sideways. He looks more alert than he had back in the cabin, taking in the city, the traffic, the passersby. Frank just watches him for a while, makes sure he’s not about to freak out like he did once or twice already before turning off the ignition key. “Come on.” “We’re in Hell’s Kitchen.” He sniffs the air carefully, looks ridiculously alike a dog while doing it. The same way he did with his head tilts. Frank just grunts in response - of course, of all the things to remember, Red would recall what Hell’s Kitchen smells like. They use the fire escape. Frank catches Murdock missteps a whole lot more than the redhead would ever be willing to admit but he lets the man keep his pride. He’s dizzy and his legs won’t coordinate with his brain - right one mostly. As stubborn as his right arm and hand. He’d raise them barely enough to make a step and trip on the next, hold himself for dear life on the handrail before Frank came along to take most of his weight, awkwardly squeezing together through the tight fit of the stairs. Red’s exhausted by the time they make it to the third flight of stairs and Frank mostly carries him the rest of the way, Red’s legs delaying them rather than helping. It isn’t any hardship - Red doesn’t eat much and keeps even less in his stomach when he manages something. Castle isn’t sure what he’s hoping for when Red finally, gingerly walks down the stairs to his place. Looking more like a stranger than a man walking inside his home. Maybe - stupidly - that he’d walk in, surrounded by all things Matt Murdock, and come to some kind of realization and get back to his life. Get the hell away from Frank’s because he sure as hell doesn’t know what to make of this. Of Red and him in the same space, instead of being on opposite sides in a fight. Or maybe a spark. Something that told him Murdock wasn’t lost for good. Murdock touches the walls with barely concealed hesitation, knuckles feeling for the polished wood. There were cracks on the walls, broken glass on the floor, a crack on one of the window panes. Frank takes it all in and keeps quiet. Clasps his hands in front of him as he shadows Red’s footsteps inside the place. Shaky fingertips find case files over the coffee table. Murdock’s expression twists into something funny. “I really am a lawyer,” he mumbles, some kind of innocent awe tinging his voice that Frank thinks he’d never would’ve heard it otherwise, should he have his memories straight. “That you are.” Murdock’s lips twitch in that confused, unsure smile, fingertips trailing the few books by the files. An abandoned, open laptop attached to a device of some kind. Braille reader, perhaps. He stops at one of the books, fingers spasm before he traces the cover again. “Thurgood Marshall,” his eyes bob from the upper corner to the lower one, his knees still shake from the hesitation of climbing up the fire escape. “I used to read this one a lot when I was a kid.” Frank’s eyebrows go up. There’s something that keeps pulling Red back to the book, even when he feels for the other ones. Frank wonders what is it that makes him gravitate back - a memory, a feeling. What gets him tracing the same dots over and over again on the spine. “Take it,” Frank shrugs, lets his clasped hands fall by his side, “it’s yours.” Should probably get some of Red’s stuff too, while they’re at it. He steps towards the bedroom he peeks by the sliding door, looks for something they can use. Gym bag isn’t big enough for a lot, but enough. He empties one, leaves one of the hand tapes. Murdock looks grateful when he reaches gingerly towards the bag, dropping the book inside with a small smile. Frank resists the urge to tell him to quit it. He finds his cane next, discarded by the couch. Confusion and recognition battle around the creases and soft planes of his features before he carefully attempts picking it up, fingers digging into the back of the couch so he doesn’t topple over. Folds it up almost on muscle memory and seems about as surprised as Frank as he does it. “Remember anything?” He asks, strangely hopeful, but Red just frowns - sniffs the air like a hound dog. “I’m not... sure.” Yeah, he doesn’t look very sure about anything, even as he drops the folded cane inside the bag. He walks into the kitchen with a sway to his step Frank has come to recognize as exhaustion. Confirms it when Murdock’s quick to try and find support on the counter, hands bumping into something. Frank catches a blur of dark red and golden yellow before it falls. Red falls into a series of bird-like head tilts, eyes attempting to find the little red box in the floor. Knows it’s a bad idea trying to pick it up without support moments before the kid almost cracks his head open a second time. “Jesus f***, Red,” he pulls him up before he manages to face plant like the a**hole he was. Pissed off but still mindful of his sutured up head. He takes the box himself with a curse, recognizing the smooth, vinylic surface of gift wrapping before he hands it to Murdock. “Thanks.” His eyes get drawn to the floor again, though. Notices the slump of clothes on the floor by the fridge, some of them with pink splatters of washed-out blood, some with bigger stains. Frank crouches beside it - it had been wet at some point, dried up all wrinkled and smelled moldy to a degree. Suit jacket, slacks, socks, white button-up and a torn, black tie. “Hudson,” Murdock suddenly murmurs, one eyebrow quirking up as the other draws down crookedly. “It’s what I could smell before.” His hands still fumble around with the gift box, even while slanting his head this way and that, sniffing the air as if looking for clues. Frank stands up, leaves the rumpled clothes where they are. Something had happened between the prison rioting, Murdock becoming a wanted man and Frank receiving a phone call. Like the book, Red’s attention keeps gravitating back to the small box in his hands, wrapped up with ridiculous primness, contrasting badly with the skewered, badly tied up golden bow. He keeps tracing the line where the lid met the box, encased by glossy, bright red paper. “I... This is weird.” Frank grunts. Waits for him to say what he’s got to say. “I know this is all mine, I know it is but I don’t- I don’t feel it. I don’t remember it, I don’t...” He huffs in frustration, voice edged higher before it falls, holds the box closer to his chest. Frank eyes it, gazes back to the forgotten tag on the counter. It must have fallen at some point. Frank takes another look at Red then. The disgruntled, hopeless expression on his face. Exhales in a large huff of air. “Look, Red, this is gonna take time, yeah? You went through some bad sh*t. You gotta let your wounds heal, let that head o’yours heal.” Except what the kid needs is a f***ing neurologist and, sh*t, a really f***ing good therapist too. And Frank would be willing to give that to him, if only he wasn’t sure it would end terribly for Daredevil and worse still for Matt Murdock to show up now. Murdock suddenly stands straight - that fighter’s posture Frank had been used to seeing less flawless when it takes over the slumped, hopeless figure of seconds before. “What-” “Shh.” He looks a bit more like the Devil Frank recalled. A lot less like the helpless kid he’s been around the last few days. Frank can’t say he didn’t miss it. “Footsteps,” Murdock whispers, mouth close to his cheek, “coming up the stairs, six, maybe seven, they...” Frank pulls the gun from the holster, one hand clamping around Red’s upper arm to pull him back. His eyes go wide in panic seconds before he suddenly shouts out: “Frank, down!”
BRUISE Here is your space, lie down or stand or sit, it will take your shape. Be still if you can, look into yourself for what is soft and spoiled, for pulp, for that dark damage. In a second, Red’s apartment becomes a battlefield. It’d been easy once to tell Maria that home was here, with the kids, with her. But Frank knows himself better, these days. Knows how easily he falls into the gunfire, how squeezing the trigger feels more natural than making breakfast for them once did. How landing a punch is easier than landing a caress and how he’d been so selfish to think he could have both. He has three rounds of ammo on him, thirty six bullets for his .45 caliber, one army knife - a TBI patient with no self-preservation instinct whatsoever and at least seven guys coming up the stairs to apartment 6A, armed with assault rifles and whole lot more ammunition. He takes one second to feel for Red’s skinny frame covering his body after tackling him to the floor, his unarmored body and the crisscrossed sutures over his ear before he makes a decision. Grabs the kid by the back of his neck, dragging him off of him before shoving him backwards under the stairs as soon as bullets puncture through the wall a second time. Red, probably completely oblivious as to where the urge to fight comes from, immediately tries to jump out. Frank presses his forearm against him, looks deep into his unseeing eyes before checking his cartridge - fully loaded, all twelve bullets in - before turning to Murdock once again. “You stay under those stairs, you don’t make a sound, you don’t move until I say so, do you get that?” Got not time to make sure the kid understands besides a brief stare, easing up the pressure on his chest incrementally before standing up, walking low to hide behind the hallway wall. He’s just got to crouching when a shotgun blow makes debris and chunks of drywall fly past the place his head had been, seconds before. Frank presses his gun close to his chest, stays crouched low as he waits, tonguing his parched upper lip before checking in on Red, hands covering his ears from the close-range blasts. His breathing is too quick but Frank’s got no time to check for anything else but immediate injuries. He roars out for the pieces of sh*t waiting on the other side of the door. “C’mon!!” The spray of bullets start again, exploding through the door and denting the wall by the fridge. Shattering porcelain mugs and plates long forgotten by the sink. He counts the time, the bullets he can hear. Keeps half an eye on Red, curled up tight under the stairs, eyes panicked. The second the gunfire stops, Frank’s on his feet. Two burst through the door and get shot on sight. Shoulder, head - the blonde guy falls. Chest - the braided woman goes down. A third one appears through the doorway, screaming expletives to the remaining four behind him. Frank recognizes a few operational commands - mercenaries, probably former military - before he jumps into a roll, avoiding a spray of bullets and unloading three knee-level shots at the guy. One hits home. The gunfire starts again, Frank grabs Red by the arm and pulls him out of hiding, dragging him to the table and shouldering it down to the ground, using it as shield. It was sturdy but wouldn’t last long. Red’s partially catatonic, but Frank had expected that too. Either he was caught in a sensory hell or trapped in a flashback or both. Probably both. “Red, you listening?” A sharp, erratic nod. “We gotta get to those stairs, you tell me when they’re almost out of ammo, can you do that?” Another nod, more focused, more sure. “Attaboy.” Two stop to reload, Frank lends him his palm and Red makes a small, objective map. Points the location of the four mercs still shooting, the one sitting by the two dead ones with his knee shot to hell. Immediately shows him the two as soon as they’re on their last bullet. Frank rises up too late to do much damage, but one gets a graze to the thigh and the other falls back with a shot to their armored vest. They have little tactical advantage besides Red’s senses, they’ll be trapped if they don’t move, now. But Red can’t dodge bullets when he’s still swaying over his feet every time he moves too quickly and Frank can’t cover for him at the same time he guides him up the stairs. So he quickly falls into another roll, shoots the second lady with the army jacket and slams his back against the couch. Bullets fly over his head. “You got nowhere to hide, Murdock!” Army jacket lady bellows, Frank’s gaze locks at Red’s face and he waits for the signal. The shakiness and pale skin are almost completely hidden by the determined set of his brow, the tense posture he holds himself in. “Come out now and I promise I’ll make it quick, sweetie.” Murdock rises three fingers. One goes down, another- “Now!” He rises the moment burly bald guy on the back stops to reload and shoots him once in the head. Pulls Red to his feet and drags him up the stairs as quickly as he can without risking his goddamn head. “Frank, duck!” He goes low, brings Red with him. A spray of bullets dent the wall over their heads and Frank shoots once, twice, three times. Ejects the empty mag and shoves another in record time before shooting the remaining three - Army jacket lady, vest dude and bullet-in-the-thigh a**hole. Gives them enough cover fire to crawl the remaining three steps to the access door and reach the rooftop. Murdock is weak - stumbles twice before he manages to find his footing again. But as soon as they’re high up, muscle memory and adrenaline seems to get rid of whatever catatonic spell he’d been in, together with whatever remaining self-preservation instinct he had been running on when he stayed hidden under the goddamn stairs. “Use the ledge.” “What?” But Red - the idiot who had his skull open 10 days ago - is already running. Uses the fire escape only to hang on to it, get momentum enough and jump down to the next building’s ledge, balancing precariously before taking hold of the ladder and having it drop down closer to the ground with him hanging on to it, finding the alleyway ground with unsteady feet, knees bucking violently when he finally does. Jesus Christ, this a**hole. But it’s quicker, so Frank does what he says. Almost misses the first jump but manages to hang on, climbing down the ladder and jumping to the floor the moment a bullet shatters the window over their heads and another grazes his left arm. “F***!” He ignores the urge to clamp his palm tight over the wound in favor of tugging Red’s almost non-responsive body out of the line of fire. There’s a van to the left of the building, one that hadn’t been there before. Frank memorizes the plaque seconds before spotting a tall figure waiting inside. He shoots them in the head without hesitation, eyes immediately darting up to the fire escape where Army jacket lady was hobbling down from, and the building’s front door opening from the inside - bullet-in-the-thigh dude and vest guy burst out of it, Frank starts firing and so do they. Red makes a sound of surprise and goes green when Frank shoves him behind his body. There are retching sounds and a splash of liquid against the back of his combat boots, but he’s got no time to check on him. Gotta keep on moving or they’ll get them trapped in the alley.
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04/06/2024 10:42 PM
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Your Olfactory Bulb Has a Direct Route to Your Limbic System
The fog here is thick, until you step into it.
The storm rages until you get to its eye.
I wish this same principle could be said of me, too.
But like a gas giant, you could slip right through me with
the smallest amount of pressure.
There is no calming sense of self at the core.
Gravity does not apply to me.
There’s a boat on the lake cutting through the fog. And then nothing.
More waves.
More birds.
The fog covers it all up again.
The sun slinks and the tide comes in, or is it out? Does it matter?
The moon controls it in some way—the push, the pull of the waves.
At least the lake looks blue today,
looks green today.
The geese are in the water now. The families are packing up.
The ice cream shop is closing.
And I do not remember if I was ever here with you.
This, of course, is a collective you.
Could mean you, my reader,
could mean one specific person,
or two
or three
or four;
could be whoever I'm thinking of when I reread this to myself.
That’s the funny thing about the litany of loss.
It all starts to congeal.
Waves crash against the rock. Starts to chip away, create something new.
That’s what memory does.
It’s not permanent. It’s malleable.
Flexible. Bendable. Moldable.
It smells like lakewater. Like
fish and sand and mud and
gulls and rocks and shells and
algae and fog—thick, thick fog.
Smell is supposed to be one of the biggest memory triggers, and yet
I cannot place a single memory of you here.
And that’s mildly crushing.
So I would take you here:
to where I wish the air was
saliter and less earthy.
to where I come sometimes to think.
where the clouds are so thick and puffy and
the setting sun makes them look like cotton candy on the Fourth of July.
where the sun’s reflection on the water
turns the green lake pink.
where the geese are back out of the water and
onto the shore.
I would take you here with me.
Into a new memory.
Homemade. Handmade. DIY.
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04/06/2024 10:14 PM
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Paranormal
Summary: The more he is with her, the closer he comes to falling for death. Note: This passage is pretty heavy on the gore side, and maybe a bit intense for those who are not good with that type of stuff. He steps through the front door of his new home and scrutinizes the place with a bored gaze. Instantly, he is displeased.
When Sasuke’s mother had first told him about the house, she practically gushed about how timelessly elegant it is. “It has history, and the character really gives the place a charming atmosphere,” she had said while animatedly moving her hands around as if taking part in an interpretive dance.
He should have realized that all the adjectives she ended up using had been code for “old” and “musty.” Looking around the expansive entryway that feeds into the living room, kitchen, and library, he notices that it appears as if darkness lingers in every corner. The only light filters through the small paned windows situated around the front door and illuminates the particles of dust that drift through the air. Peering into the living room, he can see maroon, damask wallpaper that peels at the edges as well as antique couches that look as if his great-grandmother might have owned them. “Character, huh?” Sasuke looks up at his older brother who had just entered on scene, a large duffle bag tossed over his shoulder. “Next time, we should have a say in the place,” Sasuke grumbles in response. “If mother sees you complaining about her ‘dream home’, she might smack you,” Itachi chuckles as he inspects some of the aged furniture. “She fell in love with it and apparently the ‘bargain was too good to be true’.” He imitates their mothers excited voice, causing Sasuke to roll his eyes once again. “I just wish we didn’t have to use furniture that probably has fifty years worth of dust mites in it.” “Apparently it was all reupholstered a decade ago and is worth a lot now.” Itachi tries flipping a switch to turn on the large chandelier dangling above them, but with no luck. “I’ll let you have first pick of bedrooms,” he tells Sasuke while gesturing towards the upper floor. Sasuke nods in response and watches as his brother heads towards the very modern looking kitchen, before making his way up the staircase. It is grand, with wide steps that curve around the circular foyer, each creaking and groaning under his weight. Just like his mother to pick some place so obnoxiously over the top. Once arriving on the second floor, and seeing six doors on each side of the hallway, he officially thinks his mother has lost it. After all, who could possibly need this much space? Reaching the first door on the right, he twists the knob and swings it open, prompting the hinges to moan at the action. Peering in, he finds a bathroom that seems fairly modern with a minimalist design, much like the kitchen, complete with an open shower and a stainless steel sink. He shuts the door and crosses the corridor to open the one across from it. A mirror image of the bathroom he just exits greets him. He continues his self-tour, opening each of the twelve doors. He finds that the next two doors past the bathroom lead into the same bedroom. He enters the third to last door and finds that it also shares a room with the last two doors, except from within the room, the center door is blocked with a large bookcase. Deciding that this is as good as room as any, he sets his book bag on the ground. The room is furnished with the same antique looking furniture. A large bed with black sheets sits directly in the middle, a bedside table next to it and an old writing desk adjacent. He walks through the room and exits out of the last door in the hallway. I’ll probably just keep this one locked, he thinks before moving to inspect the window at the end of the corridor. He looks out the dusty panes and notices a grove of trees as well as the corner of the neighbor’s house, but something about the window frame catches his eye. The same old wallpaper decorates the wall around it except for the areas directly above and below the window. He runs his hand over the bare area and feels grooves in the plaster as if something had been bolted into it. He decides to ignore the little peculiarity and reenters his room. “Hey!” His head snaps up at the voice as he realizes that he is no longer alone. There, sitting on the edge of his bed is a girl about his age. She appears to be wearing a thin cotton dress with white ribbons tied around the front, similar to nightgowns that women wear in old movies. Her hair is cut short, just barely coming past her chin and her eyes are wide and green. “Who are you? How did you get in here?” Sasuke questions. Wouldn’t he have seen her in the hallway… unless, she has been in here the whole time. “I’m Sakura,” she chirps happily, swinging her legs back and forth. “What are you doing here?” Sasuke asks, more confused than anything. “I just wanted to pop in and say hi,” she smiles and makes a hand gesture that references to his whole room. “Did you know that this place used to be an orphanage?” she whispers, as if sharing a secret. Sasuke shakes his head, but thinks that it explains all the doors. When they converted it into a house, they must have knocked down some walls to create larger rooms. “Well, it was.” She begins messing with the ribbons on the front of her shirt, untying and retying them. “Run by the esteemed Dr. Orochimaru and his medical assistant, Kabuto. They mainly kept teenagers, but there were some younger kids here as well.” She cups a hand by her mouth and goes back to whispering. “They say you can still hear-“ “Seriously,” Sasuke cuts her off, not sure what to think of this nonsense. “How did you get in here?” She leaps off the bed, and Sasuke notices how petite the girl is, her limbs are skinny and almost appeared malnourished. She can’t be much taller than five foot, and he guesses that she just barely reaches the hundred pound mark. “Well, be seeing you,” she says with a wink before walking past Sasuke. He turns his head to stop her, not exactly sure what to do about a girl that possibly broke into his house in nothing but her pajamas, but she’s gone and all that is left in her place are bloody footprints that lead out, into the hallway. Panicked, Sasuke rushes into the hallway and glances down it, only to find complete emptiness, no sign of the strange girl.
He turns to go back into his room, and finds the crimson colored footprints gone along with a piece of his sanity.
Xxxxxxxx Knock-knock. Knock Knock-knock. Knock. Sasuke awakens, his body jolting with a start. Knock-knock. Knock. He spins around, trying to pinpoint where the sound is coming from. Knock-knock. Knock. Climbing out of the bed, a flash of blonde catches his eye. There, in front of his bed, sits a hunched over figure with blonde spikey hair, his fist repeatedly hitting the air as if there is an invisible barrier. Knock-knock. Knock. Each time his fists halts, a steady knock echoes through the room. “Who are you?” Sasuke questions while reaching for the metal baseball bat that he stowed under his bed when he unpacked earlier that day. Knock-knock. Knock. The boy continues on, as if Sasuke had never spoken. “Hey! I’m talking to you,” he yells louder, the repetitive appearance of unwelcome guests getting on his nerves. “He can’t hear you,” a familiar feminine voice says sadly. Sasuke looks up to see Sakura standing by the far door, the same white nightgown billowing around her. “What are you two doing in my room?” Sasuke yells at her. Her head bows silently and tears begin running down her cheeks. “It’s not by choice.” “What do you mean?” Sasuke asks. “I tried to tell you before,” she whispers before beginning to back out the door. “He’s coming.” Then she disappears in the hallway once again. Sasuke is about to chase after her, determined to catch her this time, but a strangled cough from the blonde boy causes him to spin around. His stomach drops at the sight. The boy lies on his back, a bloody hole torn through his stomach. His eyes stare up at the ceiling, blue and blank, blood dribbling down his chin. He coughs again and the crimson liquid spurts from his mouth. “Sa-aku-ra,” he gasps out before the ragged moving of his chest stops and his head falls to the side. Xxxxxxxxxx “Sasuke?” Onyx eyes open to be met with a matching set. “Why are you sleeping on the floor?” “I-tachi?” Sasuke as he sits up, already feeling the stiffness from falling asleep on the wooden floor. “Itachi! There was this kid and he died on my floor and the blood. There was so much of it.” He looks around on the floor, finding no traces of what happened the night before.
“Sounds like a bad dream,” Itachi says as he pokes Sasuke in the forehead a habit that Sasuke despises. “Anyways, breakfast is ready.”
He lets out a “hn” in response before standing up and following his brother downstairs. In the kitchen, he watches as his mother bustles between moving boxes and cabinets, trying to get everything unpacked in the large space. The room is a huge contrast from the rest of the house. Granite counter tops, stainless steal appliances, and cream-colored cabinets line the actual kitchen area while a large, round table establishes a dining area. The biggest contrast is the large windows that take up much of the wall space, each one open and blowing the wispy drapes around. Sasuke thinks he catches a glimpse of pink behind one of the sheer curtains, but when he blinks, it’s gone. “Here ya go, honey,” Mikoto Uchiha, Sasuke’s mother, says as she hands him a large plate topped with eggs, bacon, and some fresh tomatoes. He sits at the table across from his father, who is reading the newspaper and sipping a cup of coffee. “Did you know that this place used to an orphanage?” Sasuke asks, prompting his brother to pause from drowning his pancakes in syrup, while his father peers over the edge of his paper. “Really?” Mikoto asks, “That’s funny, the realtor didn’t say anything about that, did she tell you, Fugaku dear?” “No,” Sasuke’s father replies, “where did you hear about that?” “One of the neighbor girls told me,” Sasuke replies quickly, the lie rolling right off his tongue. But then again, who’s to say it isn’t actually the truth? “Which neighbor is that?” Fugaku says, an eyebrow quirked in curiosity, at the same time Mikoto says, “You met a girl? What does she look like?” “I don’t know,” Sasuke tells his father, while rolling his eyes at his mother’s questions. “Hm,” Mikoto hums in contemplation as she searches for the perfect cabinet for the nice dinner plates. “I guess it adds to the charm of this place.” Xxxxxxxxx Sasuke stares at the blinking cursor in the search bar of his computer screen. Where should he even start? Konoha Orphanage Multiple results pop up, none having to do with his new home. Konoha Orphanage Murder No results, but it was worth a shot. “Try ‘Sound’s Home for Children and Young Adults.’” Sasuke jumps at her voice and almost sends his laptop flying across the room. From his place at the old writing desk, he turns to find Sakura jumping up and down on his bed. He wants to ask her what she thinks she’s doing, but at this point has realized that he might was well be talking to a wall. So instead, he types in what she said and hits the Search button. The first result is of an article “The Tragedy of Sound: The Unexplained Mystery.” Already feeling uneasy about this, Sasuke clicks on the link. A large, black and white image of the house pops up. For the most part, it looks exactly the same except for a sign out front with the name of the orphanage written on it. Scanning the article, he feels all color drain from his face. “The esteemed Doctor Orochimaru, known for his opening of Sound’s Home for Children and Young Adults, was found dead along with all ten child residents.”
Sakura reads from over his shoulder.
“All the articles will tell you the same thing, that his apprentice Kabuto is suspected because he was never found afterwards.” She pauses, straightening her nightdress. “But none of them know the truth.” “What is the truth?” Sasuke asks as he watches a piece of her pink hair come untucked from behind her ear. She smiles sadly, “I don’t think you’re ready for it.” Then she turns to walk away, and for the first time, Sasuke sees her back. A large gash replaces most of the back of her neck, marred flesh and torn muscle visible inside of it. The entire back of her nightgown is soaked with blood to the point that it drips down her legs all the way to her heels. She pads out of the room, leaving her usual footprints and humming quietly. Xxxxxxxxxxx It is a week later when Sasuke sees her again. He had spent all day researching the bloody past of the orphanage. 80 years ago. 11 murders. 10 children ages 12-17 and the famed Doctor Orochimaru. The majority of the deaths were caused by blood-loss from ghastly wounds, but there were a few that were especially gruesome: electrocution, drowning, there was even a decapitation. According to all of the articles, all the blame was pinned on Doctor Orochimaru’s apprentice and assistant, Kabuto, who was never seen again after the incident. While the children all suffered horrible deaths, the doctor himself was killed by poison, most likely slipped into his food. Sasuke leans back on his desk chair, anxiously running his fingers through his messy hair. It is a lot to absorb, his house being a place where so many murders took place. He’s about the call it a day, when a link at the bottom of the webpage catches his eye. Photo Gallery Hesitantly he clicks on it, not knowing what to expect. The first picture is of the house, similar to the one he saw earlier, except in sepia with a group of people stand in front of it. They are standing pretty far away, so it’s difficult to make out faces. However, he can immediately point out the doctor and Kabuto. Doctor Orochimaru stands tall and proud, his hair long and dark, and an unsettling smile on his face. Kabuto wears a pair of spectacles and his arm rests over the shoulders of a girl. Sasuke does a double take, though he can’t make out her facial features, her height and build resemble Sakura’s. The only real difference that he can pick out is that her hair is long, coming to rest to just above the waistband of the skirt she wears. She frowns as if unhappy with Kabuto’s touch. Another arm is intertwined with hers, and Sasuke realizes that it belongs to the light-haired boy next to her. He could be the one that was making the knocking noise, Sasuke realizes, though it’s hard to tell without the gaping hole in his stomach. Sasuke clicks on the arrow that takes him to the next picture. It’s of Doctor Orochimaru, but he’s lying on floor of what appears to be his office. Father’s office, Sasuke realizes, recognizing the shape of the room. The doctor’s eyes are shut, but his mouth is still twisted into that creepy smirk, it gives him the creeps, so he clicks to the next picture. His blood runs cold and his heart skips a beat. The picture is of a body, and Sasuke immediately knows that it belongs to Sakura. She’s face down, a large wound covering her neck and blood blooming over the familiar nightgown. Bloody hand and footprints surround her body, along with a black-handled axe that seems to be what caused the gash in her neck. The caption under the picture reads, “Sakura Haruno, the oldest female resident at 17. Cause of death is multiple blows to the back of the neck with the axe seen next to her. She was found near the upstairs window, presumably trying to escape.”
“I knew the windows were barred.” Sasuke turns to find Sakura in her usual place on his bed. “They had been since Kabuto first brought me here, but in those last moments, I was foolish enough to hope that they would somehow come unbolted.” “Sakura,” Sasuke says her name for the first time. “What really happened?” She shakes her head back and forth. “I’ll show you sometime soon, but not now.” He brings his laptop over to the bed and sits down next to Sakura, glancing at her neck wound quickly before clicking to the next picture. He doesn’t get a chance to look at it however, because then the knocking starts. Knock-knock. Knock. He glances at the clock and realizes how late it has gotten. Every night, consistently, the knocking starts at 2:30am. He looks up to find the boy, in his usual hunched over spot next to the invisible wall.
“Why does he do that?” Sasuke asks Sakura, his eyes never leaving the blonde’s hunched over form.
“It was our code,” she replies with a sad smile on her face. “One knock means ‘Are you there?’ Two slow ones mean ‘Goodnight,’ and two slow plus two fast mean ‘All’s clear’.” “What do two fast and one slow knock mean?” Sasuke asks. “Danger,” she says beneath her breath. “It means that the Doctor is performing his experiments.” Sasuke takes a moment to digest what she’s really saying. Experiments? What kind of messed up orphanage was this place? “Why can’t he hear me like you do?” “Because he’s trapped.” Sasuke watches a lone tear run down her cheek. “He doesn’t realize he’s dead, yet he knows he’s not alive.” Her voice breaks. “I know that I’m dead and have accepted that I’m stuck here.”
They watch silently as the boy continues knocking, his labored breathing the only other noise.
“I have to go,” Sakura says as she rises from her spot on the bed and heads towards the door. “You know enough now that it’ll only get worse. Stay out of the hallways at night.” A couple minutes later, Sasuke watches as the boy falls to his back, his chest just barely moving. A piercing feminine scream cuts through the silence and Sasuke finds himself glued to his spot on the bed. Then like all the times before, the boy gasps out “Sa-aku-ra,” before his head falls to the side. Glancing down at the computer to screen, Sasuke finds an exact replica of the sight before him, except in the picture a solid wall with bloody knuckle prints sits next to the boy’s body. “Naruto Uzumaki: Oldest male resident at 17. Cause of the gapping wound in his stomach is unknown, but investigators believe that Uzumaki dragged himself up the stairs only to die in his room. Investigators are puzzled as to why Uzumaki would do this when he was much closer to front door before his very tedious climb; they suspect that the trauma of the wound drove Uzumaki to insanity in his final moments.” Xxxxxxxxx “Sasuke, you’ve been cooped up in your room for the past week,” Mikoto says one night at dinnertime. “Maybe you should go explore the neighborhood or something.” “How much do you know about the history of this house?” Sasuke counters as he pushes the pasta around his plate absentmindedly. “What is with all your questions?” she asks getting annoyed at her son’s strange behavior. “That’s the fifth time you’ve said something about it since we moved. Why won’t you eat your dinner? It’s your favorite.” “Mikoto, stop pestering him,” Fugaku says quietly. “Oh honey,” Mikoto says as if realizing something. “Is it because you’re missing Suna? You’ll make new friends once school starts, I’m sure of it. In the mean time, you should make the best of it. Konoha is a beautiful place with lots of kids your age.” She glances at the clock on the wall and exhales in annoyance. “Where is your brother?” “That boy hasn’t been acting like himself for the past couple of days,” Fugaku says before taking a bite of pasta. “I know,” Mikoto says sadly, “It’s not like him to act so moody and distant, maybe we should start having family movie nights again or something.” Just then, the front door slams and the heavy footfalls are heard from the foyer. “You’re family’s sweet.”
Sasuke glances up to see Sakura sitting on the kitchen counter. “Don’t worry, they can’t see me.” Sasuke gives her a questioning look as a silent way of asking why that is. “I’m not sure exactly,” she replies, apparently understanding the message. “I think you might just be better attuned to the spirit world than them.” Just then, Itachi enters the kitchen and glares at the table. “Pasta again?” he mumbles before turning to leave. “Itachi, wait!” Mikoto calls out, standing from her seat. “We need to talk, son,” Fugaku adds as he sets his eating utensils down. “You’ve been acting strangely,” Mikoto walks around the table towards Itachi. “Is something wrong? You can always tell us anything, we’re your family.” She moves as if to hug him, but Itachi slaps her hand away. She stands back, shocked that her son would treat her that way; Itachi has always been a kind and caring child, he would have never dreamed of hurting her before. “Itachi!” Fugaku yells. “How dare you treat your mother that way!” Itachi stares at his hand for a moment before looking around the room at the stunned faces of his family before turning to leave once again. “I-I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I’ve been feeling restless lately. I will retire to my room for the night.” Then he rushes out of the room, the creaking of the steps signaling his course upstairs. “Itachi, I’m not done with you!” Fugaku calls after, before following him. “Sasuke,” Mikoto says, before bringing a hand to her temple. “Will you do the washing up tonight? I’m suddenly not feeling well.” Sasuke nods as she walks away, pretending to not see the tears running down her face. He turns to find Sakura staring at the doorway, a curious expression on her face. “Your brother’s never acted like this before?” she asks, eyes still vacant. “Never,” Sasuke replies as he gathers the dishes from the table. Her gaze turns to the vase of roses that his mother had cut from the bush in the garden. “I have a bad feeling.” With that said, she leaps off the counter and walks out of the kitchen. Xxxxxxxxxx “When does your school start?” Sakura asks one sunny afternoon as she lies across his bed. Sasuke has gotten used to her sudden appearances and doesn’t jump at the sound of her voice anymore… very much at least. “Not for two more months,” he responds as he puts the finishing touches on a certain drawing he’s been working on. “Why?” “Will you tell me about your days?” she says while making a frame with her fingers and peers at Sasuke through it. “Like all the drama and gossip.” “What do you mean?” “You know,” she smiles as she rolls over onto her stomach, and Sasuke thinks that her perfect teeth and upturned, petal lips are such a pretty contrast from the gaping wound in her neck. “The family that was here before you had a daughter that would always be on the phone talking about ‘who’s dating who’ and ‘what so-and-so did at the party.’ She was in the room right next to yours.” “What happened to that family? Did you talk to any of them?” Sasuke asks, instantly curious. “They were gone within a month. They had a young son who found the false wall that led to the basement.” “What basement?” There was no basement in the house, that he knew of at least. “That’s where Kabuto and Orochimaru would run their little ‘experiments,’ nobody knew about it until that boy found it. I tried to keep him away, but he couldn’t see or hear me like you can and ended up stumbling across some nasty things.” She sighs and her emerald eyes pin Sasuke where he is. “The realtor freaked and had somebody come and fill it in with cement. They didn’t try to sell the house until ten years later. You’re the first family since then.” “What about families before them? Could anybody else see you?” He couldn’t be the only one, right?” “There was only one other person, about thirty years ago. A fortune teller or something.” Sakura makes a motion with her finger indicating that she thought the lady was crazy, which is rich coming from a ghost. “She lived here peacefully for about a year before she tried to contact all of us spirits with some sort of thingamajig. I don’t know what she saw, but she hung herself that night.” “Oh my god,” Sasuke says in shock. How many people died horribly in this f***ing house? “Anyways,” Sakura begins, seemingly unfazed by the conversation, as she peers over his shoulder. “Whatcha drawin?” “Uh,” a blush burns on Sasuke’s cheeks as he turns the sketchpad towards her. “You.” The picture is a rough pencil sketch of her looking backwards towards him. She wears a pair of jeans and a sweater with sleeves that reach down to her palms. No gash tarnishes her slender neck and her hair hangs down to the small of her back. She smiles as she looks at the picture. “I always thought I looked better with long hair.” “Then why’d you cut it?” Sasuke asks. He had given her long hair on a whim, inspired by the picture of her standing in front of the orphanage. “It wasn’t a choice.” Another one of her sad smiles. Sasuke doesn’t know what possesses him, but he has the urge to kiss her, to touch her, to do something. So he reaches forward, and she pulls back. “Soon,” she whispers, before jumping up and walking out the door. Xxxxxxxxxx “Is today your birthday?” Sasuke turns around to find Sakura standing behind him in the bathroom. He never actually sees her appear or disappear, simply one second she would be somewhere and the next she would not, or vise versa. He’s not sure whether some glowing light engulfs her, or if she simply evaporates in the air, but he figures that he prefers it this way. It makes her seem more real. He takes the toothbrush out of his mouth and spits in the sink. “How come you don’t have a reflection?” She jokingly pouts. “I asked you first.” “Fine,” he sighs, “Yes, I turn eighteen today. How’d you know?” “Wow, you’re an adult.” She giggles and Sasuke feels his stomach flutter. “I’m not a tangible thing, so there’s nothing for the mirror to reflect.” She takes her hand and sticks it through the sink, passing right through to the other side. “See? And to answer your second question, I was downstairs this morning and overheard your parents talking in their bedroom.” “You spy in my parents bedroom? Pervert,” he mutters under his breath with a teasing grin. “Not in their bedroom, just outside of it. I can’t go into anywhere I never went when I was alive, and I can’t leave the premises of where I died. That’s why I can go through the sink, but not the furniture in your room.” “Really?” Sasuke asks, receiving a nod in return. He always figured that she ghosted around outside when she wasn’t with him. “Anyways, I think your mother said something about a special breakfast for you, so I’d head downstairs.” With that, she exits the bathroom. Xxxxxxxxx In the entire month he’s been living in the “Haunted House,” Sasuke has been picking up on more and more of the “spirit world” as Sakura calls it. Instead of hearing the knocking and then seeing Naruto, the blonde boy appears first crawling through the bookcase, where his bedroom door used to be. A trail of blood always follows behind him from where his injured stomach drags on the rough floorboards. If he walks down to the kitchen for a late night snack, the sink will be filled with water and the sound of somebody choking can be heard. If he goes to the bathroom, crying resounds off the walls. If he looks out the window, he’ll notice the porch lights flickering. By far, the worse thing is the sound of Sakura’s scream being cut short at the same time every night. One time he asked about why she screams and she shrugged him off once again, but when he asked about the disappearing bloodstains, she answered him simply. “Just like the screams, flickering lights, and water, the blood doesn’t belong to your world. You’re just seeing and hearing echoes of what used to be here. Though the rest of your family isn’t, which is a bit odd.” He has tried approaching his parents about the strange occurrences, but each time they send them away with a “Give the place a chance.” However, he’s grown closer to Sakura. Though she’s dead, she makes pleasant company. Today, he leans back against his headboard, doing nothing in particular on his laptop while Sakura is draped over the foot of the bed. “Kabuto cut it,” Sakura says after a long period of silence. “Wh-what?” Sasuke asks, taken off guard by her words. He shuts his laptop and sets it on the nightstand, looking at the strange, dead girl lying on his bed. “My hair.” She runs her fingers through the short ends. “He always talked about how peculiar and interesting it was, and one night he called me to the lab and chopped it all off with a pair of scissors.” Sasuke remains silent, taken aback by her sudden openness. “It was two nights later when Doctor Orochimaru went on his rampage. He was the one that murdered everyone, even Kabuto; that bastard’s buried under the rose bushes outside. Naruto was one of the first; having been called to the basement, then it was little Moegi who had gone to get a glass of water. Everybody else was a sleep, completely unaware of what was happening until it was too late.” “Sakura…” Sasuke trails off, not knowing what to say. An apology didn’t seem fitting and he is not quite sure how to deal with her when she acts so serious. “You don’t have to tell me this,” he ends up saying. “No,” she sits up to stare him straight in the eyes. “I can show you.”
Then she leans forward and Sasuke thinks that she’s going to kiss him. But when her face gets close to his, she goes right through. Her whole “body” enters his, and his eyes forcibly shut. “Relax, Sasuke,” her voice echoes in his mind. Then he opens his eyes to the sound of knocking. Knock-knock. Knock. “Naruto?” the voice comes from his throat, raspy from sleep but distinctly belonging to Sakura. Feet swing over the side of the bed and land gracefully and soundlessly onto the wood floor below, pale, feminine feet with little scratches on them. It is then that Sasuke realizes he’s a passenger in Sakura’s body. Knock-knock. Knock. Sakura looks up and in the small mirror hanging on the back of the door, Sasuke watches as her eyes widen. Then, the little, white nightgown she dons becomes all too familiar. Knock-knock. Knock. Sakura glances over to the wall, which was not there before Sasuke shut his eyes. A scream echoes out in the hall and Sakura moves to her door, opening it. Glancing down the darkened corridor, Sasuke sees the house as she did in her last few moments. A thick blood trail leading down the hall, into Naruto’s room. She begins moving towards it, and Sasuke thinks she’ll peer in the room and see her dying friend, but she doesn’t get a chance. A tall figure, masked in the shadows of the hallway emerges from the door across from Naruto’s. Water and blood drip down the front of his shirt, and the moonlight illuminates his pale hands wrapped around the black handle of an axe dragging behind him. “Come here, little blossom,” a voice sings out as the man moves towards her. Sakura gasps and falls backwards to the ground, scampering away from the man. He steps into the light, and Sasuke sees the gold eyes, the creepy smile. It was two nights later when Doctor Orochimaru went on his rampage. Sakura is able to scramble to her feet and instantly runs to the window. She pulls on the large iron bars frantically, hoping beyond hope that they’ll break free. The footsteps behind her stop, and slowly, she turns her head to peer over her shoulder. He raises the axe, and a familiar scream rips from her throat before it is cut short with the heavy blow. She falls to the ground, unable to move, barely able to feel. An enormous pressure hits her again, and then everything goes dark. Xxxxxxx Sasuke’s eyelids fly open and he pants heavily, trying to gulp down all the oxygen in his vicinity. Sakura leans over him, her green eyes seeming to search him for something. “Now you know,” she whispers, “now you know what I and all the other ghosts in this place, have to relive every single night.” Sasuke sits up and Sakura leans backwards to give him room. It’s then that he notices the tears running down her cheeks. He brings a hand up to wipe them away, but it goes right through her. “Why now?” he asks while pulling his hand back in frustration. “Why show me all of this now?” “I’ve been feeling odd lately,” she replies as her palms wipe away the moisture from beneath her eyes. “I feel like I’m fading, I don’t even know what day it is anymore.” “Sakura?” Sasuke says hesitantly as he watches the petite girl close her eyes. “I’ll be alright,” she whispers before curling up on the side of his bed, seemingly asleep. Xxxxxxxxx When he wakes up, she’s gone and the morning light filters through the curtains. Groaning, he throws an arm over his eyes to block out the sun. “Good morning, sleepy head!” He moves his arm to find Sakura leaning over his bed, her eyes shining much more green than usual. He groans again turns his head to the side, that’s when he notices it. In the mirror on the far wall, he can see her back. No blood stains the little nightgown, and smooth, flawless skin covers the back of her neck. Wait… reflection? Sasuke sits up so quickly that his forehead bumps into Sakura’s, and the slight pain causes him to wince. Sakura lets out an “ouch!” and Sasuke stares up at her. “I touched you!” he says before slowly bringing a hand up to cup her cheek. Surprisingly, it comes into contact with the soft surface of her skin. His other hand touches her pink hair, like he has wanted to do since first seeing her, and thinks that the feeling resembles that of goose down. Wispy… soft… real. “Am I dreaming?” Sasuke asks as he pulls her down on top of him, feeling the warmth of her body over his. She giggles and shakes her head. “Are you alive?” he asks hesitantly, and her smile dims. Another head shake. “It must be today then,” she mumbles to herself. Sasuke looks up at her curiously, not sure what to make of the situation. “On the anniversary of our death, those of us who are aware of our situation get to materialize. I don’t know why exactly.”
She nibbles on her lip and Sasuke can’t help but pull her closer.
He knows it’s stupid and impossible, but he can’t help himself from leaning closer and touching his lips to hers. She seems shocked at first, but responds, moving slowly against him.
Even though it is slow, hesitant, and over far too soon, it is easily the best kiss that Sasuke has ever had… also the weirdest. Maybe she’s dead and maybe it can never be, but Sasuke has fallen head over heals for Sakura Haruno, the dead girl haunting his house.
A pretty blush colors her cheeks, and Sasuke can’t help but smirk up at her. “Wow,” she says quietly, “that was my first kiss.” She lies down next to him on the bed and runs her hand over his face. She traces his messy hairline, running her fingers through the silky locks, her fingertips outlining his sharp cheekbones, softly following the bridge of his aristocratic nose. His arms wrap around her hips, securely her to him, and Sasuke thinks that he can get used to this feeling. She tucks into him perfectly, her thin body molding against his, and they just lay there in silence, feeling each other. “Why couldn’t we have been born in the same time period,” Sakura whispers as she tucks her face into his chest, memorizing Sasuke’s scent. He doesn’t respond, thinking the same thing himself, instead he brushes his lips over her forehead and watches as her face turns the same color as her hair. Embarrassed, she buries her face in his neck, trying to hide. Chuckling causes his chest to rumble, sending Sakura into her own fits of giggles. Sasuke just watches the joy in her eyes as he smoothes her hair, loving the feel of the strands. Her smile falters slightly as she pushes her body up so that she is eyelevel with him. As if unsure, she slowly moves towards him, and kisses him. She begins to pull away, but Sasuke secures her in place and deepens the action. His tongue prods against her lips, and she opens her mouth as invitation. Tasting her, touching her, loving her. It’s almost too much. She hums happily against his lips, and Sasuke makes a mental agreement with himself that he will not be leaving her side today. Xxxxxx “Can I meet your family?” Sakura asks as she runs her foot up and down his. “You know, for real?” “Hn,” Sasuke says, neither accepting nor rejecting her request. He settles for ghosting a kiss on her upturned nose. “I’ll be a girl from the neighborhood who comes down to stay with her grandmother during the summers,” she nuzzles his cheek with her nose. Then, rising from the sheets, he nods towards the door. Sakura looks at him as if confused, her hair mussed from his constant attention. “If you’re going to come to dinner, then I’ll need to get you some clothes.” He heads towards the door. “Stay here.” Quietly shutting the door behind him, Sasuke heads down the hallway intent on making his way downstairs to his parents’ room. However, a loud noise from his brother’s room causes him to stop. “Tomorrow,” a voice hisses from behind the closed door, but the rest of the sentence is muffled, so Sasuke finds himself leaning his ear against the aged wood.
“-starting to notice,” the voice continues and Sasuke recognizes it as a man’s, definitely not Itachi’s. Still muffled, he can only catch bits and pieces. “…can’t escape… anger… do it.” The door opens and Sasuke jumps back from it in shock. “Sasuke?” his brother inquires, looking down at him. Lately, Itachi has had deep circles under his eyes, as if he hasn’t been getting much sleep. At first, Sasuke assumed that he had been hearing the deaths as well, but when he asked about it, Itachi responded with a look that made him feel crazy. “Is there somebody in there with you?” Sasuke asks as he tries to look around the tall form of his brother. “No,” Itachi replies curtly before shutting the door in Sasuke’s face. Xxxxxxx When he reenters the room, Sakura is no longer on the bed. “Sakura?” he calls, panicked that she turned back into a spirit. He jumps slightly when his wardrobe door opens and the girl peaks her head out. “What are you doing in there?” he asks as she steps out. “Your brother came in, so I hid,” she says before launching herself in his arms. Sasuke catches her, surprised at how light she is and sets her back on the bed. “I cleared told my mom that you were coming to dinner and I grabbed you a pair of leggings and some boots.” He picks the items up from the floor, having dropped them when she leaped and shows them to her. “My mom’s pretty tall and I figured your dress would pass as normal clothes. You’ll probably have to roll the leggings up, but my mom has so many clothes and shoes that she shouldn’t notice the boots.” She pulls the items on and examines herself in the mirror. “How do I look?” she asks teasingly. “Beautiful.” Xxxxxxxx They sit around the dinner table, except Itachi who left shortly after sitting down, and the room is filled with Sakura and Mikoto’s chatter. The Uchiha woman had instantly took a liking to the dead girl, even hinting at Sasuke needing a girlfriend like her. Fugaku remained his passive self as always. “So, you’re only here during the summers?” Mikoto asks. “Yeah, I live in Ame, I just come down here to help out with my grandmother.” “That’s too bad,” Mikoto replies. “It would have been nice if you and Sasuke went to the same school.” “Yeah, it would be fun to go to school with each other.” Sakura sends a wink at Sasuke before excusing herself. “She’s very charming,” Mikoto says after directing Sakura to the bathroom. “Though she doesn’t seem to like my cooking.” “Yeah,” Sasuke says quietly. “You know, long distance relationships don’t typically work out well unless you are both very committed to each other.” Sasuke shoots his mother a withering glare. “Don’t you look at me like that, Sasuke Uchiha.” She points her fork at him threateningly. “Never, have you ever brought a girl home, not even that one girl that you dated for almost a year.” Sasuke shakes his head as his mother continues giving him unwanted – and frankly, unnecessary – relationship advice. Xxxxxxxx Being a ghost, Sakura doesn’t really have to use the restroom, but feels the need to wash her face. Mikoto is such a beautiful woman and very motherly as well, accepting Sakura even though she knows so little about her, not even saying anything as she pushed the food that she can’t eat around the plate. This was a mistake. Sakura thinks as tears burn in her eyes. She should have never asked Sasuke for this, she should have stayed away from the family that she can never be a part of and remained the orphaned, dead girl that she is. But she is selfish and couldn’t pass up the opportunity of feeling normal. Turning off the water and drying off her face, Sakura stares at her reflection. Gaps in her memory have started forming. Have her eyes always been green? Has she always been this short? How old was she when she died? She doesn’t know what the lapses mean, but she figures that it cannot be anything good. Make it worth it. She tells herself before exiting the bathroom, only to run into a strong chest. “I’m sorry,” she says, quickly moving out of Itachi’s way, but his hand shoots out and grabs her arm before pinning her to the wall. “What are you doing?” he spits out and Sakura could have sworn that she saw his eyes flash red.
“I was just washing my face,” she replies trying to remain calm.
“That’s not what I mean, little blossom.” The change in his eyes is distinctly visible now. They remain bright red and the tone of voice shifts to one that sounds all too familiar for Sakura. “What are you doing in this world?”
“Orochimaru,” she realizes as she watches Itachi’s tongue come out of his mouth and flick across his lips in a way all too familiar. “I won’t let you harm this family too.” She tries to make her voice sound strong, but her yelp of pain as Itachi’s grip tightens around her wrist ruins the effect. “Learn your place, girl,” Itachi snarls. He blinks rapidly and his eyes fade back to the dark color that resembles his brother’s. He looks at his hand and in shock pushes away from Sakura. “Please forgive me,” he states, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have not been myself lately.” Sakura watches him as he rushes away, her eyes swimming in sympathy. It seems as if she is not the only one losing herself. xxxxxxxxx “My mother is quite taken with you,” Sasuke murmurs as he strokes her hair. After dinner, when his parents had retired elsewhere, he and Sakura had snuck upstairs and resumed their position on his bed. He lays on his back, with Sakura curled up in his arms, half lying on him, drawing geometric symbols over his shirt with her finger. “I’m fading, Sasuke,” she whispers. His hands come down to cup her face, and turn it so that she looks in his eyes. “What do you mean?” “I’m drifting away, I’m forgetting my past, who I am, what happened. It’s all leaving me.” Her eyes close and she begins humming a sad, haunting tune. “Soon enough, I’ll be just like Naruto and the others.” Sasuke allows that to sink in. He knows that their relationship is dysfunctional, but he never imagined something like this. Having to hear her die every night, calling out to her, but his voice never reaching. Her humming stops and he thinks she fell asleep, so he runs his fingers up her back, tracing all of her vertebrae and her soft skin. “Sakura?” he begins, there is still a way that they can be together, forever. “Sakura?” he asks again, shaking her lightly. Slowly her head rises up, and her eyes are filled with confusion. “Is that my name?” she asks. “Yes,” Sasuke breathes out his reply, not believing this. “Yes, you’re Sakura.” Her eyes widen and she jumps up. “Sasuke, you need to get out of this house!” “Whoa, wait a minute,” he rests his hands on her shoulders. “No, you need to get out, you need to move somewhere else,” she starts breathing quickly as if hyperventilating. “He’s coming back, he’s coming back.” She begins looking around as if in a panic. “Sakura, calm down.” Sasuke’s at a loss, he doesn’t know what she is talking about or why she is suddenly hysterical. “I love you, Sasuke, and you need to leave.” He pauses and stares at her, shocked, then he decides to voice the thought he had just a moment ago. “What if I never leave?” he whispers. “What do you mean?” she asks slowly, in a way that makes him think she already knows. “I could d-“ “Stop, stop right there,” she says sternly, frowning at him. “You are not killing yourself. You are not going to be trapped in this house, reliving your death everyday for me. Don’t you dare ever suggest anything like that ever again!” She yells the last part, tears streaming down her face. She leans her head on his chest, clutching her shirt in her hands. Her shoulders shake as she begins crying, and he instantly embraces her.
“You need to leave,” she whispers between sobs. “He’ll kill you too.” She slides to the floor, and Sasuke comes with her, until they are on their knees.
“I’ll speak with my family soon, okay?” he tells her, burying his nose in her hair and breathing the light scent that he discovered this morning.
She nods and he picks her up before setting her gently on the bed. “It’s time,” she whispers softly, and her voice sounds distant. “What do you mean?” Sasuke asks and Sakura holds up a hand in response. It does not appear translucent, but it is not quite solid. Testing it, he tries to interlock their fingers, only to go right through. “No,” he says quietly.
He stares at her and watches as the rest of her body begins to lose its solid outline. He grasps her around the waist and begins kissing her. He puts everything he has into the kiss since he knows it will be the last. Then, she is gone and he’s left alone in the expansive bedroom, crying out for her to come back, as her scream echoes in the distance. xxxxxxxxx She did not come back the next morning. She did not come back the in the afternoon. She did not come back at night. xxxxxxxxx “Sasuke!” Dark eyes fly open at the sound of Sakura’s voice. He glances around and finds her leaning over him, her hands resting on the bed. “Sakura! You’re still here!” he exclaims reaching to touch her face, but his hand passes right through and he is left with the gut clenching reminder that she is dead. “You need to run. You need to run now!” she shouts as she points to the open door. “Get out! He’s awakened, Itachi is possessed! You need to leave!” He takes a moment to figure out what she is saying. “Run!” she screams, “the window!” Sasuke slowly tumbles out of his bed and enters the hallway. There, standing at the foot of the stairs is a dark silhouette, and Sasuke is hit with an awful sense of déjà vu. This scene is too familiar. Moon light streams through the window, a tall from shuffling towards him, with dark hair hanging down, an axe dragging along the ground, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. It is almost exactly like the vision Sakura showed him or her own death. He begins trying to open the window, only to realize that there is no way to do so. There are no hinges or handles. It’s just a solid pane of glass. Itachi steps into the moonlight, and Sasuke notices that his eyes are glowing red, even more shocking, the handle of the axe is black. An evil smirk splits his face in half and blood splatters across his forehead and cheeks. Is that the same one that killed Sakura? He breaks out of his shocked state in an instant, forcing his mind not to linger on whose blood might be coating Itachi’s body. “Come her, brother,” Itachi calls, but his voice is not his own.
“Itachi, why?” Sasuke asks, pounding against the window, begging it to break.
“We must join them,” he lets out an inhuman chuckle and continues down the hall. Sasuke dashes back into his room and grabs his baseball bat. He barely acknowledges Naruto, who his executing his usual knocking routine. Spinning around to enter the hallway once again, Sasuke finds his brother blocking the doorway. He instantly runs to the other door, only to find that it’s been locked from the outside. Then, a hand grabs the ends of his hair and pulls him back. “Your turn, Sasuke,” Itachi smiles as he raises the axe over his head. This is it. Sasuke thinks, bracing himself for the blow, but it never comes. Looking up, he notices Sakura standing in front of him. “No!” she yells at Itachi, “You can’t have him too.” Then, she steps into the elder Uchiha’s body. Itachi lets out a blood-curdling scream and grasps at his head. His voice comes out, morphed as if multiple are using it to argue with each other. Then, in a voice that clearly belongs to Sakura, he shouts. “Run! Use the window! He sabotaged all the other exits!” He glances at Itachi one last time before running to the window. Swinging the bat he shatters the glass, creating an opening big enough for him to slip through. Before jumping to safety, however, he glances in his room and watches as Sakura is pushed out of Itachi’s body, her spirit glowing brightly.
She turns to him, a large smile on her face as her spirit begins to evaporate. First goes her fingers and toes, then her whole body becomes streams of light. “Thank you,” she whispers before disappearing.
Xxxxxxxxx Two years later, Sasuke opens his eyes, finding himself in a strange white room. He looks around him and almost has to shut his eyes again due to the hazy, bright light. It is then that he notices a familiar pink-haired girl hovering over him. “Sasuke,” she chokes out. “Do you know what happened?” He’s in a shock. He hasn’t seen Sakura since the night Itachi was possessed by Orochimaru.
After she had disappeared, he was able to jump out the window and get help from the neighbors. When the cops had arrived at the house, they found his parents dead and Itachi missing. Since then, he had been living on his own off of his inheritance. He is in college now, studying law.
People have passed through his life, their faces blurring together. Though he survived that night, he felt more dead than alive. His family was gone, the one girl he fell in love with was gone, all the light in the world… gone. The last thing he remembers is driving to a lecture and then, nothing. But with Sakura here, looking down at him, it is as if somebody has resuscitated him, breathed oxygen into his body and shocked his heart into beating once again. “Am I…” he hesitates to say it. “Am I dead?” Sakura smiles sadly, a tear running down her face. He reaches up and wipes it away, and at there touch, instantly knows the answer. “Yes,” she whispers, covering his hand with her own. He notices her usual white nightgown is long gone, along with any traces of blood. Instead, she wears a wispy dress that seems to float around her, even from her seated position. He rises from his spot on the ground, and Sakura comes up with him. She points in the distance, and all he can see is ever expanding white. “Your family is that way,” she explains before slipping her hand in his and guiding him forwards. As she giggles and leads him towards a golden light in the distance, a new warmth spreads through him, calming him for the first time since the incident.
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04/06/2024 09:56 PM
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November (Nov.) 🍂
Summary: “You stick with me, Red,” Frank drops his voice down to a whisper, “I got you.” Frank and Matt deal with the aftermath of the attack at the Bulletin while planning on how to move forward. Notes: Hi, there! Poems and excerpts taken from (in order of appearance):
November by Raymond P. Fischer
And the word for moonlight is my name by Jai Hamid Bashir
Loss of memory by James Langlas
Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath
Very many hands by Aaron Coleman
Forgetting by Joy Ladin Happy reading! November (Nov.) the eleventh month of the Gregorian calendar. The last month of autumn in the Northern Hemisphere. May I be blind whenever June clouds pass; Never lie down in sun-warmed meadow grass, Never smell clover; my voice grow harsh and thin, And next November leave me dead in sin. BLOOM This mouth is a wound from where I’m learning how to love. With mid December comes unforgiving cold and merciless noise. Winter parks and Christmas fairs open, stores play Christmas’ songs from nine to five and Matthew can only allow it to flood him, drag him to drown into it as he sits in the cot by the broken window. He sighs at the sound of Frank assembling his gun for the sixth time. They had been easy to ignore at some point, but now each click echoes around his head like a gunshot. His head’s been getting better slowly. It took him a week to improve from the simple flu and two days of Curtis coming and going to reassure Frank the fever was not due to an infection and that Matt’s immune system has been compromised for a while due to poor nutrition and stress. And stress hasn’t been lacking. Fisk, and now he remembers enough of that name that his fists clench with the mere thought of it, is tearing Matt’s life apart. Not long ago he heard an APB on his name, considered armed and dangerous. There was someone using his symbol to kill people and now Daredevil was wanted for murder. A shoot to kill order was issued on Frank twenty-four hours after the whole Bulletin ordeal. Nine people died on the attack - including one that, according to Frank, was the man who shanked Wilson Fisk -, several were hospitalized and the man had escaped custody somehow. Matt opens his eyes at the sound of Frank disassembling his gun again. “Frank,” a grunt, “Frank, it’s the seventh time already.” “You been counting?” Matt stands up from his place perching at the window to sit down on the (uncomfortable, flea-bitten) couch. “Hard not to.” Frank only offers him another grunt. Puts the handgun together and drops it on the table, leans back on his seat and crosses his arms. “Past time we planned ahead, Red.” Yeah, Matt had been thinking the same. Running wouldn’t get them anywhere, but - “You should go, Frank.” A second. Frank’s heartbeat stops for a second before it returns, booming powerfully against his bruised ribs. Matt can feel his stare burning holes through his unguarded eyes. “Excuse me?” At the sharp-edged tone, Matt’s hackles raise. “This isn’t your fight-” “What do you mean, it’s not my fight?” His voice climbs up several notches and so does his temperature, Frank’s muscles tense and ripple. “Fisk is my problem, I’m responsible for this mess, you shouldn’t have to-” “Ah for crying out loud, thought this Catholic guilt martyrdom fest bullsh*t had been knocked clean outta your skull-” “Don’t change the-” “What, Red, you want me to walk away?” Could you do that, he asks him in another lifetime, could you walk away? “Yes! That’s exactly what you should do!” “And you’ll fight that guy in the Devil suit, weighting half of what you did a month ago and with your skull crocheted with wire?” His tone is mocking and it hits him in all the wrong places. Matt’s palms sting when he slams both down against the table. “You could have died!” He exclaims at his face, his own heartbeat mingling with Frank’s until it’s impossible to tell either one apart. “And there was nothing, nothing I could have done to stop it!” The marine’s heartbeat falters before he too rises. But Matt won’t give him the chance to push and prod and bend him. He needs to understand. “Fisk found someone to kill me, Frank. Someone better, faster and what do you think he’ll do if you stand in his way again?” “I’m not the one who dies, Red.” He growls, crowding into Matt’s space. Fast heart rate slows right down. The level of self-control of this infuriating- “So you get your head on straight, because I don’t care what bullsh*t you’re agonizing over right now, we’re doing this, you’re not doing this alone, you got that?” Matt inhales and doesn’t let go. Frank steps and only then he exhales, when the air is slightly less Frank and he can breathe properly. “This ain’t on you, Red.” A hand raises - he almost gravitates towards it before holding back. Frank eventually lets it drop by his side. He should know that Frank wouldn’t do it half-way, even when it came to taking care of Matt, getting him back on his feet. Had never been one for half-measures. And yet, it still seems he thinks Matt’s worth the time. Not like this, Red. He sits back down, unperturbed by Frank looming over him. Since a week or so ago, they’ve been mostly ignoring what had happened, ignoring the implications in Frank’s words, refusing to voice the unmentionable. “It’s like,” he exhales brokenly, “every piece of information I try to make sense of, it doesn’t fit. It’s like reaching for a broken cup to try and glue it together, but finding that most of the pieces are missing. I can see most of the fragments, I don’t know how it looks like when they’re together.” Frank nods, as malleable and open as a solid wall of bricks, giving nothing away. “Any leads?” Matt tilts his head up. “One,” he can mostly sense Frank’s eyebrow curving up. “The man who made my suit.” Frank stops for a moment, his arms cross in front of his chest. “How good was that copy, Red?” Matt feels the devil smile through his teeth. “It was identical.” The marine stops, head slanting to the side as if considering him, something in his face. His heartbeat changes, his temperature rises, blood pumping faster in a rush. Frank suddenly snorts, all the tension leaving his shoulders. “It is good to have you back, Red.”
Frank checks his gear as quietly as he can, leaving Red to his meditation thing. Sig, couple of knives, a smoke grenade because regular ones are bound to f*** up Red’s hearing. Prepares an extra getaway duffle with a lot of ammo, because he can almost count on a sh*t storm when it comes to Matt f***ing Murdock. Makes sure to shove some of the redhead’s clothes and pills and the cream for the fading bruises around his neck. A crumpled piece of paper from a week ago catches his eye. He had already memorized both the addresses scribbled down in there, repeated them until they echoed with his kids’ laughter and the never-ceasing gunfire. Frank’s mind is a battlefield and he’s the last man standing on it. At least, he thinks, eyes straying back to auburn hair, it used to be. He worries the paper between his fingers, eyes going over the same phone number in the back. He wasn’t here for me, Frank, Karen had said between sobs, splattered in blood as she pointed at the corpse slumped in the ground. Jasper Evans, the man who had shanked Wilson Fisk. And the bald a**hole had known. Had known Karen would find him, that she’d bring him in. He had known. It had been a stupid move, what he did. And he was still glad Red had been completely wiped out to notice Frank being gone most of the next day after the attack. He had twenty-four hours to get Karen and Curtis to safety before he went to the address he was supplied with and killed the six people waiting for him inside. He traces the phone number again. Shakes his head but doesn’t immediately throw the paper away, once he crumples it for the second time. It could come in handy. Maybe. His eyes stray back to Red. It’s been getting harder to stop himself from staring, these days. Specially now, that he knows. Knows what his lips taste like, how they move against his, how he grabs like he’s terrified you’ll let go of him. He sits down and watches and waits.
Red insists on wearing a black cloth around his head like a goddamn sock, but Frank doesn’t do much besides ruffling his hair teasingly. Matt only gets stuck once, during the ride. Frank wonders if he realizes it still happens. He’d just suddenly stop whatever he was doing and be very still. It wasn’t like his usual dissociative episodes, Frank isn’t sure if he’s just listening to something or lost inside his head. He thinks maybe there’s familiarity in his state. Like a man sitting in the corner of a safe house, a forgotten black guitar on the corner, the memory of Lisa’s giggles when he tried teaching her- Heartbeat must change. His smell - something does, because Red’s eyes snap open, his ear gravitates to his side. Frank has to drag his eyes away from the soft crease of worry between his well-defined eyebrows. Still not as sure as he once was, but focused. Ready. His grip changes around the steering wheel. Telling Red off for listening to his heart would be too much like acknowledging the fact that Red, clueless like a newborn fawn or not, always knew what was going on inside. It was a massive tactical advantage, now that Frank thinks of it. Perfect for manipulation if you know which words provoke the strongest reaction out of someone. But manipulation is not Red’s style, that’s for sure. “Will you be able to track ‘im?” He stops at a red sign only to find Murdock aiming a grin at him. “I forgive you for that.” Frank scoffs. “Right,” he reaches his arm behind him, shoving a hand into the duffel. “You’ll need those.” Throws the twin batons carelessly on Murdock’s lap. “Oh,” Frank keeps his eyes forward to avoid that face Red did - the guilty sh*t that seemed to scream you shouldn’t have at the same time it spoke of a gratitude that just wasn’t proportional to the deed. “Thank you.” He risks looking. There’s the face. Sh*t. He shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah, altar boy.”
Red wants to go barging in for answers once they finally manage to trace Potter back to a warehouse and Frank, unsurprisingly, has to hold his leash and knock some sense into him. So he drags Red to a rooftop, takes his binoculars out and watches. “This is a waste of time, Frank, I can tell you what he’s doing if you insist on recon-” “Shut up, Red.” He sighs at the put upon frown that answers him. Those f***ing eyes. “Yer nifty senses can come in handy, Red, not gonna lie, but we’re doing this my way or not at all. Don’t think I won’t chain you up again.” Murdock frowns. Translates the words to the memory before sighing. “F*** you for that, by the way.” “You’re welcome, Saint Matthew.” Red snorts softly at that and Frank can only pretend there isn’t a smile in his face mirroring the younger man. Reputation to uphold and all that. Frank’s good at waiting - so he settles in and watches, eyes keen on every figure passing by the place. Writes down a few suspicious car plates, photographs two or three people acting sketchy. Red’s sh*t at it. Meditating crap or not, Murdock’s jumping out of his skin by the time Potter finally shows up. He didn’t think it was possible for a guy to fidget as much as the redhead did, but Frank’s ready to shove a bottle of Xanax in his hands and beg him - again - to sit your goddamn ass down, for f***’s sake. He suddenly falls belly down by Frank’s side, his lips a breath’s width away from touching the skin by his ear when he speaks. “That’s him, the tall man. I think he’s bald. He smells like oil. There’s a woman with him, she’s packing heat, that’s-” Red tilts his head at the same time Frank catches the two kissing through the binocular. “Betsy’s his parole officer.” “Betsy?” “Yes, Fisk threatened to hurt her if Melvin didn’t work for him.” Frank’s eyes fall to his tensing knuckles. Red shakes his head in guilty dismay. “He got to him again.” “Any surveillance cameras?” Looks like a goddamn bird evaluating and picking a branch with the amount of head tilts he manages under a minute. “Not directly in the lot, but we might want to avoid the auto-repair shop across it.” “Right. How we doing this?” “Let me talk to him alone.” Frank stops. Stares. He’s more convinced every day that Red’s the human equivalent of a suicidal road chicken. “When he’s tied up and unable to crack your head open again, yeah, Red, sure.” “Frank-” “No, so you’re telling me this guy works for Fisk and has a girl to protect and you think he’ll listen to you? This Melvin, you said he’s strong, right?” Matt doesn’t back down. If anything, he seems more convinced that’s the way to go about it. “I can get to him, Frank, if we treat him like an enemy-” “That’s exactly what he is until he proves otherwise!” And maybe even then. Someone had to be cautious and Red clearly ain’t gonna be it. Frank bares his teeth in annoyance. “After the stunt Fisk pulled a week ago, you think he’s not waiting for you?” “We waited enough-” “Like hell we did, Red. You’re remembering sh*t but you still got a wire holding your skull closed, so don’t you f***ing start. We’re doing this my way.” Red’s skin is hot. Frank can feel it even from their distance. And his eyes- f***. “No,” he shakes his head, conviction in every movement he makes. “No, we’re not.” “F***ing-” “Frank.” “You have a f***ing death wish, Red? Is that what-” “I’ll go in there and I’ll talk to him, Frank.” “Ah f***.” “He helped me when he didn’t have to, he risked his life, Betsy’s life-” Frank throws his head back while still cursing, “when he agreed to it back then, and I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.” Red aims his eyes straight at him, through him, stripping bare everything in his path. “I’m not letting him down again, Frank.” So he’s left to stare, again. Can’t stop staring. Can’t help letting whatever is blooming in his chest from spreading its vines all over his flesh and bones and taking over, consuming. This is what he had respected about Red from day one, from the moment he realized it wasn’t stupidity or naiveté, it was sheer, unwavering faith and unbelievable strength. Faith he refused to lose in the scumbags that would beat him half to death in the streets. Faith he refused to lose when a piece of sh*t tied him to a chimney and tried breaking him, showing him he was just as dirty. Hadn’t been ready for the truth, then. Now, he just lets it burn him from the inside out. This is Red, all of him. Missing chunks of memory and all, taking all of Frank in turn and not even realizing it. Stares maybe for too long, because Red’s out of sorts by then. Barely listens to his stammering - he reaches a fingertip to trace the shell of his ear, the peach-fuzz texture of his lobe. The soft sigh that leaves Matt in response - it’s too much. He clears his throat. “I go inside with you, Red, that’s final.” Matt nods, leans into the touch for a few moments more before squaring his shoulders back.
Frank sees it coming from a mile away. FBI storms the place, just after Frank shoots the locked gate and dodges having his head cut off with a circular saw blade - Potter is a big guy and abnormally strong and fighting him gets tricky once they’re surrounded. Matt takes care of that pretty quickly. He takes out three agents with a few well-aimed kicks and punches. Frank is careful to hit only legs and arms - there’s time to make a run for it, but the moment Red tries- “No!” Potter manages to grab Red around the waist with crushing force, the agonized gasp from having his broken rib jostled has Frank aiming his handgun at the man in a second. Nausea stabs him deep in the guts when Red is shoved head first to the table. “Hey, let him go!” No clear shot, if the guy as much as clenches the hand pressed against Red’s break- “Let him go or you die here, you hear me?” The tears give him a stop. Barely a second. “He’ll hurt Betsy!” The man exclaims, still holding Matt to the table, Matt with his fractured skull. Frank’s heartbeat speeds up more, his temperature rises. “Let him go, you piece of sh*t, let him go-” “Melvin,” a choked breath. “Melvin, don’t-” “He’ll hurt Betsy!” “Melvin, please.” The telling sound of a canister dropping. “Red!” He fires at the man’s right arm, precisely on the muscle so he lets go of Matt. A scream cuts through the sound of the flash-bang grenade going off, Frank jumps over to Red, throwing his body over his and hands covering his ears. His stomach does swoops at the thought of checking his head. “Hands in the air!” “Frank-” Matt drags himself up to run palms and fingers over his face, out of sorts, looking for injuries. “Frank-” “I’m fine, Red-” “You!” Frank turns over to the single agent up, hands trembling where he holds his rifle, young. “S-stand up! Show me your hands!” “Melvin,” Matt drags himself to the crying man in the corner, kneeling between the crates and boxes surrounding the plate. “You have to tell me.” “Don’t move, either of you!” Frank takes a step forward, covering both of them with his body, hands up in the air and gun pointed up to the ceiling, fingertips straight and away from the trigger. “Easy,” he growls, taking another step closer. Gotta keep his attention on him if Red’s getting what he wants. “Easy, kid.” “Don’t move!” “Melvin, please.” “Don’t you f***ing move!” Frank stops, but keeps himself moored to the ground. No one gets past him. “He didn’t tell me his name,” a muffled whisper comes from behind him, voice teary. “But he was FBI. Mr. Fisk- Mr. Fisk said they needed to catch you with the suit.” Footsteps approach from the hallways. There’s more in the way. “Red, now!” From a second to the other, all the lights shatter above him. Matt is body slamming him behind the safety of a few crates and wooden pallets as the agent starts shooting. Frank’s back to the wood, Matt pressing against his front, a hand clamped tight over his mouth. He makes a soft shushing noise, head tilting carefully up and Frank follow the direction, having a hard time taking his eyes away from the redhead. He catches the faint light coming from the back exit. He nods. “Please, he’ll hurt Betsy!” Potter’s cries echo through the walls as they make their escape. “He’ll hurt Betsy!”
Matt sits under the shower and lets the running water relax his tense, overworked muscles. There’s a bruise forming on the left side of his face, extending all the way to his temple. Matt senses it like a tense coiling of heat, burst veins like cobwebs spreading to his eyebrow and cheekbone. Apparently Fisk’s plans had changed. Trying to kill him turned into trying to disgrace him again - destroy the very symbol he worked so hard for. Frame him for being Daredevil - take away all he has left. Not according to Frank, though. He did mention once Matt had friends, but every time he tried going after a memory, as small or insignificant as it may be, he got lost in the fog. It’s there somewhere, suspended on the haze, holding its breath. Matt feels like a fool trying to touch the unreachable. Frank is back just as he’s finishing up. He had left Matt in the safe house and went back to follow Betsy. Make sure she’s safe, tell her to get out of town. His heartbeat is weird. Matt is so atuned to it, these days, that the shift crawls from his eardrums to his skin, his arms prickling in goosebumps. He pats himself dry quickly, eyebrows drawn in contemplation, tying the towel around his waist. His right side still feels stiff and weak sometimes, but he makes do. Frank is sitting in the living room when Matt steps out of the bathroom, heartbeat pounding against his chest, palms working together restlessly. He’s agitated, there’s heat coiling all over his frame as if he was about to attack, eyes following him when Matt steps into the living room. Frank’s heartbeat slows down but not by much. Matt claps his palms once, using the sound waves to orientate himself towards the duffle bag in the corner. Peruses inside for a pair of fresh clothes - sweatpants and hoodie, smelling of Frank. It’s only after he puts it on and the hoodie sleeves slide past his knuckles that he realizes they’re not his and almost pulls them off on principle. The ghost feeling of a fingertip caressing the shell of his ear stops him short of doing it. Matt sighs through his nose. Puts some socks on because there was a snow alert on the radio that morning and he could smell it in the air. Only then does he find a seat by Frank’s too-fast-too-wrong heartbeat. Knowing the best way to approach the man when he’s geared up helps. He tucks his elbows close to his body and stays quiet. Lets Frank know he’s not a threat or confrontational. If Castle notices his subtle try at communication, his body language doesn’t betray it. If anything, his muscles tense further, his heartbeat keeps pounding deafeningly loud, his blood pressure is through the roof. “Frank,” he tries, carefully reaches to touch his bicep. “What happened?” There’s blood on the soles of his boots, Matt notices, sniffing the air. “Frank...” The marine shakes his head, digs his elbows into his knees and briskly rubs his palms through the sides of his head. His breath hitches once, twice, but he never speaks whatever it is he’s got to say. Matt is just about to ask when the man suddenly leans back, stands up and stomps to the duffel bag. The one with his guns. “What are you doing?” No answer, predictably. The redhead jumps up too, his ribs protest at every deep breath. “Talk to me, Frank.” Frank slams a gun down against the kitchen table and Matt fights a flinch. He’s huffing through his nose, heart speeding up. Hormone levels spike, the bittersweet stench of adrenaline clogs the air - Frank is a bomb about to go off. “I told you. I f***ing told you. I told you we had to be careful, but you never listen to a f***ing thing anyone’s got to say, do you Red?” “Are you talking about Melvin?” No. Something else. There was something wrong. “Frank, what happened?” He takes a step forward, fighting the urge to fall into defense position when Frank’s trigger finger twitches. “Why do you smell like-” “Blood?” The soldier pulls something out of his jacket pocket and thrusts it into his hands, the coppery scent gets stuck to his tongue. He feels for it, the smooth polycarbonate drags across his fingers. The blood stains make it impossible for him to follow any traces of ink. “I don’t-” “Third body I found in the last week, Red. The third.” He takes a step back, brows furrowing down, presses his fingertips harder against the cards, can’t make sense of the ink. “Ask me their names-” “Frank, you’re not making any-” “Richard Murdoch, Matthew Ramirez, Louise Matthews, recognized any patterns yet, Red?” His stomach drops, blood turning cold. And Frank sees it and he’s vicious about it. Crowds into his space so Matt has nowhere to escape. “Yeah, got their eyes plucked out of their sockets while they were still alive before they were shot in the stomach, hands tied so they couldn’t do sh*t about it. This woman, Red? They left her in her kitchen. Her little kid found her. Her little kid.” Bile is corrosive like acid when it reaches his throat, coating the back of his tongue. He thinks maybe his pressure drops, because feeling leaves his fingertips and toes. “Fisk-” “Yeah.” Frank takes a step closer, Matt’s stumbles back when he reaches to pluck the three cards from his trembling hands. But he’s not done yet. Frank’s not pulling any punches and Matt feels like throwing up. “Now, you got a Fed dressed in your pajamas killing people, Fisk tearing your name apart, going after Karen, going after Curt, murdering innocent people to get you out hiding and you gonna tell me this piece of sh*t deserves a second chance, Red?” Matt’s mouth opens to answer but nothing leaves, his own heart hammering inside his chest, pressing against his sore ribs. “I can’t k-” “You’re goddamn right you can’t.” Cold seeps into his bones and Matt wonders if the air leaking out of his lungs is ever coming back, because suddenly it feels like there’s less oxygen in the room. He presses himself against the wall, chest barely moving. “This ends now. I’ll do it my way, my kinda justice.” Matt shakes his head once. Shakes it again more erratically and why isn’t there any air ? Why does his chest burn like it’s being torn apart? “No, Frank, you can’t, you can’t kill h-” “Yes, I can!” Frank steps closer, huffing against his face like a predator about to open his jaws and sink canines into his neck. “And I’ll kill anyone else in this town if it means you’re safe.” The air goes thicker, his heart squeezed tight in his chest and as fast as a hummingbird’s. And trapped between the beginnings of a panic attack and an elated sense of confusion, Matt feels like he finally understands Frank completely, if only for that moment. Sees all of him, the dark and the light, not fighting but constantly fusing. “Frank,” voice weak, his fingertips tremble when he reaches out, traces the bruised contours of his face. There are no words when he goes looking for them, still breathing too quickly, focusing on Frank. Bright like fire in front of him. “Frank.” “Shut up, Red,” had never heard his voice that weak, glass shattering wetly in every consonant. But his thumb comes up to caress Matt’s chin, his lower lip, his cheeks. “Shut your mouth.” Matt kisses him. It’s a conscious decision at first and then it’s not. It’s Frank’s lips, chapped and full against his trembling ones, his mouth hot and wet against Matt’s. It’s him swallowing all of that grief that was ever-present in Frank’s voice so it didn’t spill all over them both. It was Frank holding him up, pulling gently at his hair, a soft apology in each caress, in each peck. It’s tasting Frank’s pain in his tongue and trying to remember a time where he didn’t make sense. He hugs the man’s neck so he won’t let go, moaning faintly under his breath when the kiss turns deeper. When Matt can’t distinguish Frank’s heat from his own with his senses - they look like one and the same. His breath hitches when fingers clench hard around his hip, pressing him tighter against the wall. Frank pants into his mouth when their crotches meet. “Yes,” Matt whispers, begs, as he nods. “Yes, Frank, please-” And his voice is so lovingly wrecked when he murmurs by Matt’s ear, biting at the side of his neck, rolling his hips against his. “Goddamn you, Matty,” a particularly hard bite makes him yelp, “goddamn you.” “Please.” Frank doesn’t need much more convincing. Matt lets him take them to the bedroom and doesn’t think of anything or anyone else for some time.
Red dozed off eventually, back against his chest. He had filled up some but was still skinnier than he used to be. Frank had been there for every meal he couldn’t keep down - could trace them like braille over his slightly protuding ribs. It felt like an year ago that Red woke up for the first time in the cabin, unable to form words in a second and ready to attack in the next. Take me home, his voice echoes. Please, take me home. If he thinks too much about it, at some point, his voice and Matt’s mingle. It’s him, digging his fingers into that nurse’s arm, feeling like death when he brought him close. Take, me, home. But there was no home. Finds it in a small column in the newspaper - Kitchen Irish, Mexican Cartel, Dogs of Hell. He buries his lips in the smooth, velvety skin of Red’s neck, following lazily the dark red bruises decorating the side and falling like a chain around his neck and collarbones. His chest, the insides of his thighs, his hipbones. The contrast is like that of stars in a night sky - the old mottled bruises around Red’s neck had faded. Leaving behind some leftover hues of red, sickly green and yellowish - the love bites looking like little silhouettes of Mars or Venus, shining red among all that white. Stitches were about ready to come out, too, on the wound the Devil gave him. It felt wrong that Red’s body was so quick to erase abuse. That he took hit after hit after hit and continued there, standing, waiting for the next. There was hair very slowly starting to grow over the scar in his head, where it was bright pink and glossy. Fingers roam down to the deep scar above Matt’s hipbones and presses softly into the smooth texture, a grounding kiss. The skin was thin were it had knitted, almost paper-like. It was the worse one so far Frank had found on his body, while licking, biting and kissing him from his sinewy neck to the insides of his thighs. The wound had to be deep - the scar was slightly pulled inwards, like something had hooked in. Wonders if Nelson ever saw all of those scars. Or Karen. Thinking about that - about the three of them, he tries to build a scenario. Nelson, a put-upon frown that doesn’t manage to hide his worry. Karen, a compassionate attempt at stern reprimanding. You should take better care of yourself, Matt, she’d say. And he can see Matt clear as day, hunching his shoulders over with that guilt face he did, agreeing to everything not because he particularly had any care over his own state, but because he’d hate to have them worrying over him. Useless to think of sh*t like that now. Gets him thinking of Fisk, though, stomach twisting in his belly. Of Nelson. Of Karen, holed up in that church, waiting for a way to get out of the country. Curt, staying at a cousin’s home in Virginia. And Red, here, in his arms. With his come drying in him, with his marks spread all over his body. What the f*** is he doing? This is Matt. Matt who has an expiration date stamped on his forehead. Who dives into trouble the first chance he gets, who’s being hunted by cops, feds and scumbags alike. Priority was getting Red through this sh*t show alive, not whatever this was. Keeping Red safe meant taking out this Devil wanna-be before he gets to Matt, because the a**hole kept on coming. Fisk can come later. He needed to resupply, get in touch with David, ask about Louise Matthews and, maybe, give a call to the owner of the phone number forgotten in his duffle. Later, he wonders if it was the change in his heartbeat or his tapping trigger finger on the gentle dip of his waist that woke Matt up, nose still close to sweet-smelling skin. Matt stirs, humming softly before stretching like a cat, turning boneless in Frank’s arms before he squirms, rubbing his naked ass against Frank’s covered crotch. “M’too old for marathon sex, Red.” The fondness in his tone has no business being there. “No, you’re not.” Matt smiles knowingly but doesn’t push. Frank doesn’t let go though, finds that he can’t, nosing the freckles on Red’s most prominent cervical bone. Then kisses it - he isn’t sure he’ll ever get to do it again, so he lingers as much as he allows himself to. Matthew draws slow circles on the forearm trapping him by the waist, squirming at the feel of dried cum and spit between his legs. “I...” a soft, almost soundless chuckle, “I think I dreamed about my eighth birthday.” “Yeah?” “Yeah, I... Dad and I, we didn’t starve but we also didn’t have much money, you know? Food was definitely never wasted there. There’s this one time he manages a few extra bucks with a fight and he bought me a thematic cake. I never had one.” He smiles. It’s abstract, but he could almost remember how it looked like. “Lin was there.” “Lin?” “Lindsey. She was my friend.” Red chuckles suddenly. “I think she enjoyed it more than I did. It was Star Wars themed and she was obsessed with it.” Red tells him about it in whispers. About how she loved every single movie she could get her hands on, how they’d compete about who had memorized the most dialogues. About his dad feeling ashamed that he almost took a tumble and some of the frosting of the cake had stuck to the box. Frank holds him through it, one ear tight against his neck, listening for his heart, chin hooked over his shoulder. It’s quiet - like the eye of the storm, the silence after the gunfire. Lisa had insisted on having all over her birthdays with a different dinosaur theme from ages four to nine. God forbid Maria ever mentioned doing something else. Her giggles as she ran around the house with her plastic dinosaurs in hand, diving through the air, permeate every nook and cranny of his brain. Frank presses his lips softly to Matt’s temple, careful of his break. Moves away from spooning the younger man but doesn’t immediately get out, though. Stays there, hovering over Red’s spent form. “Frank.” He grunts. “Thank you.” Frank shakes his head. Standing up makes his skin rise in goosebumps, Matt’s own skin mirroring his. He’s tucking him into the blankets before he’s even realized what he’s done. Shakes his head again - Red’s got no f***ing reason- “Nothing to thank me for, Red.” The constant, familiar itch of anger poisons the softness of his afterglow. Red only blinks lazily at nothing, doe eyes lost. “Anyway.” Frank stands there, and Matt lies there and none of them move. His fingertips itch to reach out but the marine holds himself back. “Do you ever think about just... riding off?” Frank frowns, not expecting the question. “Just going away, not thinking about anything you leave behind.” “I have nothing to leave behind.” Is his first response. Red pauses, still unmoving. Either because he hears the lie in his heart or because he knows, just knows it’s not true. Not anymore. So Frank sighs. Gives in. “Sometimes, yeah.” “Yeah,” Matt smiles, the curves of his lips tinted in wishful red, the soft curves of his eyes disbelieving of the possibility of ever escaping. Ever getting away. “It’d be nice.”
A strange quiet takes over the apartment the next couple of weeks, while they lay low. Daredevil’s latest attack at the Bulletin and the Punisher sighting and mysterious eye-gouging murderer take over the news. They don’t leave often and Red takes in to checking the perimeter with his weird super senses and, for some reason, that gets Frank sleeping better at night. Most of his days, he fiddles with his police scanner - looking for word of people he had marked to be in Fisk’s payroll, FBI ops, anything the NYPD caught a wind of. Cops were apparently clean since Nelson and Murdock saved the day back then. Frank sighs at himself. Red is rubbing off on him, more ways than one. Although, the other ways don’t happen again after that night. Not for lack of want - they both orbit each other a few feet away, pulling closer as the day progresses without noticing. Frank’s a moon courting an impossible sun. Red is back to training, though, so there’s no time for them to suffer through talking and weird discussions. It happened, they both liked it, they both knew it, they didn’t talk about it. Simple. Frank is admittedly a bit worried at first when Red starts - building himself up to pull ups and push ups. He appreciates that unyielding strength of his (an immovable object, a fire you just couldn’t put out), but if there’s one thing Red’s no good at, is recognizing when it’s time to stop. Sh*t, look at all the things that happened to him and he was still kicking. Still hanging on to those high morals of his. Doesn’t matter that Frank found him half-dead with his skull bashed in, Red still had the strength to to have faith and hope and believe in people, when Frank, well, doesn’t. Even training, Murdock doesn’t last longer than an hour at a time. He doesn’t say it but he gets dizzy and exhausted fast. Frank would watch him across the safe house - he’d drag himself to a corner, guzzle down a bottle of water with shaking arms, eat a fruit or a bite of a protein bar and then he’d sit, cross his legs and go quiet. When he opened his eyes, minutes, sometimes an hour later, Frank could barely recognize the lost, messed up kid he brought to that shack. He’d go down, eyes dead - his arms would stop shaking, his shoulders would relax back and he’d start again with renewed vigor. Red would do it again and again until exhaustion finally caught up to him and he’d crumble by the bed and sleep for a long time. He gets used to being quiet around the place. Training took a lot out of him and Red slept five to six hours during the day. While he does his thing, Frank begins researching. Fisk’s immediate detail has to be it, no other way he’d get in touch with someone trained as quickly as he did. And after Melvin’s admission, well. Ray Nadeem’s face doesn’t surprise him among the files and pictures Micro leaked him. The thought of calling him, setting up a meeting to ask about the copycat is tempting enough, but Frank is resigned to waiting for the time being. He’s just going through the last of the files when a somewhat familiar face catches his eyes. Chiseled jaw, blonde hair, dead shark-like eyes. There was just something about it- Matt rises and jumps up so quickly Frank has no second thoughts when he immediately reaches for the gun in his pants, pressing it close to his chest, eyes checking all possible entrances. Bathroom, kitchen window, front door - no movement. But Red is still standing there, eyes focused and head tilted, whole body locked in defense. He either heard something or he’s in one of his flashbacks again. “Red,” he walks towards him, checks his breathing, his eyes. He’s calm, although alarmed. Frank doesn’t need more reassuring before pushing the redhead behind his body. “Where?” Bathroom, kitchen window, front door. Bathroom, kitchen - Red’s face. His furrowing eyebrows and the confused little twist of his lips. “Roof. Only one.” His muscles twitch, eyes go wide. “I know her,” he whispers, fingers suddenly reaching out to clench tightly to Frank’s sleeve. ”I know her, Frank.” A shift of red and black in the window directly across them and Frank is shoving Red behind him again, pulling the safety off. No way she got there from the roof, there was only one f***ing person he knew that could do that and he was standing right behind him. She steps inside the loft like a shadow spilling. Woman has a presence on her, the walls almost warp towards her. “Matthew,” a thick accented voice greets, her tongue curling around the double T. “You’re awfully hard to find these days.” “Who are you?” Frank’s eyes narrow. Red may not recognize her, but Frank does. Head may be a battlefield of gunfire and contingency plans and his kid’s laughter and Red’s soft voice but he remembers her. It gives him a stop, because that can’t be. He saw her bleed out on that rooftop through his scope, saw Red cry over her corpse. But then there were the initial reports of Midland Circle - Daredevil and an unidentified female trapped underneath. He tries to fight the nausea that comes with the thought. He saw her die. “The f*** you doing here?” But Matt is already stumbling forward and away, face a mask of confusion when he steps closer. Frank wonders if he feels the grief, even if he can’t properly recall it. “Matthew, why don’t you introduce us?” “No, wait, wait. I know you.” Her pretense drops for a moment, eyes calculating when she studies Red’s face, his body language, before turning to Frank. And by then, her gaze is a promise of death and not and easy one. She smiles, small and dry. “What did you do to him?” “I didn’t do sh*t-” “Frank didn’t do anyt-” Both stop at the same time. Red’s fingers close around his bicep, the muscle twitches in response. He stares at him, taking him in, the delicate curve of lips and light stubble. Lips he kissed. The surge of protectiveness almost destroys him. “I remember you,” he growls out, “on that rooftop with all the ninjas.” Her eyes cut sharp like a dagger when she finally stops staring at where Red’s palms were locked to him. The satisfaction is short-lived but Frank savors it all the same. Her face changes, like day and night. The way she looked at Red rubs him off, too - something between helpless affection and toxic, hungry possessiveness. As if Matt was the embodiment of salvation and the picture of meat that she was just dying to dig her claws in. “And I remember you ,” she smiles with little humor, “Matthew was awfully entertained with you back then.” “Was about to say the same.” “No, wait, you know each- Will any of you just tell me what’s going on?” The frustration bleeds into his voice but the girl and Frank are trapped in a conflict of their own. Her hands caress the daggers strapped to her thighs, Frank’s finger twitches against the trigger - but their weapons point down, Red’s presence a weighting on them both. “What happened to him?” “What happened to you?” He shoots back, she raises her eyebrows with a twitch of her head. “I thought you were dead.” Uses the moment to drag Red behind him again because he doesn’t trust the lady as far as he can throw her. “I was,” Frank’s whole body tenses, heartbeat flat-lining in his chest. He tries and fails not to think of Maria, of Lisa, of Junior. “I’ll ask again then, shall I? What happened to him?” “Would you stop talking like I’m not-” “Got his skull bashed in,” Frank rises in volume, “and you didn’t answer mine, the f*** do you want?” “Stop, stop, stop.” Red broke from his hold, taking three steps towards the woman before he froze altogether, his shoulders shaking. “I remember you. I remember fighting with you, you... you died, I held you-” her stance changes but it’s barely noticeable. Frank’s well aware she’s still a threat (probably never wasn’t a threat at any given moment), but something soft creeps at the corner of her lips. She reaches out to push a strand of red hair behind Matt’s ear, quiet fondness in her touch. Almost reverent. Red doesn’t lean into it but doesn’t run either and Frank’s guts twist. “You hurt me,” he whispered then, “I hurt you.” Her hand trembles where she’s touching him. “I don’t even know your name.” Her eyes find Frank’s, raw and desperately trying to cover it. All of her that felt inhuman before seems to melt away then. “Elektra,” she says, eyes still locked to Frank’s. “I heard you were missing.” Too much vunerability, her face twists in disgust at herself. Only then does Elektra finds it in herself to step away from Red and that’s about the only thing he can relate to. Frank can still see it in her eyes. She wants to kill him - do something about Frank being in Red’s immediate surroundings. He can’t say he doesn’t feel the same, and can’t claim to not know why they both don’t do it, the reason standing shakily between them. Their familiarity doesn’t stop there. He sees the way she looks at Matt - the hunger, the protectiveness, the helpless respect. “Take care of yourself, Matthew.” She jumps from the same window she came from, leaving them both there, standing, unable to say a word.
NOVEMBER There was a time when you thought things like that mattered. When you thought everything did. He shoves the over-packed first aid kit into Red’s hands and the younger man puts it into the duffle as Frank power walks towards the black batons tangled with the sheets at the cot. “Frank, do we really have to-” Christ Jesus, this again. “Yes.” Red follows him like a duckling, still sporting those blushed cheeks against too-pale skin that Frank couldn’t bare looking at sometimes. He looks anyway, every damn time. “She didn’t attack us, she clearly could have-” “Ain’t up for discussion, Red, we’re going.” He reaches out a hand to stop Frank on his way to the ammo boxes stacked away close to the wall because Red had nifty senses, but was still f***ing blind and kept tripping on them. Fingers curl around his bicep. “Just, will you listen to me?” “Didn’t before, Red. Don’t figure I’ll start now.” “Frank...” his goddamn voice, Jesus Christ. Doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s giving him the f***ing eyes. “No,” he drops basic hygiene items into the getaway bag and kicks it out of the way, crowding into Red’s space with powerful steps. “This safe house is compromised. We’re not talking about this sh*t again.” But Red is good at grasping at straws. Spent a whole f***ing lifetime barely hanging on and he’s a pro at it by now. Even more now that he’s got cabin fever - desperate for any proof of connection besides the marine. “Please, Frank, I know her. You clearly know each other, I- she knows me.” More than knows if Frank’s got anything to say about it. Didn’t need to be close to know she was the type of girl that enjoyed playing the game as much as she liked winning it. The cat and mouse thing was her style. Manipulative to a fault. Just look at the way Red reacted to her - like a stray sniffing an owner. Made him f***ing sick to his bones. I know you, he thinks, selfishly, stupidly. “You stick by me, Red,” Frank drops his voice down to a whisper, “I got you.” Matt is still pissed. He can see it in the bullseye forming between his eyebrows. Frank steps closer, stares into the hazel-green of his eyes and reminds himself of all the marks hiding under those clothes. His mouth, his fingers, his bruises. He kisses his cheek chastely, slowly, nosing his temple when he stops pressing his lips to Matt’s skin. Holds on to that warmth he knows he won’t have close for long. “We can’t stay,” he enunciates, not as sure under all the solidity of his voice. Matt sighs and Frank doesn’t let him step away. Not then. Not yet. And there are those eyes again. All that light- “If something happens to you, I-” it dies down. Gets stuck in the cage of muscles spasming around his throat. Red takes a deep inhale that Frank feels overfilling his own lungs, his eyes wide. He steps back, every muscle in his body suddenly calling him to action. But he stays - stays to watch Matthew’s face fall, understanding flooding and creating rivers in the cracks of his anger. “Frank...” He shakes his head in response. He already said too f***ing much he can’t take back. Words just keep spilling out of him, these days. His chest feels flayed open. He needs back - back to before. Just him, the next target, the next mission. Not this. Whatever this is. Whatever Red is. He turns away from Matt, grabbing the getaway bag on the floor. Shoves an extra blanket in it before closing it. Red gets cold these days. “Let’s go.” Grabs what scrap of courage is left to look at him. Red’s face is almost serene, slightly dazed with solemn understanding. Frank thinks he preferred the anger. The anger he knew how to deal with. They walk down the stairs and leave Harlem.
Matt rubs his hands for warmth, presses his digits to feel where old cracks and hairline fractures had knitted his bones. Frank is quiet by his side, but his voice is all Matt can hear. And I’ll kill anyone else in this town if it means you’re safe. If something happens to you- He can’t tell where one neighborhood ends and the other starts, but the scents slowly become more familiar as they go. Smoke gives way to the tall trees of Central Park that gives way to Mexican food, coffee and alcohol. Chatter rises and so do faint sirens. Grocery stores and a Greek food restaurant and universities. Something that smells like childhood. Hell’s Kitchen. Besides his Dad, it was one of his only intact memories. It was difficult to track people besides that. Lindsey’s voice often got mixed and he can’t always remember what she looked like. The nuns all sounded the same, the priest (the good one) was surrounded by fog and the bad one... Well. Matt doubts he had any clear memories of him even before the injury to his head. Elektra... he can define the edges that separate her from the other women in his life, now. The one that smelled sterile like a hospital and the other one in the rain. Elektra was the soft voice in his ears, was the way he’d chant her name when she played with him - and she did play with him. She’d chuckle as she spread him out, coo as she made sure Matt knew he wasn’t in charge. That he was hers, body and soul. He can’t remember when her desires became his, our when his became hers. He does remember feeling utterly broken in her absence - faced with something she saw like a gift and felt like betrayal. He remembers fighting by her side and telling himself he wouldn’t let her come too close again. But soon he was kneeling, waiting for the clarity of her touch, the unburdening of letting himself be taught, guided. Matt figures he always liked himself better that way - when he was someone else’s. And in the middle of all that storm and chaos, right where Matt was taught to thrive, there’s Frank. Who feels more real than anything else in his head, solid and unwavering. There’s memories of him from before and after the injury and the fog. After he decided Frank wasn’t an enemy, and... When did that happen again? When did Frank became something between an ally and more? He sighs and tries to ignore the uptick on Frank’s heartbeat at the sound, the minute acknowledgment of worry. It twists the knife deeper - Frank worries. It should feel like something he should run away from. His finger sneak to his side, pressing against the finger-shaped bruises on his waist, the bite marks all over his torso, thighs and neck. Maybe it’s too late to run. The car stops. Matt steps out of it with a sharp inhale - desperate for air that wasn’t saturated with the smell of Frank’s skin, Frank’s hair, Frank’s clothes and the air that left his healing broken nose. It doesn’t surprise him that the fresh air makes no difference. Frank’s smell is stuck to him - it’s in the clothes he wears, in his hair, in his skin. He wonders if Frank would do it. Grant him that unburdening. Strip him away of the control he so desperately wishes he didn’t have at times. Elektra had bent him out of shape and broken him, but Frank... Frank would put him back together, wouldn’t he? He’d never leave him behind to pick up the pieces. Set him on fire and leave him to burn. And he wouldn’t have to hide from him, Frank’s seen all of Matt. He wouldn’t need to pretend like he did with- Karen. The name comes to him like a punch. It’s what Frank had said that day, to the woman who knew him at the Bulletin. “Karen,” he suddenly exclaims. Frank grunts in return. “Karen, it’s... Karen, it’s Karen. She, she was the woman in the rain, the one who helped me at the office!” It’s muddy, perceptions are tangled, there are thoughts and feelings he can’t put to context. “I didn’t meet her at school, I met her somewhere else, but I can’t remember where, I...” I can’t do this alone, he told her, I can’t take another step. And then she hugged him, didn’t she? You’re not alone, Matt. Blurry edges sharpen like blades. Her image carved like cut-out paper in the back of his skull. Only person besides Frank and Elektra that was actively part of his life that he remembered. Frank is quiet but there’s something weird with his body temperature. Blood pressure drops before it suddenly goes up, up, up. Not anger or frustration, something else. His heart goes scarily steady. “Frank?” “Yeah, that’s... She’s your assistant. I think.” “Oh.” Of course he knew. Matt keeps forgetting that Frank knows more that he lets on. It makes him wonder how deep Frank had been into his life before all of this. And he can’t bring himself to ask now. Not after what he said. What they’ve become - whatever that is. “C’mon, Red.” Frank helps him upstairs, the fog buzzing in his ears. No matter how much he tries, he can’t build up a timeline around Karen. Everything he remembers splintered, wrong, lacking.
“You sound like you’re meditating when you do that.” Frank raises his eyes to meet Red only once before turning back to his gun, checking the recoil strings. “Oh, yeah?” He asks, nonchalantly. “What does that sound like, sunshine?” He moves on to wiping the outside, making sure the bore of the barrel is clean enough. Chances another glance at Red when he’s putting the clip back in and assembling the gun back. He’s folded into a pretzel in the middle of the room. F***, he’s flexible. How far did that leg f***ing go, sh*t- “Your heartbeat slows, your breathing goes even. You almost sound like you’re asleep, peaceful.” Huh. Frank isn’t sure his breathing is even now, face twisting in calisthenics when Red folds into yet another impossible-looking position. Isn’t sure he ever sounds peaceful, either. Got war in his blood. Long before his family. He saw that in Red, too. A soldier wearing a civilian mask. A devil wearing a person suit. And right then, right there, Frank gets to see him free of the need for masks, brains knocked clean. The price of blissful ignorance. “Generalizing, you find something to focus on, usually your own breathing, and lets your mind stick with it. It’s basically what you’re doing.” Figures Frank’s own brand of meditation would include guns. He pauses. Watches Red make faces and clutch at his ribs while he keeps trying to get a tricky position right. “What do you focus on?” Matt blinks and stops altogether, tilts his head to study him in that unnerving way of his. When he speaks, he’s bluntly honest. “Your heart.” Frank halts, waits for the punchline. For something. “And that, what, brings you inner peace?” F***, he shouldn’t ask. He really doesn’t want to know. “It’s not that, it’s...” Matt turns his face away to think and Frank’s almost thankful for it. But Red’s not a quitter and he’s soon turning to face him again. “It’s safe.” Frank stares at him, unable to process what he just heard. And then, trying to find a catch. But there’s Red, who begged him for help and ended up with his skull bashed in. Who Frank’s been arguably holding hostage and hiding sh*t from. Who once bounced a bullet in his f***ing head, telling him Frank’s safe. “That’s f***ed up, Red.” The redhead smiles. “I know.” Frank shakes his head, turning away. Stands up already geared up for the discussion he knows is soon to come as he goes looking for his sniper rifle. Red’s been getting used to the new safe house the last few days but it doesn’t mean he’ll stay put when- “Where are you going?” Bingo. Frank doesn’t stop moving, his back to Red. Checks the rifle before putting it back in its case and grabbing it. Stands up with a sigh. “Gonna find a devil.” And an FBI agent, but Red didn’t need to know that part yet. Murdock stops, his silence saying a thousand things. Frank has to drag his eyes away from the last fading hickey over his Adam’s apple. They hadn’t done it again, besides the one night they got to Hell’s Kitchen and Red... well. Was f***ing angry and determined to show it. Determined to push until Frank finally gave him what he wanted - pushed him against the wall and kept him there until he begged. “Are you going to kill him?” “What do you think?” Can’t fathom how Red sticks to that sh*t anymore. Pain in the ass. Red suddenly stands up, fists clenched tight by his sides. Frank doesn’t want to but he will knock him back on his ass if he has to. “I’m coming with you.” “Like hell you are.” Frank scoffs, eyes instinctively jumping to the bright pink scar over his right ear. “You almost had your skull bashed in again the last time, Red, f***’s sake-” “I’m trained for this-” ah, f***, there he goes. Child soldier bullsh*t. “This concerns me, I’m coming with or without you.”
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04/06/2024 09:40 PM
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Breakpoint -
Summary: “Why won’t you tell me?” Murdock mumbles, defeated.
Frank pointedly doesn’t think of the reason why. The warehouse, Karen, Nelson, the headlines, Fisk.
“Don’t matter if I tell you, you won’t feel it. Gotta remember, Red,” he rubs a palm through his face, “it’s what you gotta do.” Frank has to figure out how to guide Matt through the painful process of recovering his memories at the same time he deals with Fisk and the fake Devil. Notes: So, about the sheer size of this series. I had no idea that was going to happen. I got a little carried away hahaha Poems and excerpts taken from (in order of appearance):
Blood and stone, Rae Gouirand
Advice from Dionysus, Shinji Moon
Paper cuts, Natalie Scenters-Zapico
Memory is sleeping, Sanna Wani
Fever 103, Sylvia Plath Happy reading! Breaking point; The point at which a person gives way under stress. The point where a situation becomes critical. It only breaks; it does not change. It only goes from one to many. SHATTER This is the art of living with a ticking heart. Red doesn’t mention overhearing Frank on the phone, so he doesn’t bother wasting time wondering if he did. Doesn’t matter if he’s being a stubborn sh*t and trying to buy himself time before another let’s-play-twenty-questions or not. Frank isn’t wasting his breath on that when he has more important things needing his attention. When he’s not sure what to do with the kid, not sure what to do with Karen, him and Nelson. Fisk and the Daredevil copycat. And he sure as hell doesn’t know how to deal with this not being a mission anymore. Because it isn’t. Maybe it was, at some point, in the beginning. Back then when Red called, desperate in a way Frank had never heard before. And Frank had gotten there too late and Red’s efforts hadn’t been enough and he had to watch him drag himself over the bloodied warehouse floor with his skull bashed in. Killing half of the Costa family on that mansion? That was a mission. Shoving a gun on the back of the surgeon’s head had been a mission. Bringing Red to the cabin too. And then he found him in the bathroom, hands shaking and unable to coordinate a single limb. Mumbling over and over again and probably not even realizing he was doing it. The same name, until his voice was barely there. He sat on that porch and heard Red lose his mind just a little bit more, saw the man behind the mask and the glasses. And then it didn’t feel like a mission. Didn’t feel like scorching sun hot in his nape, boiling water inside the canteen that barely quenched his thirst. Didn’t feel like fingertips bitten and dry from handling gunpowder. It felt like the park. Hearing the first bullet fly, the first body drop. Red wakes up again, chest getting stuck in an inhale that never leaves. It’s the third time already tonight and Frank wished he could say he was surprised. Stopped trying to fall back asleep when it became clear it was a bad night. “No, no don’t-” “Red.” “Have to, I have to get to- Frank-” a wounded noise leaves his wobbling lips and Frank sits down on the bed, sighing in exhaustion and dropping the thermal by his feet. “Where- I gotta-” “You did, it’s all good now.” Red’s nails claw into his arms before digging deep, steadying himself. Frank uses a hand to untangle his fingers from him, holding his hand tight. Lets him try to fight it before he recognizes the weight anchoring him down to Earth. “Frank,” in a whisper now, he always does that. “Frank, they’ll see us move.” “They won’t, we’re out, remember?” “No, no, I have to- Frank, did I get to them? Did I stop them?” He flinches at every little hiss of breath squeezing through his teeth, wild eyes bobbing all around the room as if expecting someone to jump at him. “We got out?” Frank’s eyes instinctively jump to the sutures in his head. The scabbing over the incision from where bone poked through. Carefully cards two fingers through silky hair, the color slightly dull with lack of proper nutrition. “You did, we’re out. Mission’s over,” his hair is growing too long. Needs a trim. “you can rest now.” “S’over?” Frank swallows over the dryness of his mouth and parched throat. Gets close enough to kiss Red’s forehead, but doesn’t. “Yeah, it’s over, Red.” Closes his eyes, presses his lips together in a tight line before pulling back. “S’over, you can rest now.” Still holding tight to his hand, Red sleeps again, breathing slowing down gradually. Like there was some measure of peace in the contact, in the assurance. Red barely remembers a thing when he wakes up. Frank lets it go, like all the other nights before.
As many things lately, Frank isn’t sure about letting Murdock alone in the safe house, but he wanted to check out his apartment, resupply too. He knew of a few things he could get from Turk Barrett, a few others from a former military lady he knew back in the day. When he’s got his supplies, he heads to Hell’s Kitchen. Not unexpectedly, there’s no news about the shootout at Murdock’s place and the attack in FDR Drive was attributed to a turf war or some bullsh*t. He does a few rounds, makes sure there isn’t anyone watching the place before he goes in, climbing up the stairs through the front door, this time. The door was replaced, but there were crime scene tapes crossing them out. The hallway had bullet holes from both sides and blood stains that hadn’t been washed out. The couch was destroyed and so was the kitchen table, which was just as Frank remembered it, so far. What stood out were the overturned drawers and the missing laptop and case files Frank remembered from when they came a week before. Stupid. He goes back to the safe house with the nagging feeling that he found something but just didn’t know what - a piece in the puzzle that he couldn’t match yet to a bigger picture. Red is putting away the red gift box he still slept with sometimes, when he thought Frank wasn’t looking, inside his gym bag when he walks through the front door. The airflow makes the garbage bag taped to the window frame inflate outwards before settling back. He’s used to Red acting a bit like a wild creature, tilting his head this way and that to fish for tells and details, a bit like a deer did to check for disturbances or predators around it. Sniffs the air sometimes like a fox hunting its prey. In the last week, they laid low and Red got the time to explain a bit to him about his senses, the accident. In return, Frank was quickly getting used to questions, prodding him for memories, trying to trigger new things out of him. Stupid things he wouldn’t usually be bothered to learn. “High-school? Uh, I remember graduating, I think. I had just broken up with a girlfriend, I think, what was her name?” He had frowned from where he was doing the exercises for his right arm. “Anyway, she found out I like guys too and was a bit disgusted, I think. She said she didn’t want to date a ‘fairy’.” Frank had scoffed humorlessly from where he was scrounging for a meal. “What did you say to her?” “Nothing,” Murdock shrugged, “but then I went and kissed a guy in front of the whole class after the graduation ceremony.” Frank had snorted. Of course he f***ing did. “I think we dated for a while, but I’m not sure.” He prods him about memories of his Dad, of his training and school. Sometimes, he goes too far without realizing it. Asking things about Red’s adult life is the surest way to get him to have an episode. It’s no surprise that, when he does remember something - a bar he used to like, the smell of the cheap drinks they served there -, he shuts down for the rest of the day. But there are a few things Red seems to be able to hold on to, Frank thinks, watching that clever glint in his eyes as Red sniffed the air. “You went to my place.” Frank grunts. Walks to the desk to take off his stuff. Keeps his handgun in the coffee table where he can reach it if he needs to and sits down on the couch, sends Red a look. “Take your goddamn feet off my ammo box.” “It’s comfy.” Frank scoffs, annoyed at Red’s little smirk. “Looking for the people after me?” “Nah. Just checking.” Murdock nods. Worries his bottom lip with his tongue in a way that Frank’s been getting real acquainted to. “Say it, Red.” The redhead acknowledges it with a subtle shift in his direction before he shakes his head. “When we met...” he frowns as if staring at a particularly difficult math problem. Frank has a hard time not getting lost in the sight of a pouty lower lip. “I went to you, didn’t I? In a hospital?” His heart does a mild leap in his surprise. “You were hurt. You smelled of... grief and anger. I remember walking inside and calling your name but then it all goes hazy.” Any expectation that he remembered anything about Karen and Nelson seeps out of him and Frank leans against the couch’s back rest. It’s the first solid memory he talked about that happened past his eighteen years old. “Yeah, I,” he swallows back down the urge to prod. Knows how well that ended up the last time. “When they got me in custody I was in a bad shape.” “Hm,” but Murdock seems lost in something else now. “I dreamed about the bombings.” Frank’s confusion must be audible in his breath or heart or whatever it was Red used to track those things, because he feels the need to explain. “In Hell’s Kitchen? I was close to one of them, I don’t know why. And then...” his eyebrows crease down in a frown. Fingers come up to scratch at the itching scab on the side of his head and drop back down once Frank catches his wrist in a firm hold. “A man was dying. I don’t know. He had a funny accent.” And Red for the life of him can’t make sense of it, apparently. Frank sighs, stands up. Takes two bottles of beer out of the dingy fridge and brings them back to the couch. He had been banking on Red remembering something about his double-life but he clearly doesn’t and that complicates a whole lot of things. Matt picks at the label of the bottle, staring sightlessly ahead, and doesn’t drink for a while. Frank chugs some of his own down, checking on him from time to time. Makes sure he’s not about to flip and tear his hands in broken glass again. The wounds from the other time were only now healing. He thinks for a moment Red’s about to ask him all the questions he’s refrained from asking, since the cabin. Why didn’t Frank take him to the hospital, why didn’t he ask anything else about the hallucinations, why did he get hurt in the first place. But instead he- “Why won’t you tell me?” Murdock mumbles, defeated. Frank pointedly doesn’t think of the reason why. The warehouse, Karen, Nelson, the headlines, Fisk, the fake Devil. “Don’t matter if I tell you, you won’t feel it. Gotta remember, Red,” he rubs a palm through his face, “it’s what you gotta do.” Murdock looks about to protest heavily before he exhales shakily. “Do you think-” he stops. Shakes his head. “Say it.” “Do you think that when my head heals...” Red trails off. Frank doesn’t need him to finish the thought to see where’s getting at, though. He looks at him, then, head tilted back to drink the rest of his beer in one go. Looks at the scabbing wound in the side of his head, hiding loose bone held together by flimsy wire, and remembers watching every step of that surgery. Piece by piece of dirt and debris pulled out of the brain and the bone. Doc wasn’t a neurosurgeon, couldn’t do much besides getting the bone in place, hope for the best. Curt, the last time he checked in with him, had thought Murdock’s memory was behaving unusually, that the episodes during the night sounded like flashbacks and, some, night terrors. It indicated trauma, according to him, not TBI-related memory loss. Also said that, besides helping Red reconnect with his environment and memories, he needed to give him a safe space, that he needed a safe way to deal with the traumatic event that led to this. That this had all the signs of being Dissociative amnesia. “Yeah, maybe.” It’s not really a lie, but Red must hear it. Frank waits for him to say anything, ask anything. Stews in the tension and waits for the silence to snap like a rubber band pulled too hard. They don’t speak a word. Red finally takes a swig of his beer.
“I can go with you.” Frank’s heart must be telling Red how not on board he’s with this, pounding furiously on his chest, bruising his damn ribs all over again. Enough that Red tries using that f***ing lawyer voice of his, probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. “I’m not going to get in your way but I can handle myself, you know I can-” “F*** that, Red, you can barely tell up from down when you walk up those stairs and you wanna track mercs with me?” Kid was out of his goddamn mind. Frank was seriously considering tying him up to something and leaving him behind. Maybe kill two birds with one stone, chain him to a chimney, get that head of his remembering other times. But if Fisk sent more people this way, he’d be alone and tied up and- sh*t. Not an option. “I’m a good tracker. I’ve been trained to take down enemies under extreme duress, I can-” “Shut up. You shut your mouth.” He doesn’t need a show and tell on the seventy-three shades of f***ed up of the kid’s childhood. Take down enemies under extreme duress, Jesus f***ing Christ. But Red isn’t lying. He may not remember being Daredevil, but his body remembers fighting. Knows fighting. He can be a sweet guy and he puts up a good front, but that’s half of it. There’s the other half - the devil, the soldier, the man he was trained to become. Both tearing at each other as fast as they mingle and overlap. Frank sees it in his tensing muscles, his clenching fists. The gracefully balanced pose he still holds even when way past exhausted or when his migraines hit. Elbows tucked by his waist, ready to attack. Got him imagining Red, scrawny for his age and with the same fiery stubbornness, being taught by that ninja a**hole in a basement. Getting beaten down and jumping up again, cleaning the blood off his nose with small hands and pushing forward, attacking a guy twice his size, unbothered by the power imbalance. Little Red doesn’t get out of his head even when he stares at him, then: very much grown up and, yeah, maybe not exactly tall but built lean and solid more like a martial artist than a brawler like Frank. Still very much easy to pin down. And then he hits that head of his and what will he do? Pick up the pieces of the devil from the ground in the off chance of saving him a second time while every cop and scumbag in the city is after him? But then again, Red won’ stay still. Got enough energy and control over himself now that he won’t just sit back and obey. Better to take the a**hole with him, make sure he doesn’t brain himself trying to follow Frank through rooftops. F***’s sake. Frank grabs at his collar and pulls him close, enough so they’re breathing into each other’s faces. Huffs like a bull against his face and tightens the hold when Red makes a poor attempt at escaping, shows him he has no chance fighting Frank. Not like this. “You disobey one word I say to you once we’re out that door, just one goddamn word-” “Yes, sir.” Frank growls at the taunt in his voice. He misses drowsy doped up Red from a few days ago. “You think this is funny? Those guys, Red, they’re no joke, and I don’t care what f***ed up war you were trained to fight in, kid, you’re in no condition to.” They’ll mow right through you, he thinks, heart pounding, and you won’t stand a chance. Useless trying to make Red understand risks. He never did. Or if he did, he never let that stop him. “You’ll do what I say, when I say it, the way I say it, do you understand?” “Yes, Frank.” He lets go of him when the air becomes two hot between their faces, rubs at the back of his scalp. The thought of Red, those mercenaries and the warehouse flash like lightning. “Goddamn it.” No coming back now. He produces a spare knife and shoves it at Red. Isn’t surprised at the disapproving frown. “You need it you use it, got it?” “I’m not killing-” For crying out loud- “You don’t need to kill sh*t. You’re down for the count but you’re a fighter, Red, you know where to hit and you hit goddamn hard.” Red’s look changes, turns curious. Frank knows that look. Frank just threw him a bone and Red won’t stop chewing on it until he gets to the marrow. “Did I fight you before?” He sighs. There’s no use lying when Red will know. “Yeah.” “You said I was a lawyer.” Frank evades the question, turns around to check his gear once again before they leave. “You said you were trained.” “No, don’t do that, tell me- ” “Got no time, Red, you know? We’re leaving-” Murdock slams his hand on the table, a mug breaks - Frank hadn’t seen him coming. Had forgotten how fast he was. How quiet he could be. It’s the first time he sees the Devil in those hazel-green eyes since the warehouse. The first time he thinks the kid might use that knife to gut him open like a fish. He sees him hold himself back from pouncing on the last second, his knuckles strain under his skin, his muscles twitch. The strength and the technique is there, but his body can’t handle it and Red knows it. “I have a right to know something that concerns me.” “Got nothing to say to you, Murdock, I told you before-” “Bullsh*t! It’s my life, my life , that you’re keeping from me!” Frank slams his own gun down. “You’re goddamn right I am!” It’s enough to shut Red up, taken aback. Even f***ing angry like he is, Frank’s can’t take the sight of those youthful doe eyes of his. Those sutures in his head. His goddamn head. “Didn’t ask for permission, Red, and I’m not begging for forgiveness, not now. I sure as hell didn’t ask to be here.” Red’s hand slides off the desk. Hangs lifelessly by his thigh. “Why are you then?” Frank rubs at his scalp and turns his back to him, collecting his handgun and shoving it in the holster. “Because it’s my fault, Matt.” He shakes his head, refuses to look back as he strolls purposefully to the door. “It’s my own goddamn fault.”
The ride is silent. Frank would usually opt for walking, the bar’s at a forty minutes distance if he’s going at breakneck pace, but it’s not an option with Red’s head still on the mend. Certainly not a good idea if they need to make another hasty escape. Calling Karen had been a good idea. She gave him what she knew about the dead bodies mysteriously disappearing from the morgue before they could be processed and the FBI is, apparently, unaware of it. There was no mention or even a rumor of the shooting at Red’s place around the New York Bulletin. Only reason she knew about it was because a neighbor of Red’s, former client, called her when she came home to find the the wall full of bullet holes. Other neighbors she talked to mentioned giving statements to two cops in particular and told that they should keep quiet since it was part of an ongoing investigation. Someone was covering their tracks. And if Frank’s info checked out, Fisk’s appeal had suspiciously fast-tracked a few steps. Evidence proving his innocence notably appearing out of thin air. It wasn’t anything too big to get him out of prison yet, but if Frank knew one thing about Wilson Fisk, is that he knew how to play the long game. He shoots a glance at the desolate picture slumped on his passenger seat and huffs. Decides to throw him a bone before that kicked f***ing puppy abandoned-in-the-rain look got under his skin. “A while back, Red, you... you helped on the arrest of this scumbag, Wilson Fisk.” That gets him a delicate slant of his head, curious eyes peeking owlishly up. Fingers twitch - the gesture is gone too quickly for Frank to unravel it. “Guy was a piece of sh*t. Think he was charged with some white collar crimes, but the stuff you couldn’t prove, Red. He got a lot of people killed. Had a network, a lot of bad guys under his hand. You put him there, Red. And a bunch of corrupt cops and politicians. Did a good job too, from what I heard.” Matt offers him a small genuine smile in the admittedly poor attempt at appeasing. It fades too soon. “But a few weeks ago, he made a deal with the Feds. Offering intel on his competition, some major players in the city. Got himself a deal to keep his girl clean. Got shanked right after that too.” “On purpose, I’d imagine,” the quick-witted little bastard mumbles, turning his head back to the window. Frank nods, if only to test those senses of his. Not surprisingly, Red notices it. “Where is he now?” “A penthouse,” the word comes out as a derisive scoff, hands squeezing around the steering wheel, leather creaking under the pressure. “Watched 24/7, or so they say. But it don’t sound good, Red. Guy’s too much for the Feds, the system can’t handle ‘im.” Well, actually Frank didn’t think the system was equipped to deal with anything more serious than armed robberies, didn’t think there was any place for rapists, murderers and scumbags like Fisk to “reform” or “pay”. People like them, for Frank, there was only one way to pay. “Why is he coming after me?” Isn’t that the question. How the hell did he manage to connect the dots between Matt Murdock and Daredevil when, so far, most people didn’t? Frank had done so by chance. Recognized those plush pink lips and the smooth, velvety tone: May I call you Frank? With that vulnerable intonation of someone trying too damn hard to help something that’s beyond saving. And then once he saw it, he saw everything. The purposeful drag of his shoulders, making himself smaller - and when he forgot himself, his posture would change, his jaw would set tight, elbows tucked in, spine straight. He doubted himself for a good while, too, until he spotted him through his scope on that rooftop. “You put him in that cage, Red, but I don’t know the details. Hadn’t met you back then.” Murdock mulls over the information with a thoughtful pose, nails picking at the delicate webbing between each finger. Thumb from time to time rubbing at his knuckles. A nervous tic of some kind. Frank tongues away the bad taste in his mouth, the back of his front teeth. “I remember someone dead,” he stops moving, shoulders tense. Waits for Red to continue. “A woman. An old woman. Was it him?” “You remember, huh?” That was new. Red’s been getting better, but he’s still a mess. The indifference he showed during the first week in relation to his lost memories was gone, too. Kid was trying. Hard. “I was-” He takes a deep breath and tries again. “I was standing in a morgue, I was.. furious. And- and I felt guilty. I could smell her, she hadn’t been dead for long. Someone was crying, I think, but I don’t remember who. I don’t remember anything. God damn it- ” “Hey,” kid is holding his head again, fingertips lightly tracing the edges around the wound. “Hey, take it easy.” “I’m fine.” He doesn’t look it. His body sways lightly as if fighting off vertigo, his face lost color, his lips wobble before he bites down on the lower one. Slowly lets go. “I’m fine.” Frank keeps his eyes on the road and his ears on the passenger seat, alert for another breakdown until Red finally slants back. Dipping his head to rest against the cushioned seat. He’s careful when he asks. “What else you got?” Red sighs before answering. “I remember her, I don’t remember the Fisk guy. Ahm. I remember... a warehouse of some sort. By the docks. I was really hurt. And there was something burning. I jumped through a window, I think, or crashed into one, but-” he huffs in frustration. Frank nods in acknowledgment. That seems to get Murdock out of his head. “What else do you know about Fisk?” The marine only sighs. “Not the time now, Red,” and it isn’t. The bar matches Karen’s description and, if her info was right, at least three of the mercs that turned up dead on Red’s place frequented the place, including Martin Wallace, the leader Frank shot in the knee. He can’t take Red inside, though. Even without his beard, Frank still has a chance that Martin and Army Jacket lady didn’t recognize him in the middle of the firefight. Has a small chance that the a**holes inside won’t, either - people usually only recognize the skull. He stops a block away from the place, turns the engine off and sighs. Now to the hard part: “Red, you gotta stay her-” “You won’t go alone.” Christ Jesus- “Yeah, I will. And no offense, Red? But you’re no good as back-up right now.” Murdock scowls, those pretty lips twisting down. “I thought we talked about this.” “No, Red,” he takes his gun out of the holster and checks the mag before shoving it back in. “You talked about it. Ran your mouth like ya always do. I said you could come, I didn’t say we’d play Batman and Robin. Now you stay inside-” “You can’t go in there alone!” “I can and I will, Red, for f***’s sake. What happens when I have to use this, huh?” He asks, waving the handgun around. Red’s expression changes. “Yeah, you’ll either freeze or panic, Red, and I ain’t judging you on that, but I can’t have you on my conscience-” “I’ll wait on the rooftop, then.” Frank stares at him in disbelief. “In the roo- What the f*** do you mean, you’ll be on the rooftop? You and your f***ed up head, you wanna hang around rooftops? You’re out of your goddamn mind-” Murdock just frowns with that determined expression of his that had him taken aback more than once before, and earned his respect way too many times for comfort. Frank can’t look away from the strength Red manages to gather even then - so much like wild fire, burning everything it touches, and f*** if he's not getting burned alive, too. He shakes his head, heartbeat erratic. Rubs at the back of his head. No way he’s stopping the kid from doing what he wants to short of tying him up or knocking him down. Damn if he doesn’t want to. He takes the spare burner he arranged for in his supply run, dropping it on Red’s palm. “You stay here, you listen close.” F***’s sake, terrible idea. “You hear anything suspicious, you call, if I need you, I tell you. If I say I don’t, Red, if I tell you to stay, you stay. I don’t care what happens inside that place, I don’t care what you think you gotta do, I tell you to run away, you run. Do you understand? Do you, Red? Because if you don’t just say it, I ain’t scraping your body off the floor again, I’m not doing that.” Murdock considers him carefully, his expression softening slightly. Frank wants to wipe it off his face. “Yes, but,” ah, f***, “if you get in trouble, I’m coming in.” “ If I tell you to stay,” Frank gets as close to him as he can without taking a bite of those goddamn lips, “you stay.” Murdock’s eyes flash, staring back fearlessley. Frank growls under his breath before standing up and slamming the door shut. No f***ing way Red will stay put.
He’s still trying to pick apart the aggressiveness from the sheer worry he caught on Frank’s voice when the creak of a door opening and closing a few yards away gets his attention. “Whatever is on tap.” The marine grumbles, Matt tilts his head towards him, picking apart the sound of the gun clinking against his belt when he sits on the bar stool. The wood whines softly under the added weight. “Looking for work, amigo?” The woman has a thick accent and a deep voice, she sounds tall, but he’s too far to make sense of it. “Nah. Buddy of mine? Got his crew slashed to pieces, tryna find what the f*** happened.” “You mean Marty, yeah?” “Yeah, I was outta town for a while, find out he was shot...” Matthew is reluctantly impressed with how easily Frank blends in, how his body language shifts and adapts, even his vocabulary. He’s good at reading the environment, the people around him. Good at playing them, too. He heard that once, right? I look scared to you? Frank was tied up, wasn’t he? Matt remembered coming in and Frank had been a mess, his lips were bloody, he had broken ribs, his foot was... what had happened to his foot? One batch, two batch- Why was he there? He was Frank’s lawyer, he met him at the hospital. Why would he go after him alone? “Last I heard, Marty took his crew and went after some white collar lawyer, King’s orders. No one knows what happened much, some people think it was the Devil.” “Daredevil?” “Yeah. I don’t know much about it but you saw what happened at the warehouse on 47 th . Guy flipped.” Wrongness creeps into his guts and his skin crawls, immediately zoning out of the conversation. His brain turns to static, his ears focus solely on the dizzying sound of blood rushing through his veins. Feels his skin itching in all the places he can’t scratch, knuckles creaking with how he clenches his fists. He does his inventory again. Frank had suggested the idea after he suddenly came up with some memory exercises, which he’s quite sure his friend (what was his name again?) had been the one to pass it on. What does he know? He knows Frank told him he was a lawyer. He knows there were suits and ties and case files on his apartment. He knows that he trained for the war for years. He doesn’t remember how many it was. He doesn’t know if Stick left or not. He thinks that he did. He knows Frank told him he didn’t have family but that he had friends, he knows no one has come looking for him until now. He knows Frank Castle is a mass murderer. A vigilante. A man tortured by loss who, somehow, thought Matt’s life was worth saving. He knows Wilson Fisk wants him dead. He knows he was Frank’s lawyer, but Frank said they fought before. He was there when Frank got tortured (by who? Why?). Frank knows about his enhanced senses (how?). Matt tilts his head back and, like he did all the other days since Frank’s memory exercises became a thing, tries to build chronology. Dad and Lindsey before the accident. Accident before Stick. Stick before High School. High School before bombings, before the burning man. All of that before Frank. Murdock’s always get back up. Grandma died. Dad tells him not to waste food, they’re both a bit skinny. Lindsey shares lunch with him. She’s his only friend. He drowns on the pool, Dad comes to save him. He drowns on the river, no one comes to save him- A man crosses the street ( I can’t see, he remembers screaming, I can’t see) , chemicals burning, his hands bright red, collecting around his eyes, ears, nose, mouth. The sheets on the hospital bed feel like sandpaper. “Hey, Mia, who’s this joker?” He heard his Dad win on TV. He waits for him on the kitchen so they can celebrate together. He hears the gunshot. He runs to the alley- “Marty’s pal. Was askin’ me about what happened at the lawyer’s.” The nice lady officer talks to him. Someone takes him home to pack his things. There’s nowhere for him to go, they take him to St. Agnes. Sister Maggie guides him inside. Everything was too loud. “Huh. Marty never mentioned ya.” “Just back.” “Military?” “Former.” “Don’t I know it.” And then everything is a blur. Vague recollections here and there. He kept training, he went to college. He walked inside an office space and- He can have the view. He said that. He remembers saying that- “Wait wait wait, I know you-” “F***!” “It’s the Punisher!” “Put the gun d-” Bang. Matt immediately jumps up and out of the car, listening hard through the vertigo of moving too quickly. Tries to track down the heartbeat he’s been waking up to for what feels like forever. A whispered voice. “Stay, Red, don’t you dare-” a grunt and the sound of knuckles against flesh. Another gunshot, and Matt is stuck to the sidewalk, shaking, mind going blank just right to the point that it all comes rushing in. Frank’s in danger. “Don’t you f***ing dare, Red, stay there-” Another gunshot, his legs shake. He can’t. He can’t stand there and listen to him die. Can’t wait back and listen to him get hurt. He’s slamming the car shut and running towards the bar in a second, following the sound of Frank’s heartbeat. Stick’s voice hammering down the break in his skull: get up and fight. He finds a window in the back. As long as he manages to hide his presence, he’s got the higher ground. Wounded and in disadvantage or not. So he’s careful to slip through the window quietly, taking the knife out because he stands no chance against the vertigo if he throws a kick. The blade whistles through the air, perfectly sharpened. The room smells of mold and dust, a refrigerator hums, stacked with frozen meat and foods Matt can’t identify by scent. The first person he finds stands at the short hallway by a bathroom, heartbeat speeding up and a gun in his hand, a thick bandana around his neck. There’s too many people inside the main room. Matt can’t risk him making a sound. He grabs him on a choke hold instead, and avoids a headbutt against his fractured skull by sheer dumb luck, squeezing the man’s neck tighter until he goes pliant and slumps on the ground. Another gunshot rings, someone screams in pain and falls to the ground. Matt rips the man’s bandana and folds it, doesn’t question himself for a second as he covers his eyes with it. The cloth stinks of cigarettes and muscle memory kicks in as he carefully ties it around his head, loose enough not to press against the break. “Jesus Christ-” Frank sees him before anyone else does. By then, Matt’s already slashing the tendons from a guy’s shin and dislocating two knees from another one, the movement making his brain feel liquid inside his skull. He thinks he almost faints, vomit rising up to his tongue before he swallows it back down. He keeps moving - Frank’s already bleeding. In between curling down to escape a gunshot, Matt keeps track of the man’s injuries (broken nose, bruising cheekbone, bleeding lip, knife wound in upper arm and right knee). Matt has to take him out of there. A man lunges with a broken bottle and Frank just barely manages to escape it. Matt’s senses can’t follow it all, he dodges a kick and gets hit by another before he slashes at someone’s shin, once, twice, until they go down. He kicks them on the face, hears something break (zygomatic bone and a teeth) and the man falls unconscious. By then, Frank’s got the broken bottle stuck to the man’s face as the other screams and goes down. He gets lost in the noise. Doesn’t know how. Maybe because he’s too worried about keeping people away from Frank, he doesn’t pay enough attention to his immediate surroundings. He’s hazy but fights purely on instinct - takes an arm and breaks it, kicks the back of their knees and dislocates the other arm. Elbows them in the face, the person goes down. Two people come at him at once, and Matt’s barely managed to dodge the first before the second one’s brains are all over his face, Frank having shot her with a borrowed shotgun. There are sirens coming near. They’re outnumbered. Frank’s hurt. He tries to kick the first guy, the one smelling of cocaine and cheap beer, but he’s twice his size and Matt’s losing the battle to his pounding migraine, the nausea and uncoordinated muscles and Stick’s voice, weak, get up, get up and fight. “Red!” He’s kicked in the back as he attempts crawling away and a rib protests, his arms stop responding, Matt immediately curls around his head. Someone kneels in his chest and he gasps in agony, something breaks, Matt screams. “Hey! Hey, get off him, you a**hole, I’m right here! Come an’ get me!” “Whiz, it’s the guy! Take the jeep ‘round the back!” Cocaine and Cheap Beer makes some kind of gesture, the words muffled in his own overgrown beard, but the pain chomps at his ribs, and Matt’s lungs won’t work properly. He can hear the rib creak and shift. Stray tears run down his face as he gasps again. It hurts and he should use the pain to ground him, bring him back to the fight, but his head is so, so heavy- “HEY! If you touch him you’re dead!” Frank’s roar feels too far, echoes distantly. He slashes a man’s throat and punches another before he’s held back by two, three other people and Matt has to fight. Get to work, Dad tells him, get to work. And he tries, muscles jump and spasm as he tries getting up as soon as the pressure on his chest alleviates, only to have a large booted foot stepping down on his neck. He wheezes, choking in coughs that can’t come out, fumbling to hold onto the foot pressing him down, trying to push it away as he squirms. Moving makes his ribs burn and shift but he can’t breathe. He can’t, can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t fight, can’t help Frank, can’t- “Hey, hey hey let him go! Let him go! I’m gonna watch you die, you hear me? I’m gonna watch you die, you piece of sh*t!” The pressure under his eyes increase, his lungs deflate and burn until there’s nothing else, his fingers stop responding, his arms do too. There are bright spots of pain all over him. Vaguely, he thinks he’s never heard Frank sound so desperate. He comes to it and he’s being dragged away. Frank’s still being held back as he fights. Every time he puts someone down there’s another. Someone pulls the black cloth from his eyes. Who does this guy think he is, Daredevil? Nah, Daredevil- “RED!” Frank’s voice is far. Matt feels the damp atmosphere of the room from which he got inside the bar. Frank’s voice shatters as he fights against the people holding him back and then there’s gunshots, several. He hears five bodies fall, someone screams, more shooting. Frank drops low. “Goddamn it, RED!” But Matt is already in the alleyway by the bar. His back dragging against grimy concrete until red-bright pain shoots through his shoulder blades and back and he thinks he screams. One of the two men dragging him laughs. Broken glass from the bottles discarded by the dumpster now stuck deep to his skin, Matt feels the world shift and go dim, flickering in and out of focus. The Devil is just at the edge. Weak, he says, a voice that sounds like Matt’s at the same time it reminds him of Stick, get up and fight. The world tilts, he’s dropped against metal, the impact jostles the broken rib and the big pieces of glass and he chokes out a moan. The Devil smiles, hovers over him as the doors close. Will you let them get away with it? He asks, face comes so close to his, it might as well be his own; you’re soft. Get up. Fight. Time passes as the world moves. He’s too heavy, still wheezing to breath, throat swelling and hot from the abuse. The shards puncturing his skin shift with every breath and so does his broken rib. His head pounds, his lungs burn. Get up and fight. It feels like he’s far out of his own body when he finally does. Adrenaline burns like fuel through the pain, he jumps at the driver and grabs him from behind in a choke hold. The car swings to the left before the man, Whiz, gets it on the road. Cocaine punches him on the mouth before Matt manages to kick him in the face, his ribs scream at the movement. Matt’s not strong enough to knock him out as efficiently as he usually would. Which is why Whiz manages to choke: “Shoot him-” “We need him alive to get the money!” “They’ll kill him any-” he strengthens the hold, Whiz chokes, the car swings left and right. Cocaine aims at kicking him right in his broken ribs, and keeps kicking, Matt growls, bone cracks, Cocaine keeps kicking. Another crack, but Matt’s at home in the pain. He smiles sharply through bloody teeth, the driver finally goes out. Cocaine jumps to get a hold of the steering wheel and Matt lets the Devil out. He digs his fingers into Cocaine’s beard and hair and drags him away from the wheel, leans back to kick him hard enough in the face to send his head through the window. He’s knocked out cold. Whiz wakes up with a wheezing inhale, flails just enough for Matt to be unable to get a hold of him before he clenches his hands on the wheel. An elbow is launched at his face and he feels blood trickle down his nose. Pressure builds in his lungs from not enough air passing through his swollen trachea. Despite Whiz’s best efforts, the jeep derails. Matt’s ribs are shoved right against the passenger’s seat, jostling the break. He screams, Whiz’s nails dig into his forearms. The car side hits the safety highway fence before spinning left and crashing into a lamppost. Matt’s body lurches forward towards the windshield, he loses consciousness.
He should’ve f***ing known Red wouldn’t stay put. Murdock would rather put his neck on a ringer to hearing someone get hurt and do nothing. That’s exactly the bullsh*t that put them here in the first place. But they took Red. They’re going to f***ing die. Frank digs his hands around the knife trying to gut him and pulls the shaggy man back with a roar. Takes the handle and stabs it through his eye. Finds his gun forgotten on the floor and shoots the next two coming at him. Through the window, he can see the jeep taking of, a trail of blood left on the back doors. Turns back to the room - there’s still six a**holes in the room with him. He shoves the gun with the empty clip back on his pants, pulls the knife out of Shaggy’s corpse. “Come on,” he growls, “come on.” The only a**hole with any remaining ammo tries to shoot him, but kid can’t aim for sh*t. He’s by far the youngest among the others. He disarms him quickly, breaks his wrist before he takes the gun to himself and shoots two heads and a stomach before running out of bullets. Shoves the gun away. “Come on!” He roars. Frank barely feels it as he mows through them, punching and stabbing and breaking necks and arms. Gets a knife stuck to his hip but barely feels it. He has one mission, put all of them down. He leaves the kid for last, shaking and cradling a broken wrist, looking younger than he probably was. Frank lips his way, huffing like a bull as applies pressure to the skin around the knife in his hip, pulling it out with a shout. “Who came to you?” “W-what?” Frank puts the crimson-covered knife against his neck. “Gonna give you one more chance, kid. You either take it or you don’t, your choice.” “I I I don’t know man, I don’t know what you’re- oh God!” He steps on his ankle, makes sure to press down on it until the kid screams and goes down. The guy babbles and screams through tears. “Okay, okay okay okay-“ “Fisk, he hired some of you to kill the lawyer, who came to you?” “This weird British dude, man, I don’t know his name, I don’t- I SWEAR! I don’t- please!” “You have something, man, better sell it.” Red’s running out of time and Frank’s running out of patience. This only ends one way, but the kid doesn’t have to know that yet. “He- He’ll kill me, man.” “I won’t be that generous.” The desperation sets in quick. “Look, I’m not lying, I swear, this guy came to us, told Marty to find the lawyer, said he’d pay us good, that’d Fisk would owe us a favor, that we’d get protection from the Feds-” Frank’s fingers loosen around the knife before he clenches the handle tightly. “And then the agent dude came and asked Marty about-” “Agent?” “Yeah, man, a Fed,” Frank leans back slightly, looking down at the man, searching for any lie in his face. “Blonde dude with a psycho smile, wanted to know how the lawyer got away, who was with him. That’s all I know man, I swear-” Frank nods. Looks down at the man, couldn’t be in his thirties yet. Red would- Sh*t. Frank turns away, marching out from the bloodied bar and to his car. There are sirens approaching and no goddamn sign of Red.
He calls Micro when he loses the tracks three blocks away from the bar. He goes back to the safe house and he waits, trigger finger tapping against his upper thigh, muscles jumping, jaw working. He waits until he’s about ready to jump off of his skin. Two hours later, it pays off. As soon as David’s text message pops on the screen, Frank’s down the stairs and slamming the car door closed. The address is close to the High Bridge, a few blocks from it. They were either taking him to the Bronx or out of the city altogether. Lieberman warns him beforehand, so he’s not surprised by the crash scene. He is, however, taken aback by the abandoned cop car by a tall tree. He doesn’t find the big bearded guy or the shaggy haired one that took Red as he approaches the van. No body. Although he does find brains and blood splattered all over the windshield. Someone got shot in the head. His heartbeat doubles, his body snaps alive. This is not happening, goddamn it. No way- “Goddamn you, Red.” He calls Lieberman with his heart perched underneath his Adam’s apple, pounding unsteadily. “David, I need you to-” “Frank, you gotta get out of there.” He frowns, mostly by the urgency he detects. “What’s going on?” “The masked guy you’re looking for, he just left the crash site fifty minutes ago-” he thinks his pressure drops too suddenly, black spots threatening to show up at the corners of his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose to get back in the game. “Now, there’s units being dispatched to your location, because the cops who got there, sh*t, sh*t sh*t sh*t-” “Spit it out, Lieberman.” “The car, look at the car!” “What-” but he doesn’t need to ask more. Frank saw and did things that haunted him sometimes, at night. Not as much as his family’s death, but ghosts all the same. Occasionally, he was still surprised. Two cops got there alright. He finds them both in their respective seats, eyes carved out of their skulls and placed on their laps like some sick joke. Frank cusses under his breath at the state of them - stomach shot through, the most painful way to die in his opinion. Hands tied behind their backs, so they can do nothing about it. “You see who did this?” He rasps against the speaker, taking a step further to find their wallets. They were still warm. “No, the cameras went down for twenty minutes. Right after your masked friend ran away.” Frank sighs, feeling for a pulse he knows he won’t find. They’ve been dead for a while. “I’ll call you later.” “Just... soon, Frank.” He huffs a breath through his nose. “Yeah.” One thing he knows, they were placed here. They didn’t die in the car, there wasn’t enough blood for that. Displayed. For either Red to find or him. Which either way meant Fisk knew. Frank opens the wallets, turning them around to pull both driver licenses out. He reads the first one, his jaw clenches. He looks around again, checking for anyone hanging out, before opening the second one. He closes it with a snap. F***. Fisk knows. He had suspected the bald a**hole did, but this is enough confirmation. Fisk wants him or, most likely, Red to know he does. Wants to mess with his head, get him to do something stupid. He looks at the licenses again. Cusses under his breath. Matthew Ramirez, the first one says. Richard Murdoch, says the second. He rubs his palm down his face with a curse, throwing both wallets back but keeping the driver’s licenses in his hands. Left with two dead bodies displayed like some next-level psychopathic bullsh*t he didn’t Fisk was capable of, a message he has no idea how to take and no sign of Red. For the hundredth time that day, he calls the burner phone he gave Murdock. There’s still blood on his knee where he did a hack job of stitching the knife slash closed. He picks at the blood stained denim. For the first time, the line connects. “Red?” “Frank,” crushing weight suddenly lifts from his shoulders, he closes his eyes, pressing the phone tight to his ear. “Frank, don’t know where I am.” “That’s fine,” he swallows thickly at the small, blank voice echoing close to his ear. He’s either dissociating or he lost too much blood. “It’s alright, Red, why don’t you try describing the place to me, yeah?” “Popcorn, peanuts, cotton candy.” Not very helpful, but Frank will take it. “There’s a... there’s a carousel, I think. I’m, I’m - I’m sitting by... I don’t know where I am.” Frank inhales brokenly, bloody fingernails reaching to scratch at the back of his scalp. Wonders how did Red’s messed up brains took him there of all places. “I’m coming to find you, yeah? Just stay where you are.” “Kay.” “Red,” he sounds too weak, that’s no good. “Sunshine, are you hurt too bad?” No answer, Frank starts moving, closes the car door one handed as he presses the phone to his shoulder, turning the engine on. “Red, I need you to tell me, are you hurt?” “There’s.. glass. Glass in my back. Broken rib. My wrist hurts. My throat hurts, s’hot.” “Alright. I’m coming, we’ll take care of ya, just stay there, Red.” Frank disconnects the call and chances a glance at the two bodies displayed inside the cop car. The city was about to burn and it didn’t even know. A text message from David arrives when he’s on his way to Central Park with some pictures of Red in surveillance cameras heading to the carousel and a link to a video on Twitter. Punisher sighted at bar massacre. He turns off the phone and focuses on driving.
NOISE There is a buzz in my right ear that never goes away, no matter how hard I hit the side of my head for loose change. Most mornings I wonder who I can pray to that will make sure I never have to survive waking again. Lisa’s voice is a hammer working through his skull trying to break out from the moment he turns off the car. He’s staring at the grass then, eyes fixed to it, to the fences, remembering her little feet running around there for the first time. She hated shoes at that age, learned to take them off months before she learned to speak Dada . She was two? No, Frank missed her second birthday. Went to Iraq with her still sleeping most of the day and came back to her crawling all around the house and taking her first steps. Broke down on the shower after she started crying, didn’t recognize him. No, she was three. Maria was having a hard time at the office and Frank took on most of the chores when he was home. Started taking Lisa to the park almost every day. He showed her the bugs. She was terrified of butterflies and ants and grasshoppers, but for some reason she was fascinated with the ladybugs. Frank never knew what exactly she found so amazing about them, but her little body would light up and she’d squeal and clap excitedly at every single one she found. Sitting there on his car, he could feel the ghost of her weight over his shoulders. The feeling of holding on to her little legs, running around the grass and hunting for bugs. She loves rubbing her soft little palms over his shaved head. Fuzzy head Daddy, she’d say. The sound of the “z” coming off more like a “sh”. Fushy head Daddy. He had a twinge on his shoulder back then, from dislocating it overseas, but he’d hold her forever on his back even if the pain killed him. He leaves the car with a lump tight in his throat. Walks past the entry gate where he could still hear Lisa’s and Frankie’s laughter sometimes and heads to the carousel with the weight of Frank Castle’s corpse on his shoulders instead of the ghost of Lisa’s - father, husband, marine. He doesn’t look at the grass, there are no ladybugs in the trees. Red is on the same wooden bench Frank had sat on, couple of years back, knowing the Irish were coming for him. Dad, dad, look! “Your family,” Frank closes his eyes at Red’s weak voice, his neck mottled with bruises and slightly swollen. Frank finally turns his whole attention to him. “It was here.” Frank suddenly wants them both to leave this place. Stop staining their memories with the now. But he can’t fight the tide. God knows he can’t fight Red by this point. “Yeah,” he looks down at his own hands. Can’t pick the blood away from his fingernails. It’s stuck to him now. “It was.”
After a minute that takes too long, he stands up, restless. His back turned to the carousel and his front to Red, he crouches in the floor, daring to put a hand around Red’s right knee. There’s a huge, nasty bruise forming all over and around his neck and Frank wants to kill them all over again. “Gotta get you out of the street, Red,” Fisk’s men are probably looking all over for him. And half the city’s scumbags too. They had to disappear for a while - lay low. Frank finds Red’s cold hands with his, stained with blood just as his own. His eyes reflect the carousel lights, the few that are still on; almost like he’s watching it. Almost like he can hear what Frank can, too - the song, his kids’ laughter, the screams, the gunfire. “There’s,” Matt swallows thickly through a lump in his throat, and Frank sighs at the tears he can see reflect light. “There’s this noise in my head. Sometimes I think I know what it is, but-” He chokes down a sob, his whole chest moving and straining with the effort and Frank instinctively brings him closer, tightens his hold around his hands. “It won’t stop and I don’t know why-” Frank gathers him by the nape and brings their foreheads together, hissing softly at the pain when their noses bump. “Just listen to me right now, Red, yeah? You can do that. Just me, now.” Holds him up, like he did so many of his men when they got lost in the gunfire. Like he held Maria and his kids, once. Doesn’t know how to give half of the things he knew how before - comfort, the easy affection and trust. Can’t find it when he thinks about it and doesn’t try, not usually. “You listening?” “Yeah.” “What can you hear?” In a whisper now, right by his ear. Brings him to bury his face in his shoulder. “Your heart,” Matt mumbles, “your lungs, your breathing, your bones,” he shuffles forward, shaking with the effort it takes. “Your heart,” he repeats, a hand fisting the back of his jacket tightly. “Yeah,” he rasps out, looks at the sky so he doesn’t have to stare at the grass and the trees. Holds Red’s face cradled against his shoulder for a little while more. Just a little more. “We gotta go, Red, c’mon.”
Frank can’t always distinguish the emotional flashbacks from the mood swings, even if they happen a lot. This time, it catches Frank unaware. He doesn’t know what sets it off - if it’s sheer exhaustion or if it’s something he hears that Frank can’t. He’s bandaging Red’s ribs in silence, carefully as to not upset his injured back, when suddenly the redhead is full-out weeping. “I’m sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-” “Sh*t, Red, not this sh*t again.” A strangled sound leaves him, like he’s being torn apart, and Frank’s head is a wasps nest, a beehive buzzing and slamming around inside his skull as he finishes taping his broken ribs. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry-” He catches Matt by the forearms and holds him together as much as he can as he watches him fall apart. By then, Red’s speech is barely coherent and Frank has no idea how to snap him out of it. Fat, heavy teardrops washing him blood-stained cheeks. “Sorry, I’m sorry-“ “Stop that, you’re okay,” he cradles him as much as he can. There was little of Red that wasn’t either injured or bruised, including that neck of his that got his voice so weak and thin. “I got you, Red, you’re alright. Calm down, now.” He does stop, minutes later, when his body is drained and he’s not all there. Frank guides the redhead to his cot and he falls into deep slumber. Stares at the stretch of pink, shiny scar tissue in his head for hours. His cup of coffee grows cold in his grasp.
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