Work Text:
The world was a blur of asphalt and the coppery stink of blood. Frank Castle’s truck was a rattling steel box filled with the sound of ragged, wet breathing from the passenger seat.
Matt Murdock was slumped against the window, the cracked red cowl of his suit pushed back just enough to reveal the pale, clammy skin of his forehead. Frank had found him in an alley behind a meatpacking plant, surrounded by three unconscious would-be human traffickers. Matt had been standing over them, swaying on his feet, a victorious smirk on his face that didn’t match the way he was clutching his side.
“Just drop me… at my place,” Matt had slurred, letting Frank half-carry him to the truck.
Frank had grunted, assuming it was the usual fare: a few cracked ribs, maybe a dislocated shoulder, the kind of damage the crazy bastard could sleep off. But the smell was wrong. It was too thick, too internal.
Now, hauling Matt’s dead weight into the sparse, utilitarian gloom of his safehouse apartment, Frank knew he’d been wrong. This was bad. He dumped Matt onto the bare mattress in the corner that served as his bed. The movement jolted a weak cry from Matt, a whimpering sound Frank had never heard from him before. It was stripped of all bravado, pure, animal pain.
“Alright, Red, let’s see the damage,” Frank growled, his voice rough to mask his own rising concern. He flicked on a nearby lamp, the bare bulb casting harsh shadows. He peeled away the top part of the suit. The wound on his side wasn’t just a cut. It was a deep, ugly puncture, but the edges were bruised a sickening purple and swollen tight. With the way it oozed and bulged, it was probably bleeding inside too.
Frank pressed his fingers gently around the wound. Matt’s whole body seized, his back arching off the mattress. His skin was furnace-hot to the touch. “Goddamn it,” Frank whispered. A fever already. That meant infection. That meant something was inside him, rotting. This wasn’t from tonight. This was an older wound the idiot had ignored.
He’d seen this in the sandbox. A gut shot that seemed survivable until the sepsis set in. A piece of shrapnel, a dirty blade left behind, festering. This wasn’t a job for field stitches and a bottle of whiskey.
Matt’s head lolled to the side, his breathing shallower, quicker. “’S cold, Frank,” he mumbled, his words tangling together. “Why’s it so cold?”
Frank Castle, a man who had single-handedly stormed fortified compounds, felt a cold knot tighten in his own gut. He could set bones, stitch lacerations, and stop bleeding. He could not perform field surgery for a septic abdominal wound in his shitty apartment. He was out of his depth. And Matt Murdock was dying on his mattress.
Cursing violently under his breath, Frank yanked his burner phone from his pocket. He scrolled through the few contacts, his thumb hovering over the number for the vet he sometimes used for off-the-books bullet removal. No. This was too big.
There was only one person. The one who knew how to deal with him.
He hit call. It rang twice before a tired, wary voice answered.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Castle,” Frank grunted, his eyes fixed on Matt’s shivering form.
The line went silent for a beat. “Frank? How did you get this number? What do you want?” Claire Temple’s voice was sharp, guarded.
“Stole it from Nelson. Listen. I’ve got the Devil. He’s in a bad way. Real bad. Punctured gut. Possible internal bleeding. Fever. I think it’s septic.” Frank’s words were clipped, military. A situation report. “I can’t fix this.”
“Where are you?” Claire’s tone shifted instantly from wary to all business. No hysterics, no questions. Just pure, professional triage.
Frank rattled off the address.
“I’m on my way. Don’t let him fall asleep. Keep him on his side in case he vomits. And Frank?” Her voice was stern. “Try not to have any visible weapons lying around when I get there.”
Twenty minutes later, a firm knock sounded on the door. Frank opened it to reveal Claire Temple, a large duffel bag in hand, her expression a mask of calm professionalism that didn’t quite hide the worry in her eyes. She stepped in, her gaze immediately going to the bed. She didn’t flinch. She just set her bag down, opened it, and pulled on a pair of gloves.
“Okay, let’s see what we’re dealing with,” she said, her voice quiet and steady. She moved Frank aside with a gentle but firm push and began her examination. Her hands were confident, probing the wound with a precise pressure that made Matt whimper.
“You were right,” she said after a moment, her voice grim. “There’s something in there. And the infection has set in. I need to get it out, now, and get him on heavy-duty antibiotics.” She looked at Frank. “I need you to hold him down. This is going to hurt. A lot.”
Frank moved to the head of the mattress, placing his large hands on Matt’s shoulders, pinning him down. Claire worked with a terrifying efficiency, laying out instruments, administering a local anesthetic that did little to dull the deep, internal pain. Matt’s eyes flew open as she began, a raw, broken scream tearing from his throat. He fought against Frank’s hold, his strength, even in his weakened state, surprising.
“I’ve got you, Red,” Frank muttered, his voice low and steady, applying more pressure. “Just hold on. You’re gonna be alright.”
He watched as Claire worked, her face a study in intense concentration. She wasn’t just a nurse patching up a vigilante. She was a battlefield medic saving a life. And Frank, the Punisher, was reduced to being mere muscle, a tool to keep the patient still. ‘Not the first time… probably won’t be the last.’
After what felt like an eternity, she held up a pair of forceps. Clamped in the end was a small, jagged piece of metal, stained with blood and pus. “Got it.” She cleaned the wound with a brutal thoroughness, sutured it closed, and started an IV antibiotic drip from supplies in her bag, hanging the bag from a nail on the wall.
The tension in the room slowly bled away, replaced by the steady drip of the IV and Matt’s now-regular, drugged sleep. Claire sat back on her heels, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. She looked at Frank, her exhaustion evident. “He’ll live,” she said quietly. “But you were right to call. A few more hours…” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.
Frank just nodded, his eyes still on Matt’s sleeping face, which was already looking less ashen.
Claire packed her things, her movements slower now. She paused at the door, looking back at the unlikely scene: the Punisher, standing vigil over the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.
“You know,” she said, her voice softer than before. “For a one-man army, you make a pretty good nurse’s aide.”
Frank let slip a ghost of a smile. With curt nod he rasped, “Thanks, Claire.”
After she left, Frank pulled the one threadbare chair in the apartment next to the mattress. He sat down, the weight of the night settling on him. He’d faced down armies without a flicker of doubt. But the sound of Matt’s scream, the feel of his burning skin, the cold certainty that he was in over his head… that had rattled him. He watched the steady rise and fall of Matt’s chest, listened to the strong, even beat of his heart. The storm had passed. For now.
Frank Castle settled in for a long watch, the silence of the safehouse broken only by the rhythm of a healing man’s breath.