Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: Matt gets pneumonia. His friends try to help.

Let the games begin.

Timeline: post-s3

Author's Notes: This was written as part of Whumptober on Tumblr. I misread the last two prompts for the month as a single entry, so instead of writing a story for 'caregiver' and a story for 'showdown,' I wrote one lengthy piece around the idea of a Caregiver Showdown.

I'm in the process of cleaning up some of my other Whumptober pieces for posting as well, but in the meantime, you can check out the unedited entries on my Tumblr (beguilewritesstuff).

In keeping with my trend of using songs for titles, this fic is named for the Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors song.

I need to send a huge thank you to everyone who joined me on Tumblr for Whumptober. To all the wonderful readers here, please enjoy!

a place to lay my head

The broken ribs give rise to pneumonia in what everyone agrees is through no fault of Matt's own. He's broken his ribs so many times that aftercare is second nature: he breathes normally, coughs regularly; his steady diet of Aspirin is actually commendable because he doesn't suppress any inclinations to clear his lungs. He stays off the streets, sleeps, eats well.

It's a shock, then, when Matt stops dead in his track and takes hold of the door frame of his new office, his shoulders hunched and head hung low, breath coming in short, wet bursts. His light coughs quickly turn into hacks; he tries to stop, but the hits keep coming, his diaphragm thrusting so hard against his packed lungs he ends up at the corner of his desk nearly doubled over. A trail of lime-green slime gleams on the back of his hand.

He tries the usual litany of thing: I'm fine, it's nothing, I'll go to the clinic after work, but Foggy and Karen won't hear any of it. Karen's already grabbing her jacket; Foggy's calling their appointments this afternoon, letting people know they will only be meeting with Nelson. At that point, Matt clams up, plants himself at his desk, and resumes working, refusing to move. Karen stands in his office doorway in her jacket for a full three minutes before she says, "We'll go after work," and storms back to her own office.

End of day comes. Karen pops into Foggy's office and hasn't even greeted him when they both hear the office door close. Matt's footsteps disappear down the hallway, vanishing when they reach the stairwell.

"God damn it, Matt," Karen says. She catches Foggy's sigh, the look on his face. "What?"

"You said, 'we.'" Foggy rubs his eyes, drops his head into his hand. "'We'll go after work.'"

"And?"

"You don't say 'we,' Karen. You don't even say that he's going to the clinic. You let him think that you buy his crap about everything being fine, and then you ambush him on his way out the door."

"No, no, we did that before. Let him Devil his way through everything, and he ended up living in a church basement trying to get himself killed."

"Oh, and this is better? He's got pneumonia, Karen, and he just stormed out into the cold. He's probably not going to the clinic, especially with you trying to escort him there."

"What are we supposed to do? What we did before didn't work."

"What you're trying now didn't either."

"So we stop trying?"

Foggy groans. "Nope, that's not what I said." He grabs his jacket. "You're one hell of an investigator, Karen Page, but arguments like that are why you're not a lawyer."

"So what are you going to do?" Karen demands.

"I'm going to ambush Matt at his apartment and make sure he goes to the clinic," Foggy says. "Because that's what a good friend does."

Karen laughs lightly, but she lets him go before grabbing her own coat. She gets on her phone and starts burning through her contacts, phoning in favours, as she runs errands through Hell's Kitchen.

Matt arrives at his building and finally realizes that it's not a trick of his muffled hearing making his footsteps echo; he's being followed.

"What do you want, Foggy?" he asks from the top of his stoop, refusing to come down a step in his friend's direction lest he be seen conceding.

"Just in the neighbourhood, buddy," Foggy lies. Badly.

Matt unlocks his front door and steps inside. "I'm fine." He prays for the strength to swing the door shut before Foggy can get there, but damn it, Foggy's got a hand on the door and is holding it open, and the blood rushes into Matt's head so fast it blots out his senses. He's lost in his own lobby.

"…have been quiet."

Matt shakes his head to clear out his ears. They're muffled, scratchy; Foggy sounds a little like a scratched record. "What?"

"I said the clinic must have been quiet for you to make it home so fast."

"I didn't go," Matt growls. He stalks into his building. "Congratulations - you caught me."

Foggy trails after him. "You want to go now? I can land us a cab, and I've still got some strings to pull over at –"

"Not now."

"Yes, now," Foggy says, grabbing Matt before he can climb any more of his narrow staircase. "You're coughing up shit from a sci-fi movie."

"I know," Matt says, "I was there. I tasted it. I can still taste it."

"So why are you putting this off? I'm telling you I can get us in fast. Grab you a script for antibiotics and be right back here."

Matt shakes his head, his lips pursing. "You want to say something!" Foggy declares, pointing at him. "See! You're not the only one who can read tells, Murdock!"

"I need a minute," Matt admits.

"A minute for your lung jelly to respawn?"

"No, a minute from everyone. I was listening all afternoon, Foggy. Your heartbeat, Karen's. Your respiration. You were both just waiting for me to leave my office, to lecture me or drag me to the clinic."

"We're worried about you."

"I'm fine." Matt marches up the rest of the stairs to his apartment, resolving that statement with every step. He is fine. "I'm going to take some Aspirin, and I'll go to the clinic when I damn well feel like it."

Foggy stays hot on his heels. "You're never going to feel like it."

Matt reaches his apartment door. He puts the key in the lock and draws a steadying breath. Crap gets knocked loose in his lungs; he suppresses the urge to cough. "I need you to leave this alone," he tells Foggy. He hopes his threat of locking Foggy out is sufficiently implied.

It is: "Fine. Okay. I won't say another word about the clinic or pneumonia or anything."

But Foggy's heartbeat has a whole lot to say about all of those things.

The Aspirin does nothing, not with Foggy there. Matt retreats to bed; he lies with his back to the living room in what he considers to be an obvious dismissal. Still, Foggy stays, his heartbeat thumping away as he works at the dining table, ratcheting up Matt's headache to migraine proportions. Occasionally, Foggy tries to sneak over to the bedroom, and Matt has to say, "I'm fine," to get him to back off.

Matt's on the verge of resigning himself to a supervised, practically hand-held trip to the after-hours clinic for a sputum test and antibiotics when there's a knock on the door. Karen lets herself in with a quiet but cheerful greeting. She's carrying food – soup and sandwiches from that deli they like – and a smaller bag that crinkles as she walks.

She whispers to Foggy: "Is he asleep?" The timbre of her voice is grating. Matt's ears are pounding with his heart and Foggy's heart and her heart. He sits up in bed, ignoring the wave of dizziness that crashes over him, and he forces himself to stand. "You here to check on me, too?" he asks, hands fumbling at the door frame. Both Karen and Foggy notice, and Matt's reaction is torn between good, I'm glad you notice, because this is your fault and God damn it, I'm not a child. He's fumbled for things before. He's had broken ribs before. He's had pneumonia before. He's survived worse than this before. Why are they here?

"I'm not here to check on you," Foggy says. "I agreed that wasn't what I was going to be doing."

"I brought dinner," Karen says.

"Thank you," Matt replies.

She clutches the paper bag in her hand, allowing Matt to locate it through his muzzy senses. She tosses it to him; he catches. "Appetizer?"

"Antibiotics." Karen shrugs and strides back to the counter to start unwrapping the food. "I did a piece about the new clinic on Forty-Second when it opened. The doctor there wrote me a script. She said she'll run your sputum test for you, too, whenever you want."

Matt holds the bottle dumbly in his hands, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For them to trick him into an Uber or have called this doctor to his apartment on a house call. Karen continues unpacking the food. Foggy makes some light-hearted comment about how great it is to have favours to cash.

"Thank you," Matt says.

"You're welcome," Karen replies.

Her heart rate picks up a little. Warm, happy: a little victory dance around the disappointed tremor of Foggy's pulse.

Matt nods. There it is: the other shoe. He pops one of the capsules dry and walks slowly towards the battle that's been declared in the kitchen.

At first, it's fine. Aside for the chatter of heartbeats, it's another evening for the three of them: dinner, conversation. Matt's headache starts to subside. The shaky, febrile feeling he nursed earlier seems to dissipate, too. Karen and Foggy don't hover, they don't bother.

Until the coughing comes back.

Foggy tries to hand him a rag. Karen tries to get him to the sink.

Matt bucks them both off and staggers to the washroom.

He slams the door behind him and makes it to the sink just in time to retch a wad of foul-tasting slime into the basin. He grips the counter, blood boiling under his skin, perspiration dripping out of his pores; headache back, fever rising, hands shaking, legs limpening. "You okay?" Karen and Foggy asks from the living room, and Matt raises a hand in their direction, needing them to stop. He sinks to his haunches, head between his knees, the deluge of crap in his chest rising back into his throat. Another cough coming on, and him, powerless to stop it, powerless to stop Foggy and Karen from hearing and doing things about it.

Matt breathes until he no longer feels the urge to cough. He breathes until he can stand. He splashes some water on his face to hide the tear streaks, the chill shocking against his overheating skin. He walks casually back into the living room, past Karen and Foggy – who are both very much hovering now – and straight into the bedroom.

"I'm gonna lie down," Matt says, pulling at the door.

Karen stops him. "Maybe you should –"

He yanks the door out of her hand. "Get some rest? Yeah, I'm about to."

"- go to the hospital."

"Good night," Matt says dismissively. He shuts the door.

The cough rips itself out of his lungs. Karen reaches for the bedroom door; Foggy stops her. Their heartbeats crash against the drywall. Matt clutches his ears, groaning. His knees shake underneath him; his head spins. This wave of red washes through the world on fire, and it's a bad sign, one that isn't at all helped by Foggy reassuring him that they're right outside if he needs anything. "We can't charge in there," Foggy hisses at Karen, dragging her back into the living room. She hisses back at him that yes, they can, and they should.

"I can hear you," Matt says, his voice choked on phlegm.

"Matt, stop being stubborn –"

"I said good night, Karen. I said…" Matt loses his voice to a wheeze. He grips the wall and guides himself back to standing. He's dizzy. The tips of his fingers are tingling and his lips have gone numb like he's about to pass out.

He grabs a coat from the closet. Slips on his ragged pair of gym shoes. A pair of sunglasses are on his nightstand. He doesn't have his scarf, hat, or mitts, but he is not going out to the living room and the whisper-fest about how best to deal with him. Besides, he's going to need his hands free and his senses clear for what he's about to do.

Matt slides open the window. He slips out, bracing himself against the wall. Winter nips at his exposed skin, so cold it's hot against his fevered skin. The blaze inside him makes the wall hard to read, but Matt manages to slink down, landing on the window of the floor below.

He lands on the pavement roughly, chest burning and head aching. A cough building inside him, clawing at his throat, but he has to move. Matt buries his hands in his pockets and listens, getting his bearings. No ruckus from inside his building, so Foggy and Karen must not know he's gone. Pedestrians help paint a portrait of the sidewalk that he can navigate without his cane. Matt puts one foot in front of the other, aiming himself in the direction of Clinton Church.

The door to the basement is easy to pick. Matt trundles down the steps. He drops onto the last one, sitting, unable to catch his breath. That cough finally rips its way out, mucous spattering onto the pavement smelling faintly of blood and infection and his insides.

He rubs at his chest, his face, his hair. Fever's up. His blood runs hot, melting his bones and muscles into jelly. Sending his thoughts into spirals and his perception into a ever-receding circle that begins and ends with his skull. The racks are the only reason he doesn't fall on his face when he rises. They're also the only thing guiding him to the back corner where the cot still resides, made up with fresh linens, awaiting his return.

Matt drops onto the bed and curls up, coughing some more. Being in a ball helps his diaphragm clear the crap out of his lungs, easing some of the pressure on his still-mending ribs.

The emptiness of the church swirls around him. Echoes in vacant corners. The hallowed hum of rock and timbers gentle and cushioning around his aching body, sending him off to sleep.

Maggie shakes him, says his name, but Matt's still under the weather. Filled with storm clouds and warm fronts, damp humidity clinging to his bones. He rises as if in slow motion. Takes forever to realize that Maggie is touching him, that she's asking him if he can hear her. Matt can't find the words to answer. He tries to take her by the hand but he can't track her movements. He's oscillating between hot and cold; breath coming in short bursts or long drags. Senses clear and then submerged.

"Matthew."

Maggie's hand is on his chin, and every one of Matt's senses hone on her in glaring, brilliant detail. She tells him she's going to take his temperature, and Matt holds very still when the thermometer stabs under his tongue.

The beeping hurts his ears. Maggie is quick to take it from him. Her sigh sounds like Karen wanting him to go to the hospital. He tells her as much. "Can't imagine why your friend things you should got to the hospital," she shakes the thermometer and sets it aside, "when your temperature is pushing 104."

"They didn't take my temperature." Matt folds his hands between his thighs and shivers, his teeth chattering. "That's about all they didn't do. Would've tucked me into bed if I hadn't stopped them."

She drapes a blanket over his shoulders. "Thank you," Matt says. He speaks to her retreating form as she goes to the sink. "I don't know why they're doing this."

The tap runs. Stops. Pills rattle in the bottle. Maggie brings him back a glass. "Taking care of you?"

"Smothering me." He takes the glass and the pills, more Aspirin, and finishes both in one smooth movement.

Maggie runs a hand over his head, patting him on the shoulder. "Sounds like they're worried about you."

"You sound like them."

She retreats from him, and all of sudden, the blanket on his shoulders is oppressively heavy. Matt tugs it off. Stands, shaking.

"Sit down, Matthew."

That tone: it should be aloof, but Matt hears the pulse behind it, and he can't take that severity as anything other than parental. Authoritative. As oppressive as the God damn blanket.

"Matthew –"

"I'm not a child," he says.

"I'm aware of that."

"Then why are you doing this? You, Foggy, and Karen."

"Making sure you don't kill yourself?"

"It's pneumonia. I'm on antibiotics."

"For one night."

Matt glowers at her, too angry to say anything. Too hot and too tired to keep the expression up for long. "Which one of them called you?"

"Does it matter?"

He scoffs. "No, I guess it doesn't." He staggers away from the alcove, breezing past her. "Should have been more careful, Sister."

"About what?" Maggie asks, trailing after him.

"Going soft. I didn't think it was possible, but –"

Maggie trails after him. "I didn't think it was possible for you to be even more self-destructive."

"I'm not –" Matt speaks so hard, he knocks something else loose in his chest. He walks through the itch in the back of his throat, straight towards the stairs.

She trails after him: "Accepting help is not a sign of weakness, Matthew."

"I don't need help!"

"Now you're acting like a child!"

She says more, unleashing that acerbic wit of hers on him, cutting him down, reminding him that this is ridiculous. But Matt doesn't listen to her. He escapes into the winter nighttime.

His overheated brain plays through the next steps: Maggie calls Karen; they take to the streets. They find him sitting here, drag him to the hospital or home and stay with him, coddling him, catching his sputum on rags and forcing medication into his mouth. And it's like the early days after Midland Circle all over again. He's helpless, broken. A burden. A body in a bed.

Matt huddles under his jacket, shivering. His throat is raw and lungs are packed, and the chill stabs into his skin. With them looking out for him, he supposed he could go home. Slip back into his warm apartment and sleep for the next eighteen hours, waking occasionally to force crap out of his lungs and make sure he's still alone.

The sound of boot buckles rouses Matt from his thoughts. He knows those footfalls. If he could smell, there'd be the scent of stale coffee and gun powder.

Matt gets up, the Devil taking over, rallying the last of his strength. He follows the footsteps down the street, into an alley, to a basement apartment where the smell of gun metal and bullets is strong enough to penetrate his congestion.

He rounds the building and finds a window he can slip through.

A dog barks and rushes him. Matt tumbles, hits a wall. He's rising when Frank grabs him by the collar of his jacket.

The Devil takes over. It's like old times. Matt lands the first blow, but Frank comes back at him harder, and it takes all his focus to find where the next attack is going to come. He tries kicking Frank's legs out from under him, but Frank punches him in the chest, and the coughing comes back. Matt pitches forward so violently he lands on his knees, noses brushing against the floor as a glob of mucous comes out his mouth to land on the floor.

He keeps coughing, keeps spewing. Heat drains off him in rivers, and Matt sinks the rest of the way, his forehead coming to rest on the tile.

"Jesus, Red," Frank says.

Matt raises a fist. "We're not finished!" He hacks, spitting the last of his lung-garbage onto the floor. He pushes himself back onto his knees, and then pitches forward again, coughing some more.

Frank speaks over his hacking. "We're finishing this?"

"YES!" Matt shouts. He gets back on his feet, shaking so badly that the whole house might come down on top of him. "We're finishing this!"

Frank walks away from him.

Matt stands there dumbly, unable to orient himself for a pursuit. The dog comes over, barks, sniffs at Matt's hands, his legs. Matt waits for the launch of a canine heartbeat before a bite but nothing comes. The dog licks at his fingers, jumps up and puts its paws on Matt's chest.

"Max! Get down!" Frank says.

The dog – Max – licks Matt's cheek before he gets down. He trots a short distance in Frank's direction, but then, noticing Matt isn't following, grabs Matt by the sleeve of his jacket and pulls him along.

Matt almost lands on the floor again. He leans against the doorway and stays there, where it's safer, where he won't drop in front of Frank.

"What are you doing here, Frank?" Matt asks.

"You broke into my place," Frank replies.

"Why do you have a place?"

"Why wouldn't I have a place?"

The conversation makes Matt dizzier. He puts his weight onto the door frame, reeling. Frank looming somewhere in the darkness, his heartbeat loud enough to show that there are thin walls in this place, but not where they are.

Max comes back and tugs on his cuff some more. Matt pulls his hands back, waving the dog along.

"Max," Frank orders.

The dog's collar jangles when he looks from Matt to Frank back to Matt. He gives a small whine and goes back to yanking Matt by the sleeve.

"Looks like you both have the same charming personality," Matt says.

Frank slams the drawer he's been digging around in. Then, casually: "You sick, Red?"

"I'm fine."

"Looks like you've come down with something."

"I'm fine." And then, to prove it, Matt yanks his coat from Max's eager mouth and staggers into the thoroughly unknowable torpor of Frank's apartment. "I'm leaving. See you round, Frank."

He came in from the opposite side of the front door, so it he walks straight ahead -

Frank coughs. Gesturing, somehow, or maybe that's Matt's spinning head playing tricks on him again. "Door's that way."

Matt pretends that he has an idea of what Frank's talking about. He twists on the spot, leg brushing against a threadbare couch. He takes a step and ends up walking into Max, who appears as if from nowhere. "Would you call off your damn dog?"

"What do you think I've been doing? Must like you or something." Frank scoffs. "Terrible taste."

Matt's attempts to dignify that with a comeback land him back in a coughing fit. He pitches forward, shoulder coming to rest on the couch. Just as well, since Matt doesn't have the strength to hold himself up.

Max comes and joins him, nuzzling him as the coughing fit ends. Matt pats him but the dog breath spins his stomach and his perception. He rolls back, out of the way, and ends up sitting on the couch, head in his hands.

Frank's heart is an exercise in disappointment. Makes two of them, since Matt's heart, when it finally calms down, couldn't be less enthused with his current circumstances. He goes to stand but it doesn't work. None of it works. Not his legs, not his arms, not his torso. His neck goes slack. He falls into the couch back, limp and boneless from the fever that's skyrocketing.

Frank grabs him, shakes him. Matt takes him by the wrists and they tussle like that, with Frank peppering him in hey-s, wake up-s, you with me-s. It's verbal machine gun fire with Frank's hands acting like explosives. One of his neck, another on his forehead, another on his wrist taking his pulse.

"You're burning up," Frank says.

"Oh, Jesus, not you too," Matt says. "I'm leaving. Let me leave."

Frank grabs Max by the collar and takes a step back. "You want to leave? Go."

Matt's face breaks. There's another cough building inside him. He grabs the couch with sweat-slicked hands and pushes but he isn't going anywhere. He's stuck.

Frank releases Max. The dog comes and sits next to Matt on the couch, his bulky pit bull head a cinderblock on Matt's overheated leg. "You take anything tonight?" Frank asks, retreating. "Antibiotics?"

"Yeah," Matt says, the thought are we doing this getting lost immediately in the fever haze. He gives a small cough, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. "And Aspirin." But who the hell knows how long ago that was?

Frank fumbles around in a kit nearby. He comes back and thrusts something into his hand. A pack of gel caps. Matt shakes his head, but Frank isn't listening. He's gone back to what is probably a kitchen and grabbed a mug, filled it with water.

Matt sighs. Yes, they are, in fact, doing this. Spend all night trying to avoid people mothering him, and here goes the Punisher with cough medicine and water.

He tries to refuse; Frank doesn't let him. "You take that, you take fifteen minutes to get your shit together, and then you get the hell out."

God, he's never been more grateful to be told to fuck off. Matt rips open the meds and pops them, downing the whole glass of water as he does. "Thanks, Frank."

"And don't come back," Frank adds, walking away. He disappears into the back room of the apartment, behind a closed door.

Matt listens, tries to smell. He can't get anything. The space is virtually empty except for the cloud of gun metal and ammo that seems oddly absent now that he's inside. Maybe it was here and isn't anymore? But that doesn't make sense, since Frank's here.

Max sits up on the couch and starts licking at his face again. Matt resists at first, but he's working on fumes. The fever's burnt him up, turned him into smoke, and eventually he strokes Max's head and back, gets the dog to lie down next to him, this comforting bulk of a stable heartbeat and fur.

Max disappears off the couch, Frank reappears, and Matt tries to communicate that he gets it: his fifteen minutes are up. He's leaving. He turns and tries to move, but his legs are coming apart at the joints. His arms flop uselessly. He grabs hold of the armrest and tries to pull himself to the side, at least, but there's no use. He's slipping, draining out of himself. Straight down his spinal chord, through his legs, into the floor, all to the tune of Frank's heart beating like a drum, the anger audible right up until the moment that it isn't. Right up until the moment it dissipates and is replaced with…something else. Irritation?

Matt's shoes come off. He tries to speak, and the itch in his throat pounces. He hacks and coughs and sputters, and Frank is there for the whole thing, saying nothing, his heartbeat looking on in resignation. And Matt wants to know why, but the word gets lost in a rasp. He lands on his side, melts into the couch, and hides his worthless mouth behind one of his hands.

His sunglasses come off. He half-expects them to get crushed under Frank's foot, to get punched in the face afterwards, but all Frank does is check is temperature one more time.

Matt tries to duck away. He squirms, confused as to why he can't run, why won't his legs move. "It's because you're sick," Frank says. "Quit squirming. Wormy little shit..."

The rest of Frank's diatribe gets lost under the swell of blood rushing into his head. Matt rolls over toward the plush back of the couch, nose filling with the ghost of cigarette smoke as another coughing fit starts.

He doesn't stick around to know how it ends; he passes out instead, Frank Castle looming behind him.

They've made several passes of the neighbourhood and are sitting in Foggy's car sipping coffees, their argument still ringing on the air between them, when Karen gets the text message.

"Unlisted," she explains to Foggy, who is demanding to know if it's Matt. Karen opens the message. A photo greets her: Matt lying on a shitty looking sofa, slack-limbed and sleeping, covered in a fraying quilt with a cold compress on his forehead; a blue-gray pit bull lies next to him and stares defensively into the camera, triple-dog daring anyone to come touch one hair on Matt's precious head.

"What is that? Where is that?" Foggy demands, seeing the photo.

"It's uh…" Karen isn't sure how to explain. Her contact with Frank has been so limited. She only called him after they found Matt had disappeared from the apartment, when she needed some eyes on the street who could keep an eye out for Matt and the Devil. But her voicemail had been so long and rambling – so frustrated with Foggy, with Maggie, with Matt; with this stupid competition for Matt's health – that she didn't expect him to get back to her, let alone find actually find and subdue Matt.

She rights herself and is finally about to answer Foggy's question when another messages arrives. Five words. All Frank Castle needs to get under her skin:

Guess this means I win.

The stupid competition for Matt's health.

Karen closes the text window.

"Who is that, Karen?"

One last text message arrives; Karen jumps from the chime like a bullet's been fired, and really, one has. Staring up at her from her notifications bar is a single message containing nothing but a skull emoji.

Foggy groans, rolling his eyes. "Is that…?"

Karen sighs. "Yeah."

"God damn Frank Castle."

Happy Reading!