Summary: Frank wasn't surprised that he kept crossing paths with Red. It was inevitable that the two soldiers would run into each other in the same steel jungle.

Warnings: Language and violence.

Tags:Angst, Action/Adventure, Character Study, Drama, Hurt/Comfort

A/N: Thank you so much to Amy for the beta and suggestions.

Frank woke to the sound of slamming trashcans as the busboy from the restaurant the floor above him threw away the night's garbage. It was after 1900, an hour later than he intended to wake up. Grunting, he got out of his bedroll and turned on the lamp sitting next to him on the floor. Squatting in a basement with a rat problem kept people from venturing downstairs, which was a good thing since he ran an extension cord under the door to an outlet in the hallway.

He grabbed one of his MRE's from his pack for dinner then brushed his teeth using his remaining toothpaste and a water bottle. If he got back before dawn tonight, he'd stop by the local mission for a shower and supplies.

His police scanners buzzed with two different radio calls, a drive-by shooting off West 54th and 9th and a disturbance in progress two miles west. But he was hunting higher value targets; traitors stealing and selling automatic weapons onto the streets. It wasn't difficult to trace the newest flood of guns from Fort Hamilton; the serial numbers were a dead giveaway. Knowing the tools of the battlefield were in the hands of drug dealing filth made his blood boil.

Frank didn't waste time, strapping on his TAC vest, leather trench coat, and selecting a sawed off shotgun. It felt like one of those nights, where he needed to wield something heavy, take out as many as possible with a couple slides of the pump-action. The Ithaca 37 was the easiest twelve gauge to load and he really loved how fucking loud it was.

He'd find the bastards who stole from grunts to arm gangbangers then make them swallow his gun barrel before pulling the trigger.

Frank watched two SUVs pull up from his perch on a third floor fire escape. Four men stepped out of each vehicle, none of them impressive despite walking with a lot of swagger and wearing too much gold jewelry. Thankfully no one seemed interested in chit chat, the drug dealers only wanted to see the weapons, the arms dealers only cared about counting the money.

Killing people was profitable; it was the reason why war would always exist. Death was cheap however, and there were always new, more efficient methods of racking up the body count. Like grenades for example.

He pulled the pin of a M67 and tossed it at the feet of the eight scumbags below. He braced for the explosion then scaled down several ladders to the ground, firing his shotgun at anyone still moving. Frank stepped around the dying and kicked a guy in the face to stop him from screaming.

One of the bastards started crawling away and Frank trained his barrel in the center of his leather jacket. He curled his finger around the trigger when something metal smacked his wrist hard enough to make him lose the grip on his weapon.

"Damn it!" he growled, knowing exactly what hit him and who threw it. Frank glanced behind him and saw Red standing there, holding a billy club. Frank really wanted to know how he got that thing to return to his hands so quickly. "I'm not in the mood to deal with you tonight."

Red stepped closer and Frank noted the extra wear and tear on his body armor than the last time. "That makes two of us."

"Good." Frank gripped his shotgun with both hands again. "Then stay out of my way."

"Can't do that."

Frank watched out of the corner of his eye as Leather Jacket struggled to his feet then stagger right into the alley wall. "Do you know how many bullets an AK12 can fire into a human body?"

"Too many."

Frank shook his head at such naivety; he'd witnessed people get torn in half by such firepower. "You always got a simple answer for everything."

"Then let's talk about something more complex. How many more guns will make it onto the street if you kill the one guy who can tell us who's in charge of selling them?" Red tilted his head at Frank expectantly. "People can't talk if they're dead."

Leather Jacket finally made it into a standing position and began limping toward the SUV parked at the end of the alley. Frank aimed his shotgun at his head.

"Frank!"

Sighing, he lowered his aim and shot out the rear tires of the car; Frank knew which battles to pick and this wasn't one of them. He looked over the back of his shoulder impatiently. "Guess it's time to play twenty questions."

Beating people wasn't always an effective means of obtaining information, physical pain had its limits, and so did intimidation. Leather Jacket never talked, even after Red smacked him with a few right hooks. Luckily one of his buddies decided to return to consciousness and screamed out a location after Frank fractured his jaw. But the address led to an abandoned warehouse and all Frank had for his trouble were two dislocated knuckles.

He walked across the parking lot to a gas station that was closed and broke the lock to the ice machine using his K-bar. His companion for the night watched as Frank wrapped several ice cubes into a bandanna and held it to his swollen fingers. "Am I entertaining you?"

Red gave a half shrug. "I've seen you walk around with bullet holes and stab wounds and I've never seen you use first aid."

"This is my firing hand."

"Guess we can't have you prowling around without being able to use lethal force."

It'd take days before Frank got full mobility back to fire a weapon properly, let alone punch anyone; such a hindrance was unacceptable. "Don't you have a purse snatcher to catch?" he growled.

"Don't you have medical supplies where you stay or doesn't Siam Cuisine stock icepacks?"

Frank stepped closer to him, nostrils flaring. "How the hell do you know where I sleep?"

Red actually cracked a smile. "You reek of fish sauce and curry paste."

Frank had observed Red's ability to hear impossible shit, but was he a damn bloodhound, too? "There's over a dozen Thai places in Hell's Kitchen."

"But only one serves the best Tom Yum Gung."

Frank resisted the urge to wipe that grin off Red's face. Revealing he knew where Frank slept was pure bravado and one-upmanship and it meant Red's skills at stealth were as sharp as his ability to fight. It was psychological bullshit meant to unnerve him, but having one of his safe houses compromised just pissed Frank off.

"Isn't it your bedtime?" Red had to wear a mask, had to pretend to be someone else he wasn't. Frank didn't have to abide by such rules. "I mean, it's hard to be out so late when you have to go back to your real job in the morning." Frank turned the screws a little more, because Red liked being a vigilante, it was obvious in how hard he fought and the arrogant pride he took in protecting the city. "Must be hard to wear a suit and tie after running around in a costume all night."

He watched Red clench his jaw, his hands tightened into fists, and Frank took that moment to walk away.

There were still abandoned buildings in the Kitchen, warehouses waiting to be demolished before new construction could begin or old storefronts not up to code. Plenty of places for Frank to set up shop or find enough floor space to sleep on. He pulled out a flashlight and sat in the corner of his latest hideaway and read the paper, searching for anything in the city section that caught his eye. He pulled out a map and circled locations of any shootings involving military grade hardware.

Whoever was controlling the supply chain of weapons was arming both sides of a new conflict. It wasn't Yakuza, not the Dogs of War. The Irish bastards were still regrouping. He didn't know who the new players were, didn't really care. They were another means to an end. Another target, another reason to wake up every day.

He opened up the metal gun case on the fold-up table in the corner and pulled out his M4 assault rifle, needing something that could take out dozens within seconds.

Hell's Kitchen was only ten blocks long but it was dense urban-living filled with concrete and metal, apartments and businesses fighting for the same inch of space. It was packed like Al Basrah, except the buildings were taller, blocking out most of the stars. So Frank wasn't surprised that he kept crossing paths with the devil. It was inevitable that the two soldiers would run into each other in the same steel jungle.

Frank preferred stalking his prey from the rooftops for its strategic advantage, Red probably liked jumping off them for dramatic effect. He watched Red scuffle with five small-time thugs, clumsy fists versus a mix of Mui Thai and Krav Maga. He recognized other styles, bits and pieces Frank recalled from Close Quarters Combat training. Despite what Hollywood wanted people to believe, Special Forces operatives didn't spend that much time on fancy martial arts, but Red sure as hell did.

He studied Red's moves, searching for weaknesses, ready to step in if needed. The fight, if it could be called one, didn't last long, and Red stood alone, five assholes sprawled unconscious around his feet.

"Do you need anything; popcorn maybe?" Red asked without looking up.

Frank didn't even bother trying to figure how the guy knew he was up here. "Nope, think I'm good." But it was time to reposition and he quickly climbed down the ladders, landing a few feet away.

Red canted his head to the side like he was listening to something. "Sorry, but I'm going to have to cut things short tonight."

"I'm crushed. Is there a cat crying in a tree you need to rescue?"

His comment must've rankled Red because he stepped closer in irritation, his voice harder. "You should pay more attention to the city you live in. There's been some trouble on the lower west side –"

"I doubt those gun runners are slumming with the folks over there," Frank interrupted, annoyed that Red was chasing the wrong leads.

"Who said I was going after those guys tonight?"

Frank shook his head in frustration. Red should stop wasting his talent on nickel and dime problems. It was like having a sniper drive a fuel truck. "And here I thought you were the guardian of the kitchen?"

"There are plenty of bad things to go around. I've got my ears to the ground on the arms dealing, but I'm hunting someone else tonight."

Frank grunted to himself, he was a little disappointed in Red's priorities, but it suited him just fine. "Go start a book club on the west side; I'll take care of the bigger problem."

"I'm trying to catch a murderer," Red growled.

"And you're still not able to make the tough calls. What kind of impact will hundreds of weapons have when they flood this city?" Frank must've hit a nerve because every muscle in Red's body coiled in barely restrained anger. Yep, there was definitely a temper there, one easy to manipulate. Frank filed that away.

But something caught Red's attention and he snapped his head to the other side this time. "I'll see you later."

This time it was Frank who was left standing as he watched Red scale the fire escapes and disappear across the rooftop.

Frank paced back and forth in his latest safe house, another basement in a dilapidated building. It was the third night in a row without any new leads, his fists throbbed, bloody and sore, his knuckles twice their normal size. He'd broken people's fingers, shot out their kneecaps, dropped a guy down six flights of stairs, but Frank was no closer to tracking down his targets. No closer to filling the hole inside him, an all consuming emptiness making him feel hollow, useless.

He stared at the map he'd pinned to the wall, glared at the notes scribbled in marker about different locations for various deals. He scowled at the surveillance pictures he taken of all the trucks leaving Fort Hamilton, frustrated none of them depicted a route leading to the Kitchen.

Zero leads, zero results.

He grabbed the latest newspaper, flipping through the pages, eyes scanning all the articles. Frank started to toss it aside when a headline nearly lost on the bottom of page eight caught his eye.

Woman Found Stabbed to Death on The Lower West Side—Would The Investigations Be Stalled if She Wasn't Undocumented?

By Karen Page

May 7h, 2016

Mi Mi or 'Little Mother' as he friends remembered her, was murdered last night, stabbed ten times in the chest and stomach in a mostly Burmese neighborhood. She's not just a lone victim of a brutal crime, but the third butchered in ten days. And how many leads do the authorities have? None. Because there's only one detective assigned to the case and little outcry from the public. These victims weren't just the people you ignore every day collecting recycled cans from the trash, the bus washers and janitors taking the jobs most people don't want. They're mothers and daughters, sisters and wives, leaving behind family and friends who mourn them, who miss them every day. They deserve justice; they deserve someone to give a damn about their loss.

Frank crumpled the paper, unable to stop his hands from shaking.

Rain battered buildings, hammering down like a wall of water, soaking his hair, dripping down the folds of his trench coat. Frank ignored the storm, too many thoughts racing nonstop through his head, the ghost images of blood stains on his hands, the crack-bangs of mortar rounds followed by the whizzing sounds of an RPG. Beneath the memory of explosions and the screams of dying men, he heard his daughter's laugh, could almost feel her smaller hand squeezing his own.

Except his hands were ice cold, his leather gloves left somewhere in a corner. He might have grabbed his Sig on his way, the Smith & Wesson too, maybe both. He couldn't remember, couldn't even recall how he got here, only that his feet were still moving.

He walked through alleyways, searching, listening, but no one was out in this weather. No one except a familiar figure in the shadows slamming his fist into another person's face, the sound of bone against flesh almost drowned out by the rain.

Frank moved closer, watching Red punch a guy again, and again, and again. Until the man's face disappeared behind bruising and blood. Frank stood back; thinking finally, the devil wasn't holding back anymore, he was embracing the violence.

But an odd feeling lodged in his chest, then the pit of his stomach, a feeling Frank wasn't used to – one he didn't think he'd ever feel again. He blamed Karen Page for treating him like a human, for writing articles that stirred things up inside him. And he blamed Red for always trying so damn hard to do the right thing. Witnessing the devil fall apart and cross this line bothered him. Nothing ever bothered Frank anymore.

"If you don't let up soon, you're going to break your hand." But Red wasn't paying attention to him. "Seriously, you're going to tarnish that halo of yours if you don't stop soon."

"Get outta here, Frank!" Red said breathless, chest heaving.

"You know I never listen to you."

Red stood there, his whole body shaking from exertion and too much adrenaline, his left hand the only thing holding the bloodied bastard against the side of the dumpster.

"So, is this the guy you've been after?" Franked asked unnecessarily.

"Yeah."

"Looks like you caught him." Red didn't say anything; he still had that wild air about him, although it was hard to tell with the mask. "Isn't this where you dump the perp on the stairs of the police station? Or do you have a devil signal?"

Red, still looking deranged, blood dripping down his chin and several days-old scruff around his jaw, adjusted the grip he had on the murderer.

"Are you going to make me say something like 'this ain't you man'? Because it's not," Frank said casually, like it was everyday he talked down a vigilante from beating someone to death.

"Did you see what he did to those women?" Red's voice sounded broken.

"Nope, don't need to. Seen enough of that type of thing before, still doesn't mean you should do something that a million Hail Mary's later won't help."

Red stared at Frank then at the sack of shit against the dumpster, the sound of police sirens wailing in the distance.

"Guess somebody must've peeked through a window," Frank said. "I think that's our cue. Come on, I don't think this asshole is going anywhere."

Red nodded slowly, and he took a long, deep breath, like the weight of the earth had been removed from his shoulders. He let go of the perp who sagged unceremoniously to the ground in a puddle of water. The sirens grew closer and Red finally started walking away, but he stopped and waited for Frank like he didn't trust him to leave too.

"Maybe now that you're done with that piece of trash, you can pay attention to some of the real threats going on."

"Is that why you came here tonight? Because of the real threats?"

Frank kept walking until they reached the beginning of the alleyway. "Do you think the cops are smart enough to find the gift you left them?"

"I'll make sure they come over here," Red said, sounding more like himself.

Frank watched him scale a side of the nearest building despite the slick conditions and once again disappear. Waiting a few moments to ensure there was enough distance between them, Frank turned around and marched back the way he came. It took a few seconds to reach where the criminal was still unconscious on the ground. Then he pulled out his Sig and put three slugs in the assholes's head then shook his hand to get rid of the sting to his healing knuckles.

Frank hadn't been lying earlier. Killing wasn't Red's code, it was his.

Being able to bed down in any location was a trait grilled into him since boot camp; it was an essential survival skill. Keep the mind and body strong. Recharge then fight again.

But stringing together more than a few hours of sleep at a time was impossible when he couldn't turn his brain off, even with a daily rigorous two hour physical conditioning routine. Randomly patrolling the streets wasn't enough to occupy his mind and keep all those racing thoughts at bay, like a buzzing sound that grew louder and louder. He needed a mission to fill in all the voids, give his restless hands something to do.

It took four days and bashing a few more skulls before Frank found out the next shipment of stolen weapons would be delivered tonight. He didn't know the location or who was in charge of the operation, but his 'source' insisted they were coming from Fort Hamilton.

His previous surveillance hadn't provided any leads; he'd been thorough, watched munitions transports for days. Except there was one other way for hundreds of automatic weapons to leave a military base - when they were scheduled for destruction.

He hotwired a jeep and followed an Explosives Disposal truck responsible for transporting materials scheduled to go to the incinerator and watched it take a detour and head into the city then park outside a large warehouse.

Bingo a voice said inside his head.

There was one accessible window on the south side of the warehouse to observe the operation. It wasn't a deal; it was a drop-off and inspection of goods. Frank watched a Staff Sergeant responsible for the safe destruction of ordnance unload hundreds of pounds of ammunition into the hands of scum. The traitor was his secondary objective, the bastard in the expensive Armani black coat giving the orders was the primary. Although it really didn't matter, they were all dead men.

There were six heavily armed targets, all in poor strategic positions. And too fucking spread out. Frank enjoyed a challenge.

Frank entered through the side door, firing his M4 at anyone moving, single bursts, center mass. One target down, then another. He ignored the screaming and yelling, searching for his main objectives: the traitor and the ringleader. Frank trained his weapon to the left and right, squinting against burning fumes, looking for movement.

"Did you really think we'd knowingly allow you to locate us?" a voice yelled.

Frank swung his M4 around toward the sound, moving further into the warehouse.

"You don't know the definition of subtle, tearing up the neighborhood like a dog going after his favorite bone. And now my friend, here we are." Over twenty men appeared from the depths of the warehouse, surrounding the asshole in the Armani suit. "It's a pity a few more of my guys had to die tonight, but as you can see, I have plenty more."

Frank smiled. It all sounded good to him.

He squeezed the trigger, aiming for peoples' legs in a long spray of fire as he threw himself to the ground at the same time. Frank landed hard on his shoulder and rolled, bullets peppering where his body had been seconds before, a slug catching him in upper arm.

"Fan out, fan out!" someone yelled.

He continued firing before lunging behind a large crate, the top splintering apart from heavy fire. Frank heard boots echo off the cement floor, counting at least seven men headed toward his position, the others circling around to catch him in a cross-fire. He pulled out his Sig using his left hand, held his M4 in his right, pointing both in the opposite directions. Timing was everything and Frank waited until the last possible second before –

Frank heard an ouff followed by a grunt, then the sound of two bodies falling to the ground. Then his enemies started shooting at someone other than Frank and he took advantage of Red's assistance, because who else would provide him backup?

It was easy to take head shots when his targets were too busy trying to kill shadows. One by one they fell like sitting ducks. It was actually a little disappointing.

The others started to Evac toward the exit and Frank chased after them, spotting the familiar camo of the Staff Sergeant. Frank watched the sergeant run past the very crates of ammo he'd stolen as Frank took aim at the back of the traitor's head.

"Frank! No more killing!"

"For fuck's sake," Frank growled. He whirled around at Red who now stood beside him, breathing hard. "This isn't your fight."

"Funny, you were trying to convince me otherwise a few nights ago. And just in case you forgot, this is my city."

"Actually, it's going to be mine."

Frank looked over Red's shoulder just in time to see the guy in the Armani suit aim an RPG at them. Even Red's agility wouldn't be able to stop a rocket propelled grenade. Frank tried to take one final shot, but he was shoved hard to the ground, Red landing on top of him –then Frank's ears filled with the concussive sound of multiple explosions.

For a moment, Frank lay on the ground stunned. What the hell? He blinked against his disorientation, trying to figure out why there was a weight across his legs. Then the last sixty seconds came to him in a whirl. Fire-fights and an RPG. Fuck. They had been standing behind the ammo crates.

They.

He craned his head a little; Red was half sprawled on top of his calves. Unmoving. Damn it. You better not be dead.

Frank remained perfectly still, listening to the popping of burning crates, but no sounds of anyone approaching to finish them off. There were sirens in the distance though, the explosion probably attracting every emergency response unit in the area.

He grabbed his back-up Smith & Wesson from his other holster, bolted into a sitting position, and swept the barrel from left to right. Frank saw Armani Suit covered in blood, rolling around in pain, cut down by flying ammo and shrapnel from his own RPG. There was still enough time to make him to suffer.

But the sirens grew louder and Red hadn't twitched.

"Sonofabitch," he growled.

Sliding a hand under Red's head, Frank kept it from hitting the floor while pulled his own legs free from under Red's weight. There was no time to search for wounds so he grabbed Red under his armpits and hauled him to his feet, leaning all of his dead weight against Frank's chest.

"Kill them!"

Frank looked behind him, Armani Suit was still writhing on the ground, but some of his injured men were staggering toward their boss. Frank clenched his jaw, furious, spinning his body to shield Red with his back as the remaining thugs began shooting toward them. The assholes were terrible shots. Lucky for them he had a bigger priority now.

When the firing ceased while the idiots reloaded, Frank hoisted Red up enough to sling him over Frank's shoulder, then he hauled ass toward the exit just as the first of the police cars began pulling into the parking lot next to his stolen jeep.

Without wheels it was going to take a while to reach safety. "I hope you're comfy," he told Red.

But Red still hadn't said word and Frank started moving faster.

He kept to the alleyways at a serious pace; occasionally motivating the sack of potatoes he carried. "You could stop being such a lazy bastard and wake up and walk."

Instead of going to one of his safe houses, Frank took his charge to a rat-hole studio apartment he had on the south side. The building was full of junkies and prostitutes, but it had heat and power, and it was the best spot to heal up. His door was the first one on the left, it made for easy access, so he only had to carry Red a short distance through the hallway before going inside.

He walked toward the bedroll in the far corner and carefully lowered Red onto it. Frank removed his jacket and TAC vest, tossing them to the floor, making it easier for him to move. Kneeling, he carefully traced the edges of Red's mask and removed the helmet. The ends of his mouth twitched; Matt Murdock sure was young.

He didn't spot any blood, so Frank traced his hands across the sides of Murdock's head and the back of his skull searching for the source of the continued unconsciousness. There, his fingers found a large lump of swelling. Out of instinct, he examined Murdock's helmet, noticing several cracks from more than one impact point. It'd been strong enough to protect against an explosion, but there was only so much kinetic energy a helmet could cushion the brain from.

Frank grimaced, he hated dealing with head injuries; they were complicated and messy. He would've preferred a few bullet holes. Of course that was still a possibility. The combo of the RPG and ammo crates had created an IED.

He needed to remove the upper part of the suit.

It was a good thing Frank had experience with body armor, because it only took a few tries to figure out all the spots where it unattached. He removed the top part of the torso, searching for more wounds. Chest and abdomen looked okay and he rolled Murdock onto one side, checking his back. Bruising peppered his flank and shoulders, but it was impossible to know the extent of any further injuries.

He laid Murdock onto his back again, eyes straying toward the recent scars. Frank frowned even more.

Getting up, he grabbed his box of medical supplies and quickly disinfected his own wound and wrapped a pressure bandage around the bullet hole in his arm. It'd been a through and through and didn't require much else. His stomach growled and he decided to eat; it wasn't like he could do much for his guest.

He turned on his police scanners, ripped open and ate an MRE of self-heating marinara and meatballs. Sitting in the corner, he listened for updates on the explosion, glancing over at his charge every once while he cleaned his weapon.

"You sure are boring without the suit," he muttered.

Frank took his time wiping everything with solvent, oiled the barrel, and took apart the cylinder assembly. He looked over at Murdock again and his state of half dress, realizing the indignity it would be when he woke. Grumbling to himself about getting soft, he stood up and rummaged through one of his duffel bags, pulling out a t-shirt, a hoodie, and some pants.

Walking past his busted sofa, he snagged the blanket folded over the side and threw it over Murdock, then dropped the bundle of clothes next his head. He then sat back down in his corner and continued listening to the scanners.

Frank heard a sharp inhale of breath and looked over from where he sat taking notes from the night's radio transmissions. Murdock bolted into a sitting position, franticly shoving the blanket away, and grabbed one of the batons attached to his leg. Breathing rapidly, he tilted his head to one side then looked over in Frank's direction.

"Frank?"

"Yeah."

The tension in Murdock's shoulders lessened minutely. "Where am I?"

"At a shithole on the south side."

Murdock touched his chest. "Why am I...?"

"You're still wearing your suit, but I removed the top part to see if you were bleeding out anywhere. You're not by the way."

But Murdock didn't seem appeased by Frank's answer, if anything, his breathing got more rapid. "I need to leave."

Murdock clumsily got to his feet, his arms flailing for balance as his hands missed the wall only inches away from his face.

"Maybe sitting might be an easier task for you," Frank said. He thought about helping, but knew better than to approach someone who was disoriented.

Murdock was semi-upright before he started listing sideways. He flung out his hand and hit the wall this time before leaning his whole body against it.

For crying out loud. Frank stood up when Murdock didn't budge from where he was propped up against the wall. "I don't think gravity is your friend right now."

"'m fine," Murdock slurred. Then he stumbled a few steps and slumped to his hands and knees.

Frank walked over slowly. "Just in case you haven't figured it out yet, you have a concussion."

Murdock said something but his words were muffled by the floor. After several moments of heavy breathing, he curled onto his side, his hand still fisting his baton. It was pretty pathetic.

It'd been a long time since Frank had seen someone so tense and miserable. He squatted down to his haunches, still cautious about startling someone in such a world of pain. "I think I have some aspirin, but I can go find some morphine if you need it. Just say the word." His building was a virtual pharmacy.

Murdock said something incomprehensible and Frank leaned right next to his face. "What?"

But Murdock didn't say anything else; he just curled around himself even tighter. Slurring speech and confusion were not good signs. "I can't help if you don't tell me what the hell is wrong."

He leaned closer, listening, only able to make out a few words… "too much noise."

Except there wasn't anything making noise; well except, Frank looked over at the police scanner in confusion. He'd lowered the volume an hour ago. Frank went over and turned it off; watching to see if the action had an effect. Murdock hadn't twitched.

He needed to evaluate the problem. Concussion induced headaches could be unbearable, and sensitivity to light and noise could make things worse. But it was dark inside and the only sounds were his annoying neighbors yelling and fighting. It was a typical weeknight.

Frank chewed on his lip. Maybe in a world of gods, mutants, aliens and extra-sensory vigilantes wearing devil's suits, a head injury and acute hearing were a volatile mix. It wasn't like he could make things quieter, but maybe he could drown it out?

The last tenants had left the crappy sofa, a tiny kitchen table, and a portable fan. Frank went over to the closet with the broken door and pulled out a box fan. He carried it over to the closest outlet and plugged it in, pleasantly surprised when it actually turned on.

He went back over to where Murdock lay in the corner and placed a hand on his bare shoulder. "Try focusing on the sound of the blades moving around." Frank had used a similar technique in Iraq.

After a couple of minutes of no reaction, Frank started to think he'd made an incorrect decision when he noticed that Murdock's breathing began to slow down, and he gradually uncurled his body and lay on his back.

Huh. It actually worked.

When it looked like he could relax without worrying that Murdock's brains were going to leak from his ears, Frank returned to his own spot on the floor.

He sighed, cleaning his weapons would probably be too noisy so Frank grabbed yesterday's paper and started to read the crossword when he heard Murdock's quiet voice over the fan noise. "Thank you."

Frank heard a thumping sound and automatically reached for his Sig. It took a second before he realized he'd fallen asleep. Stupid. He aimed his weapon in the direction of the noise and found Matt Murdock leaning against the wall, dressed in the clothes Frank had left him, a black t-shirt, hoodie, and dark cargo pants, everything a bit too baggy.

"Are you going somewhere?" Frank asked.

"I got to take a piss."

"The head is over there," Frank said, pointing across the room.

Murdock looked in the direction of Frank's voice, but not in the eye, in fact, his gaze was several inches off. It took Frank by surprise. "I thought the blind thing was some type of cover?"

"It's complicated," Murdock said, trailing the wall with his hand. "How many steps?"

"About eight. So, you're…"

"I said it was complicated."

Frank watched Murdock walk unsteadily into the bathroom, his left hand bracing his side, and after few minutes; he walked just as unsteadily back out.

"Double vision or vertigo?" Frank asked, assessing.

"The latter."

"Ringing in the ears?"

Murdock smirked. "Something like that." Then he used the wall to guide himself back to the floor before slowly sitting back down.

There was a definite lack of coordination, probably dizziness. Frank had seen it enough times; he also knew Murdock had been in a lot of brutal fights. "How many concussions have you had lately?"

Murdock laughed. "I was shot in the head last month."

"You got sloppy." Murdock hummed in agreement and Frank added, "And it doesn't seem like the first time based on those scars. I've seen twenty year war veterans with less."

"Didn't have the body armor until recently."

"That was stupid." Murdock didn't give a snappy comeback and Frank considered him a moment. Of course he'd accept the mistake without question and not think about the consequences. "When you have multiple concussions it takes longer to recover from them."

Murdock grunted, raising his eyebrows in reluctant acceptance of Frank's assessment.

And in that moment Frank's stomach growled. Guess it was time to eat. "You hungry? I got pinto bean stew and mac and cheese."

Murdock's face paled at the mention of food, which was a feat since he was already grey looking. "MREs are too salty. But thanks."

Frank quirked an eyebrow, his food provisions were packed away out of sight. He got up and dug one out, opening the pack triggering the chemical heating element before he dug in. "Nothin' wrong with a little salt," he mumbled.

"Not to mention hydrolyzed soy protein, autolyzed yeast extract, maltodextrin…" Murdock wrinkled his face. "You should think of eating something healthier given your recent career activities."

Frank chewed in consideration and watched Murdock take several long steady breaths; he really didn't look good. "I have a sofa you can use, it's probably more comfortable."

"You're on the floor."

"I prefer the floor."

Murdock crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knees. "Thanks, but at least three dogs and a couple of people have urinated on that thing."

Frank snorted. "Is that right? What breed?"

"German Sheppard, Boxer, and a mutt. Not your dog though, you don't keep him here."

Frank refrained from demanding how Murdock knew that and took comfort knowing his dog was safe somewhere else. He continued munching on his dinner and noticed how much whiter Murdock became with every bite.

Frank filed a keen sense of smell away with all his other observations before getting up and opening a window to throw away the remains.

Murdock seemed to regain some color to his complexion a few minutes later.

"You don't seem too surprised about who I am," Murdock said after a stretch of silence.

"Figured it out when I was in the hospital, same build and stance. But you confirmed it in court. I recognized your voice, hard not to after our lovely heart to heart in the graveyard. Like I said, I don't give a shit about who you are outside the mask." Murdock looked like he was trying to meditate, but the grimace on his face said it wasn't working. "So, you send punks to jail then defend them in court?"

"No."

"But you're a lawyer."

"I defend people who need help. Everyone needs a second chance."

"Excuse me while I roll my eyes. Is that why you patrol the rooftops and beat people up? Does it make you feel better when you see all the flaws in your precious justice system?"

"Not every system is perfect."

"Uh-huh. Or maybe you just feel guilty for all that anger you try to hide." Frank watched Murdock clench his fists. "Do you think you're the only one who knows anything about resentment? When you take everything away from a man, strip him of his worth, betray him." He breathed hard through his nose. "That man can't be trusted ever again, but you can trust his rage." Frank's face felt hot, his heart pounded. "And in that rage you can seek vengeance, and you stop at nothing, feel nothing…"

He looked over at Murdock watching him, Murdock's expression a mix of guilt and understanding and for a second, Frank recognized a rare moment of camaraderie. Because he'd seen Murdock fight, seen his unleash too many demons. "Do your limbs ever go numb? And your mind becomes this empty black slate?" Frank licked his lips, waiting for an answer and getting silence in return. "Come on; think of it as a confession."

"You're not my priest, Frank."

"But I pulled you back; I kept you from the flames." Frank looked away, waiting for the fire in his chest to ease. "Those scars, they never go away."

"Is that why you killed him?" Murdock asked his voice barely above a whisper.

Frank knew who Murdock was talking about, the difference between them as black and white as ever. Because while Murdock had probably tortured himself over what he could have done differently during that night in the alley, Frank hadn't given it a second thought. He'd put three more bullets in that butcher's skull if he had to.

"I did what needed to be done." And if he'd spared a choir boy the need for more penance, then so be it.

Frank wanted to pace, or hit something, but there wasn't enough room, and there weren't any punks around to unload on. He needed to be on the streets and do something with all the pent up energy coursing through his veins, making his muscles twitch. He should have been searching for anyone left alive after the warehouse explosion, but some asshole had to shove him away from an IED and get their brains rattled in the process.

Murdock sat up from where he'd been sleeping the last couple of hours, head cocked to one side like a bird.

"What is it?" Frank asked. He'd thought the fan had been doing a decent job as a white noise filter.

"Someone's planning to rob the liquor store later."

"Well, it is almost the weekend."

"And there's a major heroin deal going down."

"Not in this building," Frank scoffed. "Maybe enough for a fix."

But Murdock wasn't paying attention to him. His face was scrunched up in concentration; his eyes stared vacantly at the floor. It was unnerving.

"Are you really going to seek out every crime being committed around us?"

Murdock pressed his fingers against his eyes, his voice irritated. "It's not like a light switch that can be turned off. I just can't tune things out right now."

Frank hadn't actually expected a candid answer. "I can make the fan louder."

Murdock rolled his eyes at his suggestion, but Frank wasn't sure if he was supposed to feel annoyed by it.

Using the wall, Murdock stood up, seemingly steadier on his feet. He walked around Frank, bypassed the sofa and the kitchen table without difficulty. Then he went toward the sink and paused. "Do you have a glass?"

Frank had no fucking idea what to make of a blind-not-blind vigilante. "In front of you, on the left side of the sink.

Murdock moved his hand, searching for it, finding the glass after a few attempts. He traced the faucet with his fingers before filling the cup and bringing it to his mouth.

Frank looked on, counting this as progress. "You got someone I should call and let them know you're alive?" And to come grab you soon.

"No."

"The pillar of Hell's Kitchen doesn't have a ton of people on speed dial?" Murdock didn't say a word, drinking his water. "Not even your law partner?" Nothing. Frank didn't believe it. "What about, Karen?" Because she was something else, with the same courage and balls of any Marine he'd ever known.

Murdock's shoulders tensed at the mention of her name. "I don't want to bother her."

Frank felt a wave of anger course through him, wishing for the briefest of seconds he could remember what it felt like to have someone to be concerned about him. "You're a dick to let her worry."

"We don't…I mean." Murdock stood there and considered his words. "We talk more than we did a few weeks ago…but it's…"

"It's what? If you say complicated one more fucking time…"

"She didn't know what I did, what I do…not until recently."

That must've been one hell of a conversation Frank thought. "Did she slug you?"

"No."

"Tell you to piss off?"

"Not quite." Murdock leaned against the kitchen counter. "She actually understood why I have to go out in the mask; she just didn't like the deception. But I had to tell her, I wanted her know everything about me. The real me."

Frank needed a shot of whiskey listening to this. "Then call her. She's smarter and more accepting than you give her credit for."

Murdock's expression went from deep in thought to livid in seconds and he made a beeline toward the front door.

"Where the hell are you going?" Frank growled, grabbing his arm.

Murdock jerked out of Frank's grasp and faced him in a defensive position. "There's a woman, someone's hitting her."

"Which apartment?"

Murdock went stock still, every line in his body taut with tension. He shook his head angrily. "I…I don't know."

"There's twenty apartments in this building."

"Then that leaves nineteen to search."

"And what about the building next to us, huh? Or across the street? " Murdock turned toward the door again and Frank moved in front of him. "Are we really doing this?"

"Get out of the way."

Frank smiled, predatorily. "Force me." Because he wouldn't mind a fight.

"You'd rather go a few rounds than help someone?"

"If you can tell me which apartment, I'll break down the door myself."

Frank had witnessed Murdock battle completely outnumbered and pull inhuman fighting moves, but he'd never seen him struggle like this before. Murdock squeezed his eyes shut; listening intently, breathing hard through obvious pain before stumbling back into the kitchen to throw up in the sink.

"You really are a stubborn sonofabitch. It's amazing you're still alive."

Murdock turned on the faucet, cupping the water to splash over his face. He rested his arms against the counter, concentrating again, and then sighed when it was obvious he'd come away empty. "I'd make a joke about pots and kettles."

"Except no one would notice or care if I took a dirt nap. But you have people who do." Murdock stared off in the distance and Frank really wanted to punch him. "I can't believe why someone who has it all chooses to throw it all away. Job, friends…"

"But not a purpose," Murdock shot back, voice tight. "You of all people should know what it feels like when you don't have one."

"We all choose our purpose."

"Is what you call going out every night and killing people?"

"Yes!" Frank shouted. "I can't forgive people for the horrible shit they've done which makes me better at my job. You'll always be conflicted and you'll always be miserable because of it."

Frank watched as Murdock walked out of the kitchen and around the sofa, a stagger to his gait as he traced the wall with his hand. He slowly lowered himself to the floor and sat cross-legged. "People who make mistakes and commit a crime, they should be punished. But they should also be given an opportunity at a second chance and to seek forgiveness. It's what makes us human." He took a long breath and closed his eyes. "I'll be ready to leave tonight."

Frank grabbed his favorite rifle to begin cleaning it and didn't bother telling Murdock that it was already night.

Frank turned the police scanners back on; he tried keeping them on low, even though it didn't matter. But it was midnight and he was sitting around doing nothing; his thoughts swirling, keeping him awake, making him want to smash his fist into the wall.

He carefully attached a new barrel to his rifle, screwing it in place as he listened to the radios. Frank had a target and a strategy for tracking him down, it was a simple, beautiful plan.

"You really like guns."

Frank didn't look up. "I like shooting them more."

"You own a lot of them." It wasn't a question.

Frank doubted Murdock had ever shot a rifle before and he idly wondered if it'd be something he could ever learn how to use. "Different situations require different types of weapons. A good solider knows which one to use on which enemy."

"And which kind do you plan on carrying tonight?"

"It's the Vanquish, an exquisite sniper rifle." Frank lifted it up to show him, but put it down when Murdock just stared at it. Right. "It's lightweight, got a low footprint. Great for travel. Fired this one at nine hundred yards once, still got a nice tight grouping."

"Yeah, but does it fit in your pants' pocket?"

Frank laughed, he never expected the devil to have a sense of humor, or that he'd find it funny. "That's what a knife's for." He got up and started packing the Vanquish into its carrying case. "I'm going out for a little while. Gonna grab some food."

"Are you going to hunt it first?"

"Maybe."

"That explosion probably killed the leader of that arms ring and even if he were alive, he's probably laying low."

Was the guy a mind reader now?

"Only one way to find out." Frank lifted up his gun case and looked over at Murdock. "Don't follow me."

Murdock gave him a tight smile, he wanted to go with him; Frank recognized the need, the addiction.

"The world would have to stop spinning first," Murdock said, but there was a longing in his voice.

Frank wasn't sure if he believed him, but he couldn't stay cooped up anymore. "I'll be back soon."

Frank prowled the rooftop of a packaging plant on the outskirts of the city, finding the perfect spot near the highway. He sat beside an air conditioning unit, staying tucked away. He checked his watch, 0100 hours, should be any minute. It took him half an hour to get here by car, would take him just as long to get back. In and out.

Frank tested the flexibility of his fingers, curled and uncurled them despite some stiffness. His mobility was satisfactory enough and he quickly screwed on the silencer.

He watched the military transport as it approached the traffic light, looked through his sight at the man in the driver's side, recognized the Staff Sergeant's stripes, and got eyes on the traitor's face.

Frank adjusted the focal length of his scope, verified his linear value, and fired.

One way to ensure that a weapon's ring was destroyed was to eliminate its supply chain.

Frank dumped his stolen ride in the parking lot of a late-night grocery store. Instead of heading home he went inside the store and searched the shelves of the deli section.

"Can I help you?" a guy wearing an apron walked over and asked him.

"Yeah." Frank scanned the various salads and sandwiches. "You got any soup?"

"Sure do. Canned or fresh?"

"Fresh."

The clerk started walking toward another display. "Do you have a preference? We have Red Lentil, Tomato bisque –"

"I don't care," Frank growled. "Whatever has the least preservatives, organic or something?" Maybe if the soup wasn't filled with offensive smelling chemicals, Murdock might be able to tolerate enough to eat.

"You can't go wrong with good old fashioned vegetable soup."

"Yeah, okay," Frank said, grabbing the quart. He quickly paid for it, doing anything to get away from the florescence lights and perky people.

Going back outside, Frank went back to his stolen car, popped the trunk and grabbed his weapon's case. Shouldering the strap he carried the Vanquish and the soup and made his way home on foot.

Frank didn't have a key to his studio, he didn't have anything worth stealing and locked doors invited thieves. He entered his apartment, eyes sweeping the dingy room and found it empty. He set the rifle case on the floor of the kitchen and pulled out his Sig. It took seconds to clear the place, including the bathroom.

For a moment he thought Murdock had left, which would have been fine, but Frank spotted the Daredevil suit folded up on the sofa. Damn it. Which meant someone had grabbed Murdock or –

A crashing sound came from upstairs and Frank looked up at the ceiling. Or Murdock couldn't be left alone for a couple of hours without seeking trouble. Frank slammed his door closed and headed toward the stairwell, stepping over some guy passed out on the landing.

It didn't take long to reach the second floor, the thudding sound of a body slamming against the wall echoing in the hallway. He went to kick open the door where the noise was coming from, but he found it already broken off the hinges. Frank stepped inside in time to see Murdock duck a punch to his head and send an elbow into his attacker's throat, the guy collapsing beside Murdock's feet. There were three other unconscious bodies sprawled all over the place.

"You didn't leave me anyone," Frank complained, holstering his Sig.

Murdock was breathing heavily, his face hidden by the hood of the jacket he wore. "Sorry, didn't have time to wait on you."

It was then that Frank heard the faint crying of a child and he watched Murdock head toward the bedroom, maneuvering around the busted chair and coffee table on the floor. He gently knocked on the door. "It's okay, you can come out now."

Slowly, a woman emerged, carrying a toddler against her chest. She glanced at Murdock, the left side of her face swollen, the other with fading bruises. "I don't have any drugs or money."

"I don't want any of that," Murdock told her. The woman stared at him like he was crazy. "Do you have a place you can go?"

"My sister's got a place…in the Bronx."

"Good," Murdock said, nodding. "You and your son should go there."

"Yeah, sure. I'll just pull out my checkbook."

Frank dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of money held together by a rubber band. "Take this. Should be enough to buy a train ticket."

She took the money hesitantly, looking bewildered. "Are you serious?" Frank just stared at her. "I don't what to say….thank you." Grabbing her purse from out of one of the knocked over sofa pillows, she stuffed the money inside and quickly ran out of the room.

"How do you pay for things?" Murdock asked as he stood beside him.

"Bad guys carry a lot of cash. They don't really need it."

"That's a good tip."

"It's also against one of those commandments so I doubt you'd take such good advice." Frank noticed some of the other tenants poking curious heads in the doorway, probably wondering what they could steal. "Come on. I bought food. We should eat before we Evac. This is the second safe house I've lost this week because of you, by the way."

"Did you say you brought dinner?"

Frank actually chuckled.

It didn't take long to gather a few clothes and all of his weapons. His MRE stashes were buried all over the city. Frank did a final sweep of his place while Murdock packed his suit into the duffle bag Frank had given him.

Frank looked over at the Devil of Hell's Kitchen; he didn't look all that intimidating in dark baggy clothes. Maybe wearing the suit had other advantages other than protection. "I can borrow a car, give you a ride somewhere."

Murdock quirked an eyebrow. "Borrow?"

Frank shrugged.

"If you give me a second," Murdock cleared his throat. "I'm…I'm going to call a friend and see if she can pick me up."

"Good, can't have you getting hit by a car."

"I think I would have managed."

"I'm sure you would have." And because Frank had no problem taking the low road, he asked what he was thinking. "What made you change your mind?"

"Well you did eat a real bowl of soup instead of an MRE. Figured if you change your ways…"

"That's a cop-out answer."

"My priest would say I should practice what I preach." Murdock took a deep breath and stared at the floor, his voice resigned. "I believe everyone deserves a second chance. Maybe I should include myself in that."

Frank was actually surprised by Murdock's admission; maybe all that mediation had helped with more than just the concussion. "If you stop being an asshole you might have a shot."

Murdock didn't give him a reply and pulled out a cell phone from the duffle bag and walked into the kitchen.

"You've had a burner this whole time?" Frank would have thrown something at him if there'd been anything within reach. He made note that Murdock kept an emergency cell in the pockets with his baton.

He watched Murdock pace as he spoke, having to stop to lean on the counter every once and a while before walking back over only after a couple minutes. "I've got a ride; I'm meeting her a few blocks away."

"I told you should give Karen more credit. She's a better person than both of us combined. Don't fuck that up."

Murdock let out an annoyed sound under his breath, that easy temper flaring in annoyance. "What do you want from me, Frank?"

Frank stepped right into Murdock's personal space, mere inches from his nose. "Something simple. Don't be like me."

Gathering his stuff, Frank headed for the door, knowing Murdock could find his way out without help.

"I'll see you around, Frank."

"Hopefully not too soon," Frank called back over his shoulder and walked out the door.

It felt damn good to be alone again.

It was almost closing time, but Frank preferred staying away during daytime hours, it didn't feel right walking around with all the normal people. After picking out a few things, he went to front counter of the Army Navy store with his stack of supplies; a new Maglite, pop-up tent, and a sleeping bag.

"Would you like our online catalog for future orders?" the older clerk asked.

"Nope," Frank said. He doubted a mailman would go anywhere near his newest spot.

The clerk stuffed his items into a plastic bag. "Do you need anything else today?"

Frank glanced at the row of knives in the glass case and some of the cool archery sets on the wall behind the counter. Then he noticed something shiny hanging on a peg hook beside the salesmen. "Yeah, how about that dog whistle?"

"Got a new pup to train?" the guy asked, grabbing it.

Frank grinned. "Nope, but something tells me it might come in handy one day."

Fini-

A/N: This was my first foray into the Daredevil fandom, hopefully I did it justice.