Archive of Our Own

Frank’s phone rings right as he’s about to crack open a beer. “Huh,” he says when he sees the name on the screen. They aren’t supposed to meet tonight; he and Red work together sometimes (and it does lead to other activities more often than not) but rarely more than, say, twice a month. It’s not unheard of that it happens by chance, but it’s usually for bigger stuff that means planning first. Even if said planning is forgotten as soon as the shit hits the fan, as it tends to do.

But they have nothing planned or to plan tonight and he doubts Red would call for a booty call, not so soon after last time; he usually needs a few weeks to process through his Catholic guilt. Frank isn’t quite sure whether it’s about associating with the Punisher or about the gay sex thing, but it doesn’t really matter. Knowing him, probably both.

“Yeah,” he says into his phone. “Sup.”

“You busy? Something’s wrong. I think.” The fuck? Red’s voice is suspiciously high, like he’s hurt, maybe. It’s too early for him to have gotten stabbed or something; it’s still light outside. Unless someone went after the blind, do-gooder lawyer and Red protected his persona instead of his body. Or maybe he was caught off-guard; could happen, right? Shit. Frank puts his unopened beer back in the fridge and strides to the door, snatching his jacket, gun, and truck keys on the way.

“Wrong how? Where are you?”

“Roof. I think maybe they can’t get me there? I can’t fight them, Frank. Should have called Danny; he knows them. Punched one in the heart, even!”

“They? Who’re they? One what?” He slams the truck door closed and jams the keys in the ignition. “What roof?”

“Uh, my roof. I can’t – I have to protect the city, but I don’t know – aaaah!”

There’s a loud noise, like a crash, and the line cuts. “Red? Red?”

Frank stomps on the gas pedal like a medevac driver on the front line.

He can’t see anything out of the ordinary as he parks a block away from Red’s building; the usual number of people are milling about, all with the same New Yorkers’ determination to get wherever they’re going yesterday. There’s no extra urgency to their regular frenzy. He sticks the gun in his belt and absolutely doesn’t run to the low-rise Red lives in; given how people hurry to let him through, he probably looks like a caffeine-deprived hipster. Roof, Red said. Frank knows the way.

And finds the idiot shadow-boxing on the roof parapet. In his day clothes.

“Get down from there!”

Red startles and mills his arms for a heart-stopping second before jumping down and rushing to Frank. “I can’t – I can’t tell where they are! But I can sense them! Can you see them?”

“Them who?” Frank says, grabbing Red’s shoulders and shaking him lightly. He doesn’t seem hurt, but he’s… not right. Something's not right.

“The – the – I don’t know. Did they fly away? They were right here!”

“It’s only you and me up here.” And some birds looking at them from the next building over.

“Oh,” Red says, and he seems to relax a little. “Okay. Sorry.”

There’s absolutely no sign of anything apart from pigeon crap on the roof (and a phone with a cracked screen; Red must have dropped it earlier), so Frank leads Red back inside and holds his arm as they get down the stairs. He doesn’t like the way Red seems not quite as coordinated as usual; he would have walked straight into the wall if Frank hadn’t nudged him a bit to the right. Sure, he’s blind, but he never walks into walls. However that works.

Once they’re inside, Frank keeps a hand on the small of Red’s back until they’re in the bedroom and Frank starts taking his lawyerly clothes off. There's no blood seeping through that he can see, but he wants to be sure. He could be hurt, yeah. Red is totally on board with getting naked and starts attacking Frank’s jacket; keeping things decent on Frank’s end takes some work.

“Ooh,” Red says when he finds the gun. “Are you happy to see me or is that a gun?”

“What do you think, Red?.” He’s managed to get a shirtless Red, but there's nothing… well, no; there is worrying stuff, like how did he get that scar? It’s long and fairly recent, still an angry purple. Frank doesn’t remember it from their last… meetup, but they often do it in the dark and don’t always take all their clothes off, so. They go for quick and to the point, which means the state of Red’s skin is new to him. A canvas of bruises and injuries, but none recent enough to explain this behavior. Maybe he got hit on the head? Frank starts running his fingers through Red’s mop of hair, making it even messier; but he finds nothing and only manages to give more ideas to Mr. Wandering Hands here.

“Fraaaank.” Red tugs at his jacket. “Take this off.”

“No.” He should check the legs, but Red’s walking fine. Hips, knee, ankles: all look fine, no limping. No broken bones there. Frank shoves Red onto the bed and finds some worn sweatpants and a sweatshirt that’s seen better days. “Put these on, get more comfortable.”

“No sex?”

Jesus. Well, maybe not Jesus. “No sex.”

Red pouts but, once he’s taken off his glasses and set them on his bedside table, dutifully changes into the clothes that landed in his lap. Frank checks him out as he does, checks the way he moves, but still no sign of a recent injury. Or of any attacker, when he peers out of the window. No one’s panicking, at least, and there’s no more shouting than on any other, average, city day.

When he looks back at Red, though, he sees it. His eyes. Shit, he hadn’t checked them, but now the glasses are off it’s obvious. They’re bloodshot, his pupils dilated; his skin is flushed.

Red’s high as a kite.

Once he’s managed to get Red to lie down – he’s engrossed in the texture of his own sleeve, touching it and rubbing against his face and giggling softly; Frank takes a short video in case he needs blackmail material – he gets back into the main room. He doesn’t smell weed, but there must be something. He can’t imagine Red would smoke pot, especially at home; his nose wouldn’t survive the assault. Red’s delicate like that, sometimes.

Finally, Frank finds it in the fridge. There’s a box from a bakery, with a big Thank You! sharpied under the shop name: Manuk’s Bakery, Yerevan Market. He opens it and whistles. There’s a big cannabis leaf drawn on the inside, not that Red would have seen it, and a bit of cake left. It smells like nutmeg, but Frank’s pretty sure there’s other stuff in there. Half of the cake is still in there, Frank estimates. How did Red end up eating that?

He shoves it back in the fridge; he’ll deal with it later. Burn it or something. Frank glances in the bedroom and does a double-take; Red is now sitting against the wall, listening intently. He’s pressing his ear so hard against the brick Frank wonders if he’s going to get scraped there.

“Frank!”

Frank sighs.

“Frank, I think they’re coming,” he whispers. “I can hear them scratching.”

“What are you on about, now?”

“The spiders. The spiders are coming. They’re in the wall, Frank.”

“Spiders are fine.”

“Not these ones; we have to do something!”

“Like what?”

“Fire! We can burn them!”

So weed turns him into a pyromaniac. Great. “We’re not burning your apartment down, Red.”

“But the spiders! Giant spiders!”

“No giant spiders.”

Red turns his head to face him, eyes more unfocused than usual. He usually aims them in more or less the right direction, but right now he’s doing the puppy eyes at the big window behind Frank. “Are you sure?”

“You know if I’m lying, right?” Red nods. “So?”

Red moves to sit against the wall. “No giant spiders,” he mutters into his knees.

“You got it.”

“Maybe you just can’t see them yet.”

Jesus. “But someone would have, right? Giant spiders?” Red blinks at the window. “You hear anyone saying anything about giant spiders?” Red shakes his head. “So?”

“Really no giant spiders,” is the mumbled answer. Yeah, it would be funny if – okay, it is funny. When he got the call, Frank was looking at an evening of crappy TV and some cheap beer with whatever he could scrounge up from his cupboards, but this right here? This is better than crappy TV.

After watching Red for a minute as he twists his pants’ drawstrings around his fingers like it’s the most important thing he’s ever done in life, Frank hauls him up and to the couch; Red is fidgety and it doesn’t look like he’s going to sleep it off. That would make it too easy for Frank, of course. He’ll order in some food; there’s nothing much to eat here apart from that space nutmeg cake, but he knows what Red likes. He’s gone in and gotten them takeout after a team-up a few times before; the skull is easier to hide than the ropes-and-PJ look that Red favors these days.

“Pho all right?” he asks.

Red hums; Frank pretends it means yes and calls the pho place. Red’s blinking at the ceiling and he’s got one hand in the air, like he’s trying to catch something that doesn’t exist. His fingers snap closed around nothing at all, and he makes a disappointed noise when he realizes his fist’s empty.

This isn’t normal, Frank thinks as he sits next to Red. This is not how people react to weed, but this is Red. Who knows what that crap’s doing to him? There was this guy in his unit, he got shrapnel in the gut and the wounds got infected. He started seeing shit because of fucking antibiotics, and the doc had said it wasn’t unheard of. Rare, but happened. And Chuck was a regular Marine, not some blind ninja who got bitten by a radioactive spider, you know? Or whatever Red is. Definitely not a regular whatever.

But Chuck was fine, in the end. Finished his tour with the rest of them. And Red would be fine, too.

He is currently preoccupied with Frank’s hand; he’s picked it up and started running his fingers all over it. Frank wonders if he can feel his every scar, every burn, every bone he’s ever broken. Maybe even his fingerprints; who knows?

“I like your hands,” Red says suddenly.

“Yeah?”

“Hmm.”

“They’re rough. I don’t use fancy shit like you.” Frank’s noticed Red takes care of his hands, in spite of the beating they give and take; the nails are always neat and the skin soft, not like Frank’s. He’s no lawyer; he gets gigs in construction when he needs a cover or some cash, does odd jobs around sometimes; he’s often got cracked nails and his hands can be like sandpaper. Red’s never complained, though. Maybe he doesn’t want to.

“I like them,” Red repeats, and he leans a bit more against Frank. “I’m hungry.”

“Dinner’s coming.”

“Don’t wanna wait.” Red stands up and Frank manages to catch him right before he opens the fridge. “But there’s cake in there!”

“I know.” Red blinks at him; he looks very confused. “It’s… bad. Gone bad.”

“It’s not, I’d know!” He points at his nose.

“Right.” The nose had clearly failed this time. “But now I’m telling you it is, and you shouldn’t eat it.”

“But…”

“Am I lying, Red?”

“No cake,” he says in a small voice, but he’s still looking at the fridge. Well, turned in the direction of the fridge, anyway.

Frank refrains from laughing at him and tries to sound stern. “Now just sit down, willya? Jeez, Chuck wasn’t such a pain in the ass.”

“Chuck?”

“Nevermind.” Chuck couldn’t leave the bed, but the only way to get Red to stay put might be to sit on him.

Frank is contemplating putting those Daredevil ropes to uses other than his little disguise when he hears voices in the corridor. A woman and a young child. They're getting closer, until they reach the door in front of Red’s. Ah, it’s his neighbor, then, and the little one probably her grandkid.

Then there’s a crash and clang and a mechanical voice says, Hello-o! Hello-o! before launching into maniacal laughter.

“Turn that thing off, Allie!”

There’s a pointed sigh, then the laughter stops and the door slams closed. Frank can empathize; Lisa had talking dolls too, and he hated the things. Red, however, has jumped away from the couch (again) and raised his fists, although he looks… Frank’s never seen that look on his face before, but he thinks it’s terror. Red, afraid? He’s really off his gourd then. Not quite himself, not the Red Frank knows.

So: “It’s Chucky!” the idiot whispers harshly.

“What?”

“It’s that doll, the serial killer doll!”

Jesus fuck. “Sit the fuck back down, Red. Chucky’s a movie; there’s no evil doll.”

“I heard it! You heard it too, right?”

“It’s… dealt with.”

“It’s still alive; it’s plotting something.” Red frowns, his head to the side. It’s that bird pose he does when he’s listening real carefully.

“It’s a toy, Red. A real toy, not a possessed one. Just stand the fuck down, yeah?”

Red pouts but sits on the couch and is (mostly) quiet. He’s hearing things that make him startle, it looks like, but at least he’s not launching a war on a doll at the moment, so Frank will take it.

“Didn’t know you liked horror flicks, Red,” he says as they wait for the food.

“I don’t.” Red’s fists open and close, open and close. He sounds calmer, now. “My dad did. He used to watch this stuff at night when I was supposed to be asleep.” He grins. “I wasn’t.”

No shit, Sherlock. Jack Murdock, boxer, father, and horror fan; Frank would have liked to meet that guy.

Their food gets here and Frank shoves Red’s in his fidgety hands; giving them something to do seems to help. He mumbles something about mummies and old, brittle bones that should be left alone when Frank unwraps the chopsticks from the napkins and snaps them, but overall it’s a success. After they’re done he puts the leftovers away and considers leaving (with what is left of the cake so Red doesn’t eat more of that crap) and going back to his own life (he’s got one, thank you very much). Red seems more or less back to normal now; he hasn’t said anything about vampires knocking on windows or zombies coming out of graves in a while. Although Karen mentioned that the last one wasn’t, in fact, entirely fictional, so there’s that to absolutely not look forward to.

Frank leaves Red on the couch with some herbal shit tea that says “soothing and relaxing” on the box and goes up on the roof for a perimeter check, just in case. Nothing looks wrong, or more accurately nothing looks out of the ordinary. He hopes Red won’t hear anything that’ll make him jump out of the window, fists first, and go Daredevil while still possibly under the influence, but for now it looks like he’s about to sleep off what’s left of it in his system.

And of course, when Frank gets back inside, he finds Red catching cake crumbs in the empty box with his pointer.

Jesus fuck.

“What did I say, Red?”

“I got hungry.”

Looks like he’s not gonna get back to his own place tonight. “What did I say about the cake?”

“But it hadn’t gone bad.” Head tilt. “Aw. Did you want some? I didn’t think you wanted cake.”

“I didn’t want cake.”

“Oh.” Red looks very confused; he sucks on his finger and Frank seizes the opportunity to grab the box, crumple it as small as he can, and shove it into the trash. “You’re angry,” Red says.

“No.”

“Okay.” He drawls out the word, like he doesn’t believe Frank. But he claims he can hear it when people lie, right?

“I’m not angry with you.” But he’s angry someone slipped Red some space cake. “Where did you get that, anyway?”

“Client.” Red wobbles a bit on his way to the couch, but he makes it there without faceplanting. “Was wrongfully charged and we got him off, so he brought us cakes from his brother’s bakery.”

“Is that how you get paid? Cakes?”

“Pies, too.” Red is grinning at… well, at the chair that Frank is standing next to. Points for trying, right? “But Karen says we can’t be only paid with food. So now there’s cash too. It’s the law,” Red adds with a giggle.

“You’re not going to pay back those student loans with pie.”

The grin turns into a smirk. “Had a scholarship.”

Of course he had. Blind orphan, smart kid… yeah.

“Karen’s cake had weed in it, Frank; our office stank of pot all afternoon. Couldn’t smell anything else.” He wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

“Only Karen’s?”

“Hm, yeah. Don’t think she told the baker about Foggy’s college years.” Red stretches out on the couch and sighs. “S’nice.”

“What?”

“You, here. S’nice.”

Wow. No more giant spiders; now Red’s all mellowed out. “Don’t get used to it.”

“Why?”

“Just don’t.”

“But I’d like to,” Red whines into the cushions.

Frank ignores it. He respects Red, mostly. The recklessness and silly getups aside, Red follows his goals. He stops assholes; he doesn’t kill. Frank thinks his ways aren’t very efficient, but he also doesn’t want to see Red go down his path. He’d never come back from that, from killing. Red’s too soft inside; he even likes to claim Frank’s not just the Punisher, not just a killing machine. Wants to see the good in other people, yeah.

Altar boy.

A war until he finally dies is all Frank feels is left for him, but every now and then Red drops in while he’s looking at some asshole through a scope and starts telling him shit: The guys we busted out last time are in for a long time, or Those girls are back home with their families now, or. You know. Shit like that, shit that makes what they do worth it.

Frank would rather kill the fuckers but when he’s working with Red, he’s got to leave at least some of them alive; if he doesn’t Red looks all sad and disappointed and Frank hates it. Red insists Frank deserves more; he’s tried to get him to file a suit against the fucking Marines and the FBI and… no. He got his revenge, blood for blood. It won’t bring his family back, but the skull he wears on his chest is clear enough: the Frank Castle that was is dead, and all the time he’s got left walking this earth he’ll use killing those who deserve it. Making the world safer so no one else goes through what he did. No more Marias and Lisas and little Frankies with holes in their faces, in their stomachs, in his chest. His own hollowed-out chest.

But Red still believes; Red has faith. Sometimes, Frank fucks that disappointed look out of Red’s face, and sometimes he fucks the compassion out of it. Red’s got too much of it. Frank likes it when he leaves Red all hazy and slow and empty. He thinks Red likes it too, likes feeling disconnected for just a little while. Red’s always so intense, when he fights or when he talks about his day job or when he’s on one of his goddamn rants about redemption.

The guy never stops, and Frank’s not sure what fuels him. There are moments he thinks he’d like to see inside Red, see what makes him really tick; the man’s like a time bomb sometimes, like there’s a flame getting closer and closer, and then he’ll explode and destroy himself and everything around him. Frank knows Red’s often this close to snapping, that the blood lust is always raging under him. There’s the devil in my blood, he said once, like it was in my father’s. Red thinks he’s not worthy of grace, turns faces into pulp and hopes god will forgive him, then looks like he’s having a religious experience when he comes. He does many things his Church disapproves of and he knows it, and yet he does it all over again. Sex and violence, anger and pride. It’s like he’s always on the verge of being torn apart.

But Frank’s sure he’s got his ticket to heaven, in spite of everything. Red does it all out of his stupid heart: he trusts and he pays for it, he gives his blood and breaks his bones. He’s a bona fide martyr with as many human flaws as he has qualities, and Frank is the worst guy he should be around. Frank’s broken, and nothing will mend his jagged bits. Frank destroys and kills and doesn’t believe in hope; the only thing he’s afraid of is hurting those who don’t deserve it. David, Curt, Dinah. Red. Frank is a danger to their lives; he’s had their blood on his hands and he knows he should get away before the stain becomes permanent.

So no, Red shouldn't get any ideas.

They just work together sometimes; that’s all.

Nothing more.

Red looks like he’s falling asleep, curled like a cold puppy and his lips parted. He’s going to drool, Frank can tell. He shakes the throw out and drops it on Red, then gets his phone out and texts Karen.

didn’t know you were a pothead

hi

also what

Murdock got your space cake

oh SHIT

they must have gotten mixed

did he eat it?

yeah

all of it too

damn

I know Manuk, the baker; that’s why he sent us his brother. he said he’d get me a special one as a ty but I thought he’d forgotten

how do u know did u find Matt doing, yk

no. he called me, sounded weird. checked it out

aw u have each other’s numbers

we work together

sometimes

sure

so where r u now?

his place

She doesn’t reply for a minute.

he got high, called u, and u ran to him

drove

lol

aww

FRANK

what

I didn’t know u 2 were a thing

we’re not

he’s high can’t let him go out like that

if he’s not at work tomorrow you’ll know why

that’s sweet of u

whatever

just check the cakes next time

She sends him a thumbs-up and a winky face, then a fucki- a goddamn eggplant. He grits his teeth and puts his phone back in his pants; he just did what he had to, warned her for tomorrow. And now he’s got to play babysitter some more.

He sighs and goes to poke at the kitchen faucet; it was sputtering earlier. Maybe he can do something about it. He goes around the apartment, looking for some tools and not actually believing there’s any. Unexpectedly, he finds a box with old shit that looks like it’s seen lots of use. He finds a NELSON scratched into the orange paint; Frank’s not surprised. Nelson’s pretty down-to-earth, not like Red.

Right as Frank sets down to shut off the water and start working, he hears a chilling laugh from the couch. The fuck?

“Frankiiiie,” Red says. But it doesn’t sound like Red; it’s mocking and Red never, ever calls him Frankie. He drops the wrench back into the toolbox and strides to the couch.

“You awake?”

“Oh, Frankie, you bet I am.” There’s a very ugly smile on that face, sharp and taunting, and Frank’s stomach drops. “I can hear you playing with some nuts and bolts over there; that your new job? Nah, don’t think so. You wouldn't stop killing, would you, Frankie? You’re too much like me.”

Red’s eyes are open and almost – almost – tracking him; there’s a smirk on his lips but not the kind that he’s ever aimed at Frank. It’s not Red’s I can take you cocky grin, his I know you’re checking me out knowing one, his You can’t catch me challenging one right before he jumps off the roof they’re on. But Billy’s dead and Frank doesn’t believe in spirits, and he doesn’t believe Red is pulling a prank on him either. Karen could have told him about Russo, but Red wouldn't ever… but he’s high; he’s not himself. Between two impossibles, Frank’s not quite sure how to respond. He swallows down the bile he feels trying to crawl up his throat and grits out, “Yeah, well. I’m good at it.” He doesn’t say if he’s talking about the repair jobs or about the killing. Both are true, after all.

Red’s hands grope his own face, then push the afghan down and start going under his sweatshirt; he’s… he’s touching himself. Feeling himself up, hands going over his chest, his abs. Frank wishes he’d kept the wrench in his hand, but then remembers it’s not Red’s face he wants to bash in.

“Did you get yourself a blind boy toy so he wouldn't see your ugly mug, Frankie? Have to say, he feels pretty fit. Shame about the blind thing, right? Wish I could see your face now. Bet you’re furious, right? I know what you look like when you’re really pissed.”

“He sure doesn’t have scars all over his face.”

“Scars you put there. I’m sure I could put some on this one too. Would you stop me? Could you? Wouldn't want to hurt him, though.” He grimaces. “Oh, he’s a feisty one. Trying to throw me out, he’s – aw, how cute; he’s praying at me.”

“At least he believes in something other than himself.” Frank wants to kill him but he's already done that; Russo’s dead. He put those bullets in his gut, added his to Madani’s, and saw the light fade from his eyes. “Get out of his head, Bill.”

“Or what, you’ll kill me?” He laughs. “You’d only kill him, Frankie, and you know that.” He pushes himself up to sit on the couch and – Frank wants to throw up. He tilts his head, just like Red does. “Looks like what they say is true; when you lose one sense the others get better. Is that your heart, Frank, pumping that hard? Are you gearing up for a fight?” Bill scowls and shakes himself. “Damn, he’s relentless. Lucky for me he got high; wouldn’t have been able to get past his defenses otherwise. Did you know your boy toy not only prays, but also meditates? He’s deep into this shit, Frankie. Does he know about you, about what you do? About the blood on your hands? About what you did to me?”

Bill stands up and takes a step, but he trips on the coffee table. He snarls, kicks it away, turns around, and feels for the couch; he’s trying to get to Frank and all Frank can think about is Red. How Red would not be bumping into furniture, even without his enhanced senses; he knows where everything is and he’s been blind for a long time. He knows how to move around with his cane or with a hand slightly in front of him; Frank’s seen him do it a couple times after a loud flashbang shorted out his ears for a while and Frank had to lead him back to his place. Red hates it, and he can’t quite hide he’s terrified, but he manages. Always. Nothing stops him; Red’s pure, stubborn will. He’ll kick Bill out of his head, Frank knows it; he just has to keep Red safe until the weed gets out of his system.

Because Bill… yeah. Bill wants to hurt Frank, and hurt the body he’s – fuck. The body he’s possessing. This kind of magic shit isn’t something Frank signed for and he generally goes about life ignoring it, but he’s aware it exists. He’s seen the undead ninjas; he knows about Red’s friend with the glowing fists. Better the armed forces never get their hands on this shit; the risk is too high. He doesn’t want to think of Red or his buddies as army lab rats; there’s too many assholes there that you can’t trust, as Frank's learned.

And one of those assholes, one he killed himself, is right here in Red’s head and… Bill lurches ahead and walks straight into the brick wall; he turns around, starts again, knocks into a chair, and that sets him off. He picks it up and makes to throw it, and Frank wrenches it right out of his hands. But that tells him where Frank is, and that’s how it starts for good. Frank doesn’t want to hurt Red, but he doesn’t know how much of Red’s skill is still there, ingrained in his muscle memory; Frank doesn’t want to get wrecked because he didn’t defend himself. And Billy… Billy knows – knew – him, too.

But the blindness is throwing Billy off pretty bad; that and the different body too, Frank guesses. He’s not quite steady when he tries a kick, and he’s obviously surprised every time he tries a punch. Red’s arms have a different range than Billy’s, and Frank uses that to his advantage. He manages to catch him around the waist and slams him against the wall, tries to pin him down, but Billy and Red both have that slithery thing going on and Russo escapes his grip. He stumbles back into the window before getting his bearings, and Frank’s heart does a thing when he sees that look on Billy’s face.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t? You didn’t hesitate back when you smashed my face in all that glass.” Bill knocks on the window pane then leans back against it, and Frank tries to figure out how to tackle him to the floor and not through the window. “Hm, what floor is this? Guess I could smash his spine too, if it’s high enough. He wouldn't be so pretty then, right?”

“You jealous, Russo?”

“Never knew you were into guys, Frankie. What would Maria have said? I bet she wouldn't have minded if we’d given each other a helping hand, you know.” Frank’s fists tighten. “She liked me, your wife did. We could have helped each other out, Frankie, and she’d have understood.”

Frank snaps. “You shut your mouth,” he grinds out a few seconds later, kneeling on Red’s – Bill’s – Red’s chest. “You shut your mouth, Bill; you don’t talk about my wife. You killed her, killed my boy, my baby girl; you…” Frank wants to punch the teeth out of the grin Russo’s aiming at him, wants to choke him. But he won’t do that to Red. “Asshole.”

“I didn’t pull the trigger, Frank; you know that.”

He wants to choke Bill so he’ll stop talking. He can’t. Bill’s trying to weasel out from under him but he grappled with both Red and Billy before; this time he’s ready. Frank uses the dirty tricks he knows; once he’s got Bill facedown he digs a knee right where Red got a bad hit the other night and puts his weight on Red’s left hip, the one he pretends doesn’t hurt after a long night fighting. Bill snarls and growls and fights and Frank keeps his hands right around Red’s wrists, holding them tight and high on his back.

“You don’t get to talk about my wife.”

“Fuck you,” Bill says, and Frank sees it coming just in time. He’s got to let go of the wrists to catch a fistful of hair so Bill doesn’t smash Red’s head against the heating pipe that runs along the wall, and then they’re fighting again. Bill might have been thrown off by the blind thing at first, but now that they’re grappling on the floor it doesn’t make such a big difference, and Frank’s at a major disadvantage because of Red. He’s holding back, and Billy knows it.

Frank tries not to think of how Red’s feeling right now, and he can guess he’d tell him to go on full offense, but he won’t. He won’t. Frank can’t stand the idea of hurting anyone who doesn’t deserve it and Red – Red’s a real altar boy, deep down. He’s a little shit, spouting crap from his high horse, always trying to save everyone, even the worst assholes, because They must be stopped, Frank, and Maybe they deserve a second chance, too, Frank… oh yes, he does believe all his bullshit about Jesus and redemption and justice. He’s an idiot and he and Frank have fought about it before but never, ever to maim and kill. Red’s got the light in him that Frank lost long ago, and he’s not letting Billy fucking Russo snuff it. Red may be the blind one, but it’s Frank who’s in the dark. Red’s one of the very few things that makes him feel a little less dead inside, a little more like there’s hope in humankind still, and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep that flame burning.

Bill’s not worthy of speaking Maria’s name; he’s not worthy of a single drop of Red’s blood, a single hair from his stupid head.

“Killed you once before, Russo. Think I won’t do it again?” He pushes Red’s cheek hard against the hardwood.

“You won’t kill him,” Billy grits out. “You can’t; you don’t have what it takes.”

He tries to buck Frank off, then manages to free a hand and dig it into a nerve and shit – he’s freed himself and he’s got a cut on his eyebrow, right where Frank knocked his head against the floor. Bill’s right; Frank won’t be able to keep him down without hurting Red. And Red wouldn't even hold it against him, but it’s still too much, and Frank…

“Shit!” Bill takes a step back, then another; his head snaps to the side like he’s been slapped by an invisible hand before falling to his knees. Frank takes a step closer, wary in case it’s a feint, but Bill’s panting on all fours now and before Frank reaches him he crumples to the floor like his strings have been cut.

“Frank?” he wheezes. He reaches out a hand and finds Frank’s ankle right away, without raising his head. He doesn’t try to look for it, and he sounds surprised and his voice is too high, and…

“Red,” he says. “You’re back.”

“What was…” But he can’t finish the sentence; he’s gulping air in like he’s drowning and his fingers squeeze Frank’s ankle hard enough to hurt.

“You all right, Red?” That’s a stupid question; Frank knows it’s stupid right as he’s saying it. Red’s everything but all right. He kneels in front of him, detaches the hand clamped around his ankle, and looks down at the bowed head in front of him. Should he drop the hand or touch Red more? Would that be worse, better? Frank’s no shrink. He doesn’t know what to do. “You gotta slow down; yeah?”

But Red only shakes his head and chokes out something unintelligible.

“Did he hurt you? Did Bill hurt you?” Of course he did, but not – not his bones, not his skull. But his… yeah. “C’mon, just…” Just breathe, he wants to say, but that’s stupid, too. Red’s trying, and Frank… he makes up his mind. He sets the palm of his hand on Red’s nape, lightly at first then with more weight, and uses the hand he’s still holding to gently but firmly tug Red forward. Come to me, he means. “Okay, just listen to my voice, yeah? Can you hear my heart? Can you follow my breathing?” He keeps his voice low and as regular as he can, no-nonsense like the one Maria used when he or the kids woke up from a bad dream. I’m here with you; you can lean on me. Red slowly moves forward.

But he’s also breathing even faster, like he’s not even emptying his lungs before taking in more air; his eyes are wide and terrified and he lifts his free hand to his chest, as if it’s hurting him. The panic is making him hyperventilate, and he can’t get it under control.

Frank racks his brains for his first aid training and whatever Curt said about this shit, but they talked more about bullets and broken bones, dehydration and overheating, than this. It’s like his thoughts are circling around it, circling around the bullet in his head that destroyed whatever useful things he needs now.

But then he remembers Curt with one of the guys in his unit; not so much what he did, because he couldn't see it, but the words: Block his mouth, Too much oxygen; fading, he’s fading. Fading. The guy got shot dead in an ambush a few days later; he ran in where he shouldn't have like he had a stupid death wish. Frank doesn’t remember the details, and he doesn’t want to.

Frank clamps a hand over Red’s mouth and pins his flailing arms with his own around Red’s torso. Red tries to fight him, but Frank holds on and well. He’s not just had an asshole take over his body and leave him in the middle of a panic attack so right now, he’s definitely stronger than Red.

“You gotta breathe slow, Red, yeah? Slow and steady.” Red tries to shake his hand off, but Frank doesn’t budge. He can feel the quick, panicky puffs of air on his skin, feel Red’s heart beating so fast it’s more like a vibration in his chest than a drumbeat. “Don’t let him win,” Frank hears himself say. He’s not taking the words back.

And little by little, Red slows down. His breathing slows down, his heart rate slows down, and finally he’s slumping into Frank’s arms. They're all that's keeping him vaguely upright, and Frank sighs into Red’s hair as he takes his hand away from Red’s mouth.

“You okay now?” He leans back against the brick wall and Red follows like a raggedy doll. It’s like he’s lost his bones along with his nerves, and he’s all soft and pliant. He must be exhausted, but Frank finds he enjoys the weight of him on his chest. They never do that; they never… they have sex. They scratch that itch, then go their own ways. But now, now he remembers the warmth of what really matters, holding on and never letting go.

Red’s still shaky; his fingers are quivering on Frank’s biceps. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“No.” Frank squeezes the shoulders under his arm. Red’s bigger than he looks under his baggy sweatshirts or cheap suits, but right now he feels delicate and fragile to Frank. He hasn’t held something so carefully in so long, he’d forgotten how it felt: the fear of breaking it and the blessing of being entrusted with it, warring and coiling in his gut. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“There was so much hate, Frank.”

“Yeah.”

“He hated you. Hates you.”

“Yeah.”

“I should have been able to fight him off, I…”

“You did, in the end.”

“I had help.”

“Hm?” Red’s going to say God, or maybe the Holy Virgin.

“Your wife,” he says instead.

Frank opens his mouth and finds he can’t say anything, can’t make a sound. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say anyway.

“I couldn't do it by myself. I kept him out of – he couldn't sense you like I can, couldn't feel…” Red’s hand tightens around Frank’s arm for a moment, while he breathes slow and deliberate. Red’s still rattled. “But then there was someone else; I didn’t know who it was at first. He… he was the one to say her name. She gave me the opening I needed.”

“He still around?”

Red’s quiet for a moment. “I don’t think so.”

“And…”

“Yeah. She’s here.”

No. Frank doesn’t believe in ghosts; she can’t be here, and yet it sounds like she is. He wants to reach out, touch her, smell her, hear her, look into her eyes and her smile and – but he can’t. Red’s head is shifting minutely on his shoulder, and Red’s real. Flesh, blood, warmth. Maria… Lisa. Frank Jr. It’s them he wants to feel in his arms, but… never again. Because of Russo.

“She says she’s glad you’re alive.”

“You’re talking shit, Red.” He’s still addled; that’s what it is. Maria isn’t here, and Red isn’t that much of an asshole that he’d make it up.

“She says you should get a new guitar. I didn’t know you played, Frank.”

“I don’t.” Not anymore. The guitar, it was how he met her and something he did for his family, or thinking of them when he was on tour. Now… “How do you know about it?”

Red doesn’t reply; he looks like he’s listening. And then he squirms a little and flushes, and he puts one hand flat on Frank’s chest to push himself away and up.

“Where are you going?”

Red shrugs. “Nowhere; this is my apartment. But you should go home, Frank; you don’t have to stay here.”

“What’s crawled up your ass?”

The flush intensifies, and he frowns. “You don’t have to babysit me.”

“I don’t do anything I don’t want to.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Red takes a step in the direction of the couch, one hand slightly ahead of him; he doesn't look as assured as he usually does. He shakes his head and says, to Frank or to the voices he hears, “No. No, we’re not – it’s not like that.”

“What isn’t?”

Red does his stubborn face, jaw tight and chin up. “Maria says you steal the covers in bed,” he finally says. “But I wouldn't know.”

Frank doesn’t think they ever made it to a bed, that’s true. Maybe on the couch once, and against it a few times. They’re not… they haven’t been… fuck. It hits him all at once: both the realization that Maria is really here, speaking to Red and telling him things he has no way to know, and that no, they’re not like that. And that it matters to Red, who’s going out there all tough and angry, doling out violence and his idea of justice before confessing his sins or laying low under a church for a while. Oh yes, Frank knows about the church and the orphanage where Red goes to lick the wounds to his body and his soul, about the nuns – and one, especially – who don’t seem surprised to see a bruised, besuited lawyer or a bleeding, masked idiot visit them at all hours.

Red would never say what he wants, maybe not even to himself; he probably thinks he doesn’t deserve it or that it would keep him away from whatever martyr’s life he’s chosen for himself. Maria… she was the level-headed one, with a practical mind and soft hands. She raised their kids, she told Frank to stop his bullshit when he went too far, she kept his blood from overheating when he felt the violence creep down his arms to his closing fists. She knew him; she wouldn't be surprised to see what he's become, she… she’s here.

“Maria,” he says. He’s wanted to hear her voice again for such a long time, to touch her again. He still can’t. A shiver goes through him, and he closes his eyes. He wants to believe it’s her. “Stay.”

I can’t, Frank. I don’t belong to the land of the living, and you know it.

He opens his eyes again. “But you’re here.”

Billy went after your friend; I wasn’t going to let him get away with that. I still can’t believe he lied to us all these years.

“Yeah.” Frank swallows. “And Lisa? Frank Jr.?”

He’s getting colder, but he’s not letting himself shiver again; he’s too afraid of somehow shaking her out.

He senses her hesitation before she replies. We are dead, Frank. The more time goes by, the more nothingness there is. Soon, we will be truly gone. I am only here because of Billy, because I won’t allow him to hurt anyone again. I’m fading, a little more every minute.

“No! Don’t leave.” He doesn’t say Don’t leave me, but he’s pretty sure she hears it.

You’re not alone, Frank. You’re not dead. Remember what we said, if you didn’t come back one day?

Yeah, he remembers. But he was supposed to be the one to die, not her. Not Lisa, not Frank Jr. Never them.

Live.

“Maria…”

Live. For us, for yourself. We won’t talk again; my time is up. But you… you have time. Grab what’s yours and don’t let go, Frank. Don't let go.

The temperature rises abruptly and this time, he does shiver. He remembers saying something like that to Karen once, and he resents Maria a little for somehow turning those words against him. Maria had been the one to say it first, back when she found out she was pregnant with Lisa, and she’d lived by that. So had Frank, until it had felt like his hands held nothing but air and blood. Air and blood.

“Frank?”

“What.”

“Just…” Red catches his arm and pushes him to sit on the couch. “There. You’re shaking.”

“No.” He is, but he doesn't want to admit it. “Looking a bit green around the gills yourself.”

“Wouldn't know,” Red says with a weak grin, but he sits down too. Not on the couch, not anywhere near Frank, no; he sits on an armchair opposite the couch.

Frank leans back against the leather and looks up at the ceiling. “Shit.” He doesn’t have any better words. He’s drained, hollow. He’s not feeling much of anything. His eyes are burning, but they’re dry. He cried all the tears he had left years ago. There’s none left.

“I’m sorry,” Red says.

“What for?”

“It’s all my fault; I shouldn't have eaten that cake.”

“You didn’t know.” Which is surprising, given his senses, but… Frank sighs. He doesn’t know how Red’s senses work, not really. He guesses some of it, but he doubts anyone can truly wrap their mind around it. “There was a big weed leaf drawn inside the box, but you couldn’t see it. Smelled like nutmeg.”

“And weed. I just… I didn’t pay attention; everything smelled like weed and nutmeg in the office. Foggy gave me one box and I didn’t check it, just thought my nose was overloading on the smell. And I was hungry, and…”

“It’s alright, Red.”

“Is it?” Red’s tone says it isn’t. He’s having one of his martyr moments; Frank can see it wash over his face in the way his forehead tightens, his head lowers, his lips get thinner.

“I’m glad I got to talk to Maria. I guess I should thank you for that.”

Red tucks his legs under him. “She said my dad’s been dead too long, that I couldn’t talk to him.” He barks more than laughs. “Guess I should have done drugs when I was ten, right?”

“Your dad would have been mad at you.”

“Yeah.” This time the smile is real, but it’s brief. “But now…”

“You believe in god and heaven and all that, yeah?” Red has faith, and isn't the point of faith to give you solace and comfort? Not that it seems to do a lot for him, but what does Frank know? Maybe Red would be worse without a priest to talk to on the regular, without the singing and the holy host and the sense of belonging, of community. He knows Red usually goes to mass on weekdays, when there are fewer people around him, but it still is about togetherness – with the community, with god if you truly believe. Frank remembers that, from long ago. Another life.

“Your wife said there was no heaven.”

Frank doesn’t wish the emptiness eating at him inside of Red. “Maybe it depends on what you believed in life. Maybe she hasn’t gone there yet.” Frank would give a lot to get his faith back, a deep-seated conviction that he’d be with Maria and the kids again, but it’s too late. He knows it’s all a pretty lie. Still, he can try and keep Red’s flame burning, let him have some hope to cling to. Red needs that, and Frank can’t imagine what a Red without his faith and his hope and his stupid rules would be like. Dark, terrifying, a nightmare. He’d probably get himself killed in a week, too. He wouldn't have anything left to live for.

“Yeah. Maybe.” He doesn’t believe Frank, not yet. But he’s going to think about it, turn it around in his head, talk it over with his priest or the nun Frank pretends he doesn’t know about, until he finds his footing again. Red’s too stubborn to give up, or at least Frank hopes so.

He looks for something to say; he’s pretty sure Red shouldn’t be alone. If he’s honest with himself, Frank probably shouldn't either. “You hungry?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. I’m not.”

“You pulling the emotionally mature card on me, Frank?”

That makes Frank smile. “Someone’s got to, and it’s not gonna be you.”

“Oh, that’s how it is, uh.” The back of Red’s head hits the back of his armchair, but Frank can still see his lips twitch.

They stay quiet for a while. Frank finds sharing silence is new but comfortable with Red; he doesn’t shut up often, mostly when he's unconscious or right after sex, when he’s still riding that high. Frank doesn’t know how long it lasts; he usually leaves right after. He finds he’s curious about it, now. He likes the quiet. Their quiet match.

Finally, Red sits up and aims his face at Frank. “I need a shower,” he says. “Won’t hold it against you if you leave when I’m in there.”

Frank doesn’t reply but he wants to ask, Why would I leave? Is that what Red’s expecting of him? Well, he wouldn't be wrong. That’s what they’ve been doing, after all. Frank considers it as he listens to the pipes groaning, the water hitting tiles: getting up, putting his jacket back on, closing the door behind himself. Leaving Red behind.

You’re not dead, Maria said.

Red is alive, and he wants Frank to steal the covers. He wants… yeah, Red’s probably the kind to plan marriage vows after the first night, but they’ve never spent the night together like a perfect little Instagram couple. Frank’s never stayed; Red’s always mumbled something about work or early mass before leaving. They’ve kept up the pretense.

And Red’s not Maria. They can never have a little house with a dog or two, a nice white picket fence, a big yard. He’ll never fight a war for someone else ever again; Red will never end up in some big, fancy firm to defend rich assholes accused of tax evasion. He even shot Red in the head. They can never be quite… normal, if that even exists. They both tried; Frank knows that. They failed, in the end.

But now, there’s a new door opening under Frank’s hand; he pushes down on the handle and steps in. The room is dark and full of steam; Red never turned up the light, of course.

“Frank?”

“Mind if I join you?” He can see Red’s surprised face in his mind; as it is he can only hear that Red isn’t moving under the stream of water. “Just for a shower.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.”

Red pulls out more sweats and old shirts from his apparently endless pile and that’s how they end up on the bed, side by side and not touching. Red sleeps on silk sheets, and Frank is too tired to make fun of him. Plus they’re real nice, too. They're so close, but they’re not touching; Frank’s not sure what he should do. He’s pretty sure he knows what Red wants, and he doesn't… disagree. But what’s the point? What can Red get from him besides a hand in some night jobs and a good fuck afterward? He’s an altar boy deep down; he wants to do good and he’s ready to die for it, and he’d even rather be killed than kill himself. And Frank… Frank’s got nothing but his guns, his missions. His memories, too.

“What time is it?” Red whispers.

“Late.” Frank checks the phone he’s dropped at the foot of the bed. “Early. Four-thirty. You should sleep.”

“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a while, but he can’t shut his mouth, yeah? That’s not Red. “Is it light outside?”

Uh. Unexpected; guy’s blind. “Does it matter?”

“No, nevermind. I just… nevermind.”

Frank sighs. “Red…”

“You never use my name.”

“Don’t like ‘Red’?”

“I…”

Frank turns and rests his head on a folded arm. The sky is getting purple and pink already, and the growing light is making Red’s eyes glint. “Sun’s rising.”

“Can you see the sky? Can you tell me about it?”

Shit, Red’s getting fanciful instead of sleeping like a good little Catholic lawyer. But Red’s not just a good little Catholic lawyer. He’s not even all so good; he’s more than that. “I’m no poet.”

“Please.”

Aw, shit. Fine. “There’s some clouds, the thin and thready kind. Can see the moon, just a crescent, above the roof opposite. Sky’s pink and orange and purple. It’s going to be a clear day.”

“Yeah, I can feel the air pressure.”

“You’re fucking weird, Red; you know that?”

That makes him smile. “Don’t tell me you don’t feel it in your bones sometimes.”

Maybe he does, in old wounds that ache when it’s going to rain. He’s not going to tell Red he’s right, though. “I’m not a human barometer.”

“Hm.” Red’s smile fades, and he turns his head in Frank's direction. “I wouldn't be able to feel all I feel if I hadn’t been blinded.”

And he’d been a kid, too. Frank can’t imagine how it must have felt for him, how Red’s dad must have felt, seeing his little boy go through this. He wants to ask if it’s worth it, if what he can do now is worth what he lost, if he misses the colors and the light. They’re probably stupid questions, so he keeps his mouth shut.

“I remember some things, Or I think I remember them. But it’s been so long; it’s hard to say.”

Red’s building up to something; Frank can see it now, plain as day. He waits.

“Can I… can I touch your face?”

Frank’s struck dumb for a moment. Why is he asking? What’s it got to do with anything? Why does he look like he’s asking for something big? Then it hits him: that’s what blind folks do, right? Frank feels like an idiot all of a sudden. Sure, they’ve touched each other's faces briefly, fixed a cut on the eyebrow, that sort of thing. But never with intent. Never like it mattered. “Sure.” Red reaches out but Frank catches his wrist. “No, wait.” He sits up in the bed and rests against the wall, then tugs on Red’s arm so he can come and straddle Frank's legs. “There, now you can use both hands.”

Red nods, before lifting one hand and letting it hover a hair’s breadth away from Frank’s skin. “I want to know what you feel like,” he says quietly. “Maria… she gave me a gift.” Frank’s hands tighten instinctively on Red’s thighs; he relaxes them and strokes the thick muscle there. He doesn’t want to spook Red. “She, uh. She showed me what you look like. She asked if I wanted to know, and I said – I said yes.” He doesn’t look happy about it.

“I sure ain’t a pretty boy like you.”

Red’s hand falls back on Frank’s chest, heavy and warm even through the shirt. “I wouldn’t know. I don’t know what I look like, and I don’t think… I don’t understand what she showed me,” and Red’s voice getting higher, breathier. “It doesn’t make sense; it’s all… I don’t know what to make of it. It’s like when my senses first developed; it’s too much and I don’t have the tools and I don’t… I don’t…”

“Hey,” Frank says. He slides one hand from Red’s chest to his belly, his chest, his shoulder; he never loses contact as he goes up to Red’s neck, to the vertebrae under the thin skin, and pulls him forward just a little. Their foreheads touch, and he can feel Red’s quick breaths on his own face. “Hey,” he repeats. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“I keep thinking, it’s going to make sense if I touch you, right? I understand touch. It’s going to be fine; I just have to…” He can’t finish; his voice is too strangled. “Now I’m not even sure I actually remember my dad’s face.” Shit.

Frank would never have thought Red would open up like that to him, not about that; it’s like watching a GP bomb explode in slow motion, shrapnel flying everywhere. Red’s breaking apart, and Frank hates seeing Red like that. He leans back just enough and puts one of Red’s hands on his broken mug, slow enough that Red can stop him if he changes his mind.

He doesn’t.

He lifts his other hand after a few seconds, and then he really gets into it. He takes his time, mapping every bump and crater, every scar and break; he’s meticulous and slow and Frank doesn’t move an inch during all the painstaking process. Red’s lips are parted and it reminds Frank of snakes, smelling the world around them with their tongues. His breathing has deepened too and his head is slightly cocked; it’s pretty clear he’s focusing all his working senses on Frank. It’s a little scary; Red’s an intense guy and Frank finds he doesn’t want to… disappoint. Whatever that means. It’s stupid; it’s not like Red’s going to find anything new, not now; they know each other well enough.

“Getting anything?”

Red shakes his head. “Just feeling, now. The rest… it doesn’t make sense to me, not anymore. I lost it.”

“I look like the asshole I am, Red; you’re not missing much.” It’s a dumb thing to say; he’s aware of it as soon as the words leave his mouth. Red’s realizing he’s lost more than he thought he had, and here Frank is telling him it doesn’t matter. But Red isn’t taking offense; his fingers are still all over Frank’s face: his eyebrows, his jaw, his chin. But touch ain’t sight, and it’s got to hurt still. Right? Frank can’t imagine losing a sense, nevermind forgetting what it’s like. Forgetting Lisa’s big eyes, Frankie’s grinning face, Maria’s smile. He learned he almost made Red deaf for good when he shot him, and the thought always turns his stomach.

“How many times did you break your nose?” Red whispers. “The breaks are all jumbled together.”

“Uh, twelve – no, thirteen times. Yeah, my face’s a mess.”

“No, you… you don't hide. It’s all out there, what you do, who you are.” Red’s hands slide down to Frank’s shoulders and rest there. “That’s what you told me once, that soldiers didn’t have the luxury of hiding themselves, that you didn’t wear masks… But I always do, Frank. I always lie.” Red looks so tired.

“You’re not lying now.”

“You never do. Never.”

“Because I don’t have to. You do.” Red’s lips open and close. “You do. Your day job matters, too.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound very convinced.

“There are people who know you, yeah? Actually know you.”

“I still lie. They get hurt.”

Frank looks at him. It’s a twisted arrogance, to think other people get hurt only because of his own shortcomings and not their own choices. Frank knows that; Curt’s made sure of it. He rubs his palm on Red’s thigh and waits. He’s good at waiting.

“I’m not sure if I can be truthful, sincerely truthful, anymore. I pretend I can’t tell where people are; I pretend I can see whoever I’m fighting. I pretend that I believe God blesses what I do; I pretend I’m never scared; I pretend I don’t need… I don’t want…” He swallows, shakes his head.

“What is it you want, Red?” Frank’s made up his own damn mind; he knows what he wants and he’s done saying it’s just a quick fuck here and there. Red infuriates him, makes him bleed and rage and burn and just – feel. There’s respect, and there’s lust, and there’s softness too, in the dark of night or the light of dawn. It’s making Red’s hair look like fire as it hits it.

Frank’s not longing for what he lost; that’s a part of himself he’ll never forget and never get back. But he can see something. Something real, here on the rooftops of this broken, unbreakable city, between these silk sheets, with New York’s blood and dirt forever stuck under their nails. It’s not what Frank had, or what Red thought he’d have one day; those are lost. It’s what they have now. He waits.

Finally, Red’s fingertips find Frank’s lips. “This,” he says. “This is what I want.”

Frank doesn’t say anything; he just lets Red feel his smile.

“I like how you feel. How you smell.”

“Yeah?”

Frank’s never been much good at declarations and words and all that; he’s an action guy, so he takes action. They’ve never really taken the time to kiss, never done anything like that in the early morning light, with the sounds of the city waking up drifting to the window.

They fall asleep quickly, the rising sun turning Red’s skin gold. Frank’s glad he’s got two working eyes so he can see that. His last conscious thought is about the covers, and whether he’ll steal them or not. They’ll know in a few hours. He’s looking forward to that.