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He heard her call out to him, and turned around just in time to watch the bullet tear through her side.
The guy who took the shot was dead before Frank even felt the weight of her body hit him, before he even heard the faint clink of metal falling to the floor. It was instinct. See him on the metal catwalk, aim, and fire. Last one of them down.
Now he just had to worry about the damage.
He saw the wound briefly, but that split second wasn’t nearly enough to know what he was working with. And even if it was, he’d still have to see it again to do anything about it. The taste of blood in his mouth didn’t fill him with optimism, but it wasn’t the first time either of them got shot and injured.
Meta didn’t move much, though he could tell she was still very much alive. She held onto him like a baby sloth, kneeling between his own legs, arms wrapped around him tight. He could feel her hands gripping his jacket, even through the multiple layers between her nails and his shoulders. There was a warmth somewhere at his side but truth be told there was a warmth all over, with her body pressed to him as closely as it was.
The need for comfort was understandable, and in all honesty, even though he demanded it, he didn’t exactly expect any better from her. She was an alright partner but she did always make things seem worse than they were. Still, there was no time for him to baby her. They had to get out of there and split up to get back to their places for the night.
When he attempted to pry her hands off him, Meta made a distressed little noise, unlike any he’d heard from her before. He wasn’t up to dealing with her if she was going to go into hysterics. This life wasn’t easy on him either. With a slow huff of breath, to reel himself in, he tried again, curling his fingers around Meta’s and easing her hands away from his shoulders. They trembled slightly in his grip, and he could only guess it was the adrenaline pumping through her veins.
“Meta,” he called out, firm and slow. Trying to get to her through the fear and the pain. The wound couldn’t be that bad if she was still this quiet, if she still had the strength to hold onto him so tightly. “I can’t look at that wound like this. Get off.”
The next noise that left her at that sounded almost like a sob, but slowly, she relented. One of her hands immediately moved to press against her side, she leaned back until she ungracefully dropped onto the floor. More for her safety than any other reason, Frank kept one arm loosely around her, palm splayed across her back. To keep her steady and upright. Seemed like she needed it.
He didn’t like that tremor in her body. Didn’t like the red pouring out from between her fingers as she pressed her hand against the wound, didn’t like the way she breathed as if she was about to cry.
“... it really hurts,” she managed to say, her voice quiet and broken. He couldn’t see her look at him, not with her mask still in the way, but he felt it. The wide-eyed, glassy stare.
“Yeah, no shit,” he muttered in response. His fingers were still around hers, and he tried to pull her hands away from her side to get a look at that stupid wound. So he could patch her up enough to send her back home. “You got shot, it’s going to hurt.”
Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. If she was going to be throwing herself between him and a loaded gun, she had to know the consequences. That was, among other things, why he didn’t pay much mind to the way her voice was shaking, to how she spoke like an upset child. Like a child, she had to learn. Even if learning hurt.
This was a very, very stupid prize.
Meta didn’t look at it, keeping her head forward and staring at him instead. Maybe at the blood on his face. Maybe trying to judge his reaction, looking up to him as the more experienced and knowledgeable of them. Because of that he hoped that the way he glanced back at her didn’t give away too much. That she didn’t notice the subtle clench of his jaw and the way his eyes went wide for just a second.
The bullet went clean through her, he remembered that now. The clink of the metal against the floor, the sight of it tearing flesh before he caught her. The hole it left behind was bleeding profusely, the blood having already soaked through the bright yellow of her costume around it and pooling below them both.
Frank pressed his hand to her side, the sudden realization of just how urgent the situation was made his heart sink just a little. There was no time for teaching her anything, no time for him to act disappointed and annoyed. He had to keep a level head. Move quickly. Maybe most importantly not let her start panicking.
When he looked at her again, his expression was just that little bit softer. Almost imperceptibly so. Putting the pressure on her wound with one hand, he cupped her face with her other the second he noticed her head tilting to look down.
“Don’t look at it,” he quickly ordered. Though his tone was about as firm as his hands on her, and it was clear he wouldn’t take nicely to her disobeying in any way, it missed some of that cold edge he’d speak to her with. It didn’t return even when she immediately tried to look down again right after he’d said it. “Meta, don’t.”
Hesitating for only a moment, he reached his other hand to pull her mask off. Her eyes were wide and glassy, but this time she kept them on him, at least for a moment.
It was so easy for him to forget many things in the rush and constant danger and work that his life was. Other people, anything outside of the war. It had been this way even before the Punisher, sometimes. Things would get so complicated and intense it felt like nothing outside that seemingly neverending fight could exist.
It was easy to be hard on the people fighting alongside him now, to blame them for getting involved in the first place and not spare a thought to their hurt and their inevitable death. After all it was their decision. This life. Sticking by him. Just as endangering his own life was different from endangering an innocent one, it was more acceptable to put the lives of his associates on the line. More acceptable to lose them. As it was acceptable to lose his own.
So when Meta looked at him, her eyes no longer hidden behind the dark red lenses of her mask, it was a painful reminder. She was no soldier, she was barely really a fighter. Despite all her drive and strength and how he knew she wanted to make things better, at the end of the day she was just a girl. A stupid girl who had no place in a life like this, even if she continuously tried to shove herself in it. He so often forgot that.
With a shake of his head, Frank shoved the cloth into her palm and firmly pressed it to her side. Half-heartedly muttering that she should keep pressure on the wound to slow the bleeding. There wasn’t any time for him to sit and ponder but like many other times he struggled to get out of his own head entirely.
They needed to get out of there fast, but more importantly, they needed a hospital. He didn’t really examine the wound very thoroughly after noticing how much it was bleeding.
A good thing about hospitals was that they wouldn’t immediately ask too many questions. Nobody would care about Meta’s stupid get-up, it probably wouldn’t survive the visit anyway. He could just zip up his jacket and drop her off, slip away before anyone would have the time to try and ask him anything. Blending into the crowd wouldn’t be an issue, he had experience and the face of a hundred other men just in the New York area. Men the girl could have stupidly attached herself to instead of him so she wouldn’t be in this mess.
He didn’t bother with the seatbelt when he sat her down on the passenger’s side. She was still conscious and capable of keeping herself upright, even if she did sink back into the seat a little bit, her head rolling back like it was too heavy for her. The van moved fast, and he was once again incredibly grateful for all Micro did with it to make it as efficient as it was.
It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to be driving in silence, he very quickly learned that if Meta had to speak and focus a little too much during a ride it would end with him having to clean the contents of her stomach off the floor. But the kind of quiet between them in the moment felt entirely different. She was breathing audibly, hissing every few seconds. Something about the sound reminded Frank of a wounded dog. Maybe it wasn’t that far off. She was writhing in the seat. The very image of distress.
He needed to get her talking. Just to try and keep her awake. The closest hospital wasn’t that far at all, he just needed a little more time. Just bring up anything at all.
“What the actual hell were you thinking?” he asked the first and almost only thing on his mind, his voice coming out more angry than he’d expected it to.
He shouldn’t be talking to her like this, he knew that, because with the way things were going she was going to start crying and it was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. But hearing her constantly make noise next to him, feeling one of his hands sticking to the wheel with her blood, he couldn’t help himself. Was she stupid? Dumb question, of course she was. Young and stupid and reckless.
“You’ve got a death wish now?” he continued, glancing at her and immediately seeing her shrink into herself further, even though the way she curves inward makes her wince. “Genuinely trying to get yourself killed?”
“He was aiming at you,” Meta tried to defend herself but it didn’t sound like her heart was in it. Maybe he’d respect her a bit more if it was. If she had some conviction instead of just being stupid. “I didn't want him to… make that shot.”
“Aren’t you cute,” he responded so quickly he might have as well cut her off. His voice came out like a barely restrained hiss, his jaw tight, his breath whistling through his clenched teeth. But his tone was still the same kind of chilling cold and steady. “I’ve got kevlar from the neck down, I’m armed to the teeth, been trying to get my brain splattered on some wall for the better half of a decade now. I don’t need some idiot in spandex to worry about my wellbeing.”
She whimpered and shifted next to him again. It looked like moving in any way at all caused her pain but at the same time she couldn’t find a way to sit that wouldn’t hurt either. Not that it was possible. There was a hole torn clean through her. It would continue to hurt no matter how she moved and how much she tried to make it go away. And it would continue to bleed, too. A growing red stain he could just barely see in the corner of his eye.
Without looking, he took one hand off the wheel and reached towards her, his palm over hers as he pushed them both against her side. So warm, just like her body always was, but sticky and sickening. He pressed harder, fingers slipping between hers, slick and wet with the blood, until he heard her breath hitch and hiss between clenched teeth. Should have stuffed the wound with something to slow the bleeding. Should have thought before doing anything.
“Kurrrwa, boli jak skurwysyn,” she groaned, and he didn’t have to speak the language to understand. He didn’t point out that obviously a wound hurt again because the way he could hear her throat work sounded like she was trying to say something more. And more than anything he wanted her awake. Talking. Frank pulled his hand away to focus on the road again. “You think I’m stupid. And you– and you know what? I am.” She absolutely was. At least she knew it. “But you can’t think I’m dumb enough to jump into gunfire for fun, right? I mean… right?”
… right. A slow exhale whistled between his teeth as he rolled his shoulders, his grip on the wheel tightening for a moment. He didn't think so, not really. Nobody sane did that, and whatever else he thought of her, he knew she was… mostly reasonable. Impulsive, reckless, stupid. But reasonable. Terrified of death enough to still have those self-preservation instincts, even after choosing a life like this one.
But he didn't really like the other explanation for what she was doing. What else other than being insanely stupid or outright suicidal could make a person throw themself at a bullet. He didn’t like that the reason was obvious and clear and something she’d been trying to tell him for months now.
“He was going to blow your head off,” Meta continued, her tone a little more desperate to explain herself, a little more pleading. And tightening his hands on the steering wheel again, Frank wanted her to be wrong, so much so that he almost denied it immediately on instinct. You don’t know that. You can’t know that. But he saw the bullet tear through her side. Perfectly between his eyes when he was looking. Right through the back of his head when he wasn’t.
“I wanted to… I couldn’t–” She was getting to the point of just rambling, which he supposed was better than the alternative of her going quiet. Even if her voice did shake, and if every sentence she tried to speak was cut off, and if with each one she sounded so much smaller and more scared. “I just didn't want to see you get shot like that,” she finally managed to say, voice strained, throat audibly tight. Nearly crying, maybe from the wound and the fear or maybe just thinking about the image of watching that bullet tear through him instead.
She snivelled and for a second a silence fell over them again. Except for her breathing, her whining, and the hum of the van. He couldn’t find any words, not immediately anyway. Nothing to follow up what she said that wasn’t just chastising her again. He didn’t want to see her shot like that either, didn’t want to see anyone like that shot like this, and he didn’t get a choice (not then and not Then either).
“... I wish you’d lie to me sometimes,” Meta spoke up, and hearing her voice made some tension in his shoulders let go, just a little. That short moment of quiet enough to pull his muscles tighter, like bracing for impact. Though what she was saying wasn’t really making him feel much better. “I wish you’d lie to me like you lie to people you don’t know when they’re crying and when they’re hurt and– and…” Another hitching breath, another whine, this time so high-pitched and pathetic he didn’t have to even glance her way to know she was past that point of no return, with tears streaming down her round face and her throat closing up. “I want to hear you say I’ll be okay– I want to hear your voice tell me something nice for once, I want you to be proud of me, I’m so scared, I want to hear you say you love me.”
Frank wanted to tell her to shut up, or to at least talk about anything else to distract herself, but he couldn’t when he knew that as long as she kept rambling and whining like this he could be sure she wasn’t dead yet. He felt a pressure against his shoulder and a quick glance her way confirmed it to be her cheek pressed to him. She rested her hand on his arm, like despite the space between them she wanted to maximise their contact. Her face was noticeably pale, he couldn’t feel her warmth through his jacket and he hoped it didn’t mean she was already cold. Though truth be told he wasn’t sure he would feel it if she was either, not with the chill he felt deep in his stomach and the burning heat around his collar.
“Well lying to you isn’t going to stop you from bleeding all over my car, is it,” he muttered more to himself than to her, but she must have heard it anyway because something between another whine and an amused snort left her mouth. Yeah, this was so like the him she knew, wasn’t it?
The map claimed they were just a few turns away from their destination. Maybe less than a minute with the speed he was going, but even that felt like way too long. It was dark and too bright at once, the streets uncannily empty almost, the lights reflecting off the pavement. Blurring his vision. The hum of blood in his ears was too loud for him to hear himself think, and he was almost grateful for that. The hum and the ringing, just the lovely consequences of his own actions. But less thinking meant more focusing on the road.
It was about the last turn, maybe the second to last, just one more stretch before he could breathe a little easier, when it turned out that he and Meta were not the only two stupid people out that night. If Frank’s reaction time was any worse he would have turned the man suddenly appearing on the crosswalk into a red smear on the pavement and a dent in the front of his van. The car came to a halt right at the edge of the crossing and something in the back crashed to the floor with the sudden jolt. But louder than that, and much more concerning, was the sound Meta’s head made when it slammed into the dashboard before falling into his lap with a much softer thump.
The man skittered across the road, his face looking even more scared in the harsh light of the battlevan. He followed Frank with his eyes as he crossed, just as Frank was following him. It was something to focus on. Something that gave him an excuse not to look down. He felt that soft weight of her head against his thighs but only barely. What he felt most was the chill in his stomach spreading all over his insides, and the heat around his collar spreading all over his skin. The van’s engine hummed, the city did too, somewhere in the distance. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, and that constant ringing, and nothing else. Sitting as still as he possibly could, he really wanted to believe he was trying his best to hear something more. Anything more.
When he didn’t, not for a few seconds that felt like he was waiting way too long already, he took one of his hands off the wheel slowly and felt around Meta’s neck for a moment. He heard nothing and he felt nothing but the uncomfortable cold of her skin. With his breath steadied and his fingers pressed to her more firmly, he still felt nothing.
Frank stayed at that crossing for far longer than he would have liked to. One hand on the steering wheel still, all of him frozen except the other palm that wandered mindlessly along the arm of the body in his lap. Nothing felt changed. He felt a hollowness in his chest somewhere. Just needed to change his plans, shift his priorities now that the hospital was no longer an option. Just needed some time to think, even as no real thoughts came. What was he going to tell Microchip? Her parents? Anybody?
Finally he moved the body off his lap, dragged it to the back of the van instead. Positioned it a little too gently on the cot that was always set up there, covered the pale face with the mask he took off it just a few minutes prior.
He always knew he would cost Meta her life, one way or another. Steal years and years of her time, her youth and that spark that kept her going, and the chance for her to ever experience the kind of things a girl like her deserved. Against his better judgement he somehow never thought it would be so literal. She was always such a lucky girl. He guessed that luck must have started to run out when she met him, and this was just the night it ran out completely.
His hand hesitated before he rested it on her stomach, above the bullet wound torn through her body.
“I love you,” he almost wanted to say, some just as dead and just as cold part of him that thought himself a lover wanted to say, "I liked you just fine for what you were." But his voice got stuck in his throat. The more he thought about saying it, the harder it became to actually do it. Or to say anything else that came to his mind after. What was the point? It didn't mean anything. It wouldn't remove the blood from the front seat and it wouldnt make her hands warm, and there was no mind to calm and soothe with those kinds of words and empty confessions anymore.
In the end he said nothing. He removed his hand from the body and sat back down in the driver’s seat, a new destination in mind. Back to the main base it was. There was a lot of work for him to do still.