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

Summary: You know you've got problems when Frank Castle is lecturing you on the importance of friendship.

Or: how Matt's broken leg becomes the least of his concerns.

Warnings: Spoilers for season 2.

Author's Notes: I wanted to revisit Matt and Frank since True Colors, but I have to admit, I was a little burnt out after finishing JIC. I had no ideas. Thankfully, in collaboration with a few fantastic writers and a quick peek at my now-ancient H/C bingo card, I got my groove back. This is going to be multi-chaptered, will deal with the fallout of season 2, and give me the opportunity to explore some of the things I couldn't in True Colors due to the constraints I put on the story structure.

Hope you enjoy!

It Takes a Village

Prologue

Cheek on the floor, mouth full of concrete and blood, three broken ribs, and his left leg won't move. Frank Castle shoves him in the shoulder, barks, "RED!" and Matt's centre of gravity spins so far out of whack there's no use focusing. He's churning as much as the air, so his perception is clouded to shit. He's really, truly blind, and his cheek is on the floor, he spits blood out of his mouth; it hurts when he breathes, and his left leg still won't move no matter how much he pulls.

He kicks with his right leg. The motion is slow, weighted, because the blood's running too thick and too much in his veins. His leg stops moving, but it takes forever for his nerves to communicate with his brain. First, that there's something under his right foot; second, that there's something on top of his left leg.

Matt pulls: hard. Heat prickles below his left knee in warning, but he doesn't give up until the sickening drowse of shock sends his head back onto the concrete.

Frank is not impressed. He shoves Matt again before thundering away. Storming Frank tugging at wood and metal in the blackness. Matt can't get a read on it, not through his blood-muddled brain and the horrifying numbness in his left leg.

"What happened?" which is easier to ask than where they are or what they're doing there, though he doesn't have answers for either.

"Support beam collapsed and brought the ceiling down on you," Frank's heartbeat breaks rhythm for a second or two before resuming its steady march. He grunts, something shifts, and Matt's brain flashes red, red, red. There's pain and screaming and only some is Frank telling him to focus. The rest is him.

Frank's hands are huge and hot on his back, "You tryin' to pull your God damn leg off, Red?"

No, but it's a damn shame he can't since the pain from a forced amputation couldn't possibly be worse than what's happening now. Matt stops tugging though, not because of Frank's warning, but because pulling isn't doing any good. He gives one final kick with his right leg and shockwaves knife into the area below his knee. "Get it off me," he tastes bile and doesn't swallow; the vomits coat his mouth so he can bark, "Get it off me, Frank!"

"I won't be able to lift it much," Frank admits tiredly. His heart is doing that thing again: not the strange tachy-two step signalling an impending loss of consciousness – that's Matt. Frank isn't saying something, and it's interrupting his normally stable circulation. He rises, assuming a position in the darkness that Matt prays is helpful. His feet shuffle on the concrete, and his hands bend around the wood, knuckles grinding, "I'm gonna count to three."

"Why…why don't you count to ten, Frank? Or maybe…maybe fifteen? Hell, give me twenty. I think I'm starting to like this," Matt buries his face into the concrete, heaving wave after wave of dusty air into his lungs. The fire is intensifying, rising up his thigh with every passing second, but it's not the pain making him want to beat the crap out of Frank. It's not the shock lapping at the edges of his consciousness, beckoning him to rest. (Rest, Matthew. You need rest.) It's the thought he can't abide, the idea and the terrifying uncertainty of what lies under that beam. Maybe this is a nightmare. Maybe the support beam hit him in the head, and he's lying comatose while Frank shouts for him to focus the fuck up, Red. Don't know if they'll get another chance at this.

"THREE!"

Frank strains. The beam lifts. Pain shoots into Matt's thigh like a bullet coming out of a gun. He feels his eyes peeling back into his skull, feels his consciousness draining out of him, but he catches himself at the last minute. There's work to do. He yanks hard at his left leg, so hard the limb can't catch on the beam as it moves. So hard his foot is too far away to get caught when Frank finally lets go. So hard he barely hears the wet, slurping sound his leg makes across the concrete.

Screaming again, distant this time. Pained and horrified and fading fast. Frank interrupts with more jostling. "RED. RED. RED," he shouts, as if he can see into Matt's bloodstained mind and the inferno on a collision course with his consciousness.

Rest, Matthew. You need rest.

Happy reading!