Chapter Text
Matt hears him before the knock.
It’s the weight of the footsteps that gives Frank Castle away—heavier than most, familiar in a way Matt can never quite forget. There’s a slight drag to them tonight, though. A fraction too slow. Like each step takes too much effort.
Matt is already halfway to the door when Frank knocks. Two sharp raps, impatient. Trying to sound normal.
Matt opens it before Frank can knock a third time.
Cold air rushes in, sharp and metallic, carrying with it the scent of rain, gun oil, city grime—and underneath all of that, something else. Something wrong.
Frank Castle stands in the hallway, jacket zipped almost to his chin, more than the weather required. His shoulders are hunched, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. His breathing is rough—not labored enough to be alarming at first glance, but uneven, like his lungs are irritated. Each inhale scrapes faintly, a rasp he’s clearly trying to suppress.
“Hey, Red,” Frank says, voice rougher than usual, pitched casual like they’re meeting for coffee instead of whatever this is. “Can I crash at yours tonight?”
Matt doesn’t answer immediately.
Because Frank is burning up.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Heat rolls off him in waves, bleeding into the cool hallway air. Matt can feel it against his skin, can hear the rapid thud of Frank’s heart—too fast. His skin smells faintly sharp, fever-sweat cutting through the cold outside.
And then there’s the congestion. The subtle hitch in his breathing. The way his body is trying—and failing—to regulate itself.
Frank sniffles once, sharp and irritated, then scowls like his own nose has personally betrayed him.
Matt tilts his head slightly, listening. Counting. Taking in too much information all at once, like always.
“You’re sick,” Matt says.
Frank snorts. Immediately regrets it. Tries to cover the cough that follows by turning his head and clearing his throat.
“I’m fine,” he says, which might be the most obvious lie Matt has ever heard.
Matt steps aside anyway, opening the door wider. “Get inside before you pass out in the hallway.”
Frank hesitates, just for a second. Pride, probably. Or stubbornness. Or the deeply ingrained habit of not wanting to be seen weak anywhere, especially not here.
Then he exhales, long and tired, and steps inside.
The door shuts behind him, cutting off the city noise. The apartment settles around them—quiet except for Frank’s breathing and the hum of the fridge.
Frank unzips his jacket halfway and rolls his shoulders once, like that’ll fix whatever’s wrong.
Matt doesn’t miss the way Frank sways slightly when he does it.
“You look like hell,” Matt says mildly.
Frank shoots him a look. “You’re blind.”
“Still true.”
Frank huffs a laugh that turns into another cough. This one digs deeper, rattling in his chest. He presses a fist to his mouth, shoulders tensing until it passes.
Matt folds his arms, jaw tight. “How long?”
Frank freezes.
“Don’t,” Frank says. “Don’t do that thing where you already know the answer.”
Matt raises an eyebrow. “Two days,” he guesses. “Maybe three. Fever spiked tonight.”
Frank doesn’t answer.
Matt takes that as confirmation.
“You should’ve gone to a doctor,” Matt says.
Frank grimaces. “Yeah, well. I should’ve picked a safer line of work for that.”
Matt steps closer and presses two fingers lightly to Frank’s wrist before Frank can pull away. The pulse there is fast, erratic, heat radiating through Frank’s skin.
“Sit,” Matt says.
Frank opens his mouth to argue, then pauses as another wave of dizziness rolls through him. He exhales through his nose and drops onto the couch with a heavy sigh.
“Just tonight,” Frank mutters. “I’ll be gone in the morning.”
“We’ll see,” Matt says.
He heads for the kitchen, already cataloging what he has. Tea. Advil. Not enough, but it’ll do for tonight. He fills the kettle and sets it on the stove.
Behind him, Frank shifts on the couch, clearly uncomfortable. He unzips his jacket the rest of the way, then pauses, frowning.
“You hot?” Matt asks.
Frank scowls. “No.”
Matt doesn’t even dignify that with a response.
The kettle starts to heat, the faint sound of water beginning to tremble. Matt leans against the counter, listening.
Frank’s breathing is louder now. Not dangerous—yet—but strained. Congested. Every inhale whistles faintly through his nose.
Matt turns back toward him. “You’re burning up.”
Frank squints in his direction. “You keep saying that.”
Matt crosses the room and presses the back of his hand to Frank’s forehead.
Frank flinches. “Hey—”
“You’re on fire,” Matt says flatly.
Frank sighs, defeated. “It’s just a cold.”
“With a fever of at least 102.”
Frank opens his mouth. Closes it. Rubs a hand over his face. “Didn’t wanna deal with it,” he mutters.
Matt’s chest tightens at that. Not surprise. Just the familiar frustration of watching Frank Castle treat his own body like he's invincible.
“You don’t have to deal with it alone,” Matt says quietly.
Frank scoffs, but there’s no real bite in it. “Could’ve fooled me.”
The kettle whistles. Matt goes to take it off the heat, pours hot water into a mug with a tea bag already waiting.
When he brings it back, Frank eyes it suspiciously. “I don’t need—”
“Drink it,” Matt says.
Frank glares for a moment, then takes the mug with a resigned grunt. He takes a cautious sip, winces, then drinks anyway. “…Thanks,” he mutters.
Matt grabs a blanket from the chair and drapes it over Frank’s shoulders. Frank stiffens at first, then relaxes into it without comment.
They sit like that for a moment. The city hums faintly outside. The fever hums louder inside Frank.
“You will stay,” Matt says eventually. “No questions.”
Frank swallows. His grip tightens slightly on the mug. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s… that’s good.”
He sounds tired. Bone-deep tired.
Matt listens to his heartbeat slow just a fraction as the warmth and quiet sink in.
Whatever tonight is going to be, Frank doesn’t have to face it alone.
And Matt isn’t going to let him pretend he’s fine—not here.