@2clones-1kamino - Tumblr Blog

Aug 14

kinetic | frank castle

summary: Frank likes to work alone — you don't let him. Frank doesn't like when you try to heal him — you don't care...even if it's at your own expense.

pairing: frank castle x fem!mutant!reader

word count: 11.7k

warning(s): slight enemies to whatever the hell this is, angst, mentions of violence, slightly dark themes, mentions and depictions of wounds, knives, bombs, and gun violence (all things frank loves) — possibly a very screwed up timeline that makes absolutely no sense (sue me, marvel is too complicated for me—I intended for this to take place POST spiderman: brand new day, so please, here's a spoiler warning)

a/n: hello there my darlings!!! This is definitely my first frank fic so I'm hoping it's not too bad...I also was really tired when reading through this again while editing so I do heavily apologize for an errors or mistakes throughout. As always, feedback, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated <3

slight spoilers for spider-man: brand new day (this takes place after the events of the movie)...read at your own risk!

“Jesus Christ Frank…”

You find Frank Castle bleeding in an alley off 48th Street at two in the morning, which is honestly pretty typical for a Thursday at this point in your life.

"You look like shit," you say, dropping down from the fire escape with barely a sound. Your boots splash in something you're choosing not to identify. It doesn’t smell good, that’s all you need to know.

Frank's leaning against a brick wall, one hand pressed to his side where blood seeps through his tactical vest while the other holds up his body weight. His face is a mask of controlled pain, jaw tight, eyes hard. "Go away." He spits gruffly. If he had the strength, he’d fire a warning bullet at your feet to send a real message. He doesn’t want you here—he never does. You don’t care much for his attitude.

"That's cute.” You tutt. “You think you get a vote." Inching closer, you assess the damage with practiced efficiency. Gunshot wound, left side, probably missed anything vital but he's losing blood fast. "Let me see it."

"I said—"

"I heard what you said. I'm ignoring it." You reach for his vest and he catches your wrist. His grip is strong despite the blood loss, which is frankly annoying. "Castle, I swear to God, if you bleed out in this alley because you're too stubborn to accept help, I'm going to resurrect you just to kill you again."

"Kinetic energy manipulation doesn't include resurrection." He balks at the idea, and while he’s fairly certain raising people from the dead is far outside your scope, he’s honestly not too sure you couldn’t accomplish it.

"I'll learn." You yank your wrist free and plant your hands on your hips. "You want me to call an ambulance? Because I will. I'll tell them exactly where the Punisher is, bleeding out like an idiot who thinks he's too tough for basic medical attention."

His dark eyes narrow. "You wouldn't."

"Try me." You would, and Frank knows it. You did it to Matt Murdock two months ago to prove a point, before he finally let you sneak him off into the night to heal him with your powers.

Stubborn ass grown men, you think to yourself. You don’t even know why you try.

You stare at each other for a long moment. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. Frank's breathing is getting shallower, and there's a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead that has nothing to do with the humid summer night.

"Fine," he finally growls. "But not here."

You send him a cheeky, lopsided grin that says, I win. Like always. "Your place or mine?"

"Mine's closer."

"Of course it is. You probably have six safe houses within a three-block radius." You duck under his arm, taking most of his considerable weight. He's heavy, all muscle and Kevlar and weaponry, but you've absorbed enough kinetic energy from the city tonight that you could probably carry a truck. "Try not to bleed on me. This jacket is new."

"It's black." Frank frowns.

"Blood stains, Castle. Trust me, I know." He huffs at that, but doesn't say anything further.

Even though you've been to a couple of them before, this warehouse is exactly what you'd expect: industrial, sparse, and equipped with enough weapons to stage a small coup. The medical station in the corner is better stocked than some ERs you've seen, which says something deeply concerning about Frank's lifestyle choices.

You dump him onto the metal chair with less grace than strictly necessary. He grunts but doesn't complain, which means he's hurt worse than he's letting on.

"Vest off," you order, already pulling on latex gloves from his supply kit.

"I can do it myself."

"And I can watch you fumble around for twenty minutes while you bleed out, or you can shut up and let me help. Choose quickly,” you tap your foot with mock impatience, “I have a Netflix queue to get back to."

He stays silent and still for a moment before relenting to your request.

"What are you watching?" He asks.

The question surprises you enough that you pause. "Are you seriously making small talk right now?"

He grunts. "You brought it up." Besides, he thinks, anything to distract from the pain.

You smile. "Okay, if you must know, but you gotta promise not to make fun of me…I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Uh huh, sure kid.”

“The Great British Bake Off,” you respond. “It’s very soothing. No one gets shot." You start unfastening his vest with efficient movements. "Unlike some people I know who apparently think they're bulletproof."

Frank huffs out a breath. "Tonight wasn't supposed to go down like that."

"It never is." You peel back the vest and his shirt, revealing the wound. It's ugly but clean—through and through, like you thought. "You're lucky. Missed everything important."

"Lucky. Right."

"Relatively speaking." You grab gauze and antiseptic, your movements automatic. You've done this too many times, for too many people. Frank's just the most frequent patient. "This is going to hurt."

"It already hurts." He says with a grimace.

Your eyes bore into his with a deadpan expression. "It's going to hurt more."

You clean the wound with quick, practiced efficiency. Frank doesn't flinch, doesn't make a sound, which is somehow more unsettling than if he'd screamed. You've seen him take damage that would drop most men, and he just keeps going like some kind of terminator. It’s alarming really.

"You know," you say, because the silence is getting heavy, "most people would say thank you."

"Most people don't break into my safe house whenever they please and threaten to call ambulances."

You scoff. "I’ve never broken in. The door’s been unlocked."

He rebukes that. "The door is never unlocked."

"Then you're losing your touch, old man." You finish cleaning and sit back, studying the wound. It needs stitches, proper medical attention, and antibiotics. Or... "I could heal it, ya know."

"No."

The response is immediate and sharp. You raise an eyebrow. "That's a lot of conviction for someone who's bleeding all over his nice metal chair."

"I don't need—"

"Your powers.” You mock his tone with the best Frank Castle impression you can muster. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You've made that very clear." You strip off the gloves and toss them aside. "Fine. Enjoy your stitches and your recovery time and your inevitable infection because you're too stubborn to accept help."

You turn to leave, and his voice stops you. "Wait."

You look back. Frank's watching you with those dark, unreadable eyes, and for a moment something flickers across his face. Something that might be concern, or curiosity, or just exhaustion.

"Why do you keep doing this?" he asks.

"Doing what?"

He gives you a look that says c'mon kid, don't play dumb with me. But you're not buying what he's selling; if he wants a real answer out of you, he's going to have to give you a real question to answer.

He elaborates. "Showing up. Patching me up. You don't owe me anything."

You lean against the workbench, crossing your arms. "Maybe I like the company."

"I'm terrible company." He replies, jaw clenching at the idea of anyone willingly choosing to spend their time with him.

"True. But you're also the only person I know who can keep up with me, and who doesn’t flinch when I accidently blow stuff up.”

His mouth twitches. It's not quite a smile, but it's close. "That was one time." Kinetic energy can get pretty messy.

"It was three times." You admit.

"The third one doesn't count. That mailbox was asking for it."

You laugh despite yourself. "See? Terrible company, but occasionally amusing." You push off the bench. "Let me heal it, Castle. You'll be back to your murder spree by morning."

"It's not a murder spree.” He grumbles. “It's the job."

"Whatever makes you feel better man.” You move closer, and this time he doesn't stop you. "This is going to feel weird."

"Everything about you feels weird."

You grin toothily. "Flatterer."

You place your hands over the wound, and the familiar tingle of power flows through your palms. Kinetic energy is everywhere—in the vibration of the building, the movement of air, the beating of hearts. You pull it in, redirect it, reshape it into something that can knit flesh and seal wounds.

The bullet hole begins to close, tissue regenerating at an accelerated rate. Frank watches with a frown, like he's trying to figure out a puzzle he doesn't have all the pieces to.

What he doesn't see is the way your jaw tightens. The way your breathing goes shallow. The way every nerve in your side suddenly screams with phantom pain as his injury transfers to you, the price of healing written in agony across your own body.

You're good at hiding it. Years of practice have taught you how to mask the pain, how to smile through it, how to act like taking on someone else's suffering is no big deal.

"There," you say, pulling back. Your hands are steady. Your voice is light. "Good as new." It hurts like hell, but you’d never admit it.

Frank looks down at his side, at the smooth, unmarred skin where a bullet hole was moments ago. Every time you do this for him he's just as surprised. "How—"

You put a finger to your lips and let out a light shushing sound. "Trade secret." You turn away before he can see the way you're holding yourself too carefully, the slight tremor in your legs. "Try not to get shot again for at least a week. I have a very busy schedule of eating takeout and judging people's fondant work."

"Kinetic." He calls you by your mutant name. He knows your real one, just like you know his—but he hardly ever uses it.

You pause at the door. "Yeah?"

"Thank you."

You glance back, surprised. Frank's still sitting in the chair, watching you with an expression you can't quite read. The harsh warehouse lights cast shadows across his face, making him look older, more tired. But still handsome.

"Don't mention it," you say. And when he goes to say something else, you put a hand up to stop him. "Seriously. Don't. Like I said, I have a reputation to maintain."

You leave before he can respond, before he can ask questions you don't want to answer. The pain in your side is a living thing now, sharp and hot and demanding attention. You make it three blocks before you have to stop, leaning against a wall and breathing through the worst of it.

Worth it, you tell yourself. It's always worth it.

Even if Frank Castle will never know the price you pay.

Three days later, you're on a rooftop in Hell's Kitchen, eating a truly mediocre bodega sandwich and watching the city breathe. New York at night is a living thing, all light and sound and movement. Kinetic energy in its purest form, just as you like it.

"You're in my spot." Well there goes your peace and quiet.

You don't turn around. "Your spot? I don't see your name on it."

Frank moves to stand beside you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him. He's wearing his usual black on black on black, because apparently the man owns no other colors.

"How's the side?" you ask.

"Fine."

"No pain? No stiffness?"

"Nothing." He's quiet for a moment. "It's like it never happened."

"That's kind of the point of healing." You take another bite of your sandwich, making a face. "God, this is terrible. Why do I keep going to that bodega?"

Frank’s lip curves in what dares to be a smile. "Because it's the only one open at 2 AM."

"Fair point." You offer him half. "Want some?"

He grimaces, brow quirked in mild disgust at the sight of it. "I'm good."

"Your loss. This mediocre sandwich could have been our mediocre sandwich."

He almost smiles again. You're getting better at making that happen. "What are you doing up here?" He asks.

"Same thing you are. Watching. Waiting. Pretending we have our lives together."

"I don't pretend." He nearly scoffs.

"No, you just brood dramatically while wearing enough weapons to invade a small country." You crumple up the sandwich wrapper. "Sure, there's a difference, but it's subtle."

Frank leans against the ledge, his shoulder almost touching yours. "You hear about the shipment coming through the docks?"

"The one with enough illegal weapons to make your collection look like a toy store? Yeah, I heard."

His voice is gruff when he responds: "I'm going to hit it tomorrow night."

"Of course you are." You glance at him. "You want backup?"

"I work alone."

"And yet you're telling me about it."

His jaw tightens. "I'm not asking for help."

"Good, because I wasn't offering. I was just going to show up and steal your thunder." You stretch, feeling the residual ache in your side from healing him. It's faded to a dull throb, manageable, but still pestering and annoying. "What time?"

"Midnight." He replies.

You tease, "I'll bring snacks."

Frank frowns, wondering if everything has to be a joke with you. "This isn't a social event."

"Everything's a social event if you have the right attitude." You turn to face him fully. "Besides, someone needs to make sure you don't get shot again. I'm starting to think you do it on purpose just to see me."

"That's not—" He stops, and something flickers across his face. "I don't get shot on purpose."

"Could've fooled me. You have a real talent for finding bullets with your body."

"It's not a talent." He grunts. “I don’t enjoy getting shot.”

"Then maybe you should consider a career change. I hear accounting is nice. Very low bullet risk."

He turns to you with a glint in his eye, gruffly mumbling, "See for that, I'd rather get shot."

You laugh, and the sound echoes across the rooftop. "This is why we're friends."

"We're not friends." Is his response.

"Partners?"

"No." He says.

"Colleagues?"

"Definitely not."

You contemplate your reply, tapping your index finger to your bottom lip in pensive thought. "How about: Two people who keep ending up in the same place at the same time and occasionally prevent each other from dying?"

Frank considers this. "I’d say that's slightly more accurate."

"Catchy. We should get t-shirts." You hop up onto the ledge, balancing easily. The kinetic energy of the city hums through your bones, ready to catch you if you fall. "You know what your problem is, Castle?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

He right, you are. "You take everything too seriously. Life, death, justice, vengeance. You need to learn to relax."

Frank doesn’t understand you. "Relaxing gets people killed."

"So does stress. Heart disease is a real thing, ya know?" You walk along the ledge like it's a tightrope, arms out for balance even though you don't need it. "When's the last time you did something fun?"

He frowns. "I have fun."

"Shooting people doesn't count."

"Then never."

You stop, looking down at him. He's watching you with that intense focus he applies to everything, like you're a problem he's trying to solve. "That's sad, Frank. Genuinely sad."

"I'm not here to have fun. I'm here to do a job."

"And when the job's done?"

"There's always another job."

You jump down, landing in front of him, your boots thumping on the concrete of the roof. You're close now, close enough to see the scars on his face, the permanent tension in his shoulders, the weight he carries in his eyes.

"That's no way to live," you say quietly.

He considers lying to you, or doing what you do and deflecting with humour, but he doesn’t, "It's the only way I know." He says.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The city sounds fade into background noise—sirens, traffic, the distant thump of music from a club. It's just you and Frank and the space between you that feels charged with something you're not ready to name.

Then your phone buzzes, shattering the moment.

You step back, checking the message. "Spider-boy needs help in Queens. Something about lizard people."

Frank actually chuckles. "It's always something with him."

"He's young. He'll learn. And at least he asks me for help." Frank knows that was a direct shot at him. You pocket your phone. "Midnight tomorrow. Don't start without me."

Frank grunts a reply. "I'm not waiting for you."

"Yes, you are." You head for the fire escape, then pause. "Hey, Castle?"

"What?"

"Try not to get shot between now and then. I'm running low on patience for your self-destructive bullshit."

He sighs. "I'll take it under advisement."

You flip him off cheerfully and drop over the edge, using absorbed kinetic energy to slow your fall. Behind you, you hear something that might be a laugh, but when you look back, Frank's already gone.

The dock job goes sideways in the way these things always do.

You're crouched behind a shipping container, breathing hard, while bullets ping off the metal around you. Frank's somewhere to your left, returning fire with the kind of calm precision that would be attractive if it wasn't so deeply concerning.

"This is going great!" you shout over the gunfire. "Really well planned!"

"Shut up and stay down!"

"I am down! I'm very down! I'm practically horizontal!" You gather kinetic energy from the impacts around you, feeling it build in your palms like static electricity. "How many are there?"

"Too many." He's clearly annoyed. He'd miscalculated and now he's paying for it.

"That's not a number, Castle!"

A bullet whizzes past your head, close enough that you feel the displacement of air. You pop up, release the stored energy in a concentrated blast, and watch three guys go flying backward like they've been hit by an invisible truck.

"Okay, that felt good," you mutter.

"On your six!"

You spin, but you're not fast enough. The guy's already there, gun raised, finger on the trigger. Time seems to slow. You're gathering energy but you won't make it, you won't—

The gunshot is deafening.

The guy drops, a red bloom spreading across his chest. Frank's there suddenly, his gun still raised, his face grim.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. Thanks." Your heart is hammering. "That was close."

"Too close. You're getting sloppy kid."

Your eyes widen at him incredulously. "I'm getting sloppy? You're the one who said there'd be a dozen guys!"

"I said approximately a dozen."

"There are at least twenty!"

"That's still approximately—" He doesn't want to admit he was wrong...especially not to you.

"Oh my God,” You can’t believe him…you truly can’t believe him. Clearly this guy doesn’t care an ounce about either of your safety, “are you seriously arguing math right now?"

More gunfire erupts, cutting off whatever Frank was going to say. You both move in sync, a dance you've done enough times that it's almost choreographed. Frank provides cover fire while you flank, using kinetic blasts to disarm and disable. It's brutal and efficient and over in minutes.

The silence after is almost jarring.

"Everyone down?" you ask, checking the perimeter.

"Everyone down."

"Dead or unconscious?"

He balks at that. "Does it matter?"

"To the police report, yes." You spot Frank's limp. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine."

You shake your head in disappointment. "You're clearly limping."

"It's nothing."

You cross to him, and he tries to wave you off, but you're already seeing it—blood seeping through his pants leg, a knife wound by the look of it.

"Sit," you order.

"I can walk it off."

"Sit, or I'll use kinetic energy to make you sit, and that'll be embarrassing for both of us." It'd be way more embarrassing for him, you think, but you've got to appease to his ego some way or another.

He sits, mostly because arguing takes energy he doesn't have. A small part of him though, enjoys when you order him around, not that Frank would ever say that aloud. You kneel beside him, examining the wound. It's deep but clean, the kind of cut that'll hurt like hell but won't kill him.

"This is becoming a habit," you say.

"You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. I'm going to anyway." You place your hands over the wound. "Brace yourself."

The healing energy flows, and with it comes the pain. It's sharp and immediate, a hot knife dragging through your own thigh. You breathe through it, keeping your expression neutral, focusing on knitting Frank's flesh back together.

"There," you say when it's done, pulling back. Your leg throbs in sympathy. "Good as new."

Frank looks down at his leg, then up at you. "How do you do that?"

"Very carefully." You stand, testing your weight on the leg that isn't really injured. "We should go before the cops show up."

"Wait." Frank catches your wrist. "Your hands are shaking."

"Adrenaline." You tell him.

"You don’t look so good."

"It's nighttime. And we just got shot at by about two dozen men—who looks good after that?"

"Kinetic—"

"We need to go, Castle. Now."

You pull free and start walking, ignoring the way your leg wants to give out. Behind you, Frank follows, and you can feel his eyes on you, questioning, suspicious.

You're three blocks away when a familiar figure drops from above, landing in a crouch that's far too graceful for someone who's been through what he has.

"Hey, guys!" Peter Parker says brightly, straightening up. His Spider-Man suit is torn in places, and there's what looks like green slime on his shoulder. "Fancy meeting you here!"

"Spider-Man," Frank says flatly. "What do you want?"

"Just checking in on my favourite dysfunctional crime-fighting couple!" Peter swings closer, and even through the mask you can tell he's grinning. "How was date night? Lots of gunfire and property damage, I'm guessing?"

"It wasn't a date," you say.

"We're not a couple," Frank adds.

"Sure, sure. And I'm not currently covered in sewer lizard goo." Peter looks between you. "You know, for two people who claim to hate each other, you sure spend a lot of time together."

"We don't hate each other," you say.

"And we're not together," Frank insists.

"Right. You're just two emotionally constipated vigilantes who keep saving each other's lives and definitely don't have any feelings whatsoever." Peter shoots a web at a nearby building. "Totally normal. Very believable." If he wasn’t wearing a mask, you could have sworn you’d seen him wink.

"Don't you have actual Spider-Man things to do?" you ask. "Crimes to stop? Lizards to fight?"

"Already done! Dr. Connors is back in custody, the sewers are slightly less dangerous, and I have the rest of the night free to bother you two." He swings in a lazy circle around you. "So, what's the deal? Are you guys partners? Friends with benefits? Enemies with benefits?"

"We're leaving," Frank says.

"Ooh, together? To whose place?"

"Parker—"

"I'm just saying, if you're going to do the whole 'will they won't they' thing, maybe speed it up? Some of us have been watching this dance for months and it's getting old."

You can't help but laugh. "Months?"

"Oh yeah. You should hear what the other heroes say.” You know he means Yelena Belova, she’s just about the only other hero Peter keeps up with, except for maybe Daredevil, but you’re not quite sure they’ve been introduced yet. “There's a betting pool and everything."

Frank's expression could curdle milk. "A betting pool."

"Daredevil thinks you'll get together by Christmas. Yelena says never. I'm optimistic—I've got money on next month." There he goes proving you wrong—he does know more people than you thought. You're going to have to have a little chat with Matt Murdock about respecting people's privacy.

Peter lands on a fire escape, hanging upside down. "No pressure though!"

"I'm going to shoot him," Frank says.

"You're not going to shoot him. The last time you did that, you almost killed him, and you were sick about it for weeks.”

Frank's expression drops just a smidge. He remembers everything that happened with Jean Grey, not fondly, at all. "I'm seriously considering it." He settles on. But you and he both know he would never.

"You consider it every time you see him. You never follow through." You look up at Peter. "What are you really doing here, Spider-boy?"

Peter's tone shifts, becoming more serious. "Making sure you're both okay. That dock situation was messy. I was in the area and heard the gunfire."

"We're fine," you say.

"You sure? Because you're favouring your left leg and Frank looks like he wants to murder me more than usual, which means something's up."

You exchange a glance with Frank. Peter's observant—too observant sometimes. It's easy to forget that under the quips and the jokes, he's a genuinely skilled hero.

"We're fine," Frank repeats. "Go home, Parker."

"Fine, fine. I can take a hint." Peter shoots another web, preparing to swing away. "But seriously, you two should talk. About feelings and stuff. It's healthy."

"I'm definitely shooting him," Frank mutters.

"No you're not!" Peter calls back, already swinging away. "Love you too, Dad!"

The silence after he leaves is heavy.

"Did he just—" you start.

"Don't," Frank says warningly.

You quip. "That’s so cute! He called you Dad."

"I said don't."

You're grinning now, you can't help it. "That's amazing. You're Spider-Dad."

Frank fights the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not anyone's dad."

"You kind of are though. You do the whole protective disapproving thing really well."

He looks at you unimpressed. "I disapprove of everyone equally."

"Especially me?"

Frank looks at you, and something in his expression softens. "No. Not especially you."

The moment stretches, charged with something unspoken. Your leg is still throbbing, a phantom pain that isn't really yours, and you're suddenly very aware of how close Frank is standing.

"We should go," you say finally. "Before any more heroes show up to psychoanalyze our relationship."

"We don't have a relationship."

"Right. We're just two people who keep saving each other and definitely don't have any feelings whatsoever."

Frank's mouth twitches. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Not even a little bit." You start walking, and this time when your leg wobbles, Frank's there, his hand on your elbow, steadying you.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yeah. Just tired."

He doesn't let go immediately, and you don't pull away. You walk like that for half a block, his hand on your arm, your shoulders almost touching, before the moment breaks and you separate.

But something's shifted. Something's changed.

And you're pretty sure Frank felt it too.

It's been a week since the dock job, and you've patched Frank up twice more. Once for a broken rib (courtesy of a particularly aggressive mob enforcer), and once for a concussion (courtesy of Frank's own reckless disregard for personal safety).

Each time, you've taken the pain. Each time, you've hidden it.

But Frank's starting to notice things.

You don't know this yet. You're too busy trying to convince him that yes, he does need to rest after being thrown through a window, and no, "walking it off" is not a valid medical strategy.

"You're being ridiculous," Frank says. He's sitting on his warehouse couch—which you're pretty sure he's never actually slept on—while you hover nearby with an ice pack.

"I'm being responsible. There's a difference." You press the ice pack to the bruise blooming on his temple. "You could have a serious concussion."

"I've had worse."

"That's not the reassurance you think it is."

"I'm fine." He tries again in a way that only he could make sound so not convincing.

"Frank,” you place your hands firmly on your hips. “You threw up twice."

"That's just nausea."

"From the concussion!"

Frank catches your wrist, stopping your fussing. His grip is gentle but firm, and when you meet his eyes, there's something searching in his gaze.

He's going back to old habits, curiosity getting the better of him, and so as he always does, he asks you: "Why do you do this?"

"Do what? Try to keep you from dying of your own stupidity?"

"Care. About what happens to me."

The question catches you off guard, even though it's not like it something he's never asked you before in seventeen different ways. You try to pull away, but he doesn't let go. He’s already done this to you several times before, and each time you deflect.

"Someone has to," you say lightly. "You're certainly not going to do it."

"That's not an answer." He responds.

"It's the only answer you're getting." You tug your wrist free. "Now hold this ice pack and try not to do anything stupid for the next twenty-four hours."

Frank’s brow furrows, like he’s not sure that’s something he’s capable of doing. "That's a long time." He says.

"I have faith in you. Minimal faith, but still."

You turn to leave, and that's when it happens. Your leg—the one that took his knife wound last week—gives out. Just for a second, just a slight buckle, but it's enough.

Frank's on his feet instantly, concussion forgotten. "What was that?"

"Nothing. Slipped."

"You didn't slip. Your leg gave out." Worry laces his cadence.

You puff out a breath. "I'm tired. It's been a long night."

But Frank's not buying it. You can see the wheels turning in his head, pieces clicking into place. He's looking at you differently now, really looking, and you don't like what he might be seeing.

"How long has your leg been bothering you?" he asks.

"It hasn't." You protest.

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not—"

He doesn’t believe you in the slightest…you’re a terrible liar, he thinks. "You've been favouring it since the docks. Since you healed my knife wound." His eyes narrow. "Show me."

"Frank—"

"Show me."

There's no arguing with that tone. Reluctantly, you roll up your pant leg, revealing the faint scar on your thigh. It's in the exact same place Frank's wound was, a mirror image of damage that was never really yours.

Frank stares at it. Then at you. Then back at the scar.

"That's where I was cut," he says slowly.

"Coincidence?" You squeak, shrugging your shoulders in surrender.

"Bullshit." He moves closer, and you resist the urge to back away. "What did you do?"

"I healed you. You know this."

"How? How does your healing work?"

You're quiet for a long moment. Then, quietly: "It transfers."

"Transfers what?" He’s never been more serious about a question in his life.

You relent, lying to him seeming less and less worth it as the minutes go by. "The damage. The pain. When I heal someone, I take on their injuries. Not the physical wound, but the pain of it. The body's memory of trauma." You meet his eyes. "It fades faster than a real injury would, but it's there. For a while."

Frank's face goes through several expressions—confusion, realization, and then something that might be horror.

"Every time you've healed me," he says slowly, "you've taken on my pain."

You shrug. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big—" He stops, running a hand over his face. "The gunshot. The broken rib. The concussion. You've been walking around with all of that?"

"It fades. I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're—" He looks at you like he's seeing you for the first time. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you wouldn't have let me help if you knew."

"You're damn right I wouldn't have!"

"Exactly. And you needed help, Frank. You need help." You pull your pant leg down. "So I helped. That's what people do."

He looks betrayed, dark eyes wide with regret. "Not like this. Not by hurting themselves."

You scoff at him. "You hurt yourself every single night. How is this different?"

"It's different because—" He stops, jaw working. "It just is." He can’t come up with anything better.

"That’s a compelling argument, Frank."

"Don't." His voice is rough. "Don't make jokes about this."

You've never seen Frank like this—angry, yes, but not at you. Never at you. There's something raw in his expression, something vulnerable that he usually keeps locked away.

"I'm sorry," you say quietly. "I should have told you."

"Yeah. You should have." He sits back down, heavily, like his legs won't hold him anymore. "No more healing."

"Frank—"

"I mean it. No more. I won't have you hurting yourself for me."

"That's not your choice to make."

Now it’s his turn to scoff. "Like hell it isn't."

You move to sit beside him, close enough that your shoulders touch. "You don't get to decide what I do with my powers. Or who I use them on."

His eyes narrow. "Even if it's killing you?"

"It's not killing me.” You reply with a deep sigh. You’re used to it, it’s all you’ve ever known. “It's just pain Castle. I can handle pain."

"You shouldn't have to."

"Neither should you. But here we are." You lean your head on his shoulder, a gesture that surprises both of you. "We're both idiots, Frank. We're both self-destructive and stubborn and terrible at accepting help. The only difference is I'm slightly better at hiding it."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "How long does it last? The pain?"

"Depends on the injury. Small stuff, a few hours. Bigger things, a few days. The gunshot took almost a week to fully fade."

"A week." He sounds sick. "You were in pain for a week and I didn't even notice."

"I didn't want you to notice. That was kind of the point."

"Why?" He turns to look at you, and you're struck by how close his face is. "Why would you do that?"

Because I care about you, you think. Because seeing you hurt is worse than any pain I could take on. Because somewhere along the way, this stopped being about helping a fellow vigilante and started being about something else entirely.

But you don't say any of that. Instead, you say: "Because someone has to look out for you. And I'm apparently volunteering."

Frank's hand comes up, cupping your face with a gentleness that seems impossible from someone so violent. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and you can feel the calluses, the evidence of a life lived in combat.

"You're an idiot," he says softly.

"Takes one to know one."

"I'm serious. You can't keep doing this."

"Watch me."

"(Y/n)—" He calls you by your real name this time…and it feels foreign on his tongue just as it sounds out of place for you. But something about it has your heart beating a little quicker than before.

"Frank." You cover his hand with yours. "I know what I'm doing. I know the cost. And I'm choosing to pay it. You don't get to take that choice away from me."

He looks like he wants to argue, but something in your expression stops him. Instead, he just sits there, his hand on your face, your hand on his, while the warehouse settles around you.

"I don't want you to hurt for me," he says finally.

"Too late. I already do."

You mean it as a joke, but it comes out too honest, too raw. Frank's eyes search yours, and you wonder what he sees there. What you're accidentally revealing.

"You should go," he says, but he doesn't move his hand.

"Probably."

"Get some rest. Let yourself heal."

"You too."

"I will."

You raise a brow at him. "Liar."

His mouth twitches. "Yeah."

You stand, and immediately your leg protests, a sharp reminder of the knife wound that isn't really there. Frank notices—of course he notices, now that he knows what to look for.

"Let me—" he starts.

"I'm fine. It's a few blocks."

"You can barely walk."

"I can walk fine. I'm just doing it slowly. Very deliberately slowly."

"That's not a thing."

"It is now." You head for the door, then pause. "Frank?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For caring. Even if you're being annoying about it."

You leave before he can respond, but you feel his eyes on you all the way out.

You don't see Frank for three days after that, which is unusual. Normally he's getting into trouble every other night, requiring your intervention and/or healing services.

The absence is noticeable. Concerning, even.

You tell yourself you're not worried. Frank Castle can take care of himself. He's been doing it for years. He doesn't need you hovering.

But on the fourth night, you find yourself on his rooftop anyway, eating Chinese takeout and pretending you're not waiting for him.

"You're in my spot again."

You don't jump, because you heard him coming. "It's a good spot. You have excellent taste in brood locations."

Frank moves to stand beside you, and you notice he's moving normally. No limp, no stiffness. Either he hasn't been in any fights, or he has and he's hiding it.

"You've been quiet," you say.

"Been busy."

"Busy avoiding me?"

He shakes his head in protest. "Busy working."

"Uh-huh." You offer him a container of lo mein. "Hungry?"

"I'm good."

"You're never good. You're just varying degrees of not-good." You shake the container. "Eat. You look like you haven't had a real meal in days." As if what you’re eating could be classified as a real meal…but hey, beggars can’t be choosers.

He takes the container, which is progress. You eat in silence for a while, watching the city lights.

"I've been thinking," Frank says finally.

"That’s dangerous."

He tilts his head slightly to the left, eyes narrowing at you. You relent and let him talk. "About what you said. About taking on pain."

You tense. "Frank—"

"I did some research. Talked to some people who know about mutant powers." Dr. Banner, you assume. Via Peter Parker, you guess.

"You talked to people about me?"

"I didn't use your name. But yeah." He sets down the container. "Apparently, what you're doing—taking on that much pain, that frequently—it's not sustainable."

"I'm fine."

"You're not. The pain might fade, but it leaves traces. Phantom damage. Your body remembers, even if the wounds aren't real." He turns to face you. "Keep doing it, and eventually your body won't know the difference between phantom pain and real pain. You'll break down."

You're quiet, because you know he's right. You've felt it—the way the pain lingers longer each time, the way your body is starting to protest. But admitting it means stopping, and stopping means watching Frank get hurt without being able to help.

"I'll be careful," you say.

"That's not good enough."

"It's going to have to be."

"No. It's not." Frank's voice is hard. "I won't let you destroy yourself for me."

You push back. He's not the only one you help...but he's becoming the most important. "You don't get a say in this."

He doesn’t like that answer…it feels like a cop out. "Like hell I don't."

You stand, anger flaring. "What do you want from me, Frank? You want me to just watch you bleed out? Watch you take damage that I could prevent? I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because—" You stop, the words catching in your throat.

"Because what?"

Because I care about you. Because the thought of you dying makes me feel like I'm the one bleeding out. Because somewhere in all this violence and pain and stubbornness, I fell for you, and I don't know how to stop.

But you can't say that. So instead you say: "Because it's what I do. I help people. It's my thing."

Frank still can’t understand you. After months of knowing you the way he has, he still can't get it. "This isn't helping. This is self-destruction with extra steps."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you. The king of self-destruction."

"That's different."

You scoff. "How? How is it different?"

"Because I'm not worth it!" The words explode out of him, raw and angry. "I'm not worth you hurting yourself. I'm not worth saving."

The silence after is deafening.

Frank's breathing hard, his hands clenched into fists. You've never seen him like this—not angry, but something deeper. Something that looks like pain.

"You don't get to decide that," you say quietly.

"It's my life."

"And it's my choice. My power. My decision." You step closer. "You don't get to tell me you're not worth saving, Frank. You don't get to make that call."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." Your eyes try to meet his, but he avoids your gaze. "You think you're beyond redemption. You think you deserve every bullet, every knife, every broken bone. You think pain is penance." You're right in front of him now, close enough to see the scars on his face, the weight in his eyes. "But you're wrong."

His face falls, "You don't know what I've done."

"I know enough.” you say. “I know you're trying to make the world safer. I know you protect people who can't protect themselves. I know you're a good man doing bad things for the right reasons." You reach up, cupping his face the way he did yours. "And I know you're worth saving. Even if you don't believe it."

Frank's eyes close, and for a moment he just stands there, leaning into your touch like a man starved for gentleness.

"I can't ask you to keep doing this," he says.

"You're not asking. I'm offering."

"It's going to hurt you."

"I know." You respond. You've always known that.

"It might break you."

"I know that too."

He opens his eyes, and there's something in them you've never seen before. Something vulnerable and terrified and hopeful all at once.

"Why?" he asks again. "Why would you do that?"

You could lie. You could deflect, make a joke, change the subject. But you're tired of hiding, tired of pretending this is just about helping a fellow vigilante.

"Because I care about you, you idiot," you say. "Because seeing you hurt is worse than any pain I could take on. Because I—"

You stop, but it's too late. The words are already out there, hanging in the air between you.

Frank stares at you. "You what?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"No. Say it." It almost feels like he's begging you to say something...and that's so unlike him.

"Frank—"

"Say it."

You take a breath. "Because I love you. Okay? I love you, and I know that's stupid and complicated and probably a terrible idea, but there it is. I love you, and I'm going to keep healing you, and you're just going to have to deal with it."

The silence stretches. Frank's expression is unreadable, and you're starting to think you've made a terrible mistake when he moves.

His hands come up to frame your face, and then he's kissing you.

It's not gentle. It's desperate and fierce and tastes like lo mein and poor life choices. You make a surprised sound against his mouth, but then you're kissing him back, your hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

When you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"That was—" you start.

"Yeah."

"Does this mean—"

"Yeah."

"You're very articulate right now."

"Shut up." But he's smiling, really smiling, and it transforms his whole face. "You're an idiot."

"You already said that."

"It bears repeating." He kisses you again, softer this time. "You can't keep taking on my pain."

"We'll figure something out."

Frank eyes you up and down. "I'm serious." He says.

"So am I. We'll be careful. We'll find a balance." You rest your forehead against his. "But I'm not stopping, Frank. I'm not walking away."

"Even though I'm a disaster?"

"Especially because you're a disaster. Someone needs to keep you alive."

"And that someone is you?"

You smile. "Apparently."

He laughs, and the sound is rusty but genuine. "We're both idiots."

"Yeah. But at least we're idiots together."

You stay like that for a long moment, wrapped up in each other, the city sprawling below you. It's not perfect. It's messy and complicated and probably going to end badly.

But right now, with Frank's arms around you and his heart beating against yours, it feels right.

Two weeks later, everything goes to hell.

You're in an abandoned factory in Brooklyn, because of course you are. Frank got a tip about a major weapons deal going down, and despite your protests, he insisted on checking it out.

"This is a bad idea," you say for the third time.

"Noted."

"I'm serious, Frank. This feels wrong."

"It always feels wrong. That's how you know it's worth doing."

You can’t even argue with him at this point…it doesn’t make any sense. "That's the worst logic I've ever heard."

Frank checks his gun, his movements efficient and practiced. "You don't have to be here."

"Yes, I do. Someone needs to patch you up when this inevitably goes sideways."

He mumbles into his vest, voice low. "Your confidence is inspiring."

"I'm a realist." You peer around the corner, scanning the factory floor. There are too many guys, too many guns, too many ways this can go wrong. "We should call for backup."

"Like who? Spider-Man?"

"He'd come if we asked."

"I'm not asking a kid for help."

"He's not a kid anymore, Frank. He's been through hell and back."

"Exactly. Which is why I'm not dragging him into this."

You want to argue, but there's no time. The deal is going down now, and Frank's already moving, silent as a shadow.

You follow, because what else are you going to do? Let him face this alone?

The first few minutes go smoothly. Frank takes out three guys before anyone realizes they're under attack. You provide support, using kinetic blasts to disarm and disable. It's a dance you've done before, violent and efficient.

Then someone hits the alarm.

Suddenly the factory is flooded with light and sound and way too many armed men. You and Frank are separated in the chaos, and you lose sight of him in the crowd.

"Frank!" you shout, but your voice is lost in the gunfire.

You fight your way through, taking down anyone who gets in your way. Your powers are singing, kinetic energy flowing through you like electricity. You're absorbing impacts, redirecting force, turning the enemy's own momentum against them.

But there are too many. For every one you drop, two more appear.

You finally spot Frank across the factory floor. He's surrounded, fighting with the kind of brutal efficiency that would be beautiful if it wasn't so terrifying. But even he can't fight off this many.

You see the knife before he does.

Time seems to slow as one of the guys gets behind Frank, blade raised. You're too far away, you won't make it, you—

You release every bit of kinetic energy you've been storing, a massive blast that sends everyone flying. The recoil hits you like a truck, and you go down hard, your head cracking against concrete.

The world goes fuzzy. You can hear shouting, gunfire, and the sound of fighting. You try to get up, but your body won't cooperate.

Then Frank's there, his face above yours, his hands on your shoulders.

"Stay down," he orders.

"You're okay," you manage. Your voice sounds distant, strange.

"I'm fine. You're not." He's checking you over, his movements urgent. "You're bleeding."

"'S not that bad."

Frank disagrees. "You have a head wound. That's always bad."

More gunfire. Frank returns it without looking, his aim perfect even while he's focused on you. Bodies drop.

"We need to move," he says.

"Can't. Dizzy."

"Then I'm carrying you."

He scoops you up like you weigh nothing, and you want to protest, but the world is spinning and you can't quite form words. You're vaguely aware of Frank moving, of more gunfire, of the factory falling away behind you.

Then you're outside, the cool night air hitting your face. Frank sets you down carefully, and you can see now that he's hurt too—blood on his shoulder, a cut on his face, moving with the stiffness that means broken ribs.

"You're injured," you say.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." You reach for him, trying to summon your healing power, but nothing happens. You're too drained, too hurt. "I can't—"

"Don't. Don't even try." Frank's hands are gentle as he examines your head wound. "You need a hospital."

"No hospitals."

"You have a concussion. Maybe worse."

"So do you."

"Like I said kid,” he takes a few steps forward. “I've had worse."

"That's not—" You stop, because the world is tilting again. "Frank."

"I'm here. I've got you."

You want to heal him. You need to heal him. But your power won't come, and you're so tired, and everything hurts.

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"For what?"

"Can't help you."

"You already did. You saved my life back there." His voice is rough. "That blast—you could have killed yourself."

"But I didn't."

"You could have." He argues.

Your words begin to slur themselves into each other. "Would’ve been worth it."

"No. It's not." He's holding you now, cradling you against his chest. "You're not allowed to die for me. That's not how this works."

"You'd do it for me."

"That's not the same kid."

"How?"

"Because I—" He stops, and when he speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper. "Because I love you too. And I can't lose you."

You smile, even though it hurts. "Took you long enough to say it."

He nearly laughs, despite the gravity of the situation. "You know I'm not good at this."

"I know. 'S okay."

Sirens wail in the distance. Frank tenses, but you put a hand on his chest.

"Stay," you say. "Just for a minute."

He stays.

You drift in and out, aware of Frank's voice, of him talking to someone—Spider-Man, you think, from the sound of the responses. Then you're moving again, being carried, and everything fades to black.

You wake up in Frank's warehouse, which is not where you expected to be.

"You're awake." Peter's face swims into view, the mask pushed up to reveal his concerned expression. "How do you feel?"

You contemplate your answer before you say, "Like I got hit by a truck."

"More like you released enough kinetic energy to level a building. Which, by the way, was incredibly stupid and also kind of awesome."

You try to sit up, and immediately regret it. "Where's Frank?"

"Right here." Frank appears on your other side, and you can see he's been patched up—bandages on his shoulder, his ribs wrapped. "How's your head?"

"Hurts. How's your everything?"

"I've had worse." That seems to be his favourite phrase.

"You need to find a new line buddy."

Peter looks between you, grinning. "You know, for two people who I heard confessed their love for each other, you're both remarkably bad at the whole tender moment thing."

"We're working on it," you say.

"Clearly." Peter stands, stretching. "Well, I'll leave you two to your emotionally constipated bonding. Try not to do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"No promises," Frank says.

"I know. That's what worries me." Peter pulls his mask down. "Oh, and for the record? I won the betting pool. You're welcome."

He's gone before either of you can respond, swinging out through the skylight.

"There really was a betting pool?" you ask.

"Apparently."

"How much did he win?"

"Does it matter?"

"I want to know how much our relationship is worth in vigilante currency."

Frank's mouth twitches, you swear he's smiling at you softly. "Our relationship."

"Yeah. That's what this is, right?" You reach for his hand. "Unless you want to take back that whole 'I love you' thing."

"Not taking it back." He sits on the edge of the bed—and it is a bed, you realize, not the couch. He must have moved you. "But we need to talk."

"That's never a good start to a conversation."

"I'm serious. What you did back there—"

"Saved your life?"

"Nearly killed yourself." His grip on your hand tightens. "You can't do that again."

"Frank—"

"I mean it. You released too much energy at once. Peter said your heart stopped for almost a minute."

That stops you. "What?"

"You died. Technically. He had to do CPR while I cleared the rest of the factory." Frank's voice is rough. "Do you understand what that was like? Knowing you were dying and I couldn't do anything about it?" You’ve watched Frank nearly die a hundred times before…but the difference is, you always knew you could save him.

You're quiet, processing his query. You don't remember dying. You just remember the blast, the recoil, and then waking up here.

"I'm sorry," you say finally.

"Don't be sorry. Just don't do it again."

"I can't promise that."

He’s more than serious when he responds with: "Yes, you can."

"No, I can't." You squeeze his hand. "If it comes down to your life or mine, I'm choosing yours. Every time."

"That's not—"

"Fair? No, it's not. But it's the truth." You meet his eyes. "You'd do the same for me."

"That's different." He really needs to find a new line. Or at least add another few to the rotation.

"It's really not."

Frank looks like he wants to argue, but instead he just sighs, running his free hand over his face. "We're both self-sacrificing and too stupid."

"Yeah. But we've established that already." You tug him closer. "Come here."

"You need to rest."

"I need you to stop hovering and sit with me."

He does, carefully arranging himself on the bed beside you. You curl into him, ignoring the protests from your battered body.

"This is nice," you say.

"You have a concussion."

"I'm aware. Still nice."

Frank's arm comes around you, holding you carefully like you might break. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"This. Us. Caring about someone."

"You care about people. You care about Peter, even if you won't admit it."

"That's...He's—"

You smile against him. "A kid you've adopted whether you like it or not?"

"I haven't adopted anyone."

"You're literally Spider-Dad. Everyone knows it."

"I'm not—" He stops, and you feel him sigh. "Fine. Maybe I care about the kid. But this is different."

"Because it's romantic?" You tease him.

"Because I could lose you. And I don't know how to handle that."

You shift so you can see his face. "You could lose me anyway. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Or take on one injury too many. Or just decide I'm tired of your brooding and leave."

"You wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't. But the point is, you can't protect me from everything. And you can't let fear stop you from living."

"I'm not afraid."

He's quiet for a moment. Then: "Maybe I’m a little afraid."

"That's okay.” You say. “I for one, am terrified."

"Of what?"

"Of this. Of us. Of how much I care about you." You trace the scar on his cheek. "Of losing you."

Frank catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "You're not going to lose me."

"Like I said to you, you can't promise that."

"No. But I can try." He pulls you closer. "We'll figure this out. Together."

"Together," you agree.

You stay like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the warehouse quiet around you. It's not perfect. You're both injured, both stubborn, both carrying more baggage than any two people should.

But it's real. And right now, that's enough.

Three weeks later, you're on a rooftop with Frank and Peter, eating pizza and arguing about the best way to take down a human trafficking ring.

"I'm just saying," Peter says around a mouthful of pepperoni, "maybe we don't need to go in guns blazing."

"I never go in guns blazing," Frank says.

"You literally always go in guns blazing."

You laugh, stealing a slice from Peter's box. "He's got you there, Frank."

"Don't encourage him."

"I'm always going to encourage him. He's our son."

Peter chokes on his pizza. "I'm your what?"

"Our son. Didn't you know? We adopted you."

"I'm not that much younger than you!" He points at you.

"Yeah, and emotionally, you're twelve."

Peter protests. "I'm a mature adult!"

"You have Spider-Man underoos."

"They were a gift!"

Frank is trying very hard not to smile. You can tell because his mouth is doing that thing where it twitches at the corners.

"Anyway," Peter says, recovering, "I think we should do reconnaissance first. Figure out how many guys there are, what kind of security they have."

"Already did that," Frank says.

"Of course you did." Peter looks at you. "Does he ever sleep?"

"Not that I've noticed."

Frank rolls his eyes. "I sleep."

"You close your eyes for twenty minutes and call it a nap."

"That's still sleep."

"That's a blink, Frank. A very long blink."

Peter's grinning now. "You two are so married. You bicker like an old couple."

You huff. "We've been together for three weeks Parker."

"And yet you already have the dynamic down. It's impressive, really."

Frank stands, brushing pizza crumbs off his pants. "If you two are done analyzing my relationship, we have work to do."

"Aw, Dad's grumpy," Peter says.

"I'm not your dad."

"You're totally my dad. You do the disappointed face and everything."

"I don't have a disappointed face."

"You're making it right now!"

You stand, stretching. Your body's mostly healed from the factory incident, though you still get headaches sometimes. Frank's been hovering, which is annoying and also kind of sweet.

"Alright, children," you say. "Let's go save some people."

The operation goes smoothly, which is suspicious. You're used to things going sideways, but tonight everything works exactly as planned. Frank takes out the guards, Peter webs up the traffickers, and you free the victims.

It's almost too easy.

"This feels wrong," you mutter to Frank as you're clearing the last room.

"I know."

"Like, really wrong."

"I know."

"So what do we—"

The explosion cuts you off.

You're thrown backward, your ears ringing. Through the smoke and debris, you can see Frank on the ground, not moving.

No.

You're moving before you think, crawling through the rubble. Your powers are screaming at you, warning of danger, but you don't care. You need to get to Frank.

"Frank!" Your hands find him, and he's breathing, thank God, but there's blood. So much blood. "Frank, stay with me."

His eyes open, unfocused. "Get out."

"Not without you."

He's struggling to breathe. "Building's coming down." His voice is weak.

"Then we'll go down together."

"Don't be stupid."

"Too late. I'm already stupid about you."

Peter appears through the smoke, his suit torn. "We need to move! Now!"

"Help me with him," you say.

Together, you and Peter get Frank up, supporting his weight between you. The building is groaning, supports failing. You can feel it in your bones, the kinetic energy of imminent collapse.

"Go!" Frank shouts. "Both of you, go!"

"Shut up," you and Peter say in unison.

You make it out with seconds to spare, the building collapsing behind you in a cloud of dust and debris. You're all coughing, covered in dirt and blood, but you're alive.

"Everyone okay?" Peter asks.

"Define okay," you say.

Frank's unconscious now, his breathing shallow. You can see the damage—shrapnel wounds, possible internal bleeding. It's bad.

"I need to heal him," you say.

"You can't," Peter says gently. "You're too weak. You'll kill yourself."

"I don't care."

"Yes, you do. And so does he." Peter puts a hand on your shoulder. "Let me call for help. Real help."

"There's no time."

"Then we make time."

You look down at Frank, at his pale face and the blood seeping through his clothes. You could heal him. You could take on his injuries, his pain. But Peter's right—you're too weak. The factory incident took more out of you than you've admitted. Another healing this big might actually kill you.

But letting Frank die isn't an option either.

"I have to try," you say.

"No." Frank's eyes are open now, barely, but there's steel in his voice. "Don't."

"Frank—"

"Promise me. Don't heal me. Not like this."

"I can't just let you—"

"Promise." His voice is firm.

You're crying now, you realize. Tears cutting tracks through the dirt on your face. "I can't lose you."

"You won't. I'm too stubborn to die." He manages a weak smile. "But I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

You want to argue. You want to use your powers anyway, consequences be damned. But the look in Frank's eyes stops you.

"Okay," you whisper. "Okay."

Peter's already on the phone, calling for medical help. You hold Frank's hand, feeling his pulse flutter weakly under your fingers.

"You better not die," you say.

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Good. Because I have a lot of things I want to yell at you about, and I can't do that if you're dead."

"Looking forward to it."

The ambulance arrives, and they take Frank away. You try to follow, but Peter holds you back.

"Let them work," he says.

"I should be with him."

"You will be. But right now, you need to let the professionals handle it."

You watch the ambulance disappear, feeling helpless and useless and terrified.

"He's going to be okay," Peter says.

"You don't know that."

"No. But I believe it. And you should too."

You want to believe him. You really do. But all you can think about is Frank's blood on your hands, and the promise you made not to heal him. And if he dies because you hadn't done anything to save him...you're not sure you could live with yourself.

The hospital waiting room is purgatory.

You've been here for six hours, and there's still no word. Peter left an hour ago to check on the victims from the trafficking ring, promising to come back. You're alone with your thoughts, which is dangerous.

You keep replaying the explosion in your mind. Keep thinking about what you could have done differently. Keep feeling the phantom weight of Frank's hand in yours.

"Family of Frank Castle?"

You're on your feet before the doctor finishes speaking. "That's me."

The doctor looks skeptical—you're covered in dirt and blood and probably look like you've been through a war. Which, technically, you have.

"Are you actually family?" she asks.

"I'm his—" You pause. What are you? Girlfriend sounds too casual. Partner is too vague. "I'm his person. How is he?"

The doctor's expression softens. "He's stable. The surgery went well. He's lucky—the shrapnel missed all the major organs."

The relief is so intense you almost collapse. For once you're thanking whatever deity above, or below for making Frank Castle such a lucky bastard. "Can I see him?"

"He's in recovery. It'll be a few hours before he wakes up."

"I'll wait."

"Visiting hours—" The doctor tries to tell you but you’re not good at listening, especially when it comes to Frank.

"I'll wait," you repeat, and something in your voice must convince her, because she nods.

"Room 437. Fourth floor."

You take the stairs because you can't stand still long enough for the elevator. Frank's room is quiet, machines beeping steadily. He looks small in the hospital bed, which is wrong. Frank Castle should never look small.

You pull a chair up beside him, taking his hand carefully. His knuckles are bruised, his face pale under the fluorescent lights.

"Hey," you say quietly. "You scared me back there."

He doesn't respond, obviously. But you keep talking anyway.

"Peter says the victims are all safe. The traffickers are in custody. So, you know, successful mission. Except for the part where you almost died." You squeeze his hand. "You're not allowed to do that again, by the way. I'm putting it in writing. No more almost dying."

The machines beep steadily.

"I wanted to heal you," you admit. "Back there, when you were bleeding out. I wanted to so badly. But you asked me not to, and I—" Your voice breaks. "I kept my promise. Even though it was the hardest thing I've ever done."

You sit there for a long time, just holding his hand and listening to him breathe. At some point, you fall asleep, your head on the edge of his bed.

You wake to someone touching your hair.

"Hey," Frank says. His voice is rough, but he's awake, and he's looking at you with those dark eyes.

"Hey yourself." You sit up, wincing at the crick in your neck. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got blown up."

"That's because you did get blown up."

"Fair point." He's still touching your hair, his fingers gentle. "You stayed."

"Of course I stayed. Where else would I be?"

"Getting rest. Taking care of yourself."

"I can do that here."

"That chair can't be comfortable."

"It's fine."

Frank's quiet for a moment, just looking at you. Then: "Thank you." He whispers.

"For what?" You quite literally hadn’t done anything for him to thank you for.

He pauses. "For keeping your promise. For not healing me."

"I hated it."

"I know. But you did it anyway." He pulls you closer, and you go carefully, mindful of his injuries. "That means everything."

"You're not allowed to almost die again," you say against his shoulder.

"I'll try."

“Frank,” you lament. "That's not good enough."

"It's the best I can do."

You pull back to look at him. "Then I guess I'll just have to stick around. Make sure you don't do anything stupid."

"That's a full-time job."

"Good thing I'm unemployed."

He laughs, then winces. "Don't make me laugh. Hurts."

The door opens, and Peter sticks his head in. "Oh good, you're awake! I brought coffee and—" He stops, taking in the scene. "Am I interrupting a moment?"

"Yes," Frank says.

"No," you say at the same time.

Peter grins. "I'll just leave these here." He sets down a carrier with three coffees. "Glad you're okay, Frank. Try not to get blown up again."

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because you keep getting blown up!"

"It's not intentional."

"Isn't it though?"

Frank throws a pillow at him. Peter catches it with one hand, laughing, his coffee in the other.

"I'll leave you two alone," he says. "But I'm coming back later with actual food, because hospital food is terrible."

He leaves, and you're alone with Frank again.

"He's a good kid," Frank says.

"He's practically your son."

"He's not—" Frank stops, sighs. "Fine. Maybe he's a little bit my son."

"Wow,” you smile, “That ladies and gentleman, is what we call character growth. I'm so proud."

"Shut up."

"Make me." He does, pulling you down for a kiss that's gentle and sweet and tastes like hospital and coffee and home.

When you pull apart, you're both smiling.

"So," you say. "What now?"

"Now you go home and get some actual rest."

"Not happening."

"You need—"

"I need to be here. With you." You settle back in the chair, taking his hand. "Deal with it, Castle."

He looks like he wants to argue, but instead he just squeezes your hand. "Stubborn."

"You love it."

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I do."

Two months later, you're on Frank's rooftop—your rooftop now, really—watching the sunrise.

Frank's beside you, his arm around your shoulders. He's mostly healed from the explosion, though he still moves carefully sometimes. You've been good about not healing him, letting his body recover naturally. It's been hard, but you're learning.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

"How weird this is."

"Weird how?"

"Weird good. Weird like, six months ago I was alone, and now I have you. And Peter. And this whole complicated vigilante family thing."

"Having regrets?"

"Not even a little bit." You lean into him. "You?"

"No." He presses a kiss to your temple. "This is good."

"Good? That's high praise coming from you."

"Don't push it."

You laugh, and the sound echoes across the rooftop. Below, the city is waking up—people heading to work, starting their days, living their lives. You and Frank exist in the shadows, protecting them from things they'll never know about.

It's not a normal life. But it's yours.

"Hey," Peter's voice calls from below. He swings onto the rooftop, landing with his usual grace. He's got a bag from the bodega, and you can smell coffee and bagels.

"Breakfast meeting?" he asks.

"Apparently," Frank says.

"Great! Because I have news." Peter pulls out his phone. "There's a new player in town. Calls himself the Vulture. He's been hitting tech companies, stealing experimental equipment."

"And you want our help," you say.

"I mean, I can handle it alone, but—"

"But you'd rather have backup," Frank finishes.

"Exactly." Peter grins. "So what do you say? Family team-up?"

You look at Frank. He looks at you. Something passes between you, an understanding that doesn't need words.

"Yeah," you say. "We're in."

"Excellent! This is going to be great. We should have a team name. Like the Defenders, but cooler."

"We're not having a team name," Frank says.

"The Punishers?"

Frank scoffs. "No."

"Ooh," Peter actually giggles, "How about: The Kinetic Crew?"

You frown at the idea. "Absolutely not."

"Spider-Family?" He tries.

Frank eyes him with contempt, mockingly. "I will shoot you."

"You won't shoot me. Mom won't let you." Your heart smiles, mom. Even though it's a joke, it feels nice to be needed by someone.

You laugh at Frank's expression. "He's got you there."

"I hate both of you," Frank mutters, but there's no heat in it.

"No you don't," you and Peter say together.

And he doesn't. You can see it in his eyes, in the way he's relaxed around you both, in the small smile he's trying to hide.

This is your family now. Broken, complicated, held together by violence and stubbornness and love. It's not perfect—but it's yours, and Franks. And that's certainly enough.

a/n: thank you to anyone who read this fic all the way through! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did writing it (I would love to write more for frank in the future)...

#ughhh found family ilysm #frank castle x reader

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