Thirteen and Life
Frank Castle x High School Sweetheart!Reader — Glory Days
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Summary: With your birthday coming up, neither of you think much about Billy Russo. But he’s not someone you should let go unnoticed. Frank confronts you about your home life, why you’re turning 19 in a few days, but not about the “L word” you let slip earlier today. It ends in tears, Frank’s vow for love and vengeance, and dinner with his parents.
Warnings: Glory Days High School Series AU, dual pov, hurt/comfort, discussions of reader’s trauma and home life, past death of a parent, present but absent father, financial struggles, alcoholism, cancer, Frank’s in a tank top, mini make out sesh, dynamics shifting deeper, bonus points if u know the song the title is named after
w/c: ~3660
(first of two birthday fics dedicated to the wonderful @veralinasol! hebd 🥳, beautiful!!! love you!)
Somewhere between the third fuck and Frank spilling half the bottle of motor oil, his sweatshirt found its way onto you.
The alleyway’s like any other. Garbage left to rot in the corners, scuttling mice squeak and feast on trash, dark, damp, but… private.
…Andddd directly next to his house. Therefore also his parents. Who you still haven’t met yet. Your choice, not Frank’s.
Frank doesn’t let the filth of the alley touch you.
You sit on the rolling stool he uses when he works under the truck, your legs tucked up to your chest, arms banded around your knees.
Evening time drags in a cooler breeze, reminding everyone summer’s still a ways away. But you… you’re running a little warm as you watch Frank work.
Grease and oil smear his forearms as he digs into the popped hood of the truck. Veins branch from the backs of his hands until they disappear into the density of his biceps, on full display in the thin black tank he wears.
Conversation’s been… oddly normal since this morning.
Since you accidentally said love you, Frank and bolted off like a dumbass before you died of embarrassment.
But there’s nothing quite normal or dismissive about the way Frank keeps glancing at you. A constant flicker of lingering, quizzical looks like so much time’s passed that he doesn’t trust what he heard. Trying to figure you out. The truth behind what you confessed, maybe even why you haven’t said it again.
He’s not forgotten or let go… No.
He’s waiting.
For now, though… you enjoy the avoidance.
“Your birthday’s comin’ up,” Frank says, adjusting his backwards hat with the crook of his arm as he squints into the engine bay. He’s either extremely focused, or he’s giving you freedom from the intensity of his stare. You know which.
“Already?” Your brows bounce indifference. “Hm… seems like just a year ago I had one.”
“Funny.” He does crack a smirk.
You do not. Your eyes lift to the clouds loading the sky, hiding behind the act of simple observation.
Wrench in hand, Frank buries his arm in mechanical guts and starts to loosen the oil drain plug. “Well… whaddya want f’it?”
“To not talk about it,” you muse.
Frank snorts. The wrench clatters as he tosses it aside and reaches his fingers in to finish the job. “Yeah, well, we are. I let you off the hook all the time with not talkin’ ‘bout things, huh?”
“And I greatly appreciate you for that,” you chime, and it earns you a deadpan glare.
“So. Lemme ask again.” A metal scrape as he adjusts the drain pan under the uncapped plug with a grunt. “Whatchu want f’your birthday, pretty girl?”
Indecision has you gnawing your lip, genuinely thinking now.
Don’t ask for too much, that’s rude.
Don’t ask for too little, that’s also rude because it’s dismissive.
“…Another movie?” the proposal lifts your brows as you look at him, hopeful he accepts.
Frank huffs. A laugh? Shaking his head, he moves around the truck. Tosses out the old filter, wipes his hand on a stained, threadbare rag tucked into his front pocket. “We do the movies anyway. Pick sumthin’ else.”
“It’s my birthday. That’s what I want.”
“Congrats. Tryna celebrate with you. Lemme getchu sumthin’ f’it.”
“But…? I asked to go to the movies…?”
“You done with the bs?” Frank greases the rubber lip of the new filter with an oiled finger, shooting narrowed eyes at you. “‘Cause I am.”
You puff a weak laugh. “Why’re you making this such a big deal?”
“One of us’s got to, huh?”
“…Not entirely used to that,” you mutter, your thumb making anxious tracks on your opposite hand.
A rubbery squeak as Frank screws the filter in by hand. Hypotonic in the repetitive motion, dangerous in the sweat defining his muscled arms. Staring’s your only option here.
“So whatchu want?” Frank prompts again, brows knotted as he focuses on the oil change. “Jewelry? ‘R- ‘r, shit, I dunno, books? What the hell else girls like? I ain’t pickin’ out any damn lipgloss. Ain’t good at that. Too many goddamn flavors.”
Newsflash: he absolutely would if you asked for lipgloss.
“Flavors.” Endeared laughter shakes your shoulders but makes little sound. “I don’t want jewelry, oh my god. Okay, okay, look…” you lift a hand with your invisible offer. “How about weee… hit the roller rink? Orrr… go bowling?”
A very pointed look that says no bowling.
You laugh and conjure up other ideas. “Okayyy… roller rink, or a picnic, orrrr… the arcade?”
“Arcade?” Hands planted on the front fender, Frank pauses to eye you up and down, waiting for the catch. “That what you want? Wanna go to the arcade? Play games with sticky controls ‘n get ripped off on prizes?”
You shrug and bob your head in a well… yeah that’s what I said.
Frank nods once. “Can do that f’you, alright. Arcade, picnic, roller rink, yeah, you got it.” It’s a done deal. He drops the funnel in, pouring oil until it glugs.
“Oh,” you point a finger at him, crinkle your nose. “If we do the arcade? You have to win me a stuffed animal.”
There’s the catch.
“What makes you think I can do that? Ain’t much ‘f a video games guy.”
As if the oil on his arms and calluses on his fingers aren’t enough proof.
“I can see you kicking ass in ski ball,” in a dreamy sigh. “And the basketball game. And maybe using your genetically dominant build to intimidate grown men into giving me a bigger stuffie than my tickets allow for, if all else fails.”
“Oh, so you’re only with me f’m’ size, huh?”
“Yup, you caught me,” a cheeky sarcasm to it, your face red hot. “But seriously…” you settle down, smile flickering to fade. “Any of those would be perfect and more than enough. I don’t need any of them. You pick. Based off any of those. I’ll be happy with anything.” Your legs unravel, dangling. You shrug again. “I just want time with you.”
Inspecting the dipstick at eye level, Frank clicks his tongue. “That it? Time with me? Askin’ ‘n arm ‘n a leg, pretty girl, Christ.”
By the time your eyes circle back from rolling, you find him with a half-cocked smirk.
Clouds swallow the sun and the day with it. A harsher chill rolls in. Somehow the dark and the cold don’t mean as much when Frank’s with you. He’s safe and warm and all things a best friend should be.
Windows become golden boxes in the apartment complex across the street. People coming home to their lives, their families, dinner… How different it feels for everyone.
How you envy those greeted with hugs and warm food and love, even in—especially in—the absence of a meal.
Coming home for you looks like faulty lighting, smells like liquor and vomit, and feels cold because there’s no one waiting. Not anymore.
How…
How would it feel with Frank, though…? Coming home to him… being at home with him…
You don’t get long to ponder.
The truck hood comes down in a squeak of hinges and a final latch. Maintenance done.
That means you have Frank’s full attention. And that’s a vehement concentration of emotion—much like a storm—and you’re in the eye of it.
It’s a great thing. And a dangerous thing, because there’s nowhere to hide.
Wiping his fingers (rather, smearing stubborn oil) one at a time on the rag, Frank ambles in closer. Closes the distance with the loose confidence of an apex predator. You’re no prey. You’re simply his. And nature has an innate disposition over possession no man can hide.
“Gotta ask you sumthin’,” he says, boots scuffing to stop where you sit.
In the one second he looks away, you visibly cringe. Great, here we go. Time to meet your maker and discuss your fuck up in the hallway when you said you loved him like an idiot.
Mouth desert dry, your throat bobs a swallow. “About what?” your question more strained than you want it to be.
“‘Bout you turnin’ nineteen.”
Okay. So it’s actually worse than you imagined. A cringe you can’t hide, reactionary, as if the number slapped you across the face. Your lips roll in, sealing shut every ugly truth you desperately run from in every new town, new school, new acquaintances.
You can only run so far.
“Hey.” Frank ducks his head to infiltrate your blank stare, rugged face kind. Patient. Kind and patient coexist with inescapable. “Why they hold you back? Huh?” Head craned, his eyes squint as they rove over your face. “I know it ain’t your grades.”
“Frank… do we have to do this?”
When you refuse to give him your eyes, dirty fingers gently cup your chin, redirect your face until it’s three inches from his.
Exactly. Inescapable.
“Yeah. Yeah, we do,” he says, tone low. “Alright? That’s shit I gotta know, shit you gotta get comfortable tellin’ me, hm? Tryna do right by you, really am, doll. Ain’t ever tried f’sumthin’ like this,” Frank admits, head bowed but his eyes dark and honest cutting up under his brow. “Ain’t ever tried hard t’ keep sumthin’ like you. Lemme in, ‘kay? You do that f’me?” A pained smile that falls with a breath from his mouth. “Tell me what’s goin’ on. What made you, you. What got you t’ be this girl ‘m sick for.”
Tears balance in your eyes where you stare over his shoulder, at the sky.
Those clouds, empty rolls of a diseased grey, loom with latent malice. It looks exactly how it did the day your mom passed.
“I seen your English papers, sweetheart,” Frank coaxes. “Know you know words. I jus’ need t’ hear ‘em. You do that f’me?”
“Frank, I can’t…” it comes out crackling, throat pinching your vocal cords taut.
You don’t realize a tear falls down your cheek until Frank uses a thumb to collect it.
“Know it’s hard,” Frank murmurs, crouching down in front of your legs. Both of his hands cover your knees, thumbs working soothing arcs at the bend. “But ‘m here f’you, ‘kay? Here f’all’a you. ‘Specially the parts you ain’t fond of. Start small, sweet girl. Little sentences, s’all I need, yeah?”
Little sentences. A few words. Big, warm hands squeezing assured praise on your legs. With Frank? For Frank? Maybe you can manage this.
“Okay,” you croak, face mottled red after two tears. Swiping the cuff of his sweatshirt under your eyes, your hands find both of his pointer fingers and you cling. You hold for dear life by just two of his fingers, white-knuckling as you brace for purge. “Okay. You- you deserve to know… Just… please don’t look at me differently after this, okay?”
“Never. Promise, sweetheart.” He even crosses his heart.
Sucking in a stuttering breath, hands sweaty on his fingers… you begin.
You tell Frank about how things used to be better. It was never perfect, moving state to state for a father you had as an acquaintance with a mother, though, you had as a best friend. Your mom… she was everything. Love and light. Joy and life. Someone to see the good in the nastiest days. It’d rain cats and dogs and she’d thank it for the flowers or for the birds who would benefit from flushed out worms.
When Dad would come home, Mom sheltered you from his… obscurities. She said he was a complicated man with a brilliant mind. That’s still true. But now there’s no checks and balances. There’s only the obscurities and the liquor and the vacuum-suction black hole of grief.
While you talk, Frank rests his chin on his hands, never letting go of your knees. He says nothing, but his eyes always do. Sympathy softens them, has them bouncing around from your face, to your stomach, to where he grounds you through touch, then the sky. A glare so vile you wonder if he’s mad at God.
Talking about your mom while she was alive’s the easy part.
She’s not alive anymore. Hasn’t been for six years.
She died, you tell Frank through saliva stringing your mouth, tears chasing each other.
Pancreatic cancer. Terminal. You were thirteen. You learned to change IV bags, what an infected needle sight looked like. And how to purée food when she couldn’t feed herself. You learned about aspiration and how to stop her from choking and how much blood was too much blood to cough up.
You watched your mother die while your father fought wars.
You held her hand as each day took more of her vitality and left you with a wheelchair, oxygen tanks, and a corpse.
For that one year—diagnosis to death—you didn’t go to school.
You watched cancer take first her light, and then her life.
Involuntary response to catharsis, your body rocks. Small, jerky movements as you talk.
Somewhere along the way, Frank smashes the side of his face against your chest, his arms locked in a vise around your middle as he hugs you, holds you.
Frank Castle, on his knees in a rat-infested alleyway as he embraces you where you sit with such ferocity it can be considered rage.
Your arms tie around his head, his hat bent off his head, ragged breath wet and hot in his hair as you tell him everything. The hard, ugly pieces of you you’ve tried to bury, but they’re zombified; always coming back from the dead to eat you alive.
Mom died and Dad picked up drinking when he was home. The Corps kept him domestic when they could, but there’s no special treatment in combat. Family friends and distant relatives raised you if you weren’t raising yourself.
Drinking escalated to drugs. Drugs escalated to psychosis and dishonorable discharge when he accused the Department of Defense of money laundering and arms deals with hostile nations.
Now…? For the last year?
It’s just been you and Dad.
Well…
What’s left of him.
Alcohol’s leeched him into a cold, disoriented shell.
No more income. No more benefits. His title, rank, and financial security stripped from when he tried to take down the US government himself based on a hallucination.
“I- I just do what I can, you know?” you stammer, cries hiccuping. “There’s- there’s all these fucking bills to pay, and credit cards over the limit, and groceries to buy. I’m just r-ready to start this f-fucking job next week. I fucking h-hate it here, Frank. I hate it at home. And a p-piece of me? It hates my dad, too. He just- he forgets I even exist.”
Frank doesn’t ease you off when your fingers knot in his hair, or when your nails bite into his scalp as your teeth chatter.
Frank can handle pain.
But he can’t handle this. Your pain.
Frank learned young how to hold a grudge.
What punishment should look like.
And what it means to get even.
Frank’s gotta do sumthin’ before his fuse detonates.
First spark happened when you said you wasn’t used to your birthday bein’ a big deal. Caught fire when he realized you never had much of a dad and burned to ash every word after. Now ain’t the time for him, though. This’s about you.
You. Frank’s girl. Been payin’ for a grown man to drink his life away for a goddamn year while dust piles high on the pantry shelves ‘cause you can’t afford groceries.
You shouldn’t fuckin’ have to.
You’re fuckin’ eighteen.
Minutes go by.
The alley stops echoin’ your cries ‘cause you stopped cryin’ five minutes ago.
You just… hold ‘im. Arms wrapped around his head still on your chest, holdin’ on with a desperation like you’re scared he might die and you’ll be alone again. Maybe this’s just the first time you ain’t felt alone in a long time.
Hiccuped sobs jerk your chest. Frank damn near startles and squeezes you tighter every time.
“Sh-sh-sh,” he hushes without disregarding. “Okay, s’okay. I gotchu, pretty girl, right here.”
He’s glad you can’t see his face.
The wrath blackening his eyes. The prick of his own tears biting the sclera red. The fantasy of revenge winding his jaw until the muscle aches.
Your arms unravel in inches. Robotic movements unlatching him enough he can pull back, look you in the face since you won’t meet his eyes.
Your hands—shakin’ like a leaf—fly to wipe your face, nose.
First thing he does’s inspect you. Throat working, Frank pats you down. Both hands start on your jaw. It trembles.
“Hey, you’re alright. Alright.”
Hands on your shoulders. They shake.
“Did a brave thing, you tellin’ me all that. Know that?”
Your elbows. Pinched into your sides.
“Know how proud I am ‘a you f’that?”
Your knees. Knocking together.
“Now lemme tell you sumthin’…”
Frank plants a boot on the ground. Pushes up, standing in front of you. He takes your head in his hand, palming the back of it gently. Guides you in ‘til you’re slumped pliant against his sternum.
His fingers thread through your hair, little twitches of his fingers mistaken for light scratching. With his other hand, he cups the side of your face. Thumbs your cheek, the rough pad catching on a sticky track of drying tears.
“Thank you,” he says first, glancing down where you stay burrowed into his tank. “F’doin’ that. Bein’ brave like that. Talkin’ t’ me. ‘ppreciate it, I really do.”
His hat’s upside-down on the ground.
You don’t move. S’okay. He doesn’t expect you to. Your breath seeps warm into his shirt when you exhale. Drags cool when you breathe in against him.
“I ain’t gonna let anythin’ bad happen t’ you, you hear me?”
You nod, raising your hands to bunch them in the sides of his tank.
“I gotchu. You got me. How this works, yeah?”
Another nod.
Frank strokes your hair, your face. Settles you down, limp body using him as a support beam.
“…Think ‘m gettin’ oil on your face, sweet girl.”
He’s not.
It gets a weak laugh out of you, no more than a reluctant huff.
He’ll take it.
Hot swells of anger itch under his skin. Tics in his right forefinger like his body already knows it’s made for a gun, but right now he uses it to hold you.
There’s only one solution. The bells will toll eventually. Not now, not even soon… but eventually.
“How ‘bout you come up, huh?” he suggests.
You tense under Frank’s touch, breath stalling.
“C’mon. Come in f’dinner, huh? Meet m’folks. Tell ‘em all the time how they’ll love you, but shit… they think you ain’t real. Think ‘m makin’ you up, two months ‘n they ain’t seen you.”
“Frank…” Muffled by his body, you rub your face into him. A no, hiding, and embarrassment all in one. “No way. I look like a mess right now. Not tonight.”
“Nah. Ain’t possible.” Still skimming his thumb over your jaw. “Always lookin’ beautiful, sweetheart. Always callin’ you m’pretty girl, ain’t I?”
The silence following is your answer.
Frank sighs through his nose, anything but disappointed. Feels almost at ease, things clickin’ into place. Knows you more now.
“…Helps me, y’know?” Frank says. “You tellin’ me like you did.”
For the first time since he drew you in, you peer back just enough to look at him with furrowed brows. “…Helps you what?”
“…Love you better.”
Shock hits you first. Looks like you black out. Eyes scrunching hard before they fling wide. Mouth drops open with a sharp gasp. Caught.
Frank lets you process. Takes both hands, palms wide over your cheeks, thick fingers cradling the sides of your head.
“Yeah I heard you this mornin’,” he says, eyes on you with a softness reserved for devotion. Traces every feature, memorizing you ‘cause no picture can do you justice like this. Face still blotched, lashes wet, bits of mascara under your eyes. Brave, though. Yeah, brave as hell.
Your hands—sweat damp, shaky—curl around his wrists, pressing his hands harder against you. Eyes falling shut, you deflate. “You don’t have to say it just because I did. I’m sorry if it was too fast, it just slipped out, I—”
“Sh.”
Frank stops you with a kiss. A firm smash of his lips on yours, crushing any possible apology, excuse, or back pedal.
Jesus, you taste perfect. Fruit Stripe gum and somethin’ he can’t get enough of. You’re warm and soft, melting into him more every second.
Tilting his head, lips slotting in a tight stack, he asks for more before taking it.
You sigh into his mouth: permission.
He eases your lips apart with his own. Guides your mouth in agonizingly slow, open kisses. Never rushes. Shows you. A tentative dab of his tongue in your mouth, drawing it back so you can chase. The chase of exploring laps and tormenting kisses comes to a shared end when you’re both breathless.
Lips red and puffed, Frank drops his forehead against yours, eyes closed.
“Christ,” he rumbles a chuckle, mouth flitting a smile.
Your breathy laugh fans his mouth. Makes his dumb smile widen.
“C’mon,” he murmurs again, a sway of his head as he grazes your lips with his. “Come up. Please? F’me, sweet girl? Have dinner with me, huh? Jus’ this once. Hate it ‘n you don’t gotta come back.”
A full laugh pulls your mouth wide. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the please he so rarely gives, or the fact you two love each other… “Okay, yes. Yes, fine, I’ll go, I’ll go. Just… don’t leave me hanging, okay? Your mom makes me insanely nervous.”
“Heh. Makes two ‘a us.”
Frank takes a step back. Offers his hand to you.
You take it like you’ve always been meant to; a natural reach for him.
He pulls you to your feet, then close to his side as you take the sidewalk—Frank by the road, you safe on the other side—and stroll for the front door.
Your shoulders bump. Hands stay held. All the time in the world, it seems.
“…Ma’s gonna kill me,” Frank says as he glances up at his bedroom window.
“Oh, god,” you hesitate a step, but he keeps going. “Why? Because I’m an uninvited guest?”
“Nah.” Frank stops at the front door, hand in yours. Grins at you, all honest, a little sheepish, a lot lopsided. “‘Cause ‘m bringin’ home the prettiest damn girl I ever met.”
And you both walk into the Castiglione household together, not realizing this……
This is the start of forever.
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