This Guy Botherinâ You, Sweetheart?
Husband!Frank x Wife!Reader
Summary: Your new coworker causes problems between you and Frank. You canât figure out whyâyouâre nothing special. But when drinks at the bar prove you wrong⌠the night ends in blood.
Warnings: slow burn conflict to violent explosion, threats, detailed violence, blood, jealous!Frank, protective!Frank, negative self-image/imposter syndrome/negative self-talk & self-worth, manipulation (not Frank), sexual innuendoes, implied fingering, attempted drugging (not Frank), fuck ton of cussing, power plays, mentioned death of an animal (trust me, youâll see, itâs not sad).Â
A/N: I kept Frank as still being semi-active as The Punisher. My personal opinion: Frank would not do the job if married. He loves you too much to put you in unnecessary danger. HOWEVER⌠itâs hot as fuck so thatâs my reasoning. đ Pics from Pinterest, not mine. I lowkey took this to some extremes. Reader is always 18+. Minors do not interact. Tag list is open for 18+. Asks open for Frank.
Frank can smell bullshit the way a shark smells blood: one drop, a quarter mile away.Â
Shitâs not close enough to see yet, but it fuckinâ stinks.Â
A cool breeze whistles through the crack in the window as the rain patters down, crisp ozone and wet tarmac in Frankâs nose. Night settles in; so consuming itâs comfortable. Maybe itâs the anticipation of waiting for you. His girl, gettinâ off her shift to get in his car, get you back home safe, drive you through that coffee joint for a chai latte and a coffee just to drag it out longer. Windshieldâs speckled, raindrops streaking, but heâs still got a clear enough view. Woulda been out there waitinâ for you, but last time he did, you said you loved the rain and the run to the truck. So⌠he stays put. Gives you whatever simple pleasure he can.Â
The seat creaks under Frank as he adjusts, elbow on the console, chin in his hand, eyes fastened to the door youâll be cominâ out of. Totally casual. Boot totally not taptaptaptaptapping in the footwell. Van off, artillery in the back; the unsavory pieces Frank isnât scared to show you anymore.Â
Started stinkinâ six weeks ago. Not your bullshit. Jasonâs bullshit. Your new clean-cut, savvy-tongued, personal ass-kissing coworker. Started small. Innocent enough. Frank knows better.Â
A text on your phone during dinner guyâs first week. Frank raised a brow in question, fork left hovering in front of his mouth. âSweetheart, that guy botherinâ you?âÂ
You raised a brow at your screen, then your expression neutralized. You blink across the table at Frank. âHim? Oh, god, no. Heâs been a breath of fresh air.âÂ
âŚBreath of fresh air. You hear that shit? Christ.Â
âNew guy at work just has questions. Normal stuff.âÂ
âQuestions canât wait until work hours?â Frankâd asked, voice smooth through the lurch of instinct in his chest.Â
âEh, heâsâŚÂ trying,â you reason, âto get up to speed. You know how it goes being new.âÂ
Then the phone calls. He ainât even subtle.
You walked in the apartment humming acknowledgment, phone sandwiched between your shoulder and cheek while someone else gabbed. When you did answer, it was respectful. Tasteful, nothinâ out of the ordinary. That amicable professionalism Frank dotes on, hearinâ you talk all smart, talk your shop. Youâd chime in, small cues you were home. Polite excuses to get off the call. Didnât work.Â
Frank cornered you against the countertop, hands planted on either side so his barrage of affection was inescapable. Soundless, you laughed, squirming in the cage of him as Frank nipped your neck, kissed your jaw, muttered nothings about gettinâ you a bath ready, askinâ if you taste as good as you smell, pressinâ about your day⌠so when you didnât reciprocate⌠when youâstill laughinâ, still smilinââturned away to give attention to the damn phone call⌠Frank knew exactly who stole your attention, knowinâ damn well youâre home. And it pissed him the fuck off. Not pissed at you. Christ, no. Never you, his sweet angel. Pissed the fuck off at the guy callinâ a married womanâFrankâs girlâafter hours, keepinâ you on the phone âabout workâ until night came around and Frank suggested, in good nature, you needed sleep.
Frank didnât sleep much that night. When he did? He dreamt about reachinâ through the receiver to crush Jasonâs windpipe.
The double-doors unlatching retrieves Frank from his thoughts. Automatic, he sits straight, heart stuttering the second he sees you walking out into the night rain. Wind catches your hair, tugs your jacket, but when you look up through the needles of rain? See him there, the van? Jesus, heâs gone. Delight lifts you up. Puts a skip in your step, literally. You beam. Smile. Wave like you ainât seen him in weeks even though he kissed you goodbye that same morning.Â
Frank rolls the window the rest of the way down. Leans out the side, elbow hooked out, squinting against the weather. Gives a whistle, looowân slow, goddamn obnoxious as the commoners settle and the city comes to life with rats.Â
âHey, sweetheart,â Frank calls across the lot. âNeed a ride, huh?âÂ
You laugh, keeled a bit, shoes staggering a step. God, that sound fucks with a manâs common sense. âYeah!â You call back, playing into it. âI need a ride. You got a seat?âÂ
âYeah, princess, I got a seat alright. Wanna learn how tâdrive this bad boy, huh?âÂ
âFrank,â you shout back, weak from laughter, âitâs an automatic transmission.âÂ
âSweetheart, youâre supposed tâplay along, not use that beautiful brain âa yours.âÂ
You dash the rest of the way with a wild grin.Â
Frank reaches over and pushes your door open so you can barrel in.Â
The van rocks as you catapult yourself into Frank, lips crashing into his. Your mouthâs cold on his, sweet from whatever you were drinkinâ, soft from the chapstick you canât survive without.Â
Frank knows he wonât make it into Heaven, but god damn you taste like it.Â
Breathlessly sweet, you pull back first, an arm hooked around Frankâs neck as best you can in the confined space. You nudge your nose against his, cold to warm, heart tripping as the best part of your day nears. âChai latte time?âÂ
âHell yeah, baby,â Frank rumbles, his hand splayed over the entirety of your lower back. âChai latte time.âÂ
âYes!â And after another quick, planted kiss of appreciation that conjures a groan in his throat, you plop back into your seat.Â
But as Frank shifts the van into drive, foot on the brake, he feels your excitement diminish. Craning his head over, he sees youâhis girlâa wry smile, a hand on your stomach like youâre full.Â
âWellâŚâ you start, âmaybe aâŚÂ decaf for me.âÂ
Frank gawks. âYou feelinâ alright, sweetheart?â Pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. âThey workinâ you too much in there, huh?âÂ
You breathe a dismissive laugh, guiding his hand down. âIâm fine, Iâm fine. Promise.â You tip your head against the seat, smile all soft. âI had a chai already. I donât think I need anymore caffeine before bed.âÂ
You. Already had a chai. From somewhere in the vicinity. Frank blinks. You hate the chaiâs in the vicinity. Frank specifically drives you twenty minutes outside of town to get the chai you like. Every damn night, Monday through Friday, rain or shine. Before he can get the question out, you answer.Â
âJason and I got called out for a meeting on the other side of town. He mustâve remembered I mentioned you and I go there every night after work, that itâs our thing. It was on the way back,â you explain. âHe wouldnât take no for an answer.âÂ
Frank. sees. double. Knee-jerk reaction, Frank double-stomps the brake, his stun moving the truck. Guy drives a married woman to the place she shares with her husband, buyinâ the same fuckinâ drink he gets her every night? Guy buys the married girl the drink before her husband canâthatâs the bullshit. It fuckinâ reeks.Â
You shift, sensing the fizzling tension radiating from Frank. ââŚWhat?â you ask, quiet, like anything too loudâs illicit.Â
Low, a promise to make it known: âHe know youâre married?âÂ
Brows knotted, then lifting up, you waggle your hand at him, ring catching in the distant streetlamp light. âYou made it pretty hard to miss, Frank.â You pause, eyes narrowing as you study him; the impossible person youâve managed to learn, love, and keep. ââŚWhy?âÂ
âHe ainât actinâ like youâre married.âÂ
âWhat?â You sit forward, knees angled towards him. âThatâs ridiculous. Heâs just a nice guy, trying to make friends. He does these things for everyone.âÂ
âWork ainât fâfriends.â Frank immediately hates saying it, regrets the low-drip of spite thatâs got you tensinâ your shoulders, face twisting in pure confusion.Â
âFrankâŚâ your tone to reason.Â
Hereâs the problem:Â ya donât see it.Â
Rain pelts the windshield. Heavy, angry spit from the sky.Â
He shakes his head, almostâŚÂ solemn. âDonât get it, sweetheart, do ya?â
âGet what?â With a red-mottled face, panic bouncing in your veins. âIâm so confused here, Frankie. I donât- Iâm not sure what Iâm supposed to be getting.âÂ
Frank leans an arm on the center console. Waves you in close with his other hand.Â
Like the two of you are magnetized, you follow, leaning your chin in his palm, your eyes searching between the both of his for answers. For clarity.Â
âBabyâŚâ Frank drops his voice the way he does when he needs understanding without proof. Itâs a big ask. Frank knows. Frank knows you trust him, too. And you knowâtrustâFrank wonât lead you in the wrong direction.Â
The rough pad of his thumb slides slow strokes over your cheek, his dark eyes holding yours. âGuy ainât doinâ this shit for the right reasons,â Frank says. âAinât doinâ it âcause heâs nice, or-or tryna make friends. Nah. Guy knows exactly what heâs doinâ. Heâs tryna weasel his way tâya. Playinâ nice, playinâ dirty, yeah? Guys ainât nice tâpretty ladies fâthe hell of it. He ainât a good guy.âÂ
Your lashes falter as you process, mouth circled in disbelief. Wind howls through the seams of the truck, nullifying the silence. âYouâre⌠deducing that from whatâŚ? A tea?âÂ
âEverything. The texts. Calls. Keepinâ you late at work. Buyinâ you shit like that, yeah?âÂ
âNoââ your head glitches a shake, hesitant at first. âNo. Thatâs not it at all, Frank, oh my god. Thatâs- thatâs ridiculous.âÂ
Thunder roars like distant bombs. Lightning draws a jagged white fissure through the sky.Â
Frank grimaces, pressing his mouth into line. âAinât ridiculous. Itâs right, sweetheart. You need tâstay away from that guy, you hear me? Away, before he does somethinâ I really donât like. You need me tâtalk to him, huh? Give a gentle nudge?âÂ
âApproach Jason and threaten him over work and tea?â You shake your head, exasperated by being in the middle of such absurdity. Ferocity of your truthâthe false belief youâre never enoughâin your eyes, you pin Frankâs stare. âYou have nothing to worry about. I have nothing to worry about.âÂ
âYeah?â His brows lift in a goad. âWhyâs that, huh?âÂ
âBecause Iâm not specââ
Your phone cries and vibrates on the dash like a wasp.Â
You startle, eyes snapping to the phone.Â
Franks clocks it with a vile glare.Â
The air constricts; a noose around both your necks.Â
You hesitate, heart in your throat, stomach an empty pit.Â
Jaw pulsing, expression emptyâthe preamble to violence against another manâFrank stares out the windshield with darting eyes. For five long seconds, you donât see Frank. You see The Punisher. You see what manâs capable of, if pushed too far; if whatâs his is threatened.Â
Eyes on Frank, you slink your arm out to silence the call.Â
Softer, barely a whisper, you say, âNeither of us has anything to worry about, okay? Iâm not specialââ
The phone clicks to black.Â
âItâs not bullshit, itâs true. You donât have to blow smoke up my ass like Iâm not the most average person youâve met,â you bubble an incredulous, pained laugh.
âBull-shit.â Frank argues, twisting to drill his truthâthe truthâinto you, head-on. âDonât you ever say that shit âbout yourself, sweetheart, youâre theââ
A second time. Your phone buzzes a frenzy, incessant and disruptive, deafening in the space between you and Frank. Goosebumps race up your arms, like an augury to whatâs to come. Not now, but later.Â
âI- I need to answer that,â you say, voice thin.Â
Reluctant, at a loss, Frank throws a nod at it.Â
You swipe to answer, phone to your ear with a tight, âHello?â
Frantic nonsense on the other end. Nothinâ Frank can hear. He can, though, feel your anxiety spike. An innate sense tailored to you, Frank slowly turns his head in your direction. Watches you pale, fear zigzagging your eyes.Â
Thereâs no fight in him when youâre lookinâ like this. Impatient for answers but quiet, Frank leans over the console. One big hand kneads over your thigh, keepinâ you here, with him. Whatever it isâyou ainât alone. Not with Frank around.Â
âOh my god,â your gasp wanes to a halt, eyes round with shock. âOh-oh my god. Okay! Okay, yes. Yes, lâll be right there! Just- just give me a few. Okay? Yep. Yes. Bye.âÂ
The phone slides from your ear. You donât even realize itâs dropping until Frank grabs it. Sets it in your lap. Kneads a little firmer into you.Â
âEverything alright, sweetheart?â Dumb question, but he needs to pull you back into focus.Â
âUmâ uh-haâŚÂ no.â
Frank braces, steady inhale through his nose. âTalk tâme.â
âWe, uh- Me and- yeah. We have a presentation tomorrow. Likeâ big presentation, Frank. Like, could be a promotion and a raise big.âÂ
âYeah, alright. I remember, baby. What about it?â Kneading, kneading, kneading. Here for you. All of you. Always you.Â
Your hands steeple at your mouth to keep the bile gone. âItâs gone. Our system crashed during backup. Frankâ itâs all gone.âÂ
âFuck, sweetheartââ
You bolt to action, scrambling for your things. âIâve- Iâve gotta go back in. Iâm so sorry. Iâm so, so, so sorry, Frank, but I have to. This is one of our highest priority clients I cannot fuck this up. This- this cannot be happening.â
You fly outta the car after smearing a distracted kiss to Frankâs cheek. You donât hear him ask you to wait. Or call your name. Rain and thunder drown him out; an army of one muted by mother nature and some motherfucker named Jason.Â
You sprint for the door, swinging it open and a flood of sallow office light spills out, haloing you.Â
Through the rain, the heaviness in your gut, the scorching of your throat, you yell out: âI love you!âÂ
And the door slams shut behind you, separating you from Frank once again.Â
Quietâs got a way of gettinâ in the skin when businessâs left unfinished.Â
Left things unfinished with you.Â
Frankâs got a few rules. One of the first: fix the fuckinâ problem.Â
âCause you never know when itâll be your last chance to.Â
Frankâs eyes track the empty parking lot.Â
Finds a sedan there. One with plates Frankâs memorized.Â
And now heâs got you for the night.
Frank snags his phone from his pocket. Thumbs a number without looking. Three ringsâan answer.Â
âYello?â David answers in a chuckled hum. âFraaaaank. Long time no talk, big guy. Whatâs up? Howâs it goinâ?âÂ
âNeed a favor,â Frank grits.Â
Micro scoffs, âHello to you too⌠The familyâs great, thanks for asking. Kidsâre doing good in school, Sarah has totally forgot about that kissâŚâ
âJesus Christ, Micro. Need you to check a file fâme.âÂ
âDude, itâs dinner time⌠Sarah made this Mediterranean salaââ
âSalad. Great. Wonât get cold while you check this fuckinâ file fâme.âÂ
âOkay, so Iâm sensing I donât really have a choice here, did I nail that vibe?â Â
With a sigh, grumbled huffs, a muffled excuse to Sarah, Frank hears Micro retreating. Laptop opens. Fingers flying over the keyboard.Â
âOkay, alright, here weeee goâŚâ Micro says, computer light throwing blue over his face. âCompany name?â
âFuck, I dunno? PowerPoint?âÂ
âSheesh, ancient, okay. Who uses PowerPoint these days?âÂ
âItâs- itâs a goddamn presentation, David. Deleted in the last half hour. Can you find it or not?âÂ
âFrank. Iâm offended you even asked.â A hand over his chest to stop the hurt.Â
âOkay⌠okay⌠breaking the firewall⌠okay⌠system override, easy⌠Like, concerningly easy, JesusâŚâÂ
Frank bounces a leg. Drums a hand on the wheel.Â
âAaaaaand⌠here⌠I thinkâŚÂ Found it!âÂ
Stock-still, back straight, Frank stares at the building, the door you vanished behind. âHow was the file deleted?â
âUhhh⌠Manually. Frank, what is this? Promise me this isnât another government database Iâm cracking because yâknow, Iâm home nowââ
âGoddamnit, Micro, the username. What the hell is it?âÂ
âJason underscore Caldwell. You, uh⌠you know the guy? Another one of yourâŚÂ targets?â
âWorse,â Frankâs nostrils flare. âGuyâs fuckinâ with my wife.âÂ
Itâs late. Regrettably late, and that always seems to be when the thoughts trickle in. Slow at first, and you donât realize youâre drowning until you canât breathe.Â
Tucked away in the privacy of the bathroom, you lean into the mirror. You bat the facet on so the sink disguises your dissection, muffles Frank tossing and turning in bed. Hips bent against the counter, your forehead an inch from the glass so you can magnify and inspect every conceivable flaw.Â
Your fingertips shake as they ghost under your eye. Thread-thin lines on the delicate skin only you can see. And then across your cheek, your head angling with the motion, over the dots of pores everyoneâs made of, but you never see theirs. Only yours. Your hair could be better. Your nose could be different. You manipulate your skin with your fingers, experimenting to see how youâd look if your eyes were justâŚÂ like this. Or if your nose was like that⌠Or if your eyebrows sat here, instead of there. Just⌠making yourself into a puppet instead of a person.Â
You donât⌠you donât understandâŚÂ
Who could love this? Who would want this? Why does Frank? Let alone, for someone else to be interested enough to prod at your marriage when thereâs plenty of other available women out there. Thereâs always smarter, prettier, better.Â
Frankâs words recite in your head from earlier.Â
âGuys ainât nice tâpretty ladies fâthe hell of it.â
âHe ainât a good guy.â
âYou need tâstay away from that guy, you hear me? Away.â
You scoff at his certainty, the mere idea flushing your face because it hurts to consider. It fucking hurts to look at yourself and see an imposter instead of this divine concept of you Frank has.
Turning away from the mirror, your eyes squeeze to shut out the thoughts, you smack the lights off. Safety in darkness; comfort in the blindness. Once you have the shower running, you bat off the sink. Constant noise, anything but the grating static of inadequacy. You shrug out of your cardigan. It falls to the ground in a heap; shed skin, but it doesnât slough off the fraud.Â
Everything youâve built⌠itâs just luck, right? Your job. Your education. Your friendshipsâŚYour marriage. And all luck runs out eventually. What happens when they see you?
What do you do when⌠it all comes crashing down? When they see youâre justâŚÂ you?Â
A soft knock at the door startles you. Your gasp lodges in your throat against raw flesh.Â
âSweetheart?â Frank asks, voice low and husky from sleep he hasnât had.Â
âJustââ you clear the snag in your voice. âJust a second.âÂ
You wipe the backs of your hands under your nose, shake the rotting guilt from your face, and pick the mask back up to maintain nonchalance.
A second is what Frank gives.Â
With a creak, the door opens.Â
Heavy shuffled steps follow, then pause in the doorway when he clocks the total darkness here, and in the bedroom behind him. Still, you can see his towering silhouette, something carved from mythology and given sentience.Â
Bare, broad shoulders, the sharp slant of his trapezius.Â
âYou, uhâŚâ Frank huffs a chuckle, no humor in it. âYou good? Seeinâ alright in the dark?âÂ
In your tank and slacks, in the dark where itâs safe, you lean back against the counter, hands grasping the ledge. âIâm⌠okay.âÂ
It convinces neither of you.Â
âNeed some sleep, yeah? Got your clothes in the dryer.âÂ
Your arms cinch around yourself, holding together the shaking pieces, wondering if this is the night they all break. HeâsâŚÂ so sweet. Frank. Always. Thoughtful in ways youâve never been loved before. Considerate to the extent that the only fear you live in is when heâll realize you arenât worth all this.Â
You log every single example of how Frank loves you, nausea souring your stomach because itâs overwhelming and beautiful and unconditional.Â
he drives you to and from work, every damn dayÂ
every damn day, your chai tea Except⌠except todayâŚÂ
you never go to the grocery store aloneÂ
you never lift a finger unless you ask to do it yourself, or ask to learn the task with himÂ
holds you while you cry, even cups a tissue under your nose and tells you to âblowâ after
has never made you feel unsafeÂ
loves you unconditionally, indefinitely
warms your clothes in the dryerÂ
thereâs always an electrolyte water in your lunchbox, something you forget, but Frank never doesÂ
You donât even realize you havenât said anything until Frankâs hand is on your waist, guiding you into him, asylum from your mind. Out of touch with your body, you shuffle in automatic steps.Â
âWhatâs goinâ on in that headâa yours, huh? Câmere.â Before he can settle you against his chest, you halt.Â
âWhy?â You finally spurt out, disgust spoiling the one question you havenât been able to answer after all the years.Â
Against the dark, his head cranes, his fingertips curling your tank-top where youâre just out of reach. âWhy, what?â
Steam compresses the air, humidity stiflingânowhere to run, nowhere to breathe. Everything you hold back sears your throat, veins in your head swelling with pending implosion. âWhyâŚÂ me?âÂ
Needing the light to see the repulsion in your voice, Frank flicks on the overhead bulb.Â
You recoil as though the light scorches.Â
There, in the light, he sees you. All of you. The prey animal darting of your bloodshot eyes. Deep lines of worry trekking through your face. The goddamn sincerity from which your question came, bowing your shoulders in, shrinking your spine.Â
Frank narrows his eyes on you, certainty cemented in every bone in his face. ââCause thereâs only you.â Gritty fact coming out between his teeth, tendons in his neck standing. âOnly you. Always you. You and me, sweetheart? We got somethinâ no one else does. We got this, yeah?â Gesturing his finger between you two. âThis. Us. You and me.âÂ
Biting back tears, your skin crawling with your desperation to leave it, you squeak out, âI hate when we fight. Earlier,â you swallow around the lump in your throat. âI hated that.âÂ
He softens, eyes opening to mirror your vulnerability, looking a helluva lot like the foot of distance between you hurts him. âHell,â he rasps, âwouldnât call that a fight. Just me. Lookinâ out fâyou. Same shit. Always gonna look out fâyou, even if you donât like hearinâ it.âÂ
âI donât like hearing it because itâs not true. Plain and simple. I donât get why you think Jasonâs after me.â You bubble an unconvinced laugh, slapping a hand over your mouth to stop it. âI donât even understand why youâre with me. You could do so much better, Frank.â
A loaded silence perforates the air, bleeding out something ugly, something broken from Frank. Tension ratchets up his shoulders, and self-control shoves them down. A dry, empty swallow tugs his adamâs apple.Â
The anticipation is anger.Â
The waterâs gone cold. Steam dries up, leaving an empty chill in its wake. Just the patter of the water, amplifying the chasmic space separating you from him.Â
ââŚThe hell did you just say?â Frank croaks out, his brows jutting up. âBetter? Than you? There ainât no better. There ainât anyone else. Thereâs nothinââIâm nothinââwithout you, goddamn it. You?â One shake goes through the finger he points at you. âYou fuckinâ saved me, sweetheart.âÂ
Your eyes crawl from the tip of his finger, up the corded veins in his forearm, and flick a fleeting glance to his eyes. God, does it ruin you. The anguish in his stare, so pure you wonder if what you said is form a torture for Frank.Â
Goosebumps cover your arms, and you drag your cold, clammy palms over the skin to intimate comfort, but thereâs no sensation. It only feels like youâre rubbing filth onto yourself, grabbed straight out of the oxygen you used for those words.Â
âThatâs not true,â you try to argue, but the words hold no faith. Small. You feel small. And like the rotten parts of you are being seen. And seeing those parts⌠that means leaving, doesnât it? Itâll mean Frankâs had enough. Heâll realize what you are, what youâve always been.Â
âYeah?â Frank grates his hand over his mouth like he needs to get rid of the urge to vomit, his eyes jittering with loss. âItâs my damn truth.âÂ
And just like you expectâ Frank leaves.Â
You stuff your fist in your mouth to keep a sob from punching out, and swing for the shower handle to cut the fucking noise out.Â
And with the shower severed, there isâŚÂ nothing. Grotesque proof youâve always been right. Youâre nothing special. And someday? Frank will leave. Frank is leaving.Â
Before the silence makes a home in yours, a new noise takes its place. One that startles you, something wooden clattering together rooms away. Almost sounds like⌠the kitchen tableâŚ?Â
Answering your question, proving you wrong, Frank reappears. Shirtless, grumbling curses, knocking one of the kitchen chairs through the doorway of the bathroom.Â
âFrank! Whatâre you doing!?âÂ
Dropping the chair down in front of the mirror is his response. Knuckles tented white over the back of the chair, Frank stands angled partially towards you. He jerks his head, summoning you. Shallow breath contracts the muscles in his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. Everything about him screams bridled rage, but he says nothing.Â
âSit,â he says, voice cracked low.Â
Your eyes slide from Frank⌠to the chair⌠back to Frank⌠âYou want me toâ?â
With the curt wave of his hand, Frank ends the follow up question.Â
Okay. No more questions. No more excuses. On the balls of your feet, you move in soundlessly until you perch in the chair, drawing your legs up to cross on the seat with you. You donât look at the mirror. You canât. Clearing your throat, your chin on your shoulder to be near Frank without looking, your whisper comes strained, tight. âWhat am I doing in our kitchen chair in the bathroom at two in the morning, Frank?âÂ
âSomethinâ I shoulda done a long time ago.âÂ
Frank towers from behind, heat pouring off his body and into your back. His hands cover your shoulders, his focus on the mirror, your reluctant reflection in it. Beautiful, he thinks, my perfect girl. If only you could see it. He moves a hand to cup your chin. Moves it âtil youâre headâs straight, âtil youâve got no other choice but the face the person in the mirror.Â
Your bottom lip wobbles. Your eyes strain sideways with your refusal to see.Â
âLook,â Frank whispers, bending just enough to keep his voice a private rumble, just for you. âLook at yourself fâme, angel⌠Câmon.âÂ
Itâs harder than you think. Looking yourself in the eye. Accepting the imperfections, who you are, who you are not. Because he asked, because your jaw quivers under his affection⌠you look. You see. You see yourself. Exhausted, disheveled from the day, half-dressed, fully embarrassed. His thumb skims your cheek, then skates down the curve of your neck to plant back on your shoulder.Â
âThere she isâŚâ Frankâs rough cheer, a twitch at his mouth like he might smile. Frank doesnât smile much, but the corners of his eyes crinkle.Â
Eyes, after all, are the window to the soul.Â
âThereâs my girl.âÂ
A quick, unfiltered laugh barks out of you. This is ridiculous. You press the back of your hand to your mouth, shielding the dark flush over your face. Nerves bounce your leg. âIâm here,â you shake your head. âNow what?âÂ
âNow, sweetheart, weâre gonna get those thoughts outta your head and keep âem gone.â An unsettling solemnity takes his face, his instruction inarguable. âYouâre gonna sit here, with me, âtil you say fifteen nice things âbout yourself, yeah? You and me both. No bullshittinâ me. No half-assed answers, you got me?âÂ
âUh-uh. Ainât playinâ, sweetheart. Weâll sit here all damn night if we got to.âÂ
Panic catches your breath, but you stay. You flick your eyes to his, looking for any chance to escape, but the lift of his brows says heâs read your mind and itâs not an option.Â
âAinât playinâ,â he reiterates, setting his shoulders back to lead. âAlright. âM first.â Frank draws in a slow, composing breath through his nose, head cocking. âYou gotta lotta faith in people. Trust âem âcause youâre always seeinâ the good.âÂ
Your eyes narrow, face warm. ââŚYou usually say thatâs poor survival instinct.â
âDonât mean it ainât special,â he shrugs a shoulder. âYou wonât let the world break ya. Thatâs special.âÂ
Lips rolled in, a new perspective warm in your stomach, you look down at the interlace of your fingers as you toy with your thumbs. You nod; a thanks without words.Â
âYour turn,â Frank squeezes your shoulder.Â
âIn the mirror, sweetheart. Eyes on you.âÂ
You try again. Staring back at yourself, you expand with a steeling inhale. âI⌠like⌠my neck lengthâŚ?â
ââŚYour neck length.âÂ
âNice try, sweetheart. Try again.âÂ
Your shoulders deflate, but Frankâs right there to give a little shake of encouragement. âOkay. I likeâŚâŚâŚ how I show up for the people I love.âÂ
Frank perks, slightly, approving of the sincerity. âAtta girlâŚâ He lifts a hand from your shoulder, big fingers instead weaving through the ends of your hair. He quiets again, expression smoothing with the gravity of confession. âYouâre a saint, yeah, I think you are. Got such a big heart you needâa find room in it fâyourself.âÂ
The honestyâthe real truthâputs you in pensive thought. Teeth grazing your bottom lip, you nod. You understand. You see it, too. Arms linking around your knees, you smoosh Frankâs hand against your cheek and shoulder to keep him.Â
âOnly one you,â Frank says as he leans down, planting his lips against the top of your head, breathing you in so his world keeps turning. âThatâs what makes you so goddamn special. Makes an ass like me so goddamn lucky.âÂ
Throat constricting, tears full but balanced in your eyes, you push out the words, âI love you, Frank,â and the man you love smiles.Â
âLove you more, sweet girl. Ainât off the hook yet, though. Fourteen more, câmon.â
And as you conjure up fourteen more things you can say you like about yourself, your posture straightens. Laughter returns, shared between the two of you. Tears well in your eyes but donât fall. The first one was the hardest. The rest you find with Frankâs help while he threads his fingers through your hair, or drags the back of his knuckles over your cheek, or brushes his thumb over your bottom lip.Â
Youâre talkinâ. Laughinâ. Finally cuttinâ yourself some slack. Seeinâ you like thisâsoft, unguardedâreminds Frank what he first fell in love with when he met you.Â
Your goddamn heart. Got so much youâre full of it.Â
Frank understands what needs to be done. Heâll do it. Without a doubt.Â
Heâll put the fear of god into the motherfucker that preys on your doubts, your heart, under the guise of kindness. Usinâ his wifeâs goddamn sweetness to manipulate her. Slowly. Carefully. Like heâs got all the time in the world.Â
Shark to blood, Frank stalks the maze of halls to your office. Black on black, ballcap cinched down, he cuts through the normality of business casual and overhead lights like plague.Â
Heâs the fuckinâ omen.Â
Fist vising a fresh bouquet of flowers, the cellophane crinkles. A stalk snaps. Boots thunder down the corridors he memorized first structurally, by blueprint, then physically, during his first visit years ago. Your colleagues flatten against walls, find convenient exits, avert their eyesâanything to be small in the presence of The Punisher. They donât know itâs him⌠but they feel it, the conquest for blood, the irrefutability of his violent nature.Â
Frank did his homework weeks ago. Soon as the bastard got hired, Frank had a full background check, credit scores, past addresses, and medical history. Poor bastardâs got scoliosisâno wonder he employs sick tactics on a sweet girl like you. Guyâs got no damn spine. Frankâll reshape it, alright.Â
The hall empties out by the time Frank approaches your office. He slows, head craning to see you through the open door as you work. Sunlight from the new picture windows soaks you âtil you glow gold. You mutter to yourself, movinâ here, movinâ there, unpacking trinkets from a box to arrange just how you like it in your new office.Â
Promotion paid off. You earned every bit of it. âSpecially when your breath of fresh air wiped your fuckinâ work. Frankâs not told you that. Wonât let you carry that hurt when he can handle it.Â
Without a sound, Frank leans a shoulder against the doorway. Flowers hang at his side. Temporarily? He forgets the real reason he came. Itâs you. âCourse itâs you. But it ainât this. Flowers.
Frankâs the kinda guy who mistakes warm and fuzzy for heartburn. He gets alotta heartburn around you.Â
Turns into a full blown coronary as he watches you dip both hands into the box, takinâ somethinâ in those gentle fingers like itâs priceless. You lift it out, and Christ, heâs done for.Â
Front and center on your desk, you nestle a framed photo between your monitors. The picture?
You and him. Years ago. Halloween. Hours after Frank got back, beaten only a quarter of the way dead this time. You sat between his legs on the front steps of your apartment, handinâ out candy to kids. Frank gave you relentless hell for your costume, a damn scarecrow.Â
When a kid asked Frank, âWhatâre you dressed as, mister?â
And Frank said, âAn asshole,â without blinking, heâll never forget the way you laughed.Â
You, stupidly adorable makeshift scarecrow costume. Paint on your nose, cheeks. Cheeks puffed in the biggest smile known to man.Â
Him, busted mouth crooking what it could of a smile he forgot how to make. Reminds himself of the goal heâs not yet shared: get away from the life. Retire. No more busted lips in pictures. No more bruises to come home and concern you with. No more holidays spent dressinâ his wounds.Â
Masking the aspirating blast of love tightening his voice, recalibrating to the mission instead of reminiscing, Frank speaks. âWorkinâ hard, sweetheart? Or hardly workinâ?â
Hearing Frankâs voiceâfamiliar rumbly gravelâsparks through every nerve in your system to liven you. You spin on a heel, face breaking into a wide smile, big smile. Youâre dashing to him before you realize, drawn naturally.Â
âFrank? Oh my god, hi,â your arms already winding around him waist, pressing your face against his chest to feel the steady thud, thud, thud of his heart. Your safe place. Your home. âWhatâ I wasnât expecting you,â with a breathy laugh. âWhatâre you doing here?âÂ
âCongratulatinâ my girl, yeah?â He binds his arms around you. Gives a loving nudge of his stubbled chin on your forehead to ease you back, get access, and find your mouth with his.Â
Lifted on your tiptoes, your weight braced by Frankâs forearm banded across your lower back, you tip your head to get a better taste. Lips slotted deeperâeasy to blame your excitement on the surpriseâyou hum a sound Frank laps off your mouth.Â
You want seconds. You consider seconds, delight teetering to greedy, so you compromise with two pecks and pull back to look him in the eye. Hands on his biceps for support, head tilted back so your lashes fan your eyebrow, you beam up at him.Â
âDamn,â Frank blinks, halfway disoriented. âI get that every time I bring flowers?â
âStop by more often and youâll find out.â
âYeah? Gonna let me in, give me a tour?âÂ
âMaybe more than a tour, if youâre lucky.â
âLuckâs drawn to me like flies on shit.â
You snort. ââŚRight.â
Separating a fraction, Frank offers the flowers to you in the space between his chest. Your eyes fall to them, face softening. Gentle with appreciation, over the bundle of white lilies, you press another kiss to his lips. âThank you,â you murmur against him. âThese are beautiful. For being a hard ass, youâre kinda romantic, Frank.âÂ
âRomantic, huh?â Frank watches the shape of your body as you go to tend to the flowers. âCanât let you get used tâthat.â
âToo late.â You flash a small smile in his direction, acknowledging what you both know: Frankâs not romantic in the big ways, but he loves you so much weaker men wouldâve gone stupid.Â
While you cut the stems over the wastebasket, Frank performs a simple recon of the room. Finds evidence of his target. A blazer thrown over the back of a chair. A half-drank coffee. Sloppy handwriting over an abandoned notepad.Â
âYour friend here?â Frank asks, anything but innocent.Â
Snip. Snip. You glance at him with a raised brow. âStephanie?âÂ
âNah.â Frank points at the notebook. âHim.âÂ
SnâŚip⌠Skepticism setting in, your nose scrunches. ââŚJason?âÂ
âYeah. Him. He around?â
âFigured I should meet the guy spendinâ forty hours a week up my wifeâs ass.â
You shoot a glare, lacking any real depth. ââŚHeâs gone for the day.â
âAnd left his shit in here like this?â Frank wants to say heâs an inconsiderate slob. Frank refrains from pointinâ out the guyâs makinâ himself at home in your space.Â
âItâs three things,â you quirk a brow. âNot a big deal.â
âHe gonna be back tomorrow?âÂ
âWe have a meeting at nine a.m. sharp, so Iâm gonna hope so.â
âGood,â Frank concludes, satisfied. That works, too.Â
Stalks trimmed, you arrange the lilies in a vase, fingers hanging on the glass rim when youâre finished. âForget about him,â you shake your head. âYouâre here, visiting me, itâs just the two of us, and you definitely made my day. I couldnât be happier right now, Frank.âÂ
âYeah?â Something rare and short-lived flashes in his eyes; the look where heâs still trying to believe thisâyouâare his. âGuess I did my job.â With the heel of his boot, he knocks the door shut. Prowls the rest of the way to you, his hands at home on your hips to draw you right up against him.Â
Your arms snake around his neck, melting into the solidity of Frank. By the bill, you ease his hat off, seeing him in the full, natural light of the windows behind you. Hat in your hands, his head bent, you reach up and kiss the crook of his nose. And again, on the bridge. And again, on the tip. And falling lower, to his mouth.Â
Thereâs no tentative introduction. Not when your arms buckle around him and jerk him closer. Not when his mouth opens, inseparable from you, to taste the seam of your lips. You hiccup something dangerously close to a moan, stifled by the palm that cups your jaw, the big fingers that press into either side of your cheeks to lightly mush your lips.Â
ââBout to start somethinâ we wonât be able to walk away from,â Frank goads on your mouth, voice reduced to hot husk and need.Â
Upper lip twitching, your teeth clink against his. âCanât get my outfit dirty. Iâve got a presentation in twenty.âÂ
âAllâs I needâs ten.âÂ
âYou.â Boot hooked around the chair leg, Frank yanks it over. Drops down into it, knees spread wide. Looking up at you, his stare inevitable and dark, Frank pats his thigh. âSit. Wanna show you how good the city can look from up here.âÂ
You forget everythingâespecially the presentation in twentyâwhile you overlook the city in your new office, on your husbandâs lap, his hand between your legs and the other over your mouth, his boots hooking your ankles open.
You forget about the flowers on display in your desk. Frank communicates through the flowers he buys. You shouldâve known. Shouldâve read into it more. But you didnât.Â
A harbinger in the form of velvet petals and the color of purity, specifically picked by Frank: the lilies.Â
Wasnât anything unusual when you texted Frank that afternoon with a change of plans:Â
Going out for drinks after work! Stephanieâs driving me there. Pick me up after? Come a little early to help stage my escape and we can go somewhere else to have a few together. XoxoxoÂ
Iâll be there, sweetheart. Count on it.Â
Bar stinks. Smells like fuckinâ shit. Not actual shit. Bullshitâworst kind. Full moonâs got people squirrelly. Has Frank on edge.Â
Tucked on the other side of the room, corner high top, Frank monitors you from afar. Wonât interrupt your time out. Doesnât like people much, anyway. Sipping his beer, bottle small in his grasp, Frank clocks the faces he knows from your work, watches every interaction. Even if he hasnât met âem, heâs done his homework. Has faces to names, street addresses, registered vehicles. Five coworkers with you, and a sixth, unattended drink beside you.Â
The rock in Frankâs gut says he knows. Says itâs divine intervention, givinâ him an opportunity. A gift. Wonders if Redâd see it that way, too.Â
Fuck, sweetheart, you glow under the shitty neon lights and grimy haze of smoke. Too damn pretty for a place like this. Kinda place where if you go out back? Youâll get gutted while a handful of bikers smoke and itâs your own fault for havinâ the balls.Â
Feeling Frankâs stare, you look through the crowd, finding him at his usual post. You lift your glass. Frank lifts his. A salutation from a distance, a promise for more time together later in a cheers, a sip, and a smile.Â
You go back to your friends.Â
Frank resumes guard, ensuring your safety, so you can focus on enjoying yourself.Â
Turning back to the bar, the animated chatter of tipsy talking, inebriated laughter, you feelâŚÂ good. Happy. Elbows on the sticky counter, the vodka soda in both hands, you smile. Content now, knowing later promises the best kind of fun, but itâs just you, Frank, and the entire night.Â
You donât have long to indulge in the thoughts. Jason sidles back up beside you, his shoulder pressing against yours in the congested room. He smells like aftershave, smells good, honestly, not in a hungry way, just respectable. He smells like he tried.Â
âEverything go okay at your doctorâs appointment?â you ask, nudging at the reason he left the office early today.Â
âDoctorâs appointment?â Jason fires back before he realizes. âOh, right. Yeah, definitely. Doctorâs appointment went good, went well⌠Just⌠routine.âÂ
You hum, nod along, but as you look at his profileâconversational attentionâyou notice the clean clipper passes through his hair. And then at his jaw, the skin faintly red, leftover friction of a razor blade. So he⌠went to the doctor⌠got a haircutâŚÂ shaved⌠and then you notice his clothes⌠Dark dress jeans, a fitted quarter-zip. Jasonâs not a bad looking guy, but heâs definitely not your type either. Too clean, too concerned with gaining, obtaining instead of sharing or supporting. Talks a little too much about crap he can convince you knows a lot about, even if he knows nothing. Helps him at work, and he knows it.Â
âI hope Iâm not prying here, surely you wonât mind me askingâŚâ Jason says, not asking permission, taking it anyway. He faces you completely, elbow on the bar. He looks down, thumbing the rim of his old fashioned, pensive as an act. âIs your husband⌠good to you?âÂ
Almost swallowing your straw, you spit it out in a stuttered cough, brows over your head. âWhat?âÂ
âYou seem reallyâŚÂ tense all the time. You said yourself, heâs intense.âÂ
You bubble a genuine, incredulous laugh. âMy husbandâs not the problem. Heâs intense, sure, but thatâs not a downfall.âÂ
âIt is if youâre distracted and uneasy.âÂ
âIâmâ what?â you belt out, face screwed. Itâs the first youâre hearing about being distracted, uneasy, or tense. âIâm at work. We have deadlines, high stakes, high pressure. Home isnât the problem.âÂ
Jason draws a clicking breath between his teeth, as if he knew youâd say that, and youâre still wrong. Kind, compassionate, even, he looks at you with enough sympathy to drown you.Â
âI think for you, workâs a break. Iâm just looking out for you, definitely not trying to be the bad guy here, you know Iâd never do that,â Jason raises his hands to claim innocence. âWhat Iâm trying to say is⌠you deserve someoneâŚÂ nice.â
âLike you?â you prompt, heart thrumming with Frankâs accusation from days ago.Â
Jason shrugs, biting back a smirk since you said it. âSomething for you to think about. I mean, look at all the time we spend together. Calls, staying later than we have to in the officeâŚÂ I know you, I see you in those quiet moments.âÂ
Bewildered by the audacity, brain turning the words over multiple times as you put together a rebuttal. âYou call me, Jason. You- you have questions, need help on a sheet⌠I answer and stay because Iâm supposed to. Itâs called being a good coworker, not attraction.âÂ
âBut you answer. Every time. And you never tell me you have to go. You stay on the line, stay in the office⌠with me. Whatâs that say about you? Your marriage?â Jason gauges your reaction. Pushes harder. âWhatâs the say about us?âÂ
Jaw hanging, your mind races to the last long call you had with Jason. That night Frank cornered you at the counter, kissing and biting your neck, your jaw, trying to coax your attention to home, to him. You told Jason you were home. You vocalized polite deflections that hinted the conversation needed to end. But⌠this is where being polite got you, stuck with the ideas of yourself you continuously reject, watching them come to fruition. You resist the urge to yell for Frank. You know, desperately, Frank can make the problems go away, remove you from this equation, but Frank canât fight all of your battles for you.Â
âYou,â you say, cocking a hip out, your jaw jutted. âYou need to learn your place. Now, if youâll excuse me, Iâm gonna go to the bathroom, and when I come back? This never happened, and it will never happen again. Are we clear?âÂ
Giving him no time to respondâthe only answer is yesâyou storm off. Shoulder through the crowd, and close yourself in the bathroom to cool down.Â
Frank watched the whole thing. Waited for you to give the signal. The: Frank, I need you over here signal. You never did. You wanted to handle it on your own. Alright. Frank respects that. Admires it. But seeinâ you walk off like that? Shit. No stayinâ out of it now.Â
No stayinâ out of it whenâŚ
At the bar, Jason rummages in his pocket, hands trembling with urgency. Pulls out a baggie, small, coke-sized. No coke in it. Just five peach, oblong tablets.
Violent inspiration for Frank.Â
Jason digs a finger in the baggie. Scoops out two pills. Drops a third on the floor with a hissed curse, fumbling for it.Â
Sockets yank loose in Frankâs head, vision going red. Tendons cable through his neck, breath ragged and shallow; an animal without a leash. Frank chains himself with a fist around his beer bottle, squeezing tighter.Â
If that pill goes into your fuckinâ drinkâŚÂ
Frank shoulda taken this sick fuck out in his own home, do it on his turf, repaint the sonnuva bitchâs apartment with his brains.Â
Tighter. The glass creaks. Whines. The bottle quakes.Â
Ghosts in his palms, clear as day, Frank jolts as he feels old bones and old corpses break in his fingers. Hundredsâthousandsâdismantled by the hands he uses to love you.Â
The noises start. You know the ones. The guttural reeving of a man-made machine; an element of pure fucking consequence.Â
The bottle explodes. Glass bursts. Beer flies.Â
Jason drops two tablets into your drink. Through the swarm of people, Frank sees the drugs contaminate, spreading poison without your fuckinâ consent.Â
Instinct and action convergeâthen explode.Â
Before Jason can lower his hand, Frank tears through the masses. Not a man. A weapon. Retribution. Vengeance. Divine wrath.
The fuckinâ judge, jury, and executioner.Â
Pain reaching him before realization does, Jason screams. Bloodcurdling agony scratches out the music, the clamor, all fuckinâ sound. Brain catching up to the excruciating pain, the cause of it, Jason stares at the snare of his wrist. Whatâs left of it. Snapped back, hand hanging off the wrist, bone spearing under the skin in fractured protrusions. Â
If not for the pain, itâs the sound that puts the fear of god in Jason.Â
In the span of two seconds, Frank bounces Jasonâs head on the counter with a wet crack of skull, heel of his hand pinning him in place. The glassâyour glassâabsorbing the drug magnifies Jasonâs skittering eyes, his stammering breath painting the countertop.Â
âPuttinâ shit in a girlâs drink, huh?â Frank spits, smashing Jasonâs head until it purples.Â
Everyone gives Frank a wide berth. Whispers of The Punisher start to circulate, always do on this side of town. Â
âI didnât-! I-I-Iââ Jason sputters, spittle and fear flying.Â
âYou DID!â Frank roars, slam, slam, slamming Jasonâs head for a three count, blood sprinkling the wood. âYou think Iâm stupid, hm? Talkinâ to me like Iâm fuckinâ stupid? You think I look stupid?âÂ
âNo- no! No! God, no!â Anything to get off the hook.Â
âThen donât fuck with me like Iâm fuckinâ stupid. Now,â Frank cages Jason in from behind, a massive hand squeezing between his cheeks to pry open his mouth. âDrink it. You were gonna feed this shit to my wife. You drink it.âÂ
Frank lifts the glass as Jason pounds the counter with his good hand, smearing his face in a desperate bid for escape.Â
As the narcotized drink teeters the rim of the glass, ready to spill over into Jasonâs pleading, incessant mouth, a voiceâconcerned, still sweetâcuts through the thick of it.Â
âF-Frank?â Legs jellied from shock, you shuffle forward, the herd parting for you. âWhatâs going onâŚ?âÂ
Frank looks over his shoulder. Right to you. Jesus, his heart almost gives out. You. His wife. Precious, delicate, so fuckinâ good the scum of the earth tries to eat ya. Frank wonât let that happen. âHey, sweetheart, no problem. Havinâ a civil conversation with hotshot here about human decency. Caught your breathâa fresh air spikinâ your drink, sâall.âÂ
A green-tinge floods your face. âOhâ? Oh⌠my godâŚâ The ground beneath you swirls. A hand on your stomach to keep the vomit in, other hand curling into a fist, you grit your question through your teeth. âWhy?âÂ
Jason huffs, all panted breath and nowhere to run. âBecause,â he hisses, grunting when Frank pinches the back of his neck like scruff. âBecause youâre special.âÂ
Jasonâs thrown into the brick wall of the back alley with a heavy slap of limp meat.
âTell me what the fuck that was!â Frank yells, words clawed from his throat.Â
Intimidation tactic, galvanic rage with nothing to do but bleed, Frank slugs his fist into the wall by Jasonâs face, letting him cower and piss and beg while he feels the fury sailing an intentional centimeter off mark.Â
âFuckinâ tell me. Tell me. Tell me.âÂ
In harmony with the strike of his fist.Â
The drizzle of piss on the groundâs the fuckerâs first answer.Â
âIt- it wasnâtââ choked on his own terror, Jason tries to crawl up the wall. âIt wasnât bad! I swear! It- it wasnât roofies or anything, just- just something to help her relax. It was just Xanââ
And with a shark to bloodâŚÂ there comes the frenzy.Â
âYou donât decide what my wife fuckinâ needs! Sheâs a strong womanââ wham, an uppercut straight into Jasonâs solar plexus. âSheâs fuckinâ strong. Goddamn right sheâs special.âÂ
Blood gurgling from his mouth, Jason groans, tries to double-over.Â
âStand the fuck up. Ainât finished with you,â Frank clocks him back, velocity of his punch leaving Jason damn-near crucified on the wall. âTake it like a fuckinâ man since thatâs what you wanna be. Controllinâ women like that. Fuck.âÂ
Weak men are whatâs wrong with the world. Â
âSheâs the only good thing I fuckinâ got. You fuckinâ hear me? Huh?âÂ
No reply. Just the sputtering cries of a grown man in crisis. Music to Frankâs ears.Â
âI saidââ Frank latches onto both of Jasonâs ears. Rips. Blood gushes out as the seams start to separate. âYOU FUCKINâ HEAR ME?âÂ
The shrieking says heâs heard. And felt.Â
Leaves âem connected even if he shouldnât.Â
Frank thinks about you. His girl. Your grin over that chai latte. Your laugh in his ear late at night while you narrate a documentary on fuckinâ whales. Halloween night those years ago, same picture on your desk now. Slow dancinâ in the kitchen to your terrible music, half asleep, tucked into him like heâs safety instead of a biblical reckoning.Â
And this motherfucker was gonna do only god knows what to you.Â
Frank snaps back when Jason hacks up blood.Â
âYou stay away from her,â Frankâs fists ball in Jasonâs collar, nose to nose, teeth bared as verbalized venom poisons the air. âLook me in the eye and tell me you fuckinâ hear me. Say it. Fuckinâ say it. Say: I hear you, Frank. I get you, Frank. Say: sorry Iâm a stupid cunt, Frank. Say: I deserve everythinâ cominâ my way.âÂ
Jason recites every word, verbatim, through chattering teeth. Calls himself  a stupid cunt. Says he hears Frank, gets Frank, deserves this.Â
âAre- are you gonna kill me?â Sprawled pliant on the wall, shirt catching the rough brick, reduced to a stuck hog instead of a man.Â
âYeah,â Frank says simply. âYeah. âM gonna need to do that.â
Sunâs hot on Frankâs back, even at seven in the morning. Sweat funnels down his back, soaking his tee. Been up before the sun digging the shit for a proper burial. Size twelve shoebox duct taped shut and off to the side.Â
Grunting, Frank stakes the shovel back in the ground, adding to the mounds of fresh dirt on either side of his boots. Hole in the ground sized for a dismembered man in a garbage bag.Â
Shovel leaned against his side, Frank wipes the back of his hand over his forehead. Sweat smears dirt. Looks up at the sky. Blue as can be. Bright as hell. Looks a lot like forgiveness. Or deception. Frank canât tell these days.Â
Readjusting the handle in his blistered palms, spade ready to pierce the dirt, the back door creaks open. Gets his attention.Â
Frank straightens in sections of his vertebrae, squinting against the halo of sunlight aroundâŚÂ you.Â
You walk out, barefoot in the grass, sleep-soft in your pajamas yet. And you bring coffee. An angel. His angel.Â
Frank lets go of a breath he didnât know he held. âIâll be up soon, yeah?â he calls. Doesnât stop you. âDirty work out here you donât need tâsee, sweetheart.âÂ
You ignore the advice, shuffling your way right to him on an invisible track. When you reach him, you pass a mug of coffee.Â
Dirt-lined fingers clasp it by the rim, taking a generous sip through the billow of steam. âMm,â he hums, angling from the pit in the ground and towards you instead, eyes sliding down the satin set blessing your curves. âWhatâre you doinâ out here, huh?âÂ
âBringing you coffee. Enjoying the sun,â you sip from your own cup, eyes locked on him.Â
âAinât complaininâ.â
âYou didnât have to do this, you know,â you murmur, curling into Frankâs side.Â
The hole in front of you two. But it doesnât bother you. Maybe it should, but⌠it doesnât. Not how you thought it might.Â
Frank leans down. Presses a kiss to the top of your head. Drapes an arm over your shoulders lightly, afraid of dirtying you, too. âYeah,â Frank agrees. âDidnât have to.â He shrugs. âWanted to.â
âKinda looks big enough for a body in a garbage bag,â you tilt your head, lips pursed in thought. âYou know, if you chopped him up.âÂ
Frank raises a brow. âScrewy thoughts for a pretty little thing like you so early,â but he stamps two kisses your temple like he approves.Â
You hum, chin inclining for more affection. âTo be fair⌠Twinkles was a really fat cat. Itâs nice of you to do this for Ms. Jenkins.â
âThe ladyâs, what? A hundred? Ainât gonna make her dig the damn hole for her own cat.âÂ
You laugh, quiet and soft for the morning. Warms Frank right up.
Pretending your top needs adjusting, Frank smooths the fabric at your shoulder, fingertips dragging down your arm, landing at the small of your back. Light touch. Featherlight. Keeps you clean. âYou alright, sweetheart?â Quieter, with the weight of last week.Â
Your chest inflates with a slow, steady breath. Coffee in one hand, other splaying over Frankâs stomach, you think. Then nod. âYeah, Iâm⌠okay. A little fucked up over it all, but Iâm okay. Iâm good.âÂ
âAlright. Good. We good?â
âWeâre good. More than good.â
âSâlong as weâre good.âÂ
âI got an update, by the wayâŚâ
Frank tucks his chin, looking down at you in the closeness. âYeah?âÂ
âYeah⌠got the email this morning. Jasonâs been relocated to another building. So he must be out of the hospital.â
âHm,â Frank hides the satisfaction with indifference. âGood.â
ââŚto another state.â
âHey,â you shift. âIâve been meaning to say a few things⌠Like Iâm sorry. And thank you.â
âAh,â Frank shakes his head. âDonât owe me nothinâ.âÂ
âI owe you an apology for not believing you.â You slide in front of him, reaching up to span your hand over his stubbled cheek. âYou warned me. You were right. I didnât listen. I⌠couldnât see what you saw. About the situation, aboutâŚÂ me.âÂ
Frank leans into your touch, brows knitting before they relax. âAlways lookinâ out fâyou. Donât need to apologize for believinâ someoneâs good.â
âI need to be more aware.âÂ
âNah,â Frank turns his head in. Kisses your palm. âYou stay sweet. You leave the cynicism tâme. What you need tâdo, though, sweetheart?â Frank drops the shovel. Wipes his mouth on his shoulder. âBelieve in yourself. Ainât nothinâ in here thatâll change how people see you,â Frank says, tapping his finger against your sternum. âThisâs good. Special. You. Canât go all your life with doubt. Itâll rein you in. Keep you there. Wonât let you go far.âÂ
You drop your forehead to his chest, his sweat placating the old wounds. âI knowâŚâÂ
âWeâll work on it.âÂ
Itâs a promise. A plan.Â
âThank you,â you say, looking up at him through your lashes. âI never said thank you. Thank you for⌠looking out for me. Being patient. Doing everything in your power to keep the world from hurting me. Even when Iâm the one hurting myself with my doubts. Especially then.â
Frank tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Dips in, his nose nudging yours. âNothinâs gonna take you from me, yeah? Bubble wrap you if I got to. I got you, baby.âÂ
Hand sliding to his neck, you draw him down. Kiss him. Slow and easy, intimate in the understanding of what this man, your husband, will do for you. The extent heâll go to.Â
Drawing back, he nips your bottom lip. Replaces your mouth with a drink. Not the same warmth, but itâll do. For now. Â
Arm around his waist, nestled back into his side, you stand with the question thatâs burned you most. Until you canât. ââŚWhyâd you stop?âÂ
Frank turns his head to you. You look up at him. You see each other in the light of a new day. A quiet day. âYou wouldnât want that, yeah? Pretty girl. Everything I doâs fâyou.âÂ
âLove you too, sweetheart.âÂ
âWe should probably finish burying Twinkles. I think Ms. Jenkins is watching from her window.âÂ
âEh. Let her. Wanna give her a show?âÂ
âMmm, probably not. Itâd probably be her last.âÂ
Frank takes a breath of fresh air.Â
Shit doesnât stink anymore.Â
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