When Life Gives You Lemons
Neighbor!Frank Castle x Sweet!Baker!Reader
Summary: Your neighbor, Frank Castle, helped you with one thing, one time… and now you’re attached. He’s attached. But are either of you going to admit it?
Warnings: endearingly awkward reader and Frank, yearning, avoidant!Frank, grumpy x sunshine dynamics (my fave), hurt no comfort, frank’s coming out of retirement & transitioning back to being The Punisher | w/c: ~3400 | requested by anon! | a/n: not sure how I feel about this one lol? feels like it needs part II or somethin idk im open to suggestions.
You’ve heard the fastest way to a man’s heart is food. You just didn’t know it’s true.
Cracking eggs over the side of the stainless steel mixing bowl, the yolks plop down one at a time into the melted butter.
A dusting of flour leaves the shape of your own handprint on your pajamas, but it’s collateral.
This needs to be perfect. You’re trying to make it perfect. For Frank. He deserves that, your effort.
The scent of warm vanilla and fresh, tangy lemon swirls around the kitchen, carried from the cracked window across the room.
This has to be better than the cookies you gave him.
And the double dark chocolate chip brownies you happened to make too many of.
You zest a lemon rind over the grater, fine shreds flaking like microscopic confetti.
And the chocolate chip muffins, after realizing how he loved chocolate and skipped breakfast.
And the raspberry scones, testing his palate last week.
This… this one needs to be exactly like Frank.
It’s been precisely one month—almost to the minute—that your neighbor, Frank Castle, saved your life by helping you fix your dishwasher.
And since then… you’ve kinda, sorta, no-labels made him your Frank. Your friend. Your bestie. Your grocery-store companion. Which, to be fair, you ramble. Frank shops. Your late night insomnia cure via texting (even though he’s really bad at it). Your every other day phone call to update him on things of zero importance (the birds at the park, the meat at the deli, that girl from work you hate do not like), but he lets you talk, never hangs up, never rushes. He listens, grunts once and awhile to sound his attention...
Yeah… your Frank. Frankie.
And your thanks, your gift, your sweet treat… Well, you want it to be like Frank. Sour, sweet. Mostly tart, undertones of sugar. Handsome— oh god, no. No, stop. Stop, brain. So fucking ruggedly handsome— you literally squeal at yourself. It’s shun not delight, ripping your head back-and-forth to shake the pesky thoughts from your head.
Hands caked in lemony batter, hair breaking free from the clip from your hours long, elbow-deep prep, you flick a glance over your shoulder at the oven. Temperature climbing, preheating to 350 degrees. Then to the microwave. 8:17a.m.
Okay. Perfect. The lemon loaf should be done by eleven, making the hour acceptable to go pester thank stare at your neighbor for his generosity bearded good looks.
Attention back the stand mixer, a soft whir of the paddle filling the early morning placidity of your apartment, you finally take a second to breathe. Hands draped over the top of it, you sag, head bowing.
It’s just dessert. A little thank you. It’s not a big deal, so why are you making it one?
“God, be cool for once in your life. Just calm the fuck down. I’m not even sure he likes us. I think it’s just… tolerating,” you mumble to yourself.
Frank's... nice… in his own, gruff, I’d-really-rather-not-be-having-this-conversation type of way. He's not told you directly to fuck off yet. Still nicer than all the other tenants in the complex.
Neighbors upstairs slept all day, romped all night. Kitty-corner to you, you were lucky enough to know the next Eminem. Wow. Some copy-cat, no-name SoundCloud rapper that literally rewrote Eminem’s songs with his own lyrics and swore he’d never heard of the guy. Around you, the smell of pot day and night. Domestic clashes in neighboring apartments followed by the thunder of police. It isn’t a pretty (or safe) side of town… but it’s all you can afford. You’re saving up for something better. Hopefully a small studio unit above a bakery. Your bakery. It just takes time. And this dream? It’s worth the wait.
The only quiet apartment besides yours, though…?
That’s probably how he heard you fighting with the dishwasher in the first place.
Okay. Crying over the dishwasher.
Water floods the kitchen, soap suds on the rise up to your ankles. “No, no, no! Oh please! Please no!” You yell—plead—with the machine. That only seems to anger it. It reacts violently. The unit quakes. Steam billows from the seams. Yanking at your own hair, you make a sound of guttural devastation.
It must sound like you're in here pleading for your life, not a kitchen appliance.
Then comes the knock at your door. Three hard thumps. Hard enough to be heard, urgent enough to startle you from your flash-flood issue.
“Y-yeah?” You ask with knitted brows, ripping open a drawer to throw every single hand towel you own onto the ground. “Who is it?”
Please, god, not the landlord seeing the mess. It’ll come straight out of your pocket and—
“You, uh... You alright in there?” Gravel muffled by the door. A rough baritone that shoots right through you, retrieving your full attention at the closed door.
“Uhhhmm… define alright?” You answer, scrubbing a towel over the floor with your foot.
You blink a glance from the door four feet away. To the dishwasher. To your water-logged socks as it regurgitates more detergent.
You sigh, rubbing a hand over your forehead. “…I think this could be defined as trouble.”
“Yeah? Alright. Open the door,” a harsher demand. Not unkind, just… weird? Like there’s a countdown you’re not aware of. Time’s of the essence, but for what? It’s trouble, not an emergency.
“Why the hell would I open the door?” You snort out, mainly to yourself, looking around at the imaginary cameras in your apartment like get a load of this guy. “You’re a stranger.”
“Know what? You’re right.” A snark to his tone like he’d thought about this, thought better of it, and showed up at your doorstep anyway. Now here you are, urging him to leave. “Good luck.”
The heavy thunk of boots retreating. As he leaves, you scurry over.
Squish squish squish. Socks flopping wet and heavy as you pad for the door, looking through the peephole.
It’s him, you think, perk up, the hot caveman neighbor.
The smallest, hushed gasp parts your mouth, your hands flying to stifle the sound as you look at him through the fish-eye lens. Shoulders broader than you remember in passing. Black tee stretched tight across his back. A long mop of curls at his neck. Bushy beard hiding a face of bones reshaped from too many breaks.
Frank’s a man who looks like life’s been unkind to him. It’s usually the case for people that look as worn as he does.
You’re not the type of person to close your door when someone asks in, offers to help. Maybe… opening the door, letting him help… maybe that’ll do him some good.
Just as he goes to close himself in his apartment… there’s two creaking hinges.
Through the space you’ve made to fit your body in the frame, you catch his double-take in the last two inches of his door shutting.
His hand stalls on the knob. His boots scuff to a stop. He looks at you—a flicker of something softly surprised in those dark, wounded dog eyes that cling to you a second too long—and your heart breaks.
There’s one word to describe how he looks.
Not lonely. Not necessarily.
“…Hi,” you say, easing the door open a little more.
Reflecting you, Frank’s door opens… just a little more. “…You alright?” he asks in a voice that sounds like it hasn’t been used in weeks, eyes flicking over your shoulder to gauge.
“I’ve been better, been better…” you mumble along, too busy reading the square tension in his shoulders, the discipline bulk of the man hidden in street clothes to remember how you got into this situation. “How are you?”
His face scrunches a bit. Probably wondering why in the hell you’re asking that after he just overheard you screaming no. “Uh. Said you got trouble, huh? What kinda trouble?”
“I mean! A soapy one?” Oh, god. His brows raise. Your face’s beet red. He doesn’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. Why would he? You don't even know.
“It’s my dishwasher,” you finally spit out with a nervous laugh. “It’s, uh, doing something…” the random gesticulation of your hands, “not normal… As you can see.” And his eyes pan to your saturated feet. “It’s throwing up. Everywhere. It’s a mess, seriously. I don’t think anyone’s gonna be to fix it. It’s gonna cost me out the ass, the landlord’s a dick. I mean, you know how he is—”
“Yeah, yeah, alright,” his hand goes up to halt your rant. “Dishwasher throwin’ up. Got it. Lemme get my tools, yeah? Jus’… hol’ on. Stop... all that.”
“Yeah,” through a sigh unknotting your shoulders. “Okay. Yeah, thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Ain’t done anythin’. Might still cost you out the ass,” Frank grumbles as he walks off, disappearing into his apartment to collect his toolbox.
Ten minutes later, there’s a caveman in your monsoon-zone kitchen, and you’re hovering nine inches from where he kneels on the swamped ground.
“So… what do you think it is?” you ask, words catching a pitch in your throat. God. Embarrassing. You clear your throat, arms sinking around yourself to maintain some level of normality.
Set up beside the opened washer door, toolbox beside his knees, Frank grunts as he tugs out the rubber door gasket. “Dunno.”
“Think it’ll be an easy fix?”
“Dunno.” Sharp, thinned patience.
“Why would it be working perfectly fine yesterday and today it’s going haywire?”
“Doll,” a polite edge to ask you to stop asking questions as he rises to wash the liner in the sink. “Been ten minutes. Ain’t figured anythin’ out from ‘a second ago. You’ll know when I know. ‘Kay?”
As Frank inspects the appliance, his clothes drenched and adhering to his chiseled body like a second skin of unintentional sin, you make more small talk.
Which, as it turns out, he’s not very good at.
You’re not good at awkward silences.
Well, for him it’s comfortable silence. For you, you feel the need to fill it. Because there’s a difference between being alone and being lonely.
He gets yours. He even repeats it, uses it often, as though he enjoys the taste. Or maybe he hasn’t said anyone’s name in so long he’s practicing with yours.
Frank does construction sometimes. Odd jobs, he'd said with a double meaning. Figures, you think, he’s built for it.
You relay your job, too. Where it’s at, how long you’ve been there. Frank lets you talk. Doesn’t seem to mind as long as you’re not stacking questions on him.
By the time Frank’s on his back under the sink—shirt riding up to show a sliver of muscle, a trail of hair going to his belt—you’re adequately flush.
You busy yourself with anything. Restacking the same pile of mail. Wiping the countertop. Adjusting your stand mixer in the far corner of the counter. Anything to keep your eyes where they belong.
“Got it,” he finally calls, echoing through the pipes under the cabinets.
You straighten, turning to look at him now. “Wait, really? You do? What is it?”
Groaning, Frank pulls himself out. Planted on his ass in the overflow on the floor, knees bent up, Frank holds out something… concerningly brown with green flecks.
“What the…?” You lean in closer, head tilted.
“Have chicken recently?” he asks, turning the discolored nugget between index and middle fingers.
“Not recently… maybe two weeks ago?”
“Mm. Two week old chicken’s what did it. Clogged the drain pipe. Scrape your plate off next time, hm?”
“Ew,” nose crinkled, you step back as he shifts up. “So it should be good now? No more flooding?”
“Should be. S’long ‘s you clean the shit off your plates.” He tosses the molded chicken chunk into the trash. He’s taller up close. Much taller. Fills out the space in your kitchen to the point it shrinks.
“Thanks,” you say again, able to fully mean it now. Humbled to quietness by the food in your drain that turned into a full-blown tsunami. “Really… Thank you. You… didn’t have to do that. It was really nice of you and it saved me a lot of trouble.” Pausing, you offer him a little smile. “You saved me a lot of trouble.”
“Ain’t nothin’,” he dismisses, eyes downcast after lingering on the sheepish curl of your lips. “Knock ‘f you need somethin’ next time. Don’ gotta go on screamin’ like that.”
“Yes, sir,” you mumble agreement, throwing down another bath towel from collection on the counter.
Toolbox in hand, Frank takes a step for the door. Head down, eyes ahead. Has every intention of leaving without a goodbye. Leaving without a word, for that matter.
“Hey, wait,” you call, your foot stuttering where you stopped yourself from full on lunging. “You don’t… you don’t have to go. Right away, I mean. You can stay. For a minute. Right? Let me make you a sandwich or something? I have leftover pot roast in the fridge, if you’re interested. As a thanks.”
“Nah,” Frank shakes his head, feet carrying him to the door.
Last ditch effort, you make one final offer: “…Coffee and cookies? I made homemade chocolate chip ones yesterday. I’m happy to send you back with some.”
Pulled from your thoughts when the standmixer slows, whining low protest as the batter thickens, you startle back to reality.
The clock reads 8:22a.m. The oven’s up to temp.
You take a shot of Diet Coke, wipe the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand, and slam the can back down.
The batter finds the loaf pan. A sugary drizzle of pastel yellow trickling out, blueberries plopping. A beautiful contrast in sight and smell, but most importantly, taste.
Bake the loaf. Shower. Clean yourself up. Make the powdered sugar drizzle and garnish.
The hard part? Slowing your heart before knocking on Frank Castle’s door.
Frank’s a sweets guy. Ain’t vocal ‘bout it. Don’t go outta his way to get ‘em. When he does have ‘em, though? Christ… swears anything with sugar’s got healin’ properties.
But when Frank answers the door just after eleven and you’re there—
Hell, maybe you got healin’ properties too.
Your face shifts in real time. Casual expectancy to confusion, giving way to joyful recognition.
Frank clocks you in a blink. Cants his head. Hair done nice. Cute little number on. Bright like the sun’s been, warm like the weather. And in both ‘a your hands… a decorative plate. On it? A goddamn masterpiece.
His mouth opens, but you beat him. Mutual surprise, different reasons.
“You… wow!” the words stumble out of you, caught off guard. “You… shaved. Aaaand… got a haircut.” Your eyes soften as they roam Frank. Little smile on your face, color on your cheeks that’s got him looking at the ceiling. “Oh my god, I hardly recognized you. Okay. Okay. I’m taking this all in… big shock here.”
“Heh… yeah…” scratching the buzzed hairs on the nape of his neck, words flat. “S’like a new neighbor… ‘r somethin’, huh?”
Frank dismisses with a halfhearted tut, fingers binding tighter after the doorknob. Keep his cool. Keep his distance. Door’s open f’you right now, but he’ll close it. Swear to god. The door’s gotta close.
In his silence, you find some nerve. Eyes down the hall, you think it’s safe to say: “You look like… it’s a weight off you. I… like it. I like being able to see more of your face.”
Seein’ right through him. As always. Frank doesn’t bother with an answer. Answers’re dangerous. Means this shit keeps goin’, like he ain’t already starvin’ f’you these last thirty days.
Frank just tips his chin a bit. Eyes the plate you carry in question. "This, uh… this ain’t the regular stuff, huh? Gettin’ all Martha Stewart on me, are ya?”
“…Minus the serving time in federal prison for fraud.”
Frank huffs. Closest to amused he gets.
You present it with quiet pride. The kind that comes with judgement of givin’ someone your best, your all. The glazed lemon blueberry loaf. Your voice quiets under the weight of the admission, “This is for... you…”
The fuck? Why him? Frank shifts in place, brows cinched down, mouth left open ‘cause what’s he supposed to say? Opts for a joke, brush it off. “Tryna tell me I need t’gain weight, huh? That what this is?”
You’re not off the hook. You huff a thin laugh, eyes batting down. “No, that’s not what this is… Aside from the fact if I don’t do something with my hands, I fear I might explode…” you draw in a steeling breath. “…I wanted to… do this- make this… for… you. I know how much you liked the cookies, so… thought I’d try something else. Something a little more intricate, you know? Requires more thought, effort.”
Someone tryin’. F’him. His insides evaporate. Go mushy. You got that effect on him. “Uh… sure. Yeah. Yeah, alright. F’you say so…”
You push the plate at his chest.
Frank blinks down at it. Feels… wrong, takin’ it. Fragile china. Gold-gilded edges. Dainty watercolor flowers circlin' the rim. Loaf cake decorated to the nines. White glaze drizzled over it. Thin slices of lemon and bundles of blueberries on the top, lookin’ picture perfect. And here you are, givin’ it to a guy like him.
Frank takes the plate. Uses both hands. Ignores the red-hot spark when his big, rough fingers graze yours in the exchange. Cannot—will not—drop it.
“…How long this take you?” Frank asks without meeting your eyes, his thumb grazing the embossed print.
“Not long,” you lie, smile falling. “What’s wrong? Don’t you like lemon?”
“Nah, nah,” immediate, placating. “Love lemon. Yeah. Christ, pro’lly too much.”
Silence. Tense ‘cause there’s an expectation to it, yeah. You expectin’ more from him. Him not lettin’ that happen ‘cause that’s how this festers into a bigger fuck all Frank never shoulda nosed in.
You’ve learned how to look into Frank’s silences instead of cover them up. Frank knows that, too. Hates it a little. How you look in now instead of away.
Hates he cut his hair ‘cause it’s grocery day tomorrow. Hates he shaved ‘cause you mentioned two weeks ago you wondered what his full face looked like. Hates he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doin’, lettin’ a pretty thing like you get close, make him part of your life, and you his.
He needs to stop this. Right here. Right goddamn now. Rip the bandaid off. He’s done worse. Hurtin’ you’d be temporary. You’d get over it. Move on. Find someone good f’you. Clean. Some suit-‘n-tie, nine-to-five to bake for. Some asshole that deserves it. Frank tries, comin’ out all rough-edged and full of regret.
“Look, sweetheart, we gotta—”
“Oof—” Frank grunts, staggers a step back with the plate held outta harm's way. Held outta your way.
In a rush of limbs and your weight, you fling yourself at Frank. Launch into him like you got to before you lose the nerve.
Your arms wind around his neck, your body fit against his. And you just… cling. Not initiatin’ nothin’, just… huggin’ on him like you need someone to do this to you.
Frank… stands there. Both arms stiff, unreciprocated in the blindsiding affection. Feels the air get knocked outta his lungs, body malfunctionin’ ‘cause it ain’t felt somethin’ like this—somethin’ warm—since 2015. Since his kids, Maria—
His brain shorts out. Disconnects from his body. Leaves him shakin’, involuntary response.
It’s pent up. How you hug him. Kinda hugs he got when he came home from overseas, first time seein’ his wife and kids in months, a year.
His eyes zigzag over your shoulder, breath stalling in his chest.
You don’t seem to notice. Maybe you don’t care. Fuck if he knows. You press your face into the crook of his neck and hold. He lets you. Lets you take what you want, need, what the fuck ever. It’s yours. He’s—
“I don’t know how to say thanks very well,” you whisper, eyes screwed shut as you hang on a little longer. “Doing things is… easier. So… sorry. Just trying to say… thank you, Frank. For everything. It’s been a lot less lonely with you around. You don’t know what yo- it means to me.”
Sunshine of his life’s in his arms (tryna be, anyway), apologizin’ like she’s the one that’s broken. Meanwhile he’s shortin’ out over a goddamn pound cake.
You pull back before Frank can put his arms around you. You slink off. Drift back. Drop eye contact.
“Aaaand that was weird, wasn’t it?” you whisper, shame not allowin’ your voice any higher.
“Nah,” Frank says, nose scrunched as he gives little shakes of his head. “All good.”
“You’re not a hugger, are you?” A glance up from your lashes, smile unsure. Pained.
Frank meets your look head-on. Blunt in his honesty, an apology in the words, dark eyes softened like butter. “Ain’t sure what the hell I am, sweetheart.”
But he feels it. Your absence. Body warm where yours was. Tryin’ desperately to memorize how you felt, why you said you did it, how he felt while he had you.
In the second lapse of silence, fleetin’ looks, a foot carries you back.
You're leavin’. Leavin’ this asshole here with a cake thing you spent too much goddamn time on f’Frank to tell you to scram. He fuckin’ can’t. Not like this. Not after that. Can’t say shit, throat closed around his bullshit excuses, jaw buckled down so hard his teeth ache.
“Okay, well…” you drift, every bit of excitement you had out the door now. Gone. ‘Cause of him. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go. Got some errands to run. Enjoy the loaf, okay? I hope it’s good.”
“S’gonna be good,” Frank pushes out too quick, too terse, pissed at his own ineptitude. He stands in the goddamn doorway like a fuckin’ idiot while you walk away, not even knowin’ his heart’s rippin’ at the goddamn seams every step you take.
You hum a chuckle, hand on the stairwell exit bar. “Only one way to find out, right?”
You stop at the sound of his voice, shoe scuff echoin’ in the hall. You peer back, a spark of that goddamn hope lightin’ your face back up. “Yeah?” Anticipative lift to your brows, spark renewed in your eyes.
“…Be careful,” he gruffs, eyes flitting anywhere but you. Can’t—won’t—see that fuckin’ look in your eyes like you’re hopin’ he asks you f’more. “Alright?” He nods at the door. The outside world. Where you’re goin’ and he ain’t. “Out there. Errands.”
One last little smile. Hurt in the flimsy curve of your mouth. “Yeah… sure. Okay. Always... Bye, Frankie.”
No bye from Frank. Just another curt nod, watchin’ you walk away, his knuckles white around the plate.
Shadows rotate over the walls ‘til there’s no sun left.
Frank hasn’t moved. Barely blinked. Eyes glassy and distant, honed in on the lemon blueberry loaf for guidance on what the fuck to do next.
Pent up at the kitchen counter on a barstool. One hand wrapped around his fist, pressed against his mouth. Thinks if he moves it, gives himself room to speak, he’ll do something he can’t take back. Yell. Throw shit. Walk straight to your door.
You brought the cake at eleven.
Digital numbers on the stove say eleven again.
Twelve hours later. All he’s done is sit.
He could make you hate him.
Break the plate, break your heart.
What he’ll do is leave it.
Find a way to forget about it.
Let trouble clock a few cheap shots to his head.
Forget the fuckin’ cake. Forget the grocery run tomorrow.
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