Summary: Frank comes home after a brutal opps. You take care of him, shower him. The next morning, he thanks you—even though you don’t do this for the thanks.
A/N: Just a quick lil piece inspired by @darlingshane’s One Last Kill Countdown! I’ve been having a blast writing Frankie-poo.
Song rec: I listened to Ain’t Nobody Praying For Me by Seether
Warnings: suggestive language, blood, non-sexual nudity, established relationship, cursing. 18+ only. Minors do not interact.
The inherent violence of man, the agreement to survival by whatever means necessary, ending nights in gallons of blood and corpses. Those are small guarantees he’s found overseas and on home turf.
Man is all the same, no matter where you place him.
Man—a conscious machine of flesh and blood—learns how to swallow the rot and convince himself it tastes sweet. After so many years, Frank likes it. No convincing needed.
Few things rattle Frank, so when he comes home wearing the eyes of an undomesticated animal, you know something’s wrong.
Eyes are the window to the soul, and his scream with their teeth bared: feral, darting, like a dog still backed into a corner ready to maul. Crashes of adrenaline rack his shoulders in invisible punches his body hasn’t processed have stopped.
Frank stands in the middle of the living room, the entire space between you two because his feet stopped working once he bolted the door shut. Tacky boot prints pave your floor. Blood glistens like spilled oil on his black gear. His, someone else’s, and too much to mean a clean break for either.
You tame your shock in shallow, controlled breaths, every movement telegraphed to show Frank exactly what you’re doing. Not that he’d ever hurt you, god, no, but you have to show him he’s safe. He has to believe it. He has to come down and out of the war, and you have to make sure there aren’t pieces missing. You cross the room in silent, measured steps until you’re standing in front of him, your fingers flexed wide open and helpless at your sides.
You can handle a lot. You can wash the blood while pushing down your tears. You can stitch him up, play nurse, scold him for the injuries. The thing that rattles you, though? His face. Not the expression… the damage.
Frank cements his glare over your head, drilling it into the wall with such leftover contempt you swear you hear the wood foundation tremble, but it’s only the staggered, caged exhales through his nose.
One single shake twitches your fingers as you raise them to the massacre of his face. You do not touch, just hover in case any fragile pieces splinter off. Dense swelling protrudes from his bones, shaping him—the man larger than life, Frank Castle—into something you’ve never seen: something breakable.
Rigid masses sculpt his cheeks into aching prints of someone else’s knuckles, skin mottled red from the vessels busted beneath the surface. His jaw, clamped shut, fat lips twisted, unable to press his teeth together because it feels like they’ll all fall out if he does. A dried waterfall of blood streaks down his chin, clawing down his neck, and it’s a miracle he has any teeth left. A gnarly hematoma droops over his eye, hiding it from view. None of his complexion is left. Whoever beat him, whoever got this chance, made sure it would stay for a few weeks.
Frank trembles once, in place, and your hands lower. Both of your hands, smaller and steadier, weasel through the ironclad clench of one of his fists at his side.
The metallic scent of fresh, hot blood mingles with the cinnamon candle you have lit, tarnishing the sweetness, his sweat oozing in the smell of rage’s remnants.
“Frank,” you whisper, throat sealing. “C’mon, let’s get- let’s get you cleaned up, okay? I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
Movements stiff, reluctant, feeling out of body, Frank allows you to lead him to the bathroom.
Once in the bathroom, hand still in his, you move to flip the lights on, but—
Frank blocks it, a grunt in his throat signaling don’t since his mouth can’t work.
“Okay,” you say, “okay. No lights. I’ll just… leave the hallway light on. Just for a little bit.”
You scurry around him, keeping quiet, afraid anything too loud might shatter him.
You twist the shower handle, spray coming to life in a sputter. You test it with your hand, adjusting. Lukewarm for comfort, avoiding hot water for the swelling.
Behind you, the methodical undressing of his gear. Clicks of his vest clasps, broad shoulders shrugging out of his holsters, the unzipping of his pants, boots.
When you turn around, your heart sinks to your stomach. Lowlight casts deep shadows over his carved physique, standing bare before you. Smears of blood over his chest, new and old scars decorating his skin to prove he’s only a human. And again—his face. Someone made sure he looked breakable, beat the reminder into him, rendered his mouth silent, left with product of his anger.
“Shower’s ready, Frankie,” you whisper, voice almost drown out by the pelting water, a fist curled into the shower curtain you draw back. You try to sound casual. God, you try.
Frank blinks from the fog of war, your voice breaking him free of the gunfire still echoing in his head, the taste of copper sliding down his throat with every swallow. You stand there… strong. Jesus, you’re strong, offering a shower to help him wash away the grime nuances of his work while you hold your tears and fears back.
One swift gesture, rough in the urgency, Frank grabs your upper arm—never enough to hurt—and tugs you into him. You latch around him with the same desperation he has. One of his arms deadbolt around you, the other snaring in your hair to keep you here, against him, where you’re safe. Without words, he’s screaming his appreciation and apologies.
Appreciation for all the shit you do, see, deal with, stuff down.
Apologies because he knows it’s his fault.
Loving him means the inevitable: hurt.
After holding you as long as he needs, seconds turned to minutes, both of you breathing in each other as proof he’s still alive, Frank draws back. He skims a rough thumb over your cheek, nudges the very tip of his nose against yours, and steps into the shower.
Frank’s a good man. A dangerous man. But right now…? He’s just a man.
Long, muscular legs sprawl in the tub where he lays under the shower. An arm hooks over the side, anchoring him upright, head lolled back against the cold tile wall.
Blood curls with fresh water, circling down the drain.
Soapy washcloth in hand, you sit on your knees beside the tub. You make clean of what he’s brought home. You wash him, tending to every part of his body, your touch like invisible glue to keep him from rupture. Your small hands skate his chest, down the ridges of his stomach, his body jolting praise under the remedy of your fingertips.
Water sprinkles the floor outside of the tub, soaks your sleeves. That’s a problem for later.
When you wash his hair, a low groan rumbles deep in his chest—appeasing the dormant animal, restoring the body to the man instead of the anger. You wash and bathe until the water runs clean and cold. And when it does, you dry him. Dress him. Get a cup of water with a straw and force him to sip, swish, swallow. With little fight—no fight left—you put Frank to bed. You tuck him into your bed, bundle him in the blankets, and press a firm, lingering kiss to the top of his head, praying to any god that will listen: please don’t take him.
While Frank sleeps, you clean the mess he never asks you to. His mess.
Scrub the floors, get the blood out of his uniform, soak his boots. Remove any and all traces of the close call, and do it the only way you know how to: biting the collar of your shirt to keep the screams from coming.
You wake to an empty bed. You reach out blindly, eyes still closed, brows knotting. Cold sheets, pillow impression lifted.
No Frank. No trace of him. Just the lingering scent of antiseptic and ointment, his absence like a ghost in the room with you: there, but fading, intangible.
You swing your legs over the bed, sifting a hand through your sleep-tangled hair. You stare at the floor, looking for answers nothing else will give you, a hole gnawing in your chest.
You try to quiet the thoughts, but they’re unruly. Loud, nasty, targeting every insecurity, reinforcing the worry that yeah… Frank’s gonna leave, isn’t he?
Your bare feet shuffle the floorboards, cool underfoot. You make your way to the kitchen, and a noise stops you cold.
The clink of glass, the rush of the facet. Mid-stride, paralyzed, your eyes snap up.
To the sink. To Frank. Ball cap snug on his head to shade the temporary disfigurement of his face, Frank turns back around and finds you, a vase teeming with a cluster of white tulips in his hand.
A sharp little inhale parts your lips, but you falter, lashes batting a glitch at the sight of it. Frank, not gone. Frank, bruised and swollen to hell. Frank, with flowers.
“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and rough with shame and the throbbing of every individual tooth. He slides the vase to the center of the island separating you two.
“I…” You look between Frank, the bouquet. “What… is this?” Confusion muddling your face through your sleep-haze.
“A suck ass apology,” Frank says, head cocked sideways as he searches for the right words.
“Hey… what? Apologize for what?”
“Stop… You don’t need to apologize. I understood what I was signing up for. We’ve talked about this plenty.” You drag your feet to the opposite side of the counter, a hand clutching the edge to keep you grounded.
Frank leans forward, elbows on the counter, making himself closer to your height. His eyes pin yours, refusing to hide when he speaks. “Listen…” Frank begins. “Ain’t doin’ this to forgive an’ forget. Ain’t meanin’ this to be a bandaid. Just, ah… appreciate you, y’know? Everything you do… ‘round here,” he gestures around vaguely. “f’us… f’me.”
You nod, little bursts to acknowledge the sincerity, lifting on your toes because you’re waiting for the exact moment you can crash into him. “I’m glad you see it. It’s… a lot, Frank. I don’t care about the mess, cleaning, whatever. I care about you. And when you come home looking like microwaved hell, I just- I don’t know what to do.”
“Nothin’ f’you to do, angel. You shouldn’t have t’do anything, that’s the problem. The way I can home last night? Shit. Shoulda crashed somewhere else. That ain’t somethin’ you deserve t’see.”
“You don’t need to protect me from that.”
“Sure I do. Saw that look on your face last night. I never wanna see that look again ‘cause ‘a me.”
“If you don’t come home after something like that, I swear to god, Frank Castle—”
Absentmindedly, Frank goes to smooth his jaw, winces, still tender. Stops. “Swear you’ll what? Beat me up? Give me a shiner of your own?” Teasing now, his busted mouth quirking up the little bit the injuries allow.
You huff, roll your eyes, bite the inside of your cheek and fail to suppress to your own smirk. “Shut up, Frank.”
“I’m serious…” you say, tiptoeing around the island to stand beside him. You lightly thread your hand through his hair, temple to back, and smooth your fingers through the shorter hair at the nape. “Come home. Every time. I can handle whatever you look like after. What I can’t handle is your absence. You didn’t like my look last night? Imagine if you hid from me… I’d be beside myself if I couldn’t get my eyes on you.”
Your eyes search his, deep and imploring, and his soften at the corners. He understands, leans into your touch like a man testing salvation in increments.
“Alright,” he murmurs, sliding his arms on the counter until he gets close enough the bill of his hat nudges your forehead.
You slip the hat off. Set it aside. Lean in the rest of the way, your forehead delicately resting against his. Skin to skin, alive, you take a deep breath. Fresh flowers, Frank, the slick of the ointment on his face.
“Thank you,” you murmur. “For coming home. And the flowers. Means a lot.”
“Least I could do,” he whispers, brushing his nose with yours. “You’re a saint, huh? Washed my boots an’ everything.”
“Tired of your bloody footprints all over my floor.”
“Why? You’d just wipe the blood on it and scare any guests away.”
“Unwelcome mat. Don’t like people too much, anyway.”
You laugh under your breath, head shaking as you cradle either side of his neck in your hands. Morning sunlight slats in through the blinds, cutting warmth over you, Frank, and the flowers.
“Love you, sugar bear,” Frank mumbles, falling into you, a man coming home.
“Love you more, Frankie.” And you welcome him back home.
Your mouths meet tentatively, but eager, caution in every reserved movement. Featherlight, on the brink of restrained consumption, you kiss him.
Frank grunts against your mouth, his lips falling still. “…Makin’ out might be off the table f’now. Ain’t too sure my teeth’re secure in my head.”
“That’s okay,” you grin, your bottom lip grazing his just to taunt. “My mouth still works.” You link your fingers in his belt loops and tug his hips flush to yours.
A low rumbled chuckle vibrates his chest, a rare thing coming to view: a grin. “Hells yeah.”
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