in the middle of the night (i may watch you go)
Paring: Frank Castle/Reader
Tags: Gender-Neutral Reader-Insert, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Dreams and Nightmares, Frank Castle Has PTSD, Slice of Life, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Non-Sexual Nudity
Summary: a handful of small, quiet moments with Frank Castle
Word Count: 2,062
Current Date: 2026-05-26
Sleep was an ocean, and all of a sudden, you surfaced from it, breaching from within the depths. Your eyes flicked open, heart racing. What had roused you? It was still dark out; it couldn't be any earlier than two in the morning. The only light that illuminated the dim bedroom was the alarm clock's golden display, and a nearby street light. You could hear faint sounds from somewhere beyond the apartment; a car alarm, bins rattling, the occasional shout. But it wasn't that what woke you — you could easily sleep through the end times, or at least, a fire alarm, or when Frank made his way into bed. He was a big, strong man, and his idea of a tip-toe was quite the lumbering kind of movement that would put any kind of upstairs neighbour to shame.
You tried to turn to the alarm clock, but the movement alerted your partner. His arm, slung around your waist, tightened. There was no way you could escape his grip, with the exception of waking him.
"Leave them alone," he said, his sleepy voice low and rumbling.
Frank had always been a troubled sleeper; if it wasn't the insomnia-fuelled sleepless nights, it was sleep talking, and once, finding him in the kitchen, sleep walking. Most of the time, you slept through the sleep talking; it was him replaying recent events, sometimes, the things he didn't talk about with you, or Micro, or anyone.
"I'll kill you for that," he growled, and pulled you in tighter.
Softly, you stroked the arm holding you. "Frank," you whispered, "Baby, wake up."
In the dimly lit bedroom, just inches from his face, you watched his brow furrow, a crease forming between his eyebrows. If he were awake, you'd smoothen the lines from his face with a finger, and pull him to your height to kiss the worries away. But from the noises he was making, the way his arm was tense around your middle, it didn't seem like the occasion to pepper your lover with a smooch. Especially if this was a PTSD flashback.
You try to move again, and his whole body tensed, his teeth grinding, jaw set.
"No, no, no, no, no…" he muttered.
"Frankie," you squirmed trying to break free from his iron grip. "You're dreaming, Frankie, come back to me."
But it was no use. He was deep in this dream, and it was becoming clear that your usual way of rousing him weren't working.
Frank shifted in his sleep, rolling toward you. The arm around your middle moving closer to your collarbone than middle, and you took the opportunity. You threaded your fingers in between his, and massaged your thumb into the back of his hand.
You felt him tense for a second. He stirred, and then, in the dim bedroom, his dark eyes flicked to you, honing in like a tired messenger pigeon returning to the coop. He searched you, looking as if through you, but you know what he's looking for. Reality. He's searching for something, anything, to tether him back to the waking world.
"It's okay, Frank," you scooch closer to him, letting his fingers go. But he holds your hand tight, keeping your hand hostage in his. "It was just a dream. It's okay, baby."
He shakes his head. "Felt pretty real to me," he whispered.
You nod. "At least you got some shut-eye tonight," you plant a kiss on the tip of his nose. "It'll get easier to sleep, I promise."
You can tell that Frank wants to argue with you, but he refrains. He remembers what you've gone through. It sure wasn't losing a family like he did with Maria and the kids, but by working with him and Micro, you had been in the line of fire more times than you would care to admit. That one time, when you'd been in the cross-hairs of a gun fight had you jumping at the smallest things for months. Even the damn toaster had you on edge.
"Want to talk about it?" you ask, quietly.
He's quiet.
You spare a glance to the alarm clock on his side of the bed. It's still an unreasonable hour of the night. But right now, laying in Frank's presence, wrapped in blankets, it feels somewhat bearable. Like right now, you two are sharing stolen time together, and not recovering from another episode of nightmares.
"I…" Frank exhales sharply. "It was you."
You lay still. Ah. That explains that pained look on his face when he woke, the way he looked through you like you were a ghost.
"I'm right here, silly."
You move his hand, still holding yours, to your mouth, and plant a kiss, and then two more, on his knuckles. In the dim light, you can see the various shades of bruises painted across his skin. The colours would be pretty, if they weren't tender, and a perk of the vigilante job.
"And," you kiss his fist once more, locking eyes with your partner, "I don't plan on going anywhere any time soon."
.
The apartment smelt of burnt toast and charred bacon, even from the shower. The hot water was a blessing, raining down on you in odd spurts. You'd already washed your body, hair, and had organised the collection of soaps and shampoos on the side of the tub, and didn't want the warm, showery party to end.
The shower curtain rustled, and you looked up. Frank had stripped his sleep tee off, and was in the process of shucking off his boxers. His hair was still ruffled from sleep, and desperately needed a trim if he was going to keep it in the usual high and tight style. You go to turn off the tap, but his hand reaches it before you can.
"Mind if I join?"
You acquiesce, and he steps in. It's not the largest shower, and now the majority of the shower head rains upon him, but after last night, or really, just a few hours ago, it feels like a blessing to have another intimate moment together. Who knows when the next one will be?
"It's your apartment," you pick up the bar soap, and start to lather his back. You feel his muscles all bunched up, and try to work a knot out at the same time.
Frank barks a laugh, and reminds you, "Your name is on the lease, sweetheart."
"And you pay for it," you retort. "Now turn around. I need to get your front cleaned."
He does as told, and silently, the Punisher, the scourge of the New York City underworld, lets you wash him. Before too long, you've gotten to all the important parts; you handle him with care, and work dutifully. He doesn't complain. He's done this for you before; after a long day, when you have no energy left to give, he's combed your hair, helped you into your pyjamas; it's so wonderfully domestic, this relationship the two of you have, and everyday, you feel like you have to pinch yourself to make sure it's a reality.
"All done, baby," you whisper. "Turn around."
Frank follows your orders, and replacing the soap in the dish, you feel a chill, suddenly remembering you're drip-drying while Frank cleans himself. You place a kiss to his back, and quietly, disembark the shower, and start to dry off. In a minute or two, he joins you, and rhythmically, you two complete the dance of drying, dressing, and preparing for the day.
When Frank emerges from the bedroom, you pour yourselves two cups of coffee, preparing your mug just as you like it, and leaving Frank's as is. His hair was black, his eyes were brown, and he liked his coffee darker and stronger than any percolator could possibly make it. But then again, whenever he drank your coffee, he never complained if it wasn't to his taste. Either he was a gentleman, or…no. Frank was a gentleman. Who happened to be a coffee snob who most certainly wasn't going to complain about a cup of joe he didn't have to brew.
"What's the game plan today?" you stand next to him at the kitchen bench, your hip touching his. Even though just minutes before, you'd both been nude, this kind of touch felt more electric. "Am I going to be sleeping alone for a while?"
He looks at you over his mug. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean," you clear your throat, "are you and Micro close to your next stakeout? I assume if so, you'll not be able to be back here for a bit."
He makes a noise. "You know I don't like leaving you."
You nod. "And you know I can't live in that bunker you two have. It's more for a groundhog than a person. I need sunlight, and fresh coffee, and the breeze on my skin." You look to Frank, and sigh, "Will it be for long?"
He puts his cup down. "I don't know. But I'll keep an eye on you."
"In person?" you ask, smirking over your mug, "or by peeping on me with those cameras you planted around the place?"
Frank wipes a hand down his face. Busted.
"I found like, six of them. It was pretty easy, considering how you never touch the stuff you've left here, and then, out of nowhere, it's like, slightly moved."
Frank looks at you, amused. "Six?" he asks. "Huh. I don't know if I should tell you how many I really planted, then."
You elbow his side. "I like a challenge."
.
It's a month since you last saw Frank Castle in your home, and you're crawling into bed. Every night spent apart, you feel like the world is testing you. It wasn't going to be easy, dating a guy like him — especially since he was a vigilante, and a busy one at that. You weren't dating someone like the web-slinging fast-talking Spider-Man, or the red-wearing devil of Hell's Kitchen, who all seemed to come out in a time of need, and return to whatever their normal lives were for the rest of their time.
No, you were dating Frank. Your Frank.
Since he'd left, you found two more of his cameras, and pointed a few toward key parts of the apartment. The view from the balcony, so he could catch the sunrise and sunset from where he worked. The coffee machine, so he could see you make your daily dose of caffeine.
In bed, you snuggle into the duvet, and take out your notebook. Frank didn't have a burner phone this time, and instead of trying to send daily mundane texts, you'd taken to writing your thoughts for him down. Before you could put the pencil to paper, though, you heard a noise.
Your heart stopped. The door was opening.
Quietly, you reached beside the bed for the metal baseball bat you kept there. Slowly, you rose from the bed, and crept toward the bedroom door, which luckily, was half-open. Hiding from behind the door, you peeked out, trying to find the intruder.
He was by the front door still, standing by the wall where your coat hung, where the shoe rack sat, and looked to be balancing on one foot, a hand to steady himself on the wall. He wore a dark leather coat that squeaked with every movement he made, and his hair was starting to curl at the nape of his neck, dark and thick.
"Frank?"
He glanced over his shoulder. If it weren't for the hair, split lip and black eye, he would look just the same as the last time you saw him. He exhaled, and gave a small smile, the side not split tipped up in the corner.
"I thought you'd be asleep," he said quietly.
"I—," you falter, putting the bat down by the bedroom door. "I couldn't."
He kicks his other boot off, and sheds his coat onto a spare hook. Slowly, he ambles toward you. He looks tired. He looks sore. But most of all, he looks relieved, and happy, and you know exactly what he's looking at with those big brown eyes.
He's looking at you.
"Maybe, though…" you take his hand in yours, and lead him to the bed. "We could try to get some sleep. Together."
He nods. "I'd like that."