frank castle and his sweet girl ( SPOILERS FOR BND !!!! )
The hospital room was too quiet.
That was the first thing Frank noticed when he pushed through the door, shoulders still tense from the fight, from the chaos, from watching that kid take a bullet meant for Jean. The second thing he noticed was you.
You were standing by Peter's bed, one hand hovering near his, like you were afraid to touch him, afraid he might shatter. Your back was to Frank, shoulders curved in on themselves, and even from across the room he could see the tremor running through your frame. The quietest little shake, like a leaf in a storm.
Frank closed the door behind him with a soft click. His boots were heavy against the linoleum, and he watched you flinch at the sound. Still didn't turn around. That wasn't like you. Usually, you met his eyes as soon as he walked into a room.
"Hey." Frank said quietly, crossing the room until he was close enough to see your face. And that was when his chest tightened, a familiar ache that had nothing to do with the bruises he'd collected tonight.
Not the way most people cried, not with heaving sobs or wailing. You were crying the way someone who'd learned early that noise meant danger. All silent, hitched little breaths. Tears streaming down your cheeks in steady rivers, your jaw clenched so tight he could see the muscle jumping. Your lower lip was trembling, bitten raw, like you were trying to hold it all in and failing miserably.
"Hey," Frank said again, softer this time. His voice dropped an octave, that particular tone he only ever used with you. The one that still surprised him sometimes, how easily it came out. "C'mere, sweetheart."
You shook your head, a tiny, jerky motion. Your eyes were fixed on Peter's sleeping face, at the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blankets. Jean had done her work, kept him stable, kept his heart beating. The doctors said he was going to be fine. But you were still looking at him like he might disappear at any moment.
Frank understood. God, did he understand.
"Sweet girl.." he murmured, warningly, and the endearment slipped out before he could stop it. He'd started calling you that a few weeks ago, when he'd found you sleeping on a park bench in the rain, drenched to the bone and shivering. He'd scooped you up like you weighed nothing, carried you back to his place, tucked you into bed. Called you "sweet girl" without thinking, and you'd looked at him with those big, watery eyes and something in his chest had cracked wide open.
You'd never asked him to stop.
"You're gonna get tired, standing there like that," Frank said gently. He reached out, not to grab you, just to let his fingers brush against your elbow. "C'mon. Sit with me."
You finally looked at him then, and Frank's heart lurched at the sight of you. Your face was blotchy and tear-streaked, your eyes rimmed red, your nose running. You looked like a mess. You looked like a kid. You looked like his kid.
You looked at him for a long moment, and then you folded. You walked right into him, and Frank caught you automatically, his arms coming up to wrap around you, pulling you against his chest. You buried your face in his jacket, and he felt the wetness of your tears soak through the fabric as your shoulders started shaking again.
"Shh, shh, I got you," Frank rumbled, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head, cradling you the way he might cradle a small, frightened animal. "I got you, sweetheart. You're okay."
He guided you over to the armchair in the corner, sitting down heavily, and then he pulled you with him, settling you between his spread legs, standing in the V of them. This was the only way he could really meet your eyes at eye level, and right now, he needed to see you.
But you weren't letting him, keeping your gaze fixed on the floor, lips parting to let out those wet, sad sounds.
"C'mon," he murmured, shifting in the armchair, his hands coming up to cup your face. "Look at me, sweetheart. C'mon, now."
"You're alright," Frank said again, looking up at you, his thumbs immediately moving to wipe away the tears tracking down your cheeks. His palms were so big against your face, so warm, and you leaned into the touch like a flower turning toward the sun. "I got ya. Just breathe f'me, baby. Nice and slow."
You shook your head, a soft, broken little sound escaping your throat. It wasn't a word, just a whimper, high and wounded. Your hands came up to grip his wrists, not to push him away, just to hold on.
"Hey, hey," Frank cooed, his voice dropping even lower, going syrupy sweet. He leaned forward slightly, bringing his face closer to yours. "Look at me, sweet girl. There you go."
Your eyes met his, and he watched fresh tears spill over, watched your lashes cling together in wet spikes. Your nose was running, and you sniffled miserably, a tiny, pathetic sound.
Frank's thumbs kept moving, wiping away the tears as fast as they fell. He was relentless about it, gentle but persistent, wanting you to know he was here, he wasn't going anywhere.
"Awh, sweet girl," he cooed, and the sound was so soft, so tender, it was almost unrecognizable as his voice. "Nah, don't cry. Don't cry, baby, c'mon. Look'a him, he's okay. He's a hell of a tough nut to crack."
You made another sound, wet and incomprehensible, and Frank's heart broke a little more. He'd watched you face down armed men without flinching. He'd watched you take a beating and give it right back. He'd watched you be so angry, so bitter, so full of that burning hatred for a world that had failed you so completely.
But this? Seeing you fall apart over Peter, someone you barely knew, a someone who'd taken a bullet for someone else? This was something else entirely. This was the softness you tried so hard to hide, the gentleness that snuck out when you thought no one was looking.
"He's young, sweetheart, jus' like you." Frank reassured you. "He's gonna bounce back. You know how kids are. You've got that rubber band thing goin' on. Bounce back from anything."
You let out a watery laugh, just a huff of air, and Frank felt something loosen in his chest.
"You're alright. You gonna be okay."
You shook your head, a frantic little motion, and Frank felt your breath hitch against his palms.
"It is gonna be okay," he insisted, and he was surprised by how steady his voice sounded. By how gentle. By how much he sounded like the father he'd never gotten to be, the father he'd thought he'd buried along with his family. "He's gonna be fine, sweetheart. Jean said so, didn't she? Said he's gonna wake up. Said he's gonna be okay."
Your hands tightened on his wrists, and you made another sound, trying to speak, but it came out garbled and wet. Frank shushed you gently, his thumb pressing against your cheekbone, wiping away another tear.
"I know." he murmured, and he did know. He knew what it was like to watch someone go down. He knew the terror of it, the way it hollowed you out and left you nothing but a shell of adrenaline and panic. He knew what it was like to look at a person you cared about and see blood, see damage, see everything you couldn't fix. "I know, baby. I know it's scary."
Your breath hitched again, and Frank felt tears, warm and wet, slide down his hand.
"Hey," he said, tilting your face up further, making you meet his eyes. "Hey, look at me. Spidey's tough, yeah? And you and me.. we're right here. We're not goin' anywhere."
Your bottom lip wobbled dangerously, and Frank felt his heart crack along a fault line he'd thought was sealed shut.
"Can y'use y'words f'me?" he asked, his voice dropping even softer. "Can y'tell me what's goin' on in that head of yours?"
You blinked, and more tears spilled over, tracking down over his thumbs. He caught them both, his hands so gentle on your face, so careful.
"He- he saved her-" you managed, your voice thick and wet. "He jumped in front f'her, Frank. He didn' even—he didn' think- and- and-"
"It should've been-" You choked on the leters, swallowed, tried again. "It should've been me. I was- I was closer, I could've-"
"Don't." Frank said, and his voice was sharper than he'd intended, but he couldn't—he wouldn't—let you go down that road. "Don't you dare, sweetheart. Don't you dare think that."
Your eyes widened, and Frank softened immediately, his thumbs moving to stroke the apples of your cheeks.
"Listen to me," he said, his voice rough but gentle. "Listen to me, okay? That kid, he made a choice. A stupid choice, a reckless choice, but it was his choice. You don't get to take that from him, 'kay? You don't get to wish it was you instead, because then where would I be? Huh? What would I do with myself if you were the one in that bed?"
Your breath stuttered, and Frank felt the tears start up again, fresh and hot against his palms.
"I can't-" You broke off, swallowed hard. "I can't lose anyone else, Frank. I can't."
The real reason you were crying like a little girl lost in a mall.
"C'mon baby, look at that," Frank murmured, tilting his head to look at Peter. "He's got good color. Healthy kid. Probably eats like a horse. You see that? You see how steady he's breathin'?"
You turned your head slightly, just enough to look at Peter, and Frank felt you relax a fraction. Just a tiny bit of tension leaving your shoulders.
"That's it," Frank encouraged, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones. "That's my girl. Just breathe for me, nice and slow. In… and out. That's it."
You sniffled, and Frank reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a crumpled handkerchief. He pressed it into your palm, and you clutched it like a lifeline.
"He almost died," you finally got out, your voice wrecked, as you tried to wipe at the mess that was your face. "Frank, he almost-"
"Shh, shh, I know," Frank soothed, cutting you off gently. "I know, sweetheart. But he didn't. He's right there, see? He's okay. Jean made sure he was okay. And he's got you and me watchin' over him. He's in good hands."
You hiccuped, a soft, wet sound, and Frank's heart clenched.
"Such a good heart you got, baby," he murmured, almost to himself. "So good. You try so hard to hide it, but I see it. I see every bit of it."
You made a sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and you shook your head.
"Don't you shake your head at me, you little brat." he said, his voice still impossibly soft. "I know what I see. I see a girl who's been through hell and back and still worries about people she barely knows. I see someone so strong she doesn't even know it. I see my sweet girl."
Your lower lip trembled, and Frank caught it with his thumb, smoothing over the abused skin.
"You're alright," he said again, like a promise. "We're both alright. And that kid is gonna be fine, and then he's gonna drive us both crazy with all that chatter, and you're gonna be annoyed, and I'm gonna be annoyed, and it's gonna be great. You hear me?"
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, and Frank felt like he'd won a war.
"There she is," he breathed. "There's my girl."
You leaned forward, your forehead dropping to rest against his, and Frank closed his eyes. He let himself have this moment, this quiet, soft, precious thing. Your breath fanning across his face, your tears still wet against his thumbs, your small hands still clutching his wrists.
"I got you," he murmured one more time, a vow, a promise, everything he was. "I got you, sweet girl. I'll always got you."
