💀 Your ex is Daredevil & now, after you were attacked by a bounty hunter, you’re under the Punisher’s protection. Whether you like it or not… And he’s more charming than anyone ever made him out to be. 💀
PART 1 |
💀 Word Count: 5.7k 💀 Music Vibes: warm by Ariana Grande 💀 Warning(s): Canon Punisher flavored violence, blood, hurt/comfort, fluff, language, size diff (reader is on the shorter side), & implied (kinda) asshole Matt 💀 A/N: (DD:BA AU sort of) Did ya'll think I was JUST a Matt girlie? 👀 hehe Tbh I contemplated waiting until I could finish the whole thing but, I wanted to see what people thought about the concept & if I did Frank's voice justice (it's my first time writing for him~). So please enjoy & leave some feedback for me if you can!
“To our fearless fucking leader! The fastest bitch in the East! MISS SHORT STACK!” announced a woman from across from you, accompanied by whoops and hollers from the others surrounding the small table. You laughed at that as an arm wrapped around your shoulder to give you an excited shake, and another person kissed the side of your head. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much—or maybe from the fall you’d taken in the rink earlier—but the joy you felt from the win overpowered it all.
“TO THE HELLCAKES!” you shouted, big smiles plastered on your faces.
Shouts drowned out the clinks of glasses as they collided unceremoniously, liquid splashing out and all over before they were pulled back and downed. The bar patrons barely paid you all any mind, a flick of their eyes to the commotion before returning to their respective activities. You finished your drink, the first to slam your cup back down on the table, a chorus of glass and laughter following suit. You thumbed the sides of your mouth, careful of your slightly busted lip, and began collecting your things.
“Alright, ladies, I gotta head out unfortunately—” Immediately, you were bombarded with ‘aww’s and ‘come on’s, to which you raised your hands in defeat. “—I know, I know, but I’ve got a giant bruise on my hip I need to ice and a grumpy man waiting for me.” You picked up on the dipped head and glittery, questioning gaze of your co-lead and close friend, Andrea.
“You don’t mean—”
“Nope,” you said a little quicker than intended, bordering on snippy, and set your duffel bag across your chest. “I haven’t spoken to him in months, and I plan to keep it that way.”
“Okay,” she said, an air of disbelief buried under her tone. You finally slung the tied strings of your quad skates over one of your shoulders and gave Andrea’s upper arm a rub.
“Thanks for looking out, but I’m good,” you assured and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “First round’s on me!” you called over your shoulder as you made your way to the bar. Your teammates cheered and bid their enthusiastic farewells.
Almost every stool near the bartop was full but you managed to squeeze yourself between two men—one had his back up against the bar, a whiskey glass in his hand, and the other was watching whatever game with a ball that was currently on the screens above everyone, nursing a beer. You felt the man with the whiskey’s eyes look you up and down, taking in your derby jersey, matching shorts, and sneakers, but you did your best to ignore him. The other man had unkempt hair that still managed to look decent and a full beard. He spared a glance at the movement beside him, but didn’t bother you.
The bartender was at the other end of the counter tending to other patrons, so you did your best to look very interested in your wallet, back turned toward the whiskey man to give off disinterest—
“Celebrating some sort of win?” the man asked. You closed your eyes momentarily, a long breath exiting your nostrils, before sparing a glance at the whiskey man. He just looked obnoxious. His blonde hair was slicked back with a pair of sunglasses set atop his head, a button-up that was barely buttoned at all, a pair of dress pants, and some shiny shoes.
“Uh, yeah,” you said.
“You a gymnast?”
“No,” you said. The man scoffed in return.
“You don’t have to be a bitch—”
“Okay.” You sighed. The man with the beer’s gaze flicked to you again just as you turned your head. “Fuck off, yeah?” You stared the man down, the corner of his mouth twitching. He looked like he wanted to say something, the words on the tip of his tongue, but he was interrupted by the bartender.
“What can I get you?”
“Thank God,” you muttered and turned to the bartender with a smile. “Hey, just paying for my table’s first round.” You placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter.
“You got it,” he said and snagged the item from you. “Be good, yeah?”
“Thanks, Jack,” you answered and squeezed his forearm over the counter. “Catch you next week!”
You quickly removed yourself from between the whiskey and beer men, not paying that obnoxious dickhead any further mind, and maneuvered your way out of the establishment. The warm summer air of Hell’s Kitchen settled on your exposed skin, and despite how tired you felt and the pulsing bruise on your hip, you were still on cloud nine from the semi-finals win. The Hellcakes were going to go all the way—the finals were going to be a breeze.
You turned down the street, headed for the subway station, ready to be back in your bed—sleeping in on your day off was high on your list of things to do. Yes. Shower, bed, midnight snack, and cuddles. A sound plan.
Until you feel a hand on your upper arm and, before you could react, are shoved into an alleyway and your back collides with one of the rugged brick walls. You scream, but it’s muffled by a hand over your mouth. You blinked, getting a good look at the fucking whiskey asshole from the bar staring into your eyes—dangerous.
“Hope you enjoyed that win,” he whispered, face only separated by his hand. “Because it’s your last.” You felt the press of what you could only assume was a gun against your ribs, and you felt yourself tense up, jaw tightening. You were on your own. Matt wasn’t looking after you anymore. It was just you… And that was okay. You could get out of this.
You had to.
FRANK
Frank just wanted a drink.
The bar was a good distance from his makeshift space—a manager’s office in the basement of a barely occupied building. He hadn’t done any dirty work for a bit, mostly monitoring and tracking, and in his spare time, he came here. He didn’t mind the busy nature of the place, practically no one recognized him with his current appearance, and it always had the latest game on. Even when a rambunctious group of women came in and settled around a table in the far back, donning the same jersey and skates slung over their shoulders, he barely paid them any mind.
Patrons came and went from the barstools beside him, except for one—some business looking asshole who left a stool between them. He would have taken note of him just like anyone else if he hadn’t been so intently watching the jerseys. Frank’s eyes squinted a bit, catching his fifth glance back at them, and the man fully swung around on his stool while still trying to be casual. Frank wasn’t interested in stopping him from being shut down by that entire table; he wanted to see him embarrass himself.
But instead, the opportunity came to him.
Just from the cursory glance he gave you, you were a small thing with curves for days, and a slight familiarity about you that he couldn’t place. If it were a different time, he might’ve tried to make a pass at you, but instead, he went back to his game with an ear trained on your conversation. You weren’t interested, at all, and he couldn’t help but prepare himself in case this asshat decided to push you. He couldn’t help the smirk at the corner of his lips when he heard you tell him to ‘fuck off’, stifling a chuckle with another sip of beer.
Frank heard your departure and couldn’t help but look after you, catching the swing of your skates against your duffle… and heard the man leave his stool. Frank felt annoyance settle inside him and watched after him as well. He wouldn’t have been concerned if it weren’t for the speed at which he got up and the gun he clocked as he put on his jacket.
Fuck.
Frank flicked a bill on the counter for the bartender and quickly got to his feet to pursue both of you. If it was nothing, it was nothing, but Frank knew there was always a chance for something else, and he couldn’t find it in him to ever knowingly let that happen. No fuckin’ way.
The summer air pushed back against him the moment he opened the door and exited the bar, eyes scanning the street for you or that prick. It didn’t take him long to spot the man, just in time to see him pull you into an alleyway.
“Shit,” Frank grunted and removed his pistol from the waistband of his pants before taking off down the sidewalk. He carelessly ran through a crosswalk, narrowly avoiding a car whose driver laid on their horn for a few seconds, and felt his heart skip a beat when he heard the pop of a gunshot followed by your screech. “SHIT.”
Frank rounded the corner of the alley, gun poised and ready, just in time to see you headbutt the man hard enough for him to release you.
The man cried out, and you wasted no time taking one of your skates and slamming it into the side of his head. Expletives poured from his mouth as he clutched his now bleeding head, and you turned to run, grasping at what Frank assumed was a wound on your leg, red trickling down into the matching crimson of your knee-high socks. Your face was twisted in surprise and horror when you saw him at the end of the alley, probably thinking he was with this asshole.
The man collected himself again and immediately trained the gun on you.
“Put it down!” Frank commanded, voice booming in the dark alley. You flinched at the sound, shaky hands shooting upwards in immediate surrender. The man behind you watched both of you, and Frank could practically see the wheels turning in his mind.
“Fuckin’ hell, I knew I recognized you,” the man said, New York accent thick and prominent now. “This ain’t your business, Punisher.” His words were laced with annoyance and venom. Frank was unfazed by the recognition.
“She already told you no. Get the hell outta here.”
The man scoffed.
“I got a contract and you’re in my way,” he said.
It took barely a flinch for Frank to react. Thankfully, you moved then, ducked behind the nearest rank dumpster, ears covered by your palms as the gunshot popped loudly and the bullet embedded itself in the man’s chest. Frank noted your shaking and your tears, but he needed information before he could help.
“Be right back,” he said, lightly touching your shoulder, but yielding no response. He expected that.
His boots crunched against the debris in the alley as he approached the man. He was gasping, blood leaking down the side of his mouth. Frank placed his boot on the wound and pressed hard enough for the man to cry out, hands shooting up to grab his leg.
“What’s the contract?” he asked, a calmness in his gruff voice.
“I–I don’t—”
Frank pressed down again. The man gasped.
“Her! Her!” he exclaimed. “Dead! She’s bad for someone’s business! That’s all I know!”
“Whose business?”
“Fuck if I know—” The man coughed up more blood. “I just got the bounty a couple hours ago!”
Frank nodded slowly, gazing down the alleyway to where you were still shaking behind the dumpster. He ran his teeth over his bottom lip. Fuck.
The bounty hunter’s eyes widened at the sight of Frank raising his gun again, but before he could utter the inevitable ‘wait!’ Frank pulled the trigger. Right between the eyes. He removed his boot and crouched, fingers gliding through pockets until he found the man’s wallet and phone, pocketing them. Finally, he snagged the gun that had fallen off to the side and made his way back to you.
“Hey, hey,” he said, softer than before. Both guns were tucked safely in his waistband when he knelt in front of you, careful not to startle you. “You’re alright now.” No response. Shock. Frank shifted enough for him to reach forward, ducking his head in an attempt to find your gaze, and placed his index finger under your chin. He saw the slight flinch. “Hey,” he tried again. Slowly, your face turned up to him. “I know you’re probably scared and confused, and I’m just another stranger—”
“F-Frank Castle,” you said, lips quivering.
He paused at that, holding your tearful gaze as he nodded. That familiarity was still there, maybe even more prominent than before, but he still didn’t know where from. All he knew was that you were in trouble, and he felt the need he always felt: to help.
“Yeah, that’s me, uh,” he said with a small smile. “You’re bleeding, and you got money on your head. So, let me get somewhere safe. Alright?”
You didn’t respond at first, the shock probably nullifying all of your common sense, but the sound of police sirens was getting closer.
“Look, I know it’s a lot, but—”
“Okay,” you said suddenly. “O-Okay. I… I’ll go with you."
Frank nodded.
“Okay.” He stood up to his full height, hands finding your arms to assist you. “Up you go. Attagirl.” You winced and struggled to put pressure on your bleeding leg. Frank noticed that and immediately tucked your arm around his waist, your fingers digging into his side, and his other hand carefully placed on your ribs to keep you steady. “Let’s get you outta here, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you whispered, covered in the alley’s dirt and grime, and your bloodied skate tapping against your hip.
YOU
“Ah!” you hissed, fingers digging into Frank’s shoulder as he continued to stitch the wound on your leg closed. His eyes shifted to your face, fingers ceasing all movement as he examined your features. “Sorry… Just stings.”
“Mmhm,” he said with a nod. “Like I said, squeeze as hard as you need to.” Frank’s attention went back to the wound on your leg, and you took in a deep breath, an attempt to settle your growing headache and the pain you felt all over. “Can barely feel it anyway.”
You huffed a laugh at that, a knowing one, as you remembered all the times Matt practically told you the same as you patched him up.
“Of course. Must just be a vigilante thing,” you said with a bit of disdain. He picked up on that and smirked a little.
“You know a lot of vigilantes?” he asked, suture practically complete. Your jaw clenched, exhaling deeply.
“Just one,” you said bitterly. “Not used to being on this side of the stitches.”
He hummed a response, likely contemplating who you were referencing—or maybe already knowing who—as he tied off the last stitch. He leaned forward toward your leg, a movement that made you lean back and prop yourself up on the small cot he called his bed, and watched him cut the string with his teeth. You gnawed on the inside of your lip, remembering all the nights you’d found yourself doing the same after patching up a gnarly wound for Matt.
Frank got to his feet and approached the sink on the far side of the room, snagging a small towel from the drying rack beside it. This place was unlike anything you’d ever seen—guns of all kinds mounted throughout the room, monitors that showed various points of entry to the building, half-finished projects on desks, a small workout area, lockers, a wall covered in newspaper clippings and other things you couldn’t read… This place was for function, not comfort.
“So, what’s got you on a hit list?” he asked, ringing out the soaked towel and turning to walk back to you.
“Hell if I know,” you responded. “I’m a vet tech most days and I do roller derby in my free time…”
Frank got fully on his knees this time, which took you aback, and gestured with his fingers for your leg. You did so without much thinking, an odd sensation of comfort you hadn’t expected with someone like Frank Castle. All you’d ever heard about him was that you should avoid him at all costs. Dangerous. Deadly. But right now, this ‘dangerous man’ was on his knees, propping your foot up on his thigh, and folding down your crusty, blood-soaked sock so he could start cleaning the blood off your leg.
“Any pissed off clients? Fido’s rich mom want you dead for not helping him?”
“Not that I know of,” you said. “We don’t get a lot of uppity clients.” You were mesmerized by how slowly, how methodically he moved the material over the streaks of crimson. You thought about offering to do this yourself, but you had a feeling he’d insist. It did help ease the nerves you still felt from the alleyway, but it didn’t quiet the boom of the gunshots that still echoed in your mind.
“You sure—”
“Did you kill him?” you interrupted.
Again, Frank stopped his task to look up at you, and you really got a look at him in the quiet. He somehow looked both disheveled and put together at the same time, a functional appearance, one he probably didn’t think too much about if there wasn’t a reason to. Any memories you had of him while he was actively in the news, taking down nefarious folks you’d never heard of, were of him clean-shaven and angry. You remembered being terrified of him. Even Matt encouraged you to steer clear of him, giving you the most minute details to keep that terror alive. Yet here you were.
Frank’s finger gently tapped against your calf as he contemplated his answer, but he didn’t look away from you.
“Yeah,” he finally said. Your lip quivered ever so slightly, but you bit it to keep from fully bursting into tears. “Hey. Hey, don’t do that.” Frank squeezed your calf a little, head tilting to search for the gaze you’d turned away from him. “That piece of shit was gonna kill you. He wasn’t gonna stop. You hear me? None of ‘em are going to. They made this you or them. Not you.”
“I—I dunno, I just—” Your breath was shaky. You could understand his logic, you know you would’ve done anything to get out of that situation, to survive, but knowing someone was dead as a direct result of it all was a lot for your conscience. Matt beating people up? Breaking their bones? Doing irreparable damage? Somehow, you could sleep at night knowing that, but this was different. This was how the Punisher handled his enemies, and there was not one drop of Catholic guilt to be seen.
“Stop that,” he said, pulling you out of your spiral of vigilante comparisons. “Look at me.” You pulled up your gaze until it locked on those brown eyes, a mixture of compassion and seriousness in them. He squeezed your leg again, a grounding and reassuring gesture that surprisingly worked, and continued his original task. “I’m the one who pulled the trigger. I made the choice. That ain’t on you. That’s on me. And I’d do it again.”
“You don’t even know me,” you whispered.
“Doesn’t matter if I do,” he rebutted. “Someone wants you dead. You needed help, so I’m givin’ it. Freely. That’s just me. It just so happens my brand of help is bullets and blood, not just gettin’ smacked over the head with a damn billy club.”
At that, you froze, eyebrows furrowing at the comment. Did he… Did he know?
“Daredevil does a lot of good,” you said, slightly defensive out of nowhere. You did believe that deep down, knowing how good Matt’s intentions are and seeing firsthand what he gave up for the city—including you.
Frank smiled at your words, a bubble of laughter leaving him. He’d finally made it to the top of your leg where the bullet graze was, hyper aware of his hand now behind your knee as the towel dabbed gently against the stitch line.
“Yeah, he sure does,” he said. “Don’t you think you might be a lil’ biased, though?” Frank says your name. Your cheeks burn.
“I… Don’t know what you mean,” you said and pulled against his grip. He relented instantly and rolled back onto his feet, towering over you with the bloody towel in his grasp. You caught a glimpse of another smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth as he turned away from you.
“Well, you’re Red’s girl, right?” he asked, tossing the towel in the sink and rinsing his hands. “Thought I recognized you. Couldn’t place your face until a few minutes ago.”
Your eyes narrowed, and your jaw clenched. That underlying anger you’d been trying to get rid of these last few months bubbled beneath the surface of your skin, simmering at the thought of your ex. It still hurt, and it made you mad that it did. So much so that when you answered, your voice was lower and cursory, “No.” Frank had continued his movement across the space, grabbing a beer for you both and a foldable chair that he set down in front of you.
“Mmm,” he hummed and took a seat. He popped off the caps with a quick maneuver of a knife and offered you a beer, which you took with a tiny bit of reluctance.
“Not sure I ever really was,” you added, taking a swig that contorted your face. Beer wasn’t your favorite, but it was something to take the edge off everything.
Frank cocked an eyebrow at your comment, eyes looking you over just a tad slower than before, and leaned back in the chair, the material straining with the movement.
“His loss then,” he said practically into the bottle. You held back a laugh at that, despite your lips betraying you by turning into a tight-lipped smile.
“So everyone keeps saying,” you responded and took a swig yourself.
Whether Matt considered it a loss anymore was beyond you, especially with a new girlfriend to focus on that likely didn’t know who he was beneath the suit and tie. Maybe that’s really what he wanted all along, instead of someone in the know, constantly worried, constantly holding him accountable for the impact his decisions as Daredevil had on his overall life. The strain it had put on you both… But that wasn’t your life anymore. Though you found it humorous that despite all the worry Matt had about his enemies finding you never came to fruition, you’d somehow made an enemy of your own. And Frank was here instead.
“The derby thing,” Frank started, thankfully changing the subject. He settled into the chair, legs spread wide as he got comfortable. “You start that before or after Red?”
“Before. Well before,” you said, jaw tight. Frank moved his head up and down.
“Don’t know shit about it, ‘side from it being rough and tumble, but I imagine you can make some enemies punchin’ someone in the face.”
“Not that rough,” you corrected. “It’s not roller rink meets Fight Club. You can push people out of position, be a little rough, but you can’t get out of pocket with it. There’s penalties for that.”
“So no Sandra’s or Barbra’s mad at you for breakin’ their nose?”
“I’ve had some tension over the years with people, but nothing that hasn’t fizzled out…” You genuinely considered it, lost in thought for a moment. It was true though. Sure, emotions could run high and adrenaline could fuel borderline fights on the track, but you couldn’t think of a single person over the years who’d want to kill you. “Yeah, no, nothin’.”
“We’ll figure it out,” he assured and got up from his chair, dragging it over to the desk with the monitors on it. It was also where he’d put the bounty hunter’s phone and wallet. “I’m gonna dig. You take the cot.”
You lowered the bottle from your lips slowly, confusion in your expression.
“What… do you mean?”
Frank peered up at you.
“You gotta sleep, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but I thought I’d be doing that in my bed.”
“You want to go back to your apartment… with bounty hunters looking for a payday?”
You quieted and set the cool glass bottle against your thigh.
“I just… want to go home,” you whispered. Frank leaned back in his chair again, teetering on the back legs, and sighed.
“Can’t do that right now, unfortunately,” he said softly. Despite wanting to fight back, to stubbornly fight Frank about this decision, you also recognized that you almost died earlier in the night. Even though you’d fought back, if Frank hadn’t shown up, you might’ve been dead in an alley while someone cashed in their reward. You still couldn’t wrap your head around how absurd it all sounded—bounty hunters and death—but in that moment, Frank was your safest option.
“Right,” you said, defeated.
“Get some sleep,” he said, sincerity intertwined with the gruffness of his whisper.
So you did as you were told. You placed the bottle down on the floor and laid back on the cot, curling yourself into a ball despite the ache in your bones, the bruise on your hip, the sting of your stitches. It was a strange feeling being in Frank’s space, a man you knew of but had never met, and your perception of him was being challenged at every moment. He handled you with gentleness, empathy, and reassured you that you were safe… And you believed him. Frank approached you with candidness so far, no half-truths or lies to sift through, and, if you were honest with yourself, it was nice.
However, Frank was still a stranger despite how comfortable he made you feel around him, and ultimately it did nothing to negate the stress of the night, the want to be home, to cry the fear out in your shower, to curl up with your little man… You craved the familiarity of home despite how ridiculous that was. You wanted to leave, and you would, but for now, silent tears streamed down your cheeks as you allowed the sounds of Frank’s tinkering to lull you to sleep.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
When you awoke, the sun was still tucked below the horizon, and Frank Castle was nowhere to be found.
You adjusted yourself on the small cot, feeling the tug of a blanket that wasn’t there when you initially closed your eyes as well as a bag of ice that had been perfectly placed where your bruise was—which was more noticeable than you’d realized, extending just below the hem of your shorts when you examined yourself. The bag of ice tumbled off the cot to the floor with a crunchy thump, and you sat up to take in your surroundings.
The only evidence of Frank was a duffle bag set up a few feet away and an extra blanket for himself. It dawned on you that he’d slept on the floor, head propped against a bag full of who knew what. You felt bad about that, not even considering where he’d sleep when you only saw the one cot, but you didn’t linger. You had to go.
You quickly got to your feet, sharp pain shooting up from the damage you’d momentarily forgotten about, and searched for your stuff.
You’d come back. Yeah. You just needed to get some stuff and check on everything. It was going to be fine. The rational part of you knew this was stupid as hell, you should stay with Frank or at least wait for him to get back, but the scared part of you wanted familiarity, it wanted home.
You considered that you were still in your recognizable jersey, bright red and unique logo, and that you hadn’t brought any extra clothes. A sigh left you, anxiety slowly creeping higher the longer you waited to leave. So, with incredible audacity, you swiped a black zip-up hoodie from what you could only assume was a ‘clean’ laundry pile. When you smelled it, your nose scrunched. It smelled as clean as you expected it to be in a place like this, and was just happy for it not to be a total offense to your senses, that he tried to some degree.
You quickly slipped off your jersey, zipped up the hoodie over your sports bra, pulled the hood up, and was pleasantly surprised to find it just long enough to cover up your bruise and stitches well. He’d ‘get this back in a few hours’ was what you kept telling yourself. You stuffed your jersey in your duffel bag and did the same to your skates, which you noted were devoid of any blood, pushing the material’s limits and fighting to get the zipper closed. Once you did so, with a strong tug, you set it across your chest like you’d done the day before.
The door made no sound when you pulled it open, eyes scanning the hallway for anyone, and thankful to see it empty. You were in such a state the night before that you couldn’t even remember where you were or how you’d gotten there, just that you’d gone down. You moved into the hallway and removed your phone from one of the duffel’s pockets, unsurprised by the ‘no service’ displayed in the top bar.
“Shit, okay. Okay… Okay,” you whispered to yourself. Getting up to the street level was your main priority, so you picked the direction you vaguely remembered walking with Frank, and hoped it’d lead you to the elevators.
Your footsteps echoed ever so slightly against the walls, bouncing off the doors and pipes lining them. It smelled like stagnant, industrial air. Whatever was being worked on was certainly contributing to that. Your fingers clutched the strap of your bag, you did your best to observe your surroundings without seeming suspicious yourself. Street level. Phone service. Map. Subway. Home. That was your plan. Simple. Then you’d… find your way back.
After a few minutes, you finally entered a room that had elevators and semi-jogged to them, slamming your finger against the ‘up’ button repeatedly. Your heartbeat was accelerating, anxiety more and more prominent, and by the time the elevator reached your floor, you were ready to barrel into it. You paced a little, eyes on the door, and when it opened, you froze.
Frank.
He had been leaning against the back of the elevator, eyes closed like he was taking a cat nap, and in his hand was a small box of donuts and two, you assumed, coffees in the other. He noticed you immediately, taking in your appearance, and surprisingly, his lips tilted up into that half smile you were already growing used to. You stepped back as he exited the elevator, heart thumping wildly, and fully expected him to chastise you.
“Looks good on you,” he said. You blinked, feeling a slight twinge of heat rising to your cheeks for a reason you couldn’t comprehend. “Tryin’ to make a run for it?”
“No, no, I just…” You were having trouble finding your excuse now. He didn’t move, didn’t get closer, just stood there with his donuts and coffee.
“Big, bad Punisher too much for ya?” he teased, eyebrow cocked. “You wanna run back to Red then? Tell him to handle the bounty hunters? Sit in a courtroom for weeks while their bosses pay off the jury?”
“No,” you said, annoyance rising and mixing with your flustered, tired mind.
“Then what do you want, kid?”
“Don’t call me that,” you snapped. Frank’s head tilted to the side, intrigue layered in, tongue running along one of his canines absently. “I’m not a fucking child.”
“Kind of actin’ like one right now—”
“Fuck off, Castle,” you bit back. There was a long pause, his eyes never leaving your face. It started to make you self-conscious, fingers wringing the strap of your bag. You didn’t know why you were giving him such an attitude; he’d done nothing but be nice to you since he put down a man in an alleyway for you. You just didn’t know what to do. What to say. Wrapped up with another notorious vigilante was not a scenario you’d considered again. But Frank seemed unfazed. He seemed amused, like he was seeing something you weren’t.
“Alright,” he conceded and finally took a step forward. Frank tilted his head down slightly and lowered his voice when he said, “What do you want, sweetheart?”
You stood your ground, even with the sudden pet name, but your jaw noticeably flexed. You took a long inhale.
“I want to go home,” you said.
Frank said your name, and you felt a twist in your stomach.
“Were you this mouthy with Red?”
“Are you taking me home or not?” you countered, not interested in talking about Matthew at the moment. Frank leaned back, and you couldn’t tell if he was upset or impressed.
“Real stupid to do that,” he said. You were going to say something, but he lifted the hand with the coffee holder and put up his index finger, shutting you up with only a huff in response. “But if I do, I’m stayin’ until this is done.”
“Sure, fine,” you said, not sure what that fully meant, but happy to hear you were going to be going home.
“Gonna be the shadow you never wanted,” he added before he held out the donuts and coffee to you. “Hold these. Gotta grab some things.” You looked up at him, a bit surprised that he was suddenly compliant with your request. So you reached out, gently taking the items from him. “Stay here,” he said, practically a command. “It’s too early for me to be chasing your lil’ ass through Hell’s Kitchen.”
“Fuck—”
“Off, yeah, yeah. Just stay put,” he said with a wave of his hand as he turned away from you. That shut you up immediately, watching him walk back toward the direction you’d come from minutes before. “And don’t eat my donuts,” he called back over his shoulder.
“How would I even know which ones those are?” you asked, tone losing its snippiness.
“The glazed ones. Obviously,” he said matter-of-factly, and fully disappeared down the hallway just in time to miss the smile that grew on your lips.