bruises- frank castle
pairing : frank castle x f!reader
summary : it was a meaningless task. one frank had told you he would do. but after days of it going untouched, you took matters into your own hands.
word count : 3.8 k
warnings : mentions of injuries, protective!frank, angst, worried!frank, soft !frank, mentions of canon level violence
a/n : this is my official application to be the certified frank castle angst ™️ writer... anyways this isn't proofread and based on this request
It was such a stupid thing to get hurt over.
Not a mission. Not some dangerous situation. Not anything remotely worthy of the way Frank Castle was eventually going to react to it.
Just a loose cabinet door in the kitchen.
That was it.
The hinge had been hanging crooked for almost a week now, making the stupid thing sag every time you opened it. Frank had noticed immediately, of course. He’d muttered something under his breath, grabbed a screwdriver from the junk drawer, then gotten distracted by three different emergencies before he could actually fix it.
“I’ll do it tomorrow,” he’d promised absentmindedly two days ago, kissing the top of your head on his way out the door. Tomorrow became another day. Then another.
And honestly? It wasn’t even bothering you that much anymore.
It just became one of those tiny things that sat in the back of your mind every time you walked into the kitchen. The loose hinge. The crooked door. The unfinished task. So when Frank left that afternoon to meet Micro for “an hour, tops,” you figured you’d just handle it yourself.
How hard could it be?
Turns out: harder than expected.
Because apparently the tiny metal spring inside the hinge was under enough tension to become a literal weapon.
You sigh dramatically as you crawl onto the kitchen counter, cracking your neck.
"Okay.." You hum, reaching up into the cabinet. You brace one knee carefully against the marble counter, tongue poking slightly between your teeth as you squint up at the crooked hinge. The cabinet door hangs open awkwardly beside your head, swaying every time you move.
“Frank literally said this would be easy,” you mutter. In hindsight, that probably should’ve been your first warning sign. You reach deeper into the cabinet with the screwdriver clenched in one hand, trying to line the hinge back into place while simultaneously holding the stupid door steady with your shoulder. Immediately impossible.
“Okay, no, that’s fine,” you mumble to yourself as the cabinet door slips sideways again. “Didn’t need both hands anyway.” You awkwardly adjust your balance higher onto the counter. The hinge suddenly shifts.
There’s a loud metallic snap. Then—
“Fuck—!” Pain explodes across your palm. Bright. Sharp. Immediate. You jerk backward instinctively as the screwdriver slips clean out of your grip. The cabinet hinge springs loose like a trap, one jagged metal edge slicing straight across the center of your hand. For one stunned second, all you can do is stare at it. The cut opens slowly. Then blood pours out.
“Oh my God—” Your stomach lurches instantly. The pain hits all at once now, white-hot and throbbing hard enough to make your fingers spasm. You clutch your injured hand automatically, which is unfortunately the exact moment you realize you are still balanced precariously on the kitchen counter.
“Oh, shit—” Your foot slips. The world tilts violently sideways. And then you’re falling. You hit the floor hard enough to knock the air straight out of your lungs. Your shoulder slams into the cabinet first. Then your hip. Then the back of your head bounces lightly against tile with a painful crack.
“Jesus Christ—” The cabinet door comes down with you. It smashes beside your leg in a horrible explosion of wood and metal. For a second, you just lie there spread across the kitchen floor in complete silence, staring at the ceiling while pain radiates through approximately every inch of your body. Your hand throbs violently against your chest. Something warm drips down your wrist. You slowly sit up with a groan—and immediately regret it when dizziness washes over you.
Blood.
So much blood.
It’s running down your palm fast now, dripping off your elbow onto the tile in fat red splatters. Your shoulder aches where you hit the cabinet, and there’s already a nasty pulse forming at the back of your skull.
You stare at the demolished cabinet door lying beside you.
Then at your bleeding hand. Then at the streak of blood now smeared across the kitchen floor.
Your hand pulses violently in time with your heartbeat. The cut is deep enough that every movement sends fresh blood spilling between your fingers, hot and slick and impossible to ignore. You press the sleeve of your shirt against it with a shaky hiss You push yourself upright using the counter and nearly crumple again when your hip screams in protest. Apparently you landed harder than you thought. Great. Fantastic. Love that for you. The kitchen looks like a crime scene.
The cabinet door is snapped clean off one hinge. There’s blood on the tile. Blood on the counter. A suspicious streak on the fridge somehow.
You stumble toward the sink, dizzy enough that your shoulder clips the counter on the way there. The impact makes pain spark behind your eyes.
“Motherfucker—” The second cold water hits your hand, your knees almost buckle. The cut burns so viciously you actually gag a little. Blood swirls pink down the drain in endless ribbons no matter how hard you try to rinse it away.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, staring in horror. “Why is there so much?” You grab paper towels with your good hand and wrap them frantically around your palm. Within seconds, red blooms through all the layers.
Cool. Cool cool cool.
Your breathing’s getting too fast now. Panic mixing with adrenaline and pain until your thoughts feel slippery. Frank is gonna freak out. Not angry freak out—worse. That terrifying quiet kind where he looks at you like you’ve been shot in front of him. You cannot deal with that right now. So instead, you start cleaning. Which would maybe be more convincing if you weren’t actively swaying on your feet. You wipe down the floor first, crouching carefully while your injured hand throbs hard enough to make your vision pulse. Every time you move your fingers, fresh pain shoots up your wrist.
“Stupid,” you hiss at yourself, scrubbing another streak off the tile. “So stupid.”
Your shoulder aches. Your head aches. Your hip definitely feels bruised already.
And your hand— Your stomach turns every time you accidentally glimpse it beneath the blood-soaked paper towels. You should probably get stitches. That realization lands heavily in your chest.
“No,” you say out loud immediately. “Absolutely not.” Because stitches would require a hospital. And a hospital would require explaining. And explaining would require Frank finding out. You look toward the clock. Forty minutes until he gets home. Panic spikes fresh and hot. You force yourself upright again and immediately have to grab the counter when dizziness crashes over you hard enough to tilt the room sideways.
“…Okay maybe concussion-adjacent,” you mumble. Your reflection in the microwave startles you a little. Pale. Sweaty. Hair a mess. Eyes glassy with pain. Frank is going to know something’s wrong instantly. You rush to the bathroom anyway. By the time you’re done wrapping your hand in gauze from the first aid kit, it looks bulky and suspicious as hell. You stare at it miserably.
“Maybe if I just keep my hand behind my back the entire night.” Even you don’t buy that. You try to fix your hair next. Wash the blood off your arms. Change your shirt. Halfway through pulling the clean shirt over your head, pain slices through your shoulder so sharply you gasp and nearly pass out again.
“…Jesus Christ.” You lean heavily against the bathroom sink breathing through it. This has officially become the worst decision you’ve made all month. And somehow—somehow—the thing making you most emotional right now is the stupid broken cabinet. Because Frank said he’d do it. And instead of waiting, you made everything worse. Your eyes sting unexpectedly.
“Oh, come on,” you whisper miserably. “Don’t cry. That’s pathetic.” The lock clicks at the front door. Your entire body freezes. Then Frank’s voice echoes through the apartment.
“Baby?” A pause. “Why’s it smell like bleach in here?”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Your stomach drops straight to your feet. You stare at yourself in the mirror one last time—pale face, pupils blown a little too wide, gauze already spotting pink through the bandage—and try desperately to look normal.
“Coming,” you call, and your voice comes out weirdly breathless. Too high. Frank notices immediately. You hear his boots stop moving in the other room. A beat of silence. Then slower:
“…You okay?”
“Yep!” you answer way too fast. Oh, fantastic. You close your eyes briefly against the wave of dizziness rolling through your skull, then push yourself off the sink before you can think too hard about it. Your knees wobble the second you step into the hallway. Frank’s standing near the kitchen when you finally emerge. And immediately - immediately - his expression changes.
Not dramatically. That’s the scary part. Frank goes still in the way predators do. His eyes flick once over your face. Your posture. The too-careful way you’re holding your arm. The damp little flyaways around your hairline from sweat. The fact that you won’t quite meet his eyes.
“…Baby,” he says slowly. You smile so hard it hurts.
“Hi.” Frank doesn’t move.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” Instantly:
“Bullshit.”
“It’s literally nothing.” His gaze drops. Right to the trash can beside the bathroom door. Stuffed full of blood-soaked paper towels.
Shit.
Frank’s head lifts very slowly. And the look on his face makes your stomach turn over.
Not anger.
Worse.
Fear.
Pure, cold fear already blooming behind his eyes. He crosses the apartment so fast you barely process it before he’s in front of you, hands hovering at your waist like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to touch yet.
“What happened?” he asks again, voice lower now. You instinctively tuck your injured hand behind your back. Frank notices that too. Of course he does.
“Baby,” he says carefully, “show me your hand.”
“It’s fine.”
“Show me.”
“I said it’s fi—” The room tilts. Hard. You stop mid-sentence, grabbing blindly for the wall as nausea crashes through you in one violent wave. Frank catches you before your knees fully buckle.
“Whoa—hey, hey—” You hear his voice go sharp with panic as his arms lock around you. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m okay,” you mumble automatically.
“You are visibly not okay.” The words come out rough and frightened. Frank half-carries you toward the couch, one arm braced around your waist while the other cups the back of your neck. The movement jostles your hand and pain shoots all the way up your arm. You hiss. Frank freezes instantly. His eyes snap to the bulky gauze wrapped around your palm. Then to the blood slowly soaking through it. His face drains completely.
“…Oh, baby.” That tone almost makes you cry on the spot.
“It looks worse than it is,” you whisper weakly. Frank just stares at your hand for one awful second before very, very carefully taking your wrist.
“You’re bleedin’ through the bandage,” he says quietly.
“I tried to fix it.”
“You what?”
“The cabinet,” you mumble, suddenly unable to look at him. “I just wanted to fix the stupid hinge because you kept forgetting and then the spring thing snapped and I fell and—”
“You fell?” Okay. Apparently that was the wrong detail. Frank goes pale under the stubble.
“You hit your head?” he asks immediately. You hesitate. Frank’s voice sharpens.
“Baby. Did you hit your head?”
“…Maybe a little.” His entire body tenses. He looks back at the cabinet, then back at you, his fists clenched.
"I told you I would handle it."
“I know,” you say quietly. “I just thought—”
"This is exactly what I was afraid of. Fuck !" He yells, shaking his head. The shout cracks through the apartment so suddenly you flinch. Not because you think he’s angry at you. Because Frank sounds terrified. He turns away sharply, dragging both hands over his face before pacing two steps into the kitchen like he physically cannot contain the panic burning through him. His chest heaves once. Twice.
“You’re bleedin’ all over the damn apartment, you hit your head, you almost passed out, an’ you’re tellin’ me it’s nothing?”
“I didn’t want you to freak out.” Frank actually laughs at that. One short, wrecked sound.
“Little late for that, sweetheart.” He turns back toward you immediately after, anger already collapsing into something rawer the second he sees the way you’re shrinking into yourself on the couch. His expression crumples a little around the edges.
“Hey,” he says quieter. “No, c’mere. Don’t do that.” You hadn’t even realized your eyes were watering again until his voice softened.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just wanted to fix it before you got home.” Frank’s face twists like the words physically hurt him.
“Baby, I don’t give a shit about the cabinet.”
“You said you’d handle it and I know you’ve been stressed and busy and I thought maybe if I just fixed one thing—”
“Stop.” He’s back in front of you instantly, crouching down between your knees. “Stop talkin’ like you did somethin’ wrong.” Your injured hand throbs violently in your lap. Frank notices the way you flinch and immediately gentles further, like someone turning down the volume on a storm.
“Lemme see,” he murmurs. You reluctantly hold your hand out. The second Frank carefully unwraps the blood-soaked gauze, he goes white.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.”
“It’s not that bad—”
“It is that bad.” His voice shakes. Actually shakes. “Honey, you can see how deep this is, right?” You look away immediately. Frank exhales hard through his nose, visibly trying to get himself under control. Then he reaches up and cups your jaw carefully.
“Look at me.” You do. And God, he looks devastated. Not annoyed. Not frustrated. Just scared out of his mind. Guilt crashes through you so hard it almost hurts worse than the injury itself.
“I’m sorry.” You hum. He sighs, shaking his head.
"S'alright. S'alright, just stay there, kay ?" He darts off to the bathroom, thudding and clattering echoing from the room. You hear him ripping drawers open before he comes back with the first aid kit clutched in one hand and a wet washcloth in the other. His face is still pale. Jaw tight enough to crack teeth. But the second he kneels in front of you again, every movement turns painfully gentle.
“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “Okay, sweetheart, lemme clean it up first.” You nod weakly. Frank sits beside you instead of staying on the floor, close enough that one of his thighs presses against yours the entire time. Like he needs constant proof you’re upright and breathing. He carefully lifts your injured hand into his lap, holding it so delicately it almost hurts worse.
“You dizzy right now?” he asks immediately.
“A little.”
“Nauseous?”
“…Yeah.” His mouth flattens.
“Probably got a concussion,” he mutters darkly. “Jesus Christ.” Then, softer: “You shoulda called me, baby.”
“I didn’t wanna bother you.” That gets a reaction. Frank’s head snaps up so fast it startles you.
“Don’t ever say that again.” Your chest tightens instantly.
“You are never a bother to me,” he says firmly, eyes burning straight through you. “You call me. Every time. I don’t care if it’s a broken nail or the damn apartment’s on fire, you hear me?” You swallow hard and nod. Frank exhales shakily, calming himself back down before looking at your hand again. The washcloth turns pink almost immediately when he starts carefully wiping blood away. You hiss through your teeth.
“I know,” he whispers instantly. “I know, honey. I got you.” His thumb rubs absently against your wrist while he works. Grounding you as much as himself. “Just gotta clean it up.” The cut looks even worse properly cleaned. Deep across the center of your palm, angry and red and still slowly bleeding. Frank goes quiet. Not detached quiet. Scared quiet. You watch his throat bob once before he reaches for antiseptic.
“This’s gonna sting,” he warns softly.
“It already stings.”
“Yeah, well.” He gives you a tired little look. “This part’s gonna sting disrespectfully.” Then he pours the antiseptic over the cut. Pain detonates through your hand.
“Oh, fuck—Frank—”
“I know, baby, I know, I know.” He catches you automatically when you jerk toward him, one arm wrapping around your waist while the other keeps hold of your hand. “Breathe. C’mon. Look at me.” Your eyes burn instantly. Frank presses his forehead briefly against yours while the antiseptic drips pink into the towel beneath your hand.
“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You’re okay. Got you.” The tenderness in his voice almost makes you cry harder than the pain does. Once the cut is finally cleaned and bandaged properly, Frank sits back just enough to inspect his work with a deep frown.
“You probably need stitches,” he mutters. Your face immediately falls. Frank notices instantly.
“…You really don’t wanna go to the hospital?”
“No.” Normally he’d argue. You can see it on his face—that instinct to drag you somewhere safe and medically supervised whether you liked it or not. But then he looks at you again. The exhaustion. The dizziness. The tears you’re trying not to cry. And he softens immediately.
“Okay,” he sighs quietly. “Okay. We monitor it tonight. But if you pass out again or start throwin’ up, I’m carrying you into an ER whether you like it or not.” He carefully rewraps your hand with fresh gauze from the first aid kit, movements painfully gentle for someone with hands that rough. Every time you hiss, his jaw clenches harder.
“There,” he mutters after tying it off carefully. “Pressure’ll help a little.” You watch him quietly. Frank avoids your eyes while he cleans the blood off your wrist with a damp cloth, expression thunderous and miserable all at once.
“…You were cleanin’ it up.” The realization lands suddenly in his voice. You swallow.
“I didn’t want you to come home and panic.” His head snaps up.
“Baby.” The word comes out shattered. “You were bleedin’ bad enough t’pass out and your priority was makin’ sure I didn’t panic?” Your eyes sting again immediately. Frank looks like he might actually lose his mind.
“Oh, sweetheart.” He puts the cloth down instantly and crowds closer, big hands settling carefully at your waist. “C’mere.” You practically fall into him. The second your forehead hits his shoulder, Frank wraps both arms around you so tightly it almost hurts. Like he’s trying to physically hold you together.
“I got you,” he murmurs into your hair. “I got you now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizin’.”
“But you were right and I should’ve just waited and now the cabinet’s broken and—”
“Baby.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes fierce suddenly. “Listen t’me real careful right now.” One hand slides up to cradle the back of your head with unbelievable gentleness.
“I do not care about the cabinet.”
“…You don’t?”
“I’d rip every damn cabinet outta this apartment myself if it meant you didn’t end up hurt.” His voice breaks slightly around the edges. “You think I care about wood an’ screws right now?” That finally breaks you a little. Your face crumples instantly. Frank’s expression softens so fast it’s almost painful.
“Oh, honey. Hey, no.” He kisses your forehead immediately. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye. “Don’t cry.” You curl into him, your head pounding.
"I should've listened to you." Frank exhales slowly through his nose, like he’s trying to physically push the panic out of his body before it turns into something sharper.
“Yeah,” he says at first—and you tense immediately—but then he shakes his head. “No. No, that ain’t it.” His hand stays steady at the back of your neck, thumb moving in slow, grounding strokes.
“You don’t get to turn this into somethin’ you did wrong,” he says quietly. “You hear me?” Your throat tightens.
“But I—”
“Hey.” A little firmer now. Not angry. Just absolute. “No.” You go quiet. Frank watches your face for a second like he’s making sure the point actually landed, then his expression softens again—like something inside him physically deflates when you stop arguing. “That cabinet?” he says, voice lower. “That’s on me. I said I’d fix it. I didn’t. That’s it.” You blink at him through the haze in your head.
“Frank, that’s not—”
“It is.” He cuts in gently, but firmly. “And you hurt yourself because you were tryin’ to take care of somethin’ in this place I should’ve already handled.” His jaw tightens for a second, like even saying it costs him something.
“That’s on me,” he repeats, quieter. The words don’t sit right in your chest either. Too heavy. Too unfair.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head a little too fast—then immediately regretting it as your skull throbs. “No, it’s not like that. I just… I didn’t think it would—”
“I know.” Frank’s thumb brushes your cheek, catching a fresh tear before it falls. “I know you didn’t.” Silence stretches for a beat. Then his voice drops softer than before. “But you’re hurt,” he says. “That’s the only part I care about right now.” You swallow hard. Frank shifts closer without thinking, like gravity just decided you belong in his space and he stopped arguing with it. His forehead touches yours again, careful this time—no pressure, just contact.
“I need you to do somethin’ for me,” he murmurs. You let out a shaky breath.
“Okay.”
“No more fixin’ things when I’m not here.” A pause. “No more climbin’ on counters. No more ‘I got it’ when it’s somethin’ that can wait.” You almost protest out of instinct, but his hand tightens slightly at the back of your neck—not restricting, just anchoring. “Can you do that?” he asks. It isn’t a command. It’s… fear, shaped into a question. So you nod.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, okay.” Frank lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours.
“Good,” he says softly. Then, after a beat, his mouth quirks just a little—barely there, but real. “‘Cause if you try to give me a heart attack again over somethin’ that dumb, I’m gonna start boltin’ every cabinet shut in this place.” Despite everything—your head pounding, your hand throbbing—you let out a weak laugh.
“That’s insane.”
“Mhm.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Welcome to bein’ married to me.”
“I’m not married to you.” Frank pauses.
“…Not yet.” That gets another small, broken laugh out of you, and he visibly relaxes at the sound of it, like it’s the first real sign the world is righting itself again.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “That’s it. Stay with me, yeah?” His hand slides down to your shoulder, steadying you as he shifts to lie beside you on the couch, pulling you carefully against his chest like he’s trying to replace every shaky part of you with himself.
“Oh my God.” His voice muffles against your shirt. “I’m never lettin’ you hold a screwdriver again.”
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