It keeps you running: Another Dawn- Chapter 2
Summary: It’s hard to get to know someone who doesn’t want to be known. And yet, you help this half-stranger when he comes asking for it without any questions.
Warnings: Bickering, minor awkwardness
Word Count: 4k
(Masterlist, Chapter 1)
The jingling of your keys in the door barely registers in your ears, your mind still at work, lost in the sirens, chatter, files, and sneers of your coworkers.
Although your interactions with the police officers you worked with were minimal, today their hatred shone through extra bright. They wanted Frank Castle’s head on a stick, and last night, they could’ve had him. But he was long gone by the time they showed up, and so was Daredevil, who had made the initial 911 call.
Still, when you push open your door, slip out of your shoes, and round the corner towards the living room, you're shocked by his presence.
You half expected him to be long gone by the time you got home. He said he trusted you last night, but the trust to not make a call when someone’s injured, and your adrenaline is running high, is different from trusting that when they’ve had enough time to think over everything, they wouldn’t betray you.
So, you thought he’d be gone, licking his wounds in some hideout. But he’s here still, on your couch, shirtless, and bandaged up. Before you left for work, you set him up with blankets, pillows, the remote, food if he got hungry, water bottles, and pain meds, so that he wouldn’t have to leave the couch and thus be in more pain. But, again, you didn’t think he’d actually stay. (Though the bag hanging in the crook of your arm suggests differently).
You’re glad he’s here, you think to yourself, glad that the cops couldn’t get the satisfaction. You smile to yourself because somehow you’ve made him feel safe enough to stick around; it feels like an accomplishment.
You know he’s already clocked your presence, probably from the moment you had your keys in the door, but he doesn’t say anything, or make a sign of acknowledgment that you’re here other than a barely there glance. Maybe he doesn’t feel like talking, or maybe he isn’t the talking type. That’s okay, you think.
So you drop off your purse and coat in your room before making your way back to him with the things you bought him. Immediately, you notice the lack of a mess on your coffee and side table; the bottles, cups, and plate are all cleaned up. He cleaned up while you were gone. He shouldn’t have gotten up like that, but God, it's sweet. It’s hard to be mad, or even manage a lecture.
He’s watching you quietly, so incredibly stoic, as you unpack the bag of extra bandages, alcohol, and gauze. You wonder what he did all day, but decide not to pry. He probably has a lot on his mind.
“I got you a couple of shirts from the store. But if it’s too painful or uncomfortable to move your arms to put ‘em on, you don’t have to bother with them,” you say, finally breaking the silence as you take the two plain t-shirts out of the bag, one black, the other white.
For a moment, you don’t think he’s gonna say anything. He just stares at you, eyes covered in horrible black and blues. So, you give him an awkward smile and leave the shirts on the table for him, neatly folded.
You only make it a step, with the intention of throwing the bag away, when his gravely voice stops you.
“‘Didn’t have to do that,” he tells you.
You look over your shoulder at him, meeting his gaze, unsure what to say. You didn’t think it was a big deal.
“Why wouldn’t I?” You ask, deciding to voice the question in your mind. You didn’t know how else to say it. Also, if he remained shirtless in his time here, it’d only be so long till you accidentally started ogling him, and then you’d have to die of embarrassment.
Again, he doesn’t say anything. But something in his eyes changes just a fraction, something you don’t know how to read. So, you go back to throwing the bag out and washing up.
Back in the living room, he’s sitting on the edge of the couch, grimacing slightly as he peels off a taped patch of gauze from his chest.
“Let me do that, please,” you interject.
“I got it,” he grumbles, tossing the crumbled, blood-crusted gauze onto the coffee table.
“I’m sure you do, but you shouldn’t have to,” you counter, matching his stubbornness.
He scoffs, shaking his head as he wets his lips. “‘Have at it,” he gives in, holding his hands up in surrender.
“Thanks,” you remark with a hint of annoyance.
So, once more, you fall into the routine of patching him up, though this time it’s cleaning and changing the bandages to avoid infection. Maybe you should become a doctor after all of this, you think to yourself, and then immediately think of how it’s a bad idea.
“…Think I worked your scene today,” you tell him, breaking the silence.
“They didn’t have anyone to do it last night?” he asks, his face turned into a near-permanent scowl.
“No, they have someone for the night shift,” you answer. “They just wanted someone to take another look at it.”
“‘You real good at your job then, huh?”
“I guess,” you whisper. “But the point is—I wanted to say, you’re really strong. Which, I know you know, but I mean more than physically strong, although you are also that, too. I-It’s just that I give you a lot of credit, I mean, you should know that you’re…incredible…yeah.”
His silence is going to kill you today. So you glance up at him to catch his expression, but his jaw is tight, and his eyes are hard. He’s impossible to read.
You really need to learn how to stop rambling.
He scoffs, finally reacting in some way, his lips pull into a snarl, and you’re starting to think it is a normal expression for him to make.
“Got the wrong idea putting me on a pedestal,” he says, voice edged with something sharp, his head now turned away from you.
“Wasn’t trying to put you on a pedestal,” you reason. “I was trying to say that…I don’t know how to say it other than— that scene was crazy, there was so much—and—“
Someone really needs to get you to stop speaking.
“I don’t know how you survived that,” you sigh. “So, for that, in the lack of a better word, it is incredible.”
For the umpteenth time today, he doesn’t respond. You don’t know if you’re messing up, if he isn’t talkative, and yesterday was a fluke, or if something is up with him today. So, again, you fold and let him
have his silence.
The next three days follow in a similar pattern, but he talks more…sort of.
You learn the mundane things like he’s 37, that he grew up in Queens, loves dogs, and takes his coffee black. But no matter how mundane or how few, you were glad for the information just for the sake of trying to know the guy.
So, when he had disappeared out of nowhere, just as you had gotten into the rhythm of living with someone else again, it hurt a lot more than you expected. Of course, you knew he wasn’t going to stay forever, but you thought you’d get some sort of heads-up. He didn’t even leave a note.
For a couple of days, he was there, and then he was just…gone. That’s it. As quick as that. And maybe it stings like alcohol on an open wound because you really thought he had felt comfortable here.
But, at first, you thought Frank might have gone out, but when morning came around, he still wasn’t there. That night, you went to sleep with a knot in your stomach. It would’ve been nice to know if he was alright.
Hell, Matt hadn’t even stopped by when he promised he would. (Though once you caught word that his ex was back in town, it all made sense).
You spent three days using all the resources you had to find Frank, worried someone got to him. But it's nearly impossible to find a man who doesn’t want to be found. So, you gave up.
That was two weeks ago.
You hum along to the ABBA song blaring on your radio, head nodding and hips moving as you half-focus on painting your nails, the sharp chemical smell of nail polish in your nose.
Dropping the cap back into the little container you twirl around your kitchen, creating arcs with your arms, jumping, and singing about. Then, something makes a grumbling noise, and you yelp, picking up an oven mitt and throwing it full speed at the sound. The tall figure steps forward, catching it one-handedly with ease and a pointed look.
“Frank!” you exclaim, hand over your heart. He’s wearing a black hoodie, his head bowed just a little. “Where do you guys keep coming from?! Is there a hole in my wall?! A lock that’s broken?!”
“You gotta work on your weapon choice,” he answers instead, stepping up to the kitchen counter, letting the oven mitt fall onto it with a pathetic flop.
You scoff, rolling your eyes. He pushes off his hoodie, taking a seat at the counter.
“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting a giant to be standing in my kitchen,” you grumble, leaning over to shut your radio off.
He shakes his head, something akin to a smile tugging on his lips.
“You know I thought you might’ve died or something,” you admit, noting his appearance. At least his two black eyes have faded. “Where have you been? ‘You been okay?”
“I can take care of myself. ‘Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me like that,” he replies, staring at you like he’s staring through you. God, he’s so hard to read.
“Well, too bad and too late,” you quip. Then softer, shoulders easing, you ask, “But seriously…how are you doing?”
His brows raise. “Not as good as dancing in the kitchen.”
“Oh, shut up,” you laugh, hard and unexpected. But your cheeks burn with the knowledge that someone had been watching you in a private moment of peace. So, you busy yourself with something tangible, moving to the oven where your freshly baked banana bread sits. You cut two slices out, one significantly bigger than the other, just in case he hadn’t eaten in a while. Your nail painting and dance break were really just to wait for the treat to cool off. At least now you’ll have company.
“Got a favor to ask you,” he says.
“Okay,” you nod, plating the two slices.
“…That’s it?” he asks, eyebrow quirked.
“Why do you keep thinking I have an ulterior motive?” You laugh a little, putting the plate with the bigger slice in front of him. “If I did, I wouldn’t be giving you banana bread.”
“Is that the logic now?”
“‘Course it is,” you shrug, handing him a fork. “So, what’s the favor?”
“Some guy in prison I need to talk to,” he explains, eyes sharp and jaw clenched. He stabs his fork into the banana bread, scooping up a piece into his mouth with the kind of calculation you wouldn’t expect anyone to have with food. Then his hard expression falters, something in his shoulders easing. “This is good.”
“Thanks,” you quip, trying and failing to bite back a smile. “But if you’re suggesting turning yourself in, then I have to say that’s stupid.”
“Yeah?” he muses, tongue in cheek.
“Yeah. They want you dead. That’s it. Doesn’t matter if you have the greatest lawyer in the city; you’re fighting the death penalty. ‘Best they can do, if they can, is a mental hospital.”
“I ain’t crazy,” he snaps, voice grainy and sharp around the edges.
“I know that. You know that,” you admit, picking at your own slice of bread. “But there’s little chance you can convince 12 peers of that. The evidence is stacked against you. It’ll be about perception, which is damn hard to change.”
“I need in that prison,” he grunts, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
You shake your head. “That’s a death sentence in itself; you’ll be outnumbered. You’ll have both guards and prisoners on you.”
“I can handle myself,” he grumbles, knuckles turning white around the fork. “Now, can you get me in or not?”
You scoff, letting your fork fall to your plate with a clatter. You barely know this guy, and just as you’re trying to make friends, he’s asking for the impossible.
“You’re funny if you think I’m gonna send you to your death,” you remark.
i’m “That sure sounds like you can,” he challenges, capturing your gaze. He holds you there, locked into his dark eyes.
“I can’t, I’m sorry. But if you give me the name of this guy, I can see if I can pull some strings,” you offer, steeling yourself against his hard gaze.
“This guy won’t talk, not that easy,” he continues to push. “It’s gotta be me.”
“Why? So you can kill him?” You challenge right back.
“Something like that,” he admits, low and dangerous.
“‘Something like that,’” you echo. “Frank, this is a suicide mission. What good is this information if you die in there!”
“You can get me in there,” he realizes, eyes sharpening into something calculated.
“I can’t,” you reiterate, crossing your arms against your chest. “I’m not a magician. I don’t have powers.”
He stands suddenly, cutlery clattering, chair screeching against the floor. He rests both hands flat against the countertop as if to prove he’s not a threat to you. Though you aren’t scared to begin with.
“Sweetheart, you do this for me, and I won’t come ‘round here no more. Won’t bother you again,” he bargains. Even with a whole counter between you, he looms, his shoulders too broad, his height practically intimidating.
You try to hold your own against his gaze, chin held high, trying to not to let him win this. But the little term he uses throws you off guard, unprepared— the rug swept out from beneath you. If it was intentional, you have no idea, but it makes your cheeks feel warm and makes your mind go a little silly with a bubble of giddiness.
“You aren’t a bother to me,” you admit quietly, breaking eye contact to look off to the side. And anyway, he hadn’t even been around you enough to even entertain the concept of irritation.
“Then if you got a way in, you gotta help me,” he pushes, softer this time.
“Frank, this is really a bad idea,” you press.
He rounds the counter quickly, boots heavy against the floor. He’s closer now, looming over you, one hand still flat against the counter, the other hanging at his side. You knew he was tall, of course you did, but when he’s this close, it feels like his height has tripled. And you can smell something warm and dark coming off of him, gunpowder and something else.
“Please,” he begs, low, eyes locked on yours.
The rise and fall of your chests are nearly in sync, though he seems much more dramatic with a chest as broad as his. Still, his sincerity and his willingness to beg even at the cost of his ego (though you don’t know if he cares about egos) cracks your resolve.
“I thought you might’ve been dead the last two weeks. I don’t want to worry about that again,” you say softly. “I…I don’t want you to die, not like that. Not in there.”
“You care a lot about a person you don’t really know,” he answers, adopting a similar, soft tone. As soft as he can get.
“Can’t help it,” you murmur, heart, stammering in your chest. “‘Was starting to see you as a friend.”
“And now?” he pushes, eyes clearly studying your face, head ducked just a little.
“Still a friend,” you half-lie. It’s not your fault he’s also really hot, even though you know you shouldn’t be thinking like that. You wouldn’t say it was exactly a crush you had on him, but it also wasn’t not a crush…
“Which is why I’m reluctant to help you with a suicide mission,” you add.
“I know what I’m getting into,” he nods, jaw flexing.
“I don’t think you do,” you counter.
“You don’t get to say that,” he grunts. “You don’t know me.”
“Maybe,” you whisper, toying with the options in your head. If you don’t help, he’ll do something even more stupid and reckless. He won’t stop until he gets what he wants, you’re sure of that.
“Fuck, fine,” you curse, giving in and turning away from him before he can argue anything further. You brush your hair out of your face, even though there wasn’t any to begin with, attempting to flatten it back, hands resting, cupped, against the back of your neck.
“I can’t guarantee anything, but I have two people I can call,” you say, turning to face him again. “I think I can get you some protection from one and the other can get an, uh, meeting… of sorts to set you up with your guy.”
This time, his expression is unreadable. But he’s still, so very still as his jaw and fists clench, like he’s calculating something or maybe he’s made up his mind. You can’t tell.
“What’s that gonna cost you?” he asks, low and careful.
Your face scrunches up with confusion as you pick up your phone from the counter. “What?”
“I said, what’s that gonna cost you?” he repeats with more bite.
“Don’t worry about it. All you gotta worry about is being careful if this works,” you say, scrolling through your contacts, the glow of the phone illuminating your face.
“If this is gonna put you out, then you can forget about it,” he says.
“What happened to ‘I need this?’” You ask, looking up from your phone.
“I didn’t say it like that.”
“You basically did.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t wanna involve you in this any more than you are, this shit is dangerous.”
“I got involved the moment you were dropped off here, bleeding out,” you point out, catching the way something passes along his features. “Actually, it goes further back, but…you know.”
You turn your attention back to your phone, pulling up the contact labeled “Jay.” You’ll be asking for a lot. You’re not even sure if he’ll do it. Hell, he might.
But before you can press the call button, your wrist is seized, not hard but firm enough to grab your attention.
“You made a face,” he points out. “So I won’t ask again. What is this gonna cost you?”
You swallow, eyes trailing up from where his hand wraps completely around your wrist, warm and a little rough, up to his face.
“A long conversation with an old Professor,” you fork over, his gaze hypnotic, keeping you in place and making truth spill from your lips like a serum. “And…probably a date with this one guy.”
“‘This one guy,’” he echoes, eyes tracking over your face. “So you don’t like him ‘nough to want to go out with him.”
“Frank,” you sigh, something in your heart twisting. “This clearly matters to you. And even though I think it’s dangerous, and maybe a little stupid, you need this for a reason, and I don’t think it’s for a dumb one either. You don’t seem the type. So, one annoying date is worth it. Doesn’t even matter in the grand scheme of things.”
“Worth it for who?” he challenges, still holding you there beneath his gaze, wrist in hand. “For me?”
He almost sounds surprised, eyes a little wide.
“Does it matter?” I ask.
“‘Does if it means you’ll be doing somethin’ you don’t want to,” he answers, simply, plainly. Almost matter-of-factly.
“You're sweet,” you confess before you can really think it through. You mean it, of course, but you don’t want to scare him away either. “But seriously, it’s okay. Plus, I can probably keep making excuses to push it back forever.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, each word enunciated carefully.
“Yes,” you mimic his tone, cracking a smile at your own antics. “Now, who’s this guy I’m asking for?”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer; instead, he sits there in the following silence, searching your eyes, taking apart and noting each speck of color and the dilation of your pupils. He’s picking you apart, deciding if there’s truth there or if you’re doing it just for his sake.
When he lets go of your wrist, he doesn’t just drop your it or let it hang limply; he lets go like the breeze, soft, gentle, and barely there.
“‘Names Dutton,” he reveals.
“That’s a stupid name,” you murmur, waking your phone's screen back up. Your sly remark doesn’t go unnoticed by him; in fact, it makes him laugh through his nose.
You take the victory.
“Eat your banana bread, take more if you want, I’m gonna go make some calls,” you tell him, gesturing back over to his seat.
He backs off, hands held in a little surrender, and his head bowed an inch.
You move past him, hitting “call” on the contact you never thought you’d engage with again, moving into the privacy of your room to pace and bribe.
You don’t know how much time has passed when you finally step out of your room. It felt like being stuck in a liminal space, where time paused and stretched. Regardless, your voice feels a little tired, and you have notes scribbled down on a sticky note.
The moment you stepped out of the room, his eyes were on you, searching you for tell. He’s still in the kitchen, waiting patiently, his plate practically licked clean. It makes your heart swell a little.
“Okay, call this number when you want to set up a time, don’t gotta say much or who you are, just give him a 12-hour notice,” you say, handing over the post-it.
His fingers brush yours as he takes it, looking down at the small paper. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
“No problem,” you smile, softly. “Just please be safe. If you die in there, I’m going to haunt the fuck out of you.”
“Don’t think that’s how it works,” he answers, looking up from the sticky note to meet your gaze, a little smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
“You get what I mean,” you shake your head, eyes narrowing.
“You know, you talk real big for someone so…” he drawls, jutting his chin at you.
“So what?” you laugh.
He looks you up and down, quick and strategic. Then he wets his lips as he considers his answer, but all it does is make your stomach flutter.
“Nice,” he settles on.
“I’m not nice,” you shake your head, moving around him to return to the treat you had to leave behind.
“No? Then what do you call this?” He challenges, holding up the small paper that looks extra small in his large hand. “And giving me something to eat the moment I got here.”
“Well…you know…” You mumble, prodding your slice of bread with your fork.
“Nice,” he answers for me, head tilted to catch my gaze. “Nothin’ wrong with it.”
“Now who’s sounding caring and nice?” you tease, smiling brightly.
“Yeah…” he mutters, looking off to the side, hand running down his jaw.
You laugh, the sound filling the room with the kind of warmth that no food or oven could bring.
“You want more bread? Coffee?” You offer as your laughter dies out.
He shakes his head. “No, I’m alright… I should…go anyway.”
“Right,” you exhale, a tinge of disappointment lingering in the syllable. Still, you stand a little taller, nodding as if you understand his decision. “Um…I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
He stands, giving you a quiet nod of recognition. Enough has been said…apparently.
“Thank you,” he says again, pocketing the sticky note.
“Yeah,” you nod. “Be safe.”
He nods again, the air different between the two of you. Awkward. That’s what it is. But he’s pulling up his hoodie and seeing himself off, leaving through the front door, unlike his unusual entrances.
You sigh the moment the door clicks shut, deflating against the counter. The silence blankets you, swallowing the space up as you stare at his empty plate and the seat he had just occupied.
Empty.
Silent.
Alone.
(Next Chapter)
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