LIGHTFALL - Chapter 2/8
Chapter Summary: A shared drink makes you question why you hated Frank in the first place. You pull him into the light and fall into his grave. Pairing: Frank Castle x Baker!Reader Chapter Warnings: 18+ Always. Language. Flirting. Philosophy battles. Violence. Gore. It's a murder on the dance floor. Word Count: 3.5k A/N: This is where shit hits the fan and the story actually starts. Hope you enjoy. a playlist if you'd like to listen to the songs that inspired the story
Chapter 2 - Beat Until Stiff
A few blocks over from St. John’s is a place not locally advertised. Cross 83rd, turn left at the Cash 4 Gold, enter in through the metal mesh door that’s plastered with concert flyers and sticker rot, and you’ll find Sleazy’s. An obscure hole-in-the-wall with drinks that’ll get you right. If you hit La Grassa’s Delicatessen, you’ve gone too far.
Sleazy’s has become your go to escape when life starts making little sense. When your import of Madagascar vanilla gets held up in customs. When your overages don’t add up at the end of the month.
They also happen to make the best Boulevardiers you’ve tasted since you apprenticed in France so very long ago.
You need this, a break from it all. Not a sister, not a baker, not a business owner. You’re nameless. No one knows you, except the bartender, Owen. And all Owen knows is to keep them coming and keep ‘em strong.
Taking a sip of your well crafted drink, heat spreads in your chest on its way down. The effect isn’t from the alcohol, but the gaze you’ve caught in the reflection of the mirrored backsplash behind the bartender. It’s slightly concerning that you’re able to notice him so immediately, he’s only halfway through the entrance before you spot him in that thick black utility jacket. No other patron seems to notice him outright, but the room still acquiesces around Frank.
Foolishly, you think he won’t spot you. As the thought crosses your mind, his eyes connect with yours through the glass.
Of course, he does.
It’s a hard look and you can’t begin to decipher what it means. Every card he’s dealt, he holds tightly to his chest, and it would take more strength than you have for him to reveal them.
You’re surprised when he makes a b-line to you, body bracing for his entrance. Round 2.
He stops at your stool. “Go to hell, huh?”
“And this must be the seventh circle,” you say, “don’t tell me you’re following me.”
“Coincidence.” His gaze litters across the bar almost like he’s taking surveillance, before it lands back on his target. You. “I like the quiet here. Helps me think.”
His honesty startles you, clawing against your initial thoughts of him and what you summed him as. You both share the same underground hole-in-a-wall for the exact purpose. Even the Punisher needs an escape sometimes.
He motions to the empty stool at your left. “Care if I sit?”
You lift a shoulder. “I don’t control the seating arrangements."
Permission granted.
Choosing to stay, the stool groans as Frank pulls it out. He makes room for himself where there already isn’t any. The bulge of his wide shoulder scrapes along your arm as he settles in. Constricting space and limited air, it’s a tight fit for you both and you, just like everyone else in his sights, sink to make room for him. Your elbows notch at your waist and instinctively you curl inward.
Either Frank doesn’t notice, care, or is testing you. He calls out to Owen. “Shot of whiskey. Ain’t gotta be fancy. ”
“You’re unreal,” you sneer, waving a hand at him dismissively. Even that small movement is a brush of skin against his. “Don’t listen to him. He’ll have what I’m having. And get me another, please.”
Owen looks from you to Frank. “She the boss?”
“Yes.”
Frank’s watching you and all you can see in the pits of his eyes are the lights of the bar bouncing off them. Like a chemlight in Registan. Or a kitchen torch against meringue. “You heard her.”
Owen gets to work.
Silence is thick, gluing you both. Not empty. Sweaty. You breathe through it in long, deep, inhales. It lasts until two rock glasses slide in front of you.
“Didn’t take you for a snob.” He eyes the drink, particularly the twisted orange garnish sitting atop the drink’s singular large icecube.
“Then you’re not paying attention, and I overestimated you,” you say, a fingertip pushing his glass closer to him. “If you’re going to drink with me, make it worth it.”
Frank takes it and tips the edge to you. “Ceasefire?”
That earns him a real smile from you. “Friendly fire.”
Your glasses touch.
You take your sip, already knowing how it tastes. A little dirty, a gnaw of spice, a bright citrus twinge that cuts through it once it goes down. It’s Frank’s opinion you want to hear.
“Well?”
“Strong,” he swallows. “How many of these have you had already?”
“Enough where I don’t hate talking to you.”
“Fairplay.” A chuckle is caught in his throat, never making it fully out as he forces it back into its hole. Your eyes avert back to the bar and just like him, stifle the pull forming between your bodies. “You’re wrong about one thing,” he says, setting his drink on the bartop and lowering his head slightly your way. It’s so you can fully hear him, but you can also feel the heat of his skin near your own. And smell the phantom whiskey on his lips. “I don’t want Curtis dead. Or you, for that matter.” You suck in a breath. “Your actions say otherwise.” “My actions. My war,” he starts, “I don’t want you anywhere near that.”
“Just Curtis then?”
“Him either,” he says, “but he’s touched it. You can’t come back from that.”
Your fingers dance around the rim of your glass. A delicate strum that matches the classic rock song crooning from hidden speakers. “Sounds bleak.”
“It’s real.”
“Not to me. Hope still exists in the world.”
“Come on,” he takes another swig a bit haphazardly. A tiny trickle of alcohol streaks his stubble. You itch to wipe it away. Call it your sense of etiquette. “Either you’re buying the bullshit they peddle or you’re willingly playing blind.”
“But not you, though.” You’re teasing him before you can stop it. “Frank Castle knows better. He’s cracked the code.”
“I didn’t crack a damn thing. I’ve lived it,” he says, voice dragging over your skin. “You've got just as much darkness in you as I do.”
You punch him a look immediately. Quick and violent in its own way. Your body follows suit, swinging in your stool. Full stop. Your knees knock against his as you pivot, and he takes it in. Doesn’t move. Only watches you over the rim of his glass.
“Don’t pretend like you know me.”
He takes another drink, and doesn’t bother answering you yet. Just stares at the last of his alcohol.
“Stop lying to yourself. Root to tip. It’s on you. More than Curtis.” He drags his knuckles along the bar. Peeled and scabbed and beaten. Scarred from acts you once believed you wanted to know about. “Difference is, you still ain't touched it.”
Your stomach tightens when you hear how convinced he is. “I built something for myself."
“Yeah.” He rests his empty glass and chews on your words. “Yeah, you have.”
For a flicker, it sounds like a compliment. Something akin to admiration even, but it’s snatched away without you even getting to revel in it. “Guess that’s a privilege and a disservice because you still haven’t learned the truth.”
“Enlighten me.”
It’s unfathomable how much closer he can invade your space. A secret is on his lips that he trusts with no one but you. “Hope never did a goddamn thing for anybody."
You swat his marred hand that’s dangerously close to your own. Swat it so hard that your hand stings from it. He stays. “What a miserable way to live. No joy. No love. No light. All a defense mechanism. Those walls gotta come down eventually, soldier.”
“Soldier? You must be drunk.” He takes your glass from you and drinks from it. Right from where your lips once pressed. “Marine.”
“Marine.”
“One more time so you don’t forget.”
“Marine.” you sing-song before your tone falls flat. “You’re wrong. There’s a lot of beautiful shit in this world. Either you look for it, or you just gotta be brave enough to make it.”
“You’re not listening. Playing blind doesn't change the outcome-”
“-Damn. You must really love that grave.”
“Open your eyes. That grave I’m digging ain’t for me.”
“You’ll bury yourself alive, Frank. Here. Take my hand. I’ll help you out.”
Those death splattered hands of his push your knees to the side as he also cranes himself to face you. The space becomes his.
“Tell that to the sex traffickers and murderers, I’m sure they’ll love to hear it.”
“I’m not telling it to them,” you say, hand crashing to the shoulder that once overtook you. No longer acquiescing, you fight back for the space to be yours. This time, he budges and gives in slightly to your push. Your body, because of his acceptance, edges even closer to him. You can feel him inhale and see your reflection now in those barlight filled eyes. “I’m- I’m telling it to you.“
That sweaty silence resumes, prickling along your spine, and even more heat radiates. Starts from the bottom up, and just like an oven, it circulates hot air. Between your bodies and your parted lips. Frank feels it too, of that you’re certain. It’s in the way his brow creases. The way he’s waiting for your move rather than commandeering the situation.
“I shouldn’t be out this late,” you murmur, forcing yourself to look away before the silence turns into something you can’t control. Something worse that you can’t take back. You reach into your purse and pull out a wad of bills. “You don’t strike me as someone who tips well, or at all. This covers both of-”
Hid expression hardens instantly. “The hell is the matter with you? You’re not paying.”
“Screw your machismo bullshit.” You set the money on the counter. “We’re not gonna ignore that you were about to order a fourteen dollar shot of jack. Screams you’re rolling in money.”
You start for your exit. Almost. Frank’s hand pulls on your forearm. Closing in on you and reels you back in. Doesn’t hurt, but it’s firm. Makes you wonder how he determined how much pressure he could use with you because he’s not treating you like you’re soft.
It’s enough to stop you.
That heat is back again, climbing so fast against you both that it’s humiliating. You’re acutely away of how you stop yourself from getting swept in his touch. Like an animal fighting against its nature.
“Come on,” he says, quietly, “don’t be like that.”
You slip your arm away before your heart starts pounding.
“I hope the next time we see each other, it’s under better circumstances,” you say, stiffly.
His eyes stay on yours and you try not to think about how he still stays close to you.
“Don’t get yourself killed before then,” you add.
You take off, feet carrying you quickly out of Sleazy’s and away from whatever that unnameable moment is. Outside, the winds are icy as they whip down the streets and along the buildings. It stings your cheeks and makes you shiver after how burning your skin just was.
Buildings loom, neon signs bleed together and etch into the pavement. In the distance, further downtown, you hear the wail of a siren like the city’s dying.
You walk a little faster, hoping to put some distance between you and him. As if it would give you some clarity. But even as you trudge New York City at 1am, your mind replays that encounter over and over again on loop, circling back to Frank. None of it made sense. It didn’t feel like the anger you once had for him in the basement of St. Johns. If Frank and Curtis were family, you didn’t share the same kinship.
This wasn’t friendship, and it didn’t feel safe to be anything else.
If baking was chemistry meeting controlled actions, this was chemistry meeting unpredictability. Highly combustible and scary for someone like you.
You stuff your hands in your pockets to protect yourself from the deepening cold. It’s blistering into a warning of a deep winter. When your fingers touch the bottom of your wool pockets and feel paper, you stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk.
Passersby push against you as you remain a boulder on the sidewalk when you fish out the money you just tried paying Owen with.
You squeeze your eyes shut. “He’s such an asshole.”
“Took you long enough. Thought you’d notice sooner.” Frank falls into your step like he’d been there the entire time. Maybe he had.
He walks with you, eyes ahead like none of this is strange. Like trailing you throughout the city at one in the morning was perfectly reasonable behavior.
“Why baking?”
You side-eye him. When you don’t answer, Frank looks at you and reads your steely stare. “Just headed in the same direction.”
Sure.
“I like control.”
“Couldn’t tell” he jabs. “Control doesn’t explain running away to Paris at sixteen.”
“Curtis told you about that?”
“Can’t get him to shut up about you.”
Frank knowing or remembering anything about your life is just another piece of information you don’t know what to do with.
“That’s… surprising,” you say, taking an overwhelming breath and the cold stings. Your breath ghosts in front of you.
“Since I could remember, my parents pushed the life of joining the navy. Same with Curt. Tradition. Legacy. Indoctrination,” you say, crossing your arms over yourself. “Instead of saying our prayers at night, we said the Sailor’s Creed.”
You wait for Frank to judge you.
To call you weak for not honoring your parents. Or selfish for telling no one of your plans to take a backpack and a whim to JFK. Maybe he’d call you ungrateful, Curtis said that a few times plus more when mom got sick.
Frank does none of it.
“And then what?”
The question startles you. It’s earnest and quiet. You glance at him.
He’s serious.
“I had a home ec teacher. Mrs. Davies.” The memory catches you off guard and you fold your arms a little tighter. Eight-year-old you can still see Mrs Davies’ toothy smile and big hair. “I think she saw something in me. Or maybe she just noticed how I was always the last kid to be picked up. She’d stay after school and give me baking lessons. Said that if you could follow a cake recipe you could follow your dreams.”
You smile, faintly. “Very after-school-special.”
Frank almost gives you a huff that feels like amusement.
“She looked at me and saw something. Something more than a uniform, no offense,” you stab your shoulder into his.
“Naturally, I saved up my money working every shitty job I could. Bought a plane ticket. Forged some signatures and did some slight fraud and violà, I’m in Paris with a dream no one believed in but me.”
That pulls a sound from him. Something real and hard hitting. Maybe it was the coarse way you said no one believed in you, but Frank could acknowledge it.
You clear your throat. “Plus, it doesn’t hurt that I’m good with my hands.”
“I can relate.”
You look over. “To having a dream no one believed in?”
He shakes his head once.
“Being good with your hands.”
The cold should’ve killed the warmth his words elicit from you, but it doesn’t. You keep your eyes straight ahead, and refuse to give Frank a reaction if that’s what he’s looking for.
“So you don’t think you deserve happiness?”
“You askin’ the questions now?”
“You’re the one who wanted to walk me home.”
“I said I’m-”
“Headed in the same direction. I know. Could’ve walked on the opposite side of the street.”
He thinks on your question longer than you anticipated and answers honestly. You appreciate it.
“My happiness is gone.”
It hurts you more than you thought to hear his revelation. You knew Frank lived life like he was ready to die, but to hear his truth, makes you wish he chose differently for himself.
You try not to judge him either, but still have to say your part. “Well, not that it matters, but I think you do.”
“They teach you that type of charm in Paris? Buttering people up. Not too long ago you were calling me… what was it… wasn’t an omen, wasn’t a harbinger-”
“A plague,” you confirm. He may have changed some opinions you have on him, but that one remains. “You still deserve happiness.”
“Don’t waste that hope you’ve got on me.”
“Better than you wallowing,” you push. “Curtis talks to me about you, too, you know. Not about whatever bullshit you have him entangled in, but real stuff. Human stuff.”
“Like what?”
“I know all about the Kandahar Christmas Party.”
“Which year?”
“You know which year.”
This time Frank bumps his shoulder into yours. Petty enough to throw you off balance. “Curtis talks too goddamn much.”
Feet slowing, you’re approaching your block. Incandescent white neon lights illuminate the street. WHIPPED’s logo washes the sidewalk and neighboring buildings in a glow that’s too hard to hide yourself in.
Frank instinctively stops just before getting caught in its rays. He drags his eyes along you and your store. You swallow. “WHIPPED, huh?”
You motion to it with beaming pride. “This is my baby.”
He takes it all in. “Thought I was walking you home.”
“I thought you weren’t,” you quip. “I live above the bakery.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Curtis says the same thing.” You head to the door, taking that same thick current with you. Neither of you invited it, but it’s been following you all night. Despite yourself, your pulse races.
A quick glance over your shoulder and you see Frank lingering at the edge of neon glow. His jaw set. Eyes never having left you.
Like he feels it too.
So you give in. Maybe to keep him a little longer in a world that poses no threat. To prove to the both of you that he doesn’t have to stay a ghost.
“What’s even more dangerous is what’s inside. Want a cookie, Frank Castle?”
Even in the shadows, just at the edge of where the light begins, you see Frank cave and smile.
“You offering?”
“I am,” you say, “Or is the marine still afraid of sugar? That I remember of you quite well.”
Frank bites. “Show me your shop.”
You extend a hand to him. “Step into the light.”
Your soft hand meets his hard calloused fingers that are warm even in the cold. They’re rough, steady, and crusted in scars from god knows what. You dare pull him closer and let him enter into your space willingly. Still huge and imposing but this time acutely aware of how his body fits along your back as you guide him.
Your heart hammers with anticipation as you fumble your keys. Suddenly incapable of doing something you’ve done countless times. Frank’s presence is clouding your judgement and control of your senses. Especially when you feel his breath hit the back of your neck, prickling goosebumps.
“You working today?”
“Closed on Thursdays.”
Frank gives a low grunt of approval.
“Good.”
Neither of you notice that the deadbolt was already thrown.
Chloe forgot to lock up again.
The door swings and a single bell shrieks, cutting into the quiet of the shop. The light of WHIPPED’s logo haunts the inside, casting long engulfing shadows across empty tables and chairs. It’s sticky and frosted heavily.
Further back, the eerie fluorescent light of the prep kitchen buzzes. A mixing machine whirls violently.
“Fuck,” you sigh, looking at Frank. Dropping his hand, you resume your role as a business owner. “My pastry chef is still here. She was supposed to leave hours ago.”
Frank doesn’t reply. The man who caved into a smile is also gone now, replaced with something that makes your stomach flip. He tracks the nooks and crannies of your shop. Not in the way you hoped, with interest and wonder, but that same stone look he had when entering Sleazys. Surveillance. He’s scanning for exits. Evidence. Threats.
By the time his hand reaches for your elbow, you’re already moving, needing to manage your space. You swing through the stainless steel kitchen door.
“Chloe, did you finish the-”
The sentence is stabbed before it can leave your throat. The words pierce your lips and die a cold, violent death.
At first you only notice a shoe. A single shoe knocked out of place and scattered in the corner by one of your wholesale bags of flours. When you finally find Chloe, your heart bursts and you plunge into a freezing well of static that numbs you from the scalp down. There’s no more sound, other than the stale thing ring of panic vibrating on your ear.
Chloe is pale on the linoleum floor. Her beautiful hair now matted and haloed by dirty crimson blood. It’s everywhere. Pooled in globs around her, stretching outward slowly like deformed finger lakes. It creeps to the legs of the industrial refrigerator.
And sitting perfectly on the stainless steel prep table, sparkling for all to see, is the McCarthy cake. It’s untouched by the slaughter surrounding it. Red geode sugar crystals reflect the harsh fluorescent overhead, glittering like gems on a grave.
